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felixsfishnets · 2 months

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Just this one - Xander x Spike (18+)

Preview:

Takes place after Xander sees Anya and Spike going at it in the magic box. Feelings bubble up and he wants to take them out on Spike, who has also been having a bad time recently. They take things out on each other in an unhealthy but sexy way.

AO3 link for warnings, tags etc

Despite his vampiric reflexes, Spike hadn’t expected the fist connecting with his jaw. He stumbled, more from shock than from force and braced himself against the wall of the magic box. Another blow to his stomach.

“Get up! Get up!” Xander was roaring at Spike, rage trembling through his body, lowering his inhibitions making him hit harder.

“Xander!” Anya got in between them. There was a flurry of insults and accusations, voices pitching high in hurt. Standing up straight, Spike recovered from the sudden blows.

“You left me Xander, at the altar,” Anya shot back at him, indignant.

“So what you go out and bang the first body you can find?” Xander asked in disgust.

“It was good enough for Buffy,” Spike spoke for the first time, a smug smile across his face.

“Shut up and leave her out of-“Realisation hit Xander, he looked to Buffy who avoided his gaze. If looks could stake, Spike would be dead about now.

The confusion allowed Spike to slip away, avoiding more of the scoobies theatrics. He felt like a fool, like a child who refused to learn that fire is hot and it will burn. His jaw stung, his veins felt like they were trying to worm their way out of his skin and Anya had left him hard up and frustrated after backing out of their wordless agreement to use each other for comfort.

A guttural, primal sound erupted from Spike and he drove his fist into the nearest surface. Powdery, red brick coated his hand.

“Spike! I’m not finished with you Spike.”

Xander had followed him. The gaggle of idiots seemed determined to drive him to the brink and test the very limits of the chip implanted firmly in his head.

“Bugger off Harris.” That’s all Spike could really do, fling barbs and get pissy. Any real action would bring him to his knees, convulsing in pain.

“I am so sick of your crap Spike.” Xander’s voice was wavering, his face shiny with tears reflected from the pale-yellow light in the alley. “You think you can keep meddling in our lives? Toying with us just because you’re all neutered?”

Xander was on him fast, faster than Spike had seen the boy move before and he was brandishing a stake. He swung and Spike caught his wrist. The sharp, wooden weapon was pressed firmly against his chest. Xander had almost dusted him, and may still as he struggled furiously bringing himself closer and closer to jamming the wood through Spike’s heart.

He was panicking. He had never expected any of the scoobies to follow through on their threats of offing him. Using both arms, he gripped Xander’s wrist, twisting so he would drop the wooden weapon and spun him. Pinning him face first against the rough stone walls of the alley. He braced himself for the piercing jolt in his brain but it never came.

Perfect.

Xander was struggling against Spike’s grip, thrashing kicking and swearing. Listing out every insult he could think of, wriggling biting spitting. He was bigger than Spike but vampire strength won out and eventually Xander stood slack against his grip, panting.

“Are you quite finished?” Spike asked.

“Let go of me.” Xander's voice was uneven.

“I don’t think so Harris, you almost staked me. Left me to be picked up by the street sweepers?”

“You deserve it,” he spat back. “Can’t believe either of them let you touch them. You’re disgusting.”

“Is that some jealousy I’m sensing?” Spike moved in closer, pressing his chest up against Xander’s back. “Did you wish it was you getting pumped on the table at the magic box?” His voice a salacious mix of mockery and seduction.

The boy was panicking, his already elevated heart rate continued to raise creating a glorious thrumming that only Spike could hear. He denied it, of course, Xander would never want to be touched up by a vampire much less Spike.

"You're sick Spike," Xander protested weakly.

“Oh, don’t be so coy now pet, you have me right where you’ve always wanted me.” Spike used one free hand to grab a handful of Xander’s ass, meaty and surprisingly firm.

“You don’t know wha-“Spike cut him off, he had heard enough of the boy’s incessant babbling to last a lifetime.

“Living a couple hundred years teaches you a thing or two about humans, why they do the things they do, what makes them tick.” He continued to grope Xander. “How to get them to follow you down a dark, lonely alley in the middle of the night, like horny little happy meals with legs.”

All of his rage, his righteous fury at the woman he supposedly loved and the man who she had cheated with churned inside and turned to panic, shame, embarrassment. Xander was no longer fighting against the vampire’s grip. He went slack, his forehead pressed against the grimy walls. The sharp, icy thrill that ran through his heart and up his neck felt so intense that he could barely even feel Spike’s hands on him.

“Come on then, when did you realize? Was it the librarian? Did you fantasize about him taking you into the stacks and making you call him daddy?” Spike was taunting him, pressing up against him harder his crotch mashed up against Xander’s ass. “Or maybe it was Angel? Did you wish he was stealing away into your bedroom at night? Did you wish you had given him the happy that made him lose his soul?”

The tears that rolled down his face were no longer from anger but now instead ones of shame and disgust at himself and at Spike. He pressed his head harder against the rock, bearing this, hoping that it would end. Spike ran a cool hand under his shirt and groped his chest. He continued to taunt Xander, whispering filth into his ear, licking and suckling at the lobe.

“Did you think about soldier boy too? Wanted to see just how well he put all that military training to use?” Spike’s hand moved away from Xander’s chest and down towards his crotch. The boy tensed as he felt the cool hand grip his stiff cock through his trousers. He wanted to vomit. He hated himself for being hard, he hated Spike for being right. With a quick skilled movement, Xander was spun to face the vampire. There was a brief moment of eye contact before he looked away in shame, face burning with humiliation.

“Just tell me to stop and I will,” Spike used his free hand, turning Xander’s head forcefully to face him. The boy looked delicious, blood pumping hot, eyes swollen with sparkly tears. Weak, ready to be molded by vampiric hands.

Xander met his gaze once more, his eyes a mixture of defiance and pleading. Spike couldn’t read his mind but he didn’t need to, he could feel the lust radiating from Xander in waves.

“Please Spike,” his voice barely above a whisper.

Spike brought his lips to Xander’s, his cold lips warming against flushed skin. It was messy, wet and desperate. Years of longing, repression pressed up against the vampire in a way that felt more satisfying than draining any victim of their life. He loosened his grip, knowing that the boy wouldn’t run from him. Spike guessed he wouldn’t be able to pry him off, vampire strength and all. Xander’s hands immediately set to work. Rough hands earned from his last few years working construction. He moved greedily, almost panicked as they moved from his bleached curls to his waist, up under his shirt and then down to his ass.

With practiced hands, Spike swiftly unfastened Xander’s belt, opened his trousers and gripped his cock. Gasping into the kiss, he bumped his head on the brick wall trying to get away from the vampire’s mouth and catch his breath. This was only encouragement for him, he wanted the human drained in every way Spike could drain him with a chip in his brain. He wanted Xander begging and desperate and exhausted.

Xander’s hands pressed warm against Spike’s cool chest, his skin tingling under the heat. They separated, the human gasping with heavy eyes.

“On your knees,” Spike commanded. Without protest, Xander sank to the ground. Knees pressing into the wet concrete. His hands were shaking as he undid the silver buckle, metal clinging as he fumbled. Oh, Spike was enjoying this. The boy had been so superior and demeaning, acting like he was so much better than Spike. And now here he was on his knees, desperate to suck his dick.

He hissed when Xander gripped his cock. Groaned when he tentatively put the head in his mouth. The head rested on Xander’s tongue has he began stroking, licking, kissing, tasting. Hands gripped the back of Spike’s thighs when he began to suck in earnest, testing his limits with an eagerness that reminded Spike of the fledgling vampires draining their first victim.

“Where did you learn to do that, you naughty boy,” Spike purred, looking down. Xander tilted his head up and to the side, cheeks hollowed and their eyes met. The vampire moaned as Xander slid the cock further down his throat, taking the entire thing without breaking eye contact. Who knew the boy’s mouth had a use other than spouting remarks of varying humor.

“Get some practice? What was it? A banana? An ice lolly?” Spike chuckled to himself, imaging a horny and confused Xander fellating various objects out of sheer desperation. Xander hummed around his member, the rumble of pleasure caused him to grip the boy’s head. His fingers wove through the warm wet locks gripping firmly as he removed his cock in fear that he’d cum before he had finished playing with his new toy.

A trail of saliva stretched from the head of Spike’s cock and lead to Xander’s mouth, who looked up at him expectantly. Awaiting orders.

“I like you so much better like this,” Spike smiled down at him, admiring the view. Xander’s face and hair were a mess, slicked wet and puffy all over. His shirt open, leaving a line of skin connecting down to his cock. He hadn’t even touched himself while he was sucking, enjoying himself too much to focus on his own please. The vampire raised his boot and rubbed the toe against Xander’s cock. He whined in response. Spike continued the movement, pressing the entire sole against the boy’s cock and balls. Xander rutted against it, feeling grateful for any form of friction.

He was pathetic. He knew this. As Xander continued to grind against the boot, he couldn’t help but think of how low he was in this moment. But Spike had managed to break through his defenses.

Defenses that other people didn’t even know Xander had raised. After everything, Buffy dying and being brought back, the disaster of a wedding and then finding out that Buffy and Anya had gotten off with Spike. He was already teetering on the edge but then Spike had pushed him, sank his fangs into raw nerves that Xander rarely even touched.

So, he gave in. He had fucked so many things up that this would just be another one to add to the list. This would be his rock bottom. On his knees in a grimy alley blowing a vampire. He would allow himself this one time, to get it out of his system. To explore and then compartmentalize those feelings so he could bury them again. And he would focus on what he was meant to be doing, finding a wife and having 2.5 children with a picket fence. But for now, he was at Spike’s mercy.

“Please,” Xander begged.

“On your feet and turn around,” Spike didn’t have to wait long before the human was on his feet, braced against the bricks. He ripped the other man’s trousers and underwear down unceremoniously. Admiring the round, pale buttocks peppered with black hair. Spike couldn’t resist giving them a few slaps, watching them jiggle and turn red. Xander moaned, arching his back.

With his cock resting against the cleft of Xander’s ass, he held two fingers at the boy’s mouth. Xander took them without question, sucking as diligently as he did the vampire’s cock.

“I assume you’ve done this before too, have you pet?” Spike asked, gently rubbing his slick fingers over Xander’s hole. He had the boy moaning, rocking against his digits, while his other hand pulled and kneaded at his ass cheeks. Xander let out a long groan as the first finger slipped inside.

“Oh, you have done this before,” Spike sounded smug, and a little bit impressed. The boy was tight but he managed to take Spike’s fingers without much resistance. “Did you let the demon bint slip one in every now and then? Or was this more of a private affair?” The questions were met with a gasp as Xander threw his head back, nearly headbutting the vampire. Spike grinned to himself, and raked his fingers over the same spot again.

“Come on pet, who were you thinking about when you played with your hole?” He worked his fingers harder, rougher stretching Xander’s pink hole.

“Ah, fuck- You… God,” Xander gasped, causing Spike’s bleached brows to raise in surprise. Unsure if the boy was being truthful or saying that just to appease the vampire, he grinned. In the pocket of his leather duster was a bottle of lube. Xander winced when Spike removed his digits, panting. Then he scoffed when he heard the click of a cap and the squelch of lube.

“For just such occasions.” He said as he slicked his cock and applied a generous amount of the gel on Xander’s hole.

He rubbed the head against Xander’s entrance, making him groan in anticipation. He pushed in slowly, agonizingly slow, and held the boy in place so he wouldn’t push back against him.

With his cock fully sheath inside, Spike leaned against Xander’s broad back. Taking time to enjoy the boy’s warm, wet inside warming his cock. Fucking his fellow undead was always an enjoyable experience, they could take much more punishment than the average human. But nothing compared to the pulsating heat of a willing person.

Spike drew his cock out slowly, admiring the way Xander gripped him. Even the black hairs that circled his hole seemed to be clinging onto his length. He rammed back into the boy harshly, earning him a strangled croak. The pace he kept was slow, steady. Enjoying the mewls Xander made when his dick was fully sheathed in him. Trailing hands lightly up the boy’s shirt, Spike found his nipples. He began rolling and pinch the nubs, flicking them.

Picking up the pace, his pounding began making a wet slapping that echoed down the alley only interrupted the boy beneath him babbling in pleasure. Xander was pushing back to match Spike’s him, his arsecheeks turning red at the repeated slamming.

When Spike had adjusted his position slightly, he could tell that he had found what he had been looking for. It only took a few more pumps before Xander shot his load. “Oh, you are a dirty little pervert,” Spike mocked, impressed that Xander managed to come just from being fucked. Pulling his cock from the boy’s hole, he spun him around. He could tell Xander was exhausted and spent but he wasn’t finished, Spike hadn’t come yet. Using his inhuman strength, Spike lifted Xander from the ground. Pressing the boy’s back against the wall and hoisting his legs up onto his leather clad shoulders.

Spike plunged his cock back into the boy, setting a steady pace. Dragging the full length of his member out before slamming it back inside. Xander’s neglected dick began to grow again. The vampire began suckling and kissing the boy’s neck. However pliable he may be at the moment, he imagined drinking from the human would cause the chip in his brain to cripple him with pain. But feeling the boy’s elevated pulse, the thin straws of blood running through him with his lips was the closest he could get.

“Of fuck, Spike… Do it,” Xander panted. There was a familiar sound and crunch, Spike tentatively pressed his fangs into the warm flesh. Hot, coppery blood filled his mouth for the first time in months. He slammed into Xander a few more times before coming inside the boy. Still holding him, cock still inside the boy, as he drank from his neck. Spike knew better than to completely drain him, he was sure the chip would prevent him going too far and he didn’t want this memory tarnished.

Xander’s head bobbed lazily when Spike pulled away. He was completely passed out, exhausted in every sense of the word. A small sense of regret crept up the vampire’s spine as he observed the unconscious human. Perhaps it was knowing he couldn’t undo what they had just done together, given the boy another burden to bear.

With far more care than the boy had ever shown him, Spike dressed him. Pulling his trousers up and buckling them, buttoning his shirt. He liked the bite on the boy’s neck once more, causing it to scab over. Unable to leave Xander unconscious on the grimy floor of the alley, he scooped the boy up into his arms. The slayer’s house would probably be the best place for him. Safe. Make sure no other beasties find him an easy snack. And his friends may help him deal with the emotional fallout.

Xander would definitely lie to protect himself, protect his pride. Say that himself and Spike got jumped and Spike saved him. Being saved by the vampire would be a more tolerable hit than admitting the truth.

Spike left the boy slumped against one of the chairs on Buffy’s porch. He banged furiously on the door and rang the doorbell repeatedly before fleeing. The girls would panic. Then they’d haul Xander in and try to rouse him. When that didn’t work, they’d put him on the couch, take off his shoes and jacket. Throw a blanket over him and leave him to rest.

By the time he woke up, Spike would be gone. His crypt emptied and Sunnydale would be behind him.

#spike #xander harris #spander #buffy the vampire slayer #fics #my fics #spander fics #buffy fics #william the bloody

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alleycat-arcade · 2 years

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Temperance's Tinsel Tango: Day Ten

After pulling out the hot chocolate packets from the box, you found them to be entirely made up of bizarre flavors. Flavors that got more and more outrageous as you sifted through them. Sure, Orange and Lavender weren't too unusual, but once you got to Celestial feathers and Dragon scales you knew you had to brew a cup. And thus you returned to the pile, a warm cup set in a saucer beside you as you searched for the present bearing the "Dec. 22nd" label. The basket that held the gift was rather unusual itself, shaped like a top hat and stuffed full of white tissue paper. Pulling it aside, the paper reveals to you...

...the grinning face of a snowman plush. Despite its lack of limbs, it smiles up at you with an inviting expression. As if it was pleading for you to hug it. And who were you to deny such a cute little guy?

Building Snowmen (Obey Me! and Genshin, x Gn! Reader, Mini-fics)

Content Warnings: None today! Just fluff <3

(I am currently frothing at the mouth I forgot to post this yesterday dojfklsdkjsiflkjsek)(I love hypospace outlaw btw, origin of the gif)

⚝──⭒─⭑─⭒──⚝

Obey Me!:

Barbatos:

Being the Demon Prince's butler was a rather rough job, but a job Barbatos took pride in. Even so, he hardly had much free time in between cooking, cleaning, and ensuring Diavolo accomplished his own tasks on time. He used to be fine with how busy he always was, but ever since you'd wormed your way into his heart he found himself longing to spend time with you. Just about everyone in the castle was aware of the level of affection he held for you, and felt bad that the only time he really got to spend with you were the days he'd accompany Diavolo to something you were involved in or when you'd tag along when he went out shopping. So, the Castle staff decided to all work together and give Barbatos a day off. The Prince had happily agreed to the request, and ushered the stunned butler out of the castle to enjoy the rest of his day. With the sudden change of plans, he didn't really have any idea what to do. Diavolo's request the other day had been to look into the future for a week, so the sudden day off was a total surprise to him. With nowhere else, that came to mind, to go, he headed towards the House of Lamentation to find you. As you opened the door to greet the vistor who knocked on the door, an eager smile crossed your face as you tightened your thick coat around you. The Prince had informed you beforehand of Barbatos's short vacation, and you'd prepared a list of activities. The first of which being building snowmen together. The snowy field you had dragged him out to was completely empty, as per the Demon Prince's orders, and covered in fresh, untouched snow. Barbatos watched you begin to roll up a ball of snow curiously, before you motioned for him to follow suit. Together, the two of you made a pretty standard sized stack of snowy orbs, the sizes shrinking as it went up. Suddenly, you asked Barbatos to cover his eyes for a moment. He heard you shuffle some things about, before telling him to look. "Look Barb, it looks just like you!"

