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applsauss · 4 years ago

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Östliche Helden | I

Description: Your grin is unabashed when you hear him shouting after you.

Fandom: Hetalia

 Pairing: Human!Prussia (Gilbert Beilschmidt)/Reader

Word Count: 4k+

Warning(s): None.

Unsere Freundschaft mit der Sowjet-Union erzwingt den Frieden.

The words are printed on a sun-bleached poster featuring two working class men, one holding the red and gold banner of the Soviet Union, the other with a German flag with three stripes: one black, one red, one yellow.

“Our friendship with the Soviet Union enforces peace,” you whisper to yourself. Staring at the smiling men, trying to read into their expressions, you pick at the peeling corners of the poster, then try to smooth them down.

Behind you, through the window, the sky is aglow with a strong orange and dusty red that fades into pink. You’ve wasted the afternoon in an abandoned factory, with the small, portable radio Gilbert spent a fortune on tuned to a western station. The announcer is saying something about a concert, but you don’t hear him. The sun is setting. The wind drags its fingers through the trees.

Gilbert is sitting in the window, with one leg bent at the knee and propped up on the window sill, the other dangling against the outside of the building. He’s reading a book your brother gave to you about Frederick II, the greatest king of Prussia. You could never sit through it, but Gilbert hasn’t been able to put it down for the last two weeks.

You hum lightly to yourself as a different, tinny voice advertises some household cleaning product, and continue to observe your boyfriend. His brow is furrowed in focus, eyes scanning each page with intent, and his platinum hair is painted red by the blazing sun buzzing behind him. You can’t help but stare at him, and then past him.

The view from the window is framed by Gilbert’s body, and then by large, dark trees that inhale and exhale with the breeze. Behind the trees is a demolished industrial block, rubble left where it fell at the foot of the wall--then past that is the Berlin Wall, itself: nearly four meters tall, two thick, and with various layers of increasingly horrible deterrents running the length of the death strip. It is a grisly sight.

Behind that though, lies true innovation and freedom. Sunlight bounces off the windows of pristine West Berlin as if to say Look! Look at what is here. Look at Germans like you--but not--as they live with American autos, French wine, and Italian designer bags.

The radio announcer’s voice cuts off, and then the guitar chords of the next song fade in, plucking at all of your drifting thoughts and drawing them back tight again. It is a song of freedom, the western stations like playing it because they know it can be heard even behind the Iron Curtain. You close your eyes and let the music take you away, swaying in rhythm.

“I, I will be king,

And you, you will be queen.

Though nothing will drive them away,

We can beat them, just for one day,

We can be heroes, just for one day.”

You never listen to western radio in your house. It is silent except for when your father listens to a concert performance, or when your brother used to practice piano in the sitting room. Besides, your mother is frighteningly aware of the ears in the walls, and your father makes a point of socialising with people he suspects of being connected to the Stasi--probably in hopes of being recruited. It’s why you’ve been left alone, even after your Onkel took bolt cutters to the chain-link border fence at the Austrian-Hungarian border.

You hear your shoes scrape on the floor as you step side to side, getting more into the song, nodding your head and then you hear Gilbert snicker under his breath. You peak your eyes open to find him watching you. His book is closed, resting on the window sill, and he’s now sitting with his legs inside the building. You stop dancing, laugh, but the music continues on without you, the sound like an afterthought calling to you.

Gilbert leans forward, watching you with steady eyes, then pushes off the window sill to stand. He tilts his head for a moment, like he’s appraising the music, then begins to snap his fingers on beat, tapping his foot and bobbing his head.

You join him, shimmying, waggling your eyebrows and he snorts, then gets more into the song, shaking his hips and dramatically reaching up towards the ceiling, then closing his fist and dragging it down in front of him like the disco stars on TV.

Trying to upstage him, you click your heels together and start to do the twist, but the song’s chords are drawn out, and so the shuffling you’re doing is more for comedic effect than anything else.

You pause when you’re closest to the ground, then jerk your head up to catch Gilbert’s eyes in challenge. He lets out a breathy laugh, then changes tactics. Not one to be outdone, he throws his arms above his head and begins thrusting his hips in time with the drums, while training his expression to remain serious, smoldering, almost. You laugh.

“And you, you can be mean,

And I, I'll drink all the time,”

“ 'Cause we're lovers, and that is a fact,” he mouths the words dramatically, then winks and blows you a kiss, making you snicker again. “Yes, we're lovers, and that is that.”

Still thrusting his hips, he begins to make little hops towards you, dust from the floor kicking up around his feet. Grinning, you rise back up to both feet and meet him halfway, swinging your arms and stepping in time with the beat.

When you finally meet each other, he reaches forward, smooshing your face between his hands, then ducks down to plant a silly, solid kiss to your lips. Your teeth clack, your nose presses hard into his cheek, and he laughs into your mouth, then quiets when you kiss him back.

The music becomes less of something you hear, and more of something you feel thrumming in your heart, thrumming in Gilbert’s as it beats beneath your palm, and thrumming in the way you both sway side to side, caught up in the moment.

“Though nothing will keep us together,

We can steal time, just for one day.”

Gilbert sucks in a breath through his nose, kissing you earnestly, sincerely now, then pulls back slowly. His hands are cupping your face, thumb gently rubbing your cheek, and you’re humbled by the expression on his face, still painted in increasingly soft shades of red-pink. Affection blooms in your chest, warm like a candle, and spreads until you forget about the bite of the approaching evening. Almost overwhelmed, you pull his arms around you and lay your forehead on his shoulder, watching the West as the sun dips farther towards the horizon, as the sky begins to bleed the same red, the same damn Sowjetisch Rot, that paints their bloody flag.

You can hear him smiling in the way he breathes, feel it in the way he settles the weight of his arm over your shoulders and presses his face into your hair. You forget about school, you forget about the stress of your parents’ disapproval of Gilbert, of you, you forget about the future and you forget about the gottverdammte West. “Lieb’ dich, Liebchen,” he whispers into your hair.

The intimacy scares you. You think about pinching the soft fat on his stomach and twisting like you would a bottlecap to relieve some of the carbonated tension that’s filled the space, the tender moment buzzing around the two of you, surrounding you with its quiet intensity. The sudden thought makes you laugh, and you settle farther into his embrace instead, letting yourself sink into this feeling despite the fear for once. “Lieb’ dich, doch. You’re my favourite, you know.”

You somehow both see it coming and are taken by complete surprise when he pinches the meat of your arm and twists enough for it to smart.

“Ow-a!” You shove him off you and he stumbles back over a piece of broken furniture, snickering. You huff, dust your pants off, and try to glare at him, but you can’t bring yourself to be all that annoyed. Afterall, you chose this place and you chose him.

And the sun continues to set.

***

The morning is grey outside the apartment. It’s still early enough for the streetlamps to be on, and from under your bedroom door, you can tell the hallway light is on as well. You hear the muted clamor of breakfast coming from the kitchen, and your father coughs.

You smooth your hair back in the vanity one more time, double-checking your appearance, then grab your backpack and head out into the hall.

“You came home late last night,” your father comments from the dinner table as soon as you enter the sitting room. In front of him sits an empty plate, a mug of coffee and a half-empty glass of orange juice.

You set your bag on the table and head into the kitchen. “I know.”

“You shouldn’t ride your bike at night,” he calls after you.

“I know.”

Your mother is by the stove, wearing her sunflower print apron and black slippers. The room smells like breakfast sausage. She has her back turned to you and when you approach, she spins on her heel and pushes a full plate into your empty hands before you can do anything else.

“Ah--Guten Morgen, Muti. Vielen--” you’re caught half-way through a yawn--“Dank.”

“Good Morning, Liebling. Eat up.”

You smile and return to the table. Your father is waiting, but says nothing. He continues to say nothing as the clouds are pushed across the sky and the food on your plate disappears one bite at a time.

Eventually, he grows tired of the silence. He takes a long sip of his coffee, then says, “You were out with that boy, weren’t you.” It is not a question.

“You know his name,” you say mildly as you push your chair back and stand to take your plate into the kitchen. Your mother appears at your elbow and collects it for you instead. Without another excuse, you pull your bag across the table to check if you have everything you’ll need for school.

Still sitting where he is, your father asks, “When are you going to break up with him?”

“I’m not.”

He gives you a hard look. You pull your arms through the straps of your bag. “Is there really no one else for you?”

“I’m going to class now.”

He sighs, seemingly giving up on the conversation. “You have work after, right?”

“Right.”

Another sigh. “Alright. Be safe. See you soon.”

He drains the last of his coffee. Your mother kisses you on the cheek and tells you to have a good day as well.

“You, too. Lieb’ dich.” You turn to your father, “Bye, Vati. See you soon.”

***

Childhoods are not made equal, and the law of even-stevens is not something adults seem overly interested in. You first learned this in year three, when you were dropped off by your mother to play with a friend who lived in an apartment the size of your living room. Her bed was folded up neatly under the coffee table and the bathroom was two floors below hers. When you explained all this to your parents, they never allowed you back.

The second time you learned that adults were not as worried about being fair as they pretended to be was at Gilbert’s house, when the two of you could only play cards on his bed because his newborn brother was sleeping and anything else would have woken him. His mother made you sandwiches and when you asked about her lunch, she said she wasn’t hungry, then ate the discarded crust off your bread.

The third was when Gilbert was visiting your house, and switched on your family’s brand-new color television set. He casually flipped through the channels until he found one you’d never seen before, and you watched with confusion as image after image of the glamorous, rich, free West Germany flashed on the screen--something you’d never seen before, something he thought of as common knowledge, and something that made you begin to question what else was hidden from you. Your father catching the two of you soaking in the perverse capitalist propaganda movie ‘Grease’ was the beginning of his long-lasting feud with Your-Best-Friend-Gilbert.

The list goes on and on, your eyes not so much being opened to a single dawning realisation--but rather that realisation was inevitable, a full picture fed to you piece by piece each time you bore witness to some other lie fed to East Germans, who chew and chew and swallow because they’re so starved of everything else.

This is what you’re thinking about as Kristian goes on explaining Nietzsche to you. It’s terribly pretentious, he’s terribly pretentious, and so, regretfully, terribly, are you.

“I thought it was interesting. Didn’t you as well? What Herr Ullman was saying about the difference between Nietzsche’s master and slave morality--obviously we are the strong masters. We must not be pitied.”

Kristian is a person who never for a second thinks for, or critically, of himself. He is in your Philosophy lecture, your father knows his, and he has never once wanted for anything. The urge to fidget overcomes you, and so you grip the underside of the shop-counter, and rock back and forth on your heels to stop the annoyance from crawling up your arms.

“Y/N?”

“Hmm?”

“I asked what you thought of how Nietzsche’s ideas could be applied to our politics now.”

“Oh, well--” you pause for a moment to think about how much of yourself you’re willing to put into this conversation-- “It’s interesting how some people claim to be masters--”

“Of course!” he interrupts. “You’re brilliant--because in reality, they are not. Take here, in the DDR, for example. The majority of the working class think of themselves as masters, while holding slave moralities,” he finishes for you, incorrectly. You bite your tongue.

Sometimes, Kristian is enjoyable to be around because it’s like a game, to have a conversation with someone who refuses to hear anything you say. You like to test the limits of his perception of you and see just how far he’ll go to rationalise whatever you say so that in his head, you agree with him.

Recently though, it’s become clear that he has an interest in you that is just a little more than friendly, and casually letting him down is becoming a problem because he refuses to take a hint. Now, at Uni, every time you turn a corner, he’s there to follow you to your next class, and his forwardness is beginning to unroot whatever amusement you used to feel around him.

Kristian is another item to add to the growing list of reasons you’d rather be wasting your day watching the clouds go by than be at Uni--or be trapped behind the counter of the Apotheke you work at, begging the powers that be that Kristian leaves before your shift is up, otherwise he might get it in his head that you have free time to spend with him.

Time moves in slow motion as Kristian stands in front of the register and continues to talk. No one has come in after him so you don’t have any excuses to leave the conversation. You feel awkward, like being alone with him is a mistake that you can’t escape from because the owner of the Apotheke is out taking his lunch in the park across the street.

“We think so alike, you and I…” Kristian trails off, and then he fiddles with the soda he bought ten minutes ago, and looks away, embarrassed. “Hey,” he begins again, and at the tone of his voice, your stomach drops. Before he was just dropping hints or loosely suggesting the idea of going on a date, but this is a confrontation that you’re not prepared to deal with. “I was wondering if sometime you’d like to--”

The bell above the door trills, and you jump into action. “Ah--Willkommen! How can I help you today?” you speak loud enough to smother the end of Kristian’s question.

“Liebe,” you hear the customer say, and immediately you know that it is Gilbert. What timing! He’d taken the morning off to go see Ludy’s school play and mentioned that he might be able to swing by after running a few errands for his mother. “You’ll never guess what happened! Oh! Kristian--” he pauses-- “Hallo. Anyways, I was riding my bike down Schulstrasse after the play and I--”

“We were talking,” Kristian interrupts, whatever boyish shyness he’d had evaporating as he crosses his arms and turns to face Gilbert, almost puffing out his chest like a bird.

Gilbert gives him a funny look, then asks, “yea?” He looks to you for confirmation.

You shoot Gilbert a wobbly, unconfident smile and gesture to Kristian with wide eyes. He furrows his brow in confusion, then looks around and realizes you’re alone in the shop. He then turns his full attention to Kristian and, with fake pleasantness, asks, “how are your classes, Kristian?”

Kristian rocks back on his heels and unfolds his arm at the sudden question. “Good, I guess…” He shoots a look back at you, and you pretend to be seriously inspecting the cash register for defects. You pop open the drawer and feign counting the Deutsche Marks.

“Good!” Gilbert presses forward. “I hear Herr Ullman is a hardhead.”

“A bit,” Kristian replies, then turns his back to Gilbert and tries one last time to get your attention. “Y/N--”

At the sound of your name leaving Kristian’s mouth, Gilbert slides an arm on the counter between you and Kristian, who bites off the rest of his response and drops all pretenses to glare at Gilbert.

“Interesting,” Gilbert says flatly, “Sowieso, Schatz, when does Herr Friedman get back from his lunch?”

Kristian doesn’t wait for your response. He just huffs, snatches his drink off the counter, and stalks out of the Apotheke. The bell trills as he pulls the door open, then lets it slam shut in its frame.

“Tschussi!” Gilbert calls after him, and you really should reprimand him for that last, unnecessary taunt, but the amount of relief you feel now that Kristian is gone is ridiculous, and so you reach over the counter to grip his forearm with both hands, grinning up at him.

“Don’t be so mean,” you say half-heartedly.

Gilbert cocks his head to the side. “Then he should take a hint and listen when you tell him no.”

His genuine response surprises you when it shouldn’t. Afterall, you know what sort of man he is; you’ve known for years. It’s what kindled your crush on him in secondary school, the year before he went off for his apprenticeship in that garage he still dreams of, it’s what fanned the flames when he returned for his year of mandatory service, and it’s what stokes the love even now. “Thank you.”

“Why?” He grins. “Did you think it was awesomely sexy when I made him back off--”

You choke on a laugh, cheeks warm. “Oh, shut it! You ruin everything!”

He laughs like a witch’s cackle, and you pretend to be put out, then ask,“what were you trying to tell me about before?”

“Oh!” He straightens. “Remember that pigeon from school?”

***

“Gib can talk to birds, you know,” Ludwig says factually. ‘Gib’ is his childhood nickname for Gilbert. You nearly trip at the sudden change in topic.

“See!” Gilbert throws a hand out to gesture at Ludwig, vindicated. His other hand holds his bike steady as the three of you continue to walk down the sidewalk.

You groan. “I swear to god, the pigeon does not know you!”

“Yes he does! I’ve named him--”

“Don’t remind me--”

“His name is Gilbird.” Gilbert proudly sticks his nose up, and you resign yourself to pushing your bike in silence. You’ve had this same dispute since school. Gilbert is convinced that since he saved a pigeon from a hungry alleycat one time, it now owes him some sort of life debt, or at least he thinks the pigeon thinks that.

“I think it’s clever,” Ludwig says quietly, squeezing the straps of his backpack tighter in his hands as he continues to walk beside you and Gilbert, who are pushing your bikes to keep pace with him.

“Ludy,” you stage whisper just loud enough so Gilbert can still hear you, like you’re sharing some grave secret, “he’s been saying the same thing since year five. I don’t even think it’s the same bird!”

“Schatz!” Gilbert cries, outraged.

You roll your eyes dramatically. “C’mon,” you say, and goad Ludwig into jogging ahead of Gilbert with you. As much as Ludwig hero-worships his elder brother, he also can’t resist the temptation of teasing him, especially when you offer him the upper hand.

“Ah!” Gilbert exclaims once he realizes your plan. “Hey!” When you pass him, you stick your foot out to unhinge his kickstand, making him stumble over his bike.

“I’m too awesome to not be telling the truth!” he calls after you. “You were there! Hey!”

Ludwig laughs out loud, and so you turn around as well, only to see Gilbert struggling to untangle his handlebars from a bush. “Quickly!”

You swing your leg over the seat of your bike, then usher Ludwig into the basket fixed over the rear wheel. It’s not meant for a person and is an uncomfortable fit, even for little Ludy, but the two of you manage.

“That’s cheating!” Gilbert calls out sorely, still a little ways behind the two of you, though you know he’ll catch up in no time. Ludwig giggles right in your ear, and then you push off the concrete and begin pedaling down the sidewalk.

“Look at him, all the way back there,” Ludwig teases.

You can’t turn around to bask in your victory, you’re afraid to lose balance and throw Ludwig off the bike. “Is he still stuck?”

“Yes--No! He’s just freed himself! Schneller! Faster!” Ludwig leans more of his weight forward, onto your back, and you laugh breathlessly, then pedal harder. You take the curb hard, pushing yourself off the seat to absorb the shock of your front wheel dropping onto the asphalt, then the rear wheel squeaks in protest under Ludwig’s added weight.

From around the wide bend of the road, you see the young trees that are planted in front of Gilbert and Ludwig’s Plattenbau, the tall apartment building looming over the road like a victory line. Your thighs begin to burn under the exercise. You pant, and Ludwig squeezes your shoulders tighter. “Oh no!” he cries.

Then it’s over. “Ha ha!” Gilbert tuts victoriously as he flies past the two of you, legs stuck out in a silly pose as his gears rapidly click.

“Aw! That’s no fair, Gib! Y/N has me on the bike, too!” Ludwig defends you from over your shoulder.

“You should have thought about that before you two unawesomely conspired to push me into that bush!”

“We didn’t push you! You tripped!” You slow to a stop in front of the side entrance next to Gilbert, and wobble under yours and Ludwig’s combined weight. Gilbert drops his bike in the grass and moves to help Ludwig down from his perch on the basket.

Gilbert rolls his eyes. “Same thing.” He sets Ludwig on the ground, then adds with fake scorn, “cheaters.”

Ludwig laughs, and you inspect your backpack, which Ludwig had been crouched on for the duration of the short ride. “Do you go to work now, Gib?” he asks.

“Ja. But I’ll be back like normal.” You look up in time to see Gilbert messing with Ludwig’s hair. You feel a pang of jealousy, thinking of your own brothers.

“Okay.” Ludwig walks to the entrance, then pulls open the door. “See you later!”

“Bye!”

“Bye, Luddy!”

For a moment, the two of you just breathe the filthy air. This part of town always stinks like a car’s exhaust pipe. Then Gilbert looks back at you. “Race you to your house?”

You eye him critically for a moment, then turn your bike around and begin pedaling as fast as you can without so much as waiting for a fair start.

Your grin is unabashed when you hear him shouting after you.

***

Translations:

Unsere Freundschaft mit der Sowjet-Union erzwingt den Frieden. Our friendship with the Soviet Union enforces peace. From this 1979 propaganda poster.

Deutsche Demokratische Republik. DDR. German Democratic Republic. Abbreviated ‘GDR’ in english. The official name of ‘East Germany’.

Onkel. Uncle.

Sowjetisch Rot. Soviet Red, referring to the Soviet Union’s flag colour.

Gottverdammte. Goddamn (f).

Lieb’ dich. Love you (slang, not proper grammar).

Liebchen. Sweetheart, lovely (noun). Term of endearment. (Literally: little love, love I am fond of, the -chen is diminutive and cute).

Doch. Too, totally, all the same, nevertheless. This is a ridiculous german word.

O-Saft. Orange Juice (slang).

Guten Morgen. Good morning

Muti. Mom.

Vielen Dank. Thank you very much.

Liebling. See Liebchen, though this is a more common version.

Vati. Dad.

Apotheke. Drug store, pharmacy.

Willkommen. Welcome.

Liebe. Love.

Hallo. Hello, Hi.

Deutsche Marks. Mark der DDR. Currency of the GDR.

Sowieso. Anyways.

Schatz. Babe, baby. Term of endearment. (Literally: Treasure)

Tschussi. Bye-bye, toodles. Cute with children, though usually used sarcastically by adults, especially men. (Gilbert is making fun of Kristian here)

Schneller! Faster!

Plattenbau. A cheap style of building made from prefabricated concrete slabs common in the GDR. (Literally: Panel building)

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athenasbloodyspear · 4 years ago

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The Viper: Chapter Two

Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Find this fic on Ao3.

This fic is 18+ for violence and eventual sexual content. Please read at your own risk.

Master list

“I know where to find her.” Nat pipes up from her spot at the table.

No one had moved since the Viper had shot out the security camera.

Tony whipped his head to look at her and scoffed. “Oh? Are you an omnipresent God who knows all? Because if Friday can’t find her, I think we’re fucked.”

“I know a place in the city where someone like her could disappear. Where I would disappear if I were her. It’s a hunch, but I have a feeling it’s where she is.”

Tony rolled his eyes. “Care to enlighten us?”

“The Mist.” Nat said simply.

“Okay that just sounds fake.” Sam scoffed.

“It’s not.” Nat snapped, “It’s an underground nightclub in Brooklyn. Famously has no cameras anywhere. The name is a nod to the fact that it’s a blind spot in the city. It’s filled with people in similarly seedy professions and rich and powerful people looking for illegal fun.”

“Alrighty then. Sounds like my kinda place.” Tony rubbed his palms together. Steve just groaned.

“You’re telling me this woman would hide out in a nightclub full of people who potentially know there’s a bounty on her head?” Bruce chimed in.

“Yes. It’s highly frowned upon for outside business to interfere with the fun inside, so if anyone is hoping to make the hit they would have to wait for her to leave. Hence why I bet she waits there a long time.”

“How do you know about this place Nat?” Steve countered.

“How do you think I know about this place, Rogers?” She spat back.

“Whatever, you two. Suit up for an evening at the club and meet us all back here in an hour.” Tony interrupted before Steve could stick his foot in his mouth. “Banner, you’re excused.”

“Thank god.” Bruce sighed.

“The rest of you are going. I’m staying here to monitor cameras with Friday and see if I can scrounge up any more interesting tidbits on our new friend.”

“Great.” Bucky muttered to himself. A club. His favorite thing in the world.

Not.

After a particularly complicated series of sneaking into various clothing stores in Manhattan you’d finally stolen something acceptable to wear for your evening of fun.

You could feel the adrenaline pumping through you still. This whole thing was a massive gamble and you knew that.

At any moment it could all come crashing down. In a lot of ways.

You hadn’t been this out of control in a very long time. It was terrifying.

But you would gamble with your life if you had to. It didn’t matter to you anymore. There was only one thing that did and you would give everything for it.

So you’d continue to spiral out of control. To rely on others' choices.

You didn’t have any other options.

Bucky was relieved to discover that while this underground club was a club it at least wasn’t deafeningly loud. At least not in every section of the club.

He was horrified to discover that the “underground” descriptor wasn’t only figurative. The club space was in the basement of a non descript warehouse that screamed Hydra wannabe. Everything in the club was a shade of black. There was an upper floor, where the team was currently spread out, with many lush couches and smaller tables. It was more reminiscent of jazz bar’s he’d been to in the 40’s. The upper level had a metal railing that looked over into what could only be described as a pit. There was a large black marble bar along one wall of the lower floor and the rest was a dance floor. Or at least that’s what Nat had said, all he could see was a sea of bodies smashed together writhing. Apparently that was dancing.

Even more horrifying was the fact that there were no windows. Not a single one. And the only exit that anyone knew of was the single door they came in. It was eating his skin alive. He felt so suffocated. Trapped in a way he hadn’t felt in years.

He knew if he voiced this to Steve, he would immediately tell him to go home and the rest of them would probably be fine on their own. However, there was something keeping him here. He felt a pull towards this enigma of a woman and he needed to see her with his own eyes. Something in his gut told him she needed his help. He didn’t really know how or why, but his instincts were rarely wrong and he was tired of ignoring them.

Even if his instincts were fighting within him at the moment.

“Anything?” Nat questioned through the coms from where she sat on a sofa, pretending to chat with some diplomat from a country Bucky couldn’t think of right now.

“No one who looks like what I think I’m looking for.” Steve replied. He’d been the only one who had offered to venture downstairs surprisingly. Bucky didn’t know how he could do it.

“Sam?” Nat prompted. Sam had taken to exploring some of the strange and windy back hallways of the upper floor that lead to restrooms and stock rooms and who-knew-what-else rooms. Again, Bucky didn’t know how he willingly ventured into this creepy hell hole.

“Nada.” Sam mumbled, “Have seen lots of faces I recognize from front pages of magazines. Most in compromising positions. Gonna be hard to forget.”

“Gross.” Bucky muttered. He heard Nat’s soft laugh filter through the com. “I haven’t…” Bucky started. His thought cut off abruptly.

He was standing at a railing, looking down on the pit from an aerial view, when he saw her.

She was stunning, even though he knew she was trying to keep a low profile. It wasn’t anything in the way she looked necessarily, even though she looked amazing in her slim black velvet suit. When she shifted he noted that she wasn’t wearing a shirt underneath the blazer and he hoped that there was some sort of tape involved to keep the lapels in place on her chest. The smooth expanse of skin he could see between the jacket was nearly too much to handle already.

No, it wasn’t the outfit that made her stunning. She simply was so commanding and present that her energy was intoxicating, even from his perch a floor above. He didn’t understand how everyone around her wasn’t staring at her. He couldn’t really remember what he was supposed to do now that he was faced with her.

She was the new him, he realized. Her hair fell to her shoulders, almost a direct replica of the mop of tousled locks on his head, only darker. He noticed she didn’t look nearly as robotic in this space compared to the videos he’d seen of her.

I knew it. He thought. This is the real her.

“Care to finish that thought big guy?” Sam chuckled through the coms, snapping Bucky out of whatever trance he’d fallen into.

“I uh…” Bucky started again. “I’m lookin at her.”

He heard voices come through the coms, asking where the hell he was and where she was but he couldn’t speak.

He watched her, you, toss back a shot of some dark liquid.

As he stared, your eyes shifted up and locked with his.

Every sound in the world disappeared for him. Bucky couldn’t hear a thing but the pounding of his own heart. There was a string between the two of you that went taught as you stared at each other.

Some part of his brain registered his increasingly frustrated friends trying to get his attention through the coms but he didn’t even dare blink, let alone speak. He was convinced that if he even twitched you would disappear into the smoky haze of the room.

“I see her.” He heard suddenly through the com. Steve must have spotted you across the room from him downstairs. “I’m closing in.”

Bucky watched the corners of your mouth peel into a tiny little smirk. His dry eyes forced him to blink and when his lids opened again, you were gone.

Fuck. He thought.

“What the hell was that, Buck?” Steve snapped through the coms. “I lost her. Anyone else still see her?”

“The only way out is the front door.” Nat breathed. Everyone shifted instantly to beeline for the front. Even if you snuck out before them, Bucky knew you couldn’t have gone very far.

You careened out the front, gasping in fresh breaths of air as you peeled to the left and down the sidewalk at a quick pace. You felt grateful you’d forgone the heels for high top sneakers tonight as you needed to haul ass. Fast. You didn’t really know why you suddenly felt the need to flee. Your intention had been to attempt to speak to them inside, where you had the upper hand.

But every well laid plan had flown out the window when you’d locked eyes with the Winter Soldier. Or Bucky as he was now called.

He looked the same.

He looked different in every way possible.

It ripped a hole in your chest.

So you ran.

You paused briefly to stuff your fingers to the back of your throat, forcing the liquor you’d nervously pounded out of your stomach. You were gonna need every bit of your cunning. They were all there, and you were vulnerable out on the street now.

You were so fucking stupid.

Why had you run? Why did you run from him?

You heard the door crash open a half a block behind you.

Bucky was the first one out the door. Sam had to wind out from the back of the building, Nat had to disentangle herself from conversation and Steve had to make his way up from the bottom floor. He was at an advantage.

His instincts were telling him that he needed to be the first one to intercept you. He felt territorial about it. He didn’t know why, but something shifted while you had stared at each other. It was a glimmer, nearly lost in the recesses of his mind, but he knew you. Somehow.

When he looked to his left, he captured the image of you, curled over your knees, emptying your stomach onto the curb.

What the fuck?

“Please don’t run.” Bucky yelled. “Please I swear we don’t want to kill you.”

He watched you straighten yourself up, wiping the back of your hand across your mouth.

“That sounds exactly like something someone who wanted to kill me would say.” You chuckle.

Your voice. It’s… exactly like he imagined it.

It’s nothing like he imagined it.

Before he can process the whirlwind of emotions in his head, you’ve taken off. He bolts after you. After a few strides he hears the door blow open behind him as the rest of the team flies out of the establishment.

He has to get to you first.

You sprint as hard as you ever have. It hurts more, now that you’re fully in control. You hate it.

You love it.

It makes you furious.

You careen around corners and slip between crowds of people, trying your damnedest to throw them off their trail. Eventually you skid to a halt next to an older BMW parallel parked on a busy street, slamming your elbow into the corner of the back window, shattering the glass. You reach through the now open hole and manually unlock the drivers door, not caring that the remaining glass catches and opens your skin.

“Wait!” A voice calls across the street. It’s him. You fight the urge to cover your ears. That voice.

You scramble into the front seat, reaching under the dash to rip the wires of the starter out of the plastic covering. As you fumble with your hands you glance up, watching the Winter Soldier fling himself expertly through moving traffic towards you.

“Shit shit shit.” You mutter to yourself. You finally free the wires, ripping the ends open and tapping them together until they spark and the engine roars to life.

Thank god.

You shift into drive, rip up the E-brake and prepare to step on the gas. You glance once behind you to monitor the traffic roaring down the one way street. There’s an opening.

When you shift your body back forward to grab the wheel, he’s almost to you. His eyes are wild.

Pleading.

What are you doing?

I’m holding your hand.

Why?

I don’t know.

The pain in your chest is nearly unbearable now. You force your facial features to shift into a wide smirk and flip him off before slamming on the gas as hard as you can.

The e-brake holds the front wheels in place as the back wheels squeal on the ground, spinning the vehicle around in place until you’re facing the wrong way down the one-way.

Finally.

You punch it.

Bucky watches you tear off in the stolen car, panting for breath.

There was a moment. Just a moment where he’d seen something in your face and then a mask had locked down over your features.

He couldn’t make sense of it. The agony in your eyes when you saw him just now.

He must know you.

How?

“I lost her.” Bucky pants into the coms. “I… lost her.”

Nat and Steve came sprinting up behind Bucky, placing her hands on her knees to suck in hair.

“I’ll tail her.” Sam called. Swooping up in the skies and taking off in the direction where Bucky’s eyes were trained.

“I don’t understand.” Nat pants. “She would never have been found if she didn’t want to be.”

“Why did she run?” Steve questioned.

“I don’t know.” Bucky murmured. He couldn’t keep his eyes away from the last place he’d seen your car.

“What happened in there Bucky?” Steve turned to look at him.

“I… don’t know.” He murmured again.

“I’m gonna need more than that pal.” Steve prompted, placing his hands on his hips.

“She… She looked at me.” He choked out. Steve guffawed, dropping his head back to look at the sky. Beside him, Nat eyed him curiously. “I can’t explain it, but it felt… like I knew her. Like we were connected somehow.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean Bucky?” Steve clipped. “You just stood there while she ran.”

“Shut the fuck up Steve.” Nat snapped.

“What?” Steve turned to her then. “Don’t you think it’s a little weird that he was basically paralyzed in there?”

“No.” She snapped. “I think that there’s some deeper story here we don’t understand and I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s a part of it.”

Steve looked to Bucky then, a little more sobered now, and murmured. “You know her?”

“No.” Bucky said immediately. “At least, not really. But there’s something. She looked at me like…”

Like you did when I was falling from that train.

Just then Sam dropped out of the sky and landed next to them.

“She must have noticed me and ditched the car a few blocks over. Went into a subway station.” Sam sighed. “Needless to say, I lost her.”

The whole group stands together, panting staring down the street where they’d last seen you.

Bucky finally breaks his silence.

“I need to find her.”

His damned voice.

TAGLIST:

@maxsaturdayhatesnarwhals

#Bucky Barnes #bucky fic #bucky x reader #bucky x you #bucky x y/n #Bucky Barnes x female reader #bucky x Female Reader

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wiypt-writes · 4 years ago

Text

Stark Spangled Banner

Ch34: Paper

Summary: Following the events in Siberia, Katie, Steve Wanda and Sam all struggle to adapt to a life on the run. The Roger’s first wedding anniversary isn’t spent the way Steve would have hoped, but as Fall arrives, he finallly gets the call he’d been waiting for from Wakanda.

Warnings: Bad language, Smut! (NSFW, Under 18s) Bad Language words.

Pairing: Steve Rogers x OFC Katie Stark

A/N: Wonderful edit again from @angrybirdcr and a new part means a new banner!!!! Here we go, into the Nomad/IW years...

Disclaimer: This is a pure work of fiction and classified as 18+. Please respect this and do not read if you are underage. I do not own any characters in this series bar Katie Stark and the other OCs. By reading beyond this point you understand and accept the terms of this disclaimer.

Chapter 33

Stark Spangled Banner Masterlist // Main Masterlist

August 2016

Following advice from Coulson, the group of Outlaws decided to lay low for a few months until interest died down, although Katie and Sam were pretty amused to find out that there had been widespread protests across the US after Captain America had been declared and Enemy of the State, especially when someone (no names were mentioned, but Katie was laying odds on it being Murdock to help Clint and Scott’s very publicised hearings) had leaked to the press details of exactly what had taken place in Siberia, and how they had been treated by the Government. To Katie’s further delight, Ross was facing a public enquiry as well with regards to their unlawful arrests.

All in all, that part of it had worked out pretty well. And whilst she knew Ross would get away with it, the thought of him being pissed off and inconvenienced filled her with a very smug sense of satisfaction.

The place they were living was called the Isle of Lewis, approximately twelve miles away from Stornoway in the northern part of the inter-connected Islands in the Hebrides. Coulson wasn’t lying when he’d told Katie it was isolated, in fact the only connection to mainland Scotland was either a two hour ferry or a half hour flight, so with that respect it was absolutely perfect.

The old farm house was secluded, the land surrounding it sprawling for miles, shielded by a large thicket of trees on three sides and a cliff edge which dropped down to a small beach on the other. There was no reason for anyone to visit or pass their house, bar the odd dog walker they saw treading the cliff footpath. They were always careful when seeing people to greet them politely so they didn’t attract attention by being suspiciously aloof.

The first rule of going on the run? Don’t run.

At first they strayed into town for supply runs only. Katie was surprised just how well she adapted to living with two additional people. At first she had been worried, Steve and her having had their own space for such a long time. Even in the tower and compound their living quarters had been spacious and private, meaning they could hide away from everyone if they wanted to. But in their safe house they didn’t have that luxury. Nevertheless, it was adequate enough meaning they all had their own rooms, even if they were on the small side. And whilst there was only one full bathroom upstairs, so far there had been no squabbles about who used it when.

