#the match graphics are a personal attack on me

[schadentekkers]

evolution of a tag

[hllywdwhre]

Revenge - Tommy Shelby

Summary: Reader takes personal offense over Sabini’s attack on Tommy

Warnings: arranged marriage, graphic depictions of violence, reader leaves a message written in blood, smut, creampie, light degrading, oral smut (f receiving), overstim, p in v, let me know if I missed any

Notes: I made this text post about protective reader and decided to write it lmfao. I want Tommy with a feral woman. Thank you to @slut4thebroken for proof reading, encouragement, and suggestions💖

MDNI, 18+ only

You weren’t quite sure how it had happened.

Scratch that.

You knew exactly how it had happened.

Your father and Tommy had worked out a deal when Sabini had first started trying to intimidate your father. A bride in exchange for protection and both of them walked away with extra allies when the inevitable war against Sabini broke out. You’d protested the marriage at first, screaming that you were more than just a political pawn for your father to sell when he needed help, but it went through anyway.

You had to admit, it wasn’t the worst thing that could’ve happened. Sure, Tommy was distant and seemed obsessed with work, but you knew you could’ve ended up in a much worse situation. He treated you with respect, never let you open a door on your own if he was around, always had a protective hand rested in the small of your back, and… the sex was great.

Perhaps the thing you appreciated the most, was that he didn’t expect you to become the housewife you had feared you would be reduced to. You were your father’s only child, meaning when he died, you would become leader of his gang. You were a gangster the same way Tommy was and he seemed to realize that and respect it. You helped out with the daily runnings of the Peaky Blinders and helped with the daily runnings of your father’s gang at the same time. They both recognized your potential and weren’t afraid to use it.

It wasn’t until you were sitting in a family meeting about a year after your marriage that you realized you had grown to feel more than just okay with the marriage.

Tommy was a closed off individual and through the entire year you had been married, you felt like you were just starting to finally get to know the real him. You never pried because he never pried in your life. If you had general questions, neither of you were afraid to ask them, but anything more was left up for the person to tell. You had more questions than answers still, specifically about the matching scars on his cheeks, but you didn’t dare ask. He hadn’t asked about the scar that ran from your right shoulder blade down to your spine, so you didn’t ask about his scars.

It was a common occurrence for Esme, Ada, and Polly to sit with you at one of the desks in the betting shop, whispering things to you during family meetings to fill in any gaps and answer any questions you may have had.

“Alfie has informed me that the Sicilians are being provided aid by Sabini, in the form of cars and housing,” Tommy started, causing Arthur to let out a loud groan of frustration.

Before you could get dragged into hearing any more of it, you turned your head to Esme who was sitting next to you.

“Sabini’s a prick, I know that, but what has he done to us?” You asked quietly, your eyes still flickering back-and-forth between Tommy and the rest of his family as they spoke about what to do next.

Esme began explaining exactly what Sabini had done. How he and five other men came after Tommy in the dark of night, how he’d ripped out a tooth, sliced his cheeks, and beat him to an inch of his life.

The rage that settled inside of you was your first hint that you had grown to genuinely care for Tommy as more than just a friend and (amazing) fuck buddy. Your jaw remained clenched and set for the rest of the meeting, but as soon as the meeting was called to end, you wiped the look from your face and forced a calm expression to take over.

You stood up and walked over to Tommy, forcing a small smile to your lips,

“I’m not really feeling all that well. You go with your brothers for a drink, I’m just going to head back home, okay?” You said, meeting his eyes so he wouldn’t have a reason to not believe you.

Tommy’s eyebrows furrowed together as he tried to look for any sign you were lying. You had been fine that morning and fine two hours prior when you sat down for the meeting, but he had no reason to believe you were lying so he simply nodded, placed a hand on the small of your back to pull you closer to him, and kissed your forehead.

“I won’t be out long. Ask Frances for anything you need, okay, love?”

You nodded and the forced smile turned to a genuine one,

“I will, promise,” you told him before stepping away from him and waving goodbye to the rest of the family.

Yes. You had truly gotten lucky when it came to who you had been forced to marry.

The entire ride back to the Arrow House, you were silent and going over your plan in your head. You knew you’d have to earn Tommy’s trust back after this, but you didn’t particularly care. You were a force of nature on your best day. You were lethal when you were angry.

Once you arrived back, you immediately headed upstairs to yours and Tommy’s shared room. The marriage may have started off with the two of you in separate rooms, “I’m called the devil, but that doesn’t mean I’m some sort of monster. You can sleep in your own room until you’re comfortable sharing a bed,” but it didn’t take more than a couple weeks for you to eventually join him in bed.

Damn those blue eyes, full lips, and that jawline.

You grabbed a small bag and threw the first set of clothes you laid hands on into it, then, much more carefully, a dress. You grabbed everything else you needed and headed to Tommy’s office next.

I’ll be back soon. I’m sorry for lying, but I’ll be back.

You signed the note and left it in the center of his desk where you knew he would see it, held down by his ashtray.

As quickly as you had entered the house, you left it, getting right back into the car with the driver Tommy had employed for you. You told him the name of a hotel in London that you knew was just outside of anyone’s territory.

The drive seemed to pass by too quickly and soon you were saying goodbye to the driver and sending him home for the night. It was barely 7 in the evening when you got up to your room.

“If there is a God, please let me get through this. I’ll make it up to you… somehow,” you said quietly.

The beading on the dress swayed loudly around your body as you pulled the dress on. The pins in your hair seemed to be extra noticeable against your scalp. The straps on your shoes pressed into your skin more than usual. The blade held against your thigh and hidden by your dress seemed to refuse to warm up. Your left hand felt entirely too light with your ring missing.

You knew it was only your mind playing tricks on you. You’d worn this outfit before and it had always turned heads, which is exactly what you wanted.

You needed Sabini to notice you.

You greeted the cab driver politely as you stepped in and ignored the way his eyes seemed to follow you a bit too closely.

The doors of the club were held open for you and you made your way to the bar and took a seat, knowing you were just playing a waiting game now.

You could feel eyes on you. The wife of Thomas Shelby in Sabini’s club, hours away from Birmingham, far out of Peaky Blinders territory or her father’s territory. You stuck out like a sore thumb, even if you would have blended in during any other scenario.

It felt like an eternity passed before you finally saw the man that made your blood boil, but one glance at the clock above the bar told you it hadn’t even been an hour.

“You seem lost. I thought we had made it clear that your kind weren’t welcomed here,” Sabini said once he was in front of you.

A charming smile graced your lips and you looked up at him,

“My kind?” You questioned, playing innocent.

“Yes. Your kind. You’re the wife of Thomas Shelby and I don’t appreciate him ignoring the last warning I gave him and sending you-“

“I wasn’t sent here,” you stopped him, lifting your left hand and pushing a piece of hair that hadn’t fallen back behind your ear, “and I’m not really a Shelby or a Blinder, am I?”

His eyes were drawn to your hand and noticed the lack of a ring you wore and he quirked an eyebrow at you.

“Is that so? I was under the impression the two of you were lovebirds.”

You pulled your bottom lip between your lips and looked away, trying to come off as shy. When you looked back up to him, you hoped the look on his face meant he was intrigued and believing you.

“Perhaps we could talk about it somewhere else… somewhere private?” You asked him, batting your eyelashes as you did so.

Gods help you. The smirk he gave you made your stomach twist and you wanted nothing more than to wipe it off his face, but patience was something you’d adopted a lot of.

“Allow me to show you to my office then,” he said, offering you a hand which you forced yourself to take.

He guided you through the club and towards the back. Some amount of luck seemed to be on your side as his office was behind the stage and provided some cover for any noise you might make. Even more so as you noticed a window just large enough for you to be able to crawl out of.

Once the door was shut behind you, he sat down behind his desk and motioned for you to take a seat in one of the chairs on the opposite side.

“Trouble in paradise, I take it,” Sabini said as he poured you both a drink.

“It was never paradise to begin with,” you replied, thanking him for the drink and taking a sip.

You had grown used to Tommy’s Irish whiskey and the bourbon he gave you wasn’t nearly as smooth going down.

“Was it not? From what I’ve heard, you two have quite the fairytale. Gang leader’s daughter married off to another gang leader, uniting two empires.”

“That’s not the way I see it,” you lied.

“And how do you see it?”

“A desperate father sold off his daughter to a desperate gang leader in an attempt for the both of them to gain more power and disregarded the woman’s wishes,” you replied simply, shrugging your shoulders.

“And so you’ve come to London for what?” Sabini questioned, wanting to hear you say it.

“Because I think we can help each other, Mr. Sabini,” you said, downing the rest of the bourbon and standing up.

His eyes followed your movements, his eyes trailing up your body before resting on your legs again.

“And how do you think we could help each other?” He asked.

You moved to stand in front of him, placing one leg over the side of his and straddled him, placing your arms around his neck.

“They trust me, Mr. Sabini. They don’t suspect me of anything,” you started. The shiver of disgust that rolled up your spine due to his hands trailing up the back of your thighs was one he apparently took as excitement as he gripped slightly at the backs of them, “I can tell you everything and, in return, I get out of my marriage once they’re all gone.”

“They don’t even realize the ticking time bomb they’ve got in their fingertips, do they?” He asked and a chuckle left your lips as a genuine smirk took over.

“They don’t…” you said, trailing your hands down his chest and then up your thigh, trying to make the move appear seductive. Your fingers wrapped around the hilt of your knife, “and neither do you, apparently.”

His eyes widened and he realized the trap he had walked into at the same time as you pressed the blade of the knife to his neck.

“I’d say that if you ever threaten my husband or our family again, you’ll regret it, but you won’t be,” you told him, unable to resist pausing for a touch of dramatic effect before adding on, “Never fuck with a Shelby.”

In the next second, you were quickly slicing the knife across his neck and flinching back as his blood coated you.

You knew your next move was morbid, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. It had been morbid for him and five other men to attack your husband when he was alone. It was morbid for him to rip out his tooth. It had been morbid for him to slice his cheeks. It was just as morbid for you to quickly and quietly clear off his desk, dip your fingers into his blood, and leave a bloodied message across his desk.

Revenge is a scorned Shelby

As soon as the message was written, you grabbed one of the coats from the coat rack and slipped it on, then crawled out of the window. The coat was long enough to cover all of the bloodied mess that was now your dress.

Sabini is dead.

That seemed to be the only thing you could think of as you were driven back to the Arrow House. It wasn’t the first time you had killed a man and you knew it wouldn’t be last.

But you hadn’t told anyone about this time. You hadn’t told anyone your plan, where you were going, or why you were doing it. You had also just started a war.

You weren’t surprised to see almost every light in the house still on when you arrived, and you made sure to slip the cab driver a little extra for the long drive.

You hadn’t risked staying in London longer than you needed to. You had gone into your hotel room, grabbed your bag, and promptly left, only taking the time to slip your wedding ring back on when you were in the cab.

When you stepped into the house, Tommy was in the hallway. All he saw as you stepped in the door was you, in another man’s coat, your wedding ring still on your finger, but your hair and makeup done much differently than it had been you had left.

You stayed silent as you stared at him with nervousness written on your face.

He put out his cigarette and quirked an eyebrow at you, a silent prompt for you to explain yourself.

Your silent explanation was to undo the tie on the coat and let it fall to the floor, revealing your blood stained dress.

“I need a fucking drink for this one,” Tommy grumbled, motioning for you to follow him. He guided you to his office and poured both of you a drink, handed you your glass, then sat down in his office chair. “What the fuck did you do?”

“Do you want the short version or the long version?” You asked, a smirk on your face as he looked up at where you still stood across the room.

Despite himself, he couldn’t help but chuckle and shrug his shoulders,

“Humor me. Short version first,” he told you.

“About a year ago I got married, and tonight I started a war.”

Tommy leaned forward, resting his elbows on his desk and running a hand over his face, “Long version.”

“About a year ago, I got married. Over the past year my husband has been nothing but a respectful gentleman, making it nearly impossible for me not to fall for him when you combine it with his fucking blue eyes that could bring the devil to his knees,” you started, feeling the hint of a blush creep into your cheeks, which you knew he noticed by the way his eyes flicked to your cheeks and then back to your eyes, “then today we had a meeting with his family where he mentioned Sabini. When I asked, his sister-in-law told me about what Sabini had done to him. About how my husband had been beaten to an inch of his life and brutalized, leaving him permanently scarred, and I knew I had to make the bastard pay.

“So, I lied to my husband and said I didn’t feel well. I went home, packed a bag, left him a note saying I’d be back, and went to London. I rented a hotel room where I changed into a fancy dress and did my hair and makeup, then I wrapped a knife to my thigh and slid my wedding ring into my bag and went to The Eden Club. News of a Shelby woman spread quickly and Sabini showed up to question me within an hour. I lied to Sabini, told him that I didn’t want to be a Shelby and that I had never wanted to be one. He took me back to his office and I sat on his lap and made him think I was about to cheat on my husband when I slit his throat and made sure he knew it was because of what he’d done to my husband. I left a message on his desk, went back to the hotel, grabbed my bag, and then headed back to our house.”

Silence filled the room for a long moment as Tommy stared at you. His eyes were unreadable as he watched you.

“What did the message say?” He suddenly asked.

“Revenge is a scorned Shelby.”

“Nothing about the Peaky Blinders?” He asked curiously, tilting his head slightly.

“No.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“It wasn’t Peaky business,” you answered confidently, watching him just as closely as he watched you as he stood from his chair and came to stand in front of you.

“Was it not?” He questioned, taking the untouched glass of whiskey from your hand and setting it on the desk before turning back to stare you down.

“No. It was Shelby business, but not Peaky business.”

“Explain.”

“He didn’t just harm a Peaky Blinder. He harmed a Shelby, my Shelby.” Your gaze was unwavering as you held eye contact with him. You wanted him to know you meant your words. He was yours, and the protective touches on your back when you were in public and the way he intimidated and glared at any man who tried approaching you was all the proof you needed to know that you were his.

“So I’m your Shelby?” He asked as he took a step towards you and continued to do so until you pressed against the office door.

“Yes.”

“And that means you’re mine?” He questioned, his hands now pressed against the wall on either side of your head.

You could feel that you were walking into some sort of trap, but you didn’t have a way out of it right now. All you could do was be honest.

“Yes.”

“Then you should know something about what it means to be mine.”

“What’s that?” You asked, your breathing getting shorter as he lowered his face so it was level with yours.

In a second his hands were on your waist and he had you picked up against the wall with legs instinctively wrapping around his hips.

“My Shelby is to never come home wearing another man’s coat again,” he said, pressing his lips to yours in a rough kiss.

You don’t know what reaction you had expected from him, but being pinned to his office door and him kissing you hadn’t been one you had thought of. Your shock wore off after half a second and you returned the kiss as your arms wrapped around his neck to keep him close.

“You’re not mad?” You asked against his lips.

“At you starting a war?” He questioned, leaning down and beginning to trail kisses hastily down your neck.

“Yes,” you replied, leaning your head back to give him more access.

“Livid,” he said with no hint of joking in his voice.

“This is quite the punishment,” you replied sarcastically. A moan fell from your lips as he nipped at your pulse point.

“Oh, I’m livid,” he said, looking up at you, “but also extremely turned on at the thought of my wife slicing a man’s throat over me and coming home still covered in his blood.”

You weren’t given a chance to respond before he was kissing you again. Your hands came down to his tie, pulling it loose before starting to work at the buttons of his waistcoat.

He didn’t bother setting you down, only turned the two of you around and walked you over to the couch in the office. He laid you down on it and then pulled the waistcoat off before leaning back down between your legs and kissing you again once. His lips started trailing down your neck again while your hands went to undo the buttons of his shirt.

“Someone’s impatient tonight,” he teased as nipped at your skin again.

“You’re the one who pinned me to the door after I revealed I killed a man for you,” you replied in the same teasing tone as him. You undid the last button of his shirt and pushed the fabric off his shoulders, his undershirt following a second later.

He reached his hand to the side of your dress and unzipped it, pulling the fabric down your body while his hands grabbed hold of your underwear, stockings, and garters in the same move and pulled them off, leaving you completely naked underneath him.

He stared and looked over your body a moment longer before running his hands up your thighs and giving a gentle tap to your thigh,

“Up,” he said, causing your eyebrows to furrow in confusion.

You did as told though and sat up, leaving him enough room to lay on his back and pull you up to straddle him,

“Was killing a man not enough work?” You teased, not actually minding if he was going to have you ride him. At least it meant you wouldn’t be subjected to him teasing you when all you really wanted was for him to fuck you.

“That’s cute,” he said sarcastically, gripping your thighs and attempting to pull you further up his torso, “that’s not where you’re sitting tonight.”

The man was no stranger at using his mouth to make you see stars, but you’d never ridden his face before. You looked at him, the question obvious on your face.

“Seriously?” You asked even though you knew by his face that he was.

“Seriously. You were enough of a leader to go after Sabini, you’re enough of a leader to sit on my face. Up,” he repeated again while his grip on your thighs tried pulling you forward.

You did as you were told this time, shuffling forward until you were straddling his face. You weren’t given a choice of when to sit as his hands came to your hips and pulled you down, forcing your full weight onto his waiting mouth.

If there was one thing you were grateful for, it was Thomas’ ability to use his tongue and lips in more than just outsmarting his enemies.

His tongue trailed through your lips, his hands keeping your hips in place, while his tongue slowly explored you at first.

It had only taken a couple weeks for you to crack and make the first move on Tommy, joining him in bed one night when you’d decided you could trust him, and you’d been insatiable and addicted to him ever since, though he never complained. He’d spent the first couple times figuring out every move that made you tick and every name that made your cheeks flush and used them to his advantage at every turn.

His tongue was a gift with the way he knew exactly how to use it. He dragged it up and down between your folds, drinking in every bit of your arousal before focusing on your clit, alternating between quick flicks and long drags.

Tommy’s hands on your hips began guiding them, silently instructing you to take control. You didn’t hesitate in going along with what he wanted you to do and began rocking your hips. One of your hands trailed to his hair while your other went to lay on top of one his that gripped your hip. You hadn’t realized the volume of your moans until you felt the vibration of his moan against your clit.

Your hips jerked at the added stimulation and he hummed against you purposefully, his eyes never leaving you as your hips sped up, chasing your own high. Within moments you could feel it approaching and your grip on his hair and hand tightened, moans of his name falling from your mouth like a prayer.

“Please, fuck,” you cried, whimpers falling from your lips, “Tommy, Tommy…”

Your high crashed over you a moment later and you felt Tommy’s movements begin to slow down as you rode out your high, your chest rising and falling rapidly as you caught your breath.

You went to move off of him, but his grip on your hips tightened at the same time that his tongue started speeding up again.

Your moans of pleasure turned to whimpers of over stimulation and you squirmed against him, but he didn’t let up. Your hips jerked as you tried moving away from him, but all it did was add to the stimulation.

You could practically feel him smirking underneath you as he continued on, watching as your eyes clenched shut and you relented yourself to letting him torture you so beautifully.

If it wasn’t for the way your body was on edge from not being given any type of break after your first orgasm, you might have felt slightly ashamed at the way he was able to bring you to your second orgasm so quickly.

And then your third.

Tears were freely falling from your face when he finally slowed his movements to a stop and helped you to lay down on your back.

He trailed soft and slow kisses along your thighs and stomach to help bring you back down to earth. When his lips reconnected with yours, you returned the kiss, letting your eyes fall shut at the surprisingly tender moment.

“Next time you want to start a war, at least let me know your plans,” he said, causing you to open your eyes and be met with a smirk dancing across his lips, “and don’t doubt my punishments.”

You could’ve smacked the smirk off his face if it wasn’t for the fact he had turned your entire body into mush.

“Think you can be a good girl and handle one more?” He asked.

Your cheeks flushed at the praise and his hands moved to his belt and pants, pulling them off after you nodded your confirmation.

Once the rest of his clothes had been removed, he gently lifted your legs and positioned himself between them. He was gentle as he pushed inside you, but the smirk on his face from the way your voice cracked when you moaned was obvious.

The stretch was familiar at this point, but it didn’t mean you didn’t need the moment he gave you to adjust. When you nodded your head, he started moving.

Tommy knew your body like he knew his own after your time together. His hips immediately changed position as he started thrusting, making sure to hit the spot inside you that added to the ways your legs shook underneath him.

He leaned down and placed his elbows on either side of your head, capturing your lips in a kiss right as a moan parted through them. One of his hands came back to cradle the back of your head and his fingers tangled into your hair to keep you close to him.

His other hand went to one of your legs and pulled it up so it rested in the crook of his elbow, causing him to hit even deeper inside you.

The action caused you to let out a high pitched moan and you wrapped your arms around him. Your next moan broke the passionate kiss the two of you had shared while your nails raked down his back.

“Who do you belong to?” He asked, beginning to speed up the movements of his hips.

“Y-you,” you moaned out, your back arching underneath him.

“Say my name. Who do you belong to?” He repeated.

“Thomas Shelby,” you answered and dropped your head back.

“Good girl. You’re my fucking wife,” he moaned out. He sat up, using one hand to keep your leg up in the same position while his other hand went to your already over sensitive clit, “all mine. No other man gets to touch you, look at you, or even fucking think of you. It’s my cock that you’re whimpering over right now, and it’s the only cock you’ll ever be whimpering over again.”

“I’m yours, Tommy,” you repeated, your voice breaking as moan after moan fell from your lips.

“Then cum for me. Be a good Shelby wife and make a fucking mess on my cock just like how you made a mess of this war tonight,” he commanded.

You didn’t need any more encouragement from him as your fourth orgasm hit you, causing your back to arch again and your nails to run down his arms.

His moves start to become more sloppy and his pace sped up as he began to chase his own high, the feeling of your cunt squeezing around his cock only driving him closer to the edge.

“Want to feel you Tommy, please,” you moaned underneath him, “please, cum inside me.”

“Fuck,” he swore out. His hips pushing against yours as his high hit him and his arms came down to either side of your head again while he shoved his face into your neck, completely claiming you as his own while his cum filled you.

His hips slowed as he rode out both of your highs and your arms came to wrap around him, placing a gentle kiss on the side of his head you could reach.

Once the two of your breathing had slowed down to a normal pace, he moved to push himself up and your legs around his waist tightened along with your arms.

“Don’t. Not yet,” you said in a quiet voice.

“I’m going to crush you, love.” He placed soft kisses along your shoulders between his words as he tried warning you.

“I’m a grown woman. I’ll tell you if it’s too much,” you replied and began running your nails softly along the shaved part of his head, knowing the motion worked on him every time.

“Stubborn,” he falsely chided, but relented and relaxed back into your hold.

“Little late to the party if you’ve just worked that out.” Your reply causing both of you to chuckle. “Remind me to start more wars if it means you fuck me like that every time.”

His hand came down and gently slapped your thigh in response while a burst of quiet giggles left your lips.

“Stubborn and a brat,” he teased, sitting up again and carefully sliding out of you.

“Too bad you’re stuck with me,” you responded with a smirk.

“I don’t think of it that way,” he said as he stood up and wrapped his arms under your waist and legs before pulling you up into his arms.

“How do you think of it?” You asked him as he carried you across the hall and into your shared room.

“I think I’m lucky enough to be married to a woman who killed for me over a years-old attack even though we’d never even said that we loved each other.” He set you down in the middle of the bed before crawling in next to you and pulling you into his chest.

A bright blush rose to your face as he pointed out that you had never even said you loved each other, even though you had admitted to him earlier that you had fallen for him. You didn’t know how to reply immediately and you turned in his arms to look up at him, his arms staying locked around your waist.

He didn’t seem to expect you to reply though, because he leaned in to you, pressing his lips against yours. The kiss was tender and sweet, as if he was trying to communicate what your actions had meant to him without having the words to say it.

“I fell for you, too,” he finally admitted, “I don’t know when it happened, but I know that I realized it tonight. The panic I felt to see your note and to see you come home covered in blood. The anger I felt over seeing you another man’s jacket. The way I felt when you revealed what you had done and why…” He trailed off, looking down at you and seeming to try and memorize every part of your face, “You’re mine.”

“I’m yours and you’re mine,” you replied, leaning up to kiss him.

“I’m yours and you’re mine.”

[wh0reforcoriolanussnow]

A memory || Young President!Coriolanus Snow x reader

GIF by @sommerspage divider by @firefly-graphics

Summary: You have never questioned Coriolanus about what happened during his exile as peacemaker. But when the truth is revealed, Snow’s past quickly comes to haunt him.

Warning: blood, mention of infidelity, miscarriage

Wc: 1,818

Coriolanus Snow Masterlist

“I really don’t think this is a good idea y/n.” Snow paces around the room as you sip your tea. “I’ll be fine Coryo, It’s a duty as First Lady that I need to do. It brings hope and somewhat unity to the districts.” Snow stops to look at you, his piercing blue eyes never failing to make you squirm under his gaze.

“If any of them touch you I swear-“ He storms your direction before you cut him off, “No one is going to touch me Snow. The baby and I will be perfectly fine.” You reach for his hand and place it on the barely there swell of your stomach. He lets out a sigh, dropping to his knees as he leans his head gently on your stomach.

“I want you back in one piece, untouched.” He softly says as you put your hands on either side of his face. “I promise.” Was all you said before kissing his forehead, the tip of his nose, and finally his soft tender lips that moulded perfectly against yours.

A knock at the door made you look behind your back, “The train is ready,” A voice called out. Snow stands up, towering over you as you embrace him in a tight hug. “Be safe. I love you.” He says against your hair as you rub his back. “I love you too,” You say, muffled slightly against his chest.

The trip to all the districts was going to take some time, around 3 months or so. 3 months away from the Capitol, 3 months away from your Coriolanus. But as First Lady, it was your duty to bring a sense of unity and hope to everyone, including the districts.

Coriolanus was against this trip ever since your brought it up. After his exile, he never spoke about what happened during his years as a peacekeeper, all you knew was that he sacrificed so much to return and become President. You never probed him into telling you exactly what happened, you just knew it was something he rather kept a distant memory.

~

Visiting each district went smoothly. Majority of the people respected you. And you only treated them with equalness and kindness. That was just who you were. Coriolanus ensured that the most strongest guards accompanied you. You felt safe most of the time.

Except for an attack during your visit to district 8. You weren’t harmed but shaken up to say the least. When news of this came back to the Capitol, Coriolanus urged you to finish your trip that instance and return but your refused, saying it would only make people perceive you as weak, and just like the others at Capitol.

Nearly 3 months had passed and you finally made it to the last district, district 12. You were already 3 months pregnant. District 12 was the poorest and smallest district, but you personally enjoyed it the most. Lots of singing and dancing happened around which you enjoyed after an exhausting 3 months of travelling.

You were sat at the back of a bar where everyone was dancing and singing along to the female singer on stage. Guards were by your side, ready for anything that may come your way. All of a sudden, a woman came up to you, she had a cloak over her head, slightly covering her face.

The guards came closer to you but you gestured them to back off. “Lady Y/n, It is an honour to see you here in our district,” Her voice spoke. You smile, “It’s my pleasure. I find district 12 my favourite, but don’t go telling the other districts that” You chuckle as the woman does the same.

“What’s your name?” You ask, trying to search her features that were covered. “Lucy. Lucy Gray Baird.” That name. It was so familiar to you. “Have I met you? Lucy Gray?” You try and dig through your memories seeing if you could match the name to a face.

She chuckles. “I don’t think so. Though I am familiar with your Husband, the President.” She pulls back her hood and it all clicked. Lucy Gray. Coriolanus’ tribute during the 10th hunger games. “I’m familiar with you now Lucy. The tribute my husband mentored, the tribute he cheated for.” You nod your head at her as she smiles.

You knew Coriolanus was a peacekeeper in this very district. What you didn’t understand was why he was relocated from district 8 to district 12. A surge of curiosity courses through your veins. Curiosity to what happened here while Snow was peacekeeper, what sacrifices he had to make in order to become President.

“Would you like to sit down? I have a few questions I hope you are able to answer for me, please.” Your voiced out in slight desperation. Lucy studies you for a moment before nodding her head. You look towards the guards who nodded their head and give the two of you space, but still on watch out.

“My husband was to be a peacekeeper in district 8 yet he was relocated here. Do you know any reason as to why that happened? I need you to be completely honest with me Lucy.” You felt a sense of guilt. You promised Snow you wouldn’t dig into what happened during his exile, but you couldn’t help it.

“I will be completely honest with you, Y/n.” You take her hands in yours as she glances down at your hands. “Coriolanus relocated here because of me,” She slowly said as you search her eyes to see if she was lying. She wasn’t.

You swallow as you urged her to continue. She then revealed everything to you. From bobbin being murdered by him in the arena, to him killing the mayor’s daughter Mayfair, and the death of Sejanus which she suspected was Snow’s doing. Lucy also revealed to you her relationship that she had with Coriolanus.

It started even when you and Coriolanus were together, but you just had no idea. You tried to stay as far away as you could from the hunger games. You were utterly shocked. It made so much sense to you. Snow’s words hinted what he did and Lucy’s words backed them up perfectly.

“And what happened between you and him?” You fidget with your fingers. “I was scared. So scared of him Y/n. I thought he was going to kill me when he found guns in the cabin. And that was exactly what he tried doing but I escaped.” Lucy let out a shaky breath as you listen intently. “Thank you. Thank you for telling me this.” You hold her hands before placing money in them as her eyes widen.

“Take care Lucy Gray.” Was all you said before you got up, leaving the bar. “This trip comes to an end right now.” Your voice was shaky as you step into the train back to the Capitol. Your mind was swirling with thoughts. What Lucy Gray told you made you question so many things about Snow.

You knew he would never hurt you. But there was still the lingering thought that he might. You knew Snow came back a changed man, but you never knew how much he had changed and what sacrifices he had to make. The trip back felt like an eternity. You could hardly sleep, drink or eat. Thoughts plagued your mind.

The train came to a halt, but you were deep in thought to even realise. A hand touched your arm, “Are you okay?” Coriolanus asks in a worried tone as you stare at him in confusion. “Y/n? Y/n!” Was all you heard before you saw blackness.

~

You slowly open your eyes as you adjust to the bright light. You look around your surroundings and felt a heavy weight on your hand. “Coryo?” You weakly say as he wakes up in surprise. “Y/n. Thank God you’re okay,” He hugs you tightly.

“What happened?” You touch your head that was pounding, “You passed out on the train. The doctors said you barely ate anything or slept. What happened?” He asks as he cups your face in his big hands. Memories of what happened came running back to you.

Lucy Gray’s words came back to you. You suddenly push Coriolanus off of you. He looks at you in shock. “Did I do something?” “Get out.” You softly say, refusing to look at him. “What? Y/n-“ “I said get out Coriolanus!” You say this time louder and more stern. He swallows hard, before leaving you alone just as you asked.

You uncontrollably start to sob. Your heart was aching so much. You understood he had to do whatever it took but killing those innocent people…. You couldn’t wrap your head around it. As you sobbed you felt something wet in between your legs. You pause. No. No.

You quickly throw the blanket off of you as you scream at the sight of blood. “Help! Someone please help me!” You scream as tears continue to fall down your face. The door burst open to reveal Snow there, a horrified look on his face at the sight of blood. “Why me?” Was all you said in between your sobs as Snow runs out.

~

“I’m so sorry,” The doctor says to Coriolanus as you lay on your side, your back facing him as hot tears streamed down your face. You had just lost the baby. Exhaustion, lack of sleep and food led to it. “Y/n…” Snow’s voice was soft, you flinch at his touch on your shoulder as he backs off.

“She told me everything.” You manage to say, you turn over but refuse to look him in the eyes. Confusion etched his features at what you possible could mean. “Lucy Gray. She told me everything” Coriolanus’ features harden at the sound of her name. “She’s lying. You honestly trust a district’s word?”

“Everything she said made pretty darn sense Coriolanus. The sacrifices you made? You mean killing your best friend and innocent people! And you and Lucy. Look me in the eyes and tell me that never happened.” He looked taken back. You sobbed as you cover your mouth in disbelief. “I can’t believe this oh my god!”

“Do you even love me?” You asked. Coriolanus rushed to your side, taking your hands in his. “Of course I do. Of course I love you Y/n. More than anything. I did whatever it took to come back to you. You have to understand that.” A few tear drops fall from his eyes as he pleads.

“I just need time and-and space. Please.” You screw your eyes shut as you look away. Coriolanus sniffles before standing up, straightening his jacket as he nods. “Of course, I understand.” As soon the door shut closed, another round of tears gush from your eyes.

[brighttears]

Safe

Joel Miller x reader

no physical description, no use of y/n

Summary: After a startle at breakfast in Jackson, Joel calms you down from a panic attack.

Word count: 2.5k

Warnings: graphic depictions of panic attack, negative self talk, pet names (baby, honey, sweetheart, darling)

A/n: just a lil somethin :3 also the panic attack is based off of personal experience just in case anyone is sus im not makin this shit up lol

—

Culture shock is the perfect term to use in relation to what it's like coming into Jackson after months on the road. It’s bright, vividly colored, large, loud, and always so fucking busy. You haven’t been around this many people since Boston, but so much has changed since then. It's been a few weeks now, but you still haven’t even figured out how to let your guard down. 

The dining hall is the worst part of the day. You will yourself to come and eat because you believe it is good for you, you need to get used to it, and you don’t want to other yourself by taking your plate outside. You feel separated enough already, like a wild animal being introduced into a zoo enclosure. But god, the scrapping utensils on plates, chewing, so much conversation, boisterous laughing, people getting up and down from their seats; so much open space with so much activity, you can barely keep your eyes down enough to be able to look at the food you’re trying to get into your mouth. But Joel is always right there with you, with a comforting hand on your thigh, grounding both you and him, eyes flicking around just as much as yours, and a matching sigh of relief once you make it back outside, with a ‘We did it’ or ‘Good job sweetheart’ to pick your spirits up. 