Diavolo:

Even being royalty had its downsides. Despite the power and influence the Demon Prince held, it seemed like he had enough time in general. His butler would assure him that all was well, but Diavolo always felt like he never had the time to finish all he wished to accomplish most days. Managing the Exchange Program as well as the rest of the Devildom's affairs took up quite a chunk of his schedule, and despite his somewhat childish nature he couldn't slack off too much without a certain demon chastising him. So, when it happened to be a rare slow day for him, he jumped at the opportunity to spend time with his favorite Exchange Student. He would have invited the others as well, but they were all mysteriously busy at the time. Thus, leaving you and Diavolo to have the day to yourselves. The Prince already had quite a few things in mind for the two of you to do, but you needed to be careful as you went out in public. You weren't too great at the disguising spells Solomon had been teaching you as of late, so you had to dress up the Prince in a disguise that looked straight out of a cartoon. Thankfully, no one seemed to notice that he was the literal Prince of Hell as he dragged you from location to location, like a puppy who was just introduced to a new environment and wanted to see everything. Nearing the end of the day, you passed by a park coated in freshly fallen snow. A few demon children were playing in it and having a snowball fight, but otherwise most of it had been untouched. "Reminds me of my childhood, when we'd go out and make snowmen after school." You smiled, taking a sip of your warm beverage. "Why don't we make one?" Diavolo said, already leading you into the park to a spot full of untouched snow. Setting aside the items you'd picked up while you were out on a nearby bench, you helped Diavolo make his best attempt at a snowman. It wasn't the greatest one in the world, mostly on account of the sizes of the snowballs being out of order, but you couldn't help but reciprocate the Prince's proud smile as he finished decorating it.

Mammon:

Mammon was a demon of many titles. Though most of them were derogatory, the Avatar of Greed truly had made various names for himself in the Devildom and in the Human World. One thing Mammon was not, however, a morning demon. As such, when you had arrived at the Devildom's equivalent of the crack of dawn, he was tad more grouchy than usual. He had scoffed and crossed his arms when you revealed why you had woken him up so early, but as his brain slowly woke up he found himself giving into your pleading eyes. You were essentially asking him to spend his entire day by your side as you went out to do various winter activities, and with how tightly wound you had him wrapped around your finger he couldn't deny you such a request. Especially since it would be a full day of just the two of you, alone with just his human, like a date.... Huh? He wasn't daydreaming and he's not blushing right now, its just really cold in his bedroom. You made sure that the two of you were properly bundled up for the day before you snuck out of the house, careful not to make a noise so one of his brother wouldn't wake up and decide to tag along. Mammon found it quite relaxing as the two of you embarked into town, the streets quieter than usual and the vivid signs painting the mostly empty walkways in an array of colors. He longed to pull one of his hands out of his pockets and wrap an arm around you, but his nerves got the best of him and he simply stuffed his roaming hand back into his pocket. It did not remain there for long, however, as you gently grabbed his wrist and began tugging him in the direction of the park. Aside from a few stray footprints, it seemed as if not a soul was in the quite popular spot that was now filled with snow. He was unsure of what you were doing as you crouched down and began balling up a handful of snow, but caught on as the small ball grew bigger and bigger. Mammon was quick to make a sly remark, before helping you with the claim that "no one makes a better snowman than the Great Mammon!". The snowman itself wasn't too bad, it could have been pack a little tighter but still he was proud of it. You couldn't help but take a sneaky pic of his jovial expression to save for yourself. His smiles were worth their weight in gold, after all. And you had no intensions to share.

Genshin:

Zhongli:

The Geo Archon was quite a peculiar person once you got to know him. He was knowledgeable in a wide range of topics, but it was almost heartwarming to watch him whenever he'd find something he had never seen or done before or heard of. Your Kamera could never quite capture that look of curiosity and wonder in his eyes, so you took it upon yourself as a sort of mission to find as many things in the world that might amaze Zhongli. One night, as you listened to his stories about the ancient history of Liyue, you had asked him if he could accompany you the following day. You explained that you wanted to take him somewhere special, but kept the details vague. After taking a good moment to himself to consider his options and try to recall any other duties he may have had, he agreed to accompany you. The next morning, he found himself waiting on the bridge outside of Liyue. He'd arrived earlier than the agreed upon time, and it was only a matter of time before you would arrive. And arrive you did, bearing a pleased expression and a box in your grasp. The box was quickly handed to Zhongli, who opened it as per your instruction. The item inside confused him quite a bit. Why did you purchase him a scarf? It was a tad chilly that morning, but nothing the Geo Archon couldn't handle. But you left no room for questions, simply telling him all would be answered as you arrived at your destination. The Dragonspine was not a place Zhongli often visited, on account of its history and the sheer cold, but he was well aware of most of the areas details. A few things about the landscape had changed in his absence, but for the most part it was the same. A need to tell you all he knew of the location bubbled up in his chest, but he pushed it down and reminded himself you invited him out for a reason. The Archon didn't need any help to guess the reason as to why you had invited him, as you were already urging you to join in on completing the partially made snowman you had created as he momentarily spaced out. You watched him chuckle at your somewhat childish antics, before joining in. You made sure not to look away are blink as that glimmer shone in his eyes, and you began building as many snowmen around you as the snow would allow. Anything to keep his eyes shining at you with delight.

Thoma:

It was needless to say that Thoma was excited and nervous to return to Mondstadt with you. The task of leaving the Kamisato Clan behind was a feat in itself, one that took a heavy toll on his heart as he bid friends he held dear adieu. Yet, he chose to accompany you on your travels of his own free will. As much as he had come to care for the Yashiro Commission and the way he felt indebted to them, he could not resist the way his heart called out for you, desiring to remain by your side no matter what. You had assured him that you would return to Inazuma whenever you took commissions there, and it made him feel a little bit more at ease. His passionate loyalty had transferred onto you, and he wasn't leaving your side anytime soon. Even if the harsh cold of the Dragonspine made his teeth chatter and the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, he refused to scurry off and look for warmth while you accomplished your latest quest. He smiled back at you as you brushed the snow off your gloves, the flowers the florist had given you now snuggled deep into the mound of snow. Thoma would've assumed you that the two of you would now use a teleport waypoint and return to the city, but the way you stood deep in thought made him think otherwise. It was not long before you had entertwined his hand with yours, gently pulling him along to the field of snow you had spotted from your vantage point. There was an abandoned Hilichurl camp nearby, but other than that the spot was clear of any signs of threats. You released his hand as you pulled a stray hilichurl mask from the snow, showing it off to the Pyro user with a wide grin. "Let's make a Snowhilichurl before we head back! And we can take a picture of it with my Kamera!" Thoma sighed happily, shaking his head with a smile before assisting you. You had his undying loyalty, and who was he to deny his favorite person a little bit of fun?

#obey me x gn!reader #obey me x reader #obey me x y/n #obey me x gn!mc #obey me mammon #obey me mammon x reader #obey me barbatos #obey me barbatos x reader #obey me diavolo #obey me diavolo x reader #genshin impact x reader #genshin x reader #genshin zhongli x reader #genshin thoma x reader #genshin fluff #obey me fanfic #heehee i love making snowmen. it is very joyous for me :)

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blindingdutchy · 3 years

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lamentation | SEVEN

{peter parker x fem!reader AU}

based on All the Bright Places by Jennifer Niven

SERIES MASTERLIST

word count: 4,000

warnings: fluff. angst. language. not even sure why i warn for angst anymore this whole story is just angsty af

18+!!! minors stay away!

In the following few weeks, you realized two things. One: Peter Parker was definitely not subtle. The other being that you were definitely in way over your head. There was no denying the stupid butterflies in your stomach anymore, or the way you found yourself expecting his touch before it even came.

It seemed as though the two of you were like magnets; a constant tug gravitating the pair of you back to each other with an unstoppable force. If you weren't together, he was on your mind, and like he could sense you thinking of him he'd be quick to reach out in some way or another. Be it appearing at your side, all happy grins and playful eyes, or calling your phone no matter the time with his stupidly adorable stutter--Peter seemed to think of you just as much as you thought of him.

The more that you thought of him, the more that you wished you didn't. It was terrifying. You wished that you could pull away again, to push him back out of your heart and lock those iron bars tight once more, but your heart had grown selfish and stubborn. It was as if you were the one locked out anymore; the control over your feelings slipping further and further from your clutches with every toothy smile Peter sent your way.

Like a magnet, he held you in place. Oh, to be held by... You slapped a pillow over your face and screamed, holding it so tightly that your nose ached and you couldn't breath. Peter Parker was like a disease. A stupid, all-consuming, utterly infatuating disease of the mind and the spirit.

You knew that you were wasting time, undoubtedly causing yourself to risk being late for school with every minute that passed as you continued to lay in your bed, but you couldn't bring yourself to get up. Already, your mother and father both had knocked at your door on multiple occasions and questioned if you were sick, and now you were regretting saying no. It would have been so easy to avoid him if you'd just played hookie.

But, with midterms in the near future, you knew it wasn't the best idea. The realization had come to you in the night. A moment so insignificant, so mundane, but it had been as if a switch were flipped in your mind. A light was turned on, so to speak, and illuminated all the thoughts and emotions you'd been so tirelessly repressing.

Talking on the phone with Peter was like a drug, and talking on the phone to him at night was a dangerous game. Under the dull light of a crescent moon and the ridiculous teddy-bear night light that was plugged into your wall, a lingering remnant of your sister's presence in the space, your inhibitions were always low. With sleepiness your walls were always lowered, and he'd unknowingly put a fatal crack in the foundation.

You rolled onto your stomach on your bed, kicking your feet through the air like a little kid as you fought back the grin that always seemed to worm its way across your lips when you were talking to him. "So, how do you like Ned and MJ?" Peter asked, and you could almost picture him mirroring your position as you heard the quiet rustle of blankets over the line. A little giggle bubbled out of your mouth at the thought.

What a sight that would be, Peter kicking his legs to and fro like a school girl in love. "They're cool. I kinda like that MJ doesn't even pretend to hide the fact that she thinks I'm weird. I don't--I don't know, it's refreshing I guess. Ned's sweet." you rambled, and it was the truth.

Ned and MJ were easily slipping into the fortress that shielded your heart with every passing day. Somehow, it wasn't as terrifying as you'd expected it to be. Perhaps that was because they didn't harbor a secret identity with which they risked their lives every single night, or maybe it was just because you'd come to realize that letting people in wasn't so bad. Not everyone was going to die on you.

Michelle Jones really didn't pretend not to think you were weird, not even a little bit. Her blunt and honest nature was a nice change from the quiet stares that seemed to follow your every move; MJ wasn't much for staring. Rather, she boldly told you what she was thinking without any shred of doubt.

And Ned, sweet Ned Leeds, was like a puppy personified. Always happy, always smiling, and always waiting to offer you compliments when you approached. You couldn't remember the last time someone had dared compliment your hair, your smile, or your outfits. Ned made it impossible to feel anything but comfort and joy in his presence, even his awkward nature was endearing.

"I'm glad." Peter hummed, "They really like you. To be honest, though, I kinda like it when it's just us. Maybe I should have waited a little longer to share you."

There was a pang in your chest at his words. Peter had been subtly flirting with you for days now, but this was more direct. He didn't have to come right out and say it for his implications to come across loud and clear, and that magnetic pull grew stronger.

So strong, in fact, that you murmured back, "I like it when it's just us, too."

If you had just kept your mouth shut, maybe he wouldn't have been so bold as to say, "Not gonna let them steal your heart from me, are you?"

The words were right at the tip of your tongue. Your heart was screaming, never! Nobody could ever steal me away from you, Peter! Yet, your mind was racing with a million and one horrible thoughts that made you feel as though your mouth was full of mud.

The silence between yourself and Peter grew thick as it drew on, no words escaping your lead-like lips. The voice in your brain, the one that sounded like your sister yet you knew was not her, was ringing in your ears. How could you ever fall in love, when she never could? How could you give your heart away, when she never had the chance?

You took that chance away from her. You stole it. This thing, whatever the weird force between the two of you was, was all stolen time, stolen opportunities, and stolen lives.

"Good night, (Y/N). I'll see you at school?"

You whispered, "Yes." The line went dead, and you felt cold.

Those simple words from Peter, with meaning and intention that was far from simple, were all it took to send the walls, bars, and barbed wire around your heart crumbling into nothing. With no protection, no barrier between yourself and the dangers of everyone else, your mind was working on overdrive. It would have been so easy to let him in, had that voice remained quiet, and yet you were steadily building those bricks back into place.

Now, all that was left to do was to steal your heart back. When had he managed to take it from you? Had he snuck in during the night, slipping through the strategically placed cracks and weak points he'd created, and stole away with it undetected? Had he taken it that first night, without you ever noticing?

As you finally released the pressure over the pillow on your face, sucking in a shaky breathe and letting all the heavy things crash over you again, tears burned your eyes. You didn't want to push Peter away. You didn't want to be the reason he was hurt, upset, or angry--you weren't ready to be the villain in his story.

"Mom?" you called out, knowing she was lingering close by.

Proving you correct, the door to your bedroom cracked open only seconds later and your mother's worried eyes fell upon your blinking ones. She definitely saw the troubled look on your face, the tears in your eyes, yet she held back from mentioning any of it as she asked, "Are you sick, honey?"

You nodded, the lump in your throat aiding your act as you croaked, "Yes. I don't feel good."

She frowned a little, knowing that you were bending the truth of the matter. Your mother was perceptive, and with the emotion all over your face, it easy for her to know that this wasn't some stomach bug or sore throat. To your relief, though, she resigned, "I'll call you out of school for the day. I'll be in my office if you need me."

Tomorrow, you could be the villain. For today, though, you were content to avoid your troubles and wallow in your self pity. At least this way you had some time to slip back into your stoic, cold demeanor before you had to face him. Time to prepare yourself to be alone again, because you knew that once you pushed Peter Parker away, Ned and MJ would be quick to follow him.

Sleep didn't come for you like you hoped it would. Well, it did, but then you found yourself dreaming of Peter and woke with a start. School had started an hour ago, and already there were a flurry of confused and increasingly alarmed messages from him lighting up your phone screen. Even though you couldn't hold back from reading them, you locked it before you found yourself replying as if on autopilot.

Pete: are you late

Pete: i'm at your locker

Pete: hello?

Pete: i'm going to class... see you there?

Pete: are you okay? you said you'd be here

Pete: at least let me know you're aldkhdkfj

You spent the day in your room, ignoring Peter and ignoring the world. Occasionally your mother would crack open your door to check on you, fussing over feeling your forehead despite the fact that you both knew you didn't have a fever, and tittering little comments about getting rest and staying hydrated. She knew you weren't sick, yet you were grateful she didn't try to pry.

As much as you wanted to tell her all of the things that were on your mind, the reasons that you were upset, you couldn't. You couldn't tell her all of the awful things you were thinking, and see the way her face would contort in anguish over you. You certainly couldn't listen to her telling you that it wasn't your fault, you weren't wrong for liking a boy, and your sister would want you to be happy. Even if you knew, in some deep part of your brain, that it was true.

Pete: got my phone taken in calculus sorry

Pete: I'm at lunch now, are you okay?

Pete: are you sick?

Pete: like... actually sick?

Peter really was relentless. You wondered how long it would take for him to catch onto what you were doing, or if he would at all. Would he understand why you suddenly gave him the cold shoulder? Would he understand, and be okay when you pushed him away again?

Pete: I'm in speech now.

Pete: we got the class to work on the speech and you're not here

Pete: not that we could do much anyways since you're so stubborn but still

Pete: okay what is going on

Pete: (Y/N)

Pete: please talk to me

Reading all of his messages kept the ache in your chest alive, stopping the numbness from creeping back in. You wished you could put your phone down, turn it off even, but it was like a cruel an addicting game to read each message as it arrived. You found yourself watching the little three dots as he typed another message eagerly, even if he was far from happy.

When school ended, he called. You let it ring each time, watching his name scroll across your screen over and over again until it ended. Once, twice, three times--he finally stopped calling, not leaving a voicemail.

For awhile, you wondered if that was it. Was he done? Had he caught on? Had he figured you out just as easily as he always seemed to do? Had Peter given up?

Pete: i know what you're doing

Pete: i'm sorry if i made you uncomfortable

Pete: we can just be friends if that's what you want

It wasn't what you wanted, and that was the problem. You didn't want to be friends with Peter Parker. Well, you didn't want to just be friends with him. You wanted to know what his touch felt like when it was deliberate and welcoming, not the fleeting and curious brushes of his skin on yours. To be held by him, to taste his lips, to hold his heart in your hands like he already held yours--you wanted so much more than friendship with Peter, and that made you a thief and a fraud.

You: that's not what i want

You were weak. A weak, cowardly idiot is what you were, and you threw your phone on your bed with a groan as you realized what you'd done. The voice in your mind whispered insults, taunting you for being so easily broken.

Pete: what do you mean

You: i don't want to be friends with you Peter

Pete: oh

One simple word, and you realized he had taken that in a completely different way than you had meant it. Yet, you didn't correct him. You didn't explain that you meant you didn't want to just be friends. Maybe this was your chance--an easy way to kick him outside your walls without having to see it firsthand.

The chance didn't last long. A quiet knock sounded on your window, and your heart froze in your chest as you tried to sink deeper into your bed. It was the wind, you told yourself, until the knock sounded again and slightly louder. You could see the shadow on your floor out of the corner of your eye, and you buried your face into your pillow to block it out. If you ignored him, he would go away, and this would all be over.

After a few more knocks, it was silent for awhile, and you tempted a look at the floor only to frown at the sight of the shadow missing. He was gone, and you were alone again. Your lip quivered at the thought; what had you done? It was a mistake. This was a mistake.

You didn't want to push him away. You wanted him to hold your heart. You wanted Peter Parker as your friend, as more than a friend, hell, as anything as long as it was with you. But now? Going back on your word and dragging him back in again would be pathetic. He didn't deserve such treatment, especially not from you.

So, you pulled your pillow back over your face and let the tears fall. Your hot breath burned your eyes and made you feel sticky and gross, but you didn't care one bit. It felt cathartic to cry, like returning to a familiar place you'd been skirting around for ages. Crying over Peter was different than crying over your sister; the hurt was different, but one thing was the same: both were all your fault.

"Go away, mom." you whined, barely hearing the sound of your door unlatching over your muffled sniffles. It creaked further open, and you groaned, pressing the pillow harder onto your face, "Mom, please, I just want to be alone."

A throat cleared, and you froze. That wasn't your mother, the voice was deeper. The sound was still too light to be your father's, though, and that left one option that made your blood run cold. He didn't--did he?

He did. Peter pried the pillow out of your hands, all red cheeks and sad eyes as he stared at you in a sullen silence. "Why are you doing this?" he whispered, "Why are you pushing me away?"

You blinked at him, too paralyzed by the sight of his fluttering eyelids and pouting lips to speak. It must have been a sight to see you like that, your face red and blotchy, streaked with tears and snot that you'd been too lazy to wipe away. He didn't look away from your eyes, though, gazing into them with an intensity that dared you to look away.