The large sitting area had been kitted out with a state of the art entertainment system, they had a decent sized farmhouse style Kitchen-Diner, and a smaller sitting room off the back of the kitchen with a smaller TV and a a piano much to Katie’s delight. Practical things like bills etc were coming out of an account belonging to Mr and Mrs O’Rourke, one of Katie and Steve’s covers- the name being Steve’s Ma’s maiden name. Coulson had advised them it was the least suspicious thing to do and would attract less attention than trying to pay cash at a bank. They’d also acquired a ten year old 4x4, bought for cash of course, and it was subtle enough to blend in as a lot of the locals seemed to drive them too due to the terrain and climate of the Island.

But whilst everything seemed to go according to plan and was, when all was said and done, fairly easy, Steve was struggling. He was antsy from the lack of action, and from a purely carnal point of view was missing the fact he could slam his wife up against any surface he wanted to and not worry about them being caught. He hated the fact their room was right next to Sam’s, concerned with the amount of noise they might make after Bucky’s jibe about the hotel rooms, and it wasn’t long before Katie noticed a dramatic shift in his attitude towards her. He was snappy, short tempered and Katie was often the one that bore the brunt of his temper. They bickered, on a much larger scale than she could really ever remember them doing before, over really stupid things as well like the fact one evening Steve couldn’t find where she’d put his favourite cookies in the kitchen. He became less tactile, less handsy and their love life dwindled dramatically, but she tried not to let it get to her, which was easier said than done especially when she was so used to the fact that he basically worshipped the ground she walked on.

The morning of their first wedding anniversary, Katie woke alone, her husband nowhere to be found. After laying simply staring at his empty side of the bed for a moment, remembering he blinked back tears of frustration and headed for a before she wandered downstairs into the kitchen to be greeted by Sam and Wanda both sat at the table.

“Steve gone for a run?” She asked, after greeting them both good morning.

“Yeah, I offered to go but he wanted to go on his own.” Sam said, shrugging “Didn’t want me slowing him down.”

“He actually said that?” Katie frowned.

Sam nodded.

“I’m sorry Sam, don’t take it personally.” Katie poured herself a coffee and sat down, taking a deep breath. “Is everything okay?” Wanda asked, looking at Katie “You’ve both been a little tetchy recently. Granted you haven’t been as bad as him, but…” “Yeah, you guys not err…getting enough?” Sam quipped, earning himself a slap round the back of the head from Wanda, the younger woman giving him a glare.

“Fuck off Wilson.” Katie rolled her eyes.

“I’m just saying.”

“Well don’t.” She snapped, taking a sip of her coffee then swiping a piece of toast off his plate. “He’s just not coping well with being cooped up, it’ll settled down. I hope.” She added, biting her toast.

“Look, we know it’s your anniversary today.” Wanda looked at her. “You got anything planned?” “Not really possible.” Katie shrugged. “Thought I might try and convince him to take a walk later, just the two of us but…”

“Well,” Sam looked at Wanda then over to Katie. “We thought we might head into town for the evening, hit a few bars. Give you two a bit of space.” Wanda nodded, eagerly. “You have to do something, even if it’s just cooking a meal and having a bit of you time.” Katie pondered this for a moment and found herself smiling “Actually, that’s not a bad idea. I can go to the store later.” Her spirits raised a little as she started planning a menu out in her head. She was jerked from her thoughts when the security system clicked and Steve walked through the door of the kitchen that led to the grounds, the door shutting behind him, the keypad beeping as he typed in the code to lock everything down. His T-shirt was damp with sweat, clinging to his torso, the pair of dark sweats fitting snugly to his hips.

“Hey.” She looked up at him. His face was tired but nevertheless she was relieved to see him smile as he walked over and dropped a soft kiss to her head, their argument from the previous night forgotten.

“Happy Anniversary.” He whispered, and she smiled up at him, understanding his gesture to also be an apology of sorts.

“Back at ya, Soldier.” She swallowed back her tears, “You want breakfast?” “I’ll shower first.” He nodded to Sam and Wanda before pausing, and with a playful smile he stole the last piece of toast off Sam’s plate.

“Not cool man!” Sam groaned. “That was the last of the bread.” Steve simply shrugged at Sam’s protest, before he headed down the hallway to go and freshen up. Katie watched him go before she turned to Wanda.

“Fancy coming with me to the store?”

She nodded “Sure.”

***** When Steve came back to the kitchen half an hour or so later he was surprised to find the girls gone.

“Supplies.” Sam answered his unasked question as he was flicking through the television in the lounge, settling on a British Chat Show called ‘This Morning’, easy daytime TV that didn’t require thinking about. Steve made himself a coffee before he sat down next to his friend with a sigh.

“So, first anniversary.” Sam spoke, not looking at him. “Be this isn’t what you thought you’d be doing?” “You can say that again.” Steve mumbled. Just twelve months ago at that exact time he’d been bustling about his apartment on the compound in a fluster getting ready. It had, without a doubt, been the happiest day of his life. But this was not how he wanted their first wedding anniversary to go down. He’d always planned spoiling Katie a little, maybe a nice getaway, somewhere warm, but that wasn’t an option.

“Me and Wanda are clearing out later.” Sam’s eyes remained on the TV. “Give you two a bit of alone time.” “You don’t have to-“ Steve started but Sam cut him off with a snort.

“Man, you need to make some lovin’ on your girl.” He turned to the soldier who felt a flush rise up his neck. “Because we know you ain’t been getting enough, you’ve been a bad tempered bastard for weeks.”

“I have not.” Steve shot back indignantly, causing Sam to raise his eyebrows. Steve let out a sigh, knowing he was well and truly busted.

“Look, if you two ever need some space, all ya gotta do is ask.” Sam said sincerely, looking at Steve. “Couples need that time. This is bound to be stressful for you both.”

“I doubt it’s easy on you two either.” Steve looked at him and Sam shrugged, before he smirked.

“Difference is if I wanna get laid I’ll just head into town. There’ll be some sap out there that likes George Fletcher the Geologist from Georgia.”

“You’re terrible you know that?” Steve smirked at him over his coffee mug.

Sam simply smiled back. “You get her anything?”

“Yeah.” Steve nodded “We agreed months ago on something paper themed, you know, on account of the anniversary being paper. I had planned to get the lyrics to our wedding song printed and do a sketch of one of our photos to hang up in our apartment but that kinda went out of the window.” “So what did you get?” “A book.” Steve let out a breath “I spotted it in the second hand shop in town last time we did a flyer. It’s a leather-bound complete works of Shakespeare but it was published the year she was born and has all these handwritten notes in it from someone. Just the kind of thing she’ll like. And a couple of albums of sheet music, I know she’s missing hers back home and she hasn’t been playing the piano as much as I thought she would.”

“She’ll love it.” Sam smiled encouragingly “I hope so Sam.” he sighed, leaning back against the couch cushions, scratching at his chin “I hope so.” *****

True to their word, Sam and Wanda headed out just after five, leaving Katie and Steve alone. As Katie bustled around in the kitchen, Steve couldn’t help but watch his wife as she cooked, a small smile playing on his face. And then, realising they were truly alone for the first time in months he placed his beer down on the side and crossed the small room, wrapping his arms around her from behind and dropping his chin to her shoulder, nuzzling at her neck. She smiled at his display of affection, something she’d been aching for, and as the scruff of his almost-beard scratched at her skin she gave a soft sigh.

“You okay?” she asked.

“Yeah.” He said, before he shook his head “No. Not really. Doll, I’m sorry for being so distant. You don’t deserve this.” He sighed. “After the accords, when the dust settled we were supposed to have a normal life, a simple life. I can’t even give you that.”

“It’s a good thing you’re cute because at times you’re incredibly stupid,” She smiled making him breathe a laugh. “Steve we’re here, together after everything. I made that vow, until death do us part and I mean it. I love you.” She finished simply, shrugging. “So stop wasting time worrying about it. You’re stuck with me, Captain Dumbass.“

Steve looked back at her, before he gave her a small smile.

"Now I know this probably isn’t what either of us had in mind, but we’re on our own, I’ve got a pretty large batch of Mac and Cheese, and an apple pie in the oven, a steak ready to grill so let’s just try and enjoy it.”

“You made mac and cheese?” Steve’s face creased into a boyish smile “And apple pie? What happened to not baking pies unless it’s Autumn?” “Well its September tomorrow.” She shrugged. “And I thought it might cheer you up.”

"Sorry.” He half grimaced, half smiled apologetically back at her. “I know I haven’t been the easiest to be around lately ─”

“Stop apologizing.” She interrupted him again.

He studied her for a second before he leaned down to give her a soft kiss. “I love you.” “I know.” Her hands slid down to his chest and she gave him a quick pat before playfully shoving him away “Now scoot, unless you want me to burn dinner. Go set the table.” Knowing better than to refuse, he did as he was told and it wasn’t long before they were settled down and eating. They talked about everything and anything, drank wine, and to the pair of them they could almost have been sat in their dining room at the compound. They laughed, they joked, they poked fun at one another. It felt normal. Once they had finished eating they cleared their dishes, Steve grabbed another bottle of wine and they headed to the couch to find something to watch on TV.

“I got you something.” Katie smiled when Steve dropped the wine onto the coffee table and she gestured to the small gift bag resting on the table.

“Oh, me too. Hang on.” He bounded up the stairs to retrieve his gift. As he returned, Katie eyed the two wrapped items with playful suspicion as he handed them to her. One was really heavy. She passed the gift bag containing his to him and he peeked inside, and they shared a childish grin with one another before they set about opening their presents.

“Oh, Steve.” She breathed out as she gently ran her hands over the leather of the anthology he had bought her. Flicking through, she smiled as she spotted all the notes that someone had written in the margins. They consisted of opinions on the plays, themes, characterisation plots, all the type of thing she had studied at University and she found it fascinating to read other people’s interpretations.

“I thought you might like it.” He watched her as she looked at him, her eyes bright, before she then let out another sigh of happiness when she opened the two sheet music books as they would give her something else to play other than the stuff she knew from memory.

And her gift to Steve was equally as thoughtful. He positively beamed when he opened the new blank sketch books, pencils, wax crayons and charcoals. All of his art supplies had been left behind and he’d been dying to get some more.

“Well, the sketchbook is paper.” Katie explained softly. “And I know it relaxes you to draw.” “Doll, its perfect” He assured her, dropping a kiss to her lips. “Thank you.”

“So, what film do you wanna watch?” She asked, moving for the remote but Steve had no intention of watching a film. Not now. He gently grabbed her wrist and she looked at him.

“Right now, Mrs Rogers, I’d really like to carry you upstairs and take you to bed.”

Katie grinned. “Well that can be arranged, but there’s something I wanna do first.”

He looked at her, puzzled for a moment but when she tapped on her phone and the opening sounds of ‘Only One in Colour’ sounded over the speakers he laughed and stood up, offering her his hand.

“May I have this dance?” He quipped, arching an eyebrow at her.

“Always.” She smiled, allowing him to pull her up.

They moved to the back of the couch where there was more room and he took her in a hold and they simply stayed close, swaying to the music, both of them thinking back to their first dance as a married couple twelve months ago. Katie pressed her cheek to Steve’s chest and he in turn rest his chin on the top of her head, revelling in her closeness. He heard her let out a soft sigh, but this one was contentment, and he gently moved to look down at her. For a moment Katie felt her breath catch, he was looking at her with nothing but unadulterated desire and love, the same way he had on their wedding day, and before the song had even finished, he’d captured her lips in a soft kiss, his hands moving to cradle her face. Hers fisted in his white T-shirt and it wasn’t long before the kiss had deepened causing a moan to catch in Steve’s throat. Without a word he pulled back and scooped her up in his arms, bridal style, causing her to giggle, a sound he would never tire of, and quick as a flash he carried her up the stairs and into the bedroom.

He set her on her feet but before he had time to do anything she’d shoved him backwards, catching him off guard slightly causing him to sit down harshly on the bed and he let out a smirk as she straddled him before she kissed him again and he was happy to reciprocate exactly how he knew she liked, firm and gentle, passionate and caring all at once. Katie gently bit his lower lip drawing another groan from his throat as he rest his head against hers, his hands gently gipping her hip.

“You know,” She drew back slightly to cup his face in her fingertips. “I really do like kissing you with this.” she traced her hand across the short beard on his face. She also liked looking at him with it too because, coupled with the fact his hair was also getting slightly longer, it gave him a rugged, harder, rougher look taking him farther and farther away from the Blue-Eyed all American boy day by day.

“I’m getting used to it.” He murmured pressing a soft kiss to her mouth before his head dropped, small kisses trailing up the length of her neck, that precious stubble creating an amazing contrast to the softness of his mouth.

“Yeah, me too.” She gave a soft moan, her eyes closed as she rolled her head back, giving him access to more of her neck. Steve smiled slightly, happy to oblige and just take his god damned time loving his wife. Eventually, his lips made their way up her jaw and then she sat up slightly, grasping at the hem of his T-shirt. He moved to allow her to take it off and then his fingers made short work of the sleeveless button down she had been wearing, shrugging it down over her shoulders before he peppered more kisses across her collar bone and down her sternum as he reached round to undo her bra. Gently, he lay her flat down on the bed, taking a nipple in his mouth, this time drawling a loud groan from her as her hips bucked involuntarily upwards at the sensations spiking through her body.

God it really had been far too long since he’d lavished attention on her like this and Steve made a mental note to tell Sam and Wanda to ‘take a walk’ a lot more often. It was almost two months now since they had last been intimate and, his body was aching for her, desperate to feel her, and from the noises she was making she felt the same. His lips made their way down, nose and beard skimming along the waistband of her jeans before he undid them, sliding them down with her underwear as he shed his own too before he crawled back over her.

Katie pushed on his shoulders slightly so she could roll him over and placed herself on top of him, brushing her lips across the hairs on his face tracing a path across from one side of his jawline to the other drawing a gentle moan from his lips, hands flexing on her hips as she shifted slightly to start taking him in. Her mouth dropped into a small ‘o’ as they both groaned as she slid down him, her hands falling to his chest and once he was fully sheathed inside of her, she began to work him gently. His hands slid up into her hair, as she leaned forward to kiss him and he raised his hips slightly and she whimpered, pushing down harder against him as his hands gently kneaded at her breasts. Her pace was slow, torturously so, but it wasn’t long before she began to move faster, working him harder as she chased her relief. The roughness of his pubic hair was grinding against her spot, the friction feeling amazing as she pushed down. With every push she made, his eyes grew darker, and darker, his hands digging into her hips as he pulled her down, grinding further and deeper.

He sat up suddenly, so they were face to face, the change of angle making her cry out, as he slid his hands round her back, pulling her closer to him as he bent to kiss her neck, biting at that spot whilst he held her still for a moment, gently thrusting upwards, deeply, slowly, savouring the moment. Katie rolled her head back, a louder cry this time tumbling from her lips and he felt her tighten around him, and he let out a groan of his own.

“Good?” He panted, smiling as she managed a broken noise of affirmation, as he pulled her to him harder, hands back on her hips as his rutting picked up speed.

“Stevie…” She mumbled, her eyes locking onto his as her hands slid up his back and fisted into his hair. A few more pushes later and they were both done for, her name escaping from his lips as her walls collapsed completely, and she let out a soft cry as she fell forward burying her face in his neck. He was close behind, letting out a gentle moan, his beard rustling against her ear as he jerked underneath her, clinging onto her as if he never wanted to let her go. And at that moment he didn’t.

After a minute or so he leaned back, his breathing deep as he brushed her hair back off her face before sliding his nose against hers. “Happy Anniversary, Kitten.” *******

Steve thought the fall in New York was gorgeous but that was nothing compared to what it was like where they were. He was feeling a lot more positive about things as well, as post their anniversary, he and Katie had made a pact that they would do something alone together at least once a week, be it a walk along the cliff the beach, or straying into town to one of the local restaurants. His hair and beard now rendered him pretty much unrecognisable and they never got a second glance at all.

Steve’s favourite ‘date’, if you could them that, was the walk they took in the pitch black to see the Northern Lights late one evening. Katie had been utterly captivated by the beauty of the Aurora Borealis and Steve had to admit, it was spectacular. Committing it to memory was easy, and a few days later Katie wasn’t surprised to find a perfect replica of them his sketch book.

Being on the run shouldn’t have been this easy, and they were constantly on edge, waiting for the time they had to split and run, but whilst they could, they made the most of it.

Thanksgiving came, then Christmas, the four friends making it as festive as possible. They got a tree, shared gifts, enjoyed a Christmas Meal, and after several drinks each, Steve wheeled the piano into the living room where Sam and Katie gave a rousing rendition of ‘Fairy Tale of New York’ along with a few other Christmas songs. It was different, but that didn’t make it any less enjoyable.

And then, in March 2017, they had a call from T’Challa. They were ready to bring Bucky out of cryo. Katie and Steve instantly set about making the arrangements to go to Wakanda, but it turns out they weren’t the only ones planning on taking a little trip…

“There’s something I wanted to discuss with you all.” Wanda said, the morning they were due to depart. “Please don’t freak out, but I talked to Vision last night.”

“What?” Katie’s voice was quiet as she merely looked back at the younger woman, her face passive.

Meanwhile, both Steve and Sam’s eyebrows shot up in their foreheads.

“Hold on, what do you mean you talked to Vision?” Steve asked. “How? Where?”

“This is going to sound really weird, but I saw him in my dreams,” Wanda carried on with her explanation.

“How do you know that wasn’t just a dream?” Sam asked.

“Because it wasn’t,” Wanda shrugged “I don’t know how to explain it, but I know it was him and I know it was real. I think we are connected somehow, because of the Mind Stone and because I was thinking about him before I went to sleep, it made some kind of telepathy possible.”

Steve pondered it for a second, thinking to himself how ridiculous that sounded until he realised they were talking about an enhanced human who had gained certain telepathic and telekinetic powers due to experimentation with the Mind Stone and an android that now carried within his synthetic, vibranium-mesh body said gem.

When you put it like that it seemed fairly logical.

"What did you talk about?” Katie asked after a moment.

“Just stuff, how I was, how much we, you know, miss one another” Wanda bit her lip. “We talked about actually meeting in person in a few days.”

“Okay, hold on,” Sam held one of his hands up, his brow furrowed. “How do we know this is not a trap? Like, I don’t know, Tony getting Vision to talk to you to get us back into the Raft?”

As soon as Sam said it Katie shook her head. Tony could sometimes be a jackass and he may have been hurt and mad at her and Steve, but she knew despite his stinging barb in Siberia, he wouldn’t want them all thrown in jail.

“He wouldn’t do that,” She looked at Sam.

“How do you know?” Sam pressed.

“Because Tony has way better tech than us, and there’s no accounting for what Vision can do with that Mind Stone.” Steve backed his wife up. This was something he had been pondering on for a while now too. “If anyone can find us, it’s them, yet we’re almost ten months down the line now since Leipzig and so far, there’s no sign of any one, so Tony’s either no longer working with Ross, or if he is, he’s dragging his feet deliberately.”

“Exactly,” Wanda nodded emphatically. “And Vision would never do anything to hurt me, not intentionally. I trust him with my life, but it’s more than that.”

Taking a deep breath, his mind made up, Steve turned to Wanda “You’re not a prisoner here Wanda. If you want to go then we can’t and we won’t stop you.”

“Do you want to go?” Katie looked at the younger woman who was wringing her hands together.

“I do but, well, I kinda feel like I’m fraternizing with the enemy.”

“He’s not the enemy. None of them are. Not Vision or Rhodey, Not Tony, none of them.” Steve ran his hand through his hair, sweeping the long strands back off his face. “We all wanted the same thing, to do good in this world but we disagreed on how best to make it happen. Doesn’t make us enemies.”

“But we’re on the run because…”

“This was always going to happen.” Katie cut her off, shaking her head “Ever since SHIELD collapsed and Fury stepped away there was a power vacuum. It was only a matter of time before the Government tried to step in to oversee us.”

“And let’s face it, I was always going to be considered a rogue threat the moment I refused to comply” Steve said, a wry smile on his face. “We all were.”

“Just be careful.” Katie looked at Wanda. “And whilst we’re away just make sure you check in once in a while? And the first sign of trouble, well, let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

“Well if Wanda’s being granted shore leave so to speak, I might take a bit of time too.” Sam chipped in as the idea came to him. “There’s an old RAF pal of mine, based near Liverpool that I aint seen in a while. He’s cool,” he anticipated the next question, “I saved his life on a mission so he won’t sell me out.” Steve took a deep breath and then shrugged “You know the risks, Sam. If any of us get caught then…” “Back to the Pokey.” Sam shrugged “Yeah, I got it. And don’t worry, I wouldn’t rat your location out.”

“Me neither.” Wanda added.

“I don’t for a second believe you would.” Steve shook his head.

“I suppose, to be fair,” Katie bit her lip, “we’ve been here for a long time now. It won’t harm us to disappear for a while, regroup in a few weeks. And we’ll draw even less attention apart as they won’t be expecting it.” And so, for the first time in ten months, the four went their separate ways. ****** True to his word, Steve was there when they woke Bucky up. Once he had come round the two greeted one another with the same love and affection they always did. Suri’s scans showed that the programming was no longer present in Bucky’s brain, but there was one last thing they had to do to make sure.

Say the trigger words.

Which was why Katie, Steve, a one armed Bucky and T’Challa were now heading to the underground fort of the palace. Katie clutching a rifle, Steve was unarmed bar his super strength, whilst T’Challa was in his black panther garb, the party flanked by two members of his Kings Guard.

As they were about to enter the underground cell, Bucky grabbed Katie’s arm and pulled her to one side.

“What the hell Bucky?” She almost yelped, and he let go of her arm and held his finger to his lips.

“Listen, Doll Face, I got a favour to ask. If this hasn’t worked…” He took a deep breath. “I want you to end it.”

“End what?” She arched an eyebrow at him. “Me.” He replied simply “Steve said you’re a good shot. I want you to put a bullet in my head.” Katie blinked, and then burst out laughing. “Whatever.” “I’m being deadly serious.” Bucky looked at her. “I can’t and I don’t want to live like that anymore.” He shook his head sadly. “I’d rather die that know that what they’ve done is still in there.” “Bucky,” Katie frowned, “you’d be safe here, you know that, no one would trigger you.” “No, we don’t know that.” He shook his head. “Please Katie, I’m begging you. You owe me.” “So you save my life and you want me to take yours?” “Yeah. Pretty much.”

“You’re an asshole, James Buchanan Barnes” She hissed, glaring at him before shooting a glance over his shoulder at where Steve was stood, talking to T’Challa. She shook her head sadly. ��I can’t. It’d kill Steve and it’s wrong, you don’t…”

“Listen, I’m asking you because I trust you to do it.” Bucky cut her off, looking over his shoulder to where she had been watching Steve. He was now stood observing the pair of them and they both smiled at him. Katie took a deep breath, looking into Bucky’s steel blue eyes and gave a sigh. She knew how hard this was on him and she could fully understand where he was coming from but still, asking her to do it, especially when she knew Steve would be besides himself made her feel sick.

“I’ve written him a letter.” Bucky said quickly, as the Super Soldier was now making his way over. “It explains what I’ve asked you to do. So please, give me your word.”

She looked at him, swallowing, and gave him a small nod before her eyes flicked to Steve as he approached, a frown on his face.

“You two alright?”

“Yeah, Katie was just asking me how I was really feeling.” Bucky looked at his friend.

Katie shrugged and smiled at Steve in what she hoped as a convincing way “Wanted to make sure he was alright, that’s all.”

Steve studied her for a moment, and she smiled again before he turned to Bucky. “It’s gonna be ok.” Steve assured his friend, clapping him on his shoulder, shooting another glance at his wife who was nervously chewing her lip. He frowned again, but pushed the suspicion to the back of his mind and then nodded. “Come on.” “Yeah, let’s get this over with.” Bucky mumbled.

Steve and T’Challa stepped into the room which was sealed whilst Katie took up her position on the other side of the one way glass with Suri who pressed the microphone to talk into the room.

““I don’t know why you are all worrying, brother, it is like you do not trust me…” the young woman scoffed. “Take no chances Sister.” T’Challa shot back. “You know this”.

Suri made a noise in her throat and then spoke again “Ok, I’m ready when you are.” She held the red book in her hand that they had recovered from Zumo. T’Challa engaged his helmet whilst Steve stood stoic as ever, throwing a glance over his shoulder to the glass he knew his wife was stood at the other side of.

“Ready Buck?” he asked turning back. His friend nodded, taking a deep breath.

T’Challa signalled to Suri who, after a little hesitation, began to read, each word punctuated by a pause.

“Longing, Rusted, Seventeen, Daybreak, Furnace…”

Katie watched intently and saw Bucky was clenching his teeth and suddenly she started to get a little bit nervous. She wasn’t the only one that had spotted it either. Steve moved slightly, adopting a little more of a battle stance than he had been as he clocked his friends reaction.

“Nine, Benign, Homecoming, One, Freight Car”

The last words hit Steve like a truck. It was depraved that Hydra would use those words. Bucky had plunged from a train car to his supposed death. There was no randomness to that at all, unlike the seemingly obscure nature of the rest of the words, nor was it any accident it was the last trigger they would use. There were the final words because they signified the death of Bucky and the birth of the killer Winter Soldier.

Sick bastards.

Bucky’s chest was heaving, his fist was clenching, and for a split second Steve feared the worse. But when his friend looked up, he saw the blue eyes of Bucky Barnes looking back at him, and not the icy glare of the Winter Soldier.

“Buck?” He asked gently, his voice cracking slightly. Bucky looked at him, a single tear falling down his cheek.

“Nothing.” He croaked, and Katie let out a soft sigh of relief, her hands sliding down her face to cover her mouth. “Nothing.”

T’Challa threw a party of sorts that night which consisted of a bar crawl through the city. Katie and Bucky dubbed it a ‘Fuck HYDRA’ party much to Steve’s chagrin. But he couldn’t bring himself to care that much, as at the end of the day, if anyone had as much right to stick their middle fingers up to HYDRA it was them. There was still something troubling him though, so when T’Challa left the bar they were sat at for a few moments, he turned to Bucky and asked him outright what had been going on with him and Katie outside the cell before. Bucky hesitated before he hung his head slightly and peered up at Steve from where he was sat next to him, a tumbler of some kind of Wakandan alcohol in his hand.

“I asked her to kill me.” Bucky admitted, swilling the liquid round in the glass “If it hadn’t worked I asked her to put a bullet in my head. She didn’t want to but I told her she owed me.” Steve felt himself blanche. “You did what?” “You don’t know what it’s like.” Bucky shook his head. “Living with the fact that at any time someone could mutter a string of words and…” He shot back the alcohol and slid his empty glass back to the Bar Tender to top up. “I didn’t want to live like that.”

”You put that on her?” Steve’s eyes flashed with anger, “Damnit Buck, you should have asked me!”

“Would you have done it?” Bucky countered. Steve took a big sigh, knowing he was caught “Exactly.” Bucky scoffed. “And besides, you’re the one that said she was a dead shot.”

Bucky eyed his friend for a while before he slid his empty glass to the man behind the bar, gesturing for another top up. “Anyway, it’s irrelevant now because here I am.”

“That was still a shitty thing to do.” Steve frowned before he reached over for his glass, giving a little shrug. “But yeah, here you are.” T’Challa chose that point to come back and he settled at the bar next to Steve.

“So, Sergeant Barnes, we’ll have to see about getting you some permanent lodgings.” The King smiled “Maybe a private hut. There is a quiet tribe, not far from the river, unless you would prefer a post in my Kings Guard.” “I’m done fighting.” Bucky shook his head as he took another drink from his glass. “A hut sounds mighty fine. Maybe I can get some goats.” “Goats?” Steve looked at him.

“I like Goats.” Bucky shrugged “Do you remember the one in the petting zoo near School?” “Yeah, it set my asthma off.” Steve snorted before the pair of them descended into laughter.

Across the bar, Katie was stood with Suri and one of T’Challa’s personal guards, Okoye. She instantly warmed to Okoye, the woman reminding her a lot of Natasha. They stood chatting for a while before a loud roll of laughter caught their attention and they turned to see T’Challa, Bucky and Steve howling at something, as T’Challa gestured for the bar tender to top up their glasses whilst Okoye excused herself to head over to speak to her husband.

“Oh dear, they’ve broken out the Wakandan Spice.” Suri muttered, eyeing up the men.

“What’s that?” Katie asked.

“The only thing that gets my brother drunk!” Suri snorted “That stuff could knock out a rhino.”

“So it should have an effect on Super Soldiers?” Katie grinned.

“Let’s go find out!” Suri nodded, a cheeky grin on her face. They made their way over and Katie could see instantly the woman was right. Steve had a glazed look in his eyes and Bucky was leaning back in his chair, a pink tinge to his cheeks.

“Hey, Beautiful” Steve smiled up at Katie, pulling her into his lap, his hand trailed up and down her spine, lazily. “Where you been all evening?”

“About ten meters away over there.” She smirked, pointing. Suri was reaching over to steal a bit of the liquor from Bucky’s glass and T’Challa slapped her hand. “You are not even old enough to drink.” He glared at her.

“Tssk hush brother. Just because you are now well into your thirties. You always seem to be so bitter about me being much younger than you.” At that Bucky barked out a laugh.

“Don’t know what you’re snorting at old man.” Katie glanced at him and he quirked an eyebrow at her.

"Not exactly a comment I’d expect from someone who’s married to a hundred-year-old man.”

“Ninety-eight.” Steve corrected.

Katie leaned back in her husband’s lap to peer at him, her right hand running through his hair. "Doesn’t look a day over twenty five.” She grinned.

“Hey brother, why doesn’t your power stop your ageing?” Suri quipped.

“Shut up.” T’Challa glared at her. “Before I carry you back to the palace”

As the two siblings began to quibble, Katie glanced at Steve. “Been talking about the good old days?” “In a fashion.” Steve smirked.

“Anymore good tales of your misspent youth to tell me?” Bucky shook his head. “Sure Steve’s told you enough already.”

“I never told her about the time you set up a double date for us and then forgot to show up.” Steve looked at him, his arms tightening around his wife.

“That never happened.” Bucky shook his head.

“It absolutely happened. Caroline O’Hara and Deborah Smith”

Bucky’s eyes widened. “Oh shit, yeah. Brunette and a red head. A curly red head.” He grinned.

“Yup. Double date to the theatre, only you never showed up.” Steve looked at him, accusingly “And little old me was left to explain to Debbie why you had stood her up.”

Bucky smirked into his glass.

"I thought she was gonna kill me.” Steve mused, turning to look at Katie. “She kept hitting me with her purse. And then Caroline started, asking where the hell he was and why he thought it fit to stand up her best friend and try to fix her up with some kind of joke.”

Katie frowned, narrowing her eyes. “You weren’t a joke.”

“Thanks, Honey.” He grinned before he turned to fix Bucky with a glare. “And do you remember why you didn’t show up?” Bucky was now shaking with mirth, as he looked at Steve, his eyes bright with tears of laughter. “Go on, tell her Buck.”

“I was with Maggie Dougherty.” Bucky smirked

“Yeah, you were.” Steve pointed at him. “That was the night you got caught sneaking out of her room and down her fire escape by her dad who beat the crap out of you.”

“Worth it though.” Bucky snorted. “She was hot. Strawberry blonde waves, pretty face, nice ass.” “Yeah.” Steve nodded and Katie slapped the back of his head.

“Oww!” He looked at her as she glared at him. Grinning he reached up to give her a soft kiss “Not a patch on you though, Darlin’”

After another hour or so, Katie left them to it, heading back to the palace with Suri. She’d had enough, the alcohol she had drunk had lulled her into that happy place here she felt warm and fuzzy inside, and ready for bed.

Steve woke her up when he came crashing into the room a few hours later.

“Shit.” He mumbled, as he banged into the chair by the dresser. “Shhhh”

He staggered over to the bed before face planting straight down. Katie grinned as he peeked up at her.

“I’m drunk.”

“No shit, Sherlock.” She giggled and scrambled out of the duvet. “Come on, get in bed.” “Promises, promises.”

“Yeah, not a chance pal. I doubt very much you’d be of any use in this state.”

“Hey.” He pouted rolling over so he was on his back, turning to look at her as she moved to climb out of bed. “That’s my shirt.”

“I know.” She dropped to the floor to take off his suede boots.

“I like you in my shirts. I like you better out of them.” Steve grinned, grabbing hold of her as she stood up.

“How much have you had?” She laughed as he pulled her onto his lap, nuzzling into her neck.

“Enuff.” he spoke back, voice muffled. “You know you’re the prettiest gal in the whole world?” He peeked up at her and she had to laugh as she ruffled his hair.

“Arms up.”

“I like it when you undress me.” He grinned and Katie gave a chuckle, shaking her head. Eventually she managed to tug off his shirt and his jeans whilst he made some other reference to sex, before he pulled her back down onto the bed next to him, giggling like a school kid.

“Bucky told me.” He slurred.

“Told you what?”

“That he asked you to shoot him.” Steve hiccupped “But I’m glad you didn’t have to.”

Katie chuckled to herself “Me too.” “And now he’s all better.” Steve sighed. “Good, isn’t it?” “It’s awesome.” Shhe smiled, reaching up to bush his hair off his face. “You’re gonna be so hungover tomorrow.” He responded with shrug. “But I do love you. So much.”

“I know and I love you too. Now you gonna get into bed?”

He pushed himself up before beginning a monumental fight with the duvet to get underneath it, the whole thing a great source of amusement to Katie. She’d seen him tipsy from the Asgardian stuff Thor gave him before, but not flat out shit faced like this.

“Are you gonna puke?” She asked, stroking his head as he sighed, nuzzling into her chest.

“No.” He assured her, then paused, before he hiccupped slightly. “But I think I need water.” “Alright, wait there.” Katie climbed out of bed. She grabbed him a bottle from the mini fridge near the door but by the time she had turned back, Steve had his face buried into his pillow and made nothing more than a noise when she offered it to him, not looking up. Deciding she couldn’t be bothered to argue with him, she gently placed the bottle on the night stand next to him, and ran her hand through his hair one more time before she crossed to her side of the bed and settled down with him.

“Night, Soldier.” She smiled softly, kissing his cheek.

“Night, Princess.” He slurred into his pillow.

**** Chapter 35

**Original Posting**

#stark spangled banner #steve rogers #steve rogers fanfiction #Katie Stark #steve rogers x ofc #steve rogers x original female character #mcu #mcu fanfic #chris evans #chris evans characters

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sneakybunyip · 4 years ago

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I have a mandalorian prompt if you take them.... 🥺👉👈 I have looked everywhere but I can only find a few...I really want a story where Mand'alor Din finds his birth parents alive. Can you imagine their amazement, their son... who they haven't seen since he was little... now an undefeated warrior and a king of an entire creed, of an entire planet AND has a jedi son to boot!I really want more stories like this

Reunion (1300 words)

Din feels too small in the throne room that’s supposed to be his.

Din feels too big for the throne itself. It’s clearly made for slighter form than his.

He’s sitting on his cape. It’s uncomfortable. He tugs at it and finds its caught on his belt. He leaves it alone, letting it gently tug at his neck while he shifts around trying to find a comfortable position.

Grogu sits in the middle of the carpeted rug leading from the double-doors to Din’s new throne, acting like its a runway for his toy star cruisers. His burbling fill the empty space, joyful confetti that raises to the high ceilings.

Din smiles under his helmet.