You don’t know what it is about today; nothing you can put your finger on, just some uneasy feeling that you woke up with. Some days are just like this, though, like a scratch you can’t itch somewhere in your brain, irritating your nervous system until whatever it is decides to let you out of its clutches. 

“Come on honey, time to go,” Joel says from the door as he pulls his jacket on. You let out a deep breath, staring out of the kitchen window with your arms crossed over your chest, an absentminded hand smoothing over your throat. Squeezing your arm with your other hand, you will yourself to move, leave the house, go down to the dining hall. Its just breakfast, just breakfast, just fucking breakfast. Come on. You can do this. You’ve been through much, much worse than this. Come on. 

“Hey,” Joel’s voice sounds suddenly from right behind you and you jump, sucking in a breath with a defensive hand jutting out towards him. 

“Fuck.” You breath back out, leaning down and pulling your hand back to you electrified chest, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” You shake your head, guilty and embarrassed for reacting like that to Joel, who you know wouldn’t even dream of hurting you. 

“It’s alright darlin’, it’s alright. You’re ok.” He coos. 

Blinking hard, you nod, “Yeah, sorry, you just startled me. I’m fine.”

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t tryna sneak up on ya,”

“No, I know, it’s just… I don’t know, I just feel… off today.” You say as you straighten up.  

Joel meets you slowly, placing his hands on your arms. “You wanna just stay in this mornin’? I can go grab the food or have Tommy or Maria—”

“No, no, I can do it.” You interrupt him and swallow hard. 

“You sure? There’s no shame in—”

“No,” you shake your head, “I’m fine. It’s fine. I’ve been through worse.” You smirk, trying to lighten the mood. 

Joel returns a light smile. His eyes fall to your lips, and he leans in for a quick kiss before turning back to the door. His touch relaxes your shoulders and you take one more deep breath before following him outside. As you start down the road, his arm slides around your waist. Even just a small gesture like this from your man makes you feel safer. When you feel his breaths, deliberately deep and even, you follow suit, and the two of you prepare for the upcoming onslaught of breakfast. Despite your efforts, though, you can feel your heartbeat quicken as you near the doors.

As you enter, Joel’s arm slips from around you but you grasp each other's hands as you walk to the table that Tommy and Maria are already sat waiting at, both giving you a smile as you come to your seats. 

“A bit late this morning.” Maria says. 

“Slept in?” Tommy winks.

“No, uh, just, late morning, I guess.” Joel replies, not meeting their eyes, instead instinctively sweeping them over the room. You keep your own eyes locked on the table. 

“You ok?” Maria asks. When you look up, there’s concern in her eyes. 

“Yeah, fine.” You throw a smile and look back down at the table, still linked to Joel by your hands.

“Well food’s out and ready, we were just about to grab our own plates.” You hear Tommy. 

“Alright,” Joel says, letting go of your hand and moving to get up from his seat. Just as you finally let your gaze up from the table, a crash and a scream sounds from nearby, and without even thinking, you’re suddenly on your feet, stanced ready, a hand on your empty hip and an arm swung back towards Joel. A yelp escapes from your throat and your entire body is rigid and burning with panic, chest twisted so tight it won’t let you breathe, teeth clamped so hard it hurts.

Then, silence. All there is is your breath, jumping like snapped rubber bands, and the blood rushing in your ears. Eyes still pinned open, you force your neck to move and look around you. Hundreds of eyes look back at you. Everyone is staring. However, your head is empty of embarrassment, still full of threat, threat, threat, threat, threat. 

“It’s alright, honey,” sounds from behind you, then a hand on your arm, and you switch your stance to face the touch, grabbing the hand while your other fumbles for the weapon that is not on your hip. 

“It’s me, it’s jus’ me, baby, it’s alright, it’s me.” 

Your eyes blink rapidly as Joel’s face comes into focus, the blurry haze of panic slowly starting to clear. 

When you try to speak, your breaths stab out from your lungs. “What happened?” You finally get out. 

“Nothin’, sweetheart, someone just dropped somethin’. It’s ok. You’re safe. It’s alright.” He tells you, hands coming up to cup your cheeks. “It’s alright.” He whispers, focusing your eyes on his. “It’s alright.”

“Are you ok?” You hear yourself say.

His thumbs stroke your cheeks as he replies, “I’m fine. Nothin’ happened. We’re safe, baby. We’re safe.”

Though your brain is beginning to process and trust his words, you can’t move, only tremble. 

“Alright, let’s get you outta here.” Joel’s eyes come away from yours to flick around you, and that’s when you remember where you are. Muscles moving in snapping spurts, your neck jerks left and right, and still, hundreds of eyes look back at you. Now with room enough for it, embarrassment burns your entire face and neck. 

“It’s alright, honey,” you hear Joel, thumbs stroking your cheeks, bringing your attention back to him in front of you, “let’s jus’ get you outta here.” He nods, then shifts to beside you, one arm around your waist with his other hand rubbing your shoulder. You keep your head bowed, steps jagged with full body tremors. 

As soon as the outside air hits you, you begin to gasp, barely realizing that you’re sobbing. Joel catches you before you collapse. There's the panic, still shooting through you’ve been eletrocuted, but the humiliation is a whole other kind of overwhelming. “Fuck.” You cry into Joel. You bury your face deep into his shirt and jacket to muffle the screams that you can’t hold in. He squeezes his arms around you, rubbing your back, his chin resting on top of your head, whispering, “It’s alright, baby. It’s alright.”

“I’m such a fucking idiot.” You let out into him in between bawls. “I fucking hate this. I hate this.”

“I’m so sorry, baby. I’m so sorry. Come on, let’s get you back up to the house.”

Your trembling legs continue to betray you and you can’t get yourself to move. 

“I can’t–I can’t move.” You admit. 

“Alright, t’s alright, come on, baby,” He reassures, then hoists you up into his arms. Like a child, you wrap your legs around him, keeping your face buried in his collar, squeezing your eyes shut and attempting—with little success—to calm your breaths. The sobs fall out of you unrelenting as a waterfall. 

By the time you get to the house, your breathing has calmed some, but the shaking won’t stop. When Joel sets you on the ground you hobble up the short steps to the porch and through the door, and he keeps a comforting arm around you as he guides you to sit on the couch. He kneels down before you, stroking your cheek with his hand, trailing his eyes over your panicked frame before focusing them on yours.

“Deep breaths, baby, t’s alright. Deep breaths.” He starts them and you follow, breathing deeply in through your nose, holding, and blowing out through your mouth. 

“Where are we?” He asks. 

“At the–the house.”

“Where’s the house, baby?”

“Jackson. In Jackson.” 

“Thas’ right,” Joel cups your face, “we’re at the compound. We’re safe here, sweetheart. I promise. We’re safe. Nothin’s gonna hurt you.” He nods, you swallow hard and then let out another shaky breath and nod with him. 

Your trembling shoe taps the floor. When you still it, your shoulders start to shake. “Fuck.” You close your eyes, cursing yourself. “I’m so fucking stupid, I’m sorry.”

“No, no, you’re not stupid. How many times you been here with me like this? This stuff happens. You’re not stupid. T’s alright. Look at me baby,” you do, and he repeats, “T’s arlight. You’re not stupid.” Joel shakes his head, eyes still keeping yours. One hand shifts down to your fist, which you hadn’t even noticed bring clenched closed. “Let me get you some water.”

When he moves to get up, your hand shoots out to grip the lapel of his jacket. “Don’t leave.”

“I’m not leavin’, sweetheart. I’m jus’ goin’ to the kitchen. I’ll be right over there. Won’t take two seconds.” Joel gently takes your hand off of his coat, raising his eyebrows with a reassuring look, then gets to his feet. You turn on the couch, watching him go to the sink to fill up a glass for you. “I’m right here, see?” He says on his way back to you. You nod, eyes staying trained on him as he kneels back down in front of you. When the cup shakes in your hand, he keeps his on it, delicately helping it to your lips. The water cools your throat, helping you to ground yourself. You empty it into your throat and then take a couple more deep breaths. “That feel better?” You nod. “Alright.” Joel sighs, setting the glass down on the floor next to him to take your face in his hands again, then bringing his face up to kiss your forehead. “Alright, baby.” He says again. “This stuff happens. I get the same way, I bet plenty a people in there have done the same thing. T’s a lot in there. You’re not used to all that. Neither am I. Todays just a bad day, huh?” You sniffle and nod. “Now, you’re not stupid. Ok?”

“Ok.” you finally speak. 

“Alright. You wanna go lay down?” You nod, voicebox still not too confident. “Come on, darlin’.” Joel lets go of your face, reaching one hand around your back and the other to your legs for you to shift into his arms bridal style. You wrap your arms around his neck and bury your face in his collar, inhaling his scent of love and safety as the stairs creak under Joel’s feet taking you upstairs. 

When you look up at him as he lets you down on the bed, his brow is furrowed with concern and there's sadness in his deep eyes. 

Ashamed, you instantly look away. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to make you worry.”

“Baby I’m gonna worry no matter what you do.” He sits down on the bed next to you and strokes his hand over your cheek again, “You did nothin’ wrong. Don’t go hatin’ yourself for it. It’s not like you did this on purpose. Right?”

You shake your head and lean into his touch. Joel’s eyes land on your lips and remain there until he leans in to kiss you, slipping your bottom lip between his, and you reach your hands up to hang onto him. Knitting your hands into his locks with his stubbly cheek under your hand, you indulge in him. 

Pulling away, he says, “Lay down with me, darlin’,” already with his hand on your back to slowly guide your back down on the bed. He keeps his head above you to meet your lips again, gentle yet firm, honeyed and warm. Closing your eyes, the pressure of his body next to yours, hand on your waist, and his lips on yours begins to relieve the pressure in your bones. Slowly, you feel yourself relaxing, though your foot still twitches in your boot, the residual aftermath of a panic attack. 

Joel’s hand smooths over your cheek as he deepens the kiss, the sigh from his nose breathed over your face. When he pulls away, he shifts his arms to rest his hands on your face and stroke his thumbs over your cheeks. His eyes wander over you with lazy lids, his brow still lightly furrowed and bottom lip slightly pouted and wet from your mouth. He sighs again, then whispers “I love you so much.”

“I love you.” You whisper back, looking over his face. 

Joel leans down to rub his nose back and forth over yours, then sprinkles light kisses over your cheeks, forehead, by your ear, the corner of your mouth, and over your jaw. Then he shifts his body to lie down, tilting your hips towards him with a soft “C’mere,” and you lay your head on his chest, bending your knee to rest your leg over his. Closing your eyes and inhaling again, you let your body weigh into his and grip his lapel. Tears ball up in the corner of your eyes. 

You used to lay like this frequently on the road, keeping each other close, hanging on to the only sanity you knew. The lack thereof surrounding you protected you enough from falling asleep despite the relaxation it granted you, and you’d do it to watch the sun rise or set whenever you could catch it. When you did sleep though, you’d stay united, someone’s head on each other’s chest or leg. 

On the same train of thought as you, Joel speaks, the bass in your ear on his chest, “Maybe sometime we could actually fall asleep like this.”

“Not now, I can’t sleep now.” You mumble. 

“I know, darlin’. Too worked up for it now.” His hand brushes up and down your back, “T’s alright. Jus’ layin’.” Joel smacks a kiss on the top of your head, then sighs again, your head rising and falling with it, and wraps both arms around you. “We got time. N’ we’ll get used to it here. Get used to bein’ safe.”

[whenrainhitsmyskin]

Dancing is a Dangerous Game

pairing: bakugo katsuki/reader

summary: reader and bakugo have been reluctant frenemies since their school days back at ua, their relationship consists of constant bickering and insults. what happens when they are forced into close proximity at their friend’s wedding?

4k+ words.

warnings: must be 18+ to read and interact, fem bodied reader, graphic smut, multiple orgasms, oral fem receiving, vanilla sex, orgasm delay, hickeys, manhandling, reader gets picked up, very tame insults, slight fluff, frenemies to lovers.

   - canon-verse, characters are aged up to mid-twenties.

You hear the song change from afar. The smooth melody is just loud enough to reach your ears in a faint whisper. You spot some flowers that match the ones in the bouquet you are carrying in your right hand while you are wandering the grounds.

You hear a call for your name. You sigh out of annoyance, all you wanted was a little break from all the socializing, was that really too much to ask for?

Bakugo comes into your sight once you turn around. You blame the chill that suddenly attacks your skin on the breeze that catches on your long silk dress.

“Bride’s been askin’ for ya.” You roll your eyes, he scratches the back of his head, “Said she’s called but ya never picked up.”

“Yeah, I left my phone on the table inside, why the hell did she send you?” You say, taking in his appearance, a fancy black suit that matches the rest of the groomsmen, and a boutineer on his chest that’s the same as the flowers in the garden you were looking at moments ago.

He looks good just as much as he makes you angry. An unfortunate balance, caused by the cruel way the world works. 

“No need to be a bitch on our best friend's wedding day y/n.” He grinds his teeth and holds his arm out for you to latch onto, you shoot him a quizzical look, “The grounds uneven and you suck at walking in heels, either this or you fall on your face, both are fine by me.”

You guess there was a little more bite to your words than you meant based on his response.

You reluctantly grab on, similarly to how you both walked down the aisle. Your line of work rarely calls for dressing up, you can’t remember the last time you wore heels. 

He leads you back to the area the reception is hosted, a botanical garden that’s closed in panes of glass and an abundance of twinkling lights spread throughout. 

He lets go of your arm once you reach the edge of the dance floor where Mina is talking to her wedding coordinator and photographer. You set the flowers on a nearby table.

“y/n it’s about time you got here!” She squeals and embraces you, which you give into.

“Sorry, I just needed a little breather, what’s up?” You glance and Bakugo is near the rest of the groomsmen, seemingly gathering them up.

“I want the wedding party to dance to the next song all together with their pairings in the ceremony. Aiko gave me the idea and I think it would be so cute for pictures!” She says, talking with her hands enthusiastically.

Just as she finishes the last part you meet a pair of red eyes staring back at you, “So I’m dancing with Bakugo?” You ask.

“Precisely! Now go get the girls together!” She says as she prances off to go find the groom.

You think over the idea, the last thing you would ever want to subject yourself to is dancing with your least favorite person from your graduating class, but you wouldn’t dare disappoint your best friend on her big day.

You gather the rest of the bridal party, which mostly consists of other girls from class A and a couple of her closest cousins and friends from primary school.

Everyone goes and finds the groomsman that they walked down the aisle with, you reluctantly turn to find yours when you slam into a hard chest and nearly lose your footing. Somehow you don’t fall on your ass.

Oh.

Oh.

His large hands are on your waist holding you up from your near demise and his face is beat red as he’s looking down at you.

The weight of his hands are oddly comforting and that thought makes you want to vomit in one of the glasses the waitress is passing by you with.

“Let’s just get this over with alright?” He says gruffly with a sour look on his face. 

The song changes once more as he forcefully grabs your wrist and pulls you onto the dance floor, he maneuvers one of your hands to his shoulder and grabs the other one with his own. He begins moving along to the rhythm of the song.

Bakugo feels heat spread down his neck and up to his ears and his palm is sweating against your own, there’s a knot in his stomach that he so badly wants to believe is because of how much he loathes you.

He’s actually got some fancy feet for someone who is dangerously careless in the field. Each step is calculated, avoiding yours while still maintaining seemingly practiced movements. Another thing about him that just has to be perfect. 

“I can’t believe this is happening.” You complain, looking at all the other happy pairs dancing with one another, why couldn’t you have ended up with Denki or Sero? You would have gladly taken one of them over Bakugo. It’s almost like Mina and Kirishima wanted you to be miserable, or they wanted to provide you an opportunity.

“How’s come? It’s a wedding, people dance at these kinda things ya’know?” He says with annoyance.

“Because Bakugo,” you say, you hear him swallow, “dancing is a dangerous game.”

“Yeah?” He smirks, barring his vicious front canines, “I bet you’re having fun then, you seem to like a little danger, don’t you?”

His statement has you floored, and your jaw slightly dropped as you give him a questioning look. You are unable to tell if he’s reciprocating not only the hatred you have for him but the infatuation as well.

He removes the hand on your waist in favor of closing your mouth shut. “Would hate to ruin the photos.”

He turns both of your heads towards the photographer, you both shoot reluctant smiles until she moves onto other members of the party.

His hand returns to your waist and you continue dancing. A hot flush comes over you and you think you start to feel feverish. Other guests start to join in during the next song and that’s your cue to finally depart from him. 

He watches you walk away from him like you always have over the years. Just barely out of reach, leaving him with an empty pit in his heart.

You desperately need to find a familiar face that you don’t hate and that’s when you spot Denki unsuccessfully flirting with one of Minas old school friends, you drag him away by the collar of his blazer to the most opposite side where you abandoned Bakugo, trying to put as much distance between you and the longing feeling you have for him apart.

“Hey man what was that for?!” Denki pouts, “Oh shut it Sparky, I’m doing her and myself a favor.” You smile. He begins leading you into a borderline ballroom dance.

“C’mon I thought I was finally getting through to her. Hey what about your dancing buddy, guessing it didn’t last long before you two started verbally abusing each other?” He chuckles.

“Yeah, something like that.” You say, “Wanted to dance with someone I can actually tolerate.”

The rest of the night you fall into easy conversation with friends and those you haven’t gotten a chance to catch up with in a while.

After the newly wed sendoff you head back into the botanical garden to help take stuff down that the venue themselves didn’t provide.

After your job is done you grab your clutch and head outside to get an Uber back to the hotel that was booked out for all their guests.

You hear the crunching of gravel under footsteps walking towards you and when you hear them come up right behind you, your phone is snatched away.

“Hey what the hell?” You yell at whoever has taken it from you, Bakugo comes up in front of you, looks at your screen and powers off your phone, “I was booking a ride back, hand it over Bakugo.”

You attempt to grab it back, but he just holds it high out of your reach, just how you have always been to him. 

“I’m not letting some stranger drive you this late at night.” He says as he starts walking away, “C’mon I drove.”

“Who the hell do you think you are bossing me around?” You say tailing after him. All he does is shoot you a glare over his shoulder. 

He loves you chasing after him. All fiery and ready to bicker. It’s quite the contrast to past experiences where all you both want to do is get away from one another.

You finally reach his car, and he opens the passenger door. “Get in y/n.”

He sounds dangerous, it’s making you hot and bothered in all the wrong ways. 

“I’m not going anywhere with you, now please give me my phone back.” You plead, you’re shocked you allowed those words to come out of your mouth but you’re tired and can’t stand to be around him any longer. 

He’s equally as shocked and realizes he likes hearing you beg for something from him. So all he gives you is a shake of his head, wanting more of this. However, you’re uninterested in playing his game, it’s too late to be arguing like this tonight. 

“Fine.” You say, you shove past him and slide into the passenger seat. He shuts the door behind you, and you put on your seat belt. You’ve never seen the inside of his car, so you take a look at these new surroundings. 

It’s all smooth black leather and interior, with a really nice dashboard. It’s just so Bakugo. He joins you inside and starts the engine.

“How much have you had to drink?” You ask, not willing to put yourself in more danger than it is getting inside a car with a stranger.

“None, don’t drink.” He says, putting the car in reverse, “And you?”

“One, before the reception started.” You answer, although you don’t know why he would need to ask that, maybe this is his pathetic attempt at making small talk with you for the first time.

It’s completely silent besides the low rumbling of the car engine. The stillness of this moment is driving you insane. Maybe it’s time to let in.

“The wedding was…nice?” God you are so bad at this. It’s awkward and uncomfortable and has your knee bouncing up and down.

“Yeah, it was good, I’m happy for them.” He says, indicating left, heading into the turn lane and stopping at the light.

“Me too.” You smile, “It’s weird seeing some of our friends get married, it feels like we just graduated.”

He grunts in acknowledgement and glances down to your knee.

“Stop doin’ that shit it’s distractin’ me.” He commands pushing just above your knee with his hand, so your foot stays planted on the floor. The light flashes green and he turns left.

“Sorry.” You say, looking out the window. It’s been a few seconds and you realize he hasn’t made a move to remove his hand. It feels like it’s burning through your dress and melting into your skin. It’s violent, much like your feelings for him.

A few beats pass and you realize his hand hasn’t moved from your leg. You turn your gaze from the window and towards him. You catch him sneaking a glance down where his hand meets your dress.

Signals are firing throughout your nervous system. Your skin produces a sheen layer of sweat, and your hands tighten around your clutch. You close your eyes and attempt to regulate your breath.

After what feels like hours of semi-uncomfortable silence, he pulls into the valet drop off. He takes his hand off of you and opens the car door, you follow suit. He hands his key over to one of the employees and starts walking to the tall fancy doors. 

He opens it for you and follows closely behind. You head towards the elevator and press the button. You are so close to sleeping you can almost taste it.

The doors open and you both file in. Just another confined, small space Bakugo seems to take so much up of, just like your thoughts, which are running rampant right now.

Why did he care about your safety tonight when he never has? Why were his palms sweating so much while you were dancing when he learned to control that ages ago? Why did he leave his hand on your leg? And why the hell did you like any of this?

He presses the button to the 32nd floor and the elevator doors close. You can’t stand your own thoughts so you do the only thing you can think of to get rid of them and that is to voice them.

“Why did you keep your hand on my leg?” You ask with a shaky voice. The break of silence nearly startles him.

“Cause you would stop bouncin’ it.” He says.

“Didn’t need to keep it there.” You sigh, “Would have stopped if you just asked.” He hums and looks down at his shoes.

“Was it deliberate?” 

“So what if it was y/n.”

“Then I would’ve liked it.” Those words are what force him to snap his head towards you. He sees you are looking back at him expectantly, willing for him to give in. 

His brain feels like mush. He can’t tell what you’re trying to play right now, but he’s really hoping you finally want what he has been waiting for all this time.

“Dancing really is a dangerous game.” He mirrors your words from earlier that night, before the tension built up between the two of you.

“I guess I’ve always liked a little danger.” You answer his question from earlier. He sports another smirk on his face and steps over to you and grabs your face in his hands, “It’s a good thing you’re danger personified.”

“Yeah, you can’t get enough of it can you.” He traces your jaw with his thumbs, he glances down at your lips for a beat and back into your eyes, “Always coming back for more, after all these years.” 

“Yeah, keeps things interesting.” You say, and that’s when he finally closes the gap between you. His lips are all consuming, you hold onto his blazer to bring you closer to him.

The elevator chimes and the door opens, and the two of you pull apart. He abruptly grabs your wrist and pulls you out. He’s walking with haste, unlike early when he was dragging you to the dance floor.

He stops at what you assume is the door to his hotel room, he fumbles to get his key card out of his wallet, he finally retrieves it and unlocks the door. You follow in behind him and the door closes shut behind you.

He says your name and puts his arms above your head, caging you against the door, pressing your spine uncomfortably into the wood.

“You drive me fucking insane.” He sighs, he closes his eyes and presses his forehead against your own. You use this newfound closeness to study his features. He’s so gorgeous you can hardly believe he’s real. All sharp features and cutting edges, sculpted by God himself.

“Bakugo, I want you.” You breathe out the truth, “More than our games, I want you more than I hate you.” 

His eyes open once more. Searching your own to find any hint of doubt. He can’t see any, just your eyes clouded by possible arousal.

He gives your lips a light peck, and immediately pulls away and leaves you wanting more.

“y/n.” Your name, a statement, “You’re mine now, ya got that.” He lets out a heavy sigh.

“Fucking finally.” You say, putting your arms around his neck and kissing him. It’s purposeful and slow, clouding your mind with so much desire for him it fucking hurts. 

There’s something so intentional with the way he’s kissing you right now, each movement has its own meaning, pouring all the feelings towards you that have built up over the years you two have known one another. 

God, he doesn’t even remember what it felt like to breathe before kissing you. He cups your face with his hands in an attempt to stabilize himself. His heading is getting clouded with arousal, causing his crotch to press into your stomach, hoping for any pressure to hold him over.

You push his blazer off his shoulders, craving to map out the plains of his body with your fingertips, you dig your nails into the hard muscle of his back when he bites your lip and that’s when things start to get violent, just how it’s always been between the two of you.

Abruptly he grabs you by your thighs and holds you against the door to the hotel room, pining you with his hips. You forgot how fucking strong he is. All hard muscle and honey smooth skin, you wanna taste every inch of him. 

You move your hands from his chest and into his hair, it’s so incredibly soft. He grinds his hips into yours causing you to pull at the locks and let out a soft whine.

His mouth changes focus from your lips to your neck, assaulting it with every kiss, lick, nip and bite. You can feel him assaulting a spot on your neck thag you just know is going to bruise. God he is such a fucking tease you can’t tell if you want him to keep it up or slap him for not fucking you already. He finally pulls away, breathing heavily and a sincere look on his face, he says your name.

“Need ya to tell me what you want.” He says, “Don’t wanna take this too far.”

You would laugh if you didn’t know he was being dead serious. But instead, you give him a soft smile and a kiss to his cheek, causing him to redden.

“Katsuki, I want you to fuck me.” You say. He presses a soft kiss to your lips before responding.

“M’gonna fuck you so hard you see stars y/n.” And with that he kisses you and walks you deeper into the room before setting you down.

You begin to take the tie off of his neck and start working on the buttons to his crisp white shirt. Taut muscle and hard abs are revealed to your ogling eyes.

“You’re so fucking hot, how is this even fair?” You say, running your hands up and down his torso.

“Look who’s talkin’ princess.” He smirks at you, you turn around and bring your hair over to your shoulder, he grabs onto the zipper of your dress and pulls it down.

With every inch of you that’s revealed has him drooling like a dog, the lace of your panties finally comes into view, and he feels like he may faint. The fabric drops to the floor, and you turn around, and that’s when he realizes you aren’t wearing a bra.

“God you are so fucking pretty.” He says, he goes back to kissing you and starts running his hands from your hips and up your body, replacing your clothes with his touch. He cups the undersides of your breasts and gives a light squeeze; your soft skin is pliant under the pressure.

His touch lights your whole body on fire, flamed by his ember and ignites something feral inside of you. You want him so bad it hurts.

He guides you back to the bed and your head hits the pillows, his arms are resting above your head, his biceps caging you in. He pulls away from your lips and begins kissing down your body.

A trail of his saliva now leads from your neck and down to the waistline of your panties.

“These are cute.” He says, pulling at the waist band, causing it to snap down to your hip. He begins peeling them off your body. Once they are completely off of you, he runs his thumb up and down your slit, then begins drawing light circles on your clit, “God you’re so wet f’me baby.”

“Fuck-fuck Katsuki, it all for you, all yours.” You whine. Your hips are twitching, and your breathing is heavy even though he has hardly done anything, you think he may have already ruined you.

After a few more moments the light touches aren’t enough and it begins to feel like torture, “Need-need more, fuck, want you tongue.”

“C’mon princess, if you wanna get what ya want I need to hear ya beg for it.” He smirks, stopping his ministrations completely. 

“Fuck that.” You whine. Oh my god you might actually strangle him, you have never begged him for anything and have never planned on it, but the aching between your legs hurts so bad you don’t know how much more of this you can take before finishing yourself off instead.

“I’ll keep going baby,” he says, pressing a kiss to your clit, “All you have to do is ask.” And that’s when you start to think he’s a fucking sadist and he’s officially broken you.

“Fuck-please Katsuki, need you so bad.” You beg, “Want you just fuck-want your tongue and your hands, please.”

“There ya go princess, that’s more like it.” He says before diving into your slit. His tongue attacks your clit in the most gruesome way, it has your hips jolting off the bed and his calloused hands moving to hold them down.

Broken moans leave your throat, how are you already this close when he’s barely done anything at all?

He inserts two fingers into you. They go in with hardly any resistance considering how wet you are. He does something with his tongue that you know took him some practice and it has you crying out for him.

“Fuck, Katsuki gonna come.” You say, feeling the white-hot pleasure build up inside of you. But it slowly fades out when he pulls away from you, “What-no, why’d you stop?”

He comes up and kisses you, “Don’t want you cummin till’ it’s on my cock.”

He stands up and starts unbuckling his belt and takes it through the loops, then he takes his dress pants and briefs off all-in-one go, seemingly in a hurry to get back to you.

He joins you back on the bed after fishing a condom out of his wallet, tearing it open and sliding it on his leaking cock. He hovers over you and plants a sweet kiss on your forehead and another on your cheek. 

He rubs his cock up and down your slit, “You okay princess?”

“Yeah, yeah I’m good, want you.” You say. The sweetness of your tone pulls at his heart strings, along with the corners of his mouth.

“I’m right here.” He responds and begins slowly sheathing his cock inside of you. You both whisper curses.

“Katsuki your so big-fuck.” You say, digging crescent shapes into his shoulders with your nails, he hisses in pain.

“I know baby, I know-just breathe alright?” He coos softly, kissing your hairline and waiting for you to adjust to the stretch for a few moments.

“I’m good, I’m ready.” You say to him.

“Okay, I’ll start slow for ya.” And he keeps his promise. He slowly begins to pull out until just the head of his cock is left and slowly pushes back in.

He continues this until it starts to become pleasurable for you, your breathy moans and whines his sign. So he begins to fuck into you harder, and just a little faster.

He brings one of your legs around his shoulder to get as deep as possible and pulls back slightly so he can put a hand between your bodies to rub your clit. 

The sounds you are making are practically music to his ears and are slightly inflating his ego. He kisses you so he can get closer to them.

After a few more hard thrusts, hot white pleasure begins building up inside of you, you pull away from the kiss.

“K-Katsuki m’close, so close don’t stop.” You say, throwing your head back.

“C’mon princess, I know you want it, know you wanna come.” He continues his pace and quickens the movements on your clit and he has you cumming seconds later. And you think it may be the most intense orgasm of your life when he starts thrusting faster, riding out your release.

“I know you have another one in ya babe, c’mon just one more.” He says, the brutal pace never ceases, and moments later you're cumming for a second time consecutively, but this time with him.

Fuck your pussy is absolutely milking his cock dry. He bites your shoulder to keep him from moaning too loud, in favor of your neighbors. 

The room smells of sweat and sex, evidence of what just unfolded between the two of you, taking your mind out of its post-orgasmic trance.

You draw little designs on his back with the tips of your fingers while he comes down from his high, eventually he moves from the place between your shoulder and neck. 

“You alright princess?” He asks.

“Yeah, I’m good, really good.” You smile, “And you?”

“Never better.” His expression mirrors yours.

The rest of the night consists of cleaning each other up, soft kisses, brief touches and him walking you down the hallway to your respective hotel room. He kisses you good night and says he will see you in the morning for brunch.

You step out of the elevator and into the hotel lobby for brunch with Mina, Kirishima, the wedding party and their close family. You find the table where the wedding party has been seated and Bakugo intercepts you before you can reach it.

“Good morning.” You say. You can’t remember the last time you greeted him without something offensive coming before it, all familiarity long on.

“Good morning.” He says back, and you see an actual smile on his face, not a smirk or one he sports when he comes up with a good insult at you, but a soft one, just barely pulling at the corner of his lips.

You walk the rest of the way towards the table together and pull a seat out, gesturing for you to sit and moving it towards the table just before you are seated. He takes a seat right next to you.

After you are done ordering your breakfast, you spot Mina and Kirishima at another table looking at you and Bakugo, sporting knowing looks on their faces.

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[rise-my-angel]

Heart of the Great Wolf

36 - Wolves of the Past and Back

Pairing: Jon Snow x F!Baratheon!Reader, Robb Stark x F!Baratheon!Reader (Past)

Length: 18k

Warnings: angst/hurt comfort, graphic descriptions of gore and violence, references to past rape, sexual trauma, smut, past character death

Notes: I'm basing my description of the Others off of the books, but it's perfectly fine if you envision them as the White Walkers from the show. It's just my own stylistic preference. Previous Chapter Here, Series Masterlist Here

Nothing of the orders seemed as if it would lead to anything different. Black dyed fur sat warm around their persons as the same colour matched all the rest they wore, but it wouldn't be warm for long, not as they travelled. All sat atop a horse each as the jarring loud rise of the gate blared before them. The tunnel as it always was, stood dark, long and shivering in the air even despite the North beyond. As if the wind trapped inside as the gate opened never allowed it any warmth.

Finally as the men all waited for the second gate to rise, Will could only wonder how long this time would take. Some rangers would come back with whispers of strange happenings, some didn't even think twice of it, and it was always difficult to tell who was spinning stories from fear, and who was fearful from the things they truly had seen. As the three men had begun to move along the woods, nothing was out of the ordinary. Just snow and cold, and nothing within sight for far too long in far too chill of air.

But it was then which him alone which saw it, a plume of smoke. Nothing was around it, no signs of life or attack and there was not much in these closer parts that they could hide so well in. But climbing off the horse, Will saw nothing strange, but still approached as careful as he knew to be.

As he slowly descended on the small cliff side, he braced himself for whatever was waiting and yet, it wasn't them. Well, it was the wildlings, but not the way Will thought they would be spotted.

The bodies were frozen solid, many parts cut and severed brutally as they all sat formed on the ground which each body part stripped bare to the cold. Sat in the middle formed a large circle, with bodies straight down the middle of it and beyond with more body parts scattered across the end of it. Multiple spots on specific edges sat heads perched onto spikes whereas torsos, legs, and arms sat on the snow alone.

Whatever shock came from that sight, was tenfold to the sight of a young girl with large orange curls pinned dead and frozen to a tree, and it was what startled Will to run back to his horse.