Sensing that you weren't going to speak, he pressed on, "(Y/N), what is going on? I don't--It's okay if you don't like me back, I can deal with that. I want to be your friend, though. I thought you wanted to be mine, too."

Voice scratchy, you muttered, "I don't."

Something changed in him, and suddenly Peter was raking a hand through his hair as he frowned deeply. You wanted to smooth the crease between his brows, but you felt frozen. He was angry; he was angry with you, and he didn't hold back as he snapped, "That's bullshit, and you know it. If you didn't want to be friends, then why did you make that deal? Why did you let me make a complete fool of myself just to get your attention? Why did you let me introduce you to my friends? Stop lying to me!"

"I'm not!" you yelped, sitting up frantically and wiping at your face, finally. "I'm not lying, Pete!"

He threw his head back at the nickname, a sigh of exasperation forcing its way from his lips, nostrils flared. "I don't get you, (Y/N). I don't get you at all." he growled, facing you again with a heavy brow.

You gripped your blankets tightly, bunching them around your waist as you blinked at him with wide eyes. "I don't want to just be your friend, Peter!" you burst, "I don't want to just be your friend, and I don't know why. You make me feel all these things that terrify me, but I keep chasing after you and whatever those things are! It was so easy being alone, okay? Then suddenly you came swinging into my life and made everything so--so complicated!"

Your mother's face peered into your room, eyes blown wide in surprise, but the moment you glanced at her she backed away with a bitten smile and you flushed. You didn't get the chance to dwell on the fact that she'd been eavesdropping, though, because Peter sat on the edge of your bed and bit the inside of his cheek, blinking at you with teasing eyes.

"So, you like me?"

Eyes narrowed, you grumbled, "Are you really going to make me say it, Pete? After all of that?"

A sly grin stretched across his lips, cheeks puffing out adorably and making you bite your own to keep from grinning too. He tutted, raising his ruffled brow as he jabbed, "After everything else today? I think it's the least you could do."

You were screwed. His fingertips barely caressed the backs of your knuckles, and you shakily grabbed them before he pulled away again. "I like you, jerk." you mumbled, screwing your eyes shut as you felt your face burn in embarrassment.

Peter just chuckled, squeezing your hand as you felt your bed shift under his weight. "I don't want to just be your friend, either." his breathe fanned over your cheek, and your eyes snapped open to find his face closer than ever. If you just turned, ever so slightly, his lips would brush your own... He kissed your cheek softly, backing away with a tiny smile that you matched. "I like you a lot. Probably more than like, really."

"That scares me." you whispered, eyes still latched onto his, "Peter, you scare me."

He took a long moment to answer, weighing heavily the words he would utter next, before finally telling you, "You scare me, too, but I think it's worth it."

A gentle tapping at your door crashed through the moment, both of your faces burning a deep red as you turned to face your mother's sheepish smile. "Sorry, sorry, don't mind me--"

"Mom!" you wailed, slapping your hands over your face in mortification as she stealthily slipped into your room and dropped a box of condoms onto your dresser before racing away again. "Oh, I can't believe she--Mom! Did you really have to do that?"

Peter was laughing boisterously, head thrown back and eyes shut, though you could tell he was flustered too from the cherry red color that creeped down from his face and under his shirt. As humiliated as you were by your mother's actions, you couldn't help but to feel a little grateful for the interruption. The intensity, the tension in the air, had disappeared with the intrusion, and things felt a little bit lighter again.

You flopped back onto your bed, still pouting over the spectacle, as Peter breathed out, "That's so something Aunt May would have done, too."

At least you weren't alone in the embarrassing family department, you thought to yourself as Peter threw himself down beside you. She meant well, obviously, but did she really think that you and Peter were going to go from admitting you liked each other to ripping each other's clothes off in one night? Well, you were eighteen--maybe she had a bit of a reason to be so hasty.

"Do you think it's worth it?" Peter questioned, and you turned your head to face him, trying to ignore the close proximity of his face to your own. "Liking me?"

You chewed at your lip, listening for that voice in your head that had suddenly gone silent. "Yeah, yeah I do." you responded, and his face split in a blushing smile. You did think it was worth it, because being with him reminded you of all the good feelings you missed out on when he wasn't around. "I just wish we could have been like this before. Maybe then I wouldn't feel like I'm stealing her life."

He grew serious in an instant, eyebrows furrowing as he stated, "I don't." At the sight of your confusion, he continued, "I don't wish we met before. Can you honestly say that you're the same person you were before?"

"No."

He nodded, "Exactly. Stuff like that... It changes you. I would know, remember? You wouldn't be the you that I like, and if Uncle Ben were here maybe I wouldn't be who you like, either."

You had to admit, he had a point. "I guess so." you pondered aloud.

"You're not stealing her life, either, (Y/N). She would have wanted you to be happy, to do all the things she never got to. It took me a long time to stop thinking that way, too, but I did. It wasn't your fault, and you can't miss out on stuff just because of her." Peter advised, and you swallowed down the lump that was growing steadily in your throat, "She didn't give up her life for you to stop living yours."

Fuck, Peter really knew exactly what to say. You, however, were at a loss for words. He said all of the things that you'd needed to hear for so long, so perfectly, and it rocked you to your core. How did he know just what you needed to hear? The answer was simple--because he knew you, and he knew how you were feeling. He knew, because he had lived it.

Changing the subject, you asked, "So, what do we do now?"

You didn't have to explain for him to understand, and he swallowed thickly, "Do you... will you be my girlfriend?"

"Yeah. That might be worth it."

He scoffed, "Might be? Forget it, I don't want you to be my--"

"I want to be your girlfriend, Pete!" you cut him off, laughing loudly. "I really, really want to." So, maybe you lied when you said that Peter made things complicated. In fact, Peter made things incredibly easy--and that made it worth it.

SERIES TAGLIST {ask to be added}:

@msmimimerton @zendayasfwb @sweet-symphony @cherthegoddess @justsomebodyweird

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rose-lord-of-simps · 3 years

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🌹100 Followers Special!✨

Oh my gosh! YAYAYAYAYAYAYAY! Thank you guys so much for my first 100( 133 at this time now) it means a lot and I’m glad you enjoy what I write! Originally I had a different prompt list planned but as I thought about it, it didn’t really fit into the ship that won very well! So we got the fluff alphabet instead!

I present to you~

Solomon x MC x Barbatos

Fluff alphabet edition!

A ctivities - What do they like to do with their s/o? How do they spend their free time with them?

Mischief. You and Solomon will try new spells and potions or go out to town and prank random demons by adding something that will make them turn into a frog in their drink.

On Barb’s days off he’ll actually join you! He only let’s you two do simple things though, even if it’d be hilarious to see one of the great demon dukes turn into a worm and get eaten by a bird.

Barbs will take you two ice skating whenever he gets the chance to. He enjoys having an excuse to hold both your hands because Solomon can not skate to save his life-

B eauty - What do they admire about their s/o? What do they think is beautiful about them?

Solomon loves both you guys’ hands. He loves to hold them and see your faces when he kisses them. He also adores watching you use your hands to cook or cast spells, maybe help with potions. He finds it wonderful how your hands enact the intricate movements for spells.

Barbs loves your waist. No matter what size you are he adores being able to hold you by the waist and pull you close. He also loves to be able to run his hands along your sides, he enjoys feeling your shape in his hands. On Solomon though he loves the place where the pact mark ended up. He likes kissing around the mark whenever he gets the chance.

C omfort - How would they help their s/o when they feel down/have a panic attack etc.?

Separately, Barbs would have the most gentle touch and try to get you somewhere private to help calm you down, away from prying eyes. He’d do whatever he could, he’d offer to hold you if you’d want him to but if you prefer not to touched when you’re sad he will take you to the kitchen or garden, whichever you prefer but if you choose kitchen he is baking you something and letting you vent as he works.

Solomon alone would wrap you up in his cape thingy and keep you hidden from the world. He’d ask what’s wrong immediately and try to distract you if he felt that’s work better. He’d do a few tiny performance spells for you like maybe tiny fire works or zapping a demon in the butt.

Together though they are the best team. They’re taking you to somewhere more private and engulfing you in a group hug if you let them. You can cry your eyes out for however long you wish. If you don’t want to be touched then Barbs will go get you a water bottle for when you’re done crying or panicking while Solomon goes through breathing excersizes with you.

If it’s something less serious though and you’re just having a bad day, barbs will bring you a treat and a kiss before he has to go back to working and Solomon will snuggle you both up for cuddles.

D reams - How do they picture their future with their s/o?

Barbs has accidentally seen many realities for the future with you two and his only hope and plan is to make sure the ones where you break up don’t happen in your realm.

Solomon wants to get a small house in the human realm with you. He knows Barbatos can’t exactly leave his job and he also knows there may be people in the human realm who you want to see. If you’re okay only making weekly-monthly trips to the human realm though then he wants to have a house for all three of you in the DevilDom. Not a very big one, just enough room for the three of you. Totally not because he wants to horde you two away so he can just love you.

E qual - Are they the dominant one in the relationship, or rather passive?

Solomon imitated dates and affection more. He’ll let you and Barbs plan whatever you want but he’ll be the one to mention that it’s been a while since you’ve gone on a date. He’ll also be the person who starts kissing Barbs before pulling you in for your own affection.

Barbs is more passive. He’s up for anything you two want to do but knows Solomon isn’t good at making plans so he’ll pick a date and help you plan what you three are going to do. Sometimes he gets in an extra affectionate mod though and will kiss your cheeks while he is working. He tries to remain professional in sowwy! However he ain’t gonna stop you if you or Solomon start kissing him.

F ight - Would they be easy to forgive their s/o? How are they fighting?

Barbs doesnt like to hold grudges especially when it comes to you two. He adores you both and already saw everything would turn out okay. This of course can sometimes lead to him forgetting he still has to make things up in the present though. He doesn’t like to fight, he prefers debate and will only tell you two his truth of the situation, trying to diffuse anything else bubbling up.

Solomon would need to be alone and be mad for a bit though. He doesn’t forgive and forget immediately and tries to calmly talk things out first. If he is getting too mad though he will start raising his voice and trying to leave so he can cool off without hurting someone.

G ratitude - How grateful are they in general? Are they aware of what their s/o is doing for them?

Barbs is so grateful. He feels so lucky to have you both and will always give you kisses when one of you brings him food for lunch (even if it’s Solomon’s cooking) and please give this man a self care day- can we just- this guy is always stressed with the Peince’s antics and on his feet all day, if you and Solomon make him a self care day and pamper him right back he will actually cry a bit. He is fickle aware of everything his partners do for him.

Solomon is similar. He never lets something either of you do go unnoticed and always makes sure to return the kindness. Barbs made him food? He’ll make Barbs dessert! You’re helping him with a potion? He’ll make you a charmed necklace!

H onesty - Do they have secrets they hide from their s/o? Or do they share everything?

Look Barbs kinda can’t share all the futures he sees with you two. He’ll tell you about past futures you could have landed in if you ask. But other than that he tells you two everything he can. He doesn’t like keeping secrets from either of you however some royal business matters he can’t share yet.

Solomon will tell you everything, if you ask about it. He doesn’t intentionally keep secrets, especially not about his past, but sometimes he forgets that you and Barbs don’t know all the stories of how he got all the pacts he has and will just causally mention one as if it’s nothing. Newer secrets though he doesn’t keep. If someone needs to tell him a secret they have to specify if they don’t want you and barbs knowing. He tells you two everything and if he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to share someone’s secret, he knows you two will keep it safe for him.

I nspiration - Did their s/o change them somehow, or the other way around? Like trying out new things or helped them overcome personal problems?

Barbs takes more time off because of you two. Not a lot but a little more. He’ll always make sure he has time to spend with you two on big dates like anniversaries and holidays. Because of you two he’s also tried a lot more stuff than he ever thought he would, like human world candy.

Solomon sees more beauty in life because of you two. He didn’t want to die to begin with but because of you two he’s found even more reason to live. He loves being able to count you as a reason to coming home the next day.

J ealousy - Do they get jealous easily? How do they deal with it?

Barbs gets jealous he can’t spend as much time with both of you as he wants. When it comes to others flirting with you though he can’t help but get a little protective. If it’s at one of Dia’s parties and he has to work he’ll kiss you and Solomon’s cheeks. Something subtle saying you’re both taken by one hell of a butler. If the other goes too far though and neither of you have dealt with them yet then he’ll take care of them himself.

Solomon isn’t jealous at all actually. He knows you’re hot. He knows Barbs is hot. And he knows you’re both loyal. He trusts you two. If he sees someone flirting with you though and notices you’re getting uncomfortable he’ll come and see if you want him to step in and swoop you away.

K iss - Are they a good kisser? What was the first kiss like?

Barbs... look I just-... just kiss him. Just do it and see how perfectly his lips feel against your’s. Your first kiss with Barbs is gentle and full of care, he treats you and Solomon with all the love he treats his plants so of course that kiss is going to be sweet as a rose.

Solomon is a little more forward with his kisses. He’s a good kisser, kiss him and find out for yourself hehe, but your first kiss with him is more passionate, his hands pulling you closer to him and not letting go unless it’s to hold your hand.

Their first kiss with each other was months before they met you. They had been going on dates and Barbatos asked if he could kiss Solomon. It was honestly adorable. Barbs wasn’t shy he just didn’t want to make a Solomon uncomfortable. But when Solomon just kissed him instead of giving an answer, well hey Barbs wasn’t complaining!

L ove Confession - How would they confess to their s/o?

They confess to you together. Of course. They invited you to their lunch date, Barbatos cooked and made everything look super cute, heart shaped cake! Solomon didn’t stop flirting with you and Barbatos COULDNT help but join him. They did directly tell you their feelings as well of course.

Barbatos confessed first. Solomon was visiting him, as a friend not a date, and tried to help Barbs cook. Barbs decided to best distract Solomon he’d have to confess his feelings. It worked. Solomon immediately asked Barbatos on a date and started planning it in his head, claiming he had to leave so he could make it perfect.

M arriage - Do they want to get married? How do they propose? What would the marriage be like?

Barbatos is okay with anything. Marriage isn’t important to him, he could happily live his life as whatever you and Solomon want to be, even if it means eternally being fiancés. A Barbatos proposal would be in the garden. He’s have everything planned out perfectly for you two, flowers would be in bloom, no distractions, and romantic music playing while the scene happens under the closest thing they have to moonlight. It was amazing. Barbs as a husband is the literal best. He’ll take care of you and Solomon better than Dia. He makes sure you bothe eat, take your meds, drink water, get enough sunlight from the human world, he’s so caring.

Solomon would like to get married but it’s not required for him if you don’t want to. He’d propose with magic. He set up a light show for you and Barbs and finished with the proposal, also had note cards with how much he loved you two on them but got so embarrassed at the cheesy stuff on them that he left them out. You found them a week later and he tried to change the subject but when Barbs saw them he knew he was done for. Solomon as your hubby is fun! He always makes sure you’re mental health is doing good and takes you on adventures to get potion stuff with him. He’ll make you and Barbs little gifts, has been banned from the kitchen though.

N icknames - What do they call their s/o?

Barbs calls you dear. “My dear you look stunning as always.” He calls Solomon sugar. No I will not take arguments. Solomon gets confused to be salty at first glance and too much of him can be a problem but we love him so it’s okay. Sugar.

Solomon calls you dove. You’re gorgeous and such a symbol of love to him. You also bring him peace of mind when you’re next to him so, dove! “Dove I’m going on an expidetion, come with me?” He calls Barbs darling. It started as a lady and the tramp joke, Jim dear and Darling, but it kind of just stuck. Barbs surprisingly likes it a lot.

O n Cloud Nine - What are they like when they are in love? Is it obvious for others? How do they express their feelings?

When Barbs realizes he is in love he is so discreet about it. The only person who immediately notices, is Diavolo. He smiles a genuine smile more and his stride is just more float like. He genuinely looks like he is enjoying the day. He expresses his love through words. He’ll say it and compliment you whenever he sees you. He’ll always ask Solomon about his spells and stuff. He just talks and pays attention as makes sure you know he adores both of you.

Solomon is descreat about his feelings to someone just passing by. If you’re someone he knows, he is openly telling them about how much he adores his boyfriend and partner. He likes to flirt with you two, especially when you’re doing tasks and Barbs is at work. He’s also big on physical touch, hands will always be held!

P DA - Are they upfront about their relationship? Do they brag with their s/o in front of others? Or are they rather shy to kiss etc. when others are watching?

Barbatos won’t initiate affection while he is on the clock. The most he’ll do is blow you two a kiss as he leaves or smile at you. Sometimes he’ll make a heart with his hands if he’s feeling extra sappy. When he isn’t on the clock though, he mostly just holds your hands. Cheek kisses whenever he wants though. He’ll be kind of shy to directly kiss you for too long in public but hey if you or Solomon want real kisses and not just pecks, he’ll never push you off. He’ll just happily reciprocate!

Solomon doesn’t care where he is, if he wants kisses then he wants kisses. He’s respectable about it when Barbs is working or a serious meeting is going on but that won’t stop him from holding your hand or linking your arms together. He enjoys holding you two close when he can.

Q uirk - Some random ability they have that's beneficial in a relationship.

Barbatos is one hell of a butler. And he knows how to make you and Solomon feel special in all kinds of situations.

Solomon is entertaining. If you’re sad or need a distraction, he has the perfect flirty comment or small spell to take your mind off things.

R omance - How romantic are they? What would they do to make their s/o happy? Cliché or rather creative?

Barbatos is the cliche one here. Flowers, chocolates or sweets if you like them, candles, love letters, mood lighting, the whole shibang. He also most definetly has a playlist of romantic songs he hears. He’ll do anything to make you smile. If he sees you over working yourself or Solomon hasn’t taken a break in foreve he gets you water and makes you stop for a minute or two to just enjoy a moment or relaxing. Will also happily give either of you a massage.

Solomon tries! He gets creative with light show spells and he has a list of you and Barbs’ favorite things! He’ll remember little things you mention but he also likes to make sure you two know it’s not from anyone else. He’ll always sign cards more over dramatically than required. Any “grand gesture” he makes is either way over the top or super quiet but DETAILED- THIS MAN PAYS ATTENTION TO DETAIL. And it’s- worth it.

S upport - Are they helping their s/o achieve their goals? Do they believe in them?