He has kept the helmet on since he landed on Mandalore, awkwardly holding out the dark saber that no one would take from him and that he didn’t want.

He kept telling them he didn’t want this life. Not for him. Not for his kid. Instead, they put him in this throne room, told him to take all the time he needed to get used to the idea...and here is where he would sit.

Forever probably, because I will never be used to this idea.

He turns the saber on. It hisses in his hand like a viper denouncing Din’s new title as strongly as Din. He cuts the air, watching the dark light streak with deadly ethereal grace.

“Not bad, I guess,” he murmurs to himself. He prefers a blaster, or his pike, or literally anything else, but...

Grogu’s watching him.

Grogu’s smiling...wide.

“No,” Din says, knowing what that smile means.

Grogu lets the star fighters floating all around him drop suddenly and he shoots a clawed hand out towards Din. The saber rattles in Din’s hand. His grip tightens.

“Hey,” Din growls. “Knock it off, ya lil womp rat!”

“Brrrp fwa!!” Grogu’s ears lower and he squints.

No, you! He says. Or rather that’s what Din can feel in his mind. Din’s thankful Luke was tutoring Grogu here instead of a temple. He’s also thankful he taught Grogu how to communicate, if only to confirm what Din already suspects about the kid: He’s as stubborn as a reek in a rainstorm.

Suddenly Grogu’s hand drops. His head whips towards the door.

“Huh? What is it, kid?”

He feels Grogu broadcast his feelings to Din.

Family. Grogu said. Family back.

Din stands up, walking towards the double-doors, picking up Grogu on the way.

His heart sinks selfishly. “What do you mean? Your family?”

No. Yours.

“No,” Din says, almost too fiercely, too sharply. Grogu’s ears lower. “Sorry, kid, I don’t mean...it’s just...They’re gone. You’re my family.”

Din halts before opening the door, seeing a pair of shadows on the other side of the door. He hears whispering through the amplifier in his helmet.

“If he’s really here, we should wait until he comes out,” a feminine voice whispers.

“If he’s really in there, do you really want to wait another second to see him?” a deeper voice responds.

Din’s hand goes to the one of the door knobs, but his hand is shaking so badly he can’t bring himself to grasp it. He takes a step back.

Grogu lets out a gentle coo, then lifts both his hands as the doors fly open on his command, revealing the visitors on the other side.

Ice hits his veins...

Shock frays his nerves...

His heart which had been shattered for decades start to sweep itself back into a neat pile and begin the arduous task of repairing itself.

“Is it you?”

The question is asked by three people simultaneously: Din Djarin...Lupita Djarin...and Paolo Djarin...

“...Mom?...Dad?...”

Grogu lets out a sharp chuff and Din realizes his helmet is still on, a dark saber still in his hand. He quickly shoves the saber away and rips his helmet off faster than he’s ever wanted to. It falls with a heavy thud on the carpet.

Beneath the helmet is a scruffy-faced man who has lived too many lifetimes in thirty some odd years he’s existed. And yet, at the same time, he looks like a frightened boy who watched his parents die at the hands of battle droids, and now, with large, soulful eyes, wants so very desperately to believe they somehow survived the attack.

Truly it doesn’t sink in until Lupita and Paolo run towards him. They ignore the discomfort of hard beskar, heavily-armed holsters and a thick belt full of grenades and gadgets. They throw their arms around their son and he embraces them back, just as Grogu climbs onto his back so he’s not crushed by the affections.

“How...” his voice breaks.

“Your Jedi friend found us,” Lupita’s hair is more gray than black, but the ringlets tumble over her shoulders just as he always remembered them. Her nose wrinkles in that familiar way as she smiles brightly through shimmering tears. “He said the Force guided him there and so the Force would guide us back to you.”

“Luke did this?”

Paolo runs a hand through Din’s hair and Din realizes immediately his dad is fussing with it as he would every day before school. Din’s hair is always unruly, the helmet had nothing to do with it. And ironically, he inherited this from his father.

Paolo’s hair is as still dark as he remembers, but the bionic replacement eye is new. It’s very close to organic, but the vectors in the iris give it away. There are scars around one side of his face. They’ve long since healed.

“I thought you were both dead.”

“It’s a long story, son,” Paolo says gently, giving up on his son’s hair and wraps a comfortable arm around Lupita, resting a hand on Din’s shoulder. “And we have plenty of time to explain later, but for now...”

“You’re a king!” Lupita says, brightly, looking around the throne room.

“Ah, sort of. I’m a lot of things. I’m a Mandalorian first...no...” Din let his tears run free, not bothering to wipe them away. “I’m your son first. I’m also a Mandalorian, a bounty hunter, and...a father.”

Grogu knows his cue and pops up from behind Din’s shoulder, letting out a loud pfffft sound to present himself.

“Oh...” said Lupita coos and Din can hear her heart melting as she speaks. “Hello, little one...what’s your name?” She is already reaching for him and Grogu doesn’t hesitate to leap into her arms, eating up the attention shamelessly.

“Grogu,” Din says, proudly. “I’ve adopted him.”

“We’ve missed so much,” Paolo says, also not bothering to wipe the endless stream of tears away. “But no more. We are here now. And here we’ll stay, though...are we interrupting something?” Paolo sees the festive banners around the room and surely they walked by all the festitivies outside welcoming the Mand’alor who doesn’t want to leave his throne room.

“No, you have excellent timing,” Din says. If there was any chance he was going to join the day-long festivities for his reign before, they were dashed now that his parents were here. “We all have long stories to tell. Don’t worry about the Mand’alor situation, I’ll-”

“The what?” The Djarins asked in unison.

Family! Grogu interrupts, wiggling out of Lupita’s arms Family Play! The Negotiator! The Falcon! The Hound’s Tooth! The Razor Crest!

Grogu toddles over to his pile of toy ships and plops down, waiting expectantly.

“Grogu wants to know if you two would like to play what he calls ‘star wars’ with him.”

Paolo purses his lips, and it looks as if he may break down into sobs, which, Din knows, is a very valid reaction at how darling Grogu can be during emotional times.

Lupita rubs Paolo’s back, holding herself enough together to say. “We would love to. May I be the Negotiator?”

Paolo sniffles and follows Din and Lupita. “I declare the Falcon.”

DIn looks back at Grogu who is already floating the Razor Crest possessively.

“Stuck with the Hound’s Tooth again, huh kiddo?” Din asks.

Grogu lets out a proud grrrruuuuuu!

-----

@permanently-exhausted-witcher thank you so much for this writing prompt! I wasn’t actually taking prompts at the time, but this prompt broke my heart in the best ways so I hope you enjoy!

#The Mandalorian #Grogu #Din Djarin #Din's Parents #bunyipwrites

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lordrethandus · 3 years ago

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Daily Writing Challenge 2021 Day 14

Redemption ( @daily-writing-challenge )

World: Warcraft

Content Warning: Themes of Suicide, Death

Rethandus walked through the desolate ruins of the Scarlet Enclave, clutching his head in agony; the commanding voice that once guided his every step and thought had fallen silent, leaving him to struggle with the atrocities he had committed. His burden was heavy, sitting upon his broad shoulders to shame and mock him with each pointless breath. The Death Knight wanted so desperately to die for what he had done to his people, for what he had done to his own family; as he wandered closer and closer to the coast of the ruins, he found his salvation.

Death Knight corpses littered the landscape, all from self-inflicted wounds. The day all of the Scourge’s champions were finally freed from his crushing will, would forever be unofficially known as Deadfall. Tools of their demises ranged from blades still sanctified by the Scarlet Crusade to bloodstained rocks heavy enough to cave in skulls; their deaths weren’t clean no matter what method they chose, but anything that ended their existence was a merciful act indeed.

Rethandus finally stopped walking once he reached an open courtyard, nearly tripping on all of the corpses that lay scattered in every direction. A large billboard was bolted against the decrepit well, stirring the Harbinger to approach until he could read what it said. “DEATH IS THE ONLY WAY OUT!” He was only able to read the part in Thalassian, but something about the message made it clear it simply repeated in all of the other languages. The words stung him, and justly so. Rethandus grimaced from the ache in his very bones, knowing he had to make a decision before this agony drove him into a mindless rampage. The other Death Knights surrounding him likely came here for solace, to find an answer for their suffering; the bloodied bodies and peaceful expressions on their faces told him they found it.

The weapon racks around the billboard were empty, but it wasn’t long until he found a blade suitable for the job. The Orc that used it last still had it buried deep into his chin, and it was still sharp enough to cut through yet another skull with relative ease. Rethandus slowly pulled it out of the corpse and held it aloft, feeling the faint touch of the Light burning at his fingers; this weapon was sanctified - clearly designed to slay undead like himself.

When he gazed at the blade, the terrified look of his sister’s dying gasp was brought back to memory. On the long march to the Sunwell, Rethandus killed plenty of villagers and defenders alike, butchering men, women, and children with pleasure; but nothing was more satisfying than wrapping his hands around his own sister’s neck, giving her just enough space to call out his name. Every day since his release from the Lich King’s grasp brought him back to that terrible day, and the joy he felt when he killed her as slowly as possible now filled his heart with hatred. Not at the Lich King, not at the Scourge, but at himself. This blade was the only way out of this nightmare. Perhaps when he’s suffering in the Void, his sister and mother would forgive him.

“It would be an easy thing to do.” An unfamiliar voice huffed, startling him. Rethandus whipped around to see a golden-haired Sin’dorei staring intensely at him. “You’ve taken many lives, I’m sure. What harm is one more?”

“Stay away from me.” The Harbinger hissed through clenched teeth, still unable to recognize his own voice. “This agony… it makes me dangerous…”

“I’m well-versed in pain. And the pain you’re feeling now.” The Sin’dorei clutched his chest and let out a very hoarse wheeze. “But where are my manners? My name is Zerethel Uvvir Kash’kaar, Grand Advisor to High Justicar Alucieus Sun’rael of the Bloodsworn Vanguard.”

“I don’t care who you are or who you work for.” Rethandus scowled, letting his gaze drop back down to the blade in his hand. “Have you come here to mock me, Zerethel? Or are you here to make my passing easier by doing it yourself?”

“Neither, I’m afraid.” Zerethel produced a small blue flame with the snap of his fingers, but he kept his verdant gaze squarely on the Death Knight. “I’m in the market for a Death Knight like yourself. You don’t need to be particularly strong or smart… but being undead has its uses. Uses that my organization needs.”

“You’re wasting your time on me.” Rethandus winced again, feeling the icy burn in his bones flare up. “You need to leave… and let me pay for my sins with my life!”

“I’m not going to stop you from doing what you feel is necessary.” Zerethel gave him a careless shrug. “I gave the others a chance to work for me, but they were… less willing to chat.” Rethandus refrained from responding, choosing to turn his back on this stranger to do what he came here to do. The blade trembled in his grip, still sticky from the black ichor of the last wretched soul who used it. With each passing moment he grew angrier and angrier, hesitant to drive it deep into his skull. “Do you fear what happens next?” Zerethel asked, causing Rethandus’ ears to twitch. “Is that why you haven’t killed yourself yet?”

“Shut the fuck up!” The Death Knight growled, staring hatefully at the tip of the blade. “If you’re not going to kill me then leave!”

“What if I told you I can give you a fresh start?” Zerethel’s voice echoed in his skull, as his bones cried out for bloodshed.

“I’m no fool. Nothing can change what I’ve done… nothing.” Rethandus collapsed to his knees, pushing the blade against his throat. Just get this over with! He thought to himself, gritting his teeth out of desperation. Just do it!

“True, I can’t wash the blood off your hands.” The stranger began circling Rethandus, but whether he was aware of the imminent danger or not remained to be seen. “But I can give you a purpose. With a steady supply of enemies you may never feel that ache again. And… if your loyalty has proven useful to me… I can even lift that pesky curse.”

Rethandus stopped trying to push the blade into his throat, and opened his eyes to stare skeptically at the stranger. “You expect me to believe you? This curse cannot be lifted. Death is the only way out!”

A cruel laugh slipped through Zerethel’s dry lips, giving the Harbinger pause. Before he could open his mouth for a retort, the stranger plucked something out of his sleeve and tossed it to Rethandus. “Take a look at this, Death Knight. And see it for yourself.” Rethandus’ eyes grew wide the instant he recognized what he was holding; a small scourgestone shaped like a skull. “Turn it over. Look at the name.”

“Zerrel Kash’kaar…?” Rethandus whispered before gazing up at him. “Impossible… this must be some sort of trick…!”

“Deception has proven useful to me before. But this is no trap. I suffered as you did, a few years ago.” Zerethel took a few steps forward, choosing to cross his arms while he stared blankly at the Death Knight. “I terrorized a small group that once called themselves the Keepers of Shadow. For almost a full year I was their greatest foe… until I came to them for help. With said help, I learned how to undo the curse. I can show you how, if you’d like.” Rethandus shot to his feet and took weary steps toward the stranger until he was close enough to touch.

“I… know you…?” He whispered, forcing a cruel grin to spread across Zerethel’s face.

“We were all Brothers and Sisters in Death, were we not? You and I have never met, but through the One Will of Arthas, we are familiar with all who once were slaves to the Scourge.” Another wheeze slipped through his clenched teeth. “You and I are no different.”

“Impossible…!” Reluctantly Rethandus reached out, touching the stranger’s wrist; he could feel the warm pulse of blood against his icy fingers, even the hairs on his wrist began to stand up straight from the cold. There was no doubt about it; he was very much alive. “How did you do this?! Tell me!”

“Join me, and in time I will.” Zerethel’s grin vanished. “As I said, I’m in need of your skills. If you want to feel the warmth of the sun again, to be free of that accursed ache, and die early like us mortals do… you will have to follow my every command. And, if you stick through it until the end, you will rejoin the living.”

“Tell me what I must do!” Rethandus collapsed to his knees again, almost clinging to Zerethel’s robes. “Whatever it is, I will do it without question! I want to live again! I want to be free of this fucking nightmare!”

“That’s what I want to hear.” He bent down and grabbed Rethandus firmly by the shoulder. “Return to the Ebon Hold and grab yourself a pair of armor and weapons. Then travel west, all the way until you see New Hearthglen. Look for a golden spear and a halo, on a black banner. When you reach the gate, tell them Zerethel sent for you.”

“Yes…!” Rethandus felt a rush of hope surge through his aching body; a brief moment of happiness came and went, filling him with determination. He could escape this curse while remaining amongst the living, but he had to follow this elf’s orders without question. There was no price he wouldn’t pay to breathe again, to taste again, to sleep again. To be brought back to life had become his single mission, and now that hope was within reach, he would do whatever it takes to grasp it.

“What is your name?” Zerethel asked, helping him to his feet.

“Rethandus An-…” Rethandus paused, feeling nauseous for even mentioning his surname. His house was in ruin by his own hand, and taking it up again would be a grave sin to those he once called family.

“You’re from House Andu, right? The late house, anyway?” Zerethel’s smirk returned as he stroked his chin. Rethandus remained unresponsive, apparently choking on his own words. “The only son and heir… yes, I think I remember you. Is your skill in a blacksmith still sharp?”

“I believe so…” He huffed, already sounding defeated.

“Rethandus Andu… no, Rethandus of the Fallen House Andu. Rethandus Andu’al. It has a more fitting ring to it, I suppose.” Zerethel sneered at him, gently slapping the Death Knight’s chin. “This is a time to rejoice. Soon your mortality will be yours again. But first… you must make it to the Western Plaguelands alone. Kill a few animals on the way to dull that edge, will you?”

“Y-yes… I will do that.” Rethandus inhaled deeply, still not used to having useless lungs.

“Suffer well.” Zerethel waved one last goodbye before turning, leaving the Death Knight alone with the corpses strewn across the ruins and the blackened blade still in his hands.

“A second chance…” Rethandus whispered, shortly before dropping the blade. “I have a lot of work to do…”

#dwc2021 #day142021 #ijirothehero

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btswishes · 4 years ago

Text

Love me for who I am now

Bucky x Reader ( Chapter 5)

Previous / Next (6)

Summary: You apply for the Stark internship and end up getting it, so now you have 5 months to make a good impression to continue working with the Avengers.

A/N: I hope the chapters are not too long with no action. Lets see how it goes from now on. I have no idea how long this might end up being, presumably not past 20 chapters. Sorry for any mistakes made, hope you enjoy it even a tiny bit.

Tag list: @vicmc624 @yasminwashere

Word count: 4,076

Warmings: fights, harsh language, not part of the original MCU

Y/N- Your name

Y/L/N- Your Last Name

----------------------------

Three moons shined over your new room one after the other, observing its slow but sure change. A white canvas starting to turn into a personal expression of ownership and personality. Working with Dr. Banner was quite enjoyable. It was you two at first till Tony joined in, showing you little tricks that increased your productivity by 50%. Amazing what one could do with an experienced teacher. You got used to the gym, going on your own at this point. Anxiety now a part of the past. The first week in the compound felt like more than a month. Cups and mugs, kitchen and rooms, you memorized it all by heart – a surprise even to some of the Avengers still struggling with it. Your brain but a sponge for all important information.

Peeking inside your room, the sun gently warmed up your skin, awaking you to a missed call from Nea. Your fingers lazily, based on touch memory, rung her phone back.

“Why don’t you pick up when I call you?” she lectured you in the mic

“Because unlike your grand majesty vampire Nea, we mortals need sleep to function.” You murmured in a groggy tone “Maybe share your ambrosia with me next time.”

“They don’t offer super soldier serum energy drinks there?”

“No.” your voice sounded like two stones being grinded together. Palm rubbed over your eyes, leaning your body on that exact elbow seconds later “What do you want? It’s 6 fucking AM.”

“To have breakfast together grumpy.” Nea had a devilish tone, who knew what she was thinking in that pretty head of hers again.

“Now!?”

“No, no. At 9 maybe. Same place we usually go to.” It took a bit of convincing, but you ended up saying yes “See ya later sugar.” The beep following her voice made you throw the phone to the side and puff out, body falling back on the mattress. Your eyes shot open again a few cloud movements later, when you jumped off the bed and into the bathroom. Your gaze landed on the reflection, hair looking like you had an exciting night – wrong by a mile.

6AM or not, you couldn’t fall asleep anymore, so what was the next best thing? Getting training over while everyone was hopefully still sleeping. Less embarrassment when you miss the punching bag and face plant in it – again.

Workout clothes on your back, bag in hand and a big chug of water – off to the elevator for your exhausted self. Numbers appearing into the little screen one after the other, counting down the floors till you smelled that familiar cleaner. At this point it did the same job as a preworkout powder. Throwing the duffle bag on a bench, you dragged yourself around the gym - thrilled by the emptiness.

“Lovely.” Your voice rung out breathy with relieve. Some cardio later you began your usual workout program designed by yours truly the trio of demons - Nat, Steve and Bucky who in more than one way was the father of the shittiest things you had to do. What normal human being does upside-down crunches?

White chalk enveloped your fist in a cloud, as it made contact with the punching bag. The sheer force pushing back farther with each powerful blow. You huffed and puffed bearing the exhaustion starting to slowly drop and pile in your system. The little trickster in your head began hypnotizing you, making giving up or stopping now such a sweet idea, only one choice away. Yet if you didn’t finish up the daily routine you knew they would catch you and the penalty one was far from pleasant. Better the lesser evil than Satan himself.

“Glad to see you are not training your face for once.” The voice vibrated with an amused bass, conducted by the heavy boots shacking up the room with the same depth.

“Ha, ha.” Your skin made contact with the leather at the last word, taking the object off the chains in one clean swoop “Funny Sergeant. So much so I didn’t even laugh.” Fingers wrapped around your wrists as the punching-bag rested on the floor after its ceremonial thump, making sure there was no damage you could have missed with the lack of pain.

His eyes enveloped your arm, running over your shoulder and to your face, no thought behind his blue eyes. Almost like a force of habit to check for something. Even if his body frame was big you could never noticed him moving, which was scary at first. Bucky could be anywhere at anytime with no sign at all.

“What got you up this early?” he grabbed a second punching bag and threw it on the hook, filling the huge gym hall with the sound of metal hitting metal “Night…terrors?” the sentence came out like a small whisper, hoping you didn’t catch it.

“Nope si-“

“Do I make you uncomfortable?” your words stuck on top of your tongue, just shaking your head “ Then why don’t you use my name the same way you call Steve and Natasha?” your eyes looked at him for a moment, before grabbing the weights from the side and tying them up to your waistline. His head turned to the side, somehow making him feel stupid for letting such a thing leave his lips. A coldblooded soldier, scared of a request.

“I actually had a goodnight sleep, that is until my best friend called me at 6am.” Your body pushed off the floor, chains singing out, tapping on your thighs.

“I see.”

Palms firm on the bar, your neck crooked a bit to catch a glimpse of his sagging posture before refocusing in front.

“How did you sleep…- Bucky?” the blue color in his eyes twinkled with delight, maybe a hint of pleasure at how his name sounded coming out from your lips, with that sweet tone he seemed drawn to the past days. It felt almost like he longed to hear it again from decades ago.

“I slept.” His voice was colored with need to cover his lie with a coat of truth

“Doesn’t look-“ you pulled yourself up the bar “- like you did much of that. Trouble sleeping too?”

Bucky’s fist kept hitting the bag at the same speed you were doing pull ups close by. Two sounds, hand in had married to a familiar rhythm intertwined by silence. His grunts sending a chill down your neck, convulsing it back a bit. It felt almost like his fingers were inches from touching you skin, the area blazing.

“Ugh.” You whined out, his ear twitching in your direction. The thud followed your body walking past him to your bag “I will go take a shower seeing how it is 8 already. Time sure passes fast with you Bucky.” A giggle rung out tugging on a smile. His lips parted, but he gave himself an unaffected façade, even if his heart was doing leaps.

“I don’t talk much.”

“Well maybe if you actually slept more, you would.” Scolding and serious about health issues with this man child, had become a daily occurrence. Seeing how he didn’t even try to lay down. “See ya later.” You waved the back of your hand at him, walking away.

The showers in the compound were amazing. Everyone in the Avengers had their own one. Your shampoo and products were already resting inside waiting for you to jump in. It was a co-ed bathroom, but usually most of you guys had a different schedule so no encounters. Well maybe once or twice with Natasha, but it was fun aside from her teasing. The warm skin on your heel cooled down immediately after it made contact with the light navy tiles.

“Ohhh.” Your muscles made you spasm for a minute before adjusting to the temperature. Water running over your body, relaxing every bit of your strained figure, droplets gently massaging the pain from the inside out rhythmically. The stream pulled your hair down, elongating it with each pass over. You felt your arm lean onto the wall in front, just to enjoy the full effect of the radiating warmth, opening up your sinuses. Eyes slowly closing, taking you to a safe space, almost away from this world and back into another.

After what felt like an eternity of alone time in the gym, Bucky had stopped working out just standing there. He had no more motivation. Fist draped with the soft material of the towel, he made his way to the shared showers before his body froze. Running water caught him off guard, but what laid the finishing blow was the delicious smell of flowers and fruits filling up his senses. Usually faint to people, but he was enhanced – a gift on missions, a knife to his chest when it came to things like these. He took a deep breath, trying to swallow the forming lump in his throat. Bucky didn’t know why this was so difficult for him. He had been in here with others before, but nothing made his blood flow faster than right now.

“Bucky?” your voice shook him out of his daze, nowhere to run anymore.

“Yeah. Sorry I didn’t know you were still here.” Your face flushed red upon hearing him actually answer, for a second you thought it was just a random sound. His heavy footsteps echoed on purpose, almost like he wanted you to know where he was exactly, so you would feel less uncomfortable or frightened. Eyes shooting in the direction of your door, where he seemed to have stopped.

“Something wrong?” your voice pitched with his presence so close to your naked body

“My shower is next to Sam and Steve on the other end, but-“ he stopped opening the door to the one positioned right next to you. “ My name is right here.” It took you a minute to register what could have happened, before a forced laugh pushed out your throat

“Tony got bored I guess.” He always pulled stunts like this from what you saw and were told by others. Pepper made sure to warn you, but you didn’t think he would go this far. Then again, why were you nervous in the first place anyways? Who cares, right? You knew Bucky wouldn’t do anything, he was just a puppy with a scary outer shell. Or maybe you wanted something - a thought turning your eyes a bit dark, glazed over almost.

“I swear, he needs his ass beat.” Bucky growled which didn’t help your situation or thoughts “I will wait for you outside.” Pressing your lips together you held in a thought, that just couldn’t sit still. Its metaphorical fingers pried an escape open.

“It’s ok. I trust you, plus we are team mates Bucky. I don’t think it will always be a nice encounter for us if I started going on missions soon.”

Tense air, steam filling not only the room but also your mind. Damn it! You cursed at yourself, but that soon dissolved the moment you heard the click and water hitting the tiles. For a moment air couldn’t come out of you, only the humidity in the room running over both your bodies.

Gathering yourself together, the memory of your breakfast plans harnessed you into action. Your finger flicked the lid of the bottle open, pouring some onto your sponge. Cutting the water flow, you began rubbing it all over your body, bubbles forming a thin fabric like veil over your figure. Taking in the ambiance of the situation, you could smell that familiar scent that usually came off Bucky – almost relaxing you out of instinct.

“That is a nice shampoo you have there.” You spoke up. Bucky wasn’t a stranger, plus small talk could ease your nerves more. In your mind you were the only one feeling weird – far from the truth.

“It’s a body wash.” He said “I use it for both.”

“You can’t do that!” and just like that anxiety flew out of the window like it wasn’t here, in your chest at all “ That will dry your hair out!”

“It does the job. I don’t mind.”

“Well you should. I know it’s probably too much work for you, but you gotta put some care in yourself too Bucky. This is a terrorist attack to your scalp!”

“You seem very enthusiastic about this subject.” He laughed out, catching you of guard. He was having too much fun and you weren’t having any of it. Bucky should be taking you seriously. Pursing out your lips, the little devil on your shoulder crawled to your ear and whispered with an alluring voice. The corners of your lips curled up in the same evil smirk, as your fingers silently grabbed your mango ice cream with essential oils, shampoo. Tiptoeing over to the wall dividing you, you reached over pouring some on top of his head, while Bucky was busy explaining how it is a waste of time for him. Palm over your lips grasping your jaw, you tried to not let out even the smallest peep, no matter how much you wanted to bust out laughing – he would find out. The sergeant’s big hands rubbed the product into his long hair, before bringing his fingers to his nose and catching your snickering from the other side. A new found confidence started filling your blood circulation with adrenalin.

Bucky didn’t say anything, he used your lack of concentration to do exactly the same. It took you faster to figure it out, his shampoo already soaked up into your hair, roots and scalp.

“Barnes!” a hostile hiss parting your mouth, mad at his childish behavior even thought you were the one that started it in the first place.

“An eye for an eye doll.” You could practically feel him smirking. Switching the game on you, it wasn’t fun being on the receiving end.

“Did you peep on me!” he laughed out and denied , seeing how riled up you were – feeding his inner self

“Don’t let yourself fall prey to your primal instincts James.” This was the first time you used his first, real name. You wanted to tease him, he always acted like a kid so pushing his buttons wouldn’t be something too difficult to achieve. On the other side, fire lit up in his chest, flowing like lava all over his body, skin radiating waves off heat. Bucky’s eyes shot up almost over the wall, dark.

“Oh trust me doll, this wall isn’t high enough or strong enough if I truly wanted to take your figure in.” His palm hit the top of the only barrier between you two, proving his point. The tiles almost cracked under his pressure “If I wanted to I easily could.” Showing just how tall and massive he actually was. The water almost not hitting the floor could give you a good idea about his posture. The image of his back flexing in that pose intoxicated your mind, but you weren’t ready to give up the crown now.

“Don’t be ashamed Bucky. You lack a few years of experience sleeping through them. Happens, no one will put it against you.” Hitting him right in the manhood, low blow even if he was 100+ years.

“Say that after you have experienced me doll. 40s James couldn’t do to you the things super soldier me can.” Your voice hitched upon that whole sentence, the confidence in this man. You heard Steve joking about this from time to time, but coming directly from Bucky was a whole other thing. The shower felt like ages, when you stepped out wrapping the towel around yourself as tight as possible. Not taking your chance with meeting him you dashed towards the door, almost slipping.

“Careful doll face.” his right hand holding you by the waist, chest pressed into you. He had only one towel around his hips dangerously close to sliding off his hips and thick thighs. The water from his hair dripping onto your chest, fixed hungry gaze onto you. “Cat got your tongue? You were so talkative with that wall between us.” A light push and you found yourself back onto your feet and scrambling to get out to the lockers and to your room.

You didn’t want to give yourself a moment to process what happened, so you got dressed and ran off to your destination. Flying through the crowds almost, leaving the situation streets behind.

“Wow wow!” Nea’s hands flew up when your body jumped into the booth she saved for you two “What got you all riled up?”

“I am NOT!” strenuous notes hitting her right in the face.

“Ok…so not the case then. I already ordered your usual. Mind?” you shook your head, leaving your light green bag close to you, trying to calm down. “So.” Leaning onto the soft pads on her palms, Nea eyed you up and down feeling embarrassment oozing out “ Did you break something or someone?”

“No, No. Can you just, drop it?” mimicking her posture you threw your face in your hands, wishing to A) go back in time or B) just disappear from the face of the Earth.

“I was going to but...” pulling her body back, letting it lean on the chair, she scanned “Let me guess. You dressed up in less than 10min, ran here for the same amount of time AND.” Her nose found its way to your hair, making you jump back protectively “You smell like a man, not a boy. A man. Not to mention your red face.” Nea paused, letting you take in her wave of words “Grab a glass of water and let’s see if it will evaporate. Tssssss burning.”

“Your order.” A waitress rolled up with your food. Thanking her, you flashed a forced smile watching her walk away.

“Spill it! Who was it?” arrows were being shot at you. Nea was your best friend. If you didn’t tell her, who would you? After a lot of consideration you sighed, giving her the sign she needed to get ready for this.

An explanation later

“You got cocky.” Her arm taking in her weight on the table minutes after the whole story “ What does the agent even look like? Is he taller? I mean do you have an upper hand or something.”

“It was….Bucky.” you hid your face, waiting for the explosion. Not hearing anything pulled your eyes to her wide ones, mouth hanging almost to the table. With a light motion you closed it back up for her.

“The….the…WINTER SOLDIER!?”

“SHHHHH!” your body flung up, pressing both your hands to her mouth, almost stopping her air. Nea pushed you off, oxygen meeting her lungs before silence again. “Don’t yell!”

“Well I mean WHO WOULDN’T .” She noticed how uncomfortable you were about explaining “At least he smells really good. Is he as beefy as they say? Who is thicker him or Steve? What about Thor, heard he had a nice body too!”

“Calm down. I don’t wanna talk about other people like that.”

“Fine! Keep it to yourself then….” She eyed you, her posture sideways “How is the tower treating you? ” The topic changed to your daily lives and some tea about mutual friends. Breakfast was nice, quite refreshing to meet the city bustle compared to the Zen state of the compound. Nea knew exactly how to calm you down and get you back into your natural rhythm. After paying, you two made your way out the restaurant and back into the ensemble of random sounds.

“Any plan?”

“Hm?” Nea was throwing you a worried stare “About?”

“The situation with the sergeant. You will meet him at some point in there. Gym, hall, common room. You can’t evade him forever. What if you end up being paired up on a mission? Y/N, you are not the type to let stuff like these effect your job.” She was right. There was no way to hide forever. Being bold was what got you in this situation and it could be the answer to it again.

“You are right. If we end up being in a place alone, I will talk it out with him. Probs apologies for making him uncomfortable.” Rubbing the back of your neck you paired the motion with an uneasy, maybe slightly painful laugh.

“ There you go again!” Nea crossed her arms in front of her chest scoffing, letting them fall forcefully. “Going in your head. To me it sounded like he liked it AND teased you back. Don’t force people away like you usually do just because you THINK they don’t like you.” Her smile was soft, sweet like that of a mother giving advice to her hurt child.

“OK!” balling your fingers in a fist you rose them to the level of your chin – aura filled with enthusiasm “I got this!”

“You do!” this girl could hype a crocodile to fly and actually do it.

“What is wrong?” you waved your hand in front of her concentrated face behind you, seeing as how your words weren’t registering anymore

“Better do what you promised me ok?” her hand pushed you back slightly, before you felt an arm as strong as a bolder grab onto you, lifting you off in one swift move.

“TAKE GOOD CARE OF HER!” your best friend’s voice being left further and further away. The disruptive winds were pulling your hair back with the speed the car was drifting with, drying out even the smallest water droplet left. In a moment’s notice you got smuggled in through the big window, finding yourself sitting in someone’s lap.

“Congratulations on your first mission kid.” Steve was holding onto the car’s wheel like there was no tomorrow, driving with speed close to seeing God.

“What is going on!?”you began moving around, confused, catching the city and your freetime in the distance. Bucky’s hands pushed you down onto his lap, trying to stop you from falling out the window

“Tony called. Something out of nowhere popped up and he needs us.”

“Us?” you gasped at the blonde man, trying to calm your heart from the contact with Bucky

“Yup.” His thumb pointed at the back seat “Bruce made sure to pack the stuff we need so just sit down and enjoy the ride. Bucky is pretty comfy.” He threw you a wink.

“Can I go to the back at least?”

“No can do doll. We can’t stop the car.” Your now seat explained

Rage, confusion and who knows what else was stirring up in you, wanting to jab a punch in both the faces of the super soldiers. Tony too, he has been messing around a bit too much lately. Your back hit Bucky’s muscles when you leaned aggressively, pushing your arms to your chest as you blew a strand of hair out of your face. The whole situation pulled a light groan out of him, that didn’t go unnoticed to your shivering thighs.

“We will be there in a bit.” Steve grabbed the gearstick with the same aggression projected on the wheel, his knuckle turning white under the drip. There was no running away from this, first mission or not you at least wanted to know before hand, get briefed maybe. Your knee began jumping nervously. How bad could this actually be - sending 2 super soldiers and a bag of who knows what. If your metal dust was in there, shit was going to go down. Could you do it? Could you trust yourself enough to finish the job, not get yelled at….or die?

Bucky’s vibranium arm ran over your uneasy leg and gently rubbed circles into the fabric of the pants. Head leaning down to your ear, fingers moving the hair to expose the shell.

“It’s ok, just relax. Nothing will happen promise baby girl.” Warm air over your skin, yet calming in a weird way “I have been told that my lap is pretty comfortable by ladies. Just enjoy it.”

“James! Buchanan! Barnes! How! Can! You! Be! Pervery! Right! NOW!!!” a hit to his chest between each word, send a vibration through his body, the laugh coming out distorted. Steve threw a look your way, but didn’t say anything, keeping his thoughts behind those serious eyes of his. As he let his best friend get beat up. Whatever it was, this mission was not just a field trip and Cap knew.

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wwilloww · 4 years ago

Text

athair lusa | pjm

athair lusa, the ground ivy, springing up from the soil with rich, purple flowers and broad green leaves.

Origin: Ireland

Pairing: Jimin x FaePrince!Taehyung

Genre: Folklore. Suspense. Fae!Au.

Rating: NC-17

WC: 2.4k

Summary: “Is it not a strange request,” Jimin says, “to ask me to dance when there is no music?” While on his way to draw water from the well, Jimin slips on a rock. When he stands up again, the world around him seems unrecognizable, as if everything has been dusted with an unfamiliar enchantment.

Warnings: Possessive behavior.