Ser Waymar Royce hadn't actually worked to deserve the authority he was given, or the attitude he spoke with. He had only been at the Wall half a year. The youngest son of an ancient house with too many heirs and he was dressed fancier, spoke fancier and looked down at both there, as Will returned to him and Gared to speak of what he had seen. “What'd you expect? They’re savages. One lot steals a goat from another lot and before you know it, they’re ripping each other to pieces.”

The thicker accent which spoke back looked at him with an ingidnance, and a searing startle that made him come off more angry then perhaps intended. “I've never seen wildlings do a thing like this. I’ve never seen a thing like this, not ever in my life.” Asking how close Will had gotten, he looked at Royce as if that was a ridiculous question. “Close as any man would.”

Gared spoke up next, “We should head back to the wall. It'll be night soon.”

But Royce only raised an eyebrow with a glint in his eye as mocking as his tone. “Yes, it does that everyday around this time. Don't tell me, do the dead frighten you?”

Gared was a brother who had spent forty years at the wall, he was not a man accepting to be made light of, but there was something else. A nervous tension coming close to fear that was felt not only in one man alone. There was an edge to the cold and darkness falling upon them, the cold blowing from far North had grown strong and stronger so with each passing hour out here.

The elder man though, tried to hold firm in his certainty. “Mormont's orders were for us to track the wildlings. We tracked them. Won't trouble us no more.”

But that was not going to stand with this present commander, not in his arrogant youth which hadn't learned a single lesson in his time. He was a highborn with a Ser attached to his name and spent many years of his life being handed things the moment he pulled such arrogance out. He cared more, Will suspected, for how it would look if he were to return, not the integrity of the task given. “You don't think he'll ask us how he died? Get back on your horse.”

Will only tried one last plea. “Whatever did it to them could do it to us. They even killed the children.”

Royce, once more, looked but entirely condescending. “It’s a good thing we’re not children. You want to run away south, run away. Of course, they will behead you as a deserter. If I don’t catch you first. Get back on your horse. I won’t say it again.”

They had moved as Will returned, his other two bothers at his backs. Moved perhaps, on their own or of something else. But there were no men left to show them, and thus, Royce had the three of them look the area, seek out where they could've gone.

But it felt dark, too dark and too cold. It felt wrong. The wind rustled and the trees blew so freezing it drew attention between all three, but just as Royce looked to Gared asking why he seemed to fearful of such wind, did it stand. The wind blew and so did the trees rustle, but Royce never heard a thing.

The Others made no sound.

Only when Will could see what happened from where he stood, and the wind blow so cold it almost froze him to the spot, did he see her. The little girl stood in a clearing, skin pale and deathly, but her eyes a glowing blue and so like Gared who ran for his own, Will did as well. Ran and ran and if something, or somethings chased after the two men, they did not know. Even though it felt as if many things were behind them.

Going until Will came across Gared who was as terrified across the way. It was so cold.

It came from behind Gared, standing taller then any man he'd ever met. It looked somehow gaunt and yet it's skin was also smooth as if a soft ice, and pale as milk in flesh. In the freezing winds, it's armour seemed to change colour with every step it took, looking like the sky rippling across water but in the trees and dark to match around it.

On silent feet it moved forward, the blade it rose looked as if it was made of moonlight. A shard of crystal ice that almost vanished if looking at it from the edged blade alone. Like the Others itself, its blade seemed to almost glow a tint of blue that made it stand out.

The one, two, three, five of them all emerged around the woods, as the one behind Gared rose the glowing ice and sliced through his neck with such an elegant stroke it looked as if not a shred of effort had been made. But then the one holding his head looked at Will, and as more of them came closer to did the ranger feel shock and numb, falling to his knees. Slamming him into the cold to whatever fate held, such terror was strong.

The Other opened its mouth to speak as freezing and dark came around, but it spoke in a language he did not know. It's voice sounding like the crackling of ice on a winter lake.

Only as they approached, did he look back up at them and the hand of milk white reached out to grasp, kill, take, whatever intended, did it stop. Glowing blue eyes like something of another world peered into Will's as if searching beyond the eyes looking, and it found them.

Pulling back, he and all the Others yelled out in a loud crackling of ice.

As the eyes of a shaggy haired boy, barley in his teen years watched, he knew that the men, Gared and Ser Waymar Royce had seen a ranger named Will.

The boy however, wasn't like them, not anymore. He could see the eyes behind Will. He was learning how to do it, move as if travelling alongside whatever gazing into the past the boy was doing.

But he also realized, the Others could see the person behind Will too. Despite approaching the man with intent, the boy watcher to the side knew that they only backed off, left him alive, beacuse they too, could see the dark hair, green eyed Baratheon girl behind them.

The Others didn't harm you, but the boy watching it all, didn't know why.

Bright the surroundings of the North looked as snow blanketed everywhere you went now. It was always beautiful, but not quite easy to see in summer, as the land didn't look as light and colourful as much against the dim sunlight it received. But against snow and ice, the sun now radiated off the brightness of the winter and lit the air around for all to see perfect in that morning hour.

When he found you, Jon knew your eyes looking around weren't where you and him stood. Your mind was elsewhere, and the white that covered them looked almost what he knew now, was what one looks like when warging. But you weren't a warg at all, and yet you still stood there eyes white and mind stolen elsewhere. But if your physical person were before him? Why did you look so much colder then even the air around you both?

Freezing air leaving your lips with a shiver as many would once the far North winds blew, but it was odd as nothing else but just your skin felt it. Each time before, you were able to be pulled out of it either by touch or a voice close to you in the present world but this time, neither party present could do it. Ghost  was in front of you, barking and growling when he had tracked you. The direwolf would turn to look aggressively in defence elsewhere but not find anything which was a threat.

Jon had tried calling your name, but you didn't react. By the time you had stopped, it was like you were still as a statue as the expression on your face with white eyes, looked terrified. Grabbing you by the arms was when he realized you were almost so cold your lips tinted blue. Moving so he could pull you back into his chest, while Ghost had whined and stepped up closer to your front and as if protecting you from something.

You grew colder and colder by terrifyingly quick seconds passed, until you blinked.

Your eyes focused on the world before you, tilting your head down to see Ghost before you started to properly shiver, being turned to face that which was behind you. Gloved hands grasped your cheeks and tilted you up, your eyes meeting Jons wide, grey ones full of a concern and filtering in fear. His eyes scoured you over, almost debating if asking about you being alright, but he knew the answer was no.

Instead, he ran a hand down your hair and pulled you in so he could almost hide you when wrapping more of the fur around him, to drape across you. Your hands found his waist as you spoke none, you rarely did for a few minutes when coming back.

Ghost looked around the area to find none of what he previously sensed before too walking up to the side of you both. His great size meaning as he moved to nuzzle his head into your side, his own fur was tall and warm enough it helped sooth you. You had something warm loose on you before and you didn't know when you lost it.

Likely you thought, eyes slipped closed as you leaned into Jons comforting and warm embrace, it fell from you when you, or whomever your eyes watched through, began to run. Running from the crystal blue glowing eyes. First it was fire, then you would see this, that, them, her, and now you were seeing what your dreams showed you, only now it was so much more real before your vision.

Jon's visions were nothing like this. You knew that, he was seeing both sights at once. He could see the world and he would see you and never be confused or lost as to who or where he was. You, were utterly gone from your mind when this happened. And your reactions were only growing more vivid.

Your voice muffled against his warm chest when you finally found a voice. “I don't suppose saying this is only stress, would be an acceptable explanation would it?”

Jon both tensed, and then sighed out a mixture of frustration and an on edge level of amusement. He tucked your face more into his neck, and you wondered if this was to comfort you, help warm you, or what you suspected Jon wasn't saying, was that maybe his reactions to this were getting more concerned.

Jon was trying to not tell you how much this was scaring him.

Maybe it was the sights you saw this time especially, and you wished you could be scared of your own mind. But you weren't. What scared you, was the black charred bones of a small Ghiscari girl named Hazzea, and the tall, looming nightmare that moved to crowd you as a group of five of those things came for you. Came, and yet, as it reached out to grasp you, it pulled back.

Pulled back and almost let out what their voices of a yell could sound like, which was as if someone cracked a shattering of ice inside your eardrums directly. They pulled back from you all suddenly at that, and just as you sighed out almost so terrified you had no feelings left in your heart, you were in a very different snowy woods.

The rangers out there were tracking wildlings. Wildlings which were no longer North, and out there on the orders of a Lord Commander that had been dead for years. You couldn't help but wonder, if the visions showing you the silver haired Targaryean were too in the past. But that wasn't possible. Any dream or vision you or Jon once held, always was based in the now. You saw things as they occurred even if you didn't then realize. You had seen each other that way, two visions accidentally finding each other and you somehow saw the other.

But this was far in the past, these now dead rangers. Or, at least, two. What happened to the one you saw through, Will, once they left you did not know. But if that fear in your heart now was shared with him, you wondered if he had found it in himself to try and run. If you were him then, you might try and desert that cause as well. Looking into their eyes as if they were truly right in front of you?

Part of you could feel the edge of Longclaws pommel, and you could only think to yourself that Jon was truly a man made of something entirely different. To have fought one, survived one, and killed one and yet he so determined led the true fight against them without letting that terror over take him. Beacuse it felt like it wanted to strangle you.

Pulling back, you shivered still, the cold of the winter air now seeping into your skin. Some of your body was warm, but you knew Jon was looking at the tints of blue still sat upon your lips you were so cold. His hands ran up and down your upper arms as he looked the rest of you over. Quiet for a good moment, he likely was keeping it inside until his voice could speak as steady as it did when he finally grasped the words to let out. “If you aren't with me, or with your guard, I'm having Ghost stay by your side from now on.”

Tilting your head, the ease of a protest slipped your lips, “Jon I can't ask-”

But he shook his head, a gloved hand rising up up cup your cheek and let the leather covering his thumb run along your cold lips. His brows furrowed as his voice dropped so you knew the frustration was there. “I know you didn't ask. This is a command. I don't want you alone anymore while this keeps getting worse.” You swallowed your words right back down your throat instead of arguing. The brightness in his eyes was not endearing, it was full of blatant worry. “You had almost gotten two miles away before Ghost caught up with you. I won't order you to stay only inside the castle walls, but I don't want you out here on your own right now.”

Nodding, you found no strength in you to protest. Nor did you really want to, it was his command and that was the end of it. Your cold, ungloved hands reached up, just enough that your shaking fingertips trailed over the direwolf etched into the dark leather across his torso. His eyes curious as they watched you as your voice came out hesitant, but affectionately soft in muttering. “You're still wearing the sigil.”

Not looking, you missed the way Jons face twitched almost to smother the conflict only as it passed for a second, but much more comfortingly landed on a softness, as he tilted your chin up to meet his eyes with the thumb already at the side of your face. “House Stark is still my fathers house.” Your heart wanted to melt down into the snow at your feet at the ease he spoke. More of a whisper, he treaded the water that he had been avoiding before. “You told me the truth, and I took this all out on you for it. You didn't deserve that.”

The words of sorry were about to come from his mouth when you shook your head, letting one cold hand of yours run along the facial hair covering part of his jaw as you whispered back. “You were upset, that isn't your fault.” Jon trying to say different, that he had yelled at you but you took him off guard, your lips half finding a gentle smirk. “This is, what? Only the second time we've ever had any sort of fight, in nearly two decades of knowing one another? Not anything worth demanding a sorry for, not with you.”

Jon that time sighed out almost pretending to be more frustrated then he really was. Both hands now moving to cup your cheeks as he leaned down, his lips brushing over your blueish slowly warming ones. “Why do you make apologizing so difficult?” His lips were gentle, just a warm press that almost seemed to intent to bring the pink tones back to your lips proper.

You were both dancing around what happened just now, and that was how you knew for sure it was Jon which was scared the most. He would protect you, but maybe he wasn't ready to ask more about it. So you let him keep your lips pressed to his, until you felt shimmers of warm seep back into your bones.

A good while passed before he left one more kiss to your lips. “Come on, before the rest of them wake  up and start searching for us both.”

Sam sat in a disbeleif, eyes looking back over to Jon before returning to the fire they sat around as the morning was still early and quite bright. “I mean I knew he hated you, but this is different.” Jon had to tell Sam the truth, but at the least you could tell it was easier to swallow after spending a number of hours sleeping on the truth of what happened.

Jon had you sitting right by his side, but this time your distant mind wasn't that which was distracted. A drift of your gaze over to where Beric Dondarrian and Thoros of Myr were tied and kept. What Jon did with the others he had not told you, said it was best if you left it for him to handle as he prompted you away the night before. Nor did you know how he came to the conclusion to take those two with him, but you never once questioned or doubted his intentions.

All he had said for now, was that they had more to offer then nothing at all, but it didn't mean Jon was going to be kind about it. Already knowing there were to be two cells which would make home for them until he had the time to deal with it. But it was the way in which Thoros kept looking at you.

Your eyes would meet and you'd narrow them and peel back glaring towards the fire only to find Gendry's with more spite in the same intention. You didn't blame him.

Jon beside you spoke low even in the mostly private space in the packing up camp. “Said it was for the Watch. What all of them said. Think he wanted to do it for a while, I just gave him an excuse.” You knew both men flickered their gaze to you, but you ignored them as your eyes found the fire once more. You still felt unusually cold.

They had been dancing around the subject of how he was alive, likely sensing that Jon didn't want to talk about it as much as you didn't. “I imagine he probably couldn't believe he was going to die before someone like me.” Jon tilted his head at Sam, almost imploring him not to find a reason to run back down that route of insecurity. It was difficult not to when discussing Thorne. “What about..”

Sam's voice trailing off as you knew he was asking about anyone else who did it. For only a moment, did you know Jon felt you stiffen beside him. Your own gaze flickering up to meet where Theon was standing not too far off before swallowing. Turning back to the fire intently.

Jon luckily, was skilled at laying it out as diplomatically as he could while also holding a deep, rough tone as he started with the blatant truth. “I hanged Yarwick and Marsh.” You glanced up to see a bit of taken back surprise in Sams head as it jolted a bit. “They were the only two other then Thorne to help actually shove a knife in my chest.”

You hadn't blinked, eyes stinging a bit at keeping that certain information out of it. Theon, then Olly? And now you couldn't help but wonder, were you not there, what would Jon have felt compelled to do with the Brotherhood. Perhaps death truly had made you soft. Or weak. You supposed that distinction depended on who you asked. It was hard to tell if you made Jon worse for it too.

Once more your eyes found that similar to Gendry's. Only that time, both men were watching back. Perhaps not at him, but certainly at you, and you felt an unpleasant shake creeping down your spine  before you looked away again. Finding Gendry's, you knew he felt frustrated that they were even coming along despite their position as prisoners. A small shake of your head as you almost looked a bit narrow eyed trying to implore him to let it go for now.

There was enough problems around, none wanted the return to Winterfell to be full of more strife then was about to exist anyways. Sam's voice caught both your attentions back, fighting between focus and something in your mind desperate for things to just slow down or stop. Too much kept happening all at once and you were struggling to keep up. “I suppose its easier to get more people to listen to you if your a King then Lord Commander.”

There was a small huff in Jon beside you, as if a doubting laugh almost poked through. “Believe me, Sam. Doesn't make it any easier. No one thinks we're telling the truth in the first place.” Sam pointing out that Stannis had believed them, but Jons tone only grew deeper and more frustrated. “I'm starting to think he's the only one who will.”

Your voice was more of a quiet mutter, your arms slinking more into the cloak around you trying to hide from the cold that existed only in you still. “Most of us in the South don't even think The Long Night happened.” Eyes all turning to you, but you only shrugged as your voice didn't raise any further. “There isn't any proof it happened, so most of us grew up thinking Northerners are superstitious for even believing in it.”

The hope in Sams eyes however, was what surprised you. “But we do have proof.” Your brows narrowed as did Jons, prompting him to explain himself. “Well, not proof, but as close as I could find. It's..it's why I was coming back North. I know you sent me there to replace Maester Aemon one day-”

No one but Jon knew it, but as Sam continued, he felt something almost painful stir in his chest. A feeling Jon never once had to confront, it didn't mean the same thing then. He didn't think about it, what that line traced back to who. He didn't want to, he didn't want to look at them the way Jon did the Starks, they didn't deserve it. But maybe there was one who did deserve his memory.

Those people weren't Jons family, but Jon thought to himself, he and Maester Aemon still served together in the Nights Watch. And those men are still his family, his brothers. It was all confusing in his head, and for once he almost missed everything Sam had been saying. Ironically, you had to be the one to listen and respond for him as his mind drifted, when lately that was Jons job for your sake.

It was your responding voice that pulled him back to the present, you sensing Jon suddenly shifting beside you despite the past few minutes him being still as stone. “Why keep them a secret?”

Sitting up straighter on the wood you were all perched on around the fire, the slow creeping feeling of a gloved hand trailing along your back fell upon you. Jons hand reaching around you to rest against the wood at the side of your hip, for a single moment you almost tried to move away.

All of this speak of Robb so strongly the night before, and it was likely your mind had ever so briefly associated Jons touch with something kept for the secret or dark. Neither Theon nor Gendry noticed, or cared. But you did see Sams eyes glance down and almost look back between you with eyes just a bit brighter that you tried to ignore.

His voice a mock whisper, leaning forward a bit to you. “I mean, our ancestors weren't very nice to theirs, were they?” His head nodding a bit towards Jon. “Makes sense they would lock it away, if they think the First Men were all wild and superstitious. And like you said, most of us all think it's just stories. So there's no need to look at them if they aren't real.”

Almost in a tinge of amusement, Jon spoke much more dry as his face twisted up in a playful jest. “You do remember I sent you there to learn to be a Maester. Did you do any learning in between all this?” Sam and Jon both shared an easy look, the more you were around them both the more that it really did feel as if Sam was as good as a true brother to Jon. It felt good, seeing someone that so naturally brought out some of Jon's lightness with ease.

Protesting in his own mocking offence, “I did, spent my day busy with my tasks. It just meant I had to do a lot of sneaking around and reading at night.” Relenting to more serious but still within a memory that acted to entertain. “If we thought being stewards was messy work..” Shaking his head with a flash of something minorly disgusted in his eye. “Try being assigned latrine duty for a whole wing full of sick people. Made being at the wall feel like a privilege.”

A laugh shared between them, but you guided it, perhaps a bit stilted, back to the question in your mind. “So is that why you came here? You found these old texts and what they say?”

Multiple eyes turned to Sam, as he thought carefully his choice of words likely due to the number of people simply around. “I haven't been through a lot of it, mostly I just figured out a way to translate it but it takes time and, if we don't have much time before..” Before they come, was what you knew he wanted to say. “Then I can't spend only a few hours every night looking them over in secret. If the answers are in those runes-”

Jon finished for him, stern and focused back in his eyes. “Then we need to know what they say as soon as we can.” Sam nodded as Jon begun already to make plans in his head. “When we get back, I can find you a place to work in the castle, our Maester will help you.”

Sam almost grimaced, catching Jons questioning gaze. Sighing out, the man spoke a bit on the side of down trodden. “Don't know if he'll believe the things I tell him. I tried asking the Archmaester if there was anything on the Long Night in the library, and he only told me it would do me good to be a bit more skeptical about what Northerners say.”

In opposite stances, Jon was much more certain and sure of his own words. “Maester Wolkan's smart, you can trust him. And believe me, he's seen enough not to doubt that what we're up against is real.” Silent in you own words, but you knew the scar under yourself was the first in that line of abnormal things.

Just to the side, it was Gendry who leaned over to Theon with a whisper, “Am I the only person here who has no idea what they're talking about?”

Pushing up from where he leaned against a tree, he came more around to sit somewhat next to him with a quiet but much more casual air of his tone. “The Long Night was real, winter is coming and we're all going to die.”

Raising an eyebrow at him with a incredulous look that notably reminded Theon of the exact same kind of look you would give him when annoyed. “Okay, now can I hear the version that's not for children?”

It shouldn't have surprised any, how quickly you found yourself moving right back into things almost the second your feet were on the ground. You didn't want any decorum upon riding through the Winterfell gates and there was far too much to do. But it did strike some, the natural way you and Jon worked around each other in harmony, as if little needed to be said to be on the same page.

You once more avoided the look in Maege Mormont's eyes, you had the entire journey back. There had been no indication when you reunited that there was a thing between yourself and Jon, then once more you leave to Dragonstone and the eve of your return, you and him marry. Many were happy, and none vocalized any discontent, but you knew she had questions upon questions. None of which you were ready to answer.

You could talk to Jon and Theon about Robb, but talking about him to the rest of the very people he fought side by side with was another. Theon said no one cares what you and Jon do together, but it didn't stop the swirling pit of doubt fester in your stomach over it.

Lady Stoneheart had accused you of just being a whore there to warm Jons bed. And maybe, you were terrified, that those were not the words of a vengeful creature with no humanity. You were terrified, those were words spat out by what of Catelyn Stark had remained. She was a mother to you, you loved her son, you didn't want what was left of her to doubt that. Nor the rest of your people. Not wanting those words to match another dead voice tormenting your new life. Not wanting her voice to watch what Ramsay had said to you, what he made you believe.

Not too long in your return, did you feel Jons hand brushing against your lower back as he led you inside the castle from the hustling noise of people upon your return. Most here knew what was expected of them, and whatever reunions were to occur around, would be done without you for now.

“You have never seen them do that, why start now or..whenever I-” Your hands dropped from their position, landing with a thud on the drawers below you as you took a steady breathe until the words found themselves without a stutter. Moving back as you did, trying to slowly work through the now wet strands of your hair before they dried. “They want people like us for their army, why let one ranger go free after hunting them all?”

Jon had been quiet while you told him what you had seen. Silently letting you make your way through the whole tale as he had ensured your skin and hair were scrubbed gentle and clean from the days you had been gone. His voice only speaking in low murmurs in your ear when he had directed you out of the water. Telling you to stay put, quickly throwing something on for himself before moving to grab something warm for you to wear.

Naturally, you had thrown on a shift to hide the sight, and stubbornly made your way to the small mirror and worked to handle your hair before it became too much of a hassle. Mostly thinking out loud trying to work out what in the vision you saw made little sense to you.  It was only as you suddenly felt Jons warmth envelop your back, his hands pulling your hair from where you had it in your own hands. Collecting it himself without second thought as he took over for you instead.

You both glanced to the reflection to see the other trying to avoid a smirk at how both of you were too stubborn for your own good, before you let him just do it. His voice low as he concentrated behind you. “If it was in the past, could be long ago enough that they were still working slow. The free folk said things only started to get worse years ago.”

Nails finding your lip to tap along in thought, unsure if you could even gauge what these things could possible have wanted anyways. “Or none of it was real, and I am simply losing my mind.”

You felt Jons hands pause before continuing to run a comb through the locks, “You're not losing your mind.” Raising an eyebrow with an ask of how he would know that, Jon exhaled almost with a tone with a tinge of nerves behind them. “When Ghost found you, it was like he was trying to look for something. As if he could sense something was there, when it wasn't. And the only times I've seen him like that..”

Slipping your eyes closed with a sharp exhale, you felt yourself digging your nails into your lips, moving them off by force only to have nothing to occupy them with. Falling lamely against the wooden surface before you. “So, he what? Could sense what I was seeing, wherever I even was?”

Jon's face grimaced in an unsure thought, setting the comb aside as you felt him moving the strands around for whatever style he saw fit to look at on you which he liked. Noting silently in his own mind, that he loved how often you simply let him choose for you. “He was the only reason I was there to kill the wight that night in Castle Black. He knew something was wrong right away, and it was the same this time. Only, he couldn't figure out why he thought you were in danger.”

You wanted to avoid the worried softness in his voice, but he wouldn't let you, almost standing a bit closer then before as one hand dropped down to your waist. Sliding gently along to pull you back into him as the other draped your hair along the other shoulder. Keeping that hand closer to the back of your neck as if somewhat massaging the tense muscles there.

Your hands finally found their place, pushing up his sleeve just enough you could gently wrap your hands around his wrist and forearm comfortingly. His voice lulling near your ear. “If it was all in your head, you shouldn't have been freezing like that when we found you.” Only in the halls of Winterfell did you start to feel any warmth returning to you, like it was a cold that seeped deep inside. “You were cold like you were right there with them.”

Leaning back, you both felt the heavy air between at the uncertainty. First fire, then ice, and in between a scattering of your own memories flying through you to haunt. “It felt like I was right there. I had no idea I was- I didn't even feel myself. It was like I was just seeing and thinking through this persons mind without any idea who I was anymore.”

“Maybe you weren't yourself.” Brows furrowing in confusion, Jon moved the hand on your neck down to your waist. Running up and down, dragging around the shift that was currently your only covering in the airy breeze of his room. You felt not much of it against his warmth. “Your eyes were white until you came back.”

Neither needed to elaborate. You both knew from two what that seemed to mean. Only, you weren't doing that at all. You weren't really in control, you were just this person until you weren't. The silence though, it almost felt on the edge of too overwhelming the longer it went on. If Jon could hear your heart racing, or the growing unsettled illness in your chest, it only made his grip tighter.

Swallowing harshly, you tried finding the strain of a voice, “Jon..” But he shook his head, the hand around your front moved up. Tilting you by your jaw to the side so Jon could more rest you against the side of his, keeping the hand there gently running along what his thumb could reach.

Something more was trying to get out, but you just stood there with him. Patient for it to find it's way into the air between you. When it did, his voice was but a rasping whisper as he could barley find it in him to pull away long enough to meet your eyes. Ending up only shifting slightly as if just nuzzling closer instead.

“We need to stop doing this.” You hummed in confusion, but Jon just let the hand on your waist take over what his other did. Wrapping around your front and pulling you back into him more as he spoke. “Ever since I came back, it's like we can't go a week before something gets between us. I- I'm constantly terrified I'm going to lose you again, but I can't do any of this without you.”

One of your hands reached behind, gently running through his own still somewhat damp curls as if to keep him just as close. “I'm-”

“Don't.” Taking you off guard, like Jon wanted to be stern but it only came off in somewhat of a crack before he just let that vulnerability open up. “Don't say sorry, none of this was your fault.”

Your whisper would have been missed were he not as close as he was. “I think you're wrong.” If you thought he was going to let you pull away, you were mistaken. His grip strong and knowingly holding you right in place when you attempted to step away from him. He wanted you to explain yourself while in his embrace, which was as clever as it was unfair. “Every step of the way we've either stopped talking or been separated, has been beacuse I did something, or I screwed up. All I do is cause you stress, and force you to worry about me, when you have so many more important things to focus on.”

Heart going from racing to stopping in an instant, Jon said something you didn't at all expect. “Maybe it's me. You never had problems like this when it was Robb you were with.”

Your head fall back as much as he could allow, leaning as much into him as you could despite his tight grip. Voice a quiet tone despite the tear in your heart. Maybe you and Jon were experiencing similar insecurities without the other realizing, you wondered. The fact that he even remotely could think to compare himself to Robb, you never wanted that. You didn't want either of them comparing to the other. “What did I tell you in White Harbour?”

He was silent, and so you continued, but you knew he remembered it. “I told you, there are no conditions to loving you. That was true then, and it is now. And I don't want you trying to compare this, to what I had with Robb. You aren't him, I'm not with you to feel like I'm back with Robb. I'm with you beacuse I love you. And before you say it, yes I am aware of how hypocritical this sounds.”

The chuckle behind you started deep, and only increased as Jon almost playfully let his face drop in between your shoulder and neck to laugh. Only pulling back to press a kiss there, feeling the smile on his lips. “It's very hypocritical of you.” You and Jon both relaxing in his amused tone.

Finally though, he let you turn to face him. Your palms finding his chest flat, the shirt on him only managed it seemed to get on but not at all done up. Sliding them down to his scars did for once, your face not twist in a pain looking at them. It felt weird to think, but you almost missed them. Sliding them over his heart and one closer to the scar near his hip, your eyes shined bright as you looked up to his grey ones, finally looking warm and full.

Drifting up, one hand danced with the ends of his curls as the other draped along his shoulder under his shirt fabric. “We came back different then we used to be..I think maybe we need time to get used to being with the other like this.”

His large hands on your waist now before he cupped your cheek to lean in more, nose nudging gently against yours playfully. “You mean how now I'm the stern one and you're the emotional one?” He grinned as you almost laughed. Eyes fading to the side before rolling up to meet his with a faux look of offence that meant nothing. “I promised to take care of you, and I haven't been doing that. But I will from now on, no matter what. You're my wife now, I'm here to protect you. Even from me.”

Leaning up, you nudged his nose gently that time. Prompting him to tilt you to let him trace down the length of yours as you whispered. “You already take care of me, I should take care of you.” A bit of a pause, you added, “I don't want you to be perfect or think you have to live up to what I had with Robb. I was his, but now I'm yours. For good.”

It must have been more days apart then you thought, as Jon leaned in you both almost felt the kind of nerves that used to exist between you both so early on. But, this time you both closed the small gap. His hand on your cheek tight as yours at his shoulders were, his lips already will of a soft need as he pressed you gently into the drawers still behind you.

There was much to do, and far too many people to meet with but for now, you and Jon stayed right there. One of your hands moved to wrap around the back of his neck and returning to his curls. His kiss deepened, but was never with greed nor hunger. Just a steady coaxing for your lips to dance with his as long as you had the breathe to last.

And once that ran out, Jon gently pulled from your lips. Only a tinge of greed as he stole one more before pulling you into him, keeping you in a tight embrace. Your face tucked safe in his neck and his buried comfortingly in your hair. Neither of you knew how long you stayed like that, but you also didn't care.

Sometimes, it was going to have to just be about you two from this point on. You both sacrificed so much to get here, and what was that meaning or purpose if you let the other slip through your fingers time and time again?

It didn't fix the noise in your head, nor Jons, but at least your noises now hummed in mutual harmony.

Strangely, you  had never actually been down here for this sort of purpose. You had been in here when it was empty many years ago. It was in your first visit to Winterfell, and by then it was been a number of months and you were beginning to feel quite well adjusted. Which meant that a certain Stark had begun his quest to teach you the ancient tradition of sneaking around and getting into trouble.

Robb had asked if you ever have seen a dungeon before, and while you had on Dragonstone you admitted these ones were spookier. The Winterfell ones had not much light beyond torches hung along the walls, whereas the ones in your home still had light shining from the windows near sea level. He had begun to tell you stories, scary ones he'd heard from Old Nan until he watched you walk into an empty cell curious, and startled you into a shriek by slamming the gate shut.

As it turned out, he hadn't realized it would lock right away. It was the first time you'd ever heard Eddard Stark laugh, and certainly laugh that hard when he came down with Robb when he left to go get him to help. The sight of you sitting cross legged in the middle of a cell with an extremely Robert like scowl before he let you out.

Least to say, he had laughed even harder when you walked out and shoved Robb so hard he almost fell over. You had taken his seat at supper next to Jon that night, just to force him to sit in your further away spot alone. It took another two days for you to forgive him, when he had asked the bakers to make you a special batch of blueberry tarts and left them in a basket on your bed with but a note that said “Please talk to me again.”

Now though, you had intentions to speak to your newest guests. Part of you wished you could do so alone, but if you weren't going to convince Jon on it, you certainly weren't going to convince Theon. At least your pattern of finding yourself in dire situations had bonded them over something at the least, Theon already organizing a rotation of at least two guard with you, him being your primary captain of the guard when his time permits.

You had given him a look, asking “And what sort of guard is to be with the King exactly?”

But Theon shrugged with a knowing glint in his eye that he was purposely not telling the full truth just to annoy you. “Don't know. I'm captain of your guard, not his.” Only a roll of your eyes followed as he gestured you to continue forward. At least someone had maintained their sense of humour all this time.

Sat on separate walls not too distant from the other, Thoros and Beric had made themselves as comfortable as could be down here. Both eyes watching you closely as you made your way to the outside of the cell, arms crossed along your front with a flat look on yourself. Choosing to cut right to the chase you looked between them. “I presume you both understand why you're being kept here.”

Once more Thoros looked more curious, Beric more knowing as the later was the one who spoke. “Your life was put at risk, we can understand that.”

Your eyes narrowed, and for a few moments silent sat between you and them. Only your voice returned was quiet even in the empty dungeon. “You let good, innocent people die just to serve out a purpose that woman you follow, demanded. That does not make you ghosts who hide in the shadows to protect the common people. It only makes you murderers.”

His tone wasn't condescending, but you disliked it all the same. “What does waging war make you then, your grace? Because those same common people would say it makes you as bad as any murderer we've brought to justice.” The tense feeling swimming in you veins flooded only as you looked at Beric with a silent gaze that spoke little of your true irritation.

Your voice gave even less away in tone. “We did not go to war thinking it would be better for the realm during so. We did it because sitting back and letting the Lannisters rule would far more cruel for far longer then the years we spent forced to fight against it. Robb Stark never claimed he was a good man for declaring war, and neither do I.” Watching closely, you knew there was likely more he wasn't saying but he was good at keeping it tucked away. “Justice can be cruel, my lord. But only when you start enjoying that cruelty, do I think is a line which shouldn't be crossed. And the men you sent enjoyed killing those innocent people. My people.”

Thoros spoke up, quieter then you expected, but also much more calm and coherent then you many times knew before. “Suppose you would need to hang me first, make sure he can't come back.” You only rose an eyebrow, forcing one of them to elaborate in the silence you insisted on them. “Those men were hired under the behest of the Lady Stoneheart. It was not our choosing to send them to hunt you down like that-”

Your voice cut through louder then likely they had expected. “How did you know? Where to find me, how did they know I was in Barrowton? No one knew I was there.” They stared at the other, and you knelt down to meet their eye level through the bars as your voice felt more strained as did the blood flowing fast in your veins. “I would suggest telling me the truth, because the King in the North will not be anywhere near as kind or patient about it.”