Barbatos will always support you two. He adores you and will help you achieve any goal you set. Solomon needs a spotter in case a spell goes awry? Got it. You just need a cheerleader to bring you food? He’s already making your favorite! He believes in both of you 100% but isn’t afraid to give you two a reality check when he deems it necessary. (When you two may be getting overwhelmed or there is a time crunch) if you’re stubborn about it though and not backing down then he’ll help get whatever it is done.

Solomon helps make schedules for when you or Barbs have a project of some sort due, he attempts cooking, he brings the energy drinks and wake up spells, if you’re going through something rough then he’s going with you. Barbs is having a tough time at work? Time to prepare the snuggle fort. You’ve been studying too much? He’ll quiz you then make you take a nap. Best cheerleader.

T hrill - Do they need to try out new things to spice out your relationship? Or do they prefer a certain routine?

Barbatos requires some form of routine because of his work. He, unfortunately, can’t just wake up and say he is going to go to a movie that day. The rare times he does have a day off he makes sure there is a plan for the day. If you and Solomon planned a surprise, that’s fine he won’t ask you just need to tell him to keep the day free of plans. Within the relationship he doesn’t need to try new things but he always is up for whatever you want.

Spontaneous. He’ll plan when he needs to actually get work done but when he doesn’t, it could be a day of just doing nothing for hours before he decides he wants to surprise Barbs at work or you at HoL. He likes to try new things in the relationship, he is up to try almost anything but there are a few things he won’t do.

U nderstanding - How good do they know their partner? Are they empathetic?

Barbatos knows you both like the back of his hand if you let him. He’s very observant and knows how to tell when you two aren’t happy and when you two are having the best days of your lives. He knows how to read you well but he isn’t very empathetic. He knows what to do when he sees a certain look on your face and he know exactly how to make both you and Solomon fee better. He’ll listen and tell you what he thinks you need to hear.

Solomon is the empathetic one. He doesn’t recognize when you or Barbs are sad by looking at you, he knows by talking to you. He’s able to hear it in your tone or how you two are speaking. When you vent to him he knows exactly what to say to make you feel better and cries with you. But he knows exactly how to make you and Barbs feel better in every situation.

V alue - How important is the relationship to them? What is it’s worth in comparison to other things in their life?

You and Solomon mean everything to Barbatos. He doesn’t have to be anyone special or any kind of butler for you two, he can just be himself and not be afraid to ask for something he wants. He has to admit that sometimes he needs to put work first and he feels incredibly bad about it. However if it’s an emergency he doesn’t hesitate to tell Diavolo he has to leave and rushes to you two as fast as he can.

Solomon adores your two. He puts his relationship with you two first more often than he puts most other things. He doesn’t let it distract from his goals and dreams but you two become a part of that dream that he isn’t willing to compromise.

W ild Card - A random Fluff Headcanon.

Barbatos secretly loves being in the middle of you and Solomon. He love being held by you to Solomon behind him and then having one of you in his arms or be snuggled in your chest. He’s warm and relaxed and safe.

Solomon takes you two ice skating on a date once. If you don’t know how he will very happily teach you because he was also the one to teach Barbatos how much fun ice skating is.

X OXO - Are they very affectionate? Do they love to kiss and cuddle?

He isn’t big on PDA. If you come up and kiss him he will happily kiss back and if you initiate affection then he isn’t going to push you away, unless he is in the middle of cooking at work and Solomon is trying to steal him away. In private he will always reciprocate affection but at first has a hard time initiating it in fear you don’t want him to be affectionate. He does love to snuggle though.

Solomon just wants to constantly hold hands or have an arm around you both. He loves getting kisses from you and Barbs and loves holding the two of you in his arms even more. Sometimes if you’re busy and Barbs is cooking he will help one of you with whatever task you’re trying to complete just so he can have your attention faster.

Y earning - How will they cope when they're missing their partner?

When Barbs is missing you he is slightly extra affectionate towards Solomon. When he is missing Solomon he is slightly more affectionate towards you. When he misses both of you? He’s too busy trying to distract his mind with his work and the task at hand. He will also remind himself that it won’t be long until he sees the two of you so it’s going to be okay. If he isn’t able to see you two for a few days then he just tries to focus on his work even more.

Solomon doesn’t like to miss you. When he misses either of you he just goes to see you. If he is busy or trying to focus on something that needs to get done he’ll get as much of it done as he can before he needs to at least call you. He’ll call you if you’re not in class and just start up a conversation about anything, listening to your voice as he finishes what he was working on before. If Barbatos is at work he will send him something flirty or funny, something he knows will get a reaction out of Barbs even if he doesn’t text back.

Z eal - Are they willing to go to great lenghts for the relationship? If so, what kind of?

Barbatos aims to please. If you or Solomon want to do something or see something or try something or just want something, he does his best to make it happen. If there is a problem or a fight he is usually the one to diffuse the situation and make things better. There have been rare times where he has gotten overwhelmed and just didn’t know what to do and then he just tries to get everyone apart to cool off and collect themselves. However sometimes Solomon wants to take the mischief a little too far and Barbs has to real you two back in.

Solomon adores both you and Barbs so he does what he can. If an argument breaks out he does his best to remain calm and try to just talk instead of yelling. He tries to make you both feel special and makes sure you both know how much he cares but he stays firm on his boundaries. He knows how far he is and isn’t willing to go on certain things and you’re going to need to be persuasive if you want to change his mind. While his boundaries aren’t loose, they are open so if you suggest something he’s probably going to be fine with it.

Oh my goodness, thank you guys so much and I’m thrilled you enjoy what I write! I hope you liked this, sorry if Solomon sees a little too high energy it was a challenge writing him but I think I’m gettin gn better at it! Have an amazing unbirthday everyone and I hope you sleep well!

#obey me #obey me shall we date #obey me gender neutral mc #obey me headcanons #obey me x mc #obey me x oc #obey me x y/n #obey me x you #obey me x reader #obey me solomon #obey me barbatos #obey me solomon x you x barbatos #100 followers special woo!#obey me solomon x barbatos #obey me solomon x reader #obey me barbatos x reader #obey me barbatos x mc #obey me solomon x mc

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battlinghurricanes · 3 years

Text

LITYERSES HEADCANONS!!!!!!!

I saw some other headcanon posts for him, so I felt inspired to throw my own ideas out there! I think some of my headcanons are pretty different from the ones a lot of people have of him, but I always like reading other people’s ideas so hopefully people will like this too!

(also theres a lot, this is long *cough* my bad)

- After the incident in The Lost Hero, after Midas dies, Lityerses is homeless. His father’s mansion is destroyed and it’s not like he has anyone to turn to.

- They mention in The Lost Hero that the Hunters of Artemis came across Midas and Lityerses earlier. When they did, Lityerses heard in passing about Camp Half-Blood. It’s the only place meant for demigods that he has even the slightest knowledge on, so he sets his sights on making it there.

- It takes eight grim months to reach New York. It’s half a miracle, slowly taking busses, hitchhiking, and sometimes just walking to the next city. Monsters attack him the entire way and he adds plenty of new scars to his collection.

- There’s no reliable way for him to get money. He gets much, much better at using his powers as a son of Demeter. He uses it to grow fruits, vegetables, and any sort of edible plant so he can at least have food of some kind.

- He goes to New York City because he doesn’t know what else to do. He doesn’t even know if the Hunters were talking about the city or the state but he figures he has to start somewhere. Unfortunately, the Triumvirate notices his presence before anyone from Camp Half-Blood does.

- He follows some demigods to Nero, who sent them to collect him. He offers a position working for the Triumvirate in exchange for food, lodging, and other basic support. Lityerses is tired and he wants to sleep in a bed and have proper meals he doesn’t have to worry about acquiring.

- He accepts, not caring if what the Triumvirate is doing is shitty or not. Nero sends him to Indianapolis to work for Commodus.

- Apollo’s decision to give him another chance was very affecting. Especially coming from ancient times when the stories of the gods on earth were far more real and immediate, he knows very well how the gods could treat mortals as simply disposable.

- He had never questioned his belief that any mortal who got wrapped up in business with a god suffered a horrible fate because of it, whether the god intended it or not.

- But then Apollo saved his life and defended him at the Waystation and told him he trusted him and Lityerses’s mind keeps drifting back to him over and over and over.

- His mind wants to reconcile what Apollo did for him with what he knows about the gods. He can’t, and that makes him feel a great many things that he can’t pin down. Apollo decided to care about him when he had no reason to, and he doesn’t know what that means for him.

- He feels a twinge of gratitude whenever he steps into the sunlight and pulse of anxiety whenever he wonders if he’s okay on his quest.

- He thinks about Meg, his little sister, and hopes they’re keeping each other safe.

- Lityerses can occasionally seem really dull, indifferent, or unresponsive because he gives super minimal reactions to things sometimes, but that’s really not the case.

- Being in the modern world for him is sort of like a slight, but near constant sensory overload. Sometimes, his brain is too busy processing other stuff to fully load up an emotional response. He’ll react to something in his mind but he won’t express it outwardly at all.

- Leo, running up: Wanna help me strap a firework to a crossbow bolt and try to shoot it into the office building across the street to see if it’ll blow up in there?!!!!! Lityerses, with a completely flat voice and blank expression: I think that’s a very bad idea.

- It’s definitely not all the time, but it does happen.

- (Me? Projecting sensory issues onto every character I like? It’s more likely than you think.)

- He has a very “go with the flow” attitude, to the point of being a character flaw sometimes. It can make him easy to manipulate.

- (Commodus: hey lityerses go put this barbed wire and war helmets and metal teeth on these ostriches Liyerses, in his head: uhuh uhuh uhuh uhuh yeah cool got it i hope i still have some fingers left tomorrow)

- He’s working on it though. He’s working on it.

- One side effect of this is that whenever Leo makes some pop culture or meme reference, Lityerses will just nod and agree. It takes Leo forever to realise that he was just lying going along with it.

- *mid conversation* Lityerses: I’d go get some food, but I don’t have any money Leo: dude, you’re literally just the 69 cents vine, not enough for chicken nuggets Lityerses: oh, for sure Calypso, overhearing: wait, you understood that?? Lityerses: no, I’ve never understood a single word that’s left leo’s mouth Leo: what?!!!! but you said you understood my reference to that dril tweet the other day, right?! Lityerses: yeah, of course Calypso: what’s a dril tweet?? Lityerses: I don’t know. Leo: YOU TRAITOR

- Another side effect: he’s a complete pushover for Georgie.

- At one point, when some of the Waystation crew are walking out in the city, she complains that she’s tired and wants to be carried. When her moms gently refuse, she immediately goes over to Lityerses and holds her arms out and says that she’s tired. He doesn’t even stop walking, he just swoops her up and puts her on his shoulder right away.

- Hemithia and Jo glare at him but he just avoids eye contact. “She’s already up there, too much effort to put her down now.”

- He was in the Fields of Punishment in the Underworld and wow was it incredibly traumatizing.

- His memories of death are sickeningly agonizing, but they also usually feel distant and unreal. Sometimes, though, they’ll worm their way into his dreams with horrific clarity. He’ll wake up in a cold sweat, hyperventilating, with full body tremors he can’t control.

- One morning after waking up like that, while sitting on the floor regaining his composure, Hemithea comes in to see why he wasn’t up yet. He pulls himself together in due time. He doesn’t answer any of her questions.

- He never talks about it, but he’s truly terrified of dying. He never was before, but now that he knows what’s waiting for him...

- It doesn’t help that he knows that, no matter how careful he is or how well he defends himself, he could die at any moment if Thanatos decides to bring him back to the Underworld.

- It weighs on the back of his mind that, at least on a technical level, he has no right to be alive. Sometimes he can’t help but think that the things he does now don’t matter in the end, because there’s no reason he would get a second judgement when he does eventually return to the Underworld.

- He does his best to shut that down and remind himself that trying to do the right thing helps the people around him, no matter what happens after his death, but the thought exists and it is painful.

- He really never voices these fears because he feels like all he can really do is try not to think about it, and when he does, he tries to forget as soon as he can. It’s a burden he shoulders as quietly as he can.

- He isn’t used to owning a lot of material possessions, both from how he lived in ancient times and then from being homeless for a while. He’s only ever described wearing that Cornhuskers shirt because it’s the only one he owned for a while.

- Not long after joining the Waystation, the first time he was going out somewhere them, Jo snapped that it just made him look stupid, trying to look tough by going without a coat when it was so cold outside. Earnestly confused and defensive, he tells her that he just doesn’t own one.

- After that, she insists on filling his wardrobe until he has enough clothes.

- (Speaking of the Cornhuskers shirt, he just picked it out on a whim, sort of thinking of Demeter (They grow corn here like we used to grow wheat, right?) and sort of just thinking it looked cool. Olujime once tried to talk to him about how some college teams were doing and Lityerses just goes “What’s football?”)

- He doesn’t really get modern fashion trends. Leo offers to catch him up, but he declines very quickly.

- In ancient times, dyes and patterns available for clothes were much more limited and much more expensive. He’s fascinated by all the colors and prints people can wear just all the time now. Lityerses wears a lot of bright colors because he thinks they’re cool and fun. He likes red, blue, and purple the most but he’ll wear a lot of stuff.

- Along with not really following any trends, he also hasn’t picked up on a lot of unspoken gender connotations that come with modern clothing.

- When the Waystation are first trying to get him some clothes, he picks out a pink jacket and Leo snorts at him like “You’re going for pink?” Lityerses just stares at him like “Yeah. It’s just pink.” Leo sort of realizes and goes, “Oh, it’s just, you know...” to Calypso. But Calypso is also just staring blankly and says, “No I don’t. I don’t get it. Is there something about pink?” And Leo notices Hemithea glaring daggers at him and he laughs nervously and goes, “Nevermind, it was a stupid joke anyway.”

- Hemithia: Leave the ancient demigod and ex-titan blissfully unaware of our complex, modern gender stereotypes. Leo, sweating: gotcha.

- He pretty much just wears what he finds comfortable. Generally it’s just t-shirts with jeans or basketball shorts.

- Lityerses is a super clingy sleeper and will reflexively grab on to anything within arms reach while he’s asleep. (He’s a big spoon by nature.)

- Leo discovers this and now, whenever Lityerses falls asleep on one of the couches, he’ll entertain himself by slowly pushing a pillow up to him until he inevitably grabs it and pulls it against his chest.

- No one gets those pillows back until Lityerses wakes up.

- He’s very buff. His muscles aren’t super defined, nothing at all like a bodybuilder, no six pack abs or anything. But he’s built. Thick arms.

- He’s very limber and flexible too. He has great balance, which lets him move as fast as he does in combat. He’s quite physically fit in general.

- He’ll never admit it, but he ended up getting attached to the highlights in his hair he got when Apollo revealed his godly form. He thought they were fun and different and he sort of missed it when his hair grew out.

#trials of apollo #toa #lityerses #pjo #litpollo #well none of its super litpollo but #you know you know #long post #also sorry for giving you super cute georgie and lityerses headcanons #and then punching you in the gut with the trauma of death and revival with no warning #not that sorry tho #god its been a long time since ive done headcanons like this #this better go in the tags #edit- it did for a min then disappeared :^)

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shini--chan · 4 years

Note

Hello, can i please get England and Germany(separately of course ^_^") x reader, who's pretty paranoid, but tries to act reasonable ? Like she's afraid that something might happen to him and that someone might be watching them. And also she's really scared that he will leave her for someone better. But at the same time she tries her best not to bother him. (P. S .Thank you for writing all these wonderful things. I hope my language is not too bad and you can understand me)

Alright this is quite an interesting ask. I’ll just take the opportunity to remind you all that this is a yandere blog, so I’ll be taking this ask as per usual in dark places. Always the pleasure, dear. Your langauge is just on fleek.

Yandere Hetalia England

You would know who irritable he is. Often, his harsh and condescending words would crawl under your skin and infest and spread there like scrabbies. They would be just as irritable and hurtful with his patronizing sneers and haughty tone making you feel so meaningless. Therefore, you would be walking on eggshells most of the time, constantly on the alert that something would set his temper off. You’d find yourself constantly looking over your shoulder when you’re doing something that he doesn’t view very fondly, knowing that it could give him another reason to deliver a round of verbal abuse.

Inwardly you were sweating. You knew that you shouldn’t be doing this. You knew that if Arthur found out there would be snarls of disapproval and pity that was downright sickening, because it would cause him to view you as somebody beneath him. Still, you carried on indulging yourself in a comic that you had picked up in a hotel lobby when he had taken you on holiday to Canada.

“What do you have there, love”, your personal devil gruffly inquired. Already you could tell that he was in a foul mood today. That you had visibly jumped up in your seat wouldn’t help to make your case. Shaking with fear, you quietly squeaked:

“Nothing. Just a magazine.”

Cautiously, you glanced over your shoulder. Arthur had one hand placed on his hip in an authoritative position. It made your mind go blank due to the stress.

“What did we say about lying?”, he hissed in that silk-soft candance that the static before a lightning storm. Eyes narrowed, and arms behind his back as he approached you, you struggled to cough up an answer:

“To not do it.”

“Then why are you lying to me right now?”

You swallowed hardly, as he hovered above you, his stare unwaveringly directed at you. You didn’t answer because you couldn’t – every time you tried to grasp for them your sentences would unravel, like cotton cloth stuck on barbed wire and the words would run away, screaming and laughing, all little children in their own right. Then those too green eyes flicker to the comic held in your shaking hands.

“Give that to me!”, he snapped but didn’t wait for you to quaveringly hand it over, he instead opted for crudely ripping it out of your hands. You could only watch as he regarded it with utter disgust as if it were contaminated with nuclear waste – and then proceed to tear it apart.

“You never fail to astound me, (y/n)”, he jeered as his hands worked fast, papers filled with flashy superheros and just as dramatic villains performing a ballet as they descended to the floor in flurries.

“Just when I think you’re improving you have to prove that the opposite is true. What is it that you find about these printed pieces of rubbish attractive? They have flat story lines, everyone similar to the other. The characters are one dimensional, their costumes are vulgar, and their speech patterns consist of the vocabulary of an eight-year-old.

“I guess that this could be considered appropriate reading material, for a dimwit. But I won’t stand for such a thing in my lover!”

Other than that, you would fear for him. Not you could genuinely love and care for him perse – except if you’ve developed Stockholm Syndrome or his yandere behaviour started long after you established a relationship. Rather, it would be you caring for yourself – how bad his day was would correlate directly with Arthur’s mood. That’s why it would always be in your best interest to ensure that nothing bad would happen to him, least you want to bear the brunt of his anger and irritation.