A/N: This story, also known as “The Fairy Dance,” is a story I grew up to, one that was told to me over and over. I consider this to be part of a larger personal project to queer the stories I grew up on. It’s an effort to normalize the presence of queerness in lore and unravel gendered expectations within folktales. Because of this I’ve done my best to stick to the oral telling of this story in both content and style - meaning the writing differentiates itself significantly from my usual style! This project is special to me and I truly hope you enjoy it. I can’t wait to hear what you think of it.

Thank you to @jingabitch for helping me when I felt most stuck with this! Thanks a million to my love @ot7always for editing the image in this banner and listening to me ramble. And of course a hUGE THANKS to the lovely folk in BTS Smut Hub for being my constant inspiration and motivation.

And finally, this is part of @ksmutclub’s Twisted Fairytale collaboration!

masterlist

Athair-Lusa.

In a town on the western most coast of the Isle, there lived a young man with hair that shone like the rays of August sun. He was beloved by the townspeople, known for the enchanting melodies that lifted from his lips like birdsong, ensnaring anyone in range. His name was Jimin.

One day in late November, as the night began to draw in, Jimin set down his reading and readied himself to go out into the darkness. He preferred the stillness of sunset and often went out at this time, just to hear the soft hymn of the world slipping slowly into sleep.

Now, it has long been known that the Veil between worlds is thinnest in November. As the remaining veins of summer fade from the land, spirits and creatures of the other worlds come to press up against the thin border between their world and ours. Even nighttime comes to linger, snatching time away from the golden fingers of the sun.

On this night, Jimin decided to take his walk to the well to gather water. He swung his wooden bucket over his shoulder and set off into the darkness. The trees stood tall above him, watching his path. Jimin felt the hair on his neck raise, as if something was watching him from the shadows. However, rather than turning home, he lifted his face to the night sky and sang. The music spilling from his lips split through the darkness of the night, and Jimin felt a sense of peace wash over him.

As the small stone structure of the well came into sight, his foot slipped. He could feel his ankle twisting, and then the feeling of falling through empty space. The air wooshed up around him as he fell.

His back hit the hard earth of the path, crushing the breath out of his lungs. For a moment, Jimin simply lay there, taking deep breaths to calm the fright in his body.

When he lifted his head, his old wooden bucket was nowhere to be seen. Instead of a path hardened by thousands of years of travelers, Jimin lay on a soft field of grass, shimmering emerald green beneath the full moon. Around him, everything seemed as if it had been touched by an enchantment. The trees, whose leaves had dropped a month ago, were now blossoming with flowers of the most brilliant colors. The chill of the winter air was replaced with a soft and warm breeze, lifted off a summer sea. And as he looked up at the sky, the moon hung twice as large, as if she had come down from her high throne in the sky to take a closer look at the goings-on of the people below.

As Jimin sat up, he saw a great crowd gathered a short distance away. As his vision cleared, he realized that they were circled round a fire that danced and leaped and seemed to reach out to the figures surrounding it. As if his mind had been wiped clean of thought, Jimin stood and began to move towards the crowd, mystified by their tall frames and slender figures.

Jimin himself was of average height, his body built like the land. Ready to work, ready to dance. But at this moment in time, Jimin’s body drew him forward towards the beings that stood round the fire, till at last, he stood in the very midst of them.

They held onto their silence, watching his every step. It was at this moment that he thought to be afraid. But as he made to step backward, to step out of their circle, he realized he could not.

Panic began to rise in his throat like bile, setting his muscles alight. Just as he opened his mouth to scream, the crowd around him turned and parted and a handsome young man stepped into view. Jimin’s eyes widened as he took in the figure, who walked like a prince. He wore a red sash, deep as freshly drawn blood. A golden band dressed his long dark hair, shining like the sky on the eve of a new moon.

Jimin’s heart thrummed in his chest as he realized the handsome prince was approaching him. He walked slowly towards him, allowing his eyes to rove over the young man. When he finally reached him, he bowed and extended a hand. An offering.

“Is it not a strange request,” Jimin said, “to ask me to dance when there is no music?”

The prince raised his head from the deep bow and swept his hand into the air. Instantly, the sweetest music carried through the night, surrounding them. He took Jimin’s hand with one of his own, wrapping the other one tightly around his waist. Jimin gasped as his chest was brought to the prince’s, their closeness sending warmth to his cheeks.

"What is your name, dear stranger?" Jimin asked, his brow furrowed. His words seemed to stick in his throat, bewilderment flooding his mind. Such a handsome stranger had never wrapped him up like this before, in such beauty, in such enchantment.

The prince smirked. "You may call me Taehyung."

"Are you a prince of these people?"

"If that is the word you use—then yes."

Jimin opened his mouth to ask more, but the Prince silenced him with a twirl, sending all thought of questioning the strange being before him out of his mind.

They danced until the moon became tired and went to sleep beneath the darkness of the horizon and the stars took their leave from the dance floor. As the prince twirled him round the fire, it seemed as if Jimin was gliding through the air. He had always been known by the townsfolk for his light touch and graceful step. But in the prince’s arms, Jimin’s body felt different. The strain of the movements was eased and he felt boundless energy spring up in his chest beneath the attentive gaze of the prince.

"I have never seen a man dance with your grace," the Prince mused, his gaze falling to Jimin's lips. "Or known one to capture such beauty in his every movement."

Jimin was not used to such flattery. His cheeks were painted with his embarrassment, he ducked his head. The Prince was quick to lift his chin, bringing his face ever-so-close.

“Do you like me, sweet boy?” the Prince asked, tilting his head.

“I do not know you,” Jimin replied, slowly. “How do I know if I like you if I have just met you?”

“There is an eternity to get to know me.” A smirk flashed across the Prince’s sharp features before he pulled Jimin tightly against his tall frame and spun him further into the dance.

Twirling around the fire, it became easy to forget the rest of the world. For that moment, all that existed was the feeling of his feet leaping off the ground, and the low music, and the feeling of being held so tightly by his partner.

Just as Jimin began to feel like time was slipping away from him, the figures around him stilled and the music slowed to a complete halt. The prince still had his arms wrapped around the smaller man, his face pressed close and curious.

"Will you dine with us tonight, dear Jimin?" the prince asked, his voice threaded with sweetness. Jimin's gaze fell to the prince's lips where a small smile played along the pink, plush corner. He wondered when the Prince had learned his name.

Before he could answer, the ground rumbled and split open, a long staircase descending into the darkness of the earth. The prince held out a hand, and hesitating, Jimin took it. Despite the warmth of the tall man's palm, Jimin's skin erupted in goosebumps.

The prince led him down the flight of steps, the rest of the dancers following silently behind. It seemed as if the stairs might never end, the rock around them becoming darker and warmer as they descended. After an unspeakable time, the steps widened and a great hall appeared before them, lit by thin candles that stood as tall as Jimin. As he looked up at the ceiling of the hall, he realized there was no roof, despite the depth to which they had descended. Instead, a yawning darkness looked down upon the company and untethered, unsourced lights bobbed gently through the air as if upon an invisible current. Before them lay a great table, heaped with every delicacy Jimin had ever conceived of and decanters filled with the most aromatic wines.

The Prince squeezed his hand tenderly, guiding him to the head of the table. There, the Prince took the golden plated chair and motioned for Jimin to take the one beside it. Gratefully, he bowed his head and slipped silently into the seat, admiring the gentle merriment and splendor laid before him.

As Jimin took the scene before him in, the Prince leaned closer to him, reaching out to twirl a piece of his light hair between his fingers.

“I’ve always wanted this,” the Prince said, his eyes never leaving the man’s hair.

“W-what?”

The Prince seemed to catch himself and pulled himself out of his reverie.

“I am a collector of beautiful things,” he said, as if that explained his strange words.

“I don’t understand.”

The Prince smiled softly, running his finger down Jimin’s nose and over his lips.

“Then drink and be merry,” he sang, his voice strung together in the most beautiful melody.

A dark-haired lady came between the Prince and Jimin, holding a jewel-encrusted decanter. Bowing her head, she first filled the Prince's cup, her hands wrapping slender and delicate around the silver handle. But as Jimin watched, he realized there was a slight tremble to her movements. He looked up at her, only to see her eyes darting to and from the Prince and his newest companion.

The young lady came around Jimin's other side, and as she leaned over to pour his golden goblet full of the sweet wine, she whispered in his ear, "Eat no food, and drink no wine or you will never see your home again."

With that, the woman stood abruptly and disappeared down one of the many hallways that spotted the great chamber.

Jimin quickly set the cup down on the table. The Prince took note of this, his eyebrows raised in curiosity.

"My dear, sweet Jimin," he said, his voice threading through the air like song. His voice spoke of softness, of tender touches exchanged in the dark. And yet, as Jimin gazed upon him, he saw the coldness in the Prince's gaze. "Do you not enjoy the taste of my wine?"

"No, no," he said, quick to unravel the tension of the moment. "I am simply not thirsty."

The Prince leaned into him, a smile spreading across his lips. "After all that dancing, you must be thirsty." He brought the cup to Jimin's lips, but he held his mouth shut.

The others at the table had fallen silent to watch the Prince hold the goblet to the man’s lips.

A large one with silver hair that fell to his waist stood abruptly from his chair, knocking it back in the process. "Whoever comes to our table must drink with us," he growled, grabbing Jimin's arm. A deep shock ran through him, stopping his heart.

At that moment a red-haired lass, her hair split into intricate braids, snatched Jimin's free hand and tugged him from the grasp of the large silver-haired being.

"Run!" she commanded, tugging Jimin towards the stairs. The pair wove their way towards the entrance, dodging the grasp of the dancers.

Around him, Jimin could hear the bellowing anger of the Prince, echoing off the walls of the hall as if he stood in every corner. Chairs and platters crashed to the floor as his subjects jumped up, attempting to stop his exit.

While Jimin was not large and while he did not hold the brute strength that many men boasted about, he was graceful and swift. Guided by the red-haired woman's agile steps, his pace was quick, as if he had learned this kind of dance many many years ago.

The pair sprinted up the steps, hand-in-hand, until they emerged into the dark night. The coolness of the early winter air washed over them, bathing their red faces and stinging their lungs. From the satchel that hung round her waist, the woman withdrew a vine. She grabbed Jimin’s hand, opening it up so she could place the plant securely. With tenderness, she wrapped her hand around his, closing it in a fist.

"You are safe for the time being," she said, her breath heavy with effort. "Take this, and hold it until you reach home. No one can harm you." Jimin opened his palm to look down upon the large-leafed plant. Athair-Lusa. Ground ivy.

"Thank you," he whispered.

The woman nodded, a sad smile playing across her lips. Her eyes shone with the kind of grief that only one who knows their own destiny can hold.

Jimin could hear the sounds of footsteps running up the stairs and so he took the white and green plant and turned his back on the field, the stairs, and the man who had held him so tenderly; and he ran. He ran along the sward and through the forests surrounding the town, past the well, and across the path. At last, he reached his home. He threw open the wooden door and locked it behind him.

His heart beat so quickly and furiously he worried it would pound its way straight through his ribcage. Behind his back pressed to the door, he could hear a great sound emerge from the forest and a voice cried out to him—

"The power I had over you is gone through the magic of the herb that ties you to this world. But when you dance again to our music, you will stay with me forevermore, and nothing shall hinder that eternity."

Jimin closed his eyes, clutching the herb to his chest. When he had regained his breath, he made his way over to the small bed tucked in the corner of his small home, folding the leafy plant carefully beneath the collar of his shirt.

It took a while before sleep came for him, and when it did, it was restless and dreamless.

However, Jimin kept the magic branch safely tucked into his clothes every day and the Fae never troubled him.

But it took many years before the sweet, low sound of music and the searing eyes of the Prince left his dreams.

taglist: @ppersonna @thatlongspringnight @myimaginationsrunningwild @ladyartemesia @ezralia-writes @ggukcangetit

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thdorkmagnet · 3 years ago

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Light of the Sun and Stars Chapter 46: A Mewman and a Monster (Preview)

Summary: His whole life Marco Diaz has been raised by monsters, living under the cruel rule of their leader, Toffee. But one day Marco escapes into Mewni where he meets a magical princess and Mewman like himself, who begins teaching him all about her world. Together they will learn about life, love, and the lights within each of them, as they change their world forever.

Chapter Synopsis: Slime has asked his crush Princess Penelope Spiderbite out on a date and needing support, both emotionally and literally, calls upon Star and Marco for help. The two graciously lend a hand in helping create the most romantic date possible but, as usual, things rarely go the way they want it too.

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Index

The dimension was completely lifeless. Once a sprawling community had dwelled there, setting up residence in its green pastures and lush landscapes, living a simple and basic life amongst the natural resources all around them. But that peaceful lifestyle had changed when technology was first introduced to the humble society. At first it had been small changes, as it always started, machines and many mechanisms made to help make life easier. Need to plow the fields? Build a machine that could do it half the time you could.

Soon people were using machines for every part of their everyday life and with the invention of robotic helpers… everything changed. Their once grassy hills were torn up to make factories, their land broken and scarred for the sake of 'progress'. Soon their dimension more closely resembled a machine than a once thriving, living place. And the numbers of robots steadily grew, until they outnumbered all living beings 10 to 1.

Sunlight was blocked by heavy smog while frequent and heavy storms began to tear apart what was left of the landscape. The dimension became virtually unlivable and the people were filled with dismay.

That was until a mysterious benefactor appeared one day, offering to buy up the remaining usable land for unknown reasons. The people happily accepted the offer, using the money to relocate to a new dimension (hopefully with better luck than the last), leaving the new owner of the dimension to do with it however they wished. Soon they began construction on a single building, employing the many robots that still inhabited the place to the effort. It took a long time, even with beings that didn’t have the need to eat nor sleep at the head of construction, but eventually it was finished, a single living place in the dimension of dead architecture.

The place was a sight to behold: a clean, cut courtyard leading up to a grand, multi-story building. The architecture was ancient, borrowed from famous castles and cathedrals throughout the multiverse, a sharp contrast to the sleek, modern buildings the dimension had been so known for.

But for as magnificent as it seemed, there was something sinister as well, something dark lurking just behind the smoothly cut stones or grand balconies. A large metal fence had been built around the building, electrified at all times to deter anyone from entering or exiting through anything but the gate. A large tower stood above the building itself, pulsing with some dark magic that had been lost to time long ago. The building's architecture was full of sharp edges and spikes that could seriously harm anyone who was not weary of their surroundings. And though the grand double doors were made of the finest wood in any dimension, they opened onto halls of endless turns and deadends, a labyrinth built to keep everyone trapped inside forever.

But the creator of this school did not care how others viewed it, because this place was serving a grand purpose, educating and enforcing positive change on the future monarchs of the multiverse. St. Olga’s Reform School for Wayward Princesses was a school like no other, standing superior to any other education system that dared to compete with it, for it was focused solely on punishment and strict results. Every young princess that was sent there, no matter how rebellious or resistant they were, would eventually be broken. It didn’t matter if it took days, weeks, or years, St. O’s and its founder and principal, Heinous , had a perfect record that had never once been broken.

That was until a certain four-armed princess blew the whistle on the academy's “less than reputable” penalties and the school was shut down by the dimensional knights. The great Miss Heinous was forced on the run, leaving every part of her life, her career, her home, her minions, her legacy, to rot. She spent years on the run, just barely managing to stay one step ahead of the dimensional knights and any other form of military power a noble might hire to capture or kill her. But through it all, Heinous only had one thought that kept her going day in and day out. Revenge. Or rather, her legacy finally fulfilled. She often confused the two but it didn’t matter. The path was the same. The path to ultimate victory and control. The path of perfection.

And that path had led back to where it all began.

Nostalgia and old memories came flooding back to the once-proud principal as she stood in front of her old, decaying school. She could still picture it back in the prime of its life, see it as clear as if it were standing in the memory itself rather than the broken dream that stared back at her. Reality was far from the picture perfect days of old. Oh how the mighty had fallen.

Her once proud school was now in desperate need of repairs, walls caved in over the course of time, entire sections of the school now gone. The courtyard was now filled with untamed weeds and overgrown plant life. The tower that had once stood as a beacon of power for her school had been the first thing taken down by those pesky knights and it lay in shambles around the area, an ever present reminder of the injustice Heinous had suffered. The fence was bent and disfigured, was now full of giant, gaping holes in its structure making it completely useless, now it couldn’t even keep out the gust of wind that blew through the empty courtyard. The school had become nothing but an empty shell that had once housed life within it. Heinous couldn’t help but scoff at the irony, her greatest masterpiece was now no different to the rest of this forgotten waste of a dimension.

She took in a deep breath, letting it out slowly. No, she couldn’t start dwelling on all that now. She had come here for more than just reliving her past failures. Today was about seizing her future. A small cough behind her caused Heinous to roll her eyes. She had almost forgotten her hired hand had come with her, just in case some dimensional knights were lurking there and needed to be disposed of. It was clear that Rasticore, unlike her, was less than content with her dimension. She could practically feel Rasticore’s discomfort as he shifted from one foot to the other, over and over again. It was obvious he wanted to get this over with, something at least they could agree on, Heinous was ready to achieve the next step of her decade-long scheme.

“So are we going inside or not?” Rasticore finally asked and Heinous turned back to him with a narrowed glare.

“Why? Don’t tell me you are frightened of my school?” she accused him, point blank.

Rasticore tensed, before gritting his fangs, clearly holding back the retort. Instead he replied, “No, just all this smog is aggravating my condition.” He then made a point to cough into his claw.

Heinous highly doubted that was the reason for his rush. Not when it was more likely her minion was playing up his sickness to hide his discomfort from her. After all, he was recovering remarkably well from the poison, ready to resume his work in just a few short weeks, so a little foul air shouldn’t be upsetting him as much as he was pretending it was.

Still, she didn’t see any reason to delay things any further so Heinous just turned to her minion and said, “Very well, follow me.”

Entering into her old home was like walking into a portrait in time, everything left exactly as she remembered it. The knights must have left things the same for evidence reasons but Heinous ws surprised her school was still mostly intact. A few rooms had been caved in or hallways blocked and everything certainly needed a good dusting but from the view outside she had been expecting much worse. Paper and pencils lay on the dusty desks, ready to use, as if some child had just set them down and then vanished from this dimension. The banners holding old phrases and mottos Heinous would often repeat in classes were decaying but still hung up even after all these years. The only thing missing was her beloved robotic staff.

Shortly after her escape she had gotten word that all robots operating under her name had been discontinued and dismantled to “prevent further harm” as they had put it. Ha, as if her precious staff could be so cruel, every punishment was fully justified and all for the greater good. If only the royals of the multiverse had seen it that way. “Cruel and unnecessary” they had called it. Hypocrites! They were always happy with the results, even quick to praise her or offer her large sums of money as thanks, but the moment they knew how their beloved child came to be cured of their faults suddenly she was the villain, torturing their bratty children by making them perfect.

Well if they were too stupid and cowardly to see her perfect vision all the way through, then it was up to her to fix this miserable, chaotic world.

Heinous entered into her old office, staring at it with wistful eyes as memories came flooding back to her all over again. Every detail of the small space was exactly as she had remembered it, not a single stone out of place, even after all these years. She ran her hands across her desk, her fingers brushing the loose pieces of paper she had been reading through when the alarm had sounded. Old student files and report cards now yellowed with age and beyond salvaging Heinous could have read them with ease, every single letter saved to her subconscious.

Rasticore stood awkwardly in the doorway, watching as his temporary boss reminisced her old life. It was shocking in all honesty, the lizard assassin hadn’t even known Heinous had a smile that wasn’t sinister but she seemed… almost genuine now. That was until she came across a certain file and the peaceful look switched to a frown, the spell she was under was broken. She picked up the piece of paper, ripping it to shreds in a matter of seconds. Rasticore jumped but didn’t say a word as his boss fell deeper and deeper into a blind rage, picking up several other files and ripping them apart as well. Soon the room was coated in paper shreds and the desk was empty. Rasticore risked a look at what remained of the original file, surprised to see it was a young curly haired princess with four arms. He couldn't imagine what she had done to invoke such fire from the level-headed woman.

Once the temper tantrum was over, Heinous straightened her clothes and smoothed down her hair, making herself look presentable again before turning to her minion. “Well, let’s get started, shall we?” she said as if nothing had even happened. She reached her hand into one of the many pockets that lined her oversized dress and pulled out a small key covered in intricate carvings. Without a word she shoved the desk to the side, Rasticore taken aback by the sudden show of strength. He certainly hadn’t expected it from such a petite woman.

Heinous bent down and inserted the key into a small slot in the ground and turned it with a click. Suddenly, the ground beneath her feet collapsed and a long spiral staircase stretching into the darkness beneath was revealed. Heinous returned the key to her pocket before looking at Rasticore expectantly, much to his confusion. He had been caught off guard thanks to the multiple, unexpected turns this trip had taken and couldn’t for the life of him figure out what she was wanting. Her sharp eyes dug into his skin before she impatiently snapped, “Well? You are the one with the light.”

Rasticore could slap himself for being so stupid and he quickly pulled the lantern out from behind his cloak, already brightly lit by phoenix embers. Without a word he started down the stairs, practically feeling Heinous roll her eyes behind his back and he had to clench his claw so tightly a few trickles of blood formed on his leathery skin. For not the first time, Rasticore seriously debated on just how bad a reputation he would get for killing his employer in cold blood. The lizard assassin cursed himself for his integrity as a killer for hire, every other job had been so easy but this one was really testing just how far he was willing to go for his reputation. He probably would have quit entirely if he weren’t for those stupid brats that eluded him mulitple times. Every attempt he made to take that worthless Princess Star resulted in complete and utter failure and the humiliation ate away at him almost as much as his anger. So if having to endure Heinous a little longer meant seeing the looks on those brats' faces when they finally got what was coming to them… well Rasticore wouldn’t miss that for the world.

Rasticore smiled, imagining the faces of Butterfly and her friends when they realized they had lost and that brought a new fire back to his soul, descending the staircase with a new vigor. The lizard got a good look at his surroundings, his night vision easily spotting what it was they were down there for: robots. Dozens of them, old and rusted over to the point Rasticore questioned if they would even activate. He looked back at his boss, who was eying the robots with a glimmer of dark ambition, not at all concerned about their obvious defectiveness.

“Thought all your robots were dismantled,” Rasticore questioned suspiciously.

Heinous shook her head. “That’s just what you would think,” the woman replied in a condescending tone. “And I knew those idiot knights would believe the same thing, hence why I had these hidden away in case I was ever found out. Imagine it, they all believed they had beaten me and yet my true power was right under their nose all along.”

“Well that explains their poor condition,” Rasticore mumbled to himself, low enough he knew Heinous couldn’t hear him.

The two reached the bottom of the staircase and Heinous began inspecting her machines closely, running her gloved fingers along their metal casings and grimacing at the layer of dirt left behind. “The truth is those robots from my time as principal were simple worker drones, but these, my dear Rasticore, are my army.”

“So you had these things hidden away this whole time and you never thought to use them before now?” Rasticore asked in a deadpan, trying to hold back his rising anger. If she had an army this whole time, why bother hiring him for her dirty work? How much time had he wasted fulfilling her goals when she could have just as easily sent a robot to do it.

“Of course I did,” Heinous replied with quite a bit of malice. “They were my plan from the beginning. I just had to wait for the right time to use them.”

“And only after I’ve been poisoned for your little mission do you suddenly decide it’s the ‘right time’,” the lizard Monster grunted, doing air-quotes for emphasis.

“Hold your tongue!” Heinous snapped, her voice echoing around the dark chamber. The two stared each other down, neither breaking eye contact for even a second. “You cannot possibly comprehend the amount of time and planning I put into this,” she continued, spitting every word violently at her minion. “I spent years concocting the perfect scheme to take back everything I lost, to regain control and create a perfect world order. And yet you dare to believe I would overlook something so carelessly. No. Everything has been planned out.” The woman turned her back to the assassin, stating smugly, “In a scheme like this, timing is everything, my dear Rasticore.”

She approached the nearest robot, wiping the dust off its metal surface, pulling out the same key from before and examining it closely. “And the time has finally come for the next phase of my master plan,” she whispered decisively. With that she rammed the key into the center of the robot’s chest, causing its eyes to blink open and light up red. Heinous took a step back as the machine slowly rose to its feet, creaking and groaning loudly, its rusted body protesting greatly. Branches that had formed around its hollow shell snapped and broke as it pushed itself upward with great strength. Finally, the machine was up, standing tall and at attention, its red eyes blinking as it waited for new orders, somehow menacing despite its deteriorating body.

Rasticore took a step towards the robot body, still eyeing it skeptically but didn’t see a point in arguing, if his boss wanted to gamble all their plans on some old, dumb robot then she could deal with the consequences. It wasn’t his problem if her plan failed, so long as he got paid. “So what, we send this hunk of junk after the Butterfly brat and finally be done with her.” He had to admit the idea of a robot taking her down instead of him left a sour taste in his mouth.

Heinous admired her machine with a satisfactory smile, her hands delicately running along its frame. “Patience, Rasticore, patience. Star Butterfly will receive her punishment in due time. But for now she is too highly guarded to risk an attack on her. We must tread carefully from here on out, no more half-witted schemes, we must deal with her delicately or all of this will be in vain.”

Rasticore grit his teeth at the small insult but kept his calm, extended time with Heinous had really helped him with his temper, the one good thing he could say about being stuck with the snooty, high-and-mighty ex-principal herself. “So who are we targeting?” Rasticore asked impatiently. “I thought the whole point of this field trip was so you could get your hands on Butterfly. You yourself said you needed a Mewman for-”

“And I what I said still holds true,” Heinous interrupted, turning to her minion with a very evil expression. “Which is why we will be targeting another old student of mine, one who is much less guarded and much more obtainable.” A dark look passed over Heinous’ face as she thought of one of her oldest and most successful students, just speaking her name again filled her with a satisfaction and pride Heinous had almost forgotten about. “Princess Penelope Spiderbite.”

#star vs #star vs AU #Light of the Sun and Stars #Preview #Starco #Spiderslime

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theunknowncryptid · 5 years ago

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Part Thirty Eight - The Third Task

Masterlist

Yoongi x Y/n

After a horrible prank, Slytherin, Min Yoongi, is entered into the Triwizard Tournament. Y/n, feeling responsible, decides it’s her personal mission to make sure he survives the ordeal

~ ~ ~

Cheers of excitement filled the large room and Y/n felt the urge to cover her ears.

The day of the final task had finally arrived and the entire student body, plus the students from Durmstrang and Beauxbaton, had crammed into the Great Hall to witness the event. The regular house tables were gone, so that the room was a large, open space. For activities. Stands, similar to the ones in the Quidditch pitch, lined the walls. Teenagers squished together in the seats like one, giant, pubescent monster. Everyone was hollering and yelling because the three champions had just entered the hall.

Y/n tried to steady her breathing as she focused on Yoongi. He looked nervous. He stood with Ivanov and Bisset facing the head table where the teachers and the same ministry officials from the last two tasks sat.

Over the last month and a half, there had been total radio silence from Yoongi. After he blocked her number, Y/n didn’t try to contact him. She knew she didn’t have the right after lying to Yoongi for months. “It’s what I deserve,” Y/n told her friends. They just looked at her with sympathy. Of course, she missed him. God, she missed him. Sometimes, she felt like she would give her right arm just to get him to look at her. But, she got nothing.

In potions class Yoongi had requested a different partner. Being a Slytherin and in Snapes favor, he got his wish. Now, Y/n spent every other afternoon with Amanda Nosewoff and Yoongi never so much as looked in her direction. She wished so badly that he would glance in her direction. Anything- even a glare would suffice. But, she got nothing.

The acceptance that Yoongi wanted nothing to do with her and that their relationship was over began to take its toll on Y/n. She would sleep through the weekends, ignoring her friends requests to go to Hogsmeade or to just hang around the castle.

Y/n also started skipping meals. In order to avoid Yoongi at all costs she would go hungry. Her figure grew thinner than normal and her eyes turned dull- as if her soul had been sucked out by a dementor.Unable to hide anything, her friends quickly noticed.

“Baby girl, you have to eat.” Jimin would plead with her. Y/n would shake her head.

“I’m not hungry.” She lied. Y/n loved him and Yoongi hated her.

In summary, Y/n was not doing well. Seeing Yoongi everyday felt like someone was wringing out her small intestine like a wet rag. And today was no different. Seeing him standing there with the other champions, about to face death, made Y/n feel like vomiting.

From his place next to Y/n, Taehyung gave Y/n a questioning glance. Y/n tried to brush off his concern.

“I haven't helped him prepare for this task.” She said. “I’m worried.”

Taehyung nodded in understanding. He didn’t press Y/n further on the subject. At the Head Table, the ministry official raised his hands to call for silence. The chatter died almost instantly.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” The man smiled. “Welcome to the final task of the Triwizard Tournament!” The crowd cheered wildly, but quieted again at the man's raised hand. “Our three champions have shown talent in skill in the previous tasks, every school should be proud of their students' efforts.” Y/n giggled quietly, having spotted Yoongi rolling his eyes. She ministry man raised his want and a picture seemed to project itself into the air. A large banner showed a profile picture of Yoongi, Jacque Bisset and Natalia Ivanov with numbers next to their names.

“In last place, with a score of 12, is our Hogwarts Champion, Min Yoongi!” The man announced happily. The Hogwarts students clapped half-heartedly and Y/n saw Yoongi blush. “In second place, with 15 points, is Jacque Bisset of Beauxbaton! And in first place, with 17 points, is the Durmstrang Champion, Natalia Ivanov!” Enthusiastic applause followed. The man flourished his wand once more and a plain door appeared behind the champions.

“This final task will test our champions' skill, determination, and bravery. One at a time they will enter this doorway. They must move through five different rooms to reach the Triwizard Cup. Each room will hold a different, dangerous challenge. First to the cup will be the Triwizard Champion.” The crowd cheered. “Though each champion will be brought to a different room, their ranking will give them a head start. Miss Ivanov will enter the doorway first, then Mr. Bisset, and Finally, Mr. Min.” The official smiled broadly. “If there are no questions, we will begin.”

The champions turned to face the door. “Miss Ivanov, whenever you are ready.” Without hesitation, Natalia walked forward, opened the door and walked through. Y/n could see through the doorway to the other side of the Great Hall, but Ivanov was gone.

Three minutes passed before the ministry official spoke again. “Mr. Bisset,” He motioned to the door. Jacque stumbled slightly, but walked to the door with confidence.

I can’t believe I ever dated him

After another three minutes, the man motioned to the door again. “Mr. Min,”

Y/n felt her stomach turn at Yoongi’s name. She didn’t want him in those rooms.

Yoongi walked forward slowly and gripped the door handle. He hesitated in the doorway.

“What’s he doing?” Jungkook whispered.

Then, Yoongi turned and looked directly at Y/n. Y/n’s eyes widened and her breath caught in a sharp intake. Yoongi just looked at her for a second, then he was gone.

Please, be safe.

~ ~ ~

Bisset entered the doorway and was gone with a slight shimmer of the air around him. Yoongi stood alone in the center of the room now, with 400 people staring at him. The room was quiet aside from occasional whispers. Yoongi fought the urge to turn slightly to the right and pick out the face he wanted to see most. Feigning disinterest for the last month was harder than he had expected. Now, standing in the face of danger, pretending to be angry seemed incredibly stupid.

Finding out that Y/n had known that Taehyung and Jungkook had put his name in the Goblet of Fire all along had broken Yoongi. Standing in that hidden corner of the Gryffindor Common Room, listening to Taehyung and Jungkook speak, Yoongi felt furious. Texting the groupchat full of their friends had been an act of spite. Yoongi regretted his actions as soon as he hit send on the words “I hate you”.

The anger that still boiled under his skin directed him to switch potions partners, but it was the regret that wouldn’t allow Yoongi to even look at Y/n. Like a magnet, He always knew where she was in a room without having to look and like the sun in the sky, Yoongi was forced to look away.

The loss of Y/n’s constant company hit Yoongi like a brick. Hoseok was his friend, of course, and the return of Jin made him happy, but it was like something cracked in his very soul. Smiles across the Great Hall, muffled laughter in class, waking up in the morning wishing you could stay in that position for the rest of eternity. All of that was gone. After a week of not speaking to Y/n, her friends, or even looking in her direction, Yoongi was positive he had made one of the biggest mistakes of his life. He missed her, horribly. It kept him awake at night, the gravity of the decisions he made out of anger. All of the cheesy symptoms of heart break afflicted Yoongi. He couldn’t sleep, He couldn’t eat, blah, blah, blah…

Hoseok and Jin pressed Yoongi to talk to Y/n, but he refused. He was never good at acknowledging his feelings before he was emotionally involved. Now? Yoongi would rather dance, stark naked, in the middle of the quidditch pitch than face his feelings and admit he made a mistake.

The reality of the situation was that standing, now, about to walk into danger. Yoongi was lonely, he was sad, and he missed Y/n.

The ministry official lifted his hand. “Mr. Min,”. Yoongi turned to the door and walked to the threshold. With one hand on the door knob he paused. Murmurs spread through the air. Then, Yoongi turned to look at Y/n. He didn’t have to search for her. Just like before, Yoongi always knew where she was.

Y/n’s lips parted and her eyes widened. Fear and confusion were etched into her features. She looked different. Yoongi tried to silently communicate what he couldn’t say out loud.

Goodbye.

Then, he turned and walked through the empty doorframe.

An uncomfortable chill went through Yoongi’s body and the Great Hall transformed in clouds of smoke. Suddenly, strong gusts of wind whipped at his face and Yoongi was standing on a ledge in front of a stormy sea. Yoongi raised his arm to his face to shield his eyes from the wind. Through squinted eyes, Yoongi could see cracked stone walls and ceiling that created the massive room. The water spanned the entire length of the room. Gigantic waves formed and crashed against the walls and the small ledge Yoongi balanced on. He could taste salt water on his lips. Light seemed to come from beneath the murky water, illuminating the room in a blue-green light. Yoongi could barely make out a plain, wooden door against the far wall. About 1,000 feet away.

“Okay..” Yoongi spoke to himself. He had never been the most talented swimmer in the best conditions, but he couldn’t really see another choice right now. Ungracefully, Yoongi crouched down and used his arms to lower himself into the water. He hissed a sharp breath. The water was ice cold. Yoongi released the ledge completely and the waves enveloped him immediately. Screaming wind was muffled under the water. He kicked his legs and arms out to pull himself to the surface. Yoongi emerged gasping for air. He pushed his arms forward through the waves. Wind sprayed water in his eyes so that they burned. He was certain they would be red later. Yoongi kicked and pulled his arms through the water. Slowly, he swam across the stormy sea. Waves pulled him under and Yoongi fought to the point of exhaustion to reach air. At the halfway point, his body burned from overuse. He paused, treading water, to catch his breath. He focused on catching his breath and timing his movements with the waves. Suddenly, sharp pain exploded from his ankle and with a cry of pain, Yoongi was yanked down.

Something was pulling him down further into the water. Yoongi opened his eyes in the green water and looked down. The light was fading the deeper he went, but Yoongi could make out the blurry form of something attached to his leg. A small octopus-like creature had two arms wrapped around him and six extra arms were flailing in the water, rapidly swimming down into the water. Yoongi recognized the creature immediately. A Grindylow. Since he began swimming, Yoongi had his wand held tight in his hand. He pointed it down at the Grindylow.

“Expulso!” Yoongi’s words came out garbled in the water, but a burst of light shot out from his wand. With a high-pitched screech, the Grindylow released his leg. Yoongi kicked out and pulled himself to the surface. Choked out water spewed from his mouth and Yoongi gasped for air. He caught his breath and tried to swim forward toward the door. He only made it 10 feet before he was yanked back down.