If there was any sort of silver lining, it was that there was tone of regret found in Thoros which matched his unwillingness to look you in the eye. “I can't say from whom, I don't know, but the lady was being given information by an unknown source regarding yourself. They seemed to have an interest in you being in the North and I presume they knew she would want to know as well.” Asking who would even want to know where you were or where you had been going, Thoros gave an answer you felt a cold wave in your lungs hit as you heard. “Someone with enough watchful eyes in the North. Someone who would take issue with your involvement with your new King.”

That answer made much sense and yet very little. You knew spies were littered about Westeros and the North included but none led back to any who would have a single reason to guide a creature of vengeful blood thirst to your doors. Neither the North nor Jon meant anything to those you could think of, but looking between the men, it was as much as they knew as well.

There were dots you were missing, and eyes in your lands that didn't belong to the North. Neither you nor Jon had time to let spies watch and report to play into anothers distant games. “And you have no idea who would have known she was alive, or who would be able to get into contact with her?” Still the answer was no, and you had no inkling these two at least were lying over it.

Standing properly, you hadn't even turned away yet before it was Thoros who brought it up. “How did you bring him back? Your King.”

The stares between you both were something that left you feeling those same shivers even in the warmth from the underground. This time, no impatience or contempt was felt as you whispered in complete honesty. “I don't know.”

But the way Thoros looked, again you felt as if it was understanding. There was something that could be seen as kind behind his eyes as he spoke. “Do you know how I first came to discover the Lord of Light had chosen me to work through? That I could pray to raise him back?” Gesturing to Beric, who could only watch carefully.

Shaking your head, you stepped back a bit closer as he looked away lost in memory. “I was a priest in Myr. Sent to Westeros to spread the Lords reach. But I was terrible at it, I always was a terrible priest, and it only got worse here. Drank too much rum, and fucked every whore there was in Kings Landing and by the end of it all, I didn't even believe in him anymore. That he, that all the gods, were stories we told the children to make them behave. So I wore the robes and every now and then I'd recite the prayers, but it was just for show. A spectacle for the locals.”

It wasn't quite the same, but you knew of such a feeling. Not that they didn't exist, but you knew how it felt to be alone. Like whatever gods you prayed to had left you abandoned and no longer mattered to the world. A lot felt like that in the Dreadfort, and it only got worse with Ramsay. A demon sent to torture you, true genuine hell would be a mercy compared to what he did to you.

But Thoros looked to Beric, and there was an affection that was difficult to ascertain. Like there was something about whatever their dynamic was, that found of great importance as he continued. “Then The Mountain shoved a lance through this one's heart. I knelt beside his cold body and said the old words. Not because I believed in them, but he was my friend and he was dead. And they were the only words I knew. And for the first time in my life, the Lord replied. Then he did so, five times after.”

Your eyes had glazed over almost, much death flashing by your vision and none of it as he spoke. And yet he knew that, pointing to you from where he sat against the wall with a curiosity. “But you, your grace. You spoke no words, you performed no ceremony or ritual, but the Lord of Light gave you the power none should hold like that, and brought him back from your doing. He chose you to serve him.”

Heart pounding in your chest you could both feel the necklace sat under your dress, and the feeling against your palms of a phantom cold and tracing over what then was still fresh scars. Your voice was held back as your eyes stung. “I don't serve the Lord of Light. I serve the North, and I serve my King. That is all there is for me.”

But you hadn't gotten far, gesturing for the men with you to leave first but you were caught turning back to face him as Thoros somewhat yelled to you. “It won't get easier. That feeling inside of you. It never gets any better, no matter how much time passes.” Your body slowly turned back to face him, but the red in your eyes and the sting went away none.

Beric spoke low, the sympathy spoke of something you felt in waves in capture of the Boltons. “Death changes us all. Everytime you come back, you're a bit less. Pieces of you get chipped away.” It was sympathy beacuse that was exactly it. Part of you was missing, and you would never return to what was lost that night bleeding at Robb's side. “But to be the one to bring another back? It gives you purpose.”

“How can you deny you have a true purpose here?”

“Could be why you came back. You couldn't stay dead because you needed to be here to bring him back.”

Your throat closed, the weight in it too strong as Thoros had one final thing to say. “I've asked the Lord to bring him back six times, beacuse that is why I am here. What it means only he knows, but my purpose is to guide this man from the darkness each time it tries pulling him right back. And that changes you. Bringing a soul from death changes you. They become your purpose. The Lord needs you to keep them alive, so they can fulfill their own purpose.”

None dared said a word about it as you left the dungeons, but the glance you had just before stepping out into the corridors with Theon? Well, he had said just that didn't he? Only a tilt of your head in knowing, he didn't rub it in. Too much blood it took to get here, and saying he was right the whole time wouldn't make that any better.

The only solace, was that they respected where they shouldn't go. The guards with you now were aware their place was not the crypts and they let you walk in alone. Jon had told you to come meet with him here when you were finished speaking to the two of them, but as you walked up to the only ones of the Starks you knew, he wasn't anywhere to be seen.

You thought, your eyes would find Eddard Stark, but they didn't. The only statue you stopped in front of when you realized Jon wasn't here, was her. You had never stopped here before, never seen her, but now? It was a growing urge to tell her you were sorry, that you should've done better for her son by now. Maybe you would have said it, if that creeping feeling at the back of your neck didn't suddenly shout and forcing you to whip around.

As it turned out, her intention didn't quite work as planned. She startled you just as you startled her, and suddenly you stood in the crypts beneath Winterfell only feet from Arya Stark in silence.

Your eyes were wide, you knew she was here but it didn't feel like that was true until this very second. Somehow she both looked exactly the same, but completely different, but maybe that was true for all of you who remained now. But you knew the last you saw her, and the guilt that came with.

But she spoke first at least. “The Lannisters arrested you..who helped you escape?”

Gods, it felt like..well it was a lifetime ago. The one you barley recognized by now. Her voice was quiet, held back, and if possible yours was even moreso. Barley a whisper heard over the quiet crackling of torch fire. “Ser Barristan Selmy. Went through the tunnels under Kings Landing and got on a ship.” The silence continued, but as soon as you tried to let out that guilt in apology she stopped you. “Arya, I shouldn't have left-”

As if she wanted to step to you, but hesitated as you were as on edge as you ever had been with her, but that was just the way you were now it seemed. Nothing like who the Starks used to know. “They would have executed you if you stayed. Probably drag you up just like my father that day and..”

Head tilting to the side somewhat, you knew that painful sting in yours was there in hers. A strain in your voice as there was a painful floating feeling in your chest. “Please don't tell me you saw that..”

But she shook her head. Trying to send away that wave of emotion. Unbeknownst to you, but Arya stood there hating that she didn't know how to do this. She had known you her entire life, you were like a sister to her before even in marriage. Reuniting with Jon was so easy, but she hated that it was difficult with you and not knowing quite why.

“I was there..but I didn't see. Yoren made sure of that.” But you knew, the sound would haunt her all the same. When blood wasn't haunting you, the sound of a string of music did in it's place. “He was in the Nights Watch..tried to protect me, bring me home to Winterfell...obviously that didn't work.”

The gold cloaks, then Lannister guards then death and led all the way to Harrenhal. You knew the story, Gendry had told you as much, but it didn't make knowing she saw the things she would've seen any better. She didn't deserve to have the rest of her childhood stolen.

“But I was there that night.”

Eye widening just as your heart stopped, then raced all at the same instance you knew exactly what night she meant, and suddenly little stopped how watering her eyes looked as horror was yours. But you had to ask anyways, little breath left in your voice. “What do you mean you were there?”

Looking around, Arya found nothing to distract and landed on the ground between you both. “I was trying to get back to you all. I knew you, Robb and my mother were at The Twins for a wedding and..but when I got there...it- they had already...”

It already happened. The fire and muffled yelling, you knew little of it but was what you once thought was beyond death. Words failed you though, nothing could make that alright, nothing could hide what a massacre inside and out she had found. “Arya..”

But her voice raised, and the crack in tone only served to shatter more of that illusion she was holding herself together. “I saw you, I saw your body and..I still don't know if I've ever seen that much blood..” If how you woke up was any state, you had lost likely what was left in your body and somehow life was breathed back into that with no reason or possibility. The scar under your dress burned even now. “And I- I saw what they did...to Robb...”

You had never said it, never once not even coming close. You spoke none of it and you suddenly felt lightheaded, dizzy, ill and everything clawing at your heart in between. A sight so horrific that nothing would ever come close to making that nightmare go away and yet she saw that. The one thing you had spent a year and a half trying to bury. The tears fell on you then, and as soon as Arya saw yours, so did hers let free.

Her voice only a whisper as well. “We'll never be able to bring him home, will we?”

Head shaking a slow no, and without any more seconds passing, you both went to the other without care. Tall enough now you didn't need to lean down as much, but her strength was as tight as yours. Your arms wrapping one around her back and the other gently in her hair at the back of her head as you both just stood there, buried in the other's embrace as the pain was shared too much to bare.

The Young Wolf was what they called Robb, and they forced him to die just like that. If you both moved a few feet, you would see the place where he deserved to rest but never would. The Freys would have left nothing of him anymore. He was lost in the Riverlands, and in this place, only you and Arya would understand why.

Robb deserved to be here, but no one deserved to know his final memory was what it was. You felt just as ill as she did, and neither would part until the silent tears passing were gone enough to wipe away, despite the other knowing they fell freely.

Arya had been closer that night then you ever thought, and it was the only time you wished she hadn't.

By the time either of you had been seen by him, the cold of late afternoon had fallen over the sky and you and Arya had found yourselves tucked close to the others side sat on the steps just outside in one of the main courtyards. His focus was supposed to be entirely elsewhere, but then he saw you both.

Strange the feeling in Jons chest. Still being able to walk in his home and know you were there with the very freedom to stay, that you were his was already odd. You had been his best friend for years and yet still you could make his heart skip just with a smile sent his way.

But seeing you in the distance, sat so normal looking on the steps next to his baby sister, it made him feel overwhelmed. He never thought he'd see Arya, didn't even know she was alive, no one did. But now she was here, she was the only one of them other then Jon who made it back alive and here she sat with you, the love of his life, and no one around to hide his affections from.

Arya still made you smile and laugh easily, more easily then he still could. She had told him she wanted to be alone when she properly saw you again, and he could tell she was holding back something painfully emotional she wanted to save for you alone. But whatever it was, it didn't keep a distance between, she would lean into you with no doubt something far too clever for her own good coming out of her mouth and you would respond with a laugh that shined brighter then the sun just beginning to set.

She had always thought of you like a sister, and Jon's heart was warm and heavy still seeing that time had not changed that. It hadn't changed how much he adored Arya, and it hadn't in turn changed how much Arya adored you.

What little family Jon had left, he was glad it was you two who were in it. And for the first time in days, Jon never once felt that strange pull of conflict over the truth thinking in terms of his family.

“What is he like?”

If she had been expected a real answer, she was sorely mistaken. Glancing flatly at Arya to your side you almost rolled your eyes while doing so. “I'm not sure if I am the proper one to answer that question, beacuse I would say he's insufferable. But we also hate each other so, I could be biased.”

Sighing deeply, Arya leaned forward to wrap her arms around her knees. “What does he look like?” Turning to her in question, she elaborated. “Aegon, what does he look like? No one's seen him since he was a baby, how would they even know it was him?”

A shoulder shrugging, you thought little of it. “None of us at least can be sure, but in truth it doesn't really matter. As long as he believes it, that's the only truth that he needs to claim it.” Her eyes wide and curious still as she looked at you. “If he thinks he is truly Aegon, then that is all the power he needs to try and take the throne.”

You knew it was possible it was a lie, then you would recall the almost insecure way he stammered when claiming the baby that died that day wasn't him. Like the idea that the Aegon there was real, made him uncomfortable. It had been hard to tell, but you still wondered, if anyone had ever pressed him on the matter before.

“Still didn't answer my question, what he looks like.”

Her tone as flat, but you picked up the jesting nature with ease. Leaning back, you gloved hands fat flat on the stone behind you, fingertips tapping in your thought. “Well, he's rather tall. About the same as my father, who towers over me even still. He has blue eyes, and when I met him, he had been dying his hair blue matching. Likely I suspect, for the years he spent trying to hide his identity. Meaning I can only assume his hair is silver under it all.” Not much else you could think of stood out, and it didn't strike you that not once did you associate this conversation with the one person also in the courtyard that reasonably would be a point of comparison. “I'm not the best authority on the matter, not quite good at describing people, really.”

But Arya's eyes glanced to Jon, and running through that short list, so far nothing matched. And she was thankful for it. She didn't want any of it to match, Aegon had no right being thought of as his brother. His brothers are..well as she thought of it, his brothers are dead. Or lost somewhere far North in Brans case.

She hated that a lot. Bran was only a year younger then her, but they may as well have been twins the way they were. Bran looked a bit more like their mother, but they still looked so similar to the other in that age too. In her memory growing up, what Robb was to Jon, Bran was to Arya. The one that was a constant figure, her closest companion.

Sure, she was really closest to Jon, but they were simply so far apart in age that the dynamic was different then it was with Bran. She got to run around with Bran, play with him, annoy the other constantly knowing they never meant it. The day they came back with the direwolves, the boys had all been in the training yard trying to help Bran practice archery.

She still remembered hearing the shots from where she sat in her lessons. Having to listen to Septa Mordane compliment Sansa next to her, and all but ignoring whatever she had been stitching. To this day, she could still recall when she mentioned it to you, in the Kings visit you had so easily said to her, “That's beacuse you're left handed.”

Arya who had been sitting up on a landing whipped her neck to look at you, as you laughed. You had moved to sit down next to her, uncaring in the moment of how childish it would look to be sitting up there like that with her, legs dangling in the air both of you.

You had reached over casually to grab her left hand and held it up almost in display, “You write with this hand, you eat with this hand, do everything with this hand.” Your eyebrow raised, before dramatically tossing it to the proper side of her before yanking her right hand up with a mock sternness. “Use your proper hand like a lady, none of the other girls are trying to do it wrong.”

Arya had chuckled, nudging into you as she did so, telling her that you used to be terrible at embroidery beacuse your own septa made you use your right hand as well.

But then, she didn't know that. So she sat hearing the arrows flying and her brothers all laughing as she sat annoyed that her lessons always had to be with Sansa and her friends. So she snuck away, quietly finding herself in the training yard before she picked up a bow from behind her brothers. Truth be told, she hadn't expected to hit the middle, it was just a rather funny stroke of luck.

Bran had instantly moved to chase her, as she cold hear Jon and Robb behind them yelling jokes about it. But now? It wasn't just Bran not being able to use his legs, it was also that what was ever the likelihood he was coming back?

Jon had told her why the wildlings were here, and Arya hated that if all of them were in the North, that meant Bran and whoever he was with, were alone out there. Just Bran, ice, and snow. If beyond the Wall wasn't even larger and vaster then the North, Arya wouldn't hesitate to go find him. But if Jon knew he wouldn't be able to find Bran, Arya had even less of a chance.

Still however, Arya sat next to you as her own eyes kept looking at Jon, and thinking of the drawings in books of every Targaryean she'd read the daring feats of and realize, she didn't want him to be like any of that. He still looked like himself, he still looked like her even. But he also wasn't like the Targaryeans she used to read about, he was better then that, he was a Stark . But still, Arya felt an unusual fear that maybe one day Jon would learn he was more like Aegon then her, and decide she wasn't good enough as a sibling anymore.

That was stupid she knew, Jon wasn't like that. But still, as she asked you about Aegon she kept feeling relieved everytime it wasn't anything like her own brother. “Was he at least a good fighter?”

You had shrugged, thinking not much of it as if such details weren't plaguing you as it did her, which likely it wasn't. Arya needed to remember to ask Jon in private later if he was planning on telling you the truth too. “He's strong, I will give Aegon that. Almost got me a few times, but I think that was his first proper duel like that. So I can't say for sure if he's truly any good.”

It was quiet for a little while between you both. Just enjoying the ease at seeing the other again, despite both your minds running fast through too much to think on. By the time Arya found something else to say, you couldn't tell if you wished she didn't. The shock in your system of anxiety heightened in a single second to the height which you felt the muscles in your neck almost shaking from strain to keep still. “I still can't believe you two got married.”

Wishing you could be coy about it, but instead you found nothing to fall back on. Only the rumblings in your head that made you almost flinch.

“Fucking all those big, strong wolves made you a fighter, hasn't it?”

Don't think of it, you had made so much progress keeping from your mind you hated that he was spilling back into it now. But you kept hearing him until you felt him and the utter shame he hammered into your mind as if that was your only use ever to him, to the Starks.

Until at least, she elaborated as she called your name. But your eyes were kept open and set sternly forward with a hum in your throat to respond. So she sighed, and tried again. “Whatever you're thinking I'm thinking, you're wrong.”

Only one side of your lips half smirked for a second before fading. “Would you like to try that sentence again?”

You couldn't see her head tilt or the flat bemused look, but you heard as she clearly leaned more into your side with an earnest low tone. “You're worried I think badly of you for being with Jon now. But I don't, I'm happy you two are together.”

Eyes only flickering to the side, you didn't really still see her gaze nor did you know beyond the nervous anxiety in your heart, if you wanted too. Jaw clenching, the nod you gave was indiscernible were she not looking so intently.

It was no misunderstanding why you kept clamming up at the subject, how it looked to most outside of the North would be exactly what you feared. And you were still too much of a Southerner in your blood to see past that bias, when in truth the North all around you saw no issue. It was only you, and the many voices in your head talking down to you.

It was on the tip of Aryas tongue, but with your attention being called to elsewhere there was no time for it. Looking back to her, Arya hesitated wanting you to leave just yet, but you only spoke low with something hopefully comforting to placate that expression on her. “We'll talk later.” Arya nodded, and with your leave, she was left on the steps.

Eyes once more looking across the yard, and it almost was enough to make Arya grin. How so quickly once Jon glanced over to see you weren't there, he almost on instinct appeared to then turn his head trying to see where you had gone. At least she thought, now her brother could obsess over you but in public finally.

Trying to make sure before she too found herself useful elsewhere, Arya took one last look. Still looked just as much of a Stark as he ever has. If only one thing about that truth brought Arya comfort, it was that he still had the same amount of blood like Arya's own that they thought he did before.

Part of her hoped Aegon wasn't really who he said he was. At least she thought, then the only thing left of the Last Dragon then would be someone no one knew had any ties to him, and was the most Northern, the least anything like a dragon, and the most Stark a person could get. Just to rub it in.

But, Arya couldn't dwell on it. She had things to do, and around a list of eight hundred questions she was about to all but interrogate Gendry with, trying to figure out how in seven hells he and you even know each other.

Leaned back comfortably, the sheets and fur underneath you both keeping warm, as was the fire to the side, and the chest you were pulled back against.

One hand of Jons laid more lazily at your side, resting at your waist, while his other arm was draped around your shoulder, crossed your collarbones and let his palm sit at your other shoulder comfortingly. One of your own moved across your stomach where Jon had spared no time grabbing it. Whatever fingers he could wrap his around from that angle kept warm while your other reached up to run your thumb along his forearm.

You envied how he could lay behind you, only one layer covering his chest and even at that, the laces undone from top to bottom exposing should you look, the scars on his chest. Uncaring with you that they were visible. Having you sat between his own legs, both of you toying with entangling them just as much. You had a dark shift on under, but a long, slightly warmer dress, equally as undone at the front. Which Jon had been the one to insist you keep it that way. Coming up to you from behind and grabbing your hands as he murmured in your ear “Leave it, it looks beautiful on you like that.”

Only grinning at you in an almost charmingly boyish manner, when you raised an eyebrow, turning partially to try and see him as you responded, “I'd be curious if there was anything I could wear that you wouldn't think that about.”

Murmuring low in your ear, “Wouldn't be much.”

You had been trying to describe what you saw in the snow. How the first real thing you could recall was whatever symbol the bodies had been placed in. Jon had been quiet, his voice distant in thought as he asked you what it looked like.

Trying to think clearly, you hadn't been at an angle to see the whole thing but the organization separately was still clear. “Most of it was in a large circle. Arms, legs, torsos, all of them stripped down and laying there. Then there was a line right down the middle of it and another horizontally by the bottom.” Your face twisted trying to come up with the right way to describe it.

“Sort of like the basic hilt of a sword right down the middle of a circle. And..” You could partially see Jon lean over your shoulder a bit at your pause, giving enough comfort to your mind you continued. “At random places on the outside, heads were all on spikes. Not high up or anything just, specifically the heads were propped up on purpose.”

Jons hand on your shoulder almost rubbed gently like a caress as he was in thought, before he spoke low and a bit unsettled himself. “The first time I went north of the Wall, we reached the Fist of the First Men when I went with a Qhorin Halfhand, to go sneak up on a group of wildlings.”

He hadn't ever really said much about how it all happened, how she even came into his life, but Jon wasn't yet sure if here in the comfort of his bed, and you soft in his arms was the right time or place to say it. So he pushed onward, a rough clearing in his throat that you both knew you caught onto despite your silence.

“The Lord Commander and about three hundred of the rest stayed behind. I don't know when it happened, but at some point..they showed up.” The shiver down your spine was felt in Jons chest behind you. “Two hundred of my brothers that day died fighting them. And I didn't know about it until I was already inside Mance Rayders army.” Your own hand by your waist tightened on whatever grip you had, and Jon returned it in an instant. “When we got there, the ones that were left had gone. But the only thing still there was something in the snow. The horses we had, they cut them in pieces and laid them out.”

Describing the way it was, it clearly wasn't the same manner, but there felt between you was it couldn't possibly be a coincidence.

Almost shaking his head trying to comprehend it, Jon muttered. “There was something Mance said when we found it. Always the artists. Almost like he'd seen it many times before. It can't be a coincidence, both things happening wherever the Others attacked..I just..don't know what it's supposed to mean..”

Leaning back more to rest against him, you could feel the tense sensation in Jon's muscles loosen almost right away. Your voice trying to be kept soft as you could hear in his tone, the gears trying to form an answer in his head. “It has to have something to do with raising the dead. They kill a group of wildings, form that symbol in the snow. They attack your men, and you find another symbol just like it.”

Humming deep in his chest, Jon shifted to keep his hold on you a little more gentle. “Maybe there's an answer somewhere in one of those books Sam brought with him.” Turning back slightly, you couldn't really see him but the lightness in your tone said it all, as you emphasized the word brought with a question. Chuckling easy behind you, it brought more of you closer to a smile. “Alright, stole. The books he stole.”

Shaking your head slightly, “Is the King really going to let such a crime go unpunished?”

Muttering deep, you knew without looking his face had twisted into an expression amusingly doubtful, “I'm King in the North, not of Oldtown. When the Citadel finds itself moved all the way up here, maybe I'll have the ability to do something about Sam stealing old books no one was reading anyways.” You both laughed a bit at that one.

For a while, all you could hear was the crackling of the fire. Just long enough you almost felt the pull to fall asleep before Jon rasped in your ear. The hand on your shoulder tilting your head just enough so he could rest part of his head against yours. He finally decided on it. “She was there that day.” The hand on your waist drifting to pull you more into him by your stomach as you hummed. “When I went with Qhorin Halfhand to track the wildlings. Ygritte was one of them.”

Both your hands moved, the hand across your stomach, grabbing it with both you gently started to open his palm, your fingers gently toying with his now, or running your fingertips across the skin there, occasionally Jon would shift his own fingers to dance back with yours, as if to provide something to ground him.

He was quiet, his other hand slipping to your neck, just letting his thumb run over what he barley reached as his voice broke with something rough, something otherwise to be pushed down. “She was the last one alive, so the others left me to deal with it myself. I killed a wight before that, but..”

The softness of your own voice seemed to put him a little more at ease. “You had never actually killed a living person before..” Nodding against you, he was quiet for a moment before you slid from his grasp, but he followed. Turning with you, Jon gently guided you to lay with your back comfortably against the bed while he rested on his side somewhat hovering over your top half. His free arm not keeping him up reached over so he could gently run his fingertips along your cheek, caging you in.

His eyes were distant, a fog in them which spoke volumes of pain you knew he had purposely kept the worst of such out of your knowledge. “I don't know if she kept trying to get close to me because she thought she had the right, or if she was trying to make me uncomfortable. But I ended up having to have Ghost sleep in between us at night beacuse I didn't trust her not to do anything.”

Resting your hands gently on his waist, you simply looked up to his eyes with a brightness that was keeping him tethered to the earth as he spoke. You knew he needed to get it out without interruption or he would never go back to it.

“By the time I was in Mance's camp, the Halfhand had me kill him so I could convince them I wanted to be one of them. He knew I had a better chance at living and getting inside his army, but that wasn't enough for them. They wanted me to prove myself, and to them there was only one way to do that was..”

His eyes drifted away, causing you to run a hand gently along his own cheek, cupping it tenderly without forcing him to look back. His jaw clenched and even though he still didn't look at you, you could see something painful in his eyes you knew he didn't want to turn into anything close to tears. Even though you both knew you would never judge him for it.

“I had to send Ghost away. She made me send him away, beacuse we both knew he never would let her do anything if he were there to protect me..” He inhaled shaking, but dropped his gaze down to nothing on the bed just beside you. “But I did it, beacuse I had to. They would've killed me if I didn't, beacuse then they'd know I wasn't really one of them. And she spent every moment after that acting like she had any right to...I wanted all of that with you and she took it away from me.” Jons voice was so strained you could feel under your hand at his waist his muscles were tensing up at the feeling. Letting it drift up to his stomach and running over whatever scar you could find, it almost seemed to bring his focus back.

But no judgment was in your eyes, no pity. Just the same love he always gave you, and an understanding of the kind if pain such things left on a person. “And you still came out the other side a better man then most could dream of being in a lifetime.” He tried looking at you in a doubt but you once more ran your thumb over his cheek. “Trust me, most people are worse off for good after things like that. You're nothing to scoff at.”

Shaking his head, “What Ramsay put you through was so much worse-”

Interrupting him so abruptly almost took him back, but your brows narrowed at the very idea. “Jon, I'm not going to lay here and let you downplay your pain beacuse of me. What Ramsay did to me, what Ygritte did to you, it doesn't matter how different they were. What matters is that it happened to you, it matters that it still hurts. I don't care what I've been through when you're telling me about your pain.”

Your only looked at one another for a moment before he rasped quietly, “What you suffered through was far worse, but you're right. I know I shouldn't be keeping all of this to myself. I just don't like upsetting you.”

But you only smiled, and the brightening in his grey eyes almost made your heart lift. “You don't expect me to be better yet, and so I don't expect it from you either. We heal however long it takes to heal, but we do it together.”

Jon took his time just looking at you before he spoke, his eyes full of a teetering affection but his expression was serious despite his words. “You really did come back the emotional one, didn't you?”

Your face fell entirely flat, Jon breathing out a light chuckle instantly. Rolling your eyes in jest, “Sorry, do you want to be married to someone more like my father?” If such a thing was possible, Jons eyes rolled even harder then yours. His face twisting sour as he leaned down, his breath hitting your skin as he spoke.

“Do me a favour, never mention your father when we're in bed ever again.” You laughed, and Jon captured the sound with a greedy kiss.

Hovering more over you, your hands drifted up to his shoulders and back of his neck as he cupped the side of your face to tilt you over to him to perfectly fit his lips. Just a gentle brushing of his lips, never quite broaching into demand as he would deepen it. Each time he even slightly was separate from your lips he seemed to press you into the soft bed even more.

Running a hand in his hair so your nails could scratch along his scalp, your other hand just caressed flat against his neck and shoulders as if unable to decide where to stay.

Losing yourself in his lips, you felt just the slightest brush of his tongue along your bottom lip, only as you parted them slightly to let his tongue meet yours gently, his hand drifted down your face, neck, side of your waist until his palm landed flat against your thigh. Ever so slightly, did he begin dragging up the material did you react.

Quickly for only a second did your nails dig into his skin as you almost flinched from him. Pulling back in an instant, Jon looked down at you with a worried narrow eyes. “What's wrong?” But you looked up at him, lips parted and your mind a little confused at that as well.

So you shook your head, and pulled him down to meet your lips as you rose to meet him halfway.

Sliding your hands both down along his collarbones until you reached the edges of his shirt, Jon shifted from your lips, kneeling up over you slightly as he took over pulling it off and letting it toss somewhere behind him. You moved, sitting up somewhat so your palms could run all across from his stomach up to his neck. One arm wrapping around behind his neck again as the other grasped his waist as you somewhat kept his lips pressed to yours.

Jons hands both as you moved flat against the bed pressed at each side of your head as he coaxed you to ease up with how urgent you kissed him, only to slowly take over in deepening it. Growing more greedy as he almost without thought moved, so he could shove one of your bent legs wider to fit him in between. Then the strange unpleasant feeling returned.

Something that made your heart pick up that wasn't from Jons touch. But you didn't want him to realize it, didn't want him to pick up on it again. Instead letting your nails scratch at his scalp as your other leg almost rested along his hip, prompting him to grasp at your thigh. Wrapping an arm around it, and keeping you secure right there.

Running his rough hand along the skin until he reached the edge of your shift, you this time just kept it to yourself at the feeling of him pushing it up. Jon not bothering to undress you properly yet, he ran his other hand do do the same to the opposite side until he could blindly grasp at your underwear. His lips nibbling into your bottom lip only to just barley tease you with running his tongue along yours, Jon begun dragging the material down.

You wanted to be fine, just stay calm you told yourself. Just fall into it and let Jon do what he liked, or what made him happy. He had a rough time as well these past days. Tearing himself from your lips, Jon hovered over you, his own parted and eyes black as he breathed heavily. Not looking away from your own eyes peering more innocently back up at him, he yanked the material off your legs and reached right for the layers covering you.

The dress first easy to come off, and almost impatient as his own breathing increased he tossed away your shift even with less care. Peering down at what he could see, you ran your hands down his chest to the laces on his own pants.  

Jon only grasped your hands, and moved to shove them up beside your head, interlocking your fingers together as he moved to grind into your now bare core. Lips capturing yours. The feeling of his covered cock was at the perfect angle, hard as he could be, and almost selfless grind which just so happened to feel as good for him, as he wanted you to.

But even though your lips and hands worked, the rest of you didn't. You didn't feel good.

The more he hovered over you like this, the more your heart raced, the more your chest hurt. Your hands flexed in his, and Jon only tightened his hold with what you knew was something deeply loving in honesty. But you felt trapped.

If you opened your eyes, you knew the world would be spinning and you could feel it even as you lay there at his gentle mercy. Brushing against your lips as he rasped deeply, “I spent way too long without you,” Unable to stop himself from another biting kiss as he never left making his way to your neck, “Let me make you feel good,” Kissing and biting more down your neck, you knew it felt as good as normal, yet you couldn't help but wanting him to stop, but you kept quiet as he pressed a more gentle kiss to your jaw muttering, “Is that alright?”

Jon felt you nod, and that was enough. You kept your eyes closed, and your hands didn't even move when he released them. Kissing a path to your breasts, you were desperate if he could tell how fast your heart was racing, he'd think it was good. What you didn't realize, was that you weren't convincing of a physical lie.  

So much of your energy was being spent trying to be good for him, you didn't think to spend part of that on pretending you enjoyed it. As Jons lips would normally have greedily kissed and marked up your breasts, but he found something before he could start, when he let one hand move down between your legs.

Your legs tensed around him but he almost didn't need to notice that, since as soon as he even slightly went to brush two fingers down along your core, he stopped. Dark eyes suddenly accompanied by a furrowed brow as he looked up at you, no longer touching you with his lips. The hand between your legs moving instead of press against the bed beside your hip.

But, you didn't know what he was looking at you like. You couldn't tell what that glint in his eyes said and you interrupted whatever he was about to say, shaking your head. “I'm alright, I can take it-”

Jon however, didn't buy it. He pushed up more to hover over you more instead as you leaned up on your elbows. His head tilted at you in doubt, “Darling, you're not even close to ready..” Kneeling up more, he no longer was touching you beyond a gentle hand resting on one of your thighs. You swallowed nervously, and that weightful sick feeling only made you feel dizzy and far more guilty as he looked at you.

Shaking your head, you tried pushing yourself up to  go to him, but Jons other hand reached out. Pressing gently against your sternum to keep you in place as he looked over you. Your voice was not as confident as your face was trying to look. Not realizing you likely said the one thing that would not convince him, in fact, you said the one thing that instantly rung the bells too loudly in his head.

“We don't have to do this whole part, if you just want to get to it. It'll be fine, it won't hurt much.”

The way he looked at you though, your head started to hurt at that look. Something instead of being frustrated, or annoyed, just looked at you with those bright eyes shining as his heart broke.

You wanted to shrink in on yourself, you couldn't even pretend to be fine for one night for him.

You wished Jon would just do what he wanted, you'd get over it. You liked when he felt good, and suddenly you felt an upsetting frustration inside your own heart, not understanding why he wouldn't just take what he wanted, when you were already bare for him.

The way he deeply said your name, the narrowed expression as if he was trying to figure you out, and you felt something in your muscles trying to react.

“This would be a whole lot easier if you just pretended you enjoyed it, my bride. But, if you insist on making noise-”

By the time your eyes found his again, not realizing you drifted away somewhere, Jon was leaned much more into you. His hands hovering by your cheeks as if unsure if he should touch you. Only then did you feel that tears had silently fallen already down your skin. Whatever he was trying to figure out as he looked over you, you made it all the worse for yourself. You were good at that. Theon had said you had been making it worse for yourself, right?