Arthur would have threatened you multiple time to drive out in the countryside and dump you there. You would know that only the twisted love he harboured for you would prevent him from following through with that threat, so you would do your best to ensure that he would never tire of you. Without a doubt Arthur would have other plans of what to do with you should his feelings for you turn bitter and they are all not pretty.

Germany

Ludwig would have his own set of rules that he expects you to follow. Unlike Arthur, who would expect you to abide to a certain lifestyle and not deviate from it, all without laying out the parameters, Germany would determine a list of concrete rules that you would have to follow. He would make these very clear to you going as far as to make you recite them all before you would get breakfast.

This way he would drill them into you, to the point that you would find yourself mentally policing yourself for even thinking thoughts that involve breaking one of the rules. You would grow to be paranoid of yourself and would start to view yourself as this sinful little cretin that needs guidance.

Resulting from this, you would also be scared that somebody may be watching you. You would procced to put black tape over any camera that belongs to a digital device. The shame that would stem from view yourself as an unworthy human being would scare you away from the public as well. Not that Ludwig would mind; it would simply mean that you wouldn’t have to worry about you escaping.

Deep down, you would also loathe yourself for being so vulnerable and absolutely hate for other to see you in such a weak state. During the rare times when you would have to deal with another person other than Ludwig, you would find yourself overanalysing the situation and before 5 minutes could be over you would be convinced that the other person hates you and views you as a disgusting, spineless little worm.

All of the aforementioned would cause you to become co-dependent on Ludwig. The thought that he could find somebody better than you would give you restless night. Because who would you be without Ludwig?

#yandere england #yandere germany #yandere hetalia #yandere hetalia x reader #x reader #yandere x reader #yandere

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bibliocratic · 4 years

Note

👀if prompts still desired maybe jonmartin bath time??

unrelenting jonmartin fluff (soft soft soft, 160 do not interact). Thanks for the prompt!

Jon's being a one-man percussion band in the kitchen when Martin gets back. Clattering pans and clanking bowls and cutlery and tugging open drawers. The house is wreathed in the smells of spices that set off a tingling heat at the back of his throat.

The flavour is muted a little. Taste buds flat. The weather outside isn't dipping into single figures but it seems to have gotten under Martin's coat anyway, turning skin chilled and clammy.

In the past, he might have considered that he was coming down with something. A mild cold, a bout of the sniffles combated with Lemsip and cough sweets.

Martin knows a bit better now.

He kicks off his shoes without undoing the laces, throws his rucksack down to join the pile.

“That you?” Jon calls out.

Martin moves on socked feet into the tiled kitchen. Jon's trying to stir at least three pans at once, and a great waft of steam from the oven plumes in the air to throng like dragon's breath as he opens it to peer at his creations.

“Good day at work?” Jon asks, pecking Martin distractedly on the cheek before darting around him to stir something vigorously.

“Hmm,” Martin says non-committally. In truth it was regular, and uneventful, but he felt the numbness start to seep in as he sat on the Tube. He worries his lip with his teeth, wonders if he should say something at all. And it's not bad, not as it can be, and maybe it will go away in its own time, maybe Martin can deal with it alone.

But in the end, he comes up to wrap his arms bodily around Jon, his face smushed into his loose-hanging hair, pungent and twisted up with spices.

“You alright?” Jon asks, stilling for a moment, stopping to touch at the arms that have encircled him to try and ground themselves.

Martin doesn't answer for a moment. The kitchen is heavy with steam, he knows, not fog. It's a hard lesson to remember sometimes is all.

“A bit Cold, I guess,” he replies quietly after a while.

Jon knows what he means. The flat's a balmy mid-twenties in comparison to the mild outside, but that's not what he means.

Jon's hands pause before they run soothingly over Martin's exposed arms, and he turns to return the grip tightly, a haven of warm present body, before he pulls back, touches his palm against Martin's cheek briefly.

“I'll run a bath,” he says decidedly, and his eyes catch Martin's with the steadiness of waves and do not falter.

He angles his body around, briskly flicking the heat down on what was probably going to be their dinner, moving the pans off the heat so they don't burn. Whatever is in the oven clearly needs longer, because he rakes his eyes over it dismissively.

“Unless you're hungry, first?” he asks, looking back. “It's nearly ready if you do.”

Food sounds nice, but only objectively, and Martin's already shaking his head in answer. There's a warning mutedness beginning to carpet the bottom of him, a dim night held back by the beacon of Jon's gaze. The fog burning off slowly.

A nod, like Jon had expected it. And this has not been the only night like this, so maybe he did.

Jon enfolds their hands together.

“Come on,” he says. His voice is kind, and that's never died, no matter how the world bricked it up and starved it of sunlight. Jon's kind to his bones, and it wells up from the deep down of him.

Jon pulls the way, and Martin follows behind.

Martin sits on the closed toilet seat while Jon runs the bath. He sets his palms against his knees like he's trying to trap the vestiges of heat Jon left.

Jon will return, he knows. It's difficult, sometimes, to remember that. But Jon showed him that. Showed, he supposes. The constancy of this hard-won fellowship.

Jon approaches this preparation like he approaches cooking – a slapdash impatient alchemy where he adds things too soon because he can't bear to wait, dropping in whatever he unbottles, sniffs with a curious 'hm' as though he wants to see what will happen.

The bathroom mirror fogs up, but it's a tight close warmth, and Jon chatters away. Not expecting Martin to respond, aware that it's an ask of him at the moment but nonetheless leaving little doors in the conversation by which Martin might enter.

He splashes water onto his own shirt while testing the temperature of the water. He grumbles, a heatless little 'for the love of...' that trails off as he tries to twist the worst of it out, brow creased. Martin studies him, and a smile touches the corners of his lips at the sight.

Finally, Jon pronounces it ready. Martin stands, goes to take off his shirt but Jon bats his hands away, says 'Honestly, would you stop fussing and let me take care of you?' with a teasing rhythm, words furrowed into familiarity by time. Martin, recalling the lines of his role going rusty in his throat, pretends to roll his eyes, mutters 'Fine' like it's the greatest of burdens, and he's rewarded by the flickering delight of Jon's smile. Something is beginning to thaw at the base of him.

If that didn't work to banish the shadows in him, the bathwater does. Jon, apparently formed of some volcanic rock and uncaring of lesser mortals who don't take such joy in heat as he does, has drawn the bath far too hot. Even when they cool it with lashings of cold water, Martin's skin is still prickling pink and near-scalded as he gets in, folds his too-long legs in the space to fit.

Things start to unwind inside him, and he hums. Jon looks ever so smugly pleased at such an indicator of success.

“I'll be back, just a minute,” he promises. He touches Martin's shoulder, and the contact leaves an equally scalding heat as the water.

Outside the bathroom, Jon's doing something in the kitchen, making his usual racket, before Martin hears footsteps across the hallway to their bedroom.

Martin splashes idly for a while. Messing with the bubbles – too many as usual. The heat makes his head muggy and unspooled, but it is not muted, not with the sounds of life from the rest of the flat. The slosh and fizz of over-bubbled bathwater. It is not lonely.

Jon returns quickly, opening the door and closing it again to shut them inside the sauna they've made of their small bathroom. He's removed his socks, replaced jeans with pyjama shorts, and he goes back to the cabinet over the sink, drawing out bottles like potions from a magician's cabinet, soaks and gels and shampoos and scents, discarding a great number with a dismissive clatter.

“You can be a bit louder,” Martin mumbles. “I think downstairs might not have heard you yet.”

Jon doesn't give him a response except for a haughty 'humpf', and Martin buries his smile in the bubbles.

It crosses his mind, a stray knifing chill of a breeze to apologise, for all this fuss, for needing this; surely Jon must be hungry, he must have made plans that Martin wouldn't have derailed if he'd grit his teeth and gotten on with it, surely this is asking too much....

Those aren't his thoughts. It's easier to see the barbs they try and snag against his mind. He knows what Jon will say to any voicing of them, and he knows that they're not worth listening to.

He sinks a little lower under the water and allows himself to be taken care of.

Jon doesn't even hiss when his feet splash into the water, the salamander. There's a short ledge by Martin's head, on the opposite end to the taps where bottles usually throng and spawn, where Jon always leaves the empty ones for Martin to find and grumble at. Jon's shifted them so he can sit there, his potions in close reach. He's brought a plastic jug, and he positions himself so Martin's head is framed by his lanky worm-scratched legs.

“Any requests?” he says, his fingers threading and fiddling with the coils of Martin's hair, tussling it indulgently. Martin tilts his head back so he sees Jon upside down, and sleepily mumbles a no.

Jon rolls up his sleeves, leans down with obvious difficulty to press a close-mouthed kiss to Martin's crown.

“The works then, I think,” he responds, and no more is said.

Jon hums while he works. Old and sad songs that rise and coil and spiral with the rising heat.

Martin falls asleep in increments. Eyes fluttering heavy and hooded as Jon massages and lathers a cedarwood scented shampoo into his hair, limbs softened to immobile by the water as he carefully washes the suds out with water, hands on his face to shield his eyes. He's not sure how awake he is when Jon's hands starts to knead conditioner into his curls, paying devoted attention to every damp and tearaway lock.

When he wakes, he feels the water lapping lukewarm around him, and Jon's shaking his shoulder a little.

“Welcome back to the land of the living,” Jon says, and Martin blinks blearily. “How are you feeling?”

Martin pauses before he replies. He used to say 'fine' or 'ok' automatically, like a gag reflex, learned by rote and dutifully doled out, but he's getting better, he thinks, at expressing what he feels.

“Wet,” he replies finally, and Jon's brow crinkles in confusion before he sighs at the soft, teasing tone, still muddy with stupor.

“Out then, funny-man, before you start pruning,” he replies. It's a little too late for that. The ends of Martin's fingers have scrunched up at their ends with the damp.

Jon bundles him into one of the thickest towels that he clearly put on the radiator to heat, uses another scraggier one to scrub at his hair to get most of the water out. Martin mostly stands, feeling just a little overwhelmed, stupefied by the steadfast weight of Jon's affection. And he's not Cold, not even in the slightest; the Lonely's an old refrain too distant to hear, not with Jon reminding him so completely that he's loved, and cared for. That he's allowed to have this.

Jon presses a kiss to his cheek like he's signing off his work, then leans in for another, slower one. Martin returns it sleepily, his limbs heavy and body leaning in, but his face caught by a smile.

Jon holds up the weight of him like it's nothing at all.

#tma #the magnus archives #jonmartin #prompt fill #fic #fluff #soft soft things

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queenabstract · 4 years

Text

Aight. Here we go part 3 of

HOW THEY HELP YOU THROUGH THAT TIME OF MONTH

With the Trolls World tour characters

PRINCE D

You accidentally stowed away with Biggie on Poppy's journey to unite the trolls. Everything was going by so fast you were just kinda there. Not really doing much. Everything finally began to slow down when you were on that raft, calmly floating down the river, sort of wishing you had left with Biggie. You didn't feel all to comfortable around this Hickory guy. When the aircraft appeared above you, you had started to believe it was a dream, especially when you were floating around in a bubble and started seeing two Coopers. Wait....the others were seeing it too. Wait...OH SHIT THIS ISN'T A DREAM COOPER IS A MAIN CHARACTER OF THE CLASSIC I FINALLY REUNITED WITH MY FAMILY AFTER BEING SEPARATED FROM THEM AS A BABY WHAT THE WHAT!?!

Oh damn his twin is hot though.

A part of you wanted to laugh remembering how you first met Prince D, the rest of you wanted to smash something. After a few weeks of dating, Prince D had invited you to move in, and you greatfully accepted. You had a few good friends, but no family back in Pop Village. If anything, you made more friends in Vibe City. King Quincy and Queen Essence had welcomed you with open arms and treated you like family. Cooper was happy to have a familar face around, made settling in much easier for the both of you. If only, these stupid cramps, would stop. They went on for twenty minutes, stopped for five, and then went back to biting at you again. You groaned in pain and curled up into a ball.

"Hey, Stella wanted to know if you wanted to hang with her since she's going to visit Volcano City." Prince D peeked his head into the room.

"Right now is not really the best time. Can you tell her that I can't come this time, please?" You asked, your voice slightly muffled by the blankets and pillows.

"Uh, yeah...sure thing, babe." Prince D responded and left. You sighed and tried to take advantage of one of your five minute breaks to fall asleep to avoid the pain, but you weren't all that lucky. You yelled into the pillows in frustration, trying to figure out what you could throw or punch without causing any damage or making to much noise. Before you could truly begin plotting, Prince D came back in and gave you a kiss on top of your head, causing you to relax a little.

"Here, drink this." Prince D handed you a cup of what looked like orange juice. You gave him a puzzled look. "It tastes like orange juice, but its actually a medicine to help cure pain and help put the consumer to sleep. Most girls in Vibe City use it during that time of month. Including my mom. You should've seen the look on her face when she found Cooper passed out on the kitchen floor after he accidentally assumed it was normal orange juice. He couldn't tell the difference since there weren't any labels!" Prince D laughed. You giggled at the story too. Classic Cooper. Though anyone could make that mistake. You gulped the drink, now realizing just how thirsty you actually were. When was the last time you actually drank something that day? Had you even gotten out of bed yet? The drowsiness immediately hit you and your eyelids were too heavy to keep open.

"Woah. I guess its a lot more effective and faster on Pop trolls than I thought." Prince D said as he took the now empty cup from you and put it on the nightstand next to the bed.

"Mmm...definitely better than any painkiller I've tried. Thank you, D." You thanked him as you began to fall asleep.

"Anything for you, Babe." Prince D kissed you on the head one more time before you fell asleep.

"FOR CRYING OUT LOUD WHO GOT INTO THE JUICE THIS TIME!?!"

"Uh oh." Prince D forgot that his mom was in the middle of having the same problems.

Riff

After the World Tour, you had gone through the effort to get to know the rock trolls and their music better. You'd be lying if you said you weren't absolutely in love with the drums. And who else would be better to teach you how to play the drums better than the drummer boy himself, Riff. He was happy to see someone else from a completely different genre drawn to the drums as much as he was. Everyone else was still nervous and on edge around them, and most of the rockers were singers, dancers, and/or guitarists. He was one of the few drummers and the absolute best at it. You two became friends instantly and he started to follow you around wherever you went(your one of the few to show him kindness and affection this is the price you gotta pay). You were fine with it, he was an absolute cinnamon roll and you loved having him around. He eventually moved in with you to Pop Village. He was fascinated by their music and welcoming culture. Overwhelmed from all the kindness being shown to him, there was no way he was leaving now. Barb ended up having to get one of the other few drummers to take his place, despite them not being nearly as talented. He still got his college credit though. It was no surprise to anyone when you two started dating. You two were the cutest couple (besides broppy) in the village. You were so kind, loving, affectionate, calm, caring, and gentle, he was nearly mentally scarred when he came home one day to find the place trashed. He was scared, assuming the worst and yelling out your name, on the edge of tears. He let out a breath he didn't know he had been holding when he heard your voice. He started to attack you with questions, trying to figure out what happened.

"Riff, listen to me." You grabbed both sides of his face, making him shut up instantly. "I love you, but if you keep asking questions, I'm gonna punch a hole in the wall." You said, your face dead serious. Riff was lost. Then it hit him. You were acting like a rock troll female during that time of month. Except you were still holding on to your sanity. Riff picked you up bridal style and laid you down in bed, wrapping you up as best he could in the blankets. He cleaned up the pod and put everything back in it's place.

"You uh...kinda remind me of Barb during her struggle...but uh...she didn't stop at any point and I think she accidentally punched me a few times." Riff nervously admitted as he sat down next to you. You whimpered and wrapped your arms around his waist.

"I'm so sorry, baby. I didn't mean to scare you like that." You apologized.

"It's not your fault." Riff shrugged and ran his fingers through your hair. "I can't imagine what it's like to go through what your going through. Your really strong to be going through this for most of your life without any way to stop it. And despite it all, you still show love. It's amazing." Riff rambled on.

"I usually take painkillers to help, but the pain is dying down a little now. I think I'll be fine." You yawned. There was a pause.

"Cuddles?"

"Please?"

Never let this precious bean go.

Biggie

You grew up in the pod next to him. You were best friends since diapers. You gave Mr.Dinkles to him as a present on one of his birthdays after you found him lost in the woods. You two started dating as teenagers. You two were married before the world tour started. He already knew to get you your painkillers and chocolates ready before you even knew it was about to start. He was like a big pillow so cuddles were no problem. The giant teddy bear of a husband always made sure to leave Mr. Dinkles with you in case he absolutely needed to leave. Unless it was really important or an actual emergency(which probably only happened one time) he absolutely refused to leave your side. He'd ask his cousin Legsly for help sometimes when it seemed to get worse than usual. Love you big blue teddy bear and his worm and never let them go.

NEEDLESS TO SAY PART 4 WILL COME OUT SOON

#trolls world tour x reader #Prince D x Reader #Riff x Reader #Biggie x Reader #Lets show more love to the drumming cinnamon roll and the giant blue teddy bear and his worm son

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royal-poetry · 3 years

Note

Truth Part 2

Beatrix chuckled as she made her way to Giovana. The fun loving prankster demon had bitten off more than she could chew and accidentally pranked herself. Instead of using a truth serum on the brothers Gio somehow took it instead. Now Trix was part of the crew to keep people away. This was a serious manor, not only did she get a text from Gio asking for help but Barbatos sent them a slightly threatening message.. but hey at least Beatrix was trusted enough by Barb. She found Gio at the castle, naturally as Barbatos had already started to damage control. After getting passed a worried and pushy Diavolo Trix finally was with their other best friend.

"Gio I don't know why this is such a big deal but whatever Barb said to Dia didn't help because that man is acting like you're dying.. This isn't a kill you after its done truth serum is it?" Worry struck the human for a second, nah that wouldn't be right. It's just Diavolo over reacting, but why? He was strange but Trix didn't question it too much, now wasn't the time. "Now I'm here to help with 'making sure nothing gets out' in the cryptic words of our lovely Barb. This has to be something big if they are acting like that. Why is this such a big secret? Like I'm probably here to figure out a way to reverse it which I mean I can and will but I'm gonna need company while I figure out where you got it from and what kind it is and who you got it from, ya know? So I can take this opportunity to ask some things."