Faster than before, Yoongi was speeding towards the bottom of the sea. He opened his eyes again and saw several Grindylows attached to his legs, biting and pulling. Red blood flowed into the water and past Yoongi’s face. Yoongi aimed down and shot spells at the creatures. The first few missed, but one hit- killing the creature instantly. It floated off into the water and the pull into the dark slowed. Yoongi felt his lungs burning from lack of air. He shot another spell, shouting into the water. He hit another Grindylow and it swam off. It made the same high-pitched whine as the other. The water around him was so dark now, Yoongi could barely see. Or maybe that was his vision fading. Thinking fast, Yoongi aimed his wand again.

“Deprimo!” He wailed into the water with a flurry of bubbles. A large explosion erupted from his wand and blasted away the remaining Grindylows. Yoongi screamed silently. The explosion burned his legs and pulled at his wounds. Yoongi pushed the water with his arms and kicked toward the surface. He winced at the pain and black clouded his vision. Gagging, Yoongi hit air again and started to swim toward the ledge. His body begged for him to stop. Blood flooded the green water around him. He was so close, he couldn’t stop.

After agonizing minutes desperate for air, fighting the waves and trying to outrun the Grindylows, Yoongi reached the ledge. He dug his nails into the stone and flipped onto his back. The wind chilled his limp body and Yoongi stared up at the stone ceiling.

“Fuck this whole Tournament.” He groaned. Yoongi pulled himself to his feet and opened the wooden door, eager to leave the devil sea behind him.

The door closed behind Yoongi with a slam. Everything was still and quiet. Like before, Yoongi stood in a dimly lit stone room, but this room was small. Maybe 10 feet tall as it was wide. It was also freezing cold. Yoongi could see his breath in the air. The west wall had two small windows covered in frost. He could see a night sky full of stars. It reminded Yoongi of the Astronomy Tower. He didn’t have to search for the exit door. It was merely 10, maybe 12, paces away against the far wall. It would be simple to walk the distance and leave.

In the middle of the room sat an unmarked wardrobe, about 7 feet tall.

Yoongi looked at the cupboard cautiously. There was nothing special about it on the outside. Carefully, Yoongi stepped forward. The door of the wardrobe swung open with a creek.

“Jin?” Yoongi asked. Kim Seokjin was climbing out of the wardrobe, smiling at him.

“Hey,” He laughed. Yoongi stared at the boy.

“What are you doing here?” Yoongi asked. Jin smiled. “... Jin?”

Jin’s smile stayed glued into place and his gaze trained on Yoongi. His eyes became glassy.

“Jin?” Yoongi asked again. He walked up to Jin and placed a hand on his shoulder. Jin’s smile faded. “Jin.” His gaze shifted so that he was staring aimlessly over Yoongi’s shoulder. Suddenly, Jin collapsed.

“Jin!” Yoongi fell to his knees, trying to support the older boy. Yoongi clutched at his face. It was lifeless. “What’s happening?”

Unable to support him any longer, Jin dropped to the floor completely. Yoongi pounded on his chest mercilessly.

“Wake up! Jin!”

Yoongi blinked and Jin was gone. He had been replaced by the empty body of Hoseok.

“No.. Hoseok.” Yoongi briefly registered tears falling down his face. His hands flitted over Hoseok, like he was trying to help but he didn’t know how. Hoseok’s face was as lifeless as Jin’s had been. His eyes were wide open and cloudy. “Please.”

Yoongi choked on a sob when he blinked again and Hoseok’s body changed. Y/n’s dead body lay on the ground in front of him.

“No…” Yoongi trembled and tears rolled down his face like a river. He grabbed Y/n’s body and pulled her against his chest. Her body was cold. “No..” Yoongi sobbed. He rocked on his knees and cradled Y/n’s body to his chest. “No, no, no, no, no, no.” He repeated the words into Y/n’s hair like a mantra.

Hours could have passed and Yoongi wouldn’t have known. He stayed in that position longer than he should have. Eventually, Yoongi came to his senses. It was Boggart, designed to show Yoongi his biggest fears. It wasn’t Y/n, it wasn’t Hoseok, and it wasn’t Jin. They were all fine.

Yoongi sat up on his knees and looked down at Y/n’s dead body. He wiped at his face embarrassed. Surely all of Hogwarts was able to watch the Champions maneuver the rooms. Yoongi pointed his wand at the body.

“Riddikulus” He whispered. With a Snap! Y/n’s form changed into a wobbling Jack-In-The-Box. Yoongi stood shakily. Blood splattered the floor where he had been. Taking deep breaths, Yoongi limped to the door and left the room.

“Oh shit.”

Standing in the room, growling, frothing from the mouth, and hungry-looking were three vicious Chimaeras. Head of a lion, body of a goat, and tail of a dragon. Yoongi had never particularly liked any of those animals. Past the three snarling beasts, he could see an exit door against the far wall like the other rooms. Yoongi gripped his wand tighter in his hand.

“Stupefy!” Yoongi yelled, aiming for the Chimaera closest. It stumbled back and seemed to shake it’s mane. The other two bared their teeth and crept forward. The Chimaera on the right lunged forward suddenly. Yoongi threw up his arm in defense, but the beast bit down on his outstretched limb. Yoongi cried out as the sharp fangs tore his skin. He dropped his arm in an attempt to pull away his arm. The chimaera unhinged it’s jaw and released Yoongi. Blood gushed like a faucet from the long gashes. Without thinking, Yoongi used his uninjured arm to cradle his right.

The chimaera on the left lunged. Instead of biting down on Yoongi, it used it’s long fangs to scrape along his side. Yoongi fell to his knees in agony. Blood was pooling around him rapidly. He groped for his wand along the stone floor. Yoongi spotted it in between the feet on the largest Chimaera, having rolled away from him.

Down on his knees, holding himself up with one arm, Yoongi realized he was defenseless. His body felt cold and pain stabbed him everywhere. Yoongi looked up just in time to see yellow fangs were closing around him.

Everything went black.

~ ~ ~

Yoongi felt like someone was banging a drum on the inside of his skull. Sharp pain throbbed behind his eye sockets. With difficulty, he opened his eyes. It was blurry, but Yoongi could see a dimly lit ceiling. It smelled of chemicals. He pushed himself up on his elbows.

“Ah-” Yoongi groaned. His body was sore everywhere and sharp pain sprung from a pulling feeling on his side. He was laying in a bed with crisp white sheets. The Hospital Wing. Yoongi looked down at his arms. The right was wrapped in bandages. From shifting in his cot, Yoongi could tell that his midsection was wrapped similarly. He pulled himself fully into a sitting position. The room was dark. The windows proved that it was nighttime. Blue curtains were drawn around his bed.

“Mmm” Someone moaned. Yoongi flinched at the sudden noise. Shaking his head, Yoongi rubbed his eyes to clear his foggy vision. Someone was sitting in a chair next to his bedside with their head rested on folded arms against his cot.

“Y/n?” Yoongi said. The previously sleeping girl jolted.

“Yoongi!” Y/n’s voice cracked when she spoke. She stood up and immediately started fussing over him.

“Oh, my God. I was so worried. Are you in pain? Should I get Madam Pomfrey? It’s almost time to change your wounds anyway, so I might as well.” Y/n ran her hands through her hair. She was clearly frazzled. She spoke with her arms flailing “Thank Merlin you’re awake. Everyone has been insane with worry. I should really get Madam Pomfre-” Yoongi reached his arms out, wincing, and wrapped his hands around Y/n’s wrists to quiet her. Y/n froze and looked at Yoongi when he pulled her hands close to his chest.

“What happened?” Yoongi asked. His voice was hoarse. Y/n sat carefully on the side of his bed.

“We were all watching you through the rooms,” Y/n started. Yoongi nodded for her to continue. “When you got to the Chimaeras, you were already hurt. McGonagall wanted to pull you out then, but the ministry officials wouldn’t let her. When you started losing so much blood and passed out, she pulled you anyway. Natalia had won the tournament by that point anyway, so it didn’t really matter.”

“How long was I unconscious?” Yoongi asked. He still held Y/n’s hands to his chest.

“Five days. They put you in a bewitched sleep.” Y/n said. She looked down at the sheets. “... I thought you were going to die.”

Her voice broke and Yoongi didn’t have to look to know she was crying. He reached out with his good arm and lifted Y/n’s face. She leaned into his and he brushed away her tears with his thumb.

“I didn't,” Yoongi said with a small smile. Y/n laughed and nodded. “I’m surprised that you’re here,” She looked up at him, guiltily.

“Yoongi, look,” Y/n said. “I know what I did was wrong and I can’t do anything to make up for what I did, but I’m sorry. I miss you and I understand that you don’t want anything to do with me anymore and I will accept that eventually, but you were hurt and.. I just needed to make sure you were okay.” Y/n looked like she might start crying again. “If you still want to stay broken up that’s okay, but I want you to know that I want you. I want to be with you.” She cleared her throat uncomfortably. “T-that’s how I feel, how do you feel?”

With the hand on Y/n’s cheek, Yoongi pulled her forward and pressed his lips against hers. Y/n squeaked briefly in surprise, but quickly melted into the kiss. Ignoring the pain, Yoongi lifted his arm and wrapped it around Y/n’s waist so that she was pressed into him. He kissed her with everything he could, every emotion he could convey, and all the feelings he wished he could share over the last six weeks. The tears that fell down Y/n’s cheeks matched Yoongi’s. Yoongi kissed her like it was the last thing he would ever do and the only thing he ever wanted to do.

When Y/n pulled away to catch her breath Yoongi continued peppering her lips with light kisses, again and again. Y/n put her hand to Yoongi’s face to brush his tear-streaked face.

“I thought you hated me?” Y/n asked quietly. Yoongi shook his head.

“I never hated you,” He said. “I was being overdramatic and I regretted it as soon as I said that. I was hurt and I didn’t know what to do. I’m stupid. I’m very stupid.” Yoongi joked. Y/n laughed at him and sniffled. He leaned forward until his forehead was pressed to Y/n’s.

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

176 notes · View notes

justfandomwritings · 5 years ago

Text

United in Fear (Part Five - Soulmate!Robb)

Pairing: Robb Stark x Reader; Soulmates AU

Word count: 18.4k ... Yes you read that right.

Warnings: Some people die cause its game of thrones, but nothing’s that graphic. Sibling bonding moments, lots of plot, but no actual warnings.

Summary: The names were the greatest mystery in Westeros. Each kingdom had their own telling of the story. None of the kingdoms could agree on where they were from or how they came to be. Each thought a different god, their own interpretation of religion, was responsible, but all seemed to agree on one thing: they were a gift.

Notes: Thank you to everyone who followed and reblogged from this story. Today marks 10k followers, and while I wasn’t waiting for that to happen, it’s great that it happened the day I finished this story.

Start From the Beginning… Part One

Previously On… Part Four

Revenge paid best when done in the service of Lannisters, and it paid even better when wrought against the King.

Tyrek, the firstborn son of Tywin’s deceased younger brother Tygett, was actually quite closely related to the central family of House Lannister, not that anyone remembered that. The Great Lion was in fact his uncle; and the Pride of the Rock, as (Y/n) had long been called, was to call Tyrek her first cousin.

With his father a third-born son and himself proving lacking in mental abilities and physical prowess, many passed over Tyrek and regarded him as insignificant. To be sure, his family set a near impossible measure to live up to. Standing out amongst the Lannisters was only achievable for those truly great and notorious of history.

His uncles, Tywin and Kevan, were considered masters of war and strategy and rule. His cousins were without equal: Cersei, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms; Jaime, the greatest swordsman to ever live; (Y/n), Lady of the Rock; and Lancel, squire to the King.

There were others, to be fair, who fell short. Cleos Frey, eldest son of his aunt Gemma, was only noteworthy in how utterly unexceptional he became, and his baby brother Walder was possibly the ugliest thing to toddle the halls of Casterly Rock. Willem, Kevan’s son, may have only been a child, but he showed none of the promise and skill his twin brother. Not wanting to suffer further from association, Tyrek avoided the three at all cost.

Even in his mediocrity, Tyrek could say he kept good, well-born company, but it wasn’t the matter that he was passed over that bothered him. It was that, as his father’s only child, he felt as though he’d failed him.

Tywin had three perfect children and a fourth who, even as he disappointed his father, fascinated countless throughout the Seven Kingdoms. Kevan’s brood were an imperfect bunch. Lancel was strong but gullible; Willem was an unpromising one; and Janei, while kind and beautiful, was still only a babe. But where the others failed, Kevan could always look on Martyn for a dazzling performance.

Genna similarly looked to her middle sons. Her eldest and youngest, Cleos and Walder, were Freys to their core; ugly, bruttish, and dim. They slunk around the shadows of the Rock, scared to even speak to anyone with blonde hair, including their brothers. Lyonel and Tion were Genna’s pride and joy. They looked, acted, and sounded as every Lannister should. They were by no means to par with Jaime or Cersei or (Y/n), but both showed skill and promise enough to rectify the disappoints that were their siblings.

But Tygett, dead though he may be, only had Tyrek.

Tyrek didn’t know or remember his father, and none in the keep spoke of the man. He knew Tywin did not like him, and for that Tyrek kept his questions to a minimum. He wanted to know though; he wanted to give his long gone father a reason to praise him. And knowing that even if he earned it, he would never hear his father cheer, he sought at least Tywin and Kevan’s, for they were the closest things he had.

Tyrek felt nothing when his hand tipped and poured the contents of the small vial into the King’s wine before a hunt. He felt nothing when healers and the maester came rushing through the Red Keep demanding people make way for the King. He felt nothing when Cersei cackled at the news her husband had fallen ill. He felt nothing when the first scream of pain echoed through the walls of the tower, and he felt nothing when they finally, three days later, heard the last. He felt nothing when Jaime came to tell the Lannisters that the King was dead.

And, waiting at the gates of King’s Landing for Robert’s funeral procession to begin, he wasn’t sure he felt anything now.

“You did well, Tyrek,” (Y/n) whispered, resting on his shoulder what would appear to any outsider to be a comforting hand.

Tyrek looked up at (Y/n), not physically but emotionally. His hopeful eyes screamed for guidance. “You’re pleased? Lord Tywin will be pleased?”

“Yes,” (Y/n) rubbed his shoulder before letting her hand drop to her side. “We owe you a debt, and I promise it will be paid in full.”

Tyrek smiled as (Y/n) walked away.

Maybe he was a worthy Lannister, because the prospect of being paid by some means filled him with more happiness than the murder had guilt.

(Y/n) left her cousin alone in the streets, trekking back up to the Red Keep with her head hung in a sign of mourning.

The funeral had brought to mind something (Y/n) had long wondered.

Robert Baratheon was dead, and in all the crowds it seemed only Tommen shed a tear. Cersei celebrated behind closed doors; Joffrey relished his new found power; Myrcella had always been fearful of her father for the way he treated Cersei; Renly was finally out of his brother’s shadow; and Stannis hadn’t even bothered to come to King’s Landing.

(Y/n) wondered, when she was gone, who would mourn her. Would Tyrion cry for her or rejoice at finally being treated as an heir? Would Jaime even notice her absence when his vision was so clouded with his twin? Would Tywin care that his daughter passed, or would he only care that he’d lost his right hand?

She knew better than to ask after Cersei. Loyal perhaps, but the sisters had no love lost.

Robb.

Robb would cry for her, would notice her absence, would care that she had passed. She had that over the King; she had Robb.

Even Ned Stark, loyal, faithful Ned Stark, Robert’s oldest and only friend, didn’t mourn the man. He stayed locked in his tower, supposedly preparing the coronation of the new King.

Of course, (Y/n) knew better than to believe that. Ned Stark was, after all, a terrible liar.

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“Enter,” a voice called from inside the study.

(Y/n) walked past the Northern guard opening the door with a nod and a smile.

Ned sat at a wide oak desk in the bay of an otherwise empty room. The Hand of the King had an official study for business, a grand bedecked thing nearer the quarters of the King.

This, however, was a personal one. Two studies were not a luxury any Northman, even the Warden of the North, was used to. It seemed Ned did not know how to fill the space and had opted instead to not even try.

(Y/n) motioned for the guard to shut the door as she analyzed the contents, or lack thereof, in the room. “It is rather different than my father kept it.”

Ned leapt from his desk, hand reaching for the sword balanced against his chair back. He had been expecting his meal at this time, but the voice that spoke had caught him entirely unaware in a city where even the slightest lapse in attention meant death.

“Forgive my interruption,” (Y/n) halfheartedly placated.

Ned took a moment, assessing there was no physical threat in the room, only a moment though as the lack of furniture made it clear (Y/n) was the only other occupant of the room. He replied slowly, cautiously removing his hand from the hilt of his blade. “I don’t believe you were born long enough ago to remember your father’s time as Hand.”

(Y/n) ambled around the perimeter of the room, trailing a hand over the walls. “I was not, but as you recall my father might as well have been king for most of Aerys’ reign. Painters loved to depict my father. There are countless portraits of him stored in the vaults of the Rock. A couple of him on the Iron Throne, a few in front of the Keep, plenty in the library or the Hand’s study, but my favorite portrait of him was in this room.”

“There were Lannister banners on the walls then.” She reached the desk and flattened a palm against the wood. “But he put his desk here as well. The light from the window, I presume.”

“It is why I chose the spot.” Ned stepped back towards the door, putting a few paces of distance between himself and (Y/n) Lannister.

Lannister. She was, despite her wedding, still a Lannister. Ned wished it weren’t so, or at least he wished to forget it were.

Catelyn had given him his children who were his absolute joy. She stood by him and helped him with every decision he made. She cared for his people and his home. She vowed herself, gave herself, to him knowing she was not his mate. Ned loved his wife. He would not trade her for anything in the Seven Kingdoms, but Ashara was no longer in the Seven Kingdoms.

Her daughter caused Ned great confusion and pain. A beauty that rivaled her mother, a mind which rivaled her father. He looked on her and saw his lost love; he listened to her speak and heard his mortal enemy.

She spoke from her core, and her core was Lannister. No matter the face which hid it.

Without even a cursory glance in his direction, (Y/n) slipped into the chair Ned had vacated. The post weighed heavily on Ned’s mind at all hours of the day and night, but the seat seemed to mold around (Y/n) Lannister as if it were her own. As though the space had always been hers to occupy. As though the room was hers and he was the one merely a guest.

“Lord Stark,” She crossed her arms over her chest with a weary smile, the sort of smile that would be comforting in any city but King’s Landing. “I’ve come to speak to you today about a whisper I heard.”

Ned went instantly on guard. “I don’t employ spies. If you want to speak of rumors, I would be happy to escort you to Lord Varys’.”

“I share your aversion to those who pay others to listen in on their fellow man, Lord Stark,” (Y/n) dismissed handily, “I assure you; what I’ve heard was not bought by myself or any other. It was offered and taken freely. I don’t deal in spies, nor do I deal in rumors.” (Y/n) picked at her fingernails as though the matter were as casual as her morning meal. “Rumors are usually lies, and no one is fool enough to lie to me. Whispers are another matter. Whispers are the truths no one wishes to speak.”

“And what whispers have you heard that concern me?” Ned pried warily.

“Whispers of visits to the less desirable end of King’s Landing, whispers of trips to one of Lord Baelish’s establishments, whispers of inquiries at a number of bastard’s homes in Flea Bottom.”

Ned’s blood ran cold, and (Y/n) seemed to sense it even though his face remained as emotionless as ever.

(Y/n) lifted her eyes to Lord Stark but did not divert any meaningful attention to him. “You see, the rumors say you’re looking for another of your bastards, or visiting Jon Snow’s mother, or looking to take a new mistress. I have no time for such slander.”

“Then what do you have time for, Lady Lannister?”

(Y/n) turned her head to Ned’s desk top, directing his eyes to the large book weighing down his papers: The History of House Baratheon. “I have time for a warning, Lord Stark.”

“A warning?”

(Y/n) wasn’t a fool. She knew that by giving him a warning Ned Stark would connect her, or more likely her family, to his inquiries. That is, if he hadn’t already. Starks had a way of blaming Lannisters for every crime committed in the Seven Kingdoms and most of the crimes committed outside of them. That they were right to place the blame there was irrelevant. That they couldn’t fathom Lannister’s may have a purpose for such perceived injustices was of far greater concern to (Y/n) now.

“Stop.”

Ned paused. “That is all?” He was rather expecting more than one word.

“Stop this?” (Y/n) shrugged nonchalantly. “I admit. I don’t know how else to say it.”

“You want me to stop prying into the death of my ally and mentor, Jon Arryn, and you expect me to do so without cause, simply because you asked?”

“Ah!” (Y/n) exclaimed. “This is our misunderstanding.” (Y/n) leaned forward, elbows to her knees and looked up at Ned. Her face, for a moment, lost any and all resemblance it held with Ashara. It was as though Tywin Lannister had entered the room. His essence pooled in her eyes and and seeped through her skin as if by some magic the old man had possessed her though only for an instant. “I am not asking.”

Ned braced. His hand itched for his sword, not that he would ever dare use it on this woman of all people, for any number of reasons. He sought merely the comfort of having his weapon; he felt as though he were in a battle entirely unarmed.

“Your sister had the Hand of the King murdered in cold blood. You don’t deny this, and you expect me to look the other way.” Ned accused.

(Y/n) leaned back in her chair exasperated. “I deny it entirely!”

How daft was this man. To call her family out so blatantly without all the facts before him. He was no master of the game; she knew that. She hadn’t expected him to be on par with Baelish or Varys, but it seemed he wasn’t even on par with the lessers, such as her siblings or Pycelle. Even Tommen knew better than to confront anyone in King’s Landing, especially her, in such a way.

“You deny your family is capable of such treachery? I find that difficult to believe.”

“I denied no such thing. Your family and mine are different out of the necessity of our survival. Your family is capable of a great many things mine is not, as the reverse is also true.” (Y/n) bit back. “I did not deny my family was capable of such a thing. I denied, specifically, that my sister, your Queen whom you should refer to her with more respect, murdered Jon Arryn.”

Ned contemplated, for a moment, the poor woman before him. A woman who genuinely believed her words, who believed death a necessity for survival. “If not your family, then who? He was my oldest friend. I will not let this pass.”

“There was a time you would have called King Robert your oldest friend, yet you do not seek justice for him now.” (Y/n) pointed out, much to Ned’s discomfort. “You know your king to have been poisoned, and you let every suspect of the crime walk free from this city. Why?”

“Robert,” Ned hesistated. He looked out the opening above his desk, for no other reason than to avoid (Y/n)’s knowing gaze. “I know the reason for his death; we both do. I imagine I also know who did the deed and how it was done. Nothing there need be questioned, and I find the reason to be one which my heart simply cannot see fit to judge. Robert was not the man I once knew.”

“And you know Jon Arryn to be the same man how?” (Y/n) asked. “You say he was your oldest friend, a title you remove from Robert in recent days. A title you would not have dreamed remove from Robert before you saw what he’d become. How then, having not seen Jon Arryn for just as long as the late King, can you lay the honor at his feet?”

Ned marched forward to Jon Arryn’s defense, grabbing up the straining spine of the book and forcing its pages into (Y/n)’s face. “Because I know why he was killed, and no man deserves to die for doing his duty to his people. Your sister should not go unpunished for his death.”

“Again,” (Y/n) sighed, “my sister did not kill Jon Arryn.”

“And how do you know?” Ned turned the questioning on her.

“Because that deed I did myself.”

For that, Ned had no response.

The tone of the conversation took a turn. Argument and resistance died in the air. Objection froze on the tongue.

Ned Stark found he was well and truly struck dumb.

Ned Stark had fallen at the first hurdle, a lesson (Y/n) had known even as a child: Never ask a question unless you already know its answer.

With her revelation, it seemed as if (Y/n) did, in fact, own the room.

“I imagine you have already correctly deduced why I felt it need be done. Regardless of your actions, I won’t kill you as I did him, Lord Stark. I promise you that. Though, I cannot and will not promise your safety if you continue with this line of inquiry. You walk a dangerous path down which another has already died, and it is a path you walk very much alone. You have no allies in this city, only the liability of your daughters.”

“If you touch my children,” Ned began.

“I have no intention to draw the siblings of my mate into any frey,” (Y/n) waved off his growl. “Your daughters are no concern of mine, but I cannot say the same of my counterparts. Baelish is seen to be quite regularly in Sansa’s presence, and Varys has eyes on Arya almost constantly. I mention your daughters to remind you that they are here. Because judging by your actions, you seem to have forgotten. Whatever you do,” (Y/n) slammed her hand down on the book Ned had set aside on the table, “will affect them directly.

“If you see through your quest for vengeance, your life and theirs will be at the mercy of my sister. If you are arrested for the treason you are plotting to commit, it will be my heartless nephew who decides their fate.” (Y/n) rose to her feet, forcing Ned back a step as they stood toe-to-toe. “Lord Stark, if you continue, the best ending that could possibly come from this would be for you to be branded a traitor and thrown in prison. The best ending for your daughters is to be given to my care at the Rock as honored guests unable to see their family ever again. And we both know what the worst outcome would entail.”

Ned had much to think on that seemed to prevent him speaking. He did not want to reply with an ill-thought response to such a direct accusation of danger, but (Y/n) had clearly come prepared for whatever he might think to say.

“Lord Stark,” (Y/n) sighed, resigned to maintaining the conversation alone, “I admire your sense of justice for your friends, but there comes a time to think of oneself, or at least one’s children. You will, I have no doubt, take this as intimidation, think I am attempting to block the honorable way. You believe you are doing the right thing, and I am here to tell you that you are. You’re doing the right thing for Jon Arryn and for your conscience, but make no mistake that the pair of you are the only two who will be served well by this course. It is the right thing for your guilt and for a deadman, not for the rest of Westeros.

“I mean, Stannis? As King? Make no mistake. Despite their personalities, Stannis is every bit Robert’s brother. The only thing Robert had in his favor was charm, and Stannis even lacks that.” (Y/n) scoffed at the idea of the morose, elder Baratheon sitting atop the Iron Throne.

“So,” Ned’s voice was as low as his eyes, looking at the floor. “You admit Joffrey is not the true King.”

(Y/n) paused, hesitating for only a moment, but it was enough for Ned to realize his words were to some degree correct. “Joffrey may not be the rightful King, but I believe he is the right one. Joffrey, as you’ve seen, would be no one’s first choice, but his undisputed reign, however brief, guarantees peace. What you propose leads to war and death and destruction from which no one benefits. Peace is what the Seven Kingdoms need.”

Ned wasn’t sure he intended to follow it, but he found he did want the young woman’s advice. “What, then, would you have me do?”

“Wait.” (Y/n) plainly stated. “A few months at the most. Joffrey will find some small slight, some matter of policy or gold which you’ve done in a way which he disapproves. He will ask you to return your pin as Hand. Do it without question. My sister will not attempt to enforce any contract for Sansa’s hand without Robert alive, and you will be free to journey with your children home. Take your daughters, and return to Winterfell where you belong.”

“And who would take my place?” Ned already knew the answer.

“My father, of course.”

Ned sat back on the edge of his desk with a heavy sigh, thinking that they had finally reached the true purpose of this conversation. “That is why you come to me then, to make way for your father. To ensure you do live to see him at this desk, in this room.” Ned motioned toward the window, the damned light at which their conversation had began. “It would give you control of the Rock sooner.”

(Y/n) smiled, a genuine, amused thing. “You are, I daresay, the first and only man in the Seven who has ever questioned my loyalty to my father. Knowing, as you do, what I’ve given up for him, I imagined you wiser than to do so. Even if it were as you say, and I assure you it is not, I am none so foolish as to go behind my father’s back to take control of the Westerlands.”

“Then what do you gain from this?” Ned asked, “I have been in King’s Landing long enough to know that even the most trustworthy people gain something from their loyalty.”

(Y/n) shrugged. This was, by no means, the revelation to her that it clearly was to Ned Stark “Perhaps that is true, perhaps I am gaining something from all of this. Or perhaps, for once, it might be possible for you to believe that someone without the last name Stark is capable of doing the right thing.”

There was a long quiet between the two in which (Y/n) leaned back and wrapped her hands over her stomach, looking thoughtfully out the window.

When Ned spoke again, it was a whisper. “Lady (Y/n), are you with child?”

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(Y/n) was heavy with child, too heavy for only a few months. The Maester had whispered words with her father in the hall after looking in on her.

“More than one.”

“Worried.”

“Large.”

“Like Joanna.”

The last should have scared her, but (Y/n) had no time for such worries.

There were greater moves being made than those of her body.

Namely, those of Catelyn Stark.

(Y/n) stormed down the hall, as much as she could at her size.

Her eyes were red, with tears or rage, one could not be sure, but she looked every bit a woman ready to kill. She was every bit a woman ready to kill.

The Mountain, ever stationed outside her father’s study, stepped aside as she approached.

(Y/n) shoved open the door, not bothering to allow it to close behind.

Let the Mountain hear. Let the Rock hear. Let the whole of the Westerlands and Westeros hear what she had to say.

Her husband, Harwyn, was stationed inside the open door.

The most useless guard in existence. The most useless man in existence. He thought himself worthy because he got her with child in their single torrid night together. He thought he had earned the Lannister’s respect. He was wrong, not that he’d realized that yet. He was nothing more than a hulking mass of flesh, and he had foolishly served his entire purpose to a family who did not consider him one of their own.

As the lesser brother of House Lannister looked up, Kevan jumped to his feet to free the chair in front of his brother’s desk for (Y/n).

“Have you seen this?” (Y/n) growled, ignoring the gesture. Her voice was dark, cold as she brandished a scroll in her left fist.

Tywin lifted an eyebrow. His daughter was not prone to exaggerations, of any kind. Even in her pregnancy, emotions did not vex her. She was far too disciplined for such outbursts of rage. “I presume not, as I’ve had no cause for anger today.”

(Y/n) tossed the crumbled paper onto her father’s desk, but her hand remained clenched in its fists as if it was looking for something, anything to squeeze the life out of, “Word from Jaime.”

Tywin smoothed out the paper, and Kevan forgot his attempts to get (Y/n) to sit. He circled the wood to look over the older lord’s shoulder at the message.

It was minutes, several long agonizing minutes, before her father finally looked up from the single sentence scratched into the paper. His head rose at a pace that was agonizing in its slowness, but when his gaze finally met his daughter’s it was that of a lion rearing back its’ head to strike.

“Can we confirm this?” His tone mirrored his daughter’s low voice.

(Y/n) gave a single nod. “It was accompanied by word from the Riverlands.”

Gracefully, like a predator stalking its prey, Tywin pushed to his feet, sending Kevan back a step in his wake. “Brother,” Tywin’s eyes didn’t leave his daughter’s. “Call the banners.”

Harwyn stepped from his shadowy corner, “For what purpose, my Lord?”

Tywin turned his deadly gaze on his new son, and even the proud knight seemed to shrink back inside of the barrell that made up his chest. “Catelyn Stark has accused Tyrion of the murder of Bran Stark and kidnapped him on his return to us.”

(Y/n) took the chance to sum up her father’s thoughts in three words. “This is war.”

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“Open,” The order came from somewhere near the back of the procession, and the guards at the top of the stairs each took a handle and pulled the doors wide.

The creaking brought a hush to the crowded room beyond who had not been expecting interruption. The chatter that had been present slowly died away as the newcomer joined their ranks.

“My deepest apologies for being late,” (Y/n) called out, slipping seamlessly to fill the quiet as if she did not know or care that her presence was a shockingly unwelcome surprise. With a grand flourish of her hands, (Y/n) waved to all of the room in greeting. “I do hope I am not interrupting.”

Silence. A long, empty silence.

Then, from the center a hearty chuckle.

(Y/n) stepped under the middle archway and greeted Tyrion’s relieved smile with her usual smirk.

“Brother,” she gave only a curt nod in acknowledgment before turning to meet the more distinguished guests on their platform.

Lady Arryn rose from her seat to stand beside her sister with a wide-eyed expression that could only be managed by someone subject to her particular kind of lunacy. “Who gave you the right to enter my home?”

“I gave myself the right,” (Y/n) meandered along, circling the edge of the room, a show of her indifference to Lysa’s power as much as it was a show of her own confidence.

The Eyrie truly was a dreadful place. The mountains helped; they were beautiful, like a painting out of every window. But the keep was something more reminiscent of Harrenhal. Dim, cold, giving the appearance that it was haunted by its former patriarch.

(Y/n) rather hoped the hall wasn’t haunted by Jon Arryn. She doubted he would take kindly to her presence. Not that she believed in spirits of any kind.

“You have no business here!” Lysa roared, taking a step dangerously close to the ledge over which she sat.

“On the contrary,” (Y/n) wandered over to the nearest bench and, with a glowering look, sent the lesser ladies occupying the seat scurrying away, “He,” she pointed to Tyrion as she settled in, “is my business.”

“You cannot pay your way out of this. Your brother has already called for his trial by combat,” Lady Catelyn’s voice was steadier than her sister’s but by no means more inviting.

“Excellent,” (Y/n) clapped her hands, “Then he saves me the step of demanding one.”

“What cause have you for wanting such a thing?” Lysa’s nose turned up at the prospect, an unpleasant look for an unpleasant woman. It made her already large nose look even more like a beak.

“I have brought my brother’s champion.” (Y/n) snapped twice, a definitive sound that echoed off the chamber walls. “I’m sure you recall my husband, Lord Harwyn.”

The doors creaked open once more.

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(Y/n) would be wrong if she tried to claim that she wasn’t proud of the bloody shoe prints that trailed her as Harwyn escorted her up the small flight of stairs.

There was something terribly Lannister about leaving the blood of her enemies in her wake, feeling their life draining out under her feet.

“I believe,” (Y/n) let go of Harwyn’s steadying grasp as she reached the top of the overlook, “that my husband has won the day, and the trial, in my brother’s name.”

Lysa looked on the red at (Y/n)’s heels and snarled out with a venom, “Take your brother and go.”

(Y/n) bowed her head. In her advanced state, she could bow little else without toppling over. “Thank you, Lady Arryn.”

(Y/n) sidestepped a guard to stand at Catelyn’s side and leaned in as if she were embracing the older woman.

Catelyn stiffened as (Y/n)’s arms came up to rest upon her shoulders, and every body in the room tensed for action, listening intently for provocation by either side.

(Y/n) pressed her lips against Catelyn’s ear and spoke in a voice so low that even with no other noise and an echoey, stone chamber not a word carried to any others present.

“You think your son’s name on my arm will protect you from my wrath, and yet my name on his arm is not good enough to protect my brother.” (Y/n)’s hands gripped tighter to Catelyn’s dress. Her nails cut through the fabric and stung Catelyn’s skin. “Make no mistake. This will be your only warning. I care for my family just as deeply as you do for yours, and I will not tolerate such insolence again. The next time you touch one of my brothers, no Stark will leave alive.”

Catelyn’s eyes stared straight ahead when (Y/n) turned and retreated back over the deadman’s blood. The steps up and down smeared into one another and became indistinguishable trail.

Like the train of her crimson wedding cloak, the blood red stain followed her out the door and into the snow.

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“Where are we going?” Tyrion occupied the seat across from her in the carriage.

Normally, he would have ridden on horseback, but that was dominantly for the sake of expectation.

His ‘brother’ Harwyn was outside, riding with the guard. Usually, the only recusal from joining the rest of the men would have been for all of the highborn lords and ladies to take refuge in the carriage. As it were, Tyrion was showing a great deal of disrespect to their traveling companions.

Though, he imagined Harwyn would say nothing and most of the low-born swords would not take it as the slight it was. They would assume that Tyrion’s height had made him in some way lesser to them and that this was merely him showing his weakness.

Neither, of course, was true. Tyrion could ride well enough with his saddle to keep up, and despite his imprisonment he felt more than fine to ride.