But the painful race of your heart couldn't seem to grasp with the logic of your mind, that this wasn't Ramsay. And for a second, you could only wonder how much more boring and frustrating you were compared to a pretty hair of red.

Jon though, finally cupped one of your cheeks gently, tilting you up to look at him as he murmured your name more softly then Ramsay ever had spat it out. Your nails were digging so much into the sheets beneath you it almost tore the material as you looked up at him. You didn't know why you felt like this, you had been with Jon many times now what was wrong with you?

Shaking your head you tried to whisper, “I'm sorry..”

In truth, though? It only made Jon feel just as sick, he knew exactly by now what was going on. Running his nose gently along the length of yours, he felt you slightly ease up as your eyes fluttered closed. Rasping to you gently, you could feel his breathe along your skin, and this time it was soothing. “Will you let me hold you?”

You only nodded, something burning in you that flooded you in a deep self hatred. You couldn't even please your husband after what you had just put him through for days. Your voice was much more wavering this time. “I- I, I'm so sorry..I don't...”

Jon tilted you down just a bit as he pressed a kiss to the top of your head, muttering into your hair before shifting. Pulling you up to perch right in his lap where he could get both his arms around you properly. “Don't be sorry.” Kissing another he muffled, “We don't have to do anything.”

Why did that make the growing panic worse? Why did that make you feel even more selfish?

So you shook your head,trying to move to press your lips to anywhere on him, and it took a good few tries for Jon to get you to look back at the call of your name. “Stop,” Tilting his head back, Jon gently cupped the back of your head, mostly so you couldn't as easily distract him, his own face sat in a frown. “Darling, if you don't want to do anything tonight, I'm not making you, not at all. I want you to feel good, not make you do things for my sake.”

But he could tell you looked as confused as you felt. Your mouth opening and closing a number of times before sighing out. Looking back up at Jon, who had nothing but a concerned patience in his eyes. “I- everything I've made you suffer these past days, what you just told me, I shouldn't- I should be..”

He watched you for a moment, before capturing your lips in one more, far more gentle kiss, barley pulling from you to mumble into you. “There's a lot going on inside that beautiful head of yours, it's allowed to feel upset or confused sometimes.” You almost sighed out a laugh, instead choosing to meet him back in another kiss. “Do you want to talk about it right now, or would you rather we lay down and I hold you for a while?”

Your hands on his shoulders eased in their tensity, looking up to meet his eyes you nodded your head and trusted, rightfully, he knew what answer that chose.

It took some time, but slowly you both laid down. Jon kept you in his chest, running a hand tucked behind your head along your hair while the other ran soothingly up and down from waist to hip. Your voice muffled as you kept your hands by his shoulders and around the back of his neck. “I assume if I were to apologize again for ruining things, you wouldn't want to hear it.”

A smile found its way onto his face that you could feel in your hair. “There's my smart girl.”

Rolling your eyes as you mumbled a shut up, Jon just chuckled deeply. Pulling you more into his chest, deciding he'd only move to pull the fur up over you both when you settled a bit, or were nice and asleep. For now, he hoped his own body heat was enough for you in the cold air.

At some point, you started to drift off, only having enough sense to press a kiss to the scar over his heart before nuzzling more into his chest with an, “I love you.” And falling asleep just before hearing him gently rasp it back to you in your ear.

Jon held you for a long time after you fell asleep, telling himself not to get upset on his own. He knew you were thinking about Ramsay, and he knew you would be insecure enough to wonder if he'd be angry you weren't ready for him at any moment. But Jon's need stopped the second he realized you weren't even slightly wet for him, when normally he'd have you already soaked. Instead, just keeping you safe in his arms, truthfully, was the thing which was making Jon feel just as safe.

You were upset, and what Jon needed right now, was for you to do just this. Not shove him away, let him take care of you no matter what.

Jon struggled to see what he was forced to do, as anywhere near as bad as what Ramsay did to you, but if you were going to be insistent that he not hide that pain as he insisted on you, that honesty was the least he could do. But if he were to tell you in that very moment, what was close to pulling tears from Jon still, even as you slept soundly against his chest, was how far you disappeared for a moment.

It terrified him that you had sunk so far into something scared that for a second, he knew you weren't seeing him as him. You were seeing Jon as if he was about to treat you exactly like Ramsay would. The Bolton had been dead for months, but he still haunted you as strongly as he did when Jon finally reunited with you in Castle Black.

But, Jon had to tell himself, had to remember that you were always going to push your issues away in favour of caring for Jon, tending to and healing his wounds inside and out. You would put priority on the looming horror coming from the North before wanting Jon to ever prioritize your pain.

He wasn't going to let that happen. Jon wasn't about to let the looming threat of the winter storms, take any more importance then the life he was building with you, here and now.

[newobsessioneveryweek]

A fun thing I thought of: TOA Edition

Month you were born

Jan - I booped [...]'s nose

Feb - I stole a shoe from

Mar - I stole candy from

Apr - I ticked

May - I challenged [...] to a duel

June - I visited my wrath upon

July - I attacked

Aug - I hugged

Sept - I bullied

Oct - I cursed

Nov - I complained about

Dec - I threw [...] across the room

Day you were born

Hemithia

Will Solace

Jo

The Meliae

Austin Lake

Nico di Angelo

Apollo

Nero

Kayla Knowles

Leo Valdez

Piper McLean

Meg McCaffrey

Georgie

Percy Jackson

Calypso

Zeus

Artemis

Hazel Levesque

Frank Zhang

Grover Underwood

Jason Grace

Commodus

Thalia Grace

Python

Annabeth Chase

Medea

The Arrow of Dodona

Caligula

Rachel Elizabeth Dare

The Sybil of Erythaea

Crest the pandos

Colour of your shirt

Red - Because I'm compromised

Orange - Because my horoscope predicted I would so I couldn't just NOT do it

Yellow - Because I have no impulse control

Green - Naked

Blue - Because I wanted to see what would happen

Purple - Because the planets were aligned

Black - Because they deserved it

White - Because my emotions got the better of me

Grey - Because I thought it would be funny

2 colours - In order to secure the bag

3+ colours - Because I was told not to

Unsure - Because fear could not stop me

Striped - Because Hermes dared me to

Polka dot - Because I'm a good person

Floral - because I am an incurable scoundrel

Print (other) - Because I'm a bad person

Sequins - Because I am controlled by the unbridled rage that courses through my veins

Graphic - As a convoluted form of risk management

Bonus matching pants: ...and because I've always wanted to do that

[late-to-the-party-81]

Power Play - Chapter 2

AN: Thank you all for your amazing response to part one. It was vastly unexpected and meant that I felt like you all deserved a bit more than just filthy ramblings, so hopefully I have got the plot balance right. Again, a big thanks to @buckybarnesevents

I’ve chosen the prompt How do you want me... Spread open.

Beta’d by @buckysbarne

Dividers by @firefly-graphics and banner by me

Master list | Hot Bucky Summer Master list | Chapter 1

Summary: You settle into Bucky’s mansion and he imparts some important information about your former colleagues.

Relationship: Mob! Bucky x Undercover Agent! Reader

WC: 2.7k

CW: Soft!Dark! Bucky, Stalking, Very slight somno (blink and you’ll miss it), Dirty talk, Angst, Alcohol consumption, Themes of betrayal, more kissing, Russian Pet names as mangled by Google translate, John Walker and Lemar Hoskins being misogynistic PoS’.

Although you hadn’t accepted Bucky’s rather tempting offer, you hadn’t outright rejected it either. The man himself seemed to think it was a done deal, because after he’d finished kissing you - leaving you dizzy and aching - he’d untied the rest of your bonds.

A telling smile had spread across his face as you just stood there, rubbing at your wrists and ankles, not trying to attack him or escape.

“Come, Pchelka.”

He didn’t offer any more, and you didn’t ask in your tired and confused state, just followed him out of his study and down the corridor of his opulent home, like a puppy at its master’s heel. 

There were a few other people walking the halls, mainly big, imposing men in black suits, but there were a few women too, who looked like staff. Bucky led you up a large staircase, and along another hallway until he got to a pair of double doors. He pushed one open with ease and gestured for you to walk through.

You took a few tentative steps across the threshold and then whirled around to look at him open-mouthed.

“What is this, Mr Barnes?”

“What does it look like, milyy? It’s a bedroom.”

You looked at him with trepidation and suspicion.

“Is it yours?”

Bucky just chuckled, the corners of his eyes crinkling with mirth and your suspicion turned to embarrassment.

“No, it is not. But mine is just through the adjoining door if you’d like to go there instead? A little eager, aren’t you?” 

“Well… I… you said you wanted me.”

Oh God! Could the world just swallow you already?

Suddenly, Bucky crowded into your personal space and you could feel the heat radiating off him. Smell his cologne.

“I do want you, Pchelka. I want you spread open for me. Needy and wet. Begging for me to fuck you.”

His hand came up to stroke the side of your face and over your hair and your eyelids fluttered.

“But it isn’t time for that. Yet. No, for now this room is for you, and you alone. You must be tired, hungry and in need of a wash. Please feel free to use anything in this room or the en-suite. I will organise some food for you.

“Can I leave?”

It was his turn to give you a questioning look.

“I don’t believe you’d want to leave this.” For a moment you thought he was talking about the opulence of his dwelling, but he caught you off guard again, cupping your face and giving you a deep, but all too brief, kiss before slipping out of the door. You heard a key turn in the lock and realised that you were once again trapped. With a sigh you decided that there was no point in hurting yourself trying to escape - a small voice in your head even questioned whether you even wanted to - and decided to explore your gilded cage.

The room was brightly decorated. There was still the dark wood that prevailed in the rest of the house - or what you’d seen of it so far - but the walls were covered in a yellow and cream wallpaper. The carpet, so deep and plush it felt like a cloud under your bare feet, was also cream, and the drapes matched the yellow of the walls perfectly. The bed was large, kingsized, with dark wood head and foot boards. The counterpane was also in the same tones and the room felt spring-like because of it. There were other doors in the room. Two on one side and one on the other. The lone door was the one that Bucky had indicated led to his room.

With a few steps, you crossed the space and tried the handle. It didn’t budge - there was no way out there - and you weren’t sure why you felt disappointed, but it wasn’t because an escape route was blocked. Moving across the room you tried the first of the two doors on that side. 

It was a walk in closet, but didn’t look as you’d expected. If this was a guest room it should have been empty, but it wasn’t. It was filled with rack after rack of clothes; suits, skirts, tops, dresses, jeans. You walked past them, running your hand over the expensive fabrics. One dress in particular caught your eye. It was a rich, sapphire blue colour, made of satin and when you slipped it off the hanger to look at it closer you were surprised to see that not only was it your size, the tag was still attached. You checked a pair of jeans and found the same. 

On the opposite side of the closet was a large shoe rack with a similarly eclectic selection, any type of shoe anyone would ever want. Again, they were all brand new and in your size. There was a sinking feeling in your chest. The drawers full of high end lingerie confirmed your suspicions. The clothes and the shoes could be a coincidence, but there is no way anyone would be able to accurately guess what size bra you wore. He’d said he’d been watching you, but you hadn’t thought he’d meant that closely.

Leaving the closet and not knowing what to make of it all, you went to the other door which, as you had surmised, was the en-suite. It was just as luxurious as the rest of your lodgings, and stocked, unsurprisingly now, with your preferred brands and scents of toiletries. You should feel creeped out. 

Should.

To take your mind off it all you decided to have a shower. Bucky was right, as much as you didn’t want to admit it. You were in need of a wash and you were really tired, not really having slept since you were taken by him and his men at the gala.

You took it slow - there was no need to rush after all - and after indulging yourself in a way you hadn’t in a long time you padded back into the closet. There was no need to look a gift horse in the mouth after all. 

Digging around, you found a pair of pyjamas - silk, of course -  to put on, and climbed onto the bed for a well needed rest.

“Wake up, Pchelka.”

You were so warm and cosy, and despite the insistence of the voice in your ear, your body was resisting. You let out a grumpy mumble and heard some quiet laughter in response. 

“You must be hungry, lyubimyy. I’ve bought you some food.”

“Five more minutes…” you muttered, your mind still wrapped up in a thick blanket of sleep.

However, the fog started to lift as warm kisses, accompanied by the slight scratch of facial hair, littered your neck and face, setting your body alight. You sighed happily, enjoying the sensations, your half-asleep mind creating scenarios in your head and…

It was like your brain suddenly came online and you sat up with a start, your heart thudding in your chest and embarrassment suffusing your being. You clutched a hand to the front of your pyjamas as you took in your captor. He’d abandoned his suit jacket and sunglasses, and rolled up the sleeves of his black shirt. As he looked at you, amusement in his eyes, he placed a toothpick between his teeth. 

Why was that so goddamn sexy?

Ignoring your reaction, both to his wake up kisses and to your realisation about what was going on, he gestured towards the tray on the small table near your bed.

“I brought you some food, lyubimaya. Come. Eat.”

He stood by one of the chairs and pulled it out, an obvious invitation for you to sit. You moved hesitantly, sliding off the bed and padding over the carpet, ducking your head in acknowledgement of his chivalry as he tucked the chair in under you as you sat down.

Bucky then took the cloche off the tray, revealing two portions of smoked salmon and Eggs Benedict on toasted English muffins, along with a teapot and two cups. He placed one plate in front of you and then sat down opposite you. He poured out the tea, and the smell of calming chamomile wafted over you. 

The food looked good and as the first taste hit your tongue you realised how hungry you actually were. In fact, it wasn’t until you’d almost emptied your plate that you realised that you’d hadn’t even spoken a word to Bucky. Looking over at him you saw he was smiling at you indulgently, an unexpectedly soft look on his face. Butterflies danced in your stomach and you grabbed your tea cup, taking a large swig of the hot floral liquid in an attempt to squash the tingling feeling within you.

“Erm… thank you for the food. It was delicious.”

“I’m glad you enjoyed it, Pchelka.” He took a drink from his own teacup and you found yourself transfixed by the movement of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed. “Now that you’ve had some rest, I have some things to show you. So, if you’d like to get dressed I’ll come back in ten minutes for you.”

His tone was calm, congenial, and suggested that the thought that you wouldn’t comply hadn’t entered his head. To be honest, you didn’t feel any need to be combative anyway. 

Eleven minutes later he knocked on your door again. You’d picked out a pair of jeans, a soft sweater and a pair of canvas slip-ons and were revelling in how much nicer the expensive clothes felt on you. When you opened the door to him, you were beaming and he smiled back. It was easy to forget that he’d fought you, kidnapped you, that he was technically your enemy. For the most part he’d treated you much better than any of your colleagues.

Barnes took hold of one of your hands and brought it up to his lips, keeping his eyes on you the whole time.

“You look beautiful, sladkiy. However, now it’s time to talk business, as unpleasant as that may be.”

He hooked your arm into the crook of his and walked the pair of you back down the stairs and hallway to his office. As you entered you were surprised to see that the chair you’d been tied to earlier on had disappeared, with Bucky offering you the much plusher option opposite his desk.

Once you’d sat, Bucky moved back over to his bar. He poured two tumblers of scotch and then opened a mini fridge, taking out a bottle of water. He placed it, and one of the crystal glasses, in front of you.

“Have some water, milyy. Then I have some things for you to listen to, after which you might need the other drink.”

The air in the room was heavy, a sense of foreboding settling upon you, but you did as he said, cracking the seal on the bottle and drinking almost half the small bottle in one go.

Bucky was perched up on the desk once more, and as you placed the lid back on the water, he pulled his laptop towards him and spun it so that the screen faced you. With a few deft clicks he pulled up an audio file and pressed play.

At first the sound was muffled, sounding as though it was coming from down a drain, but after a bit of static it suddenly cleared, and you recognised the voice of your boss, John Walker.

Walker was tall, blonde, good-looking and slimy as hell. You hadn’t expected someone of his age - your age - to be part of the ‘boys’ club, but you’d been unpleasantly surprised. He was overt in his sexual appraisal of you and behaved in a generally toxic manner. You surmised that he must just be that good at his job that the higher-ups were willing to overlook the fact he was a walking HR nightmare. Either that, or he was so well connected he was untouchable.

When you’d been picked for this op, you’d been so excited you’d put aside all your reservations about him, ignoring the comments that were a little too close to the line. Now, listening to the recording, you wished you hadn’t.

“So… you think the piece of fluff can actually handle getting intel on Barnes?”

That was Hoskins, Walker’s partner in crime.

“Well, if - when - she fucks it up, it’ll fall on her, not me. And it’ll stop her from getting ideas above her station. Should fucking stay with filing and looking cute. Would be better if she put out though. Frigid bitch.”

There was a slap noise, probably a ‘bro’ high-five, and two disturbing chuckles.

“So you reckon she’s gonna blow it?” Hoskins again, then a snort from Walker.

“Reckon? I know it. She’ll be made as soon as she makes contact.”

Another chuckle, and you felt a sick feeling churning in your gut. “She piss you off that much? What do you think Barnes will do when she tries to make contact?”

“Dunno. Probably just ignore her overtures. He won’t do anything over the top - he won’t want to draw attention. Her failure will put her back in her place, then maybe the boss will go with my plan. Can’t believe they went with the ‘honeypot’, but at least they picked her outta all the other candidates.”

“Won’t you get backlash for recommending someone who fucks up so royally?”

“I gave them a number of options. Is it my fault if, on paper, she looked like the best one?”

“You dog.” The laughter this time was more than just small chuckles and you felt the bile rising in your throat. “Come on - Let’s go get a drink. We can toast to the downfall of the airhead and your rising star.”

There was the sound of people and papers being moved about, footsteps and a door closing and then the recording came to an end. As it did you realised how hard you were gripping the arms of the chair. You looked up at Barnes, willing the tears in your eyes not to fall. You expected him to look amused, or smug, but he wasn’t. He looked… concerned, and somehow that was worse.

“Walker’s the mole? He fed you information about me just so this op would fail and he could swoop in and take over?”

“Not him directly. He wants to bring me down to make himself look good, but he knows who the mole is and may have dropped some important information in the right place at the right time. He’s trying to play the long game, not knowing it’s gonna backfire.”

You took hold of the tumbler of scotch and threw it back, coughing slightly at the strength of it, but determined that you wouldn’t show weakness in front of Barnes.

“So what made you pull off this charade? You could have just done what Walker thought you were gonna do. You could have just ignored me.”

“Pchelka, it would be impossible to ignore you. Especially after I learnt everything about you. I was curious, why would Walker wish your downfall? So I tailed you. Investigated you. And I was both impressed and appalled. Impressed by you and appalled by those apes you work with. You are so much better than them in every way and they aren’t even deserving to be scraped off your shoe.”

“You stalked me. You broke into my apartment and found out what size clothes I wear. What toiletries I use. And you are asking me to trust you?”

He stood up from where he’d perched himself and crouched down in front of you, taking your hands in his own. The thought that you’d found yourself in this position with this man a number of times now flitted through your mind.

“I never meant you any harm. I wanted to be ready for you. To make the transition, should you choose to take it, seamless. Join me, sladkiy. Get your revenge. Live your best life. You can be successful and powerful, and above all respected and cherished.”

He’d commented earlier in the day about how he wanted you spread open, and you felt that way now, albeit in a different way to how he’d meant it. You felt stretched out. Raw. Thin. Burning with anger and shame. Rage and embarrassment. Probably not the best state to be making life changing decisions in, but you’d been sensible your entire life and where had it gotten you?

You looked up into his eyes, the cool icy depths tempting you in, so you dove with abandon.

“Yes.” You uttered your reply, and for the first time took what you wanted, bringing your lips to his.

Chapter 3

Tag list: @jobean12-blog @bucky-bucky-bucky-bucky @tuiccim @sidepartskinnyjeans @flordeamatista @krissy25 @bodeckersdiamonddoll @goldylions @luxeavenger @wheezy-stucky @doasyoudesireandlive @chemtrails-club @seitmai @talia-rumlow @peaches1958 @pono-pura-vida @writing-for-marvel

[freshbakedbreadstick]

No. 1 Party Anthem - Mikey Berzatto x F!Reader - Chapter Six

Past!Mikey Berzatto x F!Reader

Carmy Berzatto x F!Platonic!Reader

Richie Jerimovich x F!Platonic!Reader

Summary: The human mind is a very scary thing.

Warnings:  All my fics are 18+ regardless of the content. Heavy spoilers. Mentions of death, funerals, grief, angst, strained relationships, minor injuries, arguments/yelling matches, details of anxiety/panic attacks, bad coping mechanisms, mental health issues, running away, addiction, interventions, al-anon. Depiction of a gun and implication of suicide in a portion, not graphic but heavily implied/hinted at during a possibly distressing nightmare sequence.

Word Count: 3.4k

A/N: A little late bc i just moved into my dorm for the year <3 its been quite the adjustment so i took a bit of time to myself to just relax and get used to things ! ! ! Anyways today was my first day of class and it went SO GOOD ! ! ! ! Im so excited for the semester and the school year in general ily all sm have a slay day besties ! Also this is just angst again im sorry i swear it will get better at some point but probably not nowwwww 😭

Taglist: @marysucks-blog @shinebright2000 @jadeittic @eternallyvenus (MWAH <3 )

Masterlist

You stood in the back of the room, leaning against the wall and wearing some sunglasses you dug out from your bag. Your arms were crossed and your face was neutral but, behind those dark frames you wore, your eyes darted back and forth between each person who sat in the chairs around the circle and to Amanda, the leader of this Al-Anon meeting. 

Some were at ease, sharing freely and even throwing jokes in between their talks, while others sat stiffly and managed to get up on their shaky legs and share their own narratives. 

But somehow, none of them judged one another. 

Beside you stood your mom, gripping her purse straps so tightly that you could see the straps bending in her grip. She tapped her foot softly on the linoleum, smiling empathetically to each person and applauding politely when needed. But every once in a while, she would glance over at you and look away quickly, shoulder slumping and smile fading. 

Your lips formed a line as you continued to look as neutral as possible, staring as the meeting started to get wrapped up. Amanda spoke to everyone, clasping her hands together before waving everyone off with a soft smile. 

Everyone got up from their chairs, some joining one another to talk while others moved toward the door a couple feet away from you. They passed by you, most not really turning to you while a couple politely nodded and left. 

But as the room started to get emptier and emptier, that scared-nauseous feeling came back in full force when your mother put a hand on your forearm and looked over at Amanda. 

“You know, Natalie was the one who recommended me to take you to some Al-Anon meetings… but it was Carmy who told me to take you to one after you ran out…”

You glanced over at your mom, eyebrows furrowing. 

“Why?”

Your question was both a rhetorical and actual one. Part of you was confused as to why Carmy was the one who spoke to your mom about the argument at The Beef earlier. Carmy was the person who didn’t bother to show up to Mikey’s funeral and refused to reach out to those who tried to contact him, so why would he even bother to care about you facing your own feelings about this situation?

But another part of you was touched. 

Carmy was the kid brother who would follow you and Natalie around when you were in middle school. When you were in high school and started to date Mikey, Carmy was the kid that you would playfully bother when Mikey wasn’t giving you attention. As an adult, Carmy was your sense of peace whenever he was around, providing you with a much needed distraction during Berzatto family gatherings when he would finally open up (after much pestering on your part) about his own life away from Chicago. And while it seemed like that sense of peace was gone as he got farther and farther away from everyone, this news made you realize that it had never left. 

He still wanted to give you that peace you desperately needed when it came to his family. 

Your mom turned to look at you and gently reached up to take your sunglasses off. She looked into your eyes, seeing the way the bags under your eyes looked darker while you both stood in the corner of the room. 

With a heavy sigh, she responded, “Carmy told me that he had just started to attend some meetings himself. Natalie told him over and over to go to some but he… he hadn’t gone until now. And when he heard the news that you came back, he jumped to tell me about taking you. Especially when he saw your erratic behavior, he knew you wouldn’t go unless we were the ones who took you.”

You looked away, arms falling to your sides. 

“Please give it a try, please… you know that Mikey wouldn’t want you stressed out like this…”

Your chest tightened, “I… I don’t know what Mikey would’ve wanted anymore.”

Amanda called your name as she began walking over to you, making you quickly rub your eyes and look at her, “Hey you two, how are you feeling about possibly coming to a session?”

You shrugged and looked to the floor, “I’ll have to think about it but… I might.”

Amanda smiled and nodded, “I know this is a huge first step and I understand that you need time to think about it. Our next session will be in two days, you're free to join us if you would like to. And, you're free to bring someone for support.”

You nodded and glanced at your mom, seeing her smile at you from the corner of your eye. 

You soon found yourself back in your car, packed haphazardly full of your stuff, and looking out of the passenger’s seat window. 

You leaned your head onto the glass as your eyes looked out the window at the way the sky started to turn from blue to orange. By the time you got home, the sky was filled up with colors similar to the ones you saw while sitting on the hood of your car all those months ago. 

The car slowly pulled into the driveway and standing on the sidewalk, with his hands in his pocket, was your dad. He waved and smiled sadly, making you sigh and look away. You could feel the way your cheeks began to burn and your chest tightened. 

Silently, he approached the car and opened the trunk. You passed by him, watching him begin to start to unpack the trunk that held the boxes of your life, one by one. 

The three of you, in silence, emptied the entirety of your car. Any of the boxes and other belongings you had previously kept there were now placed in your room, each getting a designated spot and most getting unpacked completely. 

The way that everything just seemed to fall into place in your own childhood bedroom made you shiver and walk away as your parents continued organizing. 

In the dark hallway, you paced. Your fingers busied themselves with picking the skin of your bottom lip, leaving it raw and sting whenever your tongue ran over it. It wasn’t until your parents came back out that you managed to get yourself to pause, ignoring the way it stung.

Your mom smiled sympathetically and passed you, placing her arm comfortingly on your shoulder. You dad though, he paused and let your mom get downstairs and away from the two of you before he spoke up, “Some habits are hard to break, I know that, but staying here for a while will be good for you, okay honey? I love you so much, we all do, and we want you to stay.” 

Your eyes stung a bit, making you flutter your eyelids to stop any tears from forming, “Okay… I think… okay.”

Your dad wrapped his arms around you and hugged you. His arms squeezed around you, tight, as if you were going to fall into pieces if he didn’t hold onto you hard enough. You winced and he did so, but let him hold onto you. 

“Your my little girl and I would,” He began to speak again, pausing as his voice cracked to clear his throat before continuing, “Your mother and I would never be the same if anything happened to you. We love you so much.”

“Love you too, Dad.” 

As you watched him go down the dark hallway and down the stairs, you felt your lips sting as you began to taste a salty wetness. The decision was done: you would stay here for however long it took to heal and would attend the Al-Anon meetings in the meantime.

Now that this major decision was made, it was time for another. 

“Time to fix my fuck up,” you mumbled to yourself.

Later that night, after you had dinner and began to unwind for the night, you went over and sat on your bed. After washing the day’s bad choices and tears down the drain, you had changed into something comfortable for bed. You hummed, feeling satisfied with the soft clothes you wore that you completely forgot you even had, thankfully your parents’ unpacking and organizing allowed you to find them easily and happily. 

With an exhausted groan, your back hit the plush mattress. You bounced softly for a second before wiggling around to get comfortable before pulling the blankets onto your body. With a glance to the ceiling, you began to think.

You had messed up majorly with Carmy, Sugar, and Richie; well, with the entirety of The Beef. You knew that you definitely needed to apologize and try to make things right, especially considering that you would be staying here now and could run into them. You might be the type of person to flee in the face of trouble, but you knew that not apologizing would sour your relationship with them even more than it already is. 

And while it was a bit overwhelming to be around them now, you did miss them. 

Showing up and just apologizing en masse made you cringe a little. You knew that Carmy probably wouldn’t receive that well, he was stubborn and held onto anger so this wouldn’t just be an easy thing to forgive for him. Richie would be a bit hesitant to show vulnerability in front of everyone so the tough and funny guy act would be brought up, and that wouldn’t feel like you properly apologized to him. And Sugar… she would take your apology in a heartbeat but… you didn’t want her to. She was tough when she wanted to be but was always too kind with you. You didn’t just want this to be a forgive and forget moment for her, you wanted her to be upset with you and let you work on gaining her forgiveness.

“I can’t let her be a doormat…” you whispered to yourself. 

But while you laid there, on the soft mattress of your childhood bedroom, the cocoon of blankets and fresh air that made it perfect to get all snuggled up started to work against you. The warm plushness made your thoughts get blurrier and your eyes droop and while your breathing got deeper and deeper, your body gave in to sleep. 

You narrowed your eyes at the orange sun, letting yourself blink until your eyes got adjusted to the room. You then looked around and gasped when you realized where you were. 

You were back in the kitchen of the place you and Mikey lived in together. The bright setting sun had come from the giant window of the kitchen, the window that overlooked the streets and had a view of the city, the exact window that made you and Mikey decide to rent this place in the first place. 

Everything looked and felt hazey, half drowned in the warm yellow lighting of the sun. As you looked down at your hands, you saw them also overlaid with the sun, feeling warm and looking… healthy. 

Someone started humming behind you, voice deep. You whipped your head around to see who it was and was faced with the back of a tall, broad man. 

He wore a black shirt that stretched over his muscular body. As your eyes wandered up his form, you noticed the attractive and slightly messy dark hair that was on his head.

“Baby?”

Your heart stopped. 

You began to stumble backward, gasping giant gulps of air as your eyes zeroed in on the man in front of you. Slowly, he began to turn around, and give you a good look of himself.

His dark brown eyes focused on you. His eyebrows creased together as he watched you reel back, almost falling to the floor.

“Baby, what’s wrong?”

You let out a strangled cry as he began to move forward, reaching his toned arm out to grab you. You froze, eyes trained on his large hand as it came closer and closer to your skin. You squeezed them shut, terrified. 

His hand felt warm as it gently wrapped around your own. 

You felt yourself being gently guided up and forward. The hand then let go of you and an arm wrapped around your body, resting the hand against the small of your back. Another hand wrapped around you on the opposite side and you were pulled close against a broad chest. 

You could feel the way his relaxed heart was beating, unlike your own racing one.

“Mikey…” you whispered in a broken breath, eyes still clamped shut. 

Your entire body was stiff as a board as you stood there, but it began to betray you and give in to the person in front of you.

“Look at me baby,” The voice said, rumbling but calm.

With a sharp inhale, you began to blink your eyes open. You looked at the face in front of you, your own eyes connecting to those dark eyes you missed so much.

“Mikey… is it really you?”

You felt a deep rumble in his chest, followed by the twinkling of his laugh. He threw his head back, letting his unruly hair flutter as he moved. 

“Yes baby, it’s me. Who the hell else would it be?” He smiled at you, letting his eyes half lid as he looked at you. 

“But… but you…” you began, but were quickly interrupted. 

“Come here babydoll, come try this for me.”

He moved away from you and ushered you forward with one arm, but regardless, you had no choice as the other arm that was still wrapped around your waist pulled you close into his side. Your body slotted against him, as if the missing piece to his puzzle. 

You watched as Mikey dipped a finger into the giant pot of sauce that was bubbling on the stove and you slowly began to smell the scent of roasted garlic and fresh basil, straight from the pot you had growing on the windowsill. 

He gently blew on his finger as steam rose from the sauce, he slowly brought it up to your lips, pausing just before he would touch them to look at you in the eyes again. 

“Go on baby, try it and tell me what you think.”

You gulped and parted your lips. Leaning forward, your mouth encased his finger. As your tongue hit the sauce, your eyes shot wide open.

A multitude of flavors exploded in your mouth, all so familiar. That made your knees buckle. 

With a laugh, Mikey caught you before you went down, taking his finger from your mouth and wrapping both arms around you again. He carefully lifted you up and placed you on the empty kitchen island to sit.

“Was it that good? How come you don’t react like that every other time I make it, hmm?” Teasingly, he smirked at you and turned away to wash his hands.

But all you could do was sit there, stone cold, and in shock. No matter how many times you swallowed, the taste of fresh sauce with a ton of garlic, basil, and San Marzano tomatoes would still linger on your tongue. A sauce that Mikey would make, claiming to be a recipe that only he could make perfectly, for family spaghetti night. 

His voice interrupted your thoughts, bringing you back to where you sat, “Do you think it needs anything? I wanna make sure it’s perfect before Carmy, Sugar, and Richie get here.”

You coughed and shook your head rapidly, unsure what to do but along with it, “Yea it’s, it’s perfect, my love.”

You paused, eyes wide again. A slip of the tongue. You hadn’t said “my love” for such a long time that it felt foreign coming from your mouth, despite it being a nickname you commonly used for Mikey.

But Mikey either didn’t seem to notice or didn’t seem to care when you said that. He just beamed and turned back around to stir the pot for a second. 

As you gathered yourself on that counter, you looked around again. Everything was… everything was exactly like how you left it. The pots and pans were in their usual spots, the curtains were drawn just the way you liked them, and every framed photo in the house showed you and Mikey, grinning and holding onto one another. 

You were home. 

But you knew you weren’t supposed to be here.

“Give me a second babydoll, i’ll be right back.”

Your head whipped around to look at Mikey as he stood in front of you. He smiled and reached over, kissing your temple, before walking off in the direction of the bathroom with a hand in his pocket. 

Once he disappeared, you immediately threw yourself off the kitchen island. 

Your hands immediately went to the back of your neck, holding onto it as your eyes raced over everything. 

“What the fuck am i doing here?!”

Everything around you was perfectly in place, as if untouched by time.

The world around you spun as you threw your body around, desperately trying to find something that would prove that something was wrong. But alas, everything seemed okay. 

You were too terrified to open any drawers or touch anything, so all you could do was hyperventilate and turn around over and over and over, scanning the walls to see the photographs you knew you buried under boxes and decorations you tried but failed to throw out.