"So we all know about your little tea time with Asmodeus, where you talk about our resident couples, but we haven't talked about you. So Gio, who are you crushin' on? There has to be someone you like, its only natural. Please don't say its Diavolo, I will only accept that he is a sugar daddy and you stole that job from Asmo, because he deserves a good sugar daddy who will treat him right." Trix laughed, remembering conversations about sugar daddies once. "Also speaking of tea you should spill some of it and since we are in the castle, got any dirt on Diavolo and Barb? I bet you know some things from living here with them."

Giovanna sat on her bed, anxiously bouncing her leg as she waited for Trix to arrive to help. She was frustrated that she had been so stupid as to follow a truth serum recipe she found without reading the fine print- and now it had backfired onto her. She knew it was bad, but the way Barb and Diavolo reacted only made her feel worse. She just wanted to get the spell out of her system so they would stop pacing outside her room. Gio hated seeing her brother worry so much- but she knew it was reasonable worry this time seeing as if the wrong person asked the wrong questions it could be Very bad for them.

She heard commotion outside her room and stood up, hoping it was the arrival of Trix to save the day. And lucky for her, it was. Sighing in relief, she couldn’t help but chuckle at her friends concern “What? No, I’m not going to die. Don’t be silly, they just worry a lot. Although this IS kind of important. I can’t imagine what would happen if someone asked me the wrong question.” She laughed a little, trying to ease her friends worry. Grabbing Trix’s hand and dragging her to the desk, she cringed at one of the questions. “Well I mean. It IS big. It’s just a big deal because if someone asks the wrong question and I tell them the answer to the question it would be kind of bad if it got out and I’m really fighting the urge to blurt it out because the stupid serum wants me to answer things fully so I’m going to need you to ask another question other than why this is important or anything” Giovanna bit one of her knuckles, forcing herself to be quiet before she spilled too much. Although the second Trix asked her next question she almost wished she COULD just keep talking about the other thing.

“Okay, first of all? Dia? Disgusting, never accuse me of having a crush on him again that’s-“ She quickly grabbed a pillow to mumble something into- saying the truth even if Trix couldn’t hear it. “Moving on though, I’m honestly a little surprised you can’t tell who I have a crush on dear. I feel so obvious it’s a little embarrassing- I feel like one of those silly lovebirds we’ve helped set up. I’m head over heals for Asmo, of course. Now naturally I would never persue him while you two have whatever you have going on. Bestie code. Of course. And I don’t like him in a sim a sugar daddy way! I mean, I genuinely and truly am embarrassingly swooning over him. Isnt that beautiful! I was never planning on telling you that though darling I know you two have a strange little benefits situation like I said. Pretend I didn’t say anything.”

“As for Didi and Barb, of course I have tea on them. We’re all fairly close after all. Like have I told you about Dia’s crush on Luci? Like I know we’ve all joked about it but he’s like a little puppy sometimes. It began as a joke but dear I think he isn’t joking about wanting to worm is way into Luci and Logan’s love life. I’m almost a little embarrassed. That’s actually another reason I don’t want to interrupt you and asmo- Anyways. As far as Barb goes he’s still fairly private, even with me and Di. But I can tell you that he sometimes slips spells into tea. I feel like that isn’t a surprise, but he tries to keep it on the down low. Like he’ll give Luci teas with spells to boost his mood, or help him sleep. Di’s teas sometimes calm his energy, I think I get those ones too. I also get tea that helps with nightmares. I know when Lily was still adjusting he would specially make her iced teas that calmed her nerves. He works very hard on them all.”

#gio #don’t LOOK at it #i’m doing my best

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hraugur · 10 months

Text

a little fanart for @barb-l's wonderful wenclair fankid

#hraugarts #wednesday smiles for the first time in her life #wenclair #wednesday #enid sinclair #wednesday addams #vega addams #BELONGS TO:#barb-l #go follow barb if you haven't already you useless worms

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thebibliomancer · 3 years

Text

Tides of the Dark Crystal liveblog pt 15

Tides of the Dark Crystal by J.M. Lee because we’re halfway through, whoa-oh I can’t think of a rhyme but we’re in a desert now.

Last times on book: Amri and co are on a quest to unite all the Gelfling clans against the Skeksis. They’ve managed to convince Maudra Ethri of the Sifa to not sail off into the sunset and join the cause. And now they’ve reluctantly hired known thief and smarmy guy Periss of the Dousan to take them on his sand skiff to the Crystal Desert where Maudra Seethi is.

Chapter 15

A storm in the desert, a teeming of Crystal Skimmers, a peril, and some Tavra/Onica content.

Team Naia plus Periss sand sails all day and continues sand sailing when night falls. But people need to sleep so they’ll just leave someone on watch.

Kylan volunteers Amri for first watch. Amri is like ‘hey, rude’ before realizing that Kylan was subtly letting him stay up at night without making a big deal of it in front of the others. And then he’s warmed by this kindness.

Aw, frens.

Some hours later, Naia joins Amri up on the deck because she had a weird, bad dream. She was in the Sog but she was Gurjin. And a message came for Momdra Laesid who reacted in horror to whatever it was. And then Naia woke up.

Amri suggests it could be an omen but Onica is sleeping.

“I’ll ask her when she wakes... You should rest, too, nightbird.”

Amri stood and yawned. Then he added, “Birds die in caves.”

“Nightworm, then.”

“They’re called nurlocs.”

“Go on!”

Hah! Frens!

I love that they’re the kind of friends who bust each others chops.

So Amri goes below deck and I’m confronted with the idea that this sand skiff has a below deck. How big is this thing? I was picturing...... Moana’s boat. But on sand.

Periss’ ship doesn’t just have a lower deck, it has hammocks. Multiple hammocks. Multiple hammocks with multiple hammocks still vacant. At minimum that’s... lessee Kylan, Onica, Periss all sleeping.... There’s a minimum of five but I don’t know if it would be uneven so there’s probably at least six hammocks!

This is a big, small ship and Periss was scooting around all alone in it.

Anyway, Amri gets into a hammock and passes out almost immediately.

He’s woken up in a hurry by Kylan (although its now daytime so he must have been asleep some hours) because there’s a storm and Crystal Skimmers because it doesn’t rain in the desert but when it rains it pours.

Also, they’re in the basin now so its just endless sand in all directions.

To their right, the sky ended in a cloud of gray dust crackling with lightning rolled like a monster with fire in its teeth. It boiled, unleashed and unconstrained like a whirlpool, in the wide desert.

Also, Crystal Skimmers. Darkened ones.

Geez, I feel like we haven’t deal with the darkening in a while. It barely come up, if at all, during the Sifa stuff. Because of ocean, I guess? I mean, if the darkening works by seeing some darkened crystal veins all that open ocean means that only the deep sea creatures are gonna get darkened and they’re probably bonkers already.

Anyway.

The approaching sand clouds teemed with horrific golden creatures. Their diamond-shaped bodies were bigger than the skiff, the size of the three-masted Sifa ships, with rough, ragged manes and long barbed tails. The creatures crashed out of the sands turned up b the storm to the left and the right and all around them, snapping with enormous gaping mouths.

If you remember the giant flying manta rays that the Dousan use to travel, then its those guys.

They seem huge so I wouldn’t want to deal with a rabid one of them, let alone a teeming of them.

Seasoned desert traveler Periss also decides that the storm isn’t natural either. He would have been able to navigate around it except for the Crystal Skimmers ambushing them.

One of the Crystal Skimmers side swipes the skiff’s starboard float and then gets tangled up in the ropes and starts dragging the boat around.

Periss recognizes this Crystal Skimmer as Hanja, who has the remains of a Dousan harness on its back. He begs Hanja to calm herself but Onica says that she can’t be reached since she’s seen the darkness. And that they’ll need to cut free or get dragged to death.

Seasoned boat traveler Onica takes charge. She and Periss go out to cut the ropes at the bow and stern where the Skimmer harness tangled.

They succeed in cutting the lines but before Amri can pull Onica back into the boat

Just as the starboard float glanced off the racing sand below, another Skimmer burst from below them. Amri felt Onica’s fingernails rip against his palm as the Skimmer snagged her in its enormous mouth, tearing her from his grasp.

ONICA NOOOO!

You’re too delightful to die! We barely know ye!

Okay okay okay Crystal Skimmers don’t have teeth so she’s not getting chewed but its got her good and it doesn’t feel the pain as she stabs it in the lips with her knife because its so maddened by the darkness.

And it keeps diving into the sand with Onica in its mouth which as far as experiences go I imagine is like being in a tumble drier full of sandpaper.

Periss follows the Crystal Skimmer but its flying too high and he says that Onica will have to fly down to them, winged girl Gelfing that she is.

“She can’t fly.”

The tiny, numb voice came from the folds of Amri’s cloak.

“What?”

“She lost her wings in a storm,” Tavra said. “She can’t fly.”

Oh no! Is that her Dark Backstory that we left the Sifa plot without learning? The thing that filled Ethri with much regret?

Naia decides she’ll fly up to the Skimmer and save Onica but her wings are so dried out from the desert that she probably can’t fly and if she did, her wings would probably be destroyed.

Geez, there’s a lot more to having wings than I had ever considered.

Amri decides he’ll do it instead.

But what of his no wings? Necessity is the mother of invention, probably. Amri pulls off two of those fins (that have already been noted to be roughly the size of Gelfling wings) and ties them to his back.

Buuuuut he doesn’t know how to fly. So Amri’s plan has a part 2. He tells Tavra to take over his body like she did before.

OH! That’s coming back up! And her being a spider is plot relevant in a lot of surprising ways this book.

“Amri, I didn’t do it on purpose before,” Tavra protested. “It was an accident! I don’t know how!”

“Well,” he growled, “you’re going to have to figure it out!”

He leaped and spread his arms.

The wind picked up like a hand, thrusting him into the sky. The gusts were like waves, coming from every direction, knocking him and twirling him higher and higher. He had no idea how to navigate, how to fall - how to fly. All he could do was try to keep his arms from breaking as the wind battered and beat him.

“You and Onica made a promise!”

“But I can’t --”

“Are you going to break your promise?”

Oof. Going for the hard-hitting emotional low blow, Amri? You can be mean when needs must, especially for the guy who wants to be the funny friend.

Can’t argue that it works because it works.

Amri is suddenly slam dunked into a dreamfast with Tavra for some important exposition dreamfasting.

A memory of a storm at sea with Onica’s ship broken to bits and her clinging to it as it breaks into smaller bits, holding Tae safe in her arms while the wreckage of the ship and the hail of the storm tear her wings to shreds.

Amri as Tavra fights her way through the storm, scoops up the two Sifa and flies them from the wreckage.

Promise me, someday we’ll sail away.

Tavra and Onica sat together on a misty shore, watching the tide bring in shards of crystalline ice. The seafarer’s lantern glowered nearby, dimly lighting the fog that surrounded them like a protective blanket. They were hidden there, by the silver mist. Or at least they could pretend they were, just for this moment.

To a place where no one can find us. Where there are no Sifa... no Vapra...

Their hands touched palm to palm, fingers weaving together.

Where it doesn’t matter. Where we can just be... one.

I’ve said before that I was 99% sure that Onica and Tavra were dating with all the saying it without actually saying it about their relationship. But, uh, I’m now 200% sure.

This is about as explicit as you can get without having one of them say girlfrens.

Anyway, the dreamfast ends and Amri finds that he’s flying. Or rather, Tavra is flying Amri. Like he’s a giant robot and she’s a plucky anime youth. Mobile Suit Amri.

Tavra is such a good flier even when flying with some juryrigged wings and she’s responding so intuitively to the winds that Amri briefly thinks that the storm had just quieted down since it seems less severe.

But when they reach the Crystal Skimmer, seeing Onica hanging limply in its mouth knocks Tavra out of sorts. The improvised wings get ripped off by the wind and Amri has to climb the Skimmer’s mane towards its mouth.

Now that the drift has ended, I’ll comment that the thing they did, Tavra piloting Amri to take advantage of all the physical skills she has. Its an interesting way to use the two of them. And its an interesting extension of Amri deciding to take up Tavra’s sword to take her role in the group despite having zero experience in swordery or fighting. But as an ultimate move, its probably unhealthy. Since Amri’s deal is that he feels useless and like he doesn’t contribute much to the group. If he starts thinking of himself as just a convenient meat puppet, that’s not great for his self-image.

Can’t deny that it got them 90% towards saving Onica but Amri has to do the last 10%.

The Skimmer dives into the sand - which we can now confirm from the POV character’s POV is an awful experience that crushes and scrapes and suffocates - but Amri manages to pull Onica free right when the creature dives towards the sand again.

He stood, tried desperately to find Periss’ skiff, but it was impossible. All he could see was gold and black, the storm and the din and the deafening howls of the Skimmers. He pulled Onica with him, trudging - any direction, it didn’t matter, he only wanted to be anywhere else. The sand burned his eyes, washed against his ankles, then his knees. He tried to listen, but its voices were too many. Millions of screaming sand-crystals, earth moving like water, singing in a tongue he couldn’t understand.

He turned as the ground shook. A Skimmer erupted under his feet, and Amri’s own scream was lost as the beast’s black maw swallowed them alive.

Geez, there’s just way too much getting eaten by giant beasts in this chapter.

#dark crystal #the dark crystal #Tides of the Dark Crystal #liveblog #Amri #Naia #Tavra #Onica #Kylan #Periss

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alloftheimagines · 4 years

Text

billy hargrove | heaven-sent | part thirteen

series | part twelve

words: 1.6k

warnings: swearing, smoking, mentions of death and drinking, spoilers

i’m really a clown. this was supposed to be a small fic and here i am writing whole action scenes and planning sequels. i hope ya’ll aren’t getting bored because i feel like it’s taking away from the cuteness pls let me know! also i haven’t rewatched s2 in a while so some details might be off pls don’t hate meeeeee

summary: she’s an angel. he may as well be the devil. one would not exist without the other.

The sun is setting behind the trees as Frances digs through the soil frantically. Billy hovers behind her, his eyebrows furrowed in bewilderment as he flicks his lighter in his hand.

"Fran, let me do it," he says for the fifth time.

Frances shakes her head, smearing dirt on her cheek as she brushes her hair from her face. "No. I've got this. You should go."

Billy lets out a harsh chuckle. "Yeah, right. Just give me the damn spade." He snatches it from her hands forcefully, continuing Frances's job. The stench of rotting makes Frances want to gag as he unearths dead worms and corroding vines. "Remind me again what we're lookin' for?"

"My dad," she whispers, her voice cracking as she begins to pace nervously.

"Right, your dad," he nods, chucking soil behind him aggressively and barely missing Frances in the process. His denim jacket has been abandoned on the ground, and his back muscles ripple beneath his white shirt. "He bury himself alive a lot? Is there some kind a’ Hopper family ritual I should know about?"

Before Frances can reply, the spade hits something hard, causing Billy to stop. She crouches over the hole, her stomach twisting, Grey, mangled vines cover the ground, pulsating as though they're alive.

"What the fuck?" Billy mutters as he crouches beside Frances.

"You need to go home," Frances orders steadily, her voice no longer dismissive, but final. "Now."

"No. You need to tell me what the hell’s going on."

She straightens, snatching the spade from him, and he stands to tower over her with a frown. "I mean it, Billy. Go home."

"Give me one good reason why."

"Because I'm going down there, and you're not." She sighs in frustration, digging her spade into the vines with as much force as she can muster and watching with wide eyes as they separate, leaving an opening.

"You're bat-shit fuckin' crazy," he scoffs, shaking his head as he sticks a cigarette in his mouth, "Y'know that?"

"I'm not playing around!" she shouts, pulling the cigarette from his mouth before he can light it and picking up his jacket. She shoves it into his chest and he grabs it, his mouth agape in surprise. "Go!"

His expression turns to stone. "No. I don't know what the fuck's going on—"

"That's right, you don't!" she yells. "All you need to know is that if you go down there with me, if you even stick around up here waiting for me to come out, nothing will ever be the same for you. There's shit that happens here that you don't need to know about—that you shouldn't have to know about—and once you do you can’t forget about it. It's better you get in your fucking car and drive away now. This isn't a game, Billy. My dad is down there, and I don't have time to argue with you—"

"Then stop arguing," he growls, throwing down his jacket violently. "If you're going down there, angel, I'm going with you. Nothin’ you say will change my mind."

From the corner of her eye, Frances notices a car pulling into the field next to Hopper's—Joyce's car. Her headlights illuminate Frances and Billy in silver, casting shadows against the pine trees.

"Go," she pleads, pushing against his chest. This time, he's ready for her force, and he catches her wrist, stumbling back only slightly. "Go home, please!"

"No!" he shouts as Joyce gets out of the car. Bob is with her, she sees, and behind them, a pale-looking Will and Mike. No Jonathan, though.

She sighs, looking him dead in the eye. A stray curl falls over his eyes, and his face is splattered with dirt like hers. His eyes glisten with the same, hard stubbornness she feels in herself. "Then it's your fucking funeral."

She squeezes her eyes closed, turning away from him to find Joyce running towards her.

"Frances," Joyce's eyes are wide as she takes the two of them in, "How did you know he was here?"

Frances frowns at the question. "I found his car. How did you know?"

"It's a long story."

Behind her, Bob is breathless and looking just as clueless as Billy. Frances eyes Will, who is deathly pale in the darkness, his eyes brown saucers that are filled both with fear and something worse that Frances tries not to see.

She snaps her attention back to Joyce, and then to the ditch they have just dug. "I'm gonna go and find him. You should stay here, take care of the kids."

"Fran—" she starts, but Frances glares, tired of arguing. Something must flash in her eyes, or maybe they change colour, because it is all Joyce needs to take a step backwards.

"I'm finding my dad," she says finally. "No more arguments."

Joyce nods, her gaze shifting to Billy. "If you're not back in ten minutes, we're heading right in after you, okay, sweetie?"

Frances swallows, brushing her hair back and tying it up with the scrunchie that had been tied on her wrist beneath her sweater. She towers over the hole again, glad when Joyce throws her a flashlight. Billy takes the other from Bob wordlessly.

"I mean it, Billy," she says in one last attempt to change his mind. His expression is as determined as ever, though, his jaw clenching as he peers down into the tunnel. "There's no going back."

"There never was, angel," he replies, meeting her gaze once more. "Lead the way."