There were, however, more important things than keeping up appearances to nameless, faceless, meaningless soldiers.

“You won’t make it back to the Rock in this state,” Tyrion gestured to hulking mass that had become of his sister’s belly.

“No, I won’t.” (Y/n) shifted her hands beneath the protrusion to lift some of the weight off of her aching back. “We’re heading to the Twins. Aunt Genna is waiting for us there.”

“And from there?” Tyrion asked.

Trying desperately to find a comfortable seat, (Y/n) huffed and shifted her waist yet again. “Genna has business to attend with House Frey. She will accompany me home when I am well, and her deed is done.”

“And me?”

“I believe Father has asked after you.”

Tyrion let his head thunk back against the wall behind him. “Joy,” he grumbled.

(Y/n) smiled, “No need to fear, brother. I believe it is a posting.”

Tyrion let the words hang for a moment before switching the conversation. There was no elegant way to put it, but it needed to be said. “Thank you, (Y/n). I know Father sent you, no doubt. But thank you.”

(Y/n) let her head lull to one side so as to look on her brother at eye level.

Their family was not one for emotion. Cersei was too cruel to feel any, save those of a mother for her child. Jaime kept his locked deep inside, only sharing them on the rare occasion he was truly at someone’s mercy. Tyrion was rarely sober enough to remember what he was feeling, not that he felt safe enough to divulge them when there wasn’t a drink in his hand. (Y/n) hid her own under the cold, calculating mask of Tywin Lannister.

It was a truly unique and rare occasion for any of the siblings, particularly (Y/n), to show what they were feeling. But on those rare occasions (Y/n) set her mask aside, it was only for her brothers.

“Tyrion, Father did not order me after you. I was the one to tell him I was coming.”

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“The Pride of the Rock,” Tyrion tossed the Maester’s letter on the table in front of his sister. “How much of that is embellishment to win your favor?”

(Y/n) glanced up at her brother through her lashes. Even when it was out from under her watchful eye, her hand did not cease its elegant arcs over the paper before her, crafting what Tyrion was sure was an equally elegant response.

Tyrion could recall (Y/n)’s birth the same way Jaime often recalled his own.

‘You came into this world shouting, and you haven’t shut up since.’ Jaime used to say to his younger brother.

Tyrion, only a boy himself at the time, had been in the hall when his younger sister entered the world. He’d sat on the floor worrying his bottom lip as he waited for the Maester to come out with the final news.

When Ashara’s cries had finally quieted down, Tyrion had expected a baby’s wail. All experience and knowledge he had on the subject had led him to believe his sibling would cry with their first breath of air. He fretted that something had gone horribly wrong when no sound came from the room, save the Maester’s shuffling feet.

Maester Orland waddled out of the bedchamber with a bundle of cloth in his arms, outstretched from his body with a disagreeable face.

‘A girl, I’m afraid,’ the Maester shoved the child at the young Tyrion. ‘Normal and healthy, at least. I must see to Ashara. Take her to your father. He will no doubt be displeased.’

The baby was rather large for Tyrion to hold, but he cradled her to his chest with all the care in the world.

Tyrion had been the first person in the world to hold little (Y/n). Even before their father, even before her mother, even before Jaime, and long before Cersei. It was, therefore, with some certainty that Tyrion could say (Y/n) was not molded into Tywin’s ideal. (Y/n) was born perfect.

For sure, Genna had to teach her to write in the beautiful script that now lettered the paper in front of her, but everything which made her (Y/n) was ingrained in her from her beginning.

The entire walk from Ashara’s chambers to Tywin’s library she had stared up at Tyrion with the same silent, judgmental look that colored her face even to the present.

(Y/n) was thoroughly unamused, but after so many years in her company Tyrion was used to her cold mask. He knew that, while identical to his father’s, her hardened expressions were at least occasionally capable of hiding amusement or cracking into a smile. Tyrion had made an art of telling exactly when and how her lips would finally pull up at the corners.

“Dear brother,” (Y/n)’s eyebrow rose nearly as high as her incredulous tone, “you think anyone would dare deceive me, even for the sake of flattery.”

“No,” Tyrion broke from his reminiscing. “I certainly don’t.”

“Then let us presume it is as the maester says.” (Y/n) set aside her work and leaned back in the chair, resting her hands over her ever larger stomach. “What will this mean?”

“Why it means…” Tyrion wasn’t sure he wanted to say, but under (Y/n)’s watchful, waiting gaze he knew he had to speak. She was looking at him expectantly; she knew what was to come. “Sister, you cannot mean to do this. If we lose you…”

“If you lose me, you mean,” (Y/n) corrected with a tilt to her lip that was as close as she ever came to a smile away from the Rock. “Brother,” (Y/n) reached out a hand, and Tyrion found himself meeting her halfway. “I did not leave you with Catelyn Stark. I won’t leave you with our family either. You are one of us, and Father raised me to protect my own, even if we have different understandings of what is ours.”

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Given (Y/n)’s condition, the Lannister trio of Tyrion, (Y/n), and Genna were held months at the Twins. As (Y/n)’s belly swelled, so did the tension of the Kingdoms. Until finally, at once, both burst.

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(Y/n) panted for breath, gasping in lung full after lung full. She felt like a sailor drowning in the Sunset Sea. Every gulp eased her pain, but only for the moment it came in.

“Where” Gasp. “Is” Gasp. “My” Gasp. “Brother”.

The Maester pressed a cold, wet cloth to her forehead, trying to stem the sweat that was pouring out of her as the hours drug on. “No men are allowed in the birthing chamber. Only your mother and the midwives.”

With the next roar of pain, (Y/n) grabbed the old man by the neck of his robe and wrenched his face down over hers. “Bring. Me. Tyrion.”

Despite the maester’s feeble protests, a midwife ran from the room and came back with the shorter Lannister on her heels.

Tyrion held (Y/n)’s hand through hours of screams. His fingers went numb from her clutches while her voice went hoarse with cries. His ears stung at the volume of the noise, and his head ached from the pain of listening so closely. His mouth was dry; his stomach was empty. He smelled of sweat and blood, like the room around them.

But not once did Tyrion move. Not once did he complain.

This was how his mother died. This was how (Y/n)’s mother died. This was how he caused his mother’s death. This was how (Y/n) caused her mother’s death.

He hadn’t been there for his mother, nor (Y/n) for hers.

Joanna and Ashara had died screaming and alone. They had died in the arms of a strange old man they did not know. They had died lying in the same birthing bed. They had died bringing their last children into the world. They had died…

They had died.

Tyrion refused to let that happen to her.

But from her screams, from her pain, from her tears, it was plain that (Y/n) was dying now.

The first child came easy. A bald, beautiful baby boy. He was small in size though not sharing Tyrion’s condition. The babe was placed in Genna’s arms and ushered quickly from the room.

The second, not as much. The girl boasted a near full head of Lannister blonde hair, and her screams nearly matched her mother’s in furiocity as she entered the world.

It was then, as a nursing maid bundled the child away to join Genna and the other outside, that the Maester looked up from under his sister’s skirts. Tyrion could see the color drain from the old man’s face as he held up three fingers. “There’s another.”

No one ever survived a third. The only time Tyrion had ever heard of such a thing happening to nobility had been the Goodbrothers in the Iron Islands, tales of three boys born the size of sailors who practically tore their mother apart to enter the world. They said the woman died bloodied. They said she would’ve died screaming if she’d had lungs left to breath. No one in House Goodbrother had ever bothered to refute the tale, the monstrous sons she’d birthed even bragged of their feat.

Tyrion held (Y/n)’s hand, and with the next pains, he cried with her.

Tyrion could not lose his sister this same way, could not let another child into this family without a mother’s love. He could not bare a nephew as rejected and broken as himself, could not bare a niece as masked and guarded as (Y/n).

Tywin hated Tyrion for killing the only woman he loved, and he would hate this child for killing the daughter that finally replaced her.

“(Y/n),” Tyrion brushed away the hair plastered to his sister’s face. It was the first time, the only time, he had seen her looking anything less than perfect, and he’d never loved her more. “Sister, mine, your children need you now. Bring their sibling into this world, so they can meet you.”

Her voice had long turned from cries to rasping groans, but with her brother’s words, (Y/n) managed one last shout, pushing the baby from her as she collapsed onto the bed.

The Maester handed the bloody mound of crying flesh to Tyrion and shoved him from the room.

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The scream that ripped through the air around the Twins was a blood-curdling one. It filtered out through the windows of the upper chambers and fell down upon the ears of the men surrounding the keep.

“It sounds as if there is a woman being tortured in there.”

“It’s the Twins. I would not be surprised to hear anything of Walder Frey.”

Just as the rest of the men were humming their agreement, their liege lord’s voice called out, “Ah, men too young to know the call. That’s no torture, boys. That’s the screams of a woman in birth.”

Robb Stark glanced over his shoulder on hearing the booming voice of his closest advisor, Lord Umber. “One of his wives or one of his daughters?” Robb joked back, wandering over to join the fray.

Greatjon slapped a hand on the Stark’s shoulder. “Perhaps a woman who’s both.”

The group of soldiers guffawed.

Robb’s eyes trailed over the keep. He knew there was no way to tell which window the sound came from, but when the next scream pierced the air, he felt an urge coming over him to go and find its source.

Shaking his head, Robb turned and backed away from the group of men, returning to talk with his mother over her mission with Lord Walder.

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Later, a bard writing of the day would call it a miracle. The Triplets at the Twins.

And later still, when the name on (Y/n)’s arm and the name on Robb’s had passed into legend, they would say it was the gods themselves who came down and touched (Y/n)’s life that day. They would say the gods could not bare the injustice of her dying so close, but so far, from her mate.

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On orders, an army of Northerners had been allowed to pass into the Riverlands. War had finally begun.

The fighting was vicious and bloody. At the incredibly slow pace she would have to set given her condition, there was no sure way for (Y/n) to find passage to the Rock. (Y/n) spent a whole month alone at the Twins with only the company of ugly Frey girls and dimwitted Frey boys on hand to entertain her. They didn’t even have a library, the Freys.

It was dull, dreadfully dull.

Tywin had called for Tyrion the moment word had reached him that his daughter had survived her ordeal. Sympathy was in short supply in wartime, and Tywin was saving what little he had for souls weaker than his daughter. He knew (Y/n) would be fine.

Aunt Genna, her task done, was similarly ordered back to the Rock. (Y/n) had sent her children along with her.

The Twins had never fallen, but (Y/n) was not willing to take that chance. The Rock was the only place she knew they would be safe, the only place where all eyes watching were on their side. It was only with the greatest care, and a few dead spies, that (Y/n) herself had not been found in Walder Frey’s home. She was not about to risk her family, her children, in that way for nothing more than company.

For once in her life, (Y/n) admitted that she needed time to heal, that she was in a state that was of no use to her father or her family.

It spoke to how low she was, how near death she had been, that when she could finally walk again the first place she had asked to go was the house of a landed knight serving under Walder Frey, several leagues down the road. There, in his garden, was a small, rather puny weirwood tree, the only one for a day’s ride in any direction.

(Y/n) hobbled out alone and, away from the Frey’s prying eyes, threw herself at the base of the tree.

“I never believed in the new gods. I am not certain I believe in the old ones either. Still, a lack of faith in you is far better than a disbelief of them.” With slow, shuddering breath, (Y/n) removed herself from where she was wrapped around the tree and knelt before it. “Because right now, I desperately need someone to pray to.”

And so she sat there, for hours, talking to a tree.

And when she rose, she felt better for it. Not that it was something she would ever admit.

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Whatever peace (Y/n) found lasted as long as it took to ride back to the Twins.

On her return, it took only the news presented her to decide: if this was what she got for praying to the old gods, then they could go in the trash heap where she’d shoved the new.

“A message from your father, delivered by hand,” Lord Walder held out the paper, seal facing her. “If it says anything like his letter to me, I imagine you will be leaving us soon.”

“Jaime captured. Harwyn dead. Return with the Mountain.”

As if she needed the last sentence.

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There were few moments in Robb Stark’s life that he could look back on with some certainty and know that his father would be ashamed of him, but that moment Lord Umber pulled him into the trees was certainly one.

“Is this the man?” Lord Umber asked, gesturing to the knight pinned to his knees by three of the Greatjon’s sons.

Robb studied the figure carefully; though, he did not need to. He would know it anywhere. It was the man that haunted his dreams, cursed his nightmares. It was the body he imagined when he hacked training poles to bits, when he sent soldiers hurtling to the ground in sparring matches, when racked an arrow and aimed for the target.

It was his enemy. More than Joffrey would ever be.

“None of us have met him, but we gather you were at the wedding and would be able to pick out the man. He could prove a valuable prisoner, not so much as the Kingslayer but enough to be worth keeping.” The Greatjon explained, without realizing that Robb was not listening.

“So?” one of the sons holding him down asked Robb. “Is it Harwyn Plumm?”

Robb crouched on the balls of his feet, slowly lowering himself to the level of the man’s face.

The Umber holding Harwyn’s left arm clutched at his hair and wrenched his head up to look Robb dead in the eye.

“Hello Harwyn,” Robb sneered.

Harwyn snarled between his teeth but did not dare to look away from the Northman.

“You look different from the last time I saw you.” A cruel observation that Robb made with a slight thrill.

A fresh, bloody gash had sliced across the man’s left eye sometime during the battle. The dirt and grime of war camps mingled with the fresh blood in a sticky sludge that covered the lower half of his face.

His brutish features looked even more severe, even more dangerous, even more menacing. Harwyn Plumm, truly a force, or at least he used to be.

Robb pushed himself to his feet and placed a hand to the hilt of his sword.

“I won’t be making it to your prison,” Harwyn croaked out a response to Lord Umber though he did not, for a moment, abandon his staring match with Robb.

“No,” Robb agreed. “You won’t.”

Robb unsheathed his sword. “I do hope your wife will forgive me.”

To the rest of the group, to those unaware, it sounded like a cruel joke made at the expense of an enemy during his final breaths. Robb and Harwyn were alone in their knowledge that the plea was sincere.

With a whistle as it cut the air, Robb’s blade came down on Harwyn’s neck.

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No one shed tears for Harwyn Plumm. No one mourned his loss. No one worried over what the gods had in store for him. No one pleaded for the chance to lay his body to rest. No one demanded vengeance for his life.

Harwyn Plumm’s death was lost in the much bolder news permeating the letter.

Every pound of her horse’s hooves felt like it was drumming out the words to a beat as (Y/n) rode.

Jaime captured. Jaime captured. Jaime captured.

Harwyn was an afterthought.

“Perhaps I should thank him. At least Robb cleaned up one mess for us,” (Y/n) grumbled to the Mountain as he helped her mount her horse.

And that was the only time any word of Harwyn’s death left his wife’s lips before her mind was back to the more important matter at hand.

Jaime captured. Jaime captured. Jaime captured.

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“Your mate,” Tywin threw the letter onto the pile of papers between him and his daughter, “is demanding Northern independence.”

“My mate is a fool.” (Y/n) dismissed. “He’s a soldier, not a King.”

“They’ve named him their King,” Kevan pointed out.

“Just because he says it doesn’t make it so.”

“He didn’t say it,” Kevan argued, leaning into the confrontation, “his men did. That is a true King.”

Tywin gave a humm of passive agreement. For a moment (Y/n) thought she saw a hint of respect, but it was gone as quickly as it appeared.

(Y/n) shrugged as she slouched back in her chair. For once, she thought that her two companions were rather missing the point. “Robb’s men declared him King, but so did Robert’s men. Robert held the title, but it does not mean he did the deed. Jon Arryn ran Westeros for decades. Ran it into the ground,” she quickly stipulated, “but ran it nonetheless. Robb will be the same as his namesake, only he won’t even have the meager might of Jon Arryn to guide the way. He knows the North. He knows Winterfell, but he was raised to fight and to lead, not to rule. Put the man in front of a trade agreement, and he will be as lost as we would be north of the Wall. Give the man a crown, and he will forget where he put it down by the next moon.”

(Y/n), Uncle Kevan, and Tywin were the only three in the war tent. The Mountain and one of Harwyn’s elder brother guarded the door, but neither of them was close enough to hear the conversation inside over the bustling of preparations.

Probably for the best.

“His title doesn’t matter.” Tywin waved the matter away. “If he believes himself King, then we will fight him like a King.”

“And what of Jaime then?” (Y/n) uncrossed her legs and pressed forward in her chair.

“We will find a way.” Tywin paused for a moment before carefully changing his words, “you will find a way.”

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Jaime Lannister lay in the mud covering the floor of his cell, trying unsuccessfully to find a quiet enough moment to get some rest.

His body was weak, growing weaker by the day. With his arms tied to a pole behind his back, they had gone completely unused since he arrived in the Stark camp. He could feel the strength in his sword hand beginning to go, and while the skill would never leave him he knew he would need more than his memory when he managed to find his way back to the battlefield.

Reconstructing his cell at this new encampment, Stark put Jaime near the center of tents. Every noise from the slop of meals to the passing of midnight guards went right by his enclosure, and every man made it a point to kick a toe full of dirt at him, just in case he was asleep.

Late afternoon, just after the sun had set, was the only time he could find some peace. Robb Stark’s men were all taking evening meals, and his lords and advisors were in his tent planning their next attack on Tywin Lannister.

They acted like Jaime didn’t know this. One of them, the great buffoon that was Lord Umber, even taunted Jaime with their plans, daring him to guess where they were going, teasing what he would do when they finally caught the Great Lion.

As if Jaime didn’t know where they were. He was no Tyrion, but Jaime wasn’t entirely stupid. The height of the hills had been rising by the day. The depths of the valleys in which they slept had become rockier every night.

Jaime had spent his entire childhood running around the Rock. As he grew, he traveled with the guard putting down rebellions and imprisoning thieves. He squired for Lord Crakehall and befriended House Marbrand. Jaime was the son of Tywin Lannister. He was born to be lord of the Westerlands, and he would recognize his homelands anywhere.

By his best estimates, they were two days north of the Golden Tooth. The rolling hills were slowly growing higher, but it would not be until the other side of Ashemark that they would become the mountains of the Rock.

The hills were certainly slowing down the party, but Jaime imagined the mountains would draw them to a standstill. The Northmen were used to flat plains of ice. They could handle cold better than anyone. The occasional snow falls left them entirely unphased, but the rise and fall of the land was causing many of them difficulties that Jaime couldn’t help but find amusing.

The night prior, two young soldiers who’d been stationed as his guard had gotten sick from the changing heights. Jaime knew many a remedy for such illness, but he let the men be. The stench of their sickness invaded his cell, but he was happy to endure it. Given the placement of his cell and guards which Lord Stark had so kindly given him, the rest of the camp was forced to suffer with him.

Even now, with no rain to wash away the debris, the contents of the men’s stomach were left to bake in the sun then freeze in the night.

Jaime buried his face in his hair to hide from the stench. His hair wasn’t much better. It had been far too long since he bathed; he’d almost forgotten what it felt like to be clean.

Nothing though, not his hair, not his post, not the mud, could sufficiently hide from the noise. The squelch of boots hitting sludge and the smack as their owner pulled them from where they stuck. The swish of a cloak was muffled as it dragged along the ground, the weight of the debris it picked up burdening its movement. Then, unexpectedly, the clank of a chain being removed.

Jaime looked up to see his cell being unlocked by the dim light of a torch.

“The King in the North!” Jaime jeered in delight as Robb Stark entered his prison. “I keep expecting you to leave me at one castle or another for safekeeping, but you drag me along from camp to camp. Have you grown fond of me Stark? Is that it? I’ve never seen you with a girl.”

Jaime leaned in, as much as his chains could bear and spoke in a conspiratorial tone, “Or perhaps it’s not me you’re fond of; perhaps it is a girl? Can’t have the girl you want, so you keep me around as the next best thing? I must admit (Y/n) and I both have stunningly good looks.”

Robb’s jaw visibly clenched, and Jaime couldn’t bite back his smile at getting under the little lord’s skin. His sister would, no doubt, be unappreciative of being dragged into his little spats with her mate, but Jaime doubted there was much else he could say that would rattle the young Stark. Stark was, after all, dumb enough to think he was winning.

“If I left you with one of my bannermen,” Robb spoke in as cold and emotionless a voice as he could manage to use addressing a man like the Kingslayer, “your father would know within a fortnight. My bannermen would receive a raven with a message: ‘Release my son, and you’ll be rich beyond your dreams. Refuse, and your house will be destroyed, root and stem’.”

Even as Robb spoke, Jaime was shaking his head. “You don’t trust the loyalty of the men following you into battle.”

In truth, Jaime never trusted his men, but Jaime was a Lannister. Lannisters never trusted anyone. The Starks, the North, claimed to be made of more honorable, more loyal stuff than him.

“I trust my men with my life. Just not with yours.”

If Jaime had absolutely anything to do during his capture, he wouldn’t have been quite so bored out of his mind, and if he wasn’t quite so bored out of his mind, he wouldn’t have been paying attention so acutely to Robb Stark, the only interesting thing to happen to him in days. If he hadn’t been paying such close attention, he might have missed the way the corner of Robb’s mouth lifted only slightly.

“Sounds like something my sister would say.” The way Robb’s eyebrow rose told Jaime all he needed to know on the matter. “Smart woman, my sister. You’re a smart boy to learn from her.”

The small smile on Robb’s face slowly leaked away.

“What’s wrong?” Jaime tilted to one side, curiously. “Don’t like being called boy?” Jaimed added a mocking pout, “Insulted?”

Robb Stark’s eyes trailed to something behind Jaime, and Jaime was, for a moment, confused until he heard a rustling from the trees. There was a stamp of something that sounded like a hoof followed by a low, deep growl. Jaime tried to look over his shoulder, but his restraints kept him in place.

“You insult yourself Kingslayer,” Robb took on a smooth affect, somewhere between Jaime’s mocking words and his sister’s unshakeable superiority.

Jaime could pretend he was listening to Robb, but it would have been a lie beyond his capabilities as a heavy panting drew closer to his back and began to circle the cage.

“You’ve been defeated by a boy. You’re held captive by a boy.”

The animal responsible for the rigidity in Jaime’s back finally came into view, in the light of a distant torch: a massive, monstrous wolf.

“Perhaps, you’ll be killed by a boy.”

The beast, because it was no simple wolf, circled his cell like it was circling its next meal. Jaime subconsciously drew his legs into him as the thing entered the door, taking every inch left in the front of his cell to stand at its master’s side.

“Stannis Baratheon sent ravens to all the high lords of Westeros.”

Jaime couldn’t, wouldn’t, take his eyes off the creature before him, but Robb Stark certainly had his ear now.

“That King Joffrey Baratheon is neither a true king, nor a true Baratheon. He’s your bastard son.”

Jaime took a chance in removing his eyes from the direwolf to glare down Robb Stark. “Well if that’s true Stannis is the rightful king, how convenient for him,” Jaime felt like he was educating a child on politics, pointing out such obvious things.

“My father learned the truth,” Robb ignored Jaime’s words to continue his tale, “that’s why you had him executed.”

The wolf huffed, drawing Jaime back to him. “I was your prisoner when Ned Stark lost his head.”

“Your son,” the Stark’s growl matched his wolf’s, “killed him, so the world wouldn’t learn who fathered him, and you pushed my brother from a window because he saw you with the Queen.” Robb’s chin lifted into the air.

It was a look Jaime knew well. It was a look he saw on his sisters’ faces, on Tyrion’s face every day. The look of confidence that came only with the absolute certainty one was right. He’d thought only Lannisters’ were capable of looking so smug, but it seemed what Starks lacked in pride they made up in self-righteousness.

“You have proof? Or do you want to trade gossip like a couple of fishwives?”

“I’m sending one of your cousins down to King’s Landing with my peace terms.”

Last Jaime had heard Cersei and Tyrion were the only Lannisters in King’s Landing, and neither of them had the power to accept or proffer peace with the claimed King in the North. There were only two Lannisters who could offer such a thing, and he was sure of where one of them was.

“King’s Landing you say?” Jaime’s lips lifted far more slowly than they were used to, but they eventually found their usual shape. He looked up at Robb Stark with a cocky smirk, impressively maintained in face of the threat of the wolf. “You should be sending them to the Rock.”

“And why would I do anything you suggest Kingslayer?” Robb asked, tensing his hand in the fur of his wolf to hold the creature back.

“Because, Lannister I may be, but you are breathing down the Rock while Baratheons threatens the Crownlands. My father might well want me alive, but our home and the Crown are as important as my head if not more.”

Robb gave a half-hearted laugh at the thought. “I’m supposed to believe your father would leave you to die in my hands because he’s too busy to be bothered?”

“Hardly,” Jaime waved the idea away with a jerk of his head. Even the uneasiness of the wolf at Robb’s side couldn’t shake the grin from his face. “He won’t let me die, but he won’t come for me himself by any means. Sending word to him is useless.

“Surely your mother warned you.” Jaime pulled at the irons holding him back and brought himself as close to Robb as he dared with a wild wolf baring down on him. He lowered his voice to a whisper so that any passing guards wouldn’t hear what he was saying to their king, “He’ll send my sister.”

A shiver, quite visibly, ran down Robb Stark’s spine.

“And something tells me you have far more to fear from her than my father could ever threaten you with.”

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Tywin sniffed the dart. He was fairly certain of the poison, but the smell was confirmation enough. “Wolfsbane, a rare substance. This is no common assassin.”

“We hanged twenty men last night.” The man by the door stated bluntly. Clegane, the Mountain, not that Tywin ever called him such. Tywin did not glorify his men, too often they took it as placement above himself.

“I don’t care if you hanged a hundred. A man tried to kill me. I want his name, and I want his head.” As if killing twenty indiscriminate prisoners would satisfy Tywin’s anger. Whoever had done this had gotten their hands on Wolfsbane, an expensive poison usually only found in the cellars of men like Tywin himself. The man was an expert, not likely to be found amongst the commonfolk, and not likely to be caught so easily.

Gregor had the nerve to speak again, “We think it was an infiltrator from the Brotherhood Without Banners.”

Tywin did not think it likely that such a mangey bunch would have the means to get their hands on Wolfsbane, but it was as likely as any other explanation. “A pretentious name for a band of outlaws. We can’t allow rebels behind our lines to harass us with impunity. We look like fools, and they look like heroes. That’s how kings fall. I want them dead.” Tywin crossed the room to confront his man as his cupbearer laid the table. “Every one,” he emphasized.

“Killing them isn’t the problem. It’s finding them.”

“You gone soft Clegane? I always thought you had a talent for violence.” He prodded. “Burn the villages. Burn the farms. Let them know what it means to choose the wrong side.”

Clegane took his dismissal with a rumble of agreement.

Turning back to his table, Tywin thumbed over the dart. It did not take a genius, though Tywin thought himself one, to piece together that the hit had not been meant for him.

No one in the Seven would ever mistake Tywin Lannister for a fool like Amory Lorch. By age, by banner, by name, and by appearance, the two men differed in every way. Even the most commonplace of assassination attempts would not have actively chosen the wrong target.

It left him to conclude that either the man had missed Tywin and struck Lorch by mistake or Lorch had been the target all along. Had the assassin not used wolfsbane, Tywin would have believed the former. As it were, only someone who had been paid very well could use that particular poison, and no one would pay someone so well unless they were a master. A master who would not miss.

The far greater question, for Tywin, was why someone would kill Amory Lorch with a far greater target so close by.

“Pity I’ll have to replace him on my war council,” Tywin mused to himself, stuffing the dart away in his pockets to consider later.

“Will it be another soldier, my lord?” His cupbearer had been gaining confidence in recent days, since he allowed her to ask after his father. She asked menial questions quite regularly at meals.

“No,” Tywin paced around the edge of the table. “I don’t believe it will be. I have just the person in mind.”

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As she rode into the yard, nearly all movement ceased. Men slowly edged their way back against the walls, and those few who were on matters to urgent to halt, immediately dropped their heads and quickened their pace.

“Take him to the stable,” (Y/n) tossed her horse’s reins to a guard who’d dared to continue his rounds in her presence.

“Yes, My Lady,” the man quickly dropped his task and ushered the stallion away.

“You,” (Y/n) grabbed the tunic of a passing smith, “Where has my father set his war room?”

The boy, because he was certainly not old enough to be a man despite his height, looked on (Y/n) apprehensively. “Up the third flight of stairs. Somewhere on the East side. I-I do not know the room exactly.”

(Y/n) dropped his clothes and let the boy scurry off, “Good enough.”

Striding away, (Y/n) found the hall in question with relative ease. It was, after all, hard to miss Gregor Clegane. “Mountain,” She called to the man standing guard, “Is my father in?”

“Alone with the cupbearer.”

(Y/n) waved away the Mountain’s attempts to announce her and opened the door as silently as possible. She slipped between the crack and leaned her back against the wood to ensure it didn’t make a sound.

The cupbearer was clearling plates on the side table, dumping scraps into a bucket that was no doubt to be made into slop. Consistent scratching of a knife grating food off metal surfaces was the only sound in the room.

Tywin was sat at the head of the table, papers and maps splayed out over the entire length. His hand was furiously scratching out a letter, and (Y/n) had a feeling she knew its intended recipient.

“No need to write to me so hastily,” (Y/n) called out, “I’ve already arrived.”

The cupbearer in the corner jumped at the sound but made no move to turn.

Tywin did no such thing. The elder Lannister slammed his hand down on the table with a force. “An assassin has made it into our camp.”

(Y/n) shrugged, slinking towards the chair on his right hand side. “Assassins find their way into every camp. If you didn’t mind their use, you could have the head cut off the Stag in a fortnight.”

“The Stag is the least of my concerns,” Tywin motioned for (Y/n) to take the chair. “What with the Wolf breathing down our door.”

(Y/n) opted not to take the seat, instead leaning against the tall back of the chair. Since the death of Amory Lorch, she had been riding day and night on the back of a horse. (Y/n) felt like she never wanted to sit again, or at least she didn’t want to sit till her body learned to stand straight once more.

“Visenya Targaryen expressed her gratitude that Loren the Last rode out to meet the Targaryen forces on the Field of Fire.” Visenya was something of a hero of (Y/n)’s.

Her father had never particularly cared for the stories. He studied the Targaryens for battle strategies, for a better understanding of the threat of dragons, and for an appreciation of legacy. The finer details of drama behind the scenes were of no consequence to him. (Y/n) picked them up entirely from Tyrion and his books.

“Visenya was certain that Casterly Rock was the only keep in Westeros which could withstand Targaryen forces, even dragons. So certain, in fact, that she told her brother not to unleash any flame, for fear that the fire would prove the Rock could not burn down.” (Y/n) always loved to tell a story. Stories were a far more entertaining way to earn attention than shouting, though she was certainly capable of both. “Robb Stark has proven himself a capable general, but I think even you would agree he’s not Aegon the Conqueror.”

“True enough,” Tywin waved her story off with a wayward comment, but (Y/n) could tell he’d put the tale away for safe keeping. “Still, we’ve underestimated him for too long.”

“That,” (Y/n) sighed, picking up an empty wine cup with a morose expression, “sadly, appears to be the case.”

“Girl!” Tywin absentmindedly snapped his fingers, “wine for my daughter.”

(Y/n) didn’t bother to look on the girl who was filling her cup, choosing instead to continue her address. “Then let us estimate him. Robb Stark hasn’t organized with Stannis Baratheon. The North tried to approach Renly first, and Stannis is far too narrow-minded a man to take his brother’s former allies. He’ll see them as traitors already. But, if Robb Stark is at all worth his salt, and he’s certainly proven he is, then he’ll know the best time to attack us is when Stannis makes his run on King’s Landing.”

“He needs time to organize that.” Tywin retorted.

He didn’t disagree, not at all in fact. However, after years of trusting only his daughter and his siblings, Tywin and (Y/n) had developed a system of strategizing. Parrying thoughts back and forth, trying to find the weakness in each other’s words seemed to be their best recourse, a recourse the two could only pursue with each other.

“Jaime thought the same about the ambush. He thought the Northman didn’t have enough time or men, and they proved him wrong on both counts.”

“And sacrificed a swath of his army in the process.”

“A swath of his army that won him Jaime Lannister.” (Y/n) downed her wine in one gulp. “It may have been a sizeable chunk of his forces, but it was more than worth it. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“I would,” Tywin conceded, “Though how he has enough to attack the Rock after that would be anyone’s guess.”

(Y/n) gave a nonchalant huff, “He’s won every battle he’s ever fought, and he’s won them with fewer men every time. If I were Robb Stark, with no army between me and the greatest castle in Westeros, I would take a shot. For him, the worst case is that he’s repelled with minimal loss. The best case, he takes the seat of House Lannister.”

Tywin paused the to-and-fro to think. “More wine,” He mumbled to the girl, leaning his elbows to the table to press the tips of his fingers to his lips.

“The pitcher’s empty, my lord. I’ll go fetch more.”

That. Voice.

(Y/n)’s head jerked around with a fury, only catching sight of a head of short brown hair and a small, childish figure. Nothing more than a girl’s back, impossible to distinguish. And yet that voice.

“Think on what I said,” (Y/n) barely registered what she was doing as she moved, unthinkingly, towards the servants’ exit. “I’ll return.”

She knew that voice.

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(Y/n) scoured the halls, scoured the keep, scoured the grounds, scoured the ruins.

It had only been a sentence, but in that moment she’d been so sure. She knew that voice.

“I don’t care what the rules are! It has to be her!”

There it was, around the corner.

(Y/n) had been searching for an hour, maybe more, through the sprawling wreck of Harrenhal, and finally there it was again. Behind the rubble of what was once a guest chamber at the other end of the grounds. (Y/n) bent her head around the corner to find the girl again, back to her, angrily shouting at a Lannister soldier who was lounging lackadaisically against the waist high, overturned remains of a wall.

“A girl knows not what she asks.”

“I know full well what I ask! I name her!”

(Y/n) didn’t know what this was, didn’t know who this was. But she was certain whatever it was wasn’t good and couldn’t wait for help. “Judging by your tone, I’m going to assume I am the ‘her’ in question.”

The girl whipped around in shock and confirmed (Y/n)’s suspicions.

“Hello, Arya.” A cool smile tugged at her lips as she watched the young girl’s face turn to horror. “It’s been too long. I must say this is the last place I expected to run into you.”

Arya turned on the man again, “Her! (Y/n) Lannister! I name her.”

“Name me?” (Y/n) strode across what remained of the room to join the pair.

“A girl names a woman, but that is not a woman’s only name.”

“Plumm then,” Arya was clearly panicking now. Her fists tugged on the man’s arm desperately. “Whatever her name. Her!” She pointed at (Y/n).

“A girl gives a man a name, but a name with a pair.” The soldier returned without any sense of care in the world.

His accent was foreign. He certainly wasn’t from the Westerlands, or Westeros for that matter; Essos no doubt. As far as she knew, and she knew a great deal, her father had no supplement sellswords in the field, not yet anyway. Tywin Lannister only used sellswords as a last resort. Which meant there were only two ways for him to come by his armor: to be such a rich tradesmen that he could afford a life in the Westerlands which seemed unlikely given she did not know him or to have stolen the uniform from a dead man. And there was only one reason any man not forced into a war would willingly join its frontlines for a lord that was not his liege.

Assassins.

Assassins from Essos, who spoke in tongues.

Lurching forward, (Y/n) grabbed Arya by the arm and yanked the young girl behind her back. “Faceless,” she snarled the word, stepped away from the stranger.

The red haired man gave a small grin in return to the word. “A woman protects a girl, yet a girl wants a woman dead.” He reclined back against the half-melted stones as if the conversation was nothing more than his own amusement.