Suddenly a phone began to ring. 

You froze.

There was no phone in the kitchen, nor the living room, or anywhere else in the house. But there was a phone whose ringing sounded exactly like this one’s; the phone in your parent’s house. 

It was an analog, rotary style phone that rested on a table in the hallway of your parent’s house. This hallway led the front door to the living room and had picture frames of you and your family throughout the years. Next to the table with this phone was a small, single sofa chair/

A chill went down your spine as tears began to sting your eyes.

This was the phone you found out about Mikey’s death. And that chair was the one you collapsed on before screaming.

The ringing stopped. Then, Mikey’s voice echoed from the other room, calling you. 

Hesitantly, you turned to the direction you heard his voice. 

He called your name again, but this time, he beckoned you over.

“Come here for a second baby!”

You stared at the empty doorway where you watched him leave. From that direction, his voice called your name out again. 

As your foot slowly inched forward, you held your breath. 

“I just need you real quick, come over here!”

Your footsteps were silent as you stepped forward, closer to the sound of his voice and to the doorway that led from your kitchen and dining room to the hall. 

His voice got louder and louder as you slowly rounded the doorway, continuing to call you.

Down the hall and in front of you was the bathroom door, wide open. There stood Mikey, back towards you, standing in the dimly lit hallway and dark bathroom.

Now, he was silent and still. 

With a quiet and shaky voice, you managed to whisper out, “Mikey?”

You heard a click coming from him, coming from his hand. When you looked down, you saw metal.

“I'm sorry babydoll.”

Your body jerked up with a strangled cry. You ripped the blankets from your body and threw yourself out of bed, falling straight to the floor with a loud thud. 

Your knees ached and your palms did too as you hit the floor, but you didn’t care. In that moment, all you could think about was what you saw. All you could think about was the shine of the metal.

As a loud cry escaped your shaking body, your door swung open to reveal your alarmed parents. They called your name, rushing forward to hold you as you sobbed and screamed only for their alarmed questions weren’t heard as you continued to see the glint of the metal, despite it not being there.

[peskellence]

Rule Of Nines

Retribution

Explicit content, Graphic Violence

(18+)

Pairing: Reed900

Tags: AU, Multi-Chapter, Lovers to Enemies, Kidnapping, Crime and Violence, Oral, Anal, Dom/ Sub, Toxic Relationships

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Summary: In a world where loyalty is currency and compromise is weakness, Gavin Reed, a ruthless mobster, lives by his own rules. When an old enemy resurfaces with a deadly demand, his life is thrown into chaos-as his trusted second-in-command, Nines, is put to the ultimate test of allegiance. Will he stay committed to Gavin, or will the loyal guard dog begin to stray? (Human Mob!AU)

Warnings: Major Character Death (before events of the story), Graphic Violence, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Dubious Consent

Tag List: @sweeteatercat @wedonthaveawhile @ladyj-pl @tentoriumcerebelli @negative-citadel @faxaway

If you would like to be added to the tag list for future projects, please let me know♡

The basement door creaked open, rusted hinges groaning under the weight as the rotten wood swung back. Nines slipped through the gap, calmly surveying his surroundings. Motion-activated bulbs flickered, the yellow fluorescents humming incessantly—catching slightly before promptly extinguishing, unable to light.

The room was dark, making it impossible to see what was shrouded within the oppressive walls. It was an area the family rarely frequented, save for general storage, with no one enjoying spending any significant time there. It served no purpose outside that—just a cold, dead space.

Of course, it had adopted a more sinister use in the last 24 hours.

Finally, a charge of electricity succeeded in its pursuit. With another groaning whirr, illumination flooded the mercury tubes. A whine of protest came from below, coming from the bundled mass of flesh curled against the concrete. 

A cord of rope bound Gavin's wrists, with a matched coil wrapping his ankles. A rag was shoved haphazardly into his mouth, muffling the bulk of his voice.

This foresight proved invaluable, as the man had spent the hours preceding his unconsciousness screaming through the walls.

Cries that had been less defined by suffering, more than they were angry—vengeful. He had thrashed around like a caged animal, stumbling against walls and crates as he attempted to evade the repeated blows being struck against his body.

They came relentlessly. Dull thuds of merciless impact, never once stopping or slowing—like the incessant drip of a leaky tap. Nines had not seen much, although it was hard to escape the noise. Instead, he had tucked himself away on the floors above, diverting his focus to more pressing matters.

The urgent call to action demanded by an increasingly dire scenario. Devising a plan of attack—determining movements, coordinating forces, and ensuring nothing would go wrong. 

Because nothing could go wrong. 

If it did, Nines stood to lose everything. 

"Did you sleep well?"

Gavin's response was delayed. He blinked through the sudden onslaught of light, lids flickering in line with the unsteady glow. Having spent so much time in darkness, his bleary eyes took time to adjust. When they finally did, they focused on Nines—glaring from beneath his furrowed brow. Flickers of amber mingled with searing hatred as he attempted to form a snarl around the gag.

Nines moved forward, ripping it from his mouth, despairing at the mass of saliva that had wadded its end into a ball. The captive gasped to fill his lungs, a reflexive response after having his breathing constricted for so long. His nose was broken—damaged cartilage crushed against his face, nostrils crusted with blood.

Once the breathing had stabilised, he rasped out his reply, voice rough and defiant:

"Go fuck yourself."

Nines huffed before casting the rag aside, allowing it to flop onto the red-speckled canvas surrounding them. 

"I suppose you've never been a morning person," he hummed distantly. "I am sorry it had to come to this, but you really did leave me no choice. I intend on bringing my brother home. I won't have you, nor anyone else, stand in the way."

He awaited the riposte, the kind of superfluous resistance that always came when Gavin was challenged. Anticipated the warmth dripping down his cheek as he realised the futility of using his bound limbs and resorted to spitting instead.

But it didn't happen. Instead, he did something worse. Something he knew would damage Nines more than any other form of protest.

He jutted his chin, attempting to flick the mass of hair clumped on his temple, before flopping his body to one side. Shivering, he tucked his knees to his chest and turned away completely—refusing to look at the other man, presenting instead the procession of welts that littered his back. Raised and raw, discoloured by bruising. 

All manner of physical and verbal resistance could be tolerated—was expected—but Nines refused to be ignored. It was an offence that could not be forgiven, demanding swift repercussions.

He was willing to extend a warning first. Clasping Gavin's shoulder with measured firmness before smoothly pulling back. His battered body rolled compliantly, too weak to resist the momentum. 

"I am in charge now," Nines reminded, capturing his chin between his thumb and forefinger before forcing his head upward. "The sooner you prove willing to accept that, the sooner this unpleasant arrangement can become more tolerable."

He flitted his thumb possessively against the canvas of stubble, reducing the pressure of his grip. His captive showed no gratitude for this as his eyes remained fixed on the corner of the room. Boring holes into vacant storage containers, refusing to meet his gaze.

The show of mercy did not last long. Nines' hold tightened again—remaining fingers enclosing his face—digging into spongy flesh which yielded obediently to the force. He demanded Gavin's mind to follow. Appealing to any sense of reason that might permeate his haze of rage.

"Is your pride truly worth suffering like this?" 

Pressing tightly against his jaw, the smaller man winced in pain—but refused to cooperate, much to Nines' growing frustration. 

"You can come with us; I am willing to allow that. To let you assist in the operation. It isn't too late to redeem yourself, to prove that you can do the right thing."

This suggestion finally elicited a response, breaking through the stonewalled stubbornness. Gavin laughed bitterly, barking in the face of his generosity.

"What do you know about doing the 'right thing'?" he accused, casting him a sidelong glower. "If you wanna act all high and mighty? Start preaching fake fucking virtue? Then save it for the choir of traitors waiting around to lick your taint. I'd rather die than listen."

Nines rolled his eyes at the dramatics. The man had always been like this—unapologetically crude and obstinate, even when it created endless problems for him.

It was a surprise that his mouth hadn't landed him in deeper trouble over the years, although it could be rationalised by the fact he'd always had protection. This had undoubtedly given rise to his excessive confidence: a sense of unearned entitlement and superiority.

Something that should have been challenged sooner and a wrong Nines sought to correct. Robbing the man of his safeguards, he aimed to shake the foundations of security with long-overdue repercussions.

He leaned in, pulling Gavin closer until their faces were inches apart. Smothering him with heady puffs, tracing the wounded slits of his lips with his thumb. He drew at the malleable flesh, moving with intrusive touches from which the other man reeled.

But Nines was stronger. He hooked a digit between his lips, pulling them down, forcing his mouth open. He brought his own close, breathing laboriously into the wet cavern. Not to claim it—but to establish he could . A demonstration of how easy it would be, how powerless Gavin would be to stop it.

"I can't understand why you are making this difficult." His words were delivered in a way he knew the man found irresistible. Syllables stretched into long draws. A decadent richness undercut by a not disproportionate amount of menace. "You've never had an issue answering to me in the bedroom. Is this really so different?"

Because if Gavin knew what was good for him, he would concede to temptation. Listen to the undercutting demand, following its instructions.

In contrast, he snarled , growing increasingly defiant. He lunged with what little strength he could muster, attempting to sever the digits pawing him. Snapping at them with sharply bared teeth.

Having exhausted patience with the clumsy flitting between cold snubs and flaring temper, Nines made good on his warning. He drew back his available hand, balling it into a fist before wiping the sneer from his captor's face. 

Knuckles embedded mangled cartilage as shattered bone crunched and squelched. Gavin howled as his head flopped back, dangling limply. Dizzied by impact, he gawked at the ceiling—sights unfocused, slipping loose from any grip on reality. 

His shoulders slumped as his body attempted to slip laxly to the ground. Nines prevented this. Holding firm, refusing to let go.

"Just think for a moment," he seethed, shaking the increasingly limp weight, urging a response. "This entire situation could have been avoided if you had simply listened to reason. Don't make any more rash decisions."

"... S-Screw —" The words were aborted, gargled in rubied pools rapidly filling his mouth. The strike had reopened a split on his lip, consequences of insolence dribbling in rivulets down his chin. 

The droplets glinted like gems in pale casts of light, and Nines felt like a king. 

It was a level of control he had never experienced, a power that couldn't be rivalled. His only regret was the delayed ascension of his throne. He drank in the sight of his former master, swilling liberally from the gratification of his crumpled form. Reasoned factions began to desert him as he became lost to intoxication. 

"Come on, baby ." The term of endearment was hissed like a slur, mingled with venom pooled on his tongue. "This isn't worth us fighting over. You're smart enough to know that, right?"  

Nines' trademark deadpan had adopted a more abrasive quality, exaggerating gruff inflexions to the point of mockery. As the echoes of his own cruel taunts were levied against him, Gavin was knocked from his stupor. 

"I said what I said." His brow scrunched together as he sharply hocked the bubbling liquid from his lips. "I'm not going to change my mind. If you don't like that, stop being a coward and finish the job. Or are you gonna let your gaggle of shitheads do your dirty work?" 

The numbing high of euphoria fizzled in the wake of this rejection. Sensation returned as Nines was struck by a lingering pang of sentiment. Inconvenient and inescapable—something that refused to let him proceed. 

He held all the cards—had claimed all spoils of their twisted game. He could do what he wanted. Snub Gavin out, extinguish his flame, all the while inflicting unspeakable suffering, making him hurt in every measure that he had hurt him. 

Nines was in a prime position to claim his victory. All he had to do was instigate the final move…

"I don't want to kill you." 

"I don't give two shits what you want. You've already taken everything from me. I'm not letting you take my pride." 

He couldn't move, gripped by indecision only Gavin inspired. It made him doubt his initiative, questioning whether or not he could act—knew how to—in the absence of his coercion. 

Despite everything, Nines was still losing, and he hated himself for it.

He let go of the other man's chin, removing the anchor holding him upright. His former lover teetered on the unsteady foundation of his knees before dropping back, collapsing against the gnarled concrete. 

"I am going to get Connor." The icy detachment in his voice resumed as he briskly stood. Refusing to betray any lingering disappointment or the bitter sting of his longing. "I'll decide what to do with you when I return. Whatever the outcome, make preparations." 

"Not like I can do much else." Gavin traced the perimeter of his makeshift cell with a pointed flourish of his head. His mouth contorted, forming into a twisted parody of a grin, as he flashed Nines a set of tobacco-stained teeth. 

It was astonishing how apparent his flaws seemed. With rose-tinted glasses removed, leaving only the overhead glow to cast a stark, unforgiving light on what he really was. 

"Take your time, sweet pea. Don't rush back." 

"I also meant what I said," Nines gravely reminded, plagued by a twisting ache in his gut. It pulled and wrenched, threatening to eviscerate his precariously held resolve. "I don't want to kill you, Gavin—but if it is a life for a life, I will not hesitate." 

Ascending the narrow staircase back to the hideout, Floyd was waiting to greet him. His pudgy lips parted curiously, attention darting down the passage towards the sealed door of the basement. Nines offered little answer to his silent query, save a curt shake of his head and equally brusque demand: 

"Bring him water in three hours, and make sure he doesn't get out." He stepped around the gawking man, straightening the lapel of his jacket. "Outside of that, do whatever you feel required to keep him in line."

Floyd stuttered a fumbled agreement that Nines did not fully hear. He doubted the simple man grasped the full weight of his permissions, but hoped the crux of the message was understood.

Turning the corner, he rounded his way towards the meeting room. A congregation of men stood huddled around the card table, conversing in tense mumbles as they pocketed supplies. Nines watched from the sidelines, observing the scene through an observation slot. This was until he kicked the door, firmly nudging it open. 

Vincenzo was first to look up, clicking a silencer atop his pistol before nodding respectfully to his superior. A message had been sent to DeLuca advising the deal was accepted. The rival gang would know they were coming and, despite the compliance, would undoubtedly be readying their defences. Ensuring they were prepared for tricks, planning required contingencies—

They had no awareness of the almighty storm about to rip through them, casting ruin to every one of their poorly conceived strategies. 

Nines gathered his own resources. Goggles and respirator slipped into the back of his tailored suit pants, the resultant bulk concealed by the tail of his overcoat. His pistol was already waiting, tucked dormant in the silky lining of his inner pocket. 

Checking the time on his watch, he adjusted the concealed mechanism attached to its case. Ensuring it was securely in place—and accessible when its moment came. 

A large duffle bag awaited him, propped against the nearby wall. The men closest, Rooney and Meyer, compliantly passed it over—reassuring their leader the contents had been checked. 

Nines pulled back the drawn fastening to peer inside, studying the neatly stacked bills before raising an inquisitive brow at Meyer. "And the rest?" 

"Y-Yeah, just like you said—" the lanky man responded, bobbing his head in overzealous insistence. "Promise, boss. Everything's ready." 

Satisfied with the fretful testimony, Nines resealed the bag. Slinging its ample mass onto his shoulder, he commanded the charge out of the hideout, his men following suit. 

The journey was spent in silence, as he knew that no further instructions were demanded. Everyone understood their roles, aware of what had to be done. 

The underground bunker DeLuca had led them to was a compact, windowless space—enclosed by walls of crumbling cinderblock. It had once served as a storage area for a now-defunct company, though the specifics hardly mattered. Basic blueprints of the facility had been recoverable, but without insider intelligence on the 'Snakebite Syndicate', it was impossible to know how accurate they remained. 

That said, initial scouting of the compound suggested no significant structural changes. This was fortunate. 

Less fortunate was the partition that had been installed through the centre of the room, dividing it. The barricade was fortified with bulletproof panes, with access permitted through a revolving doorway, the controls undoubtedly on the other side of the wall. A drop slot, similar to a mail chute, was also present, awaiting their deposit.

Evidently, Salvatore was making a business of this style of ransomed exchange, the area forming a hotbed for similar dealings. 

The mobster in question was sitting in wait, flanked by two of his more imposing goons, a chair positioned across from his station. The foundation of the room appeared to slope, with the Syndicate's leader positioned towards the peak of its incline.

Nines noted the deliberateness of this choice as he sat in his allotted seat. A smaller opponent would have been forced to crane to see through the opened window shutter. Fortunately for the towering figure, this wasn't a concern.

"I must say, Nolan, I was a little surprised when I found out it was you I’d be meetin’ with..." There was an anticipative twinkle in the older man’s eyes, matched by an assured smirk. "What happened to the old ball and chain? Feelin’ under the weather?" 

"The family has undergone a restructure," he curtly responded, studying the man scrupulously before slowly arching forward, face inches from the glass. "You will be answering to me now."

His adversary appeared somewhat rattled by the confidence. He edged back in his seat, beady eyes blowing to the largest fraction physically possible…

Until crinkled folds formed in their corners, and his lips twitched with the re-emergence of his grin. It was far more pronounced this time, stretching to each of his prominent ears as he jostled the men on either side, nudging their forearms until they broke into obedient chuckles.

An inferred celebration of their superior's planning, as his scheme had come to fruition. 

Precisely as he'd wanted. 

The successful dismantling of Gavin's leadership, with Nines and Connor acting as pawns. Unwitting means to an end, their suffering collateral in achieving his goals. 

Chuckles built to laughter, fanning in waves across the Syndicate, as Nines imagined propelling a fist through their transparent barricade. 

Enclosing DeLuca's throat in his hands, he'd trapped the hideous laugh as he systematically crushed his larynx. Cutting airflow, allowing pressure to build until it sought escape through the swell of his eyes. Vessels would balloon and rupture as the man's ruddy skin turned blue, and he was decisively robbed of his ability to make the sound again—

The fantasy ended with a steadying breath as Nines grounded himself. The morbid images slipped away, allowing for a renewed focus on the task at hand. 

"I want to see my brother," he requested evenly, masking all traces of malicious intent. "If you can prove he is alive, I'll give you the money. Fail to do so, and the deal is off."

He hefted the duffle bag, brandishing it towards the glass for added incentive. DeLuca's eyes gleamed with avarice, captivated by the bulging seams. He was practically drooling as he motioned to a pair of his thugs, who vanished beyond the glass.

When they returned, they did so with the audience their 'guest' had requested. 

Connor was presented like a hunting trophy, his weakened body propped limply by his armpits, anchored between their grips. Were it not for low, wheezed breaths rattling through his swollen lips, Nines would've assumed they were too late. 

The mutilated figure scarcely resembled his brother. Every inch of flesh was covered in bruises, patterned by deep-set gashes dragged and scored in all directions. One of his eyes was pummeled so rigorously it had swollen shut, while the other was hidden beneath a serrated mass of pink. 

There were also blisters—clustered in patches that bubbled and wept—like he'd been drenched with scalding water.

As though the depths of brutality weren't enough, they'd had to escalate their torture, inflicting pain so excruciating that Connor undoubtedly pleaded for death. 

He could not answer when Nines called, but it wouldn't have mattered. The mobster couldn't hear anything past the roaring rush of blood in his ears.

Rage boiled. Hissing like steam through every available pore, gurgling beneath his skin as it demanded release. He would not let this atrocity go unpunished—yielding an inch to the creatures who had done this to Connor.

They would receive no reward, with the family under strict guidance to give them exactly what they deserved. The only exception was DeLuca, who would be forced to wait until last so that Nines could deliver fitting retribution. 

Resisting the impulse to abandon all sense—to charge headfirst into action and snatch his brother from their revolting clutches—he resumed the act of compliance. The ploy developed gradually as he noted the number and positioning of the captors. Determining vulnerabilities and establishing escape routes before identifying a primary candidate: 

The fire exit stationed at the crest of the slope.

True to his word, Nines made the deposit. The duffle bag rattled down the chute, echoing through its narrow confines. He then released the handle of the drop box, a spring lock pulley snapping it back. On the other side, Salvatore’s men yanked the opposing lever, eagerly retrieving their spoils. 

"I’m glad you could see reason," DeLuca lauded, exuding satisfaction as his men fumbled to raise the bag onto a nearby countertop. "I’ve always liked ya. Connor, too. You’re good kids. That’s hard to come by in this line of work. Ya know what I mean?"

Nines bit down on his tongue, threatening to rupture the muscle, as he forced a cordial nod.

"Really, this ain’t nothin’ personal, it's just—" 

His feigned sympathy was interrupted as his lackeys ripped through the bag’s fastenings. The severed drawstring fell to the ground as one of them exclaimed in cackled delight:

"Holy fucking shit! Look at all this!" 

Salavotre’s head snapped around, beaming in tandem as he keenly leant toward the counter. The goons had recovered the first stacks of notes, brandishing them like fans. The rest of the layer was excavated, piles carded through with practised thumbs, as they were checked for the number of bills.

As this practice was underway, Nines also began to count. Smoothly and methodically in his head: 

Four. 

"I understand," came a measured lie as he clasped his hands in his lap, fingers wound tight. "Although I wish circumstances could have been different. With communication, we might have come to a fairer arrangement."

"Ahh, don’t be like that," Salvatore dismissed, waving his stout fingers. "Reed was gonna be a serious problem in expanding my turf. I know he was still sore about what I did to his Pa."

Nines was doing a masterful job of appearing focused on DeLuca while his attention had shifted elsewhere. His sharp eyes stared through him, trained on the men rifling through the duffle bag.

"I would’ve gone for him directly, but ya know how it is..." The older man looked Nines up and down, extending his reach to trace his full stature. A not-insubstantial degree of jealousy was evident in the despondent curl of his lips. "He had protection."

"Had eliminating Gavin been your goal, there would have been other ways to do it." Nines made a concerted effort not to let any anger bleed through the cracks of his stony visage. "It is a shame that you didn’t consider appealing to me directly. I am my own man, with my own autonomy. I believe you will find I am quite reasonable."

Three.

"Yeah, but it’s…different with you two…what with…" Salvatore rolled his wrist, floundering to find the desired words before abandoning at tact. Snorting uncouthly, his shoulders stooped in a dismissive shrug. "Look. Let’s not play dumb here. We all know you were close." 

"Yeah, real close."

A rogue snicker emanated from the makeshift workbench. The men assigned to count the money had unceremoniously abandoned their task, opting instead to jostle each other with a series of juvenile shoves. The larger of the two, whom Nines identified as the instigator, began flipping his wrist limply, speaking in a breezy, lisping cadence. Obscene displays soon escalated as the second man bent over the table, his cohort positioned behind him. Together, they mimed unsavoury acts, scored by wanton moans and exaggerated pants. The dominant party repeatedly swatted the air above the other’s backside, adding to the vulgar pantomime.

Salvatore made a show of frowning, although it was clear he was amused by the antics. He then motioned towards the table, demanding they resume their previous task.

 "Point being: I knew I had to do something extreme to shake up the waters. You don’t get what you want in this world by keepin’ on as a little fish."

"I wholly agree," Nines drawled, citing a muddled analogy DeLuca favoured during his time with the family. Something he’d frequently spout to Connor during his coaching on finances:

"If you choose to swim with the sharks, you mustn't allow yourself to bleed. Unless you wish to be eaten."

Following his cue, the more overt 'muscle' present in his carefully curated company began to position themselves, ready for an impending charge. Nines continued his efforts to retain DeLuca’s focus, feigning interest in his mundane response, all the while pondering the most gratifying ways to shatter his skull.

"Hey, you got it," the smarmy man winked, clicking his tongue as he did so. "Props for bein’ a strong swimmer, Nole. Better luck next time." 

Two. 

Unfortunately, Nines would need to step up his efforts, as progress risked being fatally hindered. Salvatore was seeking to wrap things up, signalling to the men holding Connor, ushering them into action with a firm head tilt. They began to advance towards the rotating doorway as their boss to close the metal window shutter. A brusque conclusion to their exchange, having gotten what he wanted. 

Nines glanced at Vincenzo, who had been examining the catch on the entrance. Namely, it's flimsy aluminium plating, scarcely secured by loose bolts. He gave his superior a nod, ensuring there would be no issues in claiming access to the room—when the timing was right. 

As it stood, they couldn’t allow DeLuca’s men to breach the seal of the door. Not in the absence of a crucial moment yet to pass. 

"I can assure you my blood is in no danger of being spilt," Nines began cryptically, seeking to recapture the man’s attention, "but I fear yours is already in the water."

This effectively stalled Salvatore's movements. His grip hung suspended on the handle before gradually loosening. "...Whatchu talkin’ about, kid?" 

"I am simply suggesting that with how you currently operate, you are likely to make some enemies." He paused momentarily, watching as he gauged the man's reaction. "Given your reputation for defection and backstabbing, I doubt you’ll find many associates willing to lend you protection, ‘Snakebite.’" 

DeLuca was less than appreciative of the advice. His face flushed red, veins pulsing from the crinkled folds of his brow, as his lips pulled into a tense line. 

"I don’t know what you’re implyin’, faggot ," Any show of decorum was gone as he spat the hateful rhetoric in response to the slight. Proving his namesake and exposing precisely the calibre of deceptive bastard he was, " but I don't need any protection. I get what I want when I want it—" 

To illustrate his point, he levied a pudgy finger at the room behind him, gesticulating wildly to the men counting his money. They were making good progress, moving onto another layer, closer to their penultimate find…

Not that they were aware of this. They would be staying much longer for all they knew, sorting through piles of ill-earned riches. Nines’ own dormant fingers migrated from their neatly held clasp as one of them arched towards his wrist. 

One. 

Satisfied with the silence, Salvatore reclined in his chair with a grunt. Running a sleeve across his temple, he dabbed at the dense sheen of sweat beginning to form. "Now, don't run this for yourself by gettin’ all sour. I already told ya, ‘better luck next time.’"

Beads of perspiration trickled down, in line with the steady tick of seconds beneath the glass of Nines' watch. His finger deftly traced the mechanism, ready to unleash its cataclysmic reckoning. 

"I don't think we'll need to worry about next time." 

Now.

As DeLuca's men reached the layers containing decoy notes—and before any suspicion could be drawn—Nines detonated the trigger. The concealed devices in the bag promptly ignited, releasing billows of smoke that rapidly filled the enclosed space. Chaos erupted, with members of the Syndicate stumbling blindly, clutching their throats as they wheezed in panic.

The infiltration began.

Protective equipment was removed from pockets—strapped securely across eyes and mouths. Vincenzo stepped back, guiding his cohorts to do the same, as he retrieved a handgun from his pocket, aiming it towards the doorway. With a targeted shot at the catch, the flimsy metal promptly crumpled, splintering into shrapnel. DeLuca and his men were left exposed as the first of the assailants advanced.

The thugs holding Connor were dealt with first. A decisive shot between their eyes, a bullet embedded in each temple, to which they folded like marionettes onto the ground. Rooney and Meyer moved in fast, catching their captive and holding him upright.

Any further shots were held as they carried him towards the fire exit, hurriedly breaching the seal. They slipped from view, the breeze outside slicing through the blackened clouds, moving Connor to safety.

The door was slammed shut, and in the knowledge no further harm would fall upon him, Nines showed no hesitation. Save for covering exits, coordination and planning became less of a concern. He raised an arm before flinging it forward, a clear signal to proceed.

What ensued was a massacre. The spearing of fish in a concrete tank as they desperately floundered for escape. Puerile tendencies notwithstanding, DeLuca's men were far from amateurs—but they put up little resistance. 

The confusion was too great, and the ambush too precise. One by one, they fell. 

A man by the door clutched his throat as a bullet pierced through it, eyes wide in disbelief. He gurgled like a brook, mouth spilling blood, as he futilely fought for air. Another man darted away as he fell at his feet. Searching blindly for escape, but turning too late. A silenced shot cut through the mist, catching him in the chest.

The smoke had dispersed slightly due to the previously opened exit, but it hadn’t provided enough reprieve for the men to establish bearings. Most were eliminated before they could comprehend what was happening. 

Nines had no consideration for them, retaining focus on his primary target. Barging through the dwindling crowds, callously thrusting aside survivors as they scrambled for cover, he headed straight for DeLuca. 

The cover continued to thin, parting in a slow reveal of the immense carnage surrounding them. Bodies lay strewn across the room, lifeless eyes gawking at the crimson streaks which fanned in all directions—traces of life lending vibrancy to a once barren palette of grey. 

Salvatore shuddered, mouth agape, as trembling hands fumbled with a gun half-retrieved from his pocket. Nines quickly impeded his efforts with a fierce hook to the jaw and a targeted kick to the abdomen. 

The man was propelled into a nearby wall, weapon flinging from his jacket and skidding across the tiles. He wheezed, stunned by the impact, as his hands fell to his sides, fingers twitching involuntarily. Nines surveyed the sea of death, discerning no lingering forces remained to aid him.

He then signalled for Vincenzo to open the exit, permitting the remaining smoke to clear from the space. With the field of vision returning, he ripped off his mask, tossing it to one side before continuing his advance.

The older man snapped from his daze as fear sparked in his eyes. Nines loomed closer, becoming lost in his violent desire to extinguish the light—quashing it with his own hands, watching it fade permanently. 

In grim comprehension of what was approaching, Salvatore made a desperate attempt to slither free of his fate. He clambered through the bloodied embers of his empire, crawling on hands and knees, whimpering like an infant. Babbling through the pitiful sounds, he implored Nines to search his conscience, to show him mercy —

He would show every measure of mercy they had shown his brother.

Nines didn't think, couldn't think, as he grabbed DeLuca by the collar and forced him to turn around. Searching the man's horrified gaze, he smoothly adjusted his pistol—grasping it by the barrel, rotating it so the grip was angled towards his cheek.

" Holy shit, please—God— don't —"

He struck it across his face. Repeating the motion again and again, until skin and muscle tore like paper, and rivers of red flowed freely through cool, pitted steel.

DeLuca's face soon lost structure—reduced to a shapeless, pulpy mass. The attached body twitched and spasmed as gurgles rumbled from what remained of his lips. Torn ribbons of flesh that flapped weakly, futilely, until their movement finally ceased. 

Then, there was nothing. Just a silent, broken ragdoll collapsing laxly against the tiles. 

With the task finished Nines strode from the primary scene, scouting the adjoining rooms until he found an old utility closet fitted with a basin. He washed the blood from his hands, staining porcelain with the filth of the savagery he had just committed.

He then traversed back through the chaos, leaving the hideout through the fire door and stepping out into the sunlight. Breathing deep, he filled his lungs with crisp fall air. Far less oppressive than the acrid stench of copper and gunpowder.

The mollifying ritual was halted by the rumbling of a burner phone concealed in his jacket. Nines reached inside, retrieving the device before surveying its contents.

Rooney and Meyer had done as instructed in securing Connor's help. The correspondence had come from Dr Victor Dagny, the principal of a prestigious local medical centre and established confidant to the family:

┌─────────────────────────────┐

                                    

Junius Ward  

       

Room Number 317     

Let me know when you're done.     

- V.

             

└─────────────────────────────┘

┌─────────────────────────────┐

                                    

I am done.  

       

Ready for transfer. 

- N. 

   

└─────────────────────────────┘

The trip to the hospital was gruelling despite the short duration. His mind ran wild with possibilities, ruminating on all manner of news that could be awaiting him on his arrival. 

With every rotation of wheels against tarmac, the raging pulse of adrenaline tapered, and the lingering smog of fury dispersed. In this renewed clarity, he was forced to contend with an increasingly bleak outcome. One where his triumph meant nothing, as he was made to endure the loss of his most valuable treasure—

But he couldn’t succumb to despair, the situation demanding greater mental fortitude. As the journey wore on, his mind rebuilt its strongholds. Anxiety turned to disillusionment as Nines blocked his grim introspections. Upon arrival, he mustered the strength to power out of the transfer vehicle, pushing aside the heavy doors of the clinic’s entrance.

Dagny was waiting for him, rolling on his heels, lips pulled into a crestfallen scowl—prepared to recite a briefing on Connor’s condition. Nines neglected to listen, veering towards the Junius Ward, reasoning he could discern the severity of the situation when he saw his brother. 

He doubted anything could be said that hadn't already been ascertained from the profound desecration they'd discovered him in. Were the prognosis even worse than that, Nines did not want to hear it. Not now. 

He just wanted to be with him. To be close, even if his sibling could not comprehend his presence.

Despite all internal persuasion that he was ready—with cognitive strongholds sufficient to shield him from psychological blows—Nines was woefully mistaken. 

Upon entering Room 317, all assurance shattered the moment he saw him. 

Connor, the incarnation of strength and vibrancy, wrapped like a corpse in a polyester shroud.

His body was drowned in sterile vacancy, not just from the starched linen but from the oppressive shine of the lights above. A stark illumination that only served to highlight the full extent of his injuries.

Almost every inch of his body was bandaged—binding skin that had been irreparably damaged and preserving what little there was to save. One hand was encased in thick gauze, the folds stopping disquietingly close to his wrist, while the other hand was exposed enough to reveal an embedded cannula.

He was hooked to a complex matrix of tubes and wires, aligned with monitoring devices which buzzed and droned incessantly—a stark testament to the intricate balances keeping him alive. 

From what little Nines registered from Dagny, his brother was in a state of deep chemical sedation—aimed at promoting his physical recovery but also to mitigate the depths of suffering he would otherwise endure. 

Despite this, the awful, rattling resonance of his breathing persisted. Audible over the monotonous beeps of a nearby heart monitor. Nines could not elude the suspicion that Connor was still in pain, suffering desperately despite all extensive medical intervention.

Assessing his presence wasn't welcome, Dagny left the siblings alone, permitting them some much-needed privacy. Nines sat in the chair beside Connor, feeling decidedly numb against the rigid groove of moulded plastic. 

For a moment, he didn’t move or speak. He seldom breathed, as the oxygen in his lungs was held under strict deadlock. Just stared absently across the bed, paralysed by indecision. 