* * *

Frances is grateful for the flashlight as she treads carefully through the tunnels, covering her mouth with her scarf. Behind her, Billy's eyes are flitting around in a panic as he holds his collar to his mouth.

"You never told me you were Indiana Jones," he jokes, though she can hear the fear he’s suppressing.

"You don't know the half of it. You're stupid for coming down here."

"I never claimed to be smart."

She shakes her head, narrowly avoiding an uprooted vine and trying not to think about the fact that the things slithering in the shadows around her are the same things that killed Barb and took Will. Now, they have her father, and she doesn't know how she will find him in the blackness, if she can at all—until she finds his cigar lying on the ground. She picks it up, shining her torch in every direction, but she can't see him.

Her shoulders begin to burn and she curses as spots dance in front of her vision. Her palms are clammy, and she can hear it again: the sound of her heart thumping against her ribs, and Billy's, too. This time, though, there's a third: Her father's.

She stumbles against the vines, clutching onto one to steady herself. She feels as though she can't breathe, and she pulls the scarf from her face to inhale desperately.

"Fran?" Billy asks, voice thick with concern as he holds her up with one hand. He uses the other to shine the torch on her, almost blinding her.

"It's happening again." She squints at him, and she knows from his startled reaction that her eyes have changed.

Above the sound of heartbeats, now, is something else, a pulse that reminds her of speakers erupting at a party. She can feel it vibrate as her hands flatten against the walls. The tunnels are alive, and they want her to know it.

She swallows, knowing if she falls apart now, they'll never find her father. "We can't stop," she whispers, adrenaline driving her legs forward.

Just when they feel as though they might collapse on her altogether, her flashlight finds a figure. She recognises Hopper immediately, even when engulfed by the vines, and a sharp breath slips from her mouth as she runs to him.

"Dad," she breathes, trying desperately to rip him from the vines. Billy produces a pen-knife from his pocket and begins to saw at the thick, rope-like tendrils frantically. "Dad, can you hear me?"

Her question earns a muffled mumble that comes from his chest. His face appears through the sliced vines, and tears sting her eyes as she thanks God. His eyes are closed, but his chest is rising and falling steadily.

She rips the last of the vines away, pulling him away from the tunnel walls as best she can. He leans against her, so limp that she would collapse if it wasn't for Billy wrapping his arm around the other side of him and propping him up. A fit of coughs erupts from him. She can feel it, too, caking her throat like thick dust.

"You think the chief'll let me off if I get caught drinking again?" Billy asks, voice strained under Hopper's weight. "Saving his life’s gotta count for something."

A breathless laugh gets stuck in Frances's throat as the tunnels fill with silhouettes wearing protective, orange suits and glass helmets. They fall from the opening, scattering with equipment in their hands, some of them rushing past Frances without acknowledgement.

"Get out!" One of them shouts at them, motioning past them urgently.

They speed up without question, hauling Hopper along until two of the suit-clad scientists take the weight off their hands. Someone is waiting in the opening, pulling Hopper up before Frances can even understand what's happening. She is pulled next, collapsing into the soil and into Joyce's arms as she finds her. Billy emerges a second later, his face pale in the moonlight.

"What the hell is going on?" Frances asks her voice trembling as she stands and Billy's hands hover on the small of her back. They are ushering her father into a white van and she knows immediately it belongs to the lab. An oxygen mask covers his face, but already she sees he's regaining colour in his cheeks.

Joyce shakes her head, at a loss for words. A roaring fills Frances's ears suddenly, and then, a moment later, the sound of screams pierce through the night.

It is Will, writhing on the ground metres away from them. She tries to run to him, to follow Joyce as she rushes towards him, but her legs no longer work, and she collapses into the rotting soil.

Billy's arms wrap around her tightly—the only things keeping her from sinking completely.

#billy hargrove x oc #billy x oc #billy hargrove imagine #billy hargrove fic #billy hargrove #billy hargrove angst #billy hargove x reader #billy hargove imagine #billy hargrove fanfiction #stranger things #stranger things fanfiction #stranger things imagines #dacre montgomery fic #dacre montgomery x reader #dacre montgomery #fanfiction

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billie-ford · 4 years

Text

The Day Will Come When You Won’t Be

“I am going to beat the holy fuck, fucking, fuckity fuck outta one of you sorry fucks.”

Those crude words had been the last Billie had heard before looking between her family; kneeling in the hard gravel, sweating, illuminated by the yellow head lights of the heavy duty trucks surrounding them and shaking from the unrelenting cold. It was the cold - or it was the fear. Billie had given Maggie her coat, but even the fur lined denim couldn’t seize the quake of terror in her bones. Her eyes, wide and glossy, didn’t follow the man as he paced in front of her group, only catching the reflective glint of barbed wire as he passed her by. She wanted to look at him. To square her shoulders like the ginger brute to her left and stare with an unwavering anger before standing, fighting them all off like the hero in all of those action movies.

But she wasn’t their hero. And she was so, so scared.

His pacing continued, his boots kicked gravel into their laps and he waved his weapon of choice frivolously while uttering:

“Eenie, meenie, miney, mo..”

Maggie, hunched over in pain, searched the gravel to her left. Her hand found Billie’s and she gave it a tight squeeze, somewhere between fear and comfort. She heaved and whimpered, snot and hot tears and sweat dampened every inch of her face and the hand she so desperately grabbed was an anchor to keep her from completely doubling over - preparing herself for the worst. They were out here for her, warranting her safety, now she couldn’t ensure theirs.

“-and you...are...it.”

The rapid beating of her heart reached her ears, blocking out all other sounds as if she were suddenly thrusted underwater, hands around her throat. Drowning and choking. It was heartbreak she was feeling. Maggie gripped her hand tighter and her breath drew sharply.

“You can breathe. You can blink. You can cry. Hell, you’re all gonna be doing that.”

The first crack of bat on skull met her ear. So vivid and echoing that she questioned if she had been the one to receive the blow. But as the blood splattered on her clothes, on her sweat soaked skin, and she listened to the repeating squelch of brain matter and cracking skull she felt nothing but dread. Unfortunately, she was not the one taking the blows. Now she had to watch as her older brother’s head was beaten into an unrecognizable pulp.

1991

Little feet stomped along the carpeted hallway from the stairs to the dead end. “Abraham? Are you awake?” The seven year old’s shaky voice couldn’t have been louder than a mouse as she knocked carefully on her older brother’s bedroom door. Another sharp crack of thunder caused the child to yelp, banging on the door this time and yelling his name.

The door creaked and with a hand scratching at his curly red fro, Abraham was half awake and staring down at his kid sister. The paper she had taped to his door within the year said it all - B.F.G.

He was looming - all six foot two of him - but his smile was soft, and as another crack of thunder startled the child he guided her into the room and let her bury herself beneath his multitude of quilts.

“Aren’t you too old to be scared of thunderstorms, pup?”

He was already in bed, eyes closed and half muffled by his pillow before she could unveil herself from the quilt. She wormed her way in the crook of his arm and laid staring at the shadows that danced on the ceiling, her arms crossed evasively. “No..”

“What’s so bad ‘bout ‘em anyways? I think they’re calming..”

“It’s so quiet..then it’s so loud. Like scary movies.” She wasn’t a big fan of scary movies.

“You shouldn’t be watching scary movies.” “But I watch them with you.” “Well I ain’t your daddy.”

Another crack. Despite his teasing, Abraham’s arm instinctively tightened around his little sister and a calloused paw - good for catching a football or starting fights with the other college students - stroked her wild curls.

“I would beat those storms up if I could, ya know. And I’d tell ‘em Big Bad Billie sent me. Maybe I’d let you get a good few kicks in too.” This got a smile from the child. She believed him.

“I wish you could always be around..”

Abraham sat up, his head in his hand and frowned down at the child who glowed dark blue in the moonlight. There was a melancholic air to her naturally, perplexing for someone her age, and that cloud of sadness only seemed to grow heavier with the days counting down to his return to campus. He could see it now; their father holding the back of her shirt tightly as he pulled out of the driveway in his beat up hand-me-down truck. She’d scream and cry and kick and eventually break away from his grasp before running after the truck yelling over and over, “take me with you! just take me too!”

He would just have to keep driving or else his rain cloud would burst too.

“I’m always here for you, pup. Even when I ain’t here.” “That doesn’t make sense.”

He chuckled. “I mean I ain’t never gonna leave you forever. Think about it; I’m only gone for a few weeks until the next break then I’m right back here. When I am gone I call you every night. I send you those little cards from campus. When I’m gone, off to school or work, I’m always thinkin’ aboutcha. When I come home I don’t leave your side. You know I’m always here for you, pup. That means I’ll always protect ya. You know that right?”

“Yeah..” “Y’know you’re tough too right?” “Guess so..” “Betchu didn’t even notice the storm died out.”

Like a dog hearing the mailman she perked up and looked outside. No thunder, no lightning, not even a sprinkle of rain. The trees now danced slowly with the wind and a branch just beyond the glass waved at her lazily. “I didn’t even hear it stop..”

“‘Cause you ain’t all that scared. It’s just all in your head, pup.” “Can I still sleep in here then?” “Well yeah. Or less you done woke me up for nothin’.”

Dawn had broke more than an hour ago. The truck was filled with uneasy silence. Faces were dried with blood and tears and breaths were ragged. Sasha sat in the back seat, stroking Maggie’s still damp hair as her head rested, exhausted, in her lap. All three women were emotionally and physically drained. Sasha stared blankly at the back of Billie’s head, every so often attempting to open her mouth and speak but the only sound that managed to come out was a strangled gasp. She drove in stunned silence. Never looking at the two women in the back seat. Her muscles looked lack, spent, as she loosely gripped the steering wheel and her tired eyes brimmed with sadness while focusing on the road ahead. At least she looked to be focused, Sasha had grown use to the far away look that overcame Billie from time to time; when she had switched into autopilot and let her muscle memory guide her to where she needed to be.

“How are you?” Sasha finally croaked after what felt like hours of silence.

“No better than you.”

Sasha had only been dating Abraham for a handful of months, but she had known him for much longer. Loved him for much longer. She loved him like she had known him her whole life and in terms of before and after - she almost did. In his final moments, she had been the only one to receive his recognition - maybe Billie too - but Sasha wouldn’t look away. Only until she had to. Only when the sound of his brutal death made her lunch churn in her stomach and rise to her throat did she find the gravel beneath her. A simple hand gesture, a trademark peace sign, was all Abraham had to send one last goodbye to the two he loved the most.

“Are you going back?” “I have to make sure Maggie’s a’right first.” “What about Rosita?” “She has the others.”

Sasha fell quiet with a nod. Billie was lost, that much she could see. That thousand yard stare usual came with a silent racking of her brain. She didn’t say another word the entire drive, turning her attention back to Maggie who was now looking up at her through half-lidded eyes.

“You were out...out here for me.” “We still are.”

Billie followed Maggie on wobbly legs. She was sobbing, Billie’s last statement only making it worse. She reached out for her, her hand brushed off as Maggie kneeled in front of what remained of her husband, the father of her unborn child. Glenn Rhee. The pizza boy that convinced Billie to join him and his group when she was on her own.

She owed him everything.

“I can make it now, I need you to go back. I can’t have you out here - I can’t have you all out here I need you to go back.”

Billie crouched down beside her, hands squeezing comfort into her trembling shoulders. “I’m not leaving you out here alone,” her voice cracked. “I’m here for you. We’re all here for you.”

Billie hurt for Maggie. Maggie hurt for Billie. They hurt for everyone and everyone hurt for them.

“I’m taking them. I’m taking you too.”

Hilltop opened their gates upon recognizing the face behind the wheel of the pickup. Looks of confusion morphed to frowns of sorrow when Billie emerged from the truck, revealing the headless bodies laid in the bed with the simple muttering of, Negan.

She assisted Sasha in bringing Maggie to her feet and led her further into the compound. “Get her to Carson.” Billie croaked. “You go with her, Sash. Make sure she has a familiar face to wake up to.”

“What about them-” “I’ll handle it. Please go.”

She was apprehensive, staring at Billie with worry and only beginning her trek to the infirmary when Maggie’s weight slumped over on her. “Anything we can do to help?” A number of Hilltop members surrounded her. Those who have been so kind to them all, dead and alive, before this.

“Show me where I can bury them.

#the day will come when you wont be #chapter one #writing #fanfiction #twd #oc #billie ford #abraham ford #sasha williams #maggie rhee

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orangeflavoryawp · 5 years

Text

Jonsa - “A Violence Done Most Kindly”, Part 5

Okay, I know this chapter is excessively long, but I didn't want to break it up and lose the cohesiveness of it, so yeah, here it is. This one was fucking difficult to write, so I sincerely hope you enjoy it.

“A Violence Done Most Kindly”

Chapter Five: Herald of War

“It’s a promise, Sansa realizes. If we fall, you fall. Because she figures, one way or another, dead or alive, the North will come for those who abandoned them to winter.” - Jon and Sansa. Stark is a house of many winters.

Read it on Ao3 here.

Part 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 fin

* * *

“I was under the impression this was a summit for peace,” Tyrion says.

“It is,” Jon sighs.

“And yet you’re asking us to go to war.”

“A war against the dead is not the same as one against the living.” Jon frowns with his explanation, harsh and deep.

Sansa can see the frustration in the lines around his mouth.

“You’re asking for quite a lot on faith,” Jaime points out, lounging quite comfortably in his chair.

“And do you think I’d be here, inviting some of my house’s oldest enemies into my very home, welcoming their armies North, if I weren’t speaking the truth about this?” Jon barks. His nostrils flare with his vexation. He spares a dark look Theon’s way. “Soon you shall all see the evidence of our claims.”

Somewhere in the crowd of lords, a scoff is heard, an accompanying snort, a rush of heated murmurs.

“Let’s say what you claim is true,” Tyrion starts, pacing away from his place beside Daenerys and toward the center of the room, glancing around the other gathered lords. “Have you even a plan to kill them? Do you even know how?”

Jon’s eyes flick to the dragon queen, and Sansa’s gut clenches when he tells them, “We know that fire kills them.”

Daenerys adopts a smug expression, leaning back in her chair as she eyes Jon. “You need my dragons.”

He clenches his jaw, nodding just the once. “Aye.”

“You already know my demands,” she answers easily, eyes shifting toward Jaime.

A cruel smile curls along Euron’s face while he sits beside Daenerys. “Looks like you’ll be bending the knee, after all.”

Jon ignores Euron with great effort, his hands bunching into fists at his side, and then slowly unfurling.

Tyrion looks to Daenerys, something calculated in his gaze that Sansa can’t quite identify. She straightens in her seat, voice echoing throughout the room. “Westeros will need more than just dragons to survive the Night King and his army.”

Daenerys cocks her head at Sansa, an amused smile playing at her lips. “’Just’ dragons, you say?” she asks in a tone that sounds nearly insulted.

Sansa swallows tightly, words measured as she looks at the dragon queen. “Your might is not to be disregarded, Your Grace, but this endeavor will take from all of us.” She takes a breath, waits for Daenerys’ rebuke, but continues steadily when there is none – none but a look of mild intrigue. She looks about the room. “We will need food from the Reach. And we’ll need the numbers of the Lannister forces. We’ll need the forces of the Riverlands to secure safe passage of Northern refugees through the Neck and past the Twins.” Sansa shares a glance with Edmure Tully, who nods in answer, jaw set. She allows a grateful smile to touch her lips, before she turns her steel-cut gaze back to the other lords. “We’ll need the Knights of the Vale,” she goes on, looking to Lord Royce, and then tentatively to Robin Arryn, an inclination of her head both affectionate and demanding, “The greatest mounted cavalry in the known kingdoms,” she says with a flattering flourish that has Robin beaming with pride.

“We’ll need dragonglass for weapons,” Davos says. “And we’ll need every blacksmith you can spare working day and night to forge them.”

Jon nods beside Sansa, a dark look to his face. He stands then, taking in the room. “And we’ll need more than that. Carpenters and masons to help build the defenses around Winterfell. Healers and cooks and seamstresses, before, during, and especially after the battle, which means they’ll need to stay in Winterfell while we send the other refugees south. And we’ll need all our armies marching North if we expect to have any hope at defeating the dead.”

“What do they look like?”

Jon turns at Robin’s question, confusion drawing over his face. “My lord?”

Robin shifts excitedly in his seat, an inappropriate glee pulling at his features that sets Jon’s jaw to clenching. “What do they look like, these wights you speak of?” he asks again.

Silence reigns in the room.

Sansa shifts in her seat toward him. “Dear cousin,” she begins gently, “I don’t think – ”

Jaime’s scoff interrupts her, his scornful chuckle swallowed up by the fist at his mouth.

Sansa sends him a glare.

Sighing, Jaime’s hand lowers from his mouth, a sardonic glint to his eye. “Not like anything you’ve ever seen before, I’m sure, boy.” His eyes flick to Jon’s. “If they even exist.”

Robin’s face pinches at the insulting address but before he can wail his offense, Lord Royce stands from his seat, chest puffing out. “You will speak to my lord with the proper respect his station demands, Ser Jaime, or this summit will be at an end soon enough,” he nearly bellows.

Jaime only leans back with an amused smirk, Tyrion sending him a desperate look that seems a plea for silence.

“They look like the dead,” Jon sighs in aggravation, his temper flaring at the need for such an explanation, “In all the gruesome ways death can take a man.”

Sansa can see how the frustration builds beneath his skin, rippling the cords of muscle at his neck when he swallows. “Now, can we continue?” he asks gruffly.

Robin scowls at the answer, disinterested immediately. “I only wished to know what they looked like,” he mutters.

Sansa sends an urging look Arya’s way, and with a twitch of Baelish’s lips in her flesh mask, she leans over with a false face of appeasement to the young Lord of the Vale, a pat of her hand to his bunched fist. “And you will, my lord, when you ride North and take the field alongside His Grace. You’ll look the dead in the eye, and – with the Knights of the Vale at your back, heralding your name – you’ll vanquish them from our lands forever.” A gratifying smile plants itself along Baelish’s face, and Robin grins in response.

“Yes,” he agrees, straightening in his seat. “Yes, I shall.”

Lord Royce grumbles something under his breath when he takes his seat, eyes shifted toward Baelish in a mix of reluctant gratitude and poorly disguised mistrust.

“And why should I follow you North like a gullible child, Jon Snow?” Daenerys asks coolly, eyes nearly rolling (if such a motion could be queenly) at Royce’s outrage with the pointed barb.