“What?”

“A girl,” the Faceless motioned to Arya, “owes a name, and a girl names a woman.”

(Y/n)’s blood ran cold. “A name with a pair,” She whispered.

It wasn’t often that she found herself afraid, but then it wasn’t often that (Y/n) faced a genuine threat of death. Most people wanted her and her father dead, but (Y/n) lived her life knowing, with absolute certainty, that she was among the few people in Westeros who were simply too valuable to kill. Yet here were a man, and a girl, who didn’t care.

It was like being back in the birthing bed all over again, facing a death that didn’t care what her name was.

But that wasn’t what worried her.

(Y/n) had only read of the Faceless, never met one, never met one that she knew of anyway.

Tyrion had given her a book of stories about them once. Of course, it was only legends; no Faceless had consulted its author on their origins. But she remembered one story in particular.

(Y/n) whirled on Arya and sunk to her knees, clutching the girl’s arm in a vice grip. “Unname me.” She demanded.

“No!” Arya tried to slip her arm from (Y/n)’s grip, but it was far too tight. “Never!”

“To name one is to name both! Unname me!” (Y/n) shouted.

The legend was a tearful story of a man who found his mate, already married to another man, but the lesson was straight forward. The Many Faced God of Braavos was nothing more or less than Death. Mates came into the world to live and breath together as one, and worshipping Death the Faceless saw to it that mates, those who had joined hands and felt the mark, left the world as one.

“A woman speaks the truth.” The Faceless said behind her.

“One is both?” Arya looked exasperated as she twisted her arm back and forth, rubbing her wrist raw against (Y/n)’s palm.

“To kill me is to kill my mate.” (Y/n) elaborated, clenching hard to drive the point home.

“Good! Let him die! Better than living with you!” Arya flipped her hand over and dug her nails into (Y/n)’s forearm, tearing at what she could reach.

(Y/n) let her go, but not from the pain. The attack barely reached her mind as (Y/n) wrenched up the sleeve of her dress, tearing it along the seam in her haste to reveal her mark.

“This is my mate!” (Y/n) caught Arya by the hair and forced the girl to level her eyes with the name scarred into (Y/n)’s arm.

There, as plain as the day it had appeared, was the name Stark, scratched eternally into (Y/n)’s skin.

“No,” Arya stared at the word in utter disbelief.

How could she not know? How could her mother and father have let that happen? Which of her siblings was cursed with a Lannister for a mate? Why had the old gods done this to them?

“You want to help your brother?” (Y/n) spoke the words slowly, enunciating each for Arya’s ears. “If you kill me, you’ll be killing Robb.”

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The Faceless Man allowed (Y/n) to escort him through the halls of the keep.

“A girl gave a man a new name,” The Faceless told her.

It came out almost as reassurance, but (Y/n) knew the assassin wouldn’t bother with such a thing. “Am I allowed to ask?”

“No,” The Faceless answered. “It is why a man must leave. A boy is far from here.”

Joffrey. He was the only boy Arya could want dead.

(Y/n) tried to find it in her to warn someone, anyone, but she couldn’t. Blood or not, he proved he was no worthy Lannister anyhow. Let the bastard die for all the trouble he caused.

The pair moving through Harrenhal looked like nothing more than a soldier and his lady meandering towards the edge of the keep. With (Y/n) Lannister at his side, the Faceless was stopped by no one to perform the duties of his soldier’s armor.

Men of all sorts gave the pair a wide berth as they made their way through the halls of the keep. No one had the bravery to question what their lady could be doing with a commonplace soldier.

“The men fear a woman,” the Faceless observed as another soldier stood attention against the wall until the pair had passed.

“They’re right to,” (Y/n) agreed with the observation. There was no amount of emotion to her voice. (Y/n) took a great deal of pride in her power, but there was very little power in striking fear in the hearts of lesser men.

The Faceless watched her with attentive eyes. They were the eyes of a man built to kill. The eyes were the only thing the Faceless could never change. When their victims looked in them, they were looking in the eyes of a killer. “The men do not know a woman bares an enemy’s name.” He observed without question.

“No, they don’t.”

“Why is a woman here?” The Faceless asked. “A woman usually joins a man when two share a name.”

(Y/n) bit back the retort on the tip of her tongue. This was no man to insult. “A woman wishes she could.”

“A woman could be with a man if she wanted.”

(Y/n) let loose a derisive snort. She and Robb had had the same conversation long ago. “We both want, but what we want and what could be are two different things.”

“A woman could be with a man if she wanted.” The Faceless repeated.

“A man could be with a woman if he wanted,” (Y/n) countered in the Faceless’ own phrasing.

The Faceless shook his head and looked over at her, staring until (Y/n) finally turned to meet his knowing look. “A woman is smart,” he complimented slyly. “If a woman wanted, she could find a way.”

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The Wolf’s pack is growing smaller. He will take a bitch to make his pups for men to bare his arms. See to it that, at the wedding, he gets the new blood he deserves.

“Leave us.”

(Y/n) sat at the opposite end of the long oak table, staring down her father with empty eyes that none in the room could read, even the Lord of House Lannister. Her nails picked absently at the edges of the letter. Even as the men sitting at the sides of the table began getting up and filing past her end, she did not divert her eyes from the sharp crease forming in her father’s forehead.

Tywin, similarly, did not watch the men, even as they eyed him anxiously. They were waiting for him to make some move to stop them from complying with his daughter’s demand, but none came.

(Y/n) whispered as the door thudded shut behind her after Lord Roland Crakehall, the last man to trail out of the room. “You’re sending my mate to the slaughter.”

“That was always where this ended, (Y/n).” Tywin spoke with a tone that bordered on an empathy (Y/n) knew her father was not capable of.

“Then let’s find a better way.”

Tywin lifted an eyebrow, a skepticism he had never felt towards her slowly forming in the pit of his stomach. “There is no better ending.” He declared flatly, “This is how his story ends. This is how Robb Stark dies.”

“If he dies,” She said each word carefully, emphasizing each syllable as it left her tongue, “it is because you chose it to be so.”

Tywin snorted. “Is that concern in your voice? So what if I order the Wolf’s head at my feet?” Tywin set his palms flat on the table and pushed out of his chair. He leaned down over his daughter with an authority he usually reserved for defiant enemies. “He dies. This is no discussion.”

“Father, I understand, but…”

“Then that is enough of this,” Tywin cut her off. “You object, but you know it’s the right course.”

(Y/n) didn’t want to, but she knew it was the only way. “Father, this is my mate who’s murder we plot.”

“What of it?” Tywin was growing suspicious now. This was not their usual discourse. This was not his daughter advising him. This was his daughter defying him. For the first time.

Through the two decades of her life, Tywin and (Y/n) had stood, not side by side but back to back. They faced threats the other could not see, protected one another from what was coming up behind, watched blind spots in each other’s vision. They were two voices with one mind, but now the cracks, or rather the one crack, began to show. They shared everything but a soul, and it was a soul which would divide them.

And so it began. The fight, their fight, the only fight neither of them wanted, yet the only fight neither of them could lose.

“He is my mate. Mine!” (Y/n) ground out between her teeth. “Whether you like his name or not.”

“His name?” Tywin spat. “This is nothing about his name. This is about our name. House Lannister, or had you forgotten what name you carved into his arm.”

“Had you forgotten what name he carved into mine!” (Y/n) wore the dress she’d chased down Arya in, and the rip along the lining of her sleeve made it easy to turn and display the mark to her father. “I am his, and he is mine. No matter who my vows were spoken to, nothing can change that.”

“That,” Tywin pointed down at the mark, not baring to look at it, “is the name of our enemy.”

(Y/n)’s fist came down on the table as she shot to her feet with all the rage she’d ever managed to muster, “You would brand me, me, your enemy!”

“I did not brand you!” Tywin rolled his eyes away from her outburst, “That was his doing.”

“Neither of us chose this!”

“Would you have?” Tywin took a step back towards her, crossing halfway to the table with his long stride. “Would you have chosen him?”

(Y/n) hesitated for a moment. There were times she wished she could have chosen, desperately longed for someone she could love. Those times, however, were long past. “Yes,” she answered honestly.

“He’s a Stark! His mother kidnapped Tyrion!” Tywin bellowed. “They declared war on our house. His father named your nephew a bastard. Their family defies your sister’s throne. Robb Stark took your husband’s head, and now he has Jaime!”

The words cut through (Y/n) and found her wincing and turning away.

“Tell me, daughter.” Tywin hissed, “What do you think your precious mate is doing to him right now? Do you think Jaime has the luxury of debating with Robb Stark whether his life will end?”

“Robb wouldn’t end Jaime’s life,” (Y/n) said it quietly but assuredly.

Tywin laughed, a harsh, cruel laugh that mocked her for saying such a thing. “And how would you know?”

(Y/n) glared up at her father with a burning passion he’d only seen once before. It was the face she made when she found out Catelyn had Tyrion, “Because he knows what I would do to him if he did.”

“You don’t have the strength for that.”

“I have given my life for this family! I am willing to give everything for this family!” (Y/n) countered with a roar.

“Everything but Robb Stark.”

The name broke her. The thought of what everything entailed broke her, but what hurt more was the knowledge that she was right, that Tywin Lannister was wrong. She was willing to give everything, everything including Robb Stark. She just didn’t want to.

(Y/n) slowly, hesitantly, sunk to her knees, hanging her head in shame as she uttered the one word she had been taught never to speak. “Please.” For the first time in her life, (Y/n) looked up to see her father glaring down on her, his face colored in a mixture of rage and shame.

Tywin stepped back from his daughter in disgust. “How dare you.”

(Y/n) could feel the tears welling in her eyes and kept her head down to hide them from the judgment in Tywin’s face. “Father, I have never defied you. I will never defy you. If you tell me this is the only way, then I will fulfill your wish without question. I will deliver the order to the Boltons and the Freys myself. I will stand aside as every Stark dies. I will ride to the Twins and bring back his head and lay it at your feet, and I will say nothing of this outside of this room again for as long as I draw breath.” (Y/n) stopped only long enough to suck air back into her lungs, as if the mention of her last breath reminded her that it was coming. “But this is my mate, and I am begging you to find another way.”

“I did not raise you to be a beggar’s wife.”

“No, you did not raise me to be a beggar’s wife,” (Y/n) agreed. “You raised me to be you in all things, and this is my proof that you have finally succeeded.” Through a web of tears, (Y/n) spread her arms out wide, absolute deference, absolute submission. “I am you. Because I know the only thing you would ever beg for is Joanna back.”

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(Y/n) walked into the supposedly neutral camp under a banner of peace. Though several valleys north of the Stark camp, the tent was still thoroughly inside the boundaries of the Westerlands. The spot was, no doubt, purposefully chosen by the Northmen as a show of force. Their entire army was entrenched within Lannister territory, and (Y/n) was greeting an enemy council that was claiming her land as its own.

There was no mistake that the men were her enemies. From the moment she entered the small circle of tents, eyes were on her and swords were drawn.

For a banner of peace, the Northern Lords had brought a vast number of soldiers. (Y/n) brought only one. It was, granted, an impressive one.

The Mountain had become (Y/n)’s shadow. As they moved into the camp, his toes were constantly under threat of catching the backs of her heels. The hilt of his massive sword reached out so far as to occasionally brush (Y/n)’s hip with a particularly long stride. No man could surprise her from behind because there was no space between herself and Ser Gregor Clegane in which to reach her, and no man could attack her headlong for fear of the behemoth reaching around her front to draw his sword around her. With one man, she was as protected as any of the northern sons she passed with their personal guards.

The soldiers around the camp, some forty in number, whispered when she walked past. They watched from open flaps or around campfires as (Y/n) made her way to the large white tent in the center of their convoy.

A scout beside the door saw her approach and ducked inside to announce the enemy presence.

“Lady Plumm,” A lord to the right of opening greeted her with a snarl as she ducked through, but the aggression on his face quickly vanished when the Mountain pushed through behind her, head scraping the top of the canvas.

“Her name is Lannister,” A thick Northern accent called from the front of the tent, “and she is our guest. We will treat her with respect.”

(Y/n) let her eyes trail up the length of the tent, prepared for exactly what she’d find.

Robb Stark sat at the far end of a large, rather plain table. His elbows propped on the edge of the dark wood, and his stare looked out over fingers clasped in front of his mouth.

The room, if it could be called such a thing in a tent, was bare. Men, a great number of them, lined the walls. Some (Y/n) recognized were the heads of great houses in the Riverlands she had encountered over the years. A few she could recall from her time in Winterfell, but most were entirely unknown to her.

Despite the size of their gathering and the scale of the table Robb Stark occupied, there were only four chairs in the room. One was directly in front of her at the far end while the other two flanked Robb at his left and right hand side.

None of the chairs were occupied. None of those present made a move to occupy any of the seats. It seemed they were all too tense. It was like they were waiting for her to attack, even though they were the ones who brought the small army outside.

“Thank you, Lord Stark. Your courtesy is appreciated.” (Y/n) gave a shallow bow of her head in his direction.

A grumble went up from a few of the men, but only one of them spoke. An older man nearer the entryway let out a loud grunt. His head shook out thinning grey hair. Even though his beard hid his mouth, the twitch of it made it obvious the man sported a sneer.

“That’s King Robb Stark to you.”

(Y/n) inclined her head to look sideways at the man and, as spitefully as she could manage, said, “Are we in the North? Or do I look like common folk to you? No. This is the Westerlands, and I am a Lannister. I won’t bow to any pretender.”

The man reached a hand for the hilt of his sword, but the Mountain beat him to it. Drawing his own nearly halfway out of its sheath before a shout went out.

“Stop!”

Robb Stark rose to his feet with a hand outstretched towards his enraged lord. “Put your arms down, Lord Karstark. Lady Lannister meets with us under a flag of peace, and I will not have my name marred by innocent bloodshed.”

“Innocent?” Lord Karstark forgot his plight with the newcomer almost instantly. He stared at his King with a dumbfounded expression. “No Lannister is innocent! Her brother murdered my boy! I demand recompense.”

(Y/n) puffed out a breath of air to avoid laughing at the irate man, “I dare say if you demand apologies from me for all my siblings have wrought, it will be a long time before I’m allowed to speak any words other than sorry.”

A hefty man over Robb’s shoulder let out a snort, and it seemed many of the others took a cue to relieve some of their tension. Though, Lord Karstark was not among them.

He turned on (Y/n) looking thoroughly unamused. “My son is dead at the hands of your brother.”

If it were any other man, or rather if it weren’t a Northern Lord, (Y/n) might have tried. She could have wooed and swayed his mind and asked forgiveness and promised him his dues, but Northerners were fickle things. Their reasoning was beyond her understanding, and logic was above theirs.

“Your son died in a war.” (Y/n) rolled her eyes, “How shocking, I’ve never heard a man to die of such a cause. Was he the first?”

“You arrogant little,” Karstark lunged, but before he could reach her, the Mountain’s hand shot out and clasped around the elderly lord’s neck.

His feet dangled several inches off the ground. They flailed about desperately trying to find purchase on the ground, on the Mountain, on anything within reach. It was like watching the feet of a drowning man, kicking to save his life.

His eyes showed a terror (Y/n) was so familiar with it wasn’t even worthy of note. The panic sapped him of all conscious thought, and the logical solution of going for his sword seemed to slip his mind. His hands clutched the Mountain’s wrist, only just managing to cover its width.

In the Mountain’s grip, Lord Karstark, Robb had called him, was much taller than (Y/n), but it didn’t feel that way for either of them. Lord Karstark felt very small. (Y/n) returned the sneer that disappeared so suddenly from Lord Karstark’s lips and spat, “Ironic that you think me arrogant when it is you who believes your son’s life was more valuable than any of your soldiers. Did you demand justice for your men your King sent to slaughter? Or only your son who died from his own negligence?”

The room was still and silent. Every man’s hand rested on his sword, save the Mountain’s, whose dominant hand was slowly pressing in on Lord Karstark’s neck. It was as though the Northmen were expecting, waiting, possibly even hoping the Mountain would kill their friend. They longed for blood. They wanted to have reason to face down the giant, to capture the Lady of House Lannister.

“Enough,” (Y/n)’s eyes darted around the room, taking in the hungry expression on the soldier’s faces. This was no place to die. “Drop him outside, Gregor. I believe the air will do Lord Karstark good.”

Gregor didn’t bother to walk back. With a mighty heave, he flung Lord Karstark through the tent flap and out into the night.

Robb’s head hung low, and his fists clenched against the top of the wood. Whether holding in rage at Lord Karstark or rage at the Mountain, (Y/n) couldn’t be sure, and despite popular belief she wasn’t arrogant enough to assume everything was about her.

“Lord Stark, do forgive us our reaction. At the Rock, men have been beheaded for saying far lesser insults to far less important Lannisters than me. It is only our way.”

Robb’s fists slowly unclenched as his eyes returned from the grain of the wood to the tent around him. “Lord Karstark’s actions were inexcusable. Please do not judge the rest of us on his lack of respect.”

(Y/n) picked up her skirts and curtsied to the would-be King. “All is forgotten. Perhaps, we might move on to the matters at hand. There is much to discuss, and I would hate to be delayed.”

“Then speak,” Robb slumped back into his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “It’s you and your father who called this meeting.”

“Actually, I believe you’ll find it’s a great deal more than House Lannister who called this meeting.”

(Y/n) tapped the Mountain’s arm, dropped low but still extended to cover her side. The beast drew back and finally detached himself from her heels. With two sure steps, she took the empty chair at the far end of the table from Robb. Pulling it out, (Y/n) matched the King’s posture taking the place opposite him.

“Yes,” Robb mused, “the bastard house Baratheon created by your siblings, I presume?” A round of laughs and cheers went round the tent. If it had had walls of any kind, she imagined the sound would have echoed for years.

There laughter went on for many minutes longer than it should have, and (Y/n)’s only reaction was to stare down their King while his men cackled. Robb matched her intense gaze without a hint of humor marring his face.

As the men slowly subdued themselves, a harsh throat clearing from the beefy one behind Robb seeming to do the trick, (Y/n) finally took it as her turn to speak.

“Robb, I’ll give you this.” (Y/n) picked at imaginary dirt under her nails. “You know how to win a war, but no Stark has ever managed to play the game,”

A few of the men laughed again, but again Robb was not among them. This time, though, it seemed the divide was for different cause. His men seemed to thoroughly lack respect for what she was implying while Robb caught on immediately to its importance. The King in the North shuffled up in his chair and leaned forward in his seat. “Then teach us.”

(Y/n) hummed to herself, pretending to contemplate the proposal. She already knew he would say that. She already knew how she would respond, and how they would respond in kind, and how she would respond to that. This conversation had happened a thousand different ways already in her mind, and she was prepared for all of them. Because that was how a Lannister played the game, not by throwing gold at the problem, but by knowing what the problem was before it arrived.

“Allow me to give you a lesson in history because your maesters must have failed you all.” (Y/n) smiled. It was a courtly smile, not that any of them could recognize that. (Y/n)’s smiles were such perfectly calculated lies that she had heard even the great Littlefinger couldn’t discern their meaning. They would all assume it was cocky. They would be wrong in that assumption, but it suited (Y/n) just fine. “Who is the heir to House Frey?”

“Stevron Frey,” The answer came from one of the lords behind her back.

(Y/n) didn’t even have to open her mouth to correct him because Robb did it for her. “Stevron died of his battle wounds last moon.”

“As did his youngest son Walton, and Walton’s two squired sons Steffon and Bryan. May they rest in peace, truly the only Freys worth their salt.” (Y/n) clasped her hands as though to pray for their souls, but no pleas to the Stranger left her lips. “I ask again, who is the heir to House Frey?”

“Stevron had an older boy, Ryan or something,” (Y/n) recognized Lord Manderly. He was a rich man who often traded with the Lannisters, the only house in the North that worshipped the Seven.

“His name was Ryman,” (Y/n) corrected politely, “and he is long dead, just after your party crossed the Twins in fact. He was a gluttonous man, so it was expected. Still, most think it might have been poison.”

“How convenient,” Lord Manderly mumbled under his breath.

(Y/n) chuckled, “Again, who is the heir to House Frey?”

“Surely Ryman had sons,” (Y/n) had never met the man who spoke, but unlike many of the others he wore his banner on his chest.

“Lord Glover, you would be correct in that assumption if it weren’t for the Brotherhood Without Banners. Horrible people, those marauders. Killed two of Ryman’s sons, Edwyn and Petyr. He only had Black Walder left, and Black Walder was dispossessed of his life on suspicion that it was he who killed his father.”

“And none of them had children?” It was Lord Glover again.

“Only girls, and I am afraid Lord Frey doesn’t value his daughters quite so highly as my father does.”

“Emmon,” The name came quietly, under his breath, but there was no mistaking Robb’s voice or the tone of realization in it. “It falls to Emmon Frey.”

“And who,” (Y/n) turned on him, “pray tell, is his wife?”

“Your aunt,” Robb growled, “Genna Lannister.” He was angry, angry at himself in fact; angry at himself for not realizing his mistake.

(Y/n) almost smiled, almost felt proud watching him piece it together. “The heir to House Frey is the sister of Tywin Lannister, and you plan to entreat them into helping you what? Raid Casterly Rock?”

“You and your father orchestrated this.” Robb snarled into the air.

“Robb, we orchestrated everything.” Robb’s eyes flashed to (Y/n) as she continued speaking. “Do you really think Walder Frey would have let you cross his bridge without me, inside, saying it was acceptable? If you had gone around the Trident, your path would’ve put you at the doorstep of the Rock, and you think we would have allowed that?”

“How much gold did you pay Walder Frey for the damage you brought to his house?”

(Y/n) knew the voice, and she found herself only momentarily stunned that Lord Bolton would have the nerve to speak at this gathering. “Lannisters always pay their debts, but there are ways to pay debts that don’t involve gold.”

“Like what?” Roose Bolton pressed.

Her eyes searched out Lord Bolton’s, “Every man can be bought. It’s only a matter of price. For some it’s gold, but there are other forms of payment. It might be land, titles, power, a woman.” (Y/n) drew her eyes to Robb, flitting them back and forth between him and Roose Bolton as if she were watching a joust. “Maybe for one it’s Winterfell.”

Resting against the top of the wood, Robb’s hands slowly clenched into fists as he caught on to the rather unsubtle hints (Y/n) was giving him.

“Leave us,” Robb ordered. “All of you.”

“But sir, she..,”

“My King, I don’t...”

“She’s a Lannister, My King, should we...”

“Are you quite certain you want…”

“Your Grace, the Mountain…”

“Gregor,” (Y/n) barked loud enough to silence the Lords who were rapidly converging on Robb Stark to question his intent, “Leave us.”

Without hesitation, the Mountain turned and marched from the tent to take a post outside.

The Northern Lords watched the display of obedience in shock, and looking amongst themselves, slowly filed out whispering to each other as they went.

“Are you implying what I think?” Robb asked the moment the flap fluttered to a stand still over (Y/n)’s shoulder.

“I’m implying nothing,” (Y/n) got to her feet and crossed the tent, taking the seat to his immediate right, so she might speak at a more normal volume. “I am telling you.”

“The Boltons,” Robb eyed the canvas from which Roose had just made his escape.

“Have been promised Winterfell if they help the Freys slaughter you upon your arrival at the Twins, or if they switch sides in your next battle with my father and defeat your men from within.” (Y/n) explained without any hint of regret.

Robb felt almost stunned into silence.

He wouldn’t lie. He thought of (Y/n) every day and night. It was hard not to when he spent so much time plotting her beloved father’s demise, staring at her house sigil, worrying over marrying another woman, pondering his murder of her husband.

Never though, in all his thoughts, had he considered turning on his men and joining the Lannisters for her, and he knew far better than to ask her to do anything resembling such.

“I wish to propose a trade,” (Y/n) abruptly changed the topic, though it didn’t seem like she was avoiding it. “The Mountain leaves me here now, as we speak, he rides for a trusted keep nearby where he will retrieve your sister, Arya, in exchange for my brother, Jaime.”

Robb immediately began shaking his head. “I want my sister back as much as you want your brother, but my men will turn on me if I trade a little girl for the best sword in Westeros.”

“There is no deal you could offer that I wouldn’t take to see Jaime safe again, Robb. If you loved your sister and wanted her back as much as I wanted him, we wouldn’t be discussing this.”

“My men..” Robb started.

(Y/n) cut him off. “Would turn on you. So you’ve said, but as I’ve said, some of them already have.”

“Yes,” Robb quickly jumped back on the original conversation. “Why did you tell me?”

“Because that is your future as it stands,” (Y/n) reached under the neckline of her dress and drew, from under the hem, a letter. “But it does not have to be that way.”

“What is this?” Robb took the letter from her hand and broke the Lannister seal holding it closed.

(Y/n) returned to her feet and joined Robb at his side, looking at the words over his shoulder. She’d read them before, but something about them was so unreal it needed to be seen again. “Our terms.”

The letter filled nearly four pieces of paper. It began by detailing exactly how Tywin Lannsiter intended to draw this war to a close. He detailed how alone Robb truly was: with the Eyrie neutral, House Tyrell agreeing to vows between Margery and Joffrey, Dorne’s hatred for the Lannisters and the Starks, House Frey’s loyalty to Genna, Theon Greyjoy betraying him for the Iron Islands, and Lords of his own Kingdom plotting his demise from within.

Tywin dedicated an entire page to all of the ways Robb could lose and all of the people who would happily deliver him Robb’s head by morning, his daughter chief among them. He noted everywhere Robb had gone wrong, and exactly how he’d lost the game.

It was page after page of ways Robb would lose, ways he would get his family killed, ways he would die.

Then he reached the last.

“But I owe a debt, not to you, but to my daughter; and she has named her price. After a lifetime of unwavering fealty, of unending service, of unbearable burdens, the price she named was high. It is, however, a price I feel she’s owed. There are conditions to my payment, but I believe you will find those conditions pale in comparison to the rewards that accompany them.”

“W-What does this mean?” Robb looked up, but found (Y/n) was not there standing over him.

She was sitting in the dirt, as she had been the first day they spoke, looking up at him with tears in her eyes, and Robb felt himself slipping from his chair, without much thought, to sit beside her.

“It means that…” She hesitated for a moment before finding the words, “I don’t suppose if I turn my back on my father and my dead husband, gave up becoming the most powerful woman in Westeros, named my son heir to the Rock, left my gold and all my other lavish Southern possessions and joined you in the cold, barren North for the boring life of an incredibly traditional lady, that you would take me as your wife?”

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maple-writes · 4 years ago

Text

[Image ID: Banner image reading: The City of Eventide, Chapter 34, Maple-writes. End ID]

This is it! The last chapter! It still feels so strange to think that this really is the last one.

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Each day grew longer than the last and the sun shone a little stronger, burning off morning spring clouds. Dylan made good on his promise to visit unannounced one afternoon. He showed up with a firm knock on the door and a greeting loud enough to wake me the rest of the way up. For hours he lingered in the kitchen, half occupied with putting the finishing touches on the egg salad sandwiches Fallon sent him along with but more occupied with filling me in on everything and anything. Tea in hand I barely spoke as the sun made its way down the sky, casting long shadows across the street outside and dimming the light through the windows all while Dylan replaced the usual quiet of the day. It was nice though, hearing someone else’s voice even if I did end up forgetting details and names in his stories.

The vitamins weren’t so bad aside from remembering to take them, and once I got used to the taste neither were the other supplements the doctor suggested. Even now Ginger stopped by sometimes to check on me and deliver updates on the goings-on back at the college, letting me know I could come see her there anytime. She’d smiled, assuring me that if I ever wanted to return to work with her we’d take it as easy as I needed.

Ember’s attempts to get me out of the house came fewer and farther between, dropping down from every night to maybe once or twice a week. Every time my heart skipped but two nights ago we made it to the 24 hour gas station store. Under the too-bright lights the night vanished outside and I had to remember to take every breath deep enough to keep my head from spinning and there were too many choices and items lining every shelf and fridge and nowhere to hide but Ember kept by my side. She walked me through and let me rest my hand on her forearm, letting some of the warmth and calm seep from her skin through mine.

We bought drinks and the lights and hum of refrigerators disappeared as the door closed behind us. Stepping between shadows cast by vacant gas pumps we didn’t make it much farther than the store that night, but for the first time some of the tension melted under quiet streetlights. Chill air cooled my lungs and settled my head. The two of us talked all the way back home and together in the living room until far too late. She really shouldn’t have been staying up that late with her job interview tomorrow, though she was quick to reminded me it was only in the afternoon.

Her interview went well, and by the end of the week she’d been called back for a second and a week after that they offered her the job as a deckhand on a fishing vessel. From what she told us it sounded hard, and she’d be gone for long stretches during the season, but her excitement was contagious. Striker ordered take out to celebrate and we ended up only going to bed long after the sun had set.

Yawning, I pulled my shirt off, crawled into bed and drew the blanket snug around my shoulders. After all the excitement and celebration I sunk all the way down into the pillows and sheets.

A rattle came from my window, then another and I sat up, squinting in the dark. Grey-blue in the evening dark, a wing flashed into view then a beak tapping at the glass as a seagull fluttered by. Cirrus. It had to be. Otherwise some poor bird was very, very lost.

I hopped out of bed and opened up the window just as he glided back around. He landed on the windowsill in a blur of feathers, tucking his wings neatly to the side and shaking out his tail as he came to a stop. His head tilted left and right, pupils dilating a moment before finding the right focus.

“Hey Cirrus.” I leaned over, resting my elbows against the windowsill. “It is you, right?”

The gull ruffled his feathers, puffing up and laying them flat again in one smooth wave. He raised his beak and stuck out his chest as he watched me sideways. I smiled, warmth spreading from deep in my chest. Of course this was Cirrus. Hard to believe the last time I’d seen him was back at the cabin. How long ago was that now? I’d lost track.

Cirrus turned, webbed feet tapping against the wood of the windowsill in the quiet of the dark. He faced the street, dark and empty, glancing back at me over his grey shoulder. I frowned. Did he want…

“You want me to go with you?”

He gave a quick nod, holding his head sideways to lock me in one of his little eyes. I swallowed and wrung my hands together. How far would he want me to go? What if something happened? I hunched my shoulder, hair falling in front of my face as I stared down at my arms.

“I, I don’t know Cirrus.” How was I supposed to tell him? How was I supposed to tell him I hadn’t gone much further than a few blocks from home on my own since I got back. “I don’t know.”

A weight landed on my shoulder, webbed feet against my skin. Cirrus pushed his beak through my hair to poke at my cheek. He settled down, feathers of his belly soft against my skin. I sighed and turned my neck to see him through the corners of my eyes.

Even if we hadn’t gone far nothing horrible happened whenever I went out with Ember. I held Cirrus’ stare for a moment, watching him blink and turn his head. If something did go wrong Cirrus would have seen it before, right? He didn’t know what Ginger did but it wouldn’t be the first time he’d helped. I could handle this. If I could handle the cemetery in the middle of the day I could handle a walk in the middle of the night.

I sighed again, straightening up slowly to give Cirrus the chance to hop down. “Alright. Let me get dressed first.”

Cirrus waited outside, perched on a nearby streetlight and watching as I finally stepped out into the night. I shut and locked the door as softly as I could behind me, trying to keep the nerves already wrapping around my throat in check. A flurry of feathers made me look up a second before Cirrus landed softly on my shoulder. Webbed feet tapped quiet on my jacket and grey wing-tips tickled my ear as he turned. He stuck his head out a second, caught my eye and flew down the street.

“Hey!”

I took off running after him. My feet fell loud and echoing in the quiet side streets and alleyways, chasing flashes of white feathers under spaced-out streetlights until I staggered to a breathless stop. Hands on my knees and hunched over on the sidewalk, my heart struggled to keep up with my lungs and my legs burned. Shit. How long had it been since I moved this much? Cold air scraped at the back of my throat. I coughed and tried to catch my breath. By the time I looked up Cirrus was gone.

I grit my teeth. “Damn it.”

A seagull’s call pierced through the quiet, shrill and laugh-like. Sounded like he wasn’t too far, towards the waterfront. Of course he’d want me to meet him there. I pulled myself back upright. He’d have to wait though because I wasn’t about to run the whole way there.

I’d almost caught my breath by the time the gentle lapping of the waves caught my ear, soft and rhythmic against the deserted shore. A full moon hung bright over the ocean casting liquid silver over the dark water and the white crests of incoming waves. I slowed as I stepped out onto the beach. Full moon. Cirrus, he hadn’t waited for me here after I’d gone home, had he? Waited and hoped I’d show up for him only to leave disappointed like he had so many times hoping his mother would come around.

He’d understand why I hadn’t come, if he’d waited here for me at all. I bunched my shoulders against the wind and shook the thought from my head, picking my way across the dark beach to the usual place. Tiny creatures, insects, arthropods, they scurried away from my path with every step. Moment by moment the lights of the city faded to a faint glow at my back to give way to blue-dark night.

A figure sat on a washed-up log, turning when I rounded the bend. A woman in an ink-black evening gown that billowed around her ankles when she stood and faced me with a polite smile.

“Well, you’ve sure perked up since I last saw you.” She paused, waiting, but I only squinted in attempts to place where we might have met. “Ah, you don’t recognize me.” She gestured to herself with a black-gloved hand. “Cirrus’ sister. Call me Hadley.”

We had met, hadn’t we. I furrowed my eyebrows and tried to remember back but couldn’t see much more than a blur, a haze of feathers and loud voices that seemed to rumble through the air and into my own lungs.

Hadley though either hadn’t noticed or didn’t mind, catching me with a nod as she settled back down on the log. “Cirrus should be here soon.” She shot me a smirk, raising her head high. “I have been instructing him on how to shift his form but it can be hit or miss. He wanted to see you though, so I agreed to help him out tonight.”

She leaned back resting her hands behind her and facing the shimmering sea. Her head tilted just a moment as I sat beside her. This close she had the same barely contained power Cirrus did, cold and powerful like a harsh wind biting through my clothes. She kept quiet, watching as wave after wave lapped at the rocky shore. Slowly, I ran my hand over the worn bark of the log, tracing over ridges and bits where the wood had torn and weathered away.

“Ah,” Hadley stood, smoothing down her dress in the breeze. “Sounds like he’s done.”

The bushes growing beside the beach rustled, and a moment later Cirrus stuck his head out, one hand covering half his face and casting a sheepish look at Hadley.

She half chuckled to herself with a short glance back at me. “One moment.”

Without waiting for any kind of response, she stepped out of sight behind the foliage and the night dark. She said something, mumbling and chiding but too low for me to make out, Cirrus responding with something indignant and defensive but without any teeth behind his words. I smiled, leaning forward on the log to try and peek around the bushes and shadows. That was Cirrus alright.

The leaves rustled again, branches snapped, and Cirrus swore as he stumbled out onto the beach. He found his balance and shook himself out, looking just like I remembered. Same hair, same eyes… I jumped up from the log and throwing my arms around him. He balked a moment, surprised, before returning the embrace. His clothes were warm and smelled like storm-bearing winds, familiar and new at the same time. I leaned against him, pressing my forehead against his shoulder a moment before standing up again, throat tight.

“Miss me?” Cirrus grinned, already knowing the answer.

I nodded. “Its different, with you gone.” Maybe not quieter now that Ember was around, but different. I swallowed and turned away, a hand to the back of my neck as I glanced out to the ocean. “I don’t know if you were waiting for me here, but I’m sorry if you were.” My voice dragged along. “Things haven’t been easy.”

He shrugged. “I wouldn’t know, I haven’t been around here either. It’s been a whirlwind.” Cirrus huffed and crossed his arms, shaking his head to the dark pebbles.