Then, slowly, his weight shifted, the teetering legs of his seat groaning. His fingers slipped across the sheets, moving to clasp his brother’s hand. This was until hesitation re-emerged, and he doubted whether or not he should. Not wishing to hurt him more. 

"...Connor? Can you hear me?"

Even if he could, he wouldn’t be able to answer. Nines had known that—and was uncertain why he asked—perhaps borne from sheer desperation to hear his voice. To fill the vacancy in the room with something .

It was an absence that ached far more than words could convey. The distance between them felt immense despite their current proximity. It soon became unbearable, compelling him to push past his fear and decisively bridge the gap. 

Connor didn’t flinch when their hands met. There were no involuntary spasms, not even as he tentatively brushed a thumb across one of his numerous burns. 

Maybe he couldn’t feel anything. Truly detached from the Hell he had been mercilessly dragged through…

It was a comforting thought, far more so than the alternative. 

"I wanted to come and get you sooner. As soon as I knew where you were, I just—I couldn't go against him. I was too scared to find out what would—"

He stalled, too disgraced by the shallowness of his excuse to continue—the contemptuous words lodged in his throat, inspiring sickness. 

To have permitted such selfish desires—lust and voracity—to take precedence over the things that were most important. 

Shrouding his principles, allowing damage to escalate irreparably before finally choosing to act.

"I was weak, and you suffered for that." The confession came with a shuddering breath, clawing past the flimsy sentiment he had abandoned. "I'm sorry, Connor. I promise I'll never be that weak again."

Nines could only hope his slumber was proving restful. Shielding him from the egregious injustice the world had inflicted. Perhaps it was immersing him in simpler times—happier ones.

"...Do you remember when we were small…" The words came idly, without any real intent or direction, "and Dad used to take us on fishing trips? I’m not convinced he even liked fishing. I think he just enjoyed the quiet. Being so far away from everything."

Their father had always valued the comforts of solitude. The pleasantness of a peaceful silence unburdened by pressure or pain. Just being . Nothing else.

Nines laughed, though it hurt to do so, the sound more akin to a terse gasp. He straightened his back correctively, forcing himself to smile. An exhibition of positivity where he tried to appear genuine, as though Connor might sense if he wasn't.

"I suppose it was never that idealistic. We never let it be so calm—

Do you remember when Cole tried to convince us there were monsters at the bottom of the lake? And that if we stuck out our rods too far, they would come up and grab us?" 

 

This was until everything happened. 

After that, all Dad knew was pain, and it couldn’t be escaped. No amount of cathartic fishing trips—idle time spent with his children—would ever change that. 

Nines had been too young to understand—but looking back, it was as though he didn’t want to. Their father didn't fight his anguish but submerged himself in it. Plunging deep, allowing it to consume every part of him. 

 

"Then he…" Another forced laugh as Nines pressed through derealisation to finish his story. "He pushed you in. Dad was livid because you could barely swim, and he had to jump in with his wallet and phone to scoop you out…"

 

The descent had started with their mother. Disappearing without a trace, nothing to suggest where she might’ve gone. Dad threw himself into his work at the DPD, investing everything and making endless sacrifices to discern what had happened. To find her.

 

"...But he didn’t mind. Not really. All he cared about was that you were safe…" 

 

He never did.

Connor and Nolan had been okay. They were young when she vanished—young enough to recover, to ‘forget’—as people always assured. Nolan could scarcely recall her at all. Not even a face, save from glimpses in snapshots stashed in the shoe box beneath his father’s bed.   

Cole had been different. 

He was older—couldn’t forget, couldn’t move on. 

Dad was submerged so deep in the waters that he didn’t notice his eldest son being pulled under. Consumed by grief, exacerbated by the perceived rejection of his remaining guardian. Dragged deeper and deeper until he was lost to a current of choppy waters. 

 

"He just wanted to know you were safe." 

 

It started with Mom, but it ended with Cole. 

The night he stole Dad’s car, driving it at 100 down Interstate 96—until he lost control and clipped a telegraph pole. He was sent hurling through the window, whirring through the inky black towards the sky. Air rushed past him, brisk and freeing, although Nines doubted he’d had time to register this. 

Then he hit the ground, and it was over. All of his pain was gone, ensuring he never felt lonely again. 

 

"I thought we could go back there one day. I know it wouldn’t be the same, but it could still be nice. There was so much history on that lake, so many memories..."  

 

Something changed in their father. All the resolve, all the drive, was gone. Spidering like a cracked windowpane until the pieces broke apart, scattering across the floor with the splintered fragments of their family. 

 

"I was going to surprise you for your birthday. I wanted to see if I could rent a boat for us. Just you and me, together."

It wasn’t long until sorrow and desperation led him into darker pursuits. 

The drink and drugs did not kill Hank Anderson, but rather the bullet to his head. Not delivered by his own hand but the hand of an aggrieved supplier.

Richard James Reed, who had come to collect his debt. 

He imagined his father was glad, accepting this fate as a mercy. No doubt he would have done it himself had he possessed the strength to pull the trigger—

"You might act like tough shit, Nolan, but deep down, you're fucking weak. Guess you can't help that; it runs in your blood."  

"The lake is gone. They filled it in. Groundwork for a new apartment complex."

Reed had a child the same age as Connor. He must have seen some of his son in the petrified glint of tear-filled eyes. It had inspired some level of remorse in him. 

Pity. 

The decision was made to take them in, tying loose ends through less bloody means. The man probably thought he was doing a kindness, allowing them to live.

"They can never just let things be, can they?" Nines inhaled sharply, and the breath stalled. Obstructed by unsaid words, trembling against the walls of muscle, desperate to fill his aching chest. 

 

The younger version of himself would have never imagined—searching in curiosity online to discover what actually happened to his eldest brother—that Cole had been the lucky one. 

He never had to keep living, to discover the depths of depravity he might have sunk to, discovering what the darkness might’ve made of him…

To risk becoming one of the monsters that lived at the bottom of the lake. 

"After everything Dad did for you. After everything I did for you."

One of which was staring back at him, cast in the reflection of the nearby monitor.

 

Sorrow clouded his vision as Nolan Anderson broke apart. He burrowed himself into Connor's sheets, curling against his chest before he allowed the tears to fall. He released all the burdened pain that had been vying so hard for release—mourning for the children they had been and the adults they might have become had fate dealt a fairer hand.

Don’t go, Connor.

Please.

 

I need you.

He sobbed, howled , not caring who heard—not caring how weak it might be—allowing what lingering tethers remained of Nolan to slip from his clutches until there was nothing left but Nines. 

You’re all I have left.

He stayed in the hospital for some time, neglecting himself almost entirely—seldom eating, drinking or attempting to sleep. All in the pursuit of being there for Connor, even in the knowledge he often couldn't be.

His brother required surgeries, ones that frequently left Nines relegated to the waiting room. Watching as the seconds ticked by on a nearby wall clock. An exercise in mind-numbing repetition.

The longer time persisted, the more he was forced to confront the updates delivered by doctors. Each was a devastating, striking blow—knocking him back and fueling what evolved from crushing guilt into the re-emergence of silent fury.

There was no telling how long it would take for Connor to recover. If he ever did.

His face was destroyed—and with it, the boyish charm that had defined him. His off-kilter smile, delicate freckles, the guise that had instilled so much pride and assisted him in being so skilled at what he did. Carved and mutilated beyond repair.

Physiotherapy would help him adapt to the nerve damage in his right hand and adjust to the absence of fingers that had been lost to necrosis.

Then there was his eye, the one that was gone. He would need to learn how to cope with the loss of depth perception, the permanent knock to his coordination and balance—

All of this because Gavin Reed refused to comply with DeLuca's demands. To act in any small measure of favour for anyone other than himself.

Returning to the hideout was a reluctant journey but one he needed to make. Inaction and passivity were what had brought them to this point. 

 

It was time to make a decision. To resolve matters once and for all.

 

In the time he had spent in that bleak waiting room, surrounded by grief and boundless suffering, a moment of enlightenment struck.

Blaming himself was difficult. Excruciating. It was easier to place blame elsewhere. To channel his sorrow into hatred.

Nines swung the door of the basement open, allowing the bulbs to charge to life before casting his focus on the loathsome creature huddled against the ground.

As per their instruction, the men had worked to keep him breathing—but this was the extent of their generosity. 

Gavin was severely dehydrated, evident in his fissured lips and crumbling skin. His bruised, sallow face was drawn tight across his skull. Sunken and gaunt, a far departure from the healthy plumpness that once defined it. 

His former lover was filthy, caked in blood, as well as all manner of filth he didn't care to think about. Green eyes were ashen and lifeless, dulled to the point of near-translucency. They stared at nothing, unable to focus, as Nines was left scarcely convinced they were able to see at all.

He kicked him against the cavernous rut of his belly as a pained bark rattled from the jutting cage of his ribs. 

"Get up."

Gavin refused. While weak, there was a definite aspect of willful non-compliance, as there was a stir of recognition in response to his voice. A flicker of awareness across his blighted gaze, understanding who it was inflicting his current beating.

Nines kicked him again. Harder, to which another sharp cough escaped his lips—a sickly cocktail of fluids sputtering out. 

"Connor is alive," he informed, watching in sadistic delight as the man wheezed and writhed, desperately grasping for air. "Barely."

Through rasping breaths, Gavin grumbled a response, unwisely defiant, growing more resonant the longer he persisted. "—Don't—give— a — shit —"

He was pulled by the front of the binds and forced to his feet. His legs teetered ineffectually, unable to support his dwindled weight.

"We could have gotten there before If it hadn't been for you. This is all your fault."

"Whatcha gonna do to me, Nines? Huh?" He grinned spitefully, revealing the dense layer of grime accumulated on already unsightly teeth. "What's the end game here? You gonna leave me to die, 'cus you're too much of a pussy to finish the job yourself?"

Nines set him down a moment, allowing Gavin to collapse to his knees. Pausing, he assessed the situation, confirming in himself his next actions before he reached into his inner pocket. Pushing past his firearm, he searched for another instrument. Something more intimate.

He pulled out a knife, brandishing it towards the light, allowing it to glint against its polished surface. Gavin's bravado deflated slightly, fear passing his sneered expression as his muscles subtly slackened. Then, he scoffed, attempting to conceal a shudder. 

But he could not conceal the trembling, shaking his entire form. 

Despite this, the facade of confidence resumed—and with a defiant jut, he pushed his chin outward. Presenting his neck and goading Nines to commit the final, decisive act.

"Do it, then. Fucking prove to me that you can." 

 

Nines refused to comply. No longer willing to accept Gavin's orders or desiring his empty approval.

 

"As I said before, you aren't worth the effort it would take to end your miserable life." 

He leant down, angling the knife forward. After positioning it between his wrists, he pulled up, slicing through the rope. 

"Death would be easy for you. A mercy. I want you to suffer for what you’ve done, to live with the memories of what you experienced here—and to face all the punishment the world still has waiting."

Grabbing the newly unrestrained man, he thrust him forcefully against the door. The movement pushed it open, leaving him sprawled at the foot of the stone passage, bathed in the filtered light from the stairwell.

"You will untie the rest of your binds, and you will leave. I don't care where you go or what you do, just don't come back."

[prismaticfaery]

Platonic!TF141 x Fem!Reader

***Just to be clear, an anon requested this same scenario with another writer and we are both aware! Please understand that if you request the same thing with different people, this can cause issues (people may claim plagiarism, etc).***

Summary: You’re Makarov’s daughter, your team doesn’t know, but Ghost is onto it.

TW: Mentions of mental and verbal abuse, pushing, and yelling, but nothing graphic.

Rating: Mature, just to be safe!

A/N: I absolutely appreciate that you love my writing! It makes me so happy! Also, if anyone has anymore requests, check out the pinned post on my blog!

Months. Months, it had taken you to track down the whereabouts of Vladimir Makarov. He had gone from one hiding place to another quickly, leaving no trail of his next location known, until you had narrowed down on it with one piece of intel you would have never thought of before: the place you were born. He was at the old apartment he and your mother had made a home. Vladimir Makarov was the father you knew of but never had the “pleasure” of knowing. Your mother had escaped Russia in hopes of keeping you safe, but he knew where you were. Always.

Your mother and father met and had you within a year of being together, and though your mother tried her best to keep her family together, your father’s views we’re no longer matching her own anymore. He had violent tendencies and many outbursts, going on long rants about restoring Russia to its previous “glory”, your mother never stuck around for them to turn into something more than yelling, pushing, verbal, and mental attacks. She needed to protect you— just a tiny infant at the time. He hardly held you or helped your mother care for you, your mother saying that it was better being an actual single mother than being a single mother in a relationship. Now here you were two and some change decades later, CIA, and in Task Force 141 trying to bring your father down. Your mother vehemently advised against doing anything that would put you in your father’s warpath but it made you want to do it even more.

“We’ve got Makarov in custody, prepare a room. I have questions,” your earpiece crackles with Price’s voice.

“Roger,” you reply, pressing the button to your comms device attached to your shirt.

Holding a large breath of air in your chest, you could feel the anxiousness bubble over. Letting it out in a large sigh, your now shaking hands folded your laptop back up. To say that fear was not the number one emotion overwhelming your mind and body would be a lie. You were fucking terrified knowing that you were now coming face-to-face with the man who helped in giving you life. Your mother tried her hardest to keep him away, and although you were aware of him, and he of you, you did your best to always make yourself a small blip on his radar.

The safehouse was on the outskirts of Moscow, so you knew that Price’s arrival would be quick. You were quick to hide any personal belongings you had brought with you on your deployment as to not bring any attention to yourself in case something went awry. You begin to make your way to the room that was not occupied in the house, dragging the table and chair from the kitchen and setting them up in the middle of the room. The room had windows, so you quickly opened them up and slammed the shutters. Once the windows were shut, you locked them and gave them a once over, making sure the locking mechanisms were secure.

“We’re entering the safehouse,” you hear through your comms.

You quickly gather yourself, shaking out your hands and clenching your fists. The door slams open and your father is the first person your eyes are set on. The blue and green eyes of Makarov are slitted, the dark eyebrows knitted together in anger and frustration as his wrists are bound behind his back with thick zip ties. Ghost and Price were on either side of him, their hands wrapped around his biceps and triceps, guiding him through the house to where your position was at the door of the makeshift interrogation room.

Gaz and Soap followed suit, making sure that you went into the room before they closed and secured the door, the two of them standing on the sides of the doorframe. Slamming Makarov down into the singular chair on one side of the table, Price and Ghost then made their way to the other seats across from him.

“Now tell me, hm, what were those crates holding? You can answer truthfully or lie, either way, we’re going to find out,” Price’s gravelly voice was quiet– venomous.

“You see, I had a nice place that those crates were going to, and now they won't make it to their destination,” Makarov jested, his head tilting to the side, a sadistic smirk playing at one corner of his mouth.

“Cut the bullshit,” Price’s voice cracks as his voice raises, his hand slamming onto the table’s surface.

“Why do you have American ballistics?” Soap interjects, moving closer, “who gave them to you?”

You watched as Price’s patience wore thin as he adjusted himself in his seat, his elbows planted on the table, fingers intertwining, “you thought that ballistics being delivered to every large city in Europe would be a good idea– like we wouldn’t be right on your fucking heels finding them? Now we found another set of crates with multiple destinations, where are they going and what’s in them?”

The room fell silent as you made your way to the table, sitting down in the empty chair right in the middle of Price and Ghost, “you seem to think that this is a laughing matter, I wouldn’t be smiling if I were you,” you’re pissed now, anger heating up your cheeks, causing them to turn a shade of pink.

“The wonders of encryption– good luck accessing any of the files on where these crates are being shipped,” Makarov’s eyes meet yours, and you immediately look away, fearing that he’s had far too long of a look at you.

“I can figure it out in minutes,” you cross your arms.

Makarov made an audible noise in the back of his throat. He knew exactly who you were and all he needed to see were your eyes. You had inherited the same heterochromia iridum trait that he had, and there was no doubt that he had just seen the same green and blue eye as he did. He had connections and knew you had grown up well, even became CIA to stop all of the bad people who worked in the shadows, and that included him.

Throwing one ankle over your leg, you rest it on your knee, sitting back in your chair, and it just so happened that Makarov had done the same exact thing at that same exact moment. Rolling your ankle so that your foot makes circular motions, you did it as your way of calming down, Makarov also doing the same.

Ghost looks at the both of you, noticing the same movements, the same positions, and body language. It seemed like copying at first, but deep down you knew it wasn’t, and you hoped Ghost didn’t notice. Your mother always told you how much you and your father were alike.

“What are you playing about?” Ghost spoke up, nodding to Makarov’s movements.

“Just getting comfortable,” Makarov’s ankle rolled in fluid motions as he shrugged his shoulders.

Your eyes narrow, and Makarov notices, his eyes fixated on your matching positions, “your eyes are lovely,” he gestures with a nod.

“замолчи (shut up)” you snap.

Price places a hand down on your shoulder, giving a squeeze as his way of telling you that he can handle matters himself. You silently nod, looking over at Ghost, his hazel eyes meeting yours. You could see his eyes narrow as he kept his gaze glued to yours, his expression hidden behind his balaclava and skull mask. He then looked at Makarov, who shared the same abnormal eyes as you.

“Not often you see different colored eyes, and here you are with matching eyes,” Ghost’s awareness was always top notch, and you knew a dark past loomed behind why he was like that– it wasn’t the usual awareness that came with being Special Operations. “Why did you comment on her eyes?”

“Ghost, what are you talking about?” Gaz was now behind your spot in the chair.

“Yeah, I’m not following, L.t.,” Soap crossed his arms.

“You were born in Russia,” Ghost’s voice was now raised, “look at their fucking eyes, look a their features, the way they’re sitting, it’s fucking uncanny. Are you related?”

“Stop,” you say quietly, almost whispering.

“Would make sense a traitor is amongst us in the Task Force, you knew his exact whereabouts and he allowed us to take him into custody without a fight,” Ghost was now angry– seething that he allowed his guard to be let down for a moment when a newcomer from the CIA came into the Task Force to help find Makarov.

Your father had a sinister smile on his face as he watched every safe wall surrounding you crumble, your entire team becoming so distrusting of you suddenly. Every eye was on you, burning holes. Makarov knew how you were from the moment he saw you but with your eyes being exactly like his, and Ghost being the way that he was, he kept silent and patiently waited for your cover to be blown.

“None of that is true-,” you began, whipping your head to look at your teammates.

“Take her out of here,” Price stands quickly, his hands placed on the table as his head hangs.

Price was going to let Laswell have it for not doing a more thorough background check on you. How could he have let this happen? Everything could be compromised now.

“No wait-!” You scream as Gaz and Soap grab your arms harshly, pulling you up from your chair.

“It was wonderful seeing you again after so long, дочь (Daughter),” Makarov grins, watching as your teammates drag you out of the room.

Soap and Gaz keep watchful eyes on you in silence, both of them planted on a couch while you sat across from them on a loveseat. It had gotten really awkward, really quickly. No one knew what to say. It wasn’t long until Price and Ghost made their ways out of the room, closing the door behind them.

“We have the right mind to lock you in there with him until we have exfil and leave the CIA to deal with you,” Price was right in front of your position on the loveseat, his gloved finger inches from your face. “Who is he to you?”

“He’s my father. I’ve never met him, but I know who he is and what he’s done. My mother made sure of that,” you’re playing with your fingers now, digging any tiny specks of dirt from underneath your nails to keep you from having to look anyone in the eye.

“It seems strange that you knew his exact whereabouts,” Ghost was still unconvinced, his eyes peering over at Price.

“It just made sense and I just so happened to have been correct. You don’t have to trust me, but just know that I did this for the Task Force.”

“When you’re the daughter of an Ultranationalist, I think this information is a need-to-know regardless of your standing with him,” Gaz made a point, his voice calm and his demeanor collected.

“I’m sorry, I should have told you all before. The CIA made sure to keep this secret for the sake of safety. My father is a dangerous person after all. He could come for me and go after anyone who’s affiliated with me.”

Soap kept quiet, listening to every single morsel of the conversation. In fact, this was the most silent he had ever been in your presence, he was normally the one throwing around words.

“The CIA will be questioning you, it’s purely protocol. Be prepared,” Ghost takes his leave— he was completely unreadable.

“I understand.”

“Get ready for exfil, we’re leaving in ten,” Price places his finger on his comms device, listening to the pilots landing instructions.

Price had no other words, he was completely lost. For months, he had trusted you. Allowed you to stay on base with the Task Force. Your eyes had seen countless files of confidential information and even though Laswell trusted you, it meant absolutely nothing if you played your part in any of Makarov’s plans without so much as a bat of an eyelash in your direction. For all they knew, you could be an espionage spy for the Russians.

“I’ll prove to you all that I’m one of you. I want to see my father burn.”

[stephensmithuk]

The Sign of Four: The Strange Story of Jonathan Small (Part Two of Two)

CW for graphic discussion of war crimes.

Sepoy was a term, derived from the Persian sepāhī meaning "infantry soldier", that was used to refer to Indian soldiers, generally with muskets, in the Mughal Empire's armed forces and also Maratha Army. Europeans then used the term to refer to Indians in their colonial forces. One of the names of the rebellion was the Sepoy Mutiny.

Today, Sepoy is the equivalent of "Private" in the Indian and Pakistani armies.

Cawnpore, now Kanpur, was the scene of a siege of East India Company forces and associated civilians in 1857. The EIC surrendered in return for safe passage offered by Nana Sahib, leader of the rebellion on the area. Then, for unclear reason, the departing men, women and children were attacked - no definitive evidence that Sahib authorised this has been found. All the men were killed, with the surviving women and children taken to a villa called Bibighar. 22 days later, although some sepoys refused the order, they were nearly all massacred, with their naked bodies thrown down a well. The British arrived the next day to recapture the city and then carried out horrific summary justice against any rebels who could not prove their innocence. Space precludes me from covering it in depth.

Historically, treason, like the rajah has basically done, would result in Parliament passing an act of attainder, basically seizing your entire personal property plust titles without any judicial process. Not sure what the East India Company's rules were on that. The US constitution specifically bans Congress and the states from passing any bills of attainder.

I'd need to enquire about this, but EIC sepoys apparently swore loyalty to the salt they had eaten, hence the term "true to their salt".

A postern is a side entrance in a city or castle wall, usually concealed so it can be used for stealthy entrances and exits; it could also be used during a siege for the defenders to make an attack on their besiegers. The foundations of one from the London Wall can be seen next to the Tower of London.

A firelock is a musket where the powder is ignited by sparks, either from a lit match or friction from a piece of flint.

The wet season in India lasts from around June to September, when 80% of the annual rainfall occurs. This is vital for Indian agriculture and delays in it occuring can cause real problems. In any event, you get near-daily thunderstorms and torrential downpours. This can result in roads getting badly damaged and flooding in places with poor drainage. Bollywood is a particular fan of romantic scenes involving monsoons, because they allow for sexy wet people.

I believe a mound-heap is another term for midden, an outside dump for all sorts of domestic waste, ranging from broken pottery to animal bones to human waste. Archaelogists are particular fans of them as they provide evidence of past human habitation of a sight. Poor people in Victorian London would search through them for any items of value.

The British last executed someone by firing squad in 1941 when Josef Jakobs, a German NCO convicted of spying was shot at the Tower of London. Two American soldiers would be shot at Shepton Mallet in 1944 for murdering fellow soldiers.

Before the introduction of compulsory recording of police interviews in 1992, records of interviews were generally made from notes taken during the interview or even the officers' memory, with associated problems. The interviewee would then be asked to sign the official record, something frequently refused, especially if it looked like they were signing a confession. It was also pretty common for police to engage in "verballing" i.e. falsifying the record to make it appear there had been a confession.

"The first water" means the diamonds were of the highest quality, basically having the appearence of clear water.

Commutations of death sentences were in fact quite common, especially for lower-level offences. If you see "death recorded" in a trial transcript, it means that the judge had to pass the death sentence, but clearly intended for there to be a pardon or commutation. This often occurred for sodomy convictions.

Mount Harriet is a 383-metre high hill today called Mount Manipur.

A military officer who went bankrupt, especially for gambling debts, was going to lose his commission at best. Bankruptcy is still going to be a real concern in any armed forces today, especially for your security clearance.

It is around 375 miles as the metaphorical crow flies (crows are not sea birds) to Myanmar, then Burma and a British colony. The only place you could reasonably reach from Port Blair that was not under some form of British control was Siam (now Thailand), which remained independent throughout the imperial era, except when Japan invaded it in 1941.

Yawl has several definitions, including a sail layout commonly used for racing yachts in this period.

The belief that the Andaman indigenous people were cannibals appears to have come from the account of Marco Polo.

Hundreds of people tried to escape from the Andaman penal colony, including 288 of the initial 1858 arrivals, a third of those who survived the original journey. However, the thick jungle and "the murderous attacks of the savage aborigines", as military doctor and original governor James Pattison Walker put, led to 81 survivors limping back to Port Blair. They asked for mercy and medicine. Walker had them and seven other recaptured prisoners all hanged the same day. Many who got off the island likely drowned.

Two prisoners in 1872 managed to get all the way to London, after convincing a British vessel they were shipwrecked fishermen. However, the manager of the Strangers Home for Asiatics in London where they ended up got suspicious, took photographs of them and sent them around the empire. That led to their recapture.

The calabash fruit, also known as the gourd, can be turned into bowls or other containers. Gourd is also a slang term for "mind".

The pilgrims sailing from Singapore to Jiddah (or more usually Jeddah) would likely have been heading for Mecca to take part in the hajj. This a pilgrimage considered one of the five pillars of Islam and mandatory at least once in a lifetime for any Muslim with the physical and financial ability to do it. Modern travel has made this a lot less hazardous - past pilgrims faced dangers including piracy, with even some of the Caribbean pirates sailing around Africa to attack ships for the treasures that might be going with them. At least until they reach Mecca, when everyone dresses in the same simple clothing.

At the time of this story, Jeddah, Mecca and Medina were in the Vilayet of the Hejaz, a province of the Ottoman Empire.

The 1445/2024 Hajj, ongoing as I post this, has attracted 1.833 million pilgrims. These numbers have caused stampedes and spread of disease; this year has also seen deaths due to heat stroke in 48 degrees Celsius temperatures. The Saudi authorities have taken various measures to improve safety, including registration requirements and improvements to the site layout provide escape routes.

From Jeddah (and other places in the region), pilgrims would historically travel to Mecca in large camel caravans with military escort as protection against bandit attacks. Today, Jeddah is home to the biggest airport in Saudi Arabia with a dedicated and distinctive terminal for the pilgrimage, as the vast majority of pilgrims arrive via air today. From there, modern roads and a new high-speed railway provide easy access to the holy sites.

Performing in "freak shows" was one of the few ways that severely disabled people could earn a living in these period - it was often that, begging or the workhouse; Joseph Merrick could not hold down any other employment because of his appearance. People with microcephaly i.e. a smaller than usual head were passed off as "missing links". However, by 1888, public opinion was turning against such acts.

[rpedia]

[Ask RPedia] Writing Panic Attacks?

@twodemigodtraveleroflorien​ asked: Any advice on how to RP a character having a panic attack

Sure! As usual, ‘show don’t tell’ is gonna be big here. By that, I mean describe what is going on through connected ideas, not straightforward ones. When someone is in love they smile, and gaze, and touch. When someone is angry they sneer. When someone is scared they sweat, and triple check nothing is behind them. Don’t ever just say ‘Mary was scared’ unless it’s a stylistic choice to give a certain feel to your writing. Pick it consciously as what your story needs, or not at all.

Beyond that, panic attacks can hit in a ton of different ways. We’ll get into this below, and describe not only panic attacks, but some methods on how to help them. If you’re sensitive to this material, please don’t walk in knowingly, fuck yourself up, and have a bad day. I love you kids too much for that. Also remember this is for roleplay, I will be discussing the awkward as fuck things, like “picking which symptoms match your character” and “using panic attacks in plot.” 

Writers, amirite? (Please only continue if you’re in the mental space for it! It can get graphic and triggering. Take breaks as needed.)

To reassure my readers, yes, I have had panic attacks an awful lot. So I can actually speak from experience for once. But only my experience, so give me some slack if yours hits you differently, or if I don’t nail it. Give other writers that slack too, and don’t think one size fits all will ever work here. Give them the benefit of the doubt, so long as they make a decent effort. No one needs their panic attacks nitpicked, it’s either from personal experience or to further the plot. Do either of those things really need someone telling them right at that moment they’re not doing it right? If they’re just making a mockery of it OOCly, go ahead and rip ‘em with facts. ICly, well, Jan. It’s supposed to be problematic, that’s a plot hook for character growth. If it bugs you, communicate that OOCly you’d like to move on.

So anyways, let’s just waltz right into the thick of it. According to the diagnostic criteria listed in the DSM-5, panic attacks are experienced as a sudden sense of fear and dread plus four or more of the following mental, emotional, and physical symptoms:

Heart palpitations or accelerated heart rate

Feelings of numbness or tingling sensations

Excessive sweating

Trembling or shaking

Shortness of breath or smothering sensations

Feeling of choking

Chest pain or discomfort

Nausea or abdominal pain

Feeling dizzy, unsteady, lightheaded, or faint

Chills or hot flashes

Derealization and/or depersonalization

Fear of losing control or going crazy

Fear of dying

So immediately we realize, not everyone’s panic attacks are going to be the same thing. Some people get their heart beating a mile a minute, and feel like they’re miles away, are scared they’ll die, and be afraid they’ll lose control. Some people will have aggressive chest pains, start sweating and shaking, then feel like they’re going to pass out, choke, and vomit at the same time. Can you see why those would present differently in a roleplay, or how they’d fit different character models better, or even the outcomes of these on different personalities? That’s important to the writer right there. You have to understand your character and how they would experience fear, and sensations that are unpleasant, and which ones they’re feeling.

The only thing that is solidly in every panic attack is that sudden feeling of dread or fear. People who have not had one can relate to it, honestly. Have you ever turned off the lights in your bathroom or some dark spooky hallway and suddenly felt like something was in there? Then you have to fucking run before the thing gets you, or turn on a light to check, and the hairs rise on your neck and your eyes open up wide enough to suck in every photon of light for miles because suddenly your brain wants the power to see in the dark? Yeah. That creeping feeling of being prey is the dread and fear. Yes, people may feel these differently. Fear is not exactly one size fits all. But this is a pretty good start to understanding the drop of an ‘oh fuck’ barreling down on you from behind.

Myths abound on panic attack causes, but the truth is simple. Sometimes, they happen because something triggered it, but a lot of the time there is no trigger. Your body just decides to fuck you over because that seems like a great idea right now. You can’t even really avoid them by sleeping. That’s right, you can get panic attacks while dead asleep. That’s so thoughtful of them, they don’t want you miss out, I say in the most sarcastic voice ever.

The good thing is, no, you can’t die from a panic attack or be ‘driven insane’,and no they aren’t just you overreacting to fear or pain. They aren’t even always part of a panic disorder (other disorders bring them to the party too). The good news is, although they suck rancid eggs, they can be managed. If you treat some of the underlying causes, you can help lessen them over time. 

What disorders are linked? Oh boy, that’s a hell of a list. Anxiety disorders are a big one, agoraphobia, OCD, depression, Bipolar disorder. They all like to invite panic attacks with them. Other fun party guests are eating disorders, personality disorders, and substance-related conditions. Heck, GERD, IBS, and sleeping disorders are also friends with panic attacks. So while writing your character, look at what might be the underlying cause of it. Whatever building blocks you pick end up visible in not only panic attacks you decided to throw in to make the scene worse, but a constant background noise to their lives.

That’s one of the important things you need to remember. If you choose to give your character a condition like the above, there’s a couple rules that make this go over a lot better with the community. Let’s look at them.

Do not only use it to get attention. It may be plot relevant, but if it comes up every single time the spotlight is off you, it gets old quick. This is a shitty medical thing, not your golden ticket to being fussed over.

Do not use the disorder as their only personality. You have a character who happens to have and live with the disorder, not a walking form of the disorder who happens to have some character stuck in there.

Do not use it to only have good things happen. Realistically, you may get a panic attack at the worst time ever and fuck everything up. Don’t make it a ‘get out of jail free’ card, balance it with bad timing and bad outcomes.

Do not play Sympathy Sue with it. We don’t want to have to coax, dote, and protect your character every step of the way in a story without them ever showing signs of doing anything but keeping the attention on them and their issues. In real life, real people have personalities beyond their issues, they have friends, they tend to learn how to manage things over time. So let your character grow, and show themselves too. In writing, we do this for fun and to escape bad things. We don’t want to shoulder something during playtime, we may encounter often in real life.

Do not go into this without research. Practice writing up little stories to describe the symptoms. Read everything you can. Look up webpages, blogs, and everything where people are offering the information on their struggles freely. 

Make sure everyone in the group is comfortable playing this out. It can trigger things when you go whole hog descriptive about every symptom they have until they suddenly start having one in real life because fuck, they’re right there again. Never surprise someone with a panic attack in character unless you know it’s okay, or are willing to just skim over it.

Understand the gist of why these exist? Good. Go with the spirit of them, not the letter of them. Basically respect, even though as writers we intentionally use them for plot and growth, we should not abuse that ability by lacking respect for the real people who have them. Be tactful, be polite, be respectful as the person behind the keyboard. Anything that isn’t tactful, polite, or respectful had better be in character, and had better relate to the plot and characterization pretty damn well. You should also make it very obvious that you disagree with the character in narration. If they say something crass or obtuse, point out that they said something crass and obtuse. 

“It’s not like it’s really that bad, you’re just scared right? Get over it, you whiner,” he said, sneering. His lack of empathy for the subject really showed his lack of experience with it.