“My queen,” Tyrion tries, stepping toward her and then instantly stopping at the subtle motion of her hand to stay him.

Behind Daenerys, and behind Jorah Mormont and the newly met advisor, Missandei, and the commander of the queen’s armies, Grey Worm, somewhere in the slants of shadows, Sansa catches the flicker of tense deliberation along Varys’s face at his queen’s words. His hands stay linked through heavy, concealing sleeves, his lips pressed into a perpetual purse, eyes watching the hall pensively. She shifts her gaze away from him before he can meet hers across the hall.

She remembers all too well that he’s seen the work of the Targaryens firsthand – some being her own blood.

Sansa pulls a steadying breath in, focus back on the quickly spiraling summit.

“Why should I commit my forces North on the word of a bastard king when the people are crying for their rightful ruler to save them right here in the South?” Daenerys asks coolly.

Sansa’s eyes flutter shut, bracing for the inevitable.

Lord Glover pushes from his seat so violently that it scrapes against the stone and topples back with a loud clang. “I would follow any son of Ned Stark to the depths of all seven hells before I swear to some murdering Targaryen whore!” he bellows.

The room erupts into madness.

Grey Worm steps forward, a cold wrath lighting his features, and the line of Unsullied along the wall at Daenerys’ back uniformly brace their spears to their shields in a motion of readiness, the heavy metallic clash setting the rest of the hall rising into an uproar.

Jaime barks a laugh. “Yes, the people are just clamoring for you, Your Grace,” he throws out at Daenerys with raised brows.

“Ser Jaime,” Brienne hollers from her place behind Sansa, “This is hardly the time.”

Several of the lesser lords push from their seats, Lady Mormont shouting for them to sit down and stop squalling like children. Jon braces a hand back at Lord Glover, keeping him from stepping further into the circle. Davos and Tyrion call for order and are subsequently ignored. Northern and Riverland guards edge around the hall toward the swarm of incensed lords.

Jaime lets out another ragged laugh, arms stretching wide to encompass the chaos. “This seems exactly the time, Lady Brienne!”

Daenerys shoots a deadly glare at Jaime, Ser Jorah at her elbow instantly. “I should take your head right here, Kingslayer.”

“Please, Your Grace,” Edmure urges above the shouts from the arguing lords. “This is a summit for peace.”

Daenerys stands swiftly. “Then you all should have remembered that before calling the dragon to your table.”

Brynden swears at Sansa’s back. “Oh for the love of – ”

Lord Royce advances on a particularly vocal lord from the Stormlands when he throws a casual insult at the young Lord Arryn. False-Baelish slips back from the mob, staying at the edge of the ring of seats, Sansa always in sight.

Euron stands from his seat, a sneer along his lips. “I think a little respect would do these Northern bastards some good.”

“Uncle,” Theon says, firm and reproachful. He stands from his seat, but Sansa’s hand on his arm stays him. He looks down at her with hesitance.

“Ah,” Euron laughs, a predatory glint to his eye, “This the Northern cunt that bewitched you?”

Brynden’s hand is on his sword instantly, Brienne moving similarly beside him. “Call my niece that again, you pissant, and I’ll hang your entrails from your own ships’ bow.”

“You can always trust a Lannister to –”

“ – damn Northern pride will be the death of –”

“ – bloody Ironborn – ”

“And where have you cowards been all this – ”

“ – her and her foreign band of rapists and murderers – ”

“Enough!” Jon bellows, his voice echoing off the stone walls, a deep, resonant growl following the words. “That is enough!” There’s something wild to his form then, a murderous glint to his eye that settles anyone who catches sight of it into an instant stillness. He whirls on the room, teeth bared.

At Daenerys’ raised hand, Grey Worm orders his men down, Missandei calling out similar orders to the Dothraki bloodriders alongside the Unsullied. Lord Glover rights his chair, dropping back down to it with a huff. Lady Mormont glares the other Northern lords into silence. The lords of the Stormlands slowly retreat to their corner, Robin tugging on Lord Royce’s sleeve to get him to sit back down. Jaime sits just a bit straighter, his smile falling. Daenerys remains standing, chest heaving. Beside her, Euron gives one last leer to Sansa and Theon before he slumps back into his seat, Brynden and Brienne finally unhanding their swords. Slowly, the hall comes back around to silence, tense and perturbed though it is now.

Jon heaves a labored sigh, rubbing at his chin, eyes flashing dark with his fury. “How can you all sit here and squabble over such pettiness when the dead are practically at our door? How can you call yourselves lords when you would trade your people’s lives for a crown – a crown that will mean absolutely nothing when the dead wash through your lands?” he bites out, gaze landing on Daenerys. “Because make no mistake, if we fall, you fall. That isn’t a threat. That’s fact.” he growls out, glancing at each of them in turn.

It’s a promise, Sansa realizes.

If we fall, you fall.

Because she figures, one way or another, dead or alive, the North will come for those who abandoned them to winter.

“This is all very riveting, to be sure, but if you’re all done beating your chests, I have a question for the King in the North.” Lady Olenna interrupts for the first time that afternoon, elbows resting on her armrests, hands wound together in a familiar nonchalance, as she stares insistently at Jon in the center of the room.

All eyes turn to her in the tense quiet.

She clears her throat, settling more comfortably in her chair. “This summit isn’t about trying to persuade us that peace is our best option, because we wouldn’t be here in the first place if we believed otherwise. So you can save your thrilling little speeches, Your Grace. Anyone unwilling to fight for the kingdoms has no claim to them.”

Mutterings begin among the lords once more, Daenerys slowly returning to her seat, hands curled like talons along her armrests, eyes landing on the Tyrell matriarch like flint to steel.

Jon nods stiffly to her, jaw clenched tight. “And your question, my lady?”

Olenna huffs impatiently, shifting to tap the nail of her forefinger along her armrest. “When your war is won, and the dead are defeated, will the King in the North acknowledge the independence of the other kingdoms, or is this alliance simply a ploy to seize power?”

The mutterings throughout the hall stop entirely, a taut silence blanketing the room.

Jon turns fully to Lady Olenna.

Sansa remembers suddenly, the way he looked that last night before the Battle of the Bastards – the heat in his eyes, the desperation lining his mouth (that mouth), the dangerous arch of his shoulders and unmistakable incline of his body, the way he shouted at her, pressed her, the way he instantly folded beneath her admission –

If Ramsay wins, I’m not going back there alive. Do you understand me?

The way he’d wound his hands through her hair and stumbled her back, a growl at his lips, bracing her back against the beam of his tent, his breath panted against her mouth, her hands winding around his wrists, the ragged exhale that left him when he told her, when he demanded of her –

“Shut your mouth.” Like a wounded, cornered beast.

She’d blinked at him wildly, indignation splashing across her face, breath hitched in her throat as he bore his whole weight into her suddenly, forehead braced to hers, fingers flexing in her hair.

Her throat was parched, her chest heaving.

“Shut that mouth of yours, Sansa, because I can’t – I can’t – ” And then he’d licked his lips, chocking back a sob, his mouth already so close to hers that she thinks she might have tasted his breath in that moment, shared the heat of him, felt the tremble of his mouth against her own just a moment before he kissed her, desperate and ragged and insistent.

Like trying to eat his own terror.

She’d known in that moment, and every moment after, that she’d never follow through on the promise – not so long as he lived.

His hand was hitching up her skirts, his groan filling her mouth, his own reckless promises painting her flesh, well before she’d finally recognized his demand as the plea it truly was.

Stay with me, his body had begged.

Yes, her own had granted.

Sansa looks to Jon now, eyes easily catching the sharp line of his shoulders, and the clench of his jaw, and the evenness of his gaze on Lady Olenna.

It must be so exhausting, she thinks, to live always on the precipice of death – to share an intimacy with it so violent that even to refuse it feels like a betrayal of the self.

I’m not going back there alive. She should have known not to say such words to him, after all.

But perhaps that was the start of it, the catalyst to this dangerous dance between them. He’s become so vibrant in her hands, so thrumming of life, so very not dead.

She knows now, what it means to linger –

Stay with me –

She knows.

“I never sought this crown. And I’ve no intention to seek another,” Jon tells Olenna, low and resolute, his shoulders sagging with the weight of it.

Never sought, no, but he’s grown covetous of it all the same, Sansa thinks. And even still, Jon has made it clear where his interests lie.

With the North, and with her.

Nothing else can sway him.

It’s the sort of truth that should trouble her, but she can’t find it in herself to be anything but covetous in return.

“Well then,” Lady Olenna says, fingers linking together, a barely discernible smile crinkling the edges of her mouth. “You might be the only one in this room who can claim as such.” She chuckles, leaning back in her chair. “I like you. Even if you are rather cross and sullen.”

Jon blinks at her, mouth parting, but no words follow.

Sansa ducks her head to hide her unexpected smile.

“Highgarden agrees to the alliance,” she promises, eyes flitting to Sansa for the briefest of moments, “Granted this ‘evidence’ of yours makes itself known.”

Sansa’s smile steals from her mouth instantly, eyes narrowing at Olenna.

The older matriarch only shrugs, a hidden smile playing at her lips.

“You’d follow this whelp?” Euron scoffs, leaning with one hand braced to his knee. “Just because he can spin some pretty words?”

Lord Glover almost upends his seat again, but Sansa’s instant narrowing of her eyes in his direction, chin lifted in a motion to heel, has him grumbling his acquiescence, settling back along his chair.

Olenna grants Euron an unimpressed look, an amused huff leaving her lips. “I owe you no justification, Lord – what was it?” She pauses, considering. “Are you even a lord?” And then she waves her hand dismissively. “Never mind, you’ve clearly already answered that. I suppose even a dog may be allowed to beg for scraps at its master’s table.”

Euron stands instantly, face screwed up in an ugly disdain.

The room tenses. Jon takes an even step forward. Olenna smirks triumphantly. Edmure frets uncomfortably. Daenerys opens her mouth. Sansa speaks.

“Perhaps we should leave it at that today, my lords, my ladies.” Sansa rises smoothly, hands clasped before her. “I’m sure we each have much to discuss with our respective advisors. I look forward to renewed talks tomorrow.”

Jon glances to her, brows furrowed, his impatience warring with his exhaustion, before he nods imperceptibly.

“I agree,” Tyrion interjects, turning to his queen. “We have much to think on.” His gaze is imploring, his mouth set into a thin line.

Daenerys takes a deep breath, a dissatisfied expression gracing her features as she meets her Hand’s gaze. Ser Jorah at her elbow is soft but firm when he addresses her. “Khaleesi.”

She looks to him out of the corner of her eye, softening somewhat.

The unexpected shift has Sansa blinking dumbly at them. Words pass between the two, quiet and short, and then the dragon queen is rising swiftly from her chair, barely giving even the courtesy of a nod in farewell before she’s stalking from the room, her advisors in tow.

Jon closes his eyes and releases a breath, frown deepening.

In moments, the hall is all but cleared, and Sansa stays watching the silhouette of Jon in the afternoon sun breaking through the windows. Her lips purse tight, her words stalling in her throat.

His shadow stretches long, she finds. Its edge peters out just before the toe of her boots.

* * *

Jon finds his way to Sansa’s rooms that night, greeting Brienne at the door with a weary face and a sigh of exhaustion. “Will you announce me, my lady?”

“Of course, Your Grace.” Brienne tips her head in a motion of respect. “Ah,” she says, straightening, voice dipping to a whisper, “My lady is in conference with your sister at the moment.” Her eyes shift down the hall momentarily, watchful.

Jon nods, voice low. “I expected as much. Announce me, Lady Brienne.”

Brienne raps on the door, short and expedient. “His Grace to see you, my lady,” she calls through the door.

“Come in,” sounds through the wood in Sansa’s familiar lilt.

Brienne opens the door for him and Jon stills immediately upon stepping through.

Seated across from Sansa in a similar armchair by the fire, leaning closely toward her, is Baelish. For a moment, Jon’s vision goes white, a sharp breath sucked through his lungs, rage rising in his throat, until he remembers.

(His slumped form along the snow beneath the wierwood, the wash of blood over his chin, the curl of his frozen, grasping fingers stiffened into claws.)

Baelish is dead.

The familiar face turns to him.

Arya, he has to remind himself, the breath raking from him slow and measured.

She cocks a brow in Baelish’s face that has Jon’s expression souring instantly, the unease branching through his chest.

“Jon,” Sansa greets, grabbing his attention.

He looks to her, shaking his head, shutting the door behind him. “Sorry, I – I just – ”

The eerie copy of Littlefinger stands with a sigh and a decidedly un-Baelish-like roll of the eyes. “Please, Jon, you can’t have this reaction every time you see me like this.” She plants her hands on her hips and Jon scrunches his nose up at the sight.

Arya sighs dramatically, hands thrown up in the air as she stalks toward him and the door. “Gods, what I would give to be back home and out of this skin.”

The words sober Jon instantly.

Arya stops just before him, catching the look on his face. He doesn’t know if he’s any good at hiding it, but then, hiding never did him any good when it came to Arya.

It’s hardly the first skin she’s worn, he realizes. hardly the first life she’s taken. His little sister. His Arya.

Something constricts inside his chest dangerously like regret.

Arya seems to see something in his face, because her expression schools back into a keen observation so naturally reminiscent of Baelish’s own attentive eyes that Jon has a difficult time separating the two. It only makes his chest clench tighter.

A stilted silence passes between them, until Sansa is clearing her throat, standing from her seat with a soft grace that flutters her skirts about her legs. “Keep clear of Lord Varys,” she warns Arya. “We cannot know if your act will fool him well enough.”

Arya turns back to Sansa with a single piqued brow.

Sansa huffs. “You’ll be careful?” she presses.

Lifting her chin, smoothing her hands down the silk front of her robe, Arya nods her acknowledgement, the incredulous expression leaving Littlefinger’s face at the note of concern lining Sansa’s voice. “As careful as a mockingbird.”

It’s not the kind of comfort Jon thinks Sansa is looking for, if he’s going by the worried expression on her face, but it’s the only kind of comfort he imagines Arya capable of. It’s just another piece of truth to mourn.

Arya turns back to Jon, watching him for a quiet, tense moment.

The steady stare of Baelish this close is unnerving, to be sure, but perhaps even more unnerving is the subtle recognition of Arya’s own stare through a dead man’s eyes.

She looks to Sansa for a moment, and then turns back to Jon, frown deepening, brows furrowing. “Do not disgrace her in our mother’s house,” she tells him quietly but firmly, a slip of her own voice threading through the words.

Jon blinks at her, the image of Baelish throwing him even now.

Sansa scoffs indignantly, arms crossed behind Arya.

But Arya only has eyes for their brother.

Jon nods, unable to curb the pain that etches across his face, the resentment. “I wouldn’t,” he answers her.

Arya nods just the once, lips pursed, thoughtful. “Tomorrow’s going to be another long day,” she says.

Jon gives her a moment, expecting something further. When she only stares at him, he rubs at his chin, words coming haltingly and unsure. “Yes, it will be,” he says finally, hesitant to say more.

Arya’s mouth thins into a line as she clears her throat, a quiet affection coloring her words now. “You should get some rest.” And then she’s stalking from the room, shutting the door behind her without a further farewell.

Jon stares at the closed door for many long moments.

“She loves us,” Sansa says softly. “She does.”

Jon stays staring at the door, a sigh leaving him.

“Perhaps she isn’t rather adept at showing it but – ”

“Sansa,” he interrupts, finally turning to her, a hand rubbing at his mouth as he tries to shake off the lingering unease.

She lifts her brows expectantly, arms uncrossing, the indignation having bled from her instantly.

(She doesn’t stay mad at her sister for long these days, but Jon is too hesitant to name such a thing as hopeful.)

He softens his features, catching the thrum of disquiet in her stiff posture. “I know,” he tells her, attempting a smile.

Sansa nods, lip pulled between her teeth. She glances out the window, hands smoothing over her skirts. “Well then,” she starts, looking back to him far more put together than she had been only moments before. She motions a hand toward the now vacant seat across from her. “Your Grace,” she offers.

Jon takes the chair easily, shrugging off his cloak – her cloak. He catches the way her eyes follow it when he sets it along the back of his chair and a flare of prideful possession streaks through him. His hand curls along the furs before releasing reluctantly, settling across from her.

Sansa takes her own seat gracefully.

Jon leans his elbows along his thighs, hands grasped between his knees. An exhaustive sigh leaves him. “Arya has word about Meereen then?”

Sansa nods, leaning back in her chair. “Baelish’s sources say the city has fallen into disarray. Daenerys’ appointed representative, Daario Naharis, and the small council she established before leaving, have been slaughtered. It’s chaos in the streets, last we heard.”

Jon nods, gaze dark and considering. “We can use that.”

“It’s a fine line to walk.”

He raises a brow in question.

Sansa brushes at a wrinkle in her skirt. “It can sway the other kingdoms to our side if they see that their alternative is incompetent when it comes to governance, but calling out such incompetence could also wound her pride enough to make her withdraw.” She levels a meaningful look Jon’s way. “And Bran was adamant we sway her to our side, as well.”

Jon groans, shaking his head. “She sees herself as a savior, he said.”

“Yes.”

He frowns. “And how do we use that?”

Sansa purses her lips, silence overtaking her for long moments while she turns the question over in her head. He can very nearly see the moment illumination lights her features. “Give her a target,” she says in answer finally.

“I haven’t exactly kept the Night’s King a secret, Sansa,” he says exasperatedly. “If ever there was a target for her, that would be it.”

Sansa shakes her head, a huff leaving her. “You’re thinking about this all wrong.”

Jon’s frown deepens, head cocking like a reminder for caution.

Sansa sits a touch straighter, her hands curling over her armrests in anticipation. “She hasn’t gone to King’s Landing yet. Why?”

His brows draw down. “Because her enemies are no longer there.”

“Precisely. And yet she claims the people are clamoring for her deliverance. So why won’t she go?”

Unclasping his hands, Jon leans back in his chair, huffing his frustration. “I don’t fucking know, Sansa, I’m hardly privy to her council.”

Sansa’s nostrils flare with her momentary annoyance. “Think, Jon.”

“Oh, like I’m not trying to?”

“Not very hard, it seems.”

“Sansa,” he warns, a hot expel of breath.

Sansa shakes her head, hand outstretched to stop his admonishment. “Listen to me, Jon