“Oh come on Cirrus!” Hadley scolded, coming up around behind him and messing up his hair. She snickered as he tried and failed to duck out of the way. “You had a great time. Do you think I missed you flirting with that pretty noble lady?”

Cirrus flustered, uncrossing his arms and stumbling over his tongue. “She started it!” He shook himself out with another huff, crossing his arms tighter than before. “But yeah, alright. It wasn’t all bad.” He watched his sister as she retuned to her perch on the log, a half smile on his face, before turning back to me. “You’re looking better than last time I saw you. At least like you’re not about to get blown over by the wind.” Cirrus paused a moment, just standing, watching me as the breeze slipped silent between us. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you with so much colour in your face.

Even at in the dark? I looked away a moment, watching the moon hang bright over the gentle swells. Maybe he had better night vision than I did because Striker had said the same thing.

“I uh,” I faced him again, tucking my hands in my pockets and out of the chill. “I’ve been seeing some doctors since I got back for a while now. I guess it’s working.” The wind picked up again and I hunched my shoulders until Cirrus stepped to my side, blocking out some of the gale. “Ginger was saying the other day she’d be alright with me coming back to the college.”

“You going to do it?”

I shrugged, pushing rounded stones from side to side with the toe of my shoe. “I… I hope so. It’s been a while.” A smile played at my lips. “I kind of miss it actually.

Cirrus snorted. “Bored at home already?”

This time I grinned, full and toothy. “Maybe.”

He rolled his eyes but kept quiet, attention drifting up from me to the lights of the city down the beach. I glanced back over my shoulder to follow his gaze only a moment before focusing back on Cirrus. In the dark he looked just like I remembered, like nothing changed. Like he hadn’t been gone for months now and he’d never returned to life as a dragon. Like Ember hadn’t moved into his bedroom and he was going to be in the kitchen tomorrow morning when I got out of bed.

A deep ache spread sharp through my throat, all the way up to the floor of my mouth and I looked away. He had his own life now. His own life somewhere far away. Somewhere I couldn’t go and find him like I used to. He’d come to see me this time tonight but how long would that last? I swallowed. He wouldn’t forget about me now that what he’d hoped to happen for years and years finally came about, right?

“Do you remember back then when I couldn’t speak my name?” Cirrus spoke low, eyes still drifting over my head to the city. “That day you found me?”

I don’t think I would ever forget, he must have known that but I nodded all the same.

He paused, hesitating before speaking again. “It hurt for a long time. I used to dream of hearing it again, to be who I was again. But then…” Cirrus finally tore his gaze from Eventide. He looked down at me, the faintest of the distant light reflecting in his eyes. “It didn’t feel the same anymore. I’m keeping Cirrus. I just wanted you to know that.”

“Really?” My voice came out smaller than I expected, thinned and brittle. “You don’t miss the other?”

Cirrus shrugged. “I can’t say I don’t, but I don’t know, I couldn’t bring myself to part with this name yet.” He half smiled. “My mother wasn’t exactly thrilled but she’ll get over it.”

From what I’d heard of her, I wasn’t surprised. “You’re still going to come and visit, right?”

“Of course.” Cirrus casted a sidelong glance at his sister still seated on the log and gazing out to sea. “Though it might be a while yet before I get the hang of shape shifting alone.” He paused a moment before turning back to me. “I’ll be around. I’ve got at least a couple more centuries of watching over Eventide’s storms after all.”

That long? I guess it made sense. He was a dragon after all. I smiled but broke halfway by a surprise yawn. What time was it?

A warm hand rested on my shoulder as Cirrus’ laugh drifted over the crashing waves. “Keeping you up?” He grinned down at me as he turned towards the city. “I’ll take you home.”

We walked along the beach towards the soft city lights. At this time of night we had the sidewalks to ourselves, only the occasional car passing by the empty roads. My arm brushed his, contented warmth easing from him to me. I quickly ran out of things to update him on since coming back to Eventide and he took over most of the way home telling me all about his sisters and the trouble they’d get into. Even in the low light I could see how he flushed talking about the woman Hadley had brought up on the beach. I smiled, struggling to keep my eyes open and half leaning against his shoulder as we walked.

He sounded happy.

Sun sinking low in the sky relief pooled in my chest seeing how quiet Eventide College was this time of day. A handful of people milled and wandered around the front stairs, some chatting and laughing in the gold-tinged light. Inside the front lobby soft echoes of conversation drifted through the still air and the little coffee shop sat nearly empty with the last few customers before closing time rolled around.

My footsteps echoed through the empty halls, clicking against the stone stairs spiralling down towards Ginger’s basement. I hadn’t told her I was coming but surely she wouldn’t be unhappy to see me all the way out here.

The air chilled and a familiar presence brushed against my arm. I slowed, letting Cynthia gently press up against my shoulder as her relief and excitement slipped through my skin. A smile spread on my face and I held out a hand. She knew me. She knew how to be gentle, how to contain herself unlike the panicked, desperate spirits who needed my help.

She slid though my palm, passing cold up the veins of my arm all the way up where they joined together in the subclavian. Good to see you again. It’s been a while.

I nodded along, continuing down the stairs as she settled in deeper tucked under my first rib. Been a while was an understatement. I swallowed. Had anyone told her what happened? It must have seemed like I’d just vanished one day, Ginger too. Charlotte filled me in. We were all worried about you for a while there. Glad to see you back on your feet. Thanks.

The stairs opened up to the little underground hallway, my footsteps booming in the quiet. I tucked my hands in my pockets and shifted as Cynthia nestled herself more comfortably towards my chest. Here to see Ginger? I nodded. If she’s here. She is. Saw her come in a few hours ago. Good. Good. Does this mean you’re going to stick around? I turned the last corner, slowing to a shuffle. Had I even considered not coming back here? Even if Ginger had told me I’d never be able to come back here would I really be able to just… Stop?

Even if you change you mind, her grin crossed my face, you should still stop by. You’re the easiest living person to chat with to come through those doors.Really? Faster than hijacking Charlotte’s computer. Fair enough.

I paused in front of Ginger’s office, the door slightly ajar. Cynthia stilled under my skin, cold and fluid. Could you give us a minute? Right. Was good to see you again Asher. She shifted a moment before breathing out through the thin skin at the top of my chest and vanishing somewhere through the walls of the college. Alone I stood another moment in front of the door. I took a deep breath, rested my hand on the door handle and opened it up just enough to poke my head into Ginger’s office.

She looked up from her computer as soon as she saw me. For a moment surprise seemed to flash across her face but in a heartbeat it shifted to a wide, fang-filled smile.

“Asher! Welcome back.”

#the city of eventide #chapter 34 #last chapter #my writing #it's just #wow #i've been working on this since like #late 2018 i think #i'll have to write up a real post to get my thoughts out sometime

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thatmultifandomhoe · 5 years ago

Text

Consequences

Word Count: 6,583

Overview: You had dated one of Jungkook’s best friends - someone he consider to be an older brother - and even though you were now single and he had never stopped loving you, dating was an impossible option. The consequences of dating an ex of the leader? Life threatening.

Pairing: Jungkook and Reader

Genre AU/Rating: College AU - Forbidden Love AU - Lost Friendship - Childhood Best Friends to Lovers - Rated: PG-13

Warning: Drinking - Swearing - Cheating - Flashbacks of Implied Sex - Dirty Talk - Calling someone a Whore - Implied Unwanted Drug Use - Jungkook is a badass covered in tattoos and piercings, so take that as you will - Namjoon is an asshole with tattoos (sorry fellow Joon stans) - Implied Assault.

Master List:

Spotify Playlist:

Pinterest Mood Board:

Also, just a reminder that I had changed my name from @/abangtanfangirl to my current username, I’m just too lazy to remake the banner I originally made.

The party was in full swing by the time you and your roommates arrived. Strobe lights were bouncing off the walls in reds and blues as bodies carelessly danced all around, girls even risking limbs to stand on top of tables and chairs, thriving in the attention from the party goers that gave them the courage they needed to swing their hips to the beat of the music.

It wasn’t as if this was your first party, but it wasn’t every day that you attended a college party that seemed more fitting for a rave than a place that was the home to a frat house. Then again, knowing the seven men who lived here, it wouldn’t be too surprising if they purposely designed tonight’s party after a rave.

“Here,” Louise said, gaining your attention. She grinned as she slipped a purple glow stick necklace around your neck, wearing her own neon green one. “Everyone has one. They must have black lights or something.”

You raised an eyebrow at her but silently accepted the matching bracelets. A quick glance around revealed that everyone was wearing some type of glow in the dark jewelry and white shirts, effectively glowing as the drunk the night away.

“Maybe,” you answered, pressing your lips together as you grabbed the back of Louise’s shirt when she began walking towards the kitchen. The rest of your roommates had scattered about once they walked through the door. You had your own plans for the night, but attempting to make it through this large of a crowd by yourself was insane, so hitching a ride on the end of her shirt seemed like the best idea at the moment.

Louise glanced over her shoulder, raising an eyebrow at you. “Come on,” she hollered, the music getting louder at a break down in the song. “It’s the Bangtan Boys, out of everyone here you should know that they do.”

You narrowed your eyes at her, shoving her away to elbow your way to the kitchen, ignoring the high pitch laughter that Louise possessed.

She was right though. They did own a black light. They owned several boxes of black lights in fact, for this sole purpose of throwing insane parties that everyone on campus would be talking about for the semester. How you knew that however, was a reason you wanted to forget.

With the familiar path ingrained in your mind, you were in the kitchen long before Louise. Surprisingly, it wasn’t as crowded in the kitchen like one would think, especially considering the round table in the middle was covered in every bottle of alcohol imaginable, and knowing the Bangtan Boys, the fridge was fully stock as well.

The green painted walls had you doing a double take, intrigued with the sudden change of color. Last time you were here, the kitchen was a soft watercolor yellow that matched perfectly with the wooden cabinets. Not that they now clashed with the green walls but, it was something you hadn’t expected to see.

“Well look who we have here,” a voice purred in your ear, the hairs on your arms standing up as your hand settled on the red solo cups. It wasn’t the one you were hoping to avoid, and while Jimin was a dozen more times pleasant than him, you preferred to see Jimin under you own circumstances.

Ignoring him, you grabbed the empty cup and walked around the round table, window shopping for what they had out at the moment.

“Oh, come on,” he called out, but you still refused to look at him. “Did you really think you could come to one of our parties and not expect to run into one of us? That hurts me.”

He just had to hit the hammer right on the nail. He was only going to get more persistent, so after locating a bottle of bourbon, you looked at Jimin, wishing that you could wipe off that satisfied smirk he wore. His soft pink hair was slicked back, that pair of tangerine tinted sunglasses he loved were perched halfway down on his nose.

“What do you want Jimin?” You asked. Finding less than an inch of space on the table, you carefully set down the solo cup to open the bourbon.

Jimin laughed, walking around the table to stand beside you once more. Trailing his fingers up your bare arms, he jerked his hand at your elbow causing more alcohol to pour out than you originally intended. “Nothing really. It’s good to see you again.”

The cup nearly knocked over and on to the floor, but you caught it at the last second. Glaring at him, you shoved the glass bottle into his stomach, his silver rings glittering in the light as he caught it with ease.

“Quit lying and tell me what you really want,” you said, raising your cup for a sip, ignoring the sting as the magic liquid settled in your chest.

He laughed again and you wondered if he had been the one to get the party going this time. His personality itself was like a person with three drinks in them to begin with. “I mean it, you know that. Things got quiet and boring when Namjoon dumped you.”

There it was. The reason you wanted to oh so easily forget while enjoying the free alcohol. Normally you didn’t rush to get drunk, but the pang in your heart cut through you more deeply than the bourbon and you were once again raising the cup to your lips, this time allowing the burn of the liquor to drown out the heartache.

It had been almost six months since Namjoon had broken up with you. Well, he never said it with words, but you had gotten the idea after walking into his room to find him naked with two other girls in his bed. The man that was the head of the Bangtan Boys and had more philosophical thoughts running through his head than Plato and Aristotle, was no better than any other fuck boy you had met in your life. His sweet words and intelligence had just masked over it.

You had fallen hard for Namjoon, and even now six months later, it was still painful to think about that morning. The feelings by now were long since gone, but knowing he had cheated on you lingered within your mind and seeped its way into your bones. It hurt to find him with one girl, but when the second sat up from underneath the blankets, it was a slap to the face.

He never even tried to follow after you like they always depict in the movies. No calls. No texts. Nothing. Not even the others went after you when you silently stormed out of their house, passing by all of them without a word. The last thing you had gotten to do was slam the front door behind you hard enough for it to echo in the house.

“Nice to know I’m part of your fond memories Jimin,” you bitterly spoke, staring down at the amber liquid.

A small frown appeared on Jimin’s face as he watched you lift the cup for another sip, but he reached out and placed his hand on yours, stopping it from reaching its destination. “Hey, I mean it,” he murmured in your ear, stepping close enough for you to be able to hear him. “We all like you. You were good and Joon shouldn’t have fucked you like that.”

With every word he spoke, his plush lips grazed your ear. The cup lowered down so it was once again resting on the table, and when Jimin was sure he wouldn’t have to stop you from drinking so fast again, he removed his hand.

“We all miss you,” Jimin added, glancing up and around the party. “That’s why when Kookie asks for cover, we do it.”

At the mere mention of his name, your body tensed up against Jimin’s chest, a familiar fluttering occurred in your chest where it had only been beating in pain. Like Jimin, you spared a glance to the other room, spotting the jealous looks you were receiving from women and men for simply being so close to one of the Bangtan Boys.

It was easy to ignore them. You had gotten used to receiving the same looks when dating Namjoon, and then again when you would hang out with the others in public and in-between classes. “Where is Kook?”

Jimin’s lips curled up in a grin, this time raising your hand and the cup to your mouth. “I’ll allow one more sip before I take this away.”

“You didn’t answer me.”

“You know I never take away anyone’s drinks, so that should be enough for an answer.”

That was true. Jimin always loved his drinks. While Yoongi was more of a social drinker with his glass of red wine, Jimin never cared what it was or when he drank. Give him wine, bear, or hard liquor, it didn’t matter to him. He’d drink it all till the sun came up if he could.

Heeding his advice, Jimin eagerly watched as you drank one last sip before he was wrapping his fingers around the cup, spilling a few drops down your chin when he took it away. He didn’t even set it down, settling on finishing it off instead.

“You ass,” you muttered, glaring at the now empty cup as you carefully swiped at your chin, not wanting to ruin the makeup that you had spent the last hour working on for this party. “Where’s Jungkook?”

Jimin shrugged, a mischievous grin on his face as he filled the cup up with something clear. “Beats the hell out of me. He’s around here somewhere.” Quirking an eyebrow at you, he raised the cup in a mock salute before rejoining the party, the crowd parting for him with ease like he was royalty.

You bit the inside of your cheek in annoyance. Of course, Jimin would only partially tell you what you wanted to hear; he never did like giving all the good information out in one conversation. If he did, it was best to hightail it the hell away from him. That meant he wanted something and usually – depending on who it was directed towards – it wasn’t always the most pleasant of things.

With Louise gone and Jimin most likely in search of bed partner for the night, you forced yourself to leave the kitchen in an attempt to find Jungkook. Unlike Jimin, it was like walking through Jell-O. That was one of the few benefits to associating yourself with the Bangtan Boys, no one gave you hard ass time and parties were easy to navigate through.

As you elbowed your way to the living room, your mind wandered back to the time you spent here. From all the nights you slept over and simply came over to visit during the day, you knew this place like that back of your hand. For long time, this place had felt like home. Which was almost expected considering up until that morning, you and Namjoon had been dating for a year and a half by then.

Out of the seven of the Bangtan Boys, only Namjoon managed to maintain normal relationships for long periods of time. The others preferred hookups more often than not, only indulging in relationships for a month or so before jumping ship, something that Namjoon explicitly expressed disgust for. Which only made your breakup situation ironic.

Finally breaking through to a clear space in the living room, your skin crawled as you felt eyes on you from every person in the area. It wasn’t like you had hid your relationship with Namjoon, in fact, he actually took pride in making it known that you were his girl. You had been forced to get used to all the stares and now it didn’t faze you as much, but this was the first party of theirs that you had attended in a while.

The large three-piece leather sectional didn’t have any empty seats left. There wasn’t any space left, forcing people to sit on the back of the couch, the arms, or even in the laps of those willing. However, it was the man leaning against the wall with a beer bottle in hand that had your attention.

Jungkook was talking to Hoseok and Taehyung, a foot pressed up against the back wall as he tilted his head to the side, a lazy grin on his face as he spoke. His black muscle tank was bagging enough to reveal a majority of his tattoos, ones that you had gotten to know well in the last few months.

Physically, you were seeing Jungkook as he was right now. Mentally, you were picturing the boy you had grown up with.

It had been a shock when Namjoon brought you to the house first time, having stopped dead in when you laid eyes on Jungkook. The first time you originally met was back in elementary school. It was during art hour and you were drawing a picture of your family, Jungkook was sitting next to you coloring his paper when the two of you reached for the same yellow crayon to draw the sun. It was cheesy, but since then the two of you stuck to each other like glue, lasting all the way up to high school. The summer before sophomore year was when things broke apart. His family was moving away, and he wouldn’t be able to attend the same school come fall. Hell, he wasn’t even going to be in the same state anymore.

For a while, phone calls that started on Friday nights and ended on Saturday mornings were a weekly routine for the two of you. But when the two of you got adjusted to school again, the work piled up, and parents began taking away phone privileges until the grades got better, the weekly calls slowed down to once or twice a month. By the time graduation came and you decided on which college you were attending, you never thought you’d see him again.

To see Jungkook for the first time during your sophomore year of college, you hadn’t been able to stop yourself rushing forward to hug him. Luck on been on your side that day when he lifted you up, your legs instantly wrapping around him as he held you tightly.

“I thought I was never going to see you again,” Jungkook had whispered, his arms almost crushing you with his strength, but you were hugging him back just as hard.

The reunion between you and him was the last thing anyone expected, especially with Namjoon right there to watch you jump his youngest friend, someone he considered practically a brother. Looking back on it now, the jealousy he harbored for your friendship with Jungkook was as clear as an ocean made out of crystals. Whenever Jungkook entered the room and you were there, Namjoon was instantly touching or kissing you, something that at the time you never thought twice about because he was your boyfriend and that’s who he was. It didn’t matter if the two of you were alone or out in public, if he wanted something, he didn’t hesitate about taking it.

It was so stupid now as you thought back to your ex-boyfriend. You had been completely devoted to Namjoon, the idea of being with someone else never once crossed your mind, at least up until that last month of your relationship when he grew distant.

A body suddenly stepped in front of you, blocking Jungkook from your sight and forcing you to look at a black t-shirt and a tattooed arm. Lifting your head, irritation filled your veins at the sight of Namjoon. At some point during the last six months he had dyed his hair platinum blond again, and regrettably, it looked good on him. The last time you had done an impulsive dye job you ended up having to go to the salon to get it fixed.

“Was that morning not enough of a hint for you?” Namjoon slowly asked.

You clenched your jaw, glancing away from his eyes as you took a step back. “When did you start kicking people out of your parties?” Raising an eyebrow, you ignored the way he crossed his arms over his chest, displaying the way his muscles flexed at the small movement. He must have started working out more often lately.

Namjoon chuckled though, drawing your attention back to him. “Not unless you piss me off. Although considering you’re my ex, that should be enough reason for me to throw you out.”

Don’t say anything, you thought, you haven’t found Jungkook yet. Instead, you focused on his right arm. Back then, the black and grey scaled tree of life tattoo that wrapped around his arm had brought a sense of comfort. Many nights you had traced each and every delicate line and branch while draped on his chest, the blankets crumpled up and covering yourselves only from the hips down.

He had other tattoos, mostly phrases he had written over the years and had Taehyung ink onto his body in various scripts, but this was his single largest piece. It would be a lie to say it wasn’t beautiful. Just because he was an ex-didn’t mean you couldn’t appreciate the art.

Without warning, Namjoon grabbed your chin with his fingers and forced you to meet his gaze. Brown eyes that you once thought belonged to the minds of the gods, stared down at you with unwavering disdain.

“You gonna tell me what you’re doing here? Or do I actually have to kick you out of my house?”

I can’t believe I loved you, you thought, wanting to yank your chin out of his hold but knowing better to not to.

“I came with my roommates,” you sighed, gesturing with a thumb around the party. “We’ve all been stressed with classes and wanted to relax. I didn’t realize we were coming here until Louise pulled on to the street and I recognized where we were. They’re around here, somewhere.”

If there was anything decent about Namjoon, it was that he listened. Even if he hated someone, he always listened to them without interruption – whether it was in hopes of finding dirt to hold over them or to give the benefit of the doubt – and that seemed to be working in your favor right now.

He licked his lips, looking away from you to scan the room like he could see everyone who was currently dancing and getting drunk in his house all in a matter of seconds.

“Alright,” he finally said, releasing you. “You can stay. But you know the rules. Don’t break any of my shit, and don’t fuck with some stranger in any of the rooms. I’d say don’t do drugs but I know you won’t…” his voice died off, his face barely softening for a few seconds.

That was another good thing about Namjoon. When it came to the Bangtan Boys and the girls he dated – including you – he protected and took care of them. During your relationship, he had rushed you to the hospital when you showed up at the house banging on the doorbell in the dead of the night.

After a night of hanging out with friends, the group of you decided to go out for Taco Bell – the ultimate form of comfort food while on a college budget – and were walking home. You had been the only one to not have a drink that night, but some of them decided that the night wasn’t over. It was only sheer luck that you were near Namjoon’s street and were able to run to his house.

Before you had passed out, you vividly recalled the rage that had been apparent on Namjoon’s face when he swung the front door open, ready to punch out the lights of the person banging on the doorbell, until he saw you standing there, hysterical and pupils nearly blown out with bruises and scratches on your body. You had been shaking with adrenaline and from whatever drug a group of guys had forced into your mouth.

You had been hospitalized for two weeks to make sure the drugs were out of your system and to make sure everything healed okay, and even now, the night was fuzzy in certain spots, but you never could forget Namjoon’s reaction.

When you woke up, along with Namjoon, Jungkook had been asleep in chairs by your beside. Their knuckles were busted and had dried blood on the skin. Namjoon’s face remained unscathed, but Jungkook had had purple bruises blossoming on his cheekbone and his lip was split.

Instead of answering, you silently nodded. That memory, along with various others when he as all soft words and gentle caresses, reminded you that Namjoon wasn’t one hundred percent evil, but that didn’t make him pure. It was like having a poisonous snake next to someone and saying it wasn’t poisonous because it hadn’t bit them yet. Only time would reveal their true intentions, and you knew his.

He gestured over to one of the folding tables against the wall to your left that was covered in bowls of snacks. “Go, get something to eat before drinking anymore.” He didn’t stick around for much longer, pushing past and harshly bumping into your shoulder before you were able to step out of his way.

In that instant the memory disappeared, nose scrunching up in annoyance as you watched your giant of an ex-head towards the kitchen, moving with ease until some girl stumbled into him and he caught her. She was holding a cup and so it was possible that she was just drunk, but even with the distance between you and them, her eyes weren’t glassy enough and the way she instantly pressed her body against Namjoon was too stable.

Whether or not she did have too much to drink, Namjoon easily wrapped his arms around her lower back, settling his palms conveniently near her ass. He didn’t have to be facing you for you to know he was grinning down at the party girl.

Not that you cared, but at least have some decency.

You rolled your eyes, glancing back at the wall where Jungkook had been, but neither him or Hoseok or Taehyung were there anymore. Sighing, you made your way over to the snack table, this time finding it easier to move around as people headed to the center of the room to dance.

When you reached the table though, Hoseok was leaning against it and tossing M&Ms into his mouth. The candy fiend himself appeared to be enjoying the break away from the party and sweaty bodies, and considering how flushed his face was, perhaps the alcohol too.

“How many have you had?” You asked, stepping closer to sink your hand into the bowl of Reese’s Pieces.

Knocking back another handful, Hoseok held up one finger.

That wasn’t surprising in the least. Turning around, you ate the candy piece by piece as you watched the strobe flights speed up, bouncing off of everyone so fast a headache was sure to form.

“He’s in his room,” Hoseok said, his breath rich with chocolate as he leaned close for you to hear him.

Nodding, you turned to walk down the hallway when Hoseok grabbed you by the bicep, dragging you back towards the wall and out of the way of the strobe lights as your snack spilled onto the floor, the sound lost to everyone. Back here, the light only reflected off of his face every once in a while, instead of constantly highlighting him.

“The two of you are crazy as hell for doing this.”

It wasn’t the first time Hoseok told you that. He was the first to inform you of this thought when it all started two months ago, and he said it every time he covered for you and Jungkook whenever Namjoon was near.

“Then why help us at all?” you snapped, staring up at him.

Hoseok narrowed his eyes, his hand tightening just the slightest before suddenly dropping from your arm. “And see the two of you dead? You’re fucking insane.”

“Then what are we supposed to do?” You exclaimed, grateful that the music was turning up as you spoke, the walls practically pulsating with the beat. “Namjoon cheated on me with two whores! I waited months before seeing someone else, and I knew Jungkook for years before any of you. Why the hell does this make me the terrible one?”

You ignored the sympathy on Hoseok’s face and walked down the hall towards Jungkook’s room, shaking your head.

That was perhaps the most difficult thing about sneaking around. You had been the person wronged here, you had spent the weekends locked up in your room with the blankets tightly wrapped around your body as you cried, wondering what the hell was wrong with yourself for Namjoon to cheat on you with those women. There had even been a period when you considered changing certain aspects about yourself to win him back, to become his ideal woman. You’d get more tattoos, add a few more piercings and read up on philosophical texts to be able to hold a conversation with him.

The only saving grace through that entire time, was Jungkook.

When you saw him for the first time in years, it was like all that time apart had evaporated and you were hanging out like old times. There had been plenty of catching up to be done and there had been a shock factor on his part – he had since bulked up and no longer resembled the scrawny kid he once used to be, had grown out his hair, his ears had piercings galore, and he covered himself in tattoos – but he was still the Jungkook you knew and loved.

Like clockwork he came over to your apartment every chance he had. Bringing your favorite take out and watching trashy reality shows, even holding you when you couldn’t force the tears back. Jungkook didn’t let you fall beyond repair, choosing to be the glue you needed for you to put yourself back together.

When it had been four months after the breakup and you were getting back to yourself, you had realized that while watching a movie late one night with Jungkook, you were in his lap. The lights had been off and the two of you were sitting on your bed with his back against the headboard, and you were sitting in-between his legs with your back against his chest, his arms hugging you closer.

“What’s wrong?” Jungkook asked when you shifted in his arms, capturing his attention when you sat on your knees in front of him.

You didn’t say anything, simply reaching up to brush the hair that had fallen in his eyes away. He didn’t stop you. Instead, he patiently waited as you stared at him, trying to figure out how the kid you had grown up with, was suddenly the man who owned your heart. When that happened was unanswerable, but it felt like no matter where you went or what happened, you would always find your way back to him.

With that in mind, you slid your palm down to his cheek, shakily breathing when he slid his hands up your thighs to gently rest on your hips. The corner of his mouth twitched upwards for only a moment because the next thing you knew, you were kissing Jungkook.

His hands tightened on your hips as he eagerly kissed you back like he had been waiting for this moment for years.

The next morning when you woke up, the first thing you saw was a chest covered in hickeys and a tattoo of a caged swallow, its partner flying free but nearby. He was still asleep, his arm like dead weight on your bare waist. You should have been questioning yourself, you had slept with your best friend who was also one of your ex-boyfriend’s best friends.

Even as you considered that, you shifted your leg over his and leaned forward, gently kissing his chest once, twice, slowly making your way up to his neck. It was on the fourth kiss that Jungkook groaned, and on the sixth, he was rolling you onto your back as he harshly returned the kisses, his knees spreading your legs for round three.

Since then, it was meeting up in secret and Jungkook spending nights at your apartment to avoid running into Namjoon. It wasn’t a secret how possessive he could be, and if he saw Jungkook with you romantically, there would be hell to pay.

Knowing that he was waiting for you, you didn’t bother with knocking and just walked in, spotting Jungkook sitting on his bed with one leg propped on the mattress and his elbow resting on his knee as he scrolled through his phone.

You shut the door and with extra caution, flipped the lock on it, guaranteeing a few stolen moments without someone barging in. He looked up then, a smirk growing as he tossed his phone to the side, his arms wrapping around your waist when you were close enough for him to touch.

“I’m too sober for this,” he murmured, tilting his head back to look up at you, mischief alive in his eyes as he slid his hands into your back pockets, squeezing your ass. “There’s a Goddess in my arms, and I want to fucking ruin her.”

As filthy as his words were, it brought a smile to you lips as you tossed the glow stick necklace to the floor while the frustration you had from dealing with Namjoon was whisked away. In addition to igniting a flame to your insides that had you thirsting for more of Jungkook’s words, but for his touch, his kisses, for everything that was him and that he was willing to give.

“I’m tempted to let you do that,” you murmured back, moving your leg so your knee was on the bed next to his hip. “But you have tendency to go for hours.”

He quirked an eyebrow at you, the silver hoop glinting in the low lighting. “You’ve never complained about my stamina before.”

“What’s there to complain about?” You teased, pressing your lips together and enjoying the way Jungkook’s eyes darken.

“I’d be careful if I were you baby,” he warned, his voice lowering as he squeezed your ass tighter before massaging it through the denim. “I have no problem with bending you over my desk and fucking you rough to teach a lesson.”

Any normal person would have been worried by that statement, but you? The image that came to mind had you shakily inhaling, your panties feeling a little damper than they had ten minutes ago. If it weren’t the fact that Namjoon was in the house, you would have continued with the teasing until he fulfilled his promise. But even you were smart enough to know that was too risky.

Which is why you had to tell him.

“I ran into Namjoon,” you said.

Jungkook’s smile disappeared, his hands pulling out of your pockets at the sudden change of topics. Instead, he scooted backwards so you were able to join him on the bed, not even waiting for you to be completely on it when he was bringing you next to him on your side.

“Everything okay?”

You shifted an arm underneath your head. “Yeah. I was looking for you when he suddenly appeared. Threw back that morning at me and debated on kicking me out.”

“Fucking Namjoon,” running a hand through his hair, he clenched his jaw before reaching out, gently rubbing your thigh as he propped his chin in his palm. “Why can’t he let it the fuck go?”

That seemed to be the million-dollar question. Namjoon had been the one cheat with not one, but two girls at the same time, not even caring as you walked into his room. That morning had been meant to be surprised. You had finished working on a majority of your papers the night before and it had been a while since you got to spend some time with Joon, so you had planned on waking him up in his favorite way, only apparently, he already had someone else doing it for you.

If he had been able to move on so fast while still in a relationship, why was he always throwing it back at you now that he was single?

“Tell me you need me,” Jungkook suddenly said.

“What?” You asked, blinking up at him in confusion. Where had this come from?

Jungkook’s eyes reminded you of a galaxy of stars hidden away from the rest of the universe, but as they gazed down at you, they were hardened with determination. “Tell me you need me,” he repeated, firmly this time. “So, I don’t fucking go out there and tell him to leave my girl the hell alone and beat the shit out of him.”

You felt your bottom lip quiver briefly as he spoke. Not because what he said could be considered mildly scary, but because you knew how hard this was on him. Jungkook, while he may look like he didn’t give a shit, had the biggest heart you had ever seen. That was something that never changed about him since his younger years.

More often than not he vocalized wanting to be able go out on campus and into town with his arm around you, to hold your hand and go out on dates. You were his girl and the only ones who knew where the other Bangtan Boys. They only knew because they all covered for the two of you when Namjoon asked where Kook was.

He wanted to love you the way he thought you deserved, and he was denied that because if Namjoon found out, blood would be spilled. His in particular. Namjoon would only see the betrayal that Jungkook had committed and in their group, he saw loyalty as number one.

That was why Hoseok always said the two of you were crazy for this.

The consequences of dating an ex of the leader? Life threatening.

Wetting your lips, you reached a hand up to cup his cheek, stroking his face in an attempt to soothe not just him, but yourself as well. Even if either of you came out with the truth, it wouldn’t just be your lives at risk, but the others would be in just as much danger. They were the ones covering your asses, and Namjoon wouldn’t take that lightly.

“Jungkook,” you whispered. “Of course, I need you. I never stopped needing you baby.”

He stared down at you; the room nearly silent with the exception of the music that shook the walls. While he always dreamed of having you like this, he felt like a failure in some ways. Leaning forward, he pressed his forehead against yours, hugging you as he sniffed.

“I’m gonna get us out of here one day,” Jungkook promised. “I’m taking you and we’re going wherever the hell we want. Far away from Namjoon so that he can never find us.”

Despite the situation hanging over your heads, you couldn’t help but smile at him. “Kookie, we’re still young.”

“Doesn’t matter, I’ve always known that I’ve loved you, since we were kids and when Namjoon introduced you that day. It was all just a matter of timing.” In an instant, his hands were on your waist and he rolled you on to your back as he hovered over you with practiced ease. His bangs hung down drawing giggles from you, but you felt more alive as he spoke with passion.

“And if we can’t find the right time, then we’ll take it for ourselves. I’ve been saving up these last couple months, and it’s gonna be a while more before we’ll have enough to get away and not be stuck living in a car, but I’m getting us out of here baby. That is…as long as you want to come with me.”

At some point his hands had slipped under the hem of your shirt, the rings he wore sent cold tingles up your spine at their sudden touch, but all you were able to do was focus on Jungkook and the way he was currently chewing on his bottom lip. Not too long ago he had talked about getting his mouth pierced, although from the amount of times he bit his mouth from nerves or deeply concentrating on a task, the healing process for that one hoop would take forever on him, if he didn’t end up taking it out.

Looking up at him right now, it was like seeing the Jungkook you used to know and the man he had grown into, and you were absolutely in love with both of them. You had loved Namjoon yes, but the way you once felt about him, was nothing compared to the way you felt about Jungkook.

“Do you remember when our moms would schedule playdates for us?” You suddenly asked, a soft smile growing on your face. “And they would always say how cute we were together.”

A grin formed on his face as he briefly glanced away from you, the faintest blush appearing on his cheeks. “My mom still says that.”

Giggling, you nodded in agreement, though your own mom had called him hot when you showed her a recent photo of Jungkook. “Afterwards when we’d get home,” you continued, “I would always tell her that one day, I wasn’t ever going to date anyone who wasn’t you.”

Jungkook’s grin widened to the point of threatening to split his face, but knowing that even back then you had felt the same way about him like he did for you, only made him more determined in getting you far away from Namjoon.

“We can’t tell the guys about our plan. If they don’t know, then Namjoon won’t hurt them.”

“Sounds like a plan to me.” Your heart felt like it was racing. The idea of being able to love each other without fear of Namjoon was a dead weight being removed from your shoulders.

“Then I guess that’s it,” he said, leaning down to kiss the tip of your nose. “We’re getting the fuck out of here.”

With a nod, you wrapped your arms around his neck, adjusting your head to kiss Jungkook.

It was going to be awhile before the two of you had enough money to leave, but the moment the two of you had it, you and Jungkook were going to be gone. There would be no goodbyes to the others. Even though they were pains in the ass at times, they weren’t cruel to those they cared about. If anything, the day the two of you left for good or when they realized what happened, you could easily imagine them getting together and having a drink in your honor.

Maybe one day when it was safe, you and Jungkook could come back for a visit or find a way to stay in touch with them. But none of that would matter if you got caught.

The two of you were dancing on the edge of a knife’s blade, and it was worth every second.

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