Tada, by adding in one line, you’re a better writer in general, and have accurately explored characterization while pointing out you recognize he’s a total asshole. Doing things in a way that clearly shows you give a damn and understand what you’re choosing to let the character do is the key to not pissing someone else off.

Okay so back to the attacks! These symptoms are basically just names right now. You can say what’s happening straight out, and that’s cool, but... how do you make your reader empathize with them? You’re going to want to explore each of these feelings in writing, or at least the ones you know you’re going to use. This is homework! Explain each of these in detail in a way you can connect with them. Put yourself into your character’s position, and write from the heart.

Their heart racing, what do they feel when this happens? The skipping beats that feel awkward and clunky? The way you can feel it pounding along, a mile a minute, ready to burst out of your chest? Go running, when your heart rate gets up there, you’ll really fucking quickly pick up on how that part feels. The pounding, heaviness of a heart going so fast your shirt is trembling, and your hands can’t stay steady. Describe it, describe how that heartbeat going mad feels to you and how out of place it is.

Tingling and numbness? You might have had a limb go to sleep before, use that as a jumping off point. Except in a panic attack, it’s everywhere and the pins aren’t painful. They’re just a loss of feeling everywhere. Your hands tickle with them, your skin feels like it’s tightened up weird, and can’t feel like it used to even if you’re hypersensitive to touch. Sweating so much you soak the sheets? Use that experience, the dripping, the suddenness. How it contrasts with the temperature being comfortable. Sweating from anxiousness or nerves. Damp palms. I fucking hate flop sweats like that, because I end up with a disgusting feeling scalp, wet neck, and my body is just damp all over after I’ve been through an extreme.

Everyone’s probably trembled in their lives. A shiver through your limbs. What happens when you tremble? Is it harder to write, or grab onto things? Is your grip worse? Explore how trembling effects your environment as much as it effects you. It helps to understand that the tremble is sudden, violent. You cannot stop it, it’s beyond your control, and you struggle to keep yourself from showing it a lot if you’re that type of a person. Since it’s down to personality, someone might have a shaking quavering voice, or they might be hiding that shaking hand and stiffening up to hide it all from the others.

Choking, smothering, unable to breathe... well that sounds like running to me, but I’m out of shape as hella. Crying does it too though, unable to get past a throat filled with snot. The absolute lack of breath, it’s like you’re depressurized. Remember nothing, from the feeling of choking, to the stitch in your side, to feeling sick to your stomach, is exclusive to a panic attack. You’ll probably have encountered being dizzy or light headed in your life without ever seeing a panic attack. Chills and hot flashes too. They can be way more extreme, like sitting there shivering and teeth chattering despite being in a 85°F/29°C room. Just absolutely taken by how cold you are, and nothing can warm you because you’re already sweating. It looks a lot like a symptom of shock, which is why they throw those blankets over you after a severe accident of any kind, even if you’re not hurt.

While you’re looking at those, don’t just look at the symptom. Look at the character’s reaction to the symptoms. Does stomach pain make them cry? Does it make the shortness of breath worse? Do they have sweating, lightheadedness, hot flashes, and nausea and just wave it off as a thing that’s happening because they’re scared? Mix and match. Some characters handle things better than others. Some have different reactions. Find them, and pull them out and shove them in the light for other people to see.

The final symptoms are a bit more in-depth because we can’t find aspects of them to jump off of from real life. Derealization, depersonalization, a fear of losing control or not feeling ‘sane’, or a fear of dying? These we might not feel very often or at all if we’re neurotypical. So we’re going to rely on people who have experienced them to learn about what they’re like. That’s dangerous territory, be respectful when you explore it. Not sure where you’ll find details on these without stepping on toes? Hi! I’ve had all of them, so lemme get down to brass tacks and tell you what they may be like. Once again, one person’s experiences do not equal all people’s experiences, but as an intelligent person with critical thinking you knew that and were totally going to google Reddit threads and blogs about the subject if you intended to write them, right?

So, derealization and depersonalization are very interconnected, which is probably while they’re listed as a grouped symptom in the list. They are experiencing the feeling of becoming entirely unhinged from either reality, or yourself. It’s a wild sensation to be several feet outside of your body, watching as everything happens. It’s even more wild that it can vary, a few inches away, or even just ‘somewhere else’ while your body keeps going. You can lose your entire grip on a situation, your mind fully consumed with something else, to the point you don’t really feel like it’s you talking, or moving. 

Same thing when everything stops feeling real. Like you’re in a movie, or a dream, watching shit play out you have no control over. Yet, you function through it. On autopilot, saying the things you would say, doing the things you would or should do. Even though you’re feeling a bubble or padding between you and there. In my case, I’ve definitely felt like I was underwater, and should be unable to breathe, but I was breathing fine, looking through this glassy feeling at a body that was going through a panic attack, but it wasn’t really me. It was a bunch of chemical firing, everything happening felt rehearsed, fake, and far away. Like, it had been predetermined to happen, and I had no control over it. 

It’s varied between feeling like I, personally, am not the person doing shit. I look into a mirror, and some stranger is looking back at me, who has the wrong everything. Sometimes everything isn’t real, there’s no way everything can look like this can feel like this when the world is shutting down for me. I am empty, why is the world doing this, it cannot be real. Except it is. This is such a numbing, empty experience, that it leaves you really struggling to find something to anchor yourself to. Those are not my hands. My hands aren’t that size. This room is not my room, it looks wrong, the color is off in a way I can’t describe, the comfort isn’t for me. It’s really fucking mindboggling, and all this?

Is on top of other symptoms. At the same time. My dude lemme tell you, wearing another person’s skin and watching them unable to breath because they’re choking on air, while they suddenly go freezing cold, teeth chattering, is a TRIP! 

Fear of losing control or going crazy is fun too, in the way that I can being super sarcastic on one hand because it’s not fun at all; and also very very genuine because I have an analytical mind and it’s cool to see my own brain degrade in front of me. When in the throes of this, I definitely know I’m not insane, but what if I am? What if this is the moment I snap and lose it entirely? What if this is the terrifying reality now, that I’m never going to get any of these other symptoms under control, and instead I’m going to get worse and start chewing the walls and attacking people left and right? What if this is my breaking point? 

The terror just eats away at you, because no matter how much someone says that you’re gonna be fine, and that you’re not insane, they have no idea. They’re not a professional, and they don’t have some kind of little device that lets them see what’s going on in your head. When your thoughts get jumbled and frantic like that, it can super feel like you’re losing the plot entirely. You really do start to believe there’s no hope for you and they’re going drag you off and drug you up because everything that makes you you has spiderwebbed into this wild ass new person who has had their sanity ripped out of their hands. 

I blame Hollywood for a lot of this, because you see this kind of thing happen. Someone becomes too emotional, and wa-bam, they never come back from it. They got comatose, or hysterical and have to be dragged away. They never quite make it back to their former selves, and that! Is! terrifying! And just the kind of unrealistic thing a mind having met it’s limit would throw at you because it can no longer keep track of what is actually happening.

Fear of dying is the last one, and after the things above, is it really any surprise that you might feel like you were dying in the middle of all this? Now the last time I got this, I had managed to get a head injury and a seizure so maybe it was an ickle bitty bit of a realistic fear. (Also, I’m fine, but obviously some things have happened since I last wrote for you guys, be nice to me.) With all these feelings of rushing inevitability, fear of the end of yourself is RIGHT up there waving its hands and demanding to be seen. This is, I also got this from... slightly cutting my thumb while cooking.

It doesn’t have to make sense, I knew my thumb was not going to bleed out, but I was ready to face death because oh no, something terrible has happened. My brain saw one big drop of blood, and it was done. I was officially dying. I would lose the thumb, I would get gangrene, I would die in a corner somewhere. It became something that overwhelmed all my senses and I had to lay down for a while and let it pass. All I wanted was someone to be there for me while I was inevitably dying of a boo boo. That’s how extreme it can go from literally nothing, so it’s super hard to shake off if you pick it as one of your character’s responses!

Now if you had to take a break during this at any time, that’s perfectly normal. It may be a sign that you shouldn’t RP this situation though, because that’s gonna be even more intense. Plus, if it’s tied to your character, and you’re the type to be inside your characters POV for the smoothest writing process? You might feel like it’s happening to you. Method acting can bite you in the ass if this is something you can trigger by experiencing it. On the other hand, RPing your way through it can help compartmentalize it, and putting those horrible feelings into a new situation can help you recontextualize it from an outside perspective. Making it easier later to go through a panic attack because now you have another experience to draw from. There’s a reason Therapists like it when you roleplay.

Just remember, roleplaying is for story and fun. If you find yourself far too deep, aftercare may be needed. You don’t have to always ask someone else for that, you can just give yourself something relaxing after play. Hit up your favorite goofy TV show. Eat a treat you really love and let yourself be in the moment while you savor it. Take a nice warm bath if that’s the kind of thing that relaxes you. Sure, it’s roleplay, but it can have a real emotional effect on you, same as any other experience! So, if you need to, find someone you can talk it out with. If not friends, then a professional who can give you the tools to make the most of your new experience in helping yourself. Hell, if you simply got to the end of this and feel drained or something, go give yourself a treat and cool off a bit!

Anyways thank you for reading! Hope this helps in really expressing panic attacks a little more clearly in text, but always remember to CHECK IN on your partner. Make SURE they’re comfortable with the level of detail you want to get into! If not, go for a lighter hand! Write a vignette on the side, and upload it to your Tumblr as a fanfic of your RP if you wanna prove your skills without effecting other people! Tag your shit! Be aware of those around you, and really do make sure everyone’s comfortable when you’re exploring topics like these.

If you try your best to get it right and do the research, it’s obvious to others. You’ll be fine. Happy RPing!

[shadowuserannie]

KOTLC Miraculous AU (pt. 2)

Did not expect the people saying they would actually read it;

So fun fact, it's been a hot minute since I last reread KOTLC (well aware the graphic novel doesn't Really Really count). So now I'm making a list of Fitz character flaws that I want to use my narrative to punish him for, so that he can grow, in my AU.

Because Fitz isn't just the angry golden boy. He's someone who doesn't realize all this privilege is a privilege. The Vackers may fight for 'good' but they still largely benefited from the KOTLC system. Playing back into why Plagg is a good match for him-in canon, both Adrien and Keefe don't care about the status that being Mari/Sophie's boyfriend comes with. But Fitz does.

So Detruire is flirty towards Ladybug. Because who better to impress and benefit his status than the superheroine of Paris?

Then the attraction stops being superfluous. He gets a vibe check-from LB or Plagg, maybe both. Plagg has had too many holders to count, and too many who were angry but angry because of their low status in life because of where they were born/born into poverty. Fitz is angry because of his pressure and lack of freedom (in this AU)-which while is equally valid, means that Plagg will be able to vibe check Fitz's privilege. Will be able to question him, call him out, get him to realize the superfluous reasons why he chases Ladybug.

So that he falls in love with Sophie. The clumsy, funny, slightly awkward classmate who smiles just a little crooked and tugs on her eyelashes and isn't all-powerful, isn't all-seeing. Just Sophie.

(Not the perfect Ladybug. Not the perfect Moonlark.)

(HAHAHAHAHAHA WATCH ME MANIPULATE THE SQUARE FOR MORE TORTURE)

so yes, YET ANOTHER PLOT LINE IG

(fixing character issues ONE BY ONE)

wait but then see Sophie realize Fitz isn't perfect. She screams in Detruire's face that Ladybug isn't perfect, she's not perfect, it's not possible for anyone to be perfect and chasing such an ideal is stupid. See her realize her own hypocrisy. Let Ladybug watch as Detruire changes, stops flirting and gets more genuinely joking instead. Treating her as a real person and not something to attain. LB watches Detruire change, and she starts to fall for someone who has proven they can. Because Detruire listened, and Detruire is trying, and fuck SHE JUST GOT HIM TO QUIT FLIRTING WITH HER-

(extra torture when I reswap the square yay)

Also before you ask, no this is not going to be some kind of s5 swap. Idk when I'll insert this in, BUT IM DEFINITELY NOT GETTING STAMINA TO EVEN THINK OF THAT RN so it'll likely be earlier in the timeline

Rayni as Lila; I saw this in a reblog, AM ADOPTING!! (thanks @ohmygoly) I dislike extra salt and I like the tentative beginnings of Rayni's canon redemption, so let's see if I'll get there before SM either hits or misses in canon!

(also @tiana4evahh I have Plans with Dex and the Lila thing hahahaha hes one of my favs)

Biana as Kagami; BEFORE I GET SHOT. Remember that canonly badass Della will have to be Emilie Agreste. So while Fitz is homeschooled (and I already have a plot reason worked out why Della agrees) Biana Vacker is sent to multiple boarding schools from a young age. When she returns, she doesn't like Sophie trying to make moves ON !HER BROTHER!! So for a while, Sophie sees her as an enemy. (also that means no Kagami/Adrien will exist in this AT ALL JUST TO CLARIFY UTTERLY)

Biana eventually befriending Sophie despite disliking her at first. Biana seeing her brother's indecision and making HER MOVE. Short Sophie/Biana while Soph tries to get over her current thing for Detruire. Biana TELLING HER OWN BROTHER NOT TO HESITATE IM TAKING LUKANETTE AND MAKING IT KAGAMINETTE I DO WHAT I WANT

Btw yk how in canon Mari and Adrien don't question their powers? Sophie and Fitz are too nosy not to HAHA AND THEY START HUNTING DOWN THIS AU'S MASTER FU ALONG WITH HAWKY

Also side note that's kinda irrelevant; When Tam and Linh eventually come in when I finally figure out how to include them, assume they are either already adopted by Tiergan (this will be indicated by their last names being Alenefar and them being proudly introduced as such) or have yet to be adopted by Tiergan and thus the plotline will come later (not introducing themselves with last names)

(@tiana4evahh okay fine I won't scrap this, but I will likely make changes if I ever write in full ao3 fanfic form and not just bullet-pointed)

And finally! While I am taking suggestions for this AU, I'm not going to do stuff because one character in KOTLC matches one in MLB perfectly. That'd be boring. I put characters in slightly unexpected roles because I think the angle would be fun to explore and wouldn't be the same role, same character, same lines. This is adapting MLB's story and adapting KOTLC's characters. I'm not looking to make perfect comparisons and copies (hence my reasoning why Keefe is not the Chat Noir/love interest in pt 1) I'm trying to make a new story where everything is not a repeat of just one of the stories it's adapted from. Not just a copy of MLB but with different names. So please do not expect as such.

Go ahead and rag on me for repeating this too much, but I've always preferred story value and not surface comparisons, which is why I am trying to make this completely clear. I'm not going to make one KOTLC character be the exact same role they had in KOTLC. This is why I am exploring the temporary Sophie/Biana. If you tell me the roles don't perfectly match, then okay! Go create your own AU! (this is not sarcastic) I just don't want getting comments on the whole [but it's not the same thing] because it's not MEANT to be an exact match, and again, sorry for being repetitive. I may include this on all posts of this AU until I finally start writing and fire spoilers.

[ollyou]

!!WARNING FOR PMTOK FANS!!

Please reblog for awareness.

Someone has attempted to grab my IP address using a Grabify link. Thankfully I was smart enough to instantly recognize the link as malicious, but there’s no telling if this person is sending the same link to followers or other PMTOK fandom members in general.

I have reason to believe this is likely a targeted attack on me, due to a sudden influx of threats from a certain PMTOK fan’s follower base towards me that happened after I vaguely described I found out someone who used to follow me is a lolicon on my alt Twitter to ~20 followers. I will not be sharing names because as I had stated in my original thread, I have no intention of starting drama, just sharing my disgust and shock at something that happened. The point of me describing this is only to explain why this may have happened.

DO NOT LOOK UP THE LINK BELOW UNLESS YOU ARE FINE WITH POTENTIALLY HAVING YOUR LOCATION SHARED WITH THIS PERSON.

I HAVE NO IDEA IF THE LINK CONTAINS ANY GRAPHIC MATERIAL, AS IT HAS A PNG FILE ATTACHED. PLEASE EXERCISE CAUTION.

THE MESSAGE:

PROOF OF IT BEING MALICIOUS:

There are many dangerous and manipulative people in this fandom, and I want everyone to stay safe. I will be contacting law enforcement if this escalates further, though thankfully at the time of being sent this link, I was already far from home and so my IP changed to match that. I did not load the particular link so I don’t believe I am in any immediate danger, but THIS COULD VERY WELL PUT OTHERS INCLUDING YOURSELF IN DANGER.

Do NOT click any suspicious links sent to you— heck, don’t click links sent by anonymous sources at ALL. ALWAYS use a website checker if you’re that curious and need to click it. Please do not make a fool of yourself and wind up with your info in dangerous people’s hands.

Thank you for reading and remember to stay safe online. Please contact me if you’re in the PMTOK fandom and/or are following me and receive any strange links from anonymous or burner accounts.

[hellotherekenobi]

Crystal Clear.

Summary: Obi-Wan has always looked after you and has always shown you that he cares. When the peaceful life you live is threatened, he shows you how deeply his affections lie.

Word Count: 3,670

Dedicated to @immoral-rose ♥

CW/TW: mentions of battle (explosions), injury, & anxiety; crying; a brief sentence about self-injury but it’s not graphic; gn!reader though the term “handmaiden” is used.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Knowing Obi-Wan Kenobi is no easy task.

Everywhere he goes, danger follows. He’s like a magnet to it. Sometimes, you even think he rather enjoys the danger. Not that he would ever admit to it, but it’s true regarding his history.

As for you, the moment you see danger you run. A true flight instinct, rather than fight. Maybe if you had that kind of passion you would be alongside the Jedi, or an ally in some fashion, but truly you just want to live a peaceful life. If any sort of danger is on the horizon, you’re heading in the opposite direction.

Some might consider that cowardly but that’s not it at all. The main reason why you even know Obi-Wan to begin with is because you offered him assistance when there was an attack on the palace you work in, helping to navigate him through the worker’s corridors.

Being a handmaiden came with a lot of perks. One of which just so happens to be that whenever the lady of the house needs Jedi assistance, Obi-Wan is the Jedi who always comes.

Truly, it’s ridiculous how quickly you grew an attachment to him. The first time you met, he had dropped down from the balcony above the one you were standing on and startled you half to death. He had abashedly apologized, though he was chuckling.

That was it. That was all it took for you to fall head over heels for him. One giddy apology matched with his sunkissed smile. Then you were absolutely doomed.

How typical it is that after years of not finding an interest in anyone, the person you happen to fall for is someone who can’t reciprocate those feelings. Jedi aren’t allowed to have attachments and even if they could, you fear he’d want a fighter on his side instead.

Sure, he is ever the gentleman when you two speak to each other. He holds the door for you, he walks on the outer side of the footpath, and he kisses your knuckles with each hello and goodbye. But that’s simply because he has such a pure heart. There can’t be any other motivator under the surface of it all.

When you don’t have much on your list of things to do around the palace—the lady of the house being a very hospitable countess—then you walk around the gardens, and when Obi-Wan has to await further instruction, he joins you.

The conversation ranges amidst many different things. Sometimes it’s regarding your favorite books or poetry. Other times it’s about all of his exciting adventures, remarking on how great so many cultures are in the galaxy.

Obi-Wan is a gentleman, but he’s also a tease.

You had once told him, “I have often wanted to see those other planets, just as you have.”

And he smiled, outshining the sun, and replied, “I’ll take you with me one day.”

There isn’t a way he can keep that promise, you’re sure of it, so you had simply laughed and asked him to tell you another story.

Days like those are your favorites. Especially when you’re feeling more spirited than most, walking along the stone railing with Obi-Wan on the grass beside you, his hand holding yours so that you don’t tip over and fall.

Honestly, you sometimes only go up here just so that you can hold his hand. His skin is soft but with calloused fingertips, and it’s a comforting feeling.

It’s no surprise, then, that you’re walking along the railing again today, hand happily in his hold.

“I think it’s the quiet that I’m fond of,” Obi-Wan speaks, walking at the pace you’re setting. “To be among the mountains. That’s where I want to be.”

You offer him a smile, looking down at him. “That sounds lovely.”

He squeezes your hand, making dragonflies run circles in your stomach. “Your turn now. One place in the whole galaxy, where do you want to go?”

Pursing your lips, you delay your response with a hum. You already know what the answer is but you’ll do anything in your power to stretch out any moment with him for as long as possible.

“The beach,” you say and simply that.

Obi-Wan raises his chin. “That’s all?”

You nod. “That’s all. I’ve never been.”

He stops walking, causing your hand to tug at his when you don’t stop as quickly as he does. Looking down at him, you frown some.

“What’s the matter?” You ask.

His voice is sympathetic, though there’s a very faint grin at his lips. “You’ve never been to the beach?”

“Not once,”

“Well,” he straightens his posture, walking alongside you again. “I’ll have to take you there one day.”

Another promise you’re sure he won’t hold true to. It’s fun, when you’re young especially, to make promises of days you want to spend with someone else, but those plans usually fade away eventually.

Besides, there’s a war going on and Obi-Wan is a Jedi amongst the battle. You doubt you’ll ever watch the waves roll in, let alone with him by your side.

“I’d like that,” you mutter, knowing that your words hold as little weight to them as does his.

When you reach the end of the railing, you turn halfway and Obi-Wan keeps a tight hold of your hand as you lower yourself to sit on top of it, then he pushes himself up to sit beside you.

“Can you swim?” You ask him, swinging your legs.

He nods, scrunching up his face some. The look is clearly displeasing and you can’t help but to chuckle.

“You don’t like the water?” You press, leaning your arm against his.

He sighs. “I’m not too fond of it. Not as much as flying, though.”

“Oh, so flying is worse?”

“Flying is much worse,” he states, a finger pointed. “That’s for droids.”

“Hmm, I’ll keep that in mind.”

A gentle breeze enters the conversation, which is lovely given the temperature. Speaking with Obi-Wan in moments like these feel so special but more than that, they feel comfortable. Around him, you don’t feel the need to act a certain way. You can just be yourself.

Pushing against his arm again, this time in a playful way, you say, “Maybe the beach is out of the question then since you don’t like to swim.”

“Well,” he leans close to you as if he were speaking for no one else to hear, “just because I don’t like it doesn’t mean I won’t.”

“By why would you?”

Obi-Wan’s brows furrow marginally, looking at you with an expression caught between confusion and sincerity.

“Because you’ll be there.”

Smiling at him softly, you feel a bit bashful by his genuine reply, shaking your head so that he can’t tell how easily you’re swooned by that affirmation alone.

“You’re quite the charmer, Obi-Wan.”

He grins, showing his canines. “It comes naturally with you.”

You think he’s just being a tease now, so you turn his face away from you with a palm against his cheek, and he chuckles heartily as you push off of the railing and tell him that you both should get back to your responsibilities.

Weeks after that, he hardly visits the palace as battles grow tense against the Republic. The handmaidens alongside you work in earnest for the countess’ benefit and also in preparation should an attack happened here.

If you were crossing your fingers behind your back, you would blame yourself for when battle droids stampede the grounds.

The invasion is unlike any you’ve seen and you hurry to hide away as many people as you can through the worker’s corridors, which leads out to a bunker. There is also an escape route from there but until the threat outside is neutralized, there’s no way anyone can make it out without detection.

You’re not sure what possesses you to remain in the thick of it instead of doing your usual reaction by fleeing, but you’re more focused on the safety of others by doing all that you can.

Maybe Obi-Wan’s ways are rubbing off on you. Though, regarding your secluded history, you’re not sure if that’s a good thing.

So, you keep posted by the entrance to the corridors, waving in more people who run down the hallway and lead them inside, telling them to wait with the others.

One person grabs hold of your sleeve, almost tearing the material right off of your shoulder.

“My brother,” they plead. “He’s only young. We were separated.”

“He’ll find his way,” you say, urging them to keep moving.

“Please, he can’t be on his own!”

Neither can you. This is not the kind of person you are, the type that runs into danger even if it were for a noble cause. It scares you down to your bones to think about leaving your partially safe spot by the doorway, but their wailing pushes at your sensibility.

“Alright,” you cave in. “Hide with the others. I’ll find him.”

The distant explosions around the palace are no match for how deafening your heartbeat rings in your eyes, and you feel it against your chest, at your temples, and at your wrists pulsing with an overwhelming amount that takes your feet down the hallway instead of your mind.

There are endless possibilities on where this boy could be. For all you know, he might be right where all the battle droids are. If you go to him then, you’ll just endanger him more with yourself included.

But you can’t leave him behind. Maker knows he must be feeling worse than you, especially for a young one.

Getting closer to the noise makes you less sure of everything, though. Two times already you have had to flatten yourself to the wall when a battle droid runs past, in an effect to hide from them. Every single thing that moves has you on edge, even when your mind tricks you into seeing things that aren’t there.

Yet, as you expected, you find the boy so close to the battle at hand that he may as well be in the thick of it. He’s crouched behind a crumbled half wall near the assembly hall, a fleet of battle droids ahead of him. Between you and them is a long hallway, an opening on your left and right.

Peeking around each corner, you make certain that when you gain the courage to move from your spot, you won’t collide with a battle droid or their line of fire.

It seems they’re too focused on their attack to notice him, or you, so with an insane amount of luck, you run across the opening and kneel by his side, trying to keep hidden from the flimsy cover that there is for the two of you.

“I’m here,” you tell the boy. “Come with me. I’ll keep you safe.”

He’s been crying, his fist still balled up at his cheek as the tears stream down his face. Whimpering, he holds his arms out to you and you lift him in your hold, carrying him at your side, and dash back the way you came after assuring the coast is clear.

Unfortunately, when you’re about to turn the corner, you’re met with a large group of battle droids who weren’t there before. Gasping, you manage to duck behind the wall before they can notice you and set the child on the floor, kneeling beside him.

“We need to wait here a moment. Don’t make a sound—”

Your voice is buried beneath another explosion, nearer this time as it happens right behind the wall. The strength of it shakes the ground and you wrap the boy in your arms to shield him from the smoke and rubble, hoping that the ceiling won’t collapse.

There’s gunfire and flashes of red and blue as the sounds of the droids grow nearer, and you wonder if there’s any time to run away, though you know you won’t make it halfway down the hallway before you’re shot at.

A shadow grows near and you cover the boy more, hoping to at least protect him, until a hand grabs your shoulder and you shriek, turning to meet your attacker face to face.

But it’s a face you know too well and are relieved at seeing him standing there.

“Obi-Wan!” You reach a hand to hold onto his robes and he lowers to his knee, watching you with worrisome eyes.

“Are you hurt?” He asks, bringing the hand on your shoulder up to your cheek.

You shake your head. “No, no. But the boy,” you move an inch to show Obi-Wan the child behind you. “We need to get him to the bunker.”

“Alright,” Obi-Wan affirms. “Keep to my side.”

There’s no place you’d rather be right now, nodding as you follow him closely with the boy holding your hand. You’re relieved to see that he’s stopped crying. In fact, he’s quite transfixed with the Jedi leading you both down the hallway.

Obi-Wan is more strategical than you, so he keeps you all seemingly invisible to the battle droids you maneuver around, and you feel more at ease now that he’s here.

The drive you had to protect the boy is now kept under a blanket and you grow restless to get to the bunker since you’ve gone through enough excitement for one day. Once is more than enough to try and be brave. You just want to hide again.

As you all approach the door to the worker’s corridor, Obi-Wan lets you and the boy step ahead of him. You pat the boy’s back and urge him to follow the path until he reaches the bunker entrance and as he begins to run, Obi-Wan’s hand comes to rest on your back.

“Lock the door behind you,” he says, still attentive to the noise happening around the palace.

“Aren’t you coming too?” You ask.

“No, there’s still more fighting to be done.”

“Don’t fight, Obi-Wan. Come with us.”

He smiles weakly, caressing your cheek with his soft but calloused hand. “I want nothing more, but I want to protect you first.”

“But—”

You don’t get to finish your sentence as another explosion sets off, this time within the hallway you’re standing in. The distance of it not only rattles the ground but shakes you as well, and Obi-Wan is diving forward, his arms wrapping around you, to push you both behind the corner and away from the blast.

It’s a powerful explosion that takes down the support beams, effectively taking down part of the ceiling, too. The structure crumbles at the corner, creating a mountain of debris that blocks the way and so there’s no going back now.

With the push, you’re sent down to the ground with Obi-Wan above you, his body shielding you from the damage.

When at last the smoke clears, he’s helping you to sit up against the wall, his hands on either side of your face, brushing away soot and dust.

“Are you okay?” He asks, looking you over from head to toe.

Coughing, you shake your head at him, feeling the anxieties of being in danger rise like hot liquid from the pit of your stomach all the way to your throat, and you begin to cry.

“No, I’m not okay— I’m fine but I’m not okay,”

“Hey,” he coos, tilting your head enough to look him in the eyes. “There, there, my dove. I promise you I’ll get you out of here.”

“I’m scared, Obi-Wan,”

“I am too,” he brings one hand down to yours, squeezing it tightly. “But I’m a man of my word. I will protect you.”

Deep down, right through all the worry, you know that he’ll keep you safe. If not by all the heroic acts you’ve heard about and now seen for yourself, then for all the times he’s been kind to you. All the laughter, the touches, and the quiet moments just for you both. You trust him with your life and you know he’ll take care of you.

On the outside, though, you’re shaking. The explosion has startled you so much, seeing as it was so close, and the knowledge of if Obi-Wan hadn’t pushed you when he did, you might have been crushed under the rubble.

Thoughts speak louder than words but in this case your actions are screaming; trembling with your back to the wall and tears still streaming down your cheeks.

Obi-Wan’s hand at your cheek brushes featherlike circles there, effectively wiping your tears. He whispers your name, grounds you with more surety, then leans forward and presses his lips to yours.

The gasp gets stuck in your throat but you immediately still, eyes wide as he kisses you with gentle, potent lips. He whispers to you again, this time through the Force, and you hear him; my dove. Oh, my dove. I love you.

By those words alone, all the tension dissolves. Reaching a hand out to clutch hold of his tunic, you whimper against his kiss, closing your eyes and allowing his lips to soothe your fears.

With his affections, your shaking stops. He’s auspiciously sedated all the nerves you felt, making your senses crystal clear when he leads you through the storm. He keeps you far from the danger, navigating around droids, damage, and conflict.

At last, meeting the others on the outskirts when it’s clear enough for them to travel the escape route, Obi-Wan carefully helps you aboard the ship with everyone inside.

The ship itself is compatible for water, hovering there for now until the top of it will close and sail under to get away from here. Obi-Wan stands on the bay, one boot in the water, with his hand in yours as he makes sure you climb aboard securely.

“Don’t worry about me,” he says, offering a smile that eases your concern. “I’ll see you again.”

When the ship doors shut and it dips beneath the water, you wonder if you truly will see him after this. With the battle, it will take months before you and the others can safely return, especially the countess. Living secluded will need to be your new way of life.

That’s exactly what it becomes. In fact, you’re away from home—or what you call it, seeing as growing up there is the earliest memory you have—for a year.

To assure the safety of the people and the countess, you travel from port to port and remain with various folk for intermittent times. You try your best to hear reports about the war and of the Jedi, hoping that you’ll hear news of the man whom you love. And who loves you.

Knowing that he does only makes the time away torturous, not truly sure if you’ll see him again like he promised, though you trust him completely. Whether the uncertainty is there because of your safety or his, or if time and events will allow it.

By the time a year is up and news reaches you that it’s safe to return, the palace is hardly such a thing at all. The grounds, the gardens, the structures, and the homes are all in ruins. It takes months to repair all the damage and by the time you feel yourself back to routine, it’s nowhere near complete.

Walking the gardens is the only comfort you get in such distressing times. The war is still ongoing and you know that at any point, you all may need to flee again. But in this place, your swirling thoughts cease. You simply exist freely amongst the flowers, swaddled by memories of walking along the stone railing with your sweet Jedi.

There’s no hand to hold yours as you walk the railing, your shoes scraping the stone as you take each step. In a silly way, you’re not entirely upset about the fact if you fall. After being away for so long, it may be the only time you feel again.

Yet, when you slip, you feel your heart sink at the expectation of hitting the grass, only for a hand to slide into yours, fingers interlinked tightly, and a shoulder pressing on your arm to prevent you from tipping over.

When you look down to see who caught you, all the breath leaves your lungs. It’s him. Your Jedi, your love. Your Obi-Wan.

You say his name excitedly, watching his lips upturn into that bright grin he’d show you on sunny afternoons, and throw away his effort in supporting you as you leap off the railing right into his arms.

He catches you like he always does, holding you securely to him as he buries his face in your neck, pressing featherlike kisses to the skin and whispering your name over and over again.

“I promised you, didn’t I, my dove?” He speaks. “I would take you to the beach.”

A relieving and altogether elated chuckle bubbles from your lips, leaning back a fraction to look into those lovely cerulean eyes of his.

“Oh, Obi-Wan,” you say, smiling brightly. “I love you.”

He smiles in return, brushing a hand along your cheek. “And I love you.”

Your heart swelters, feeling full of life again. Any adversity ahead of you now is small in comparison to the assurance of Obi-Wan’s love.

A gentle kiss is pressed to your forehead and then your cheek. He ghosts a kiss on the tip of your nose, hovering his lips above yours before raising the hand he holds into the space, kissing your knuckles.

As soon as your hand moves away, Obi-Wan leans into you completely, kissing you deeply. He’s gentle and amorous, guided by an affection truthful to the words he assured you now so long ago. With fingers intertwined, he pours his devotions between incandescent kisses.

In between the marble pillars of the palace, deep within the gardens filled with heart and soul and ghosts of the lives lived before now, Obi-Wan kisses you with a crystal clear love that glimmers for time indefinite.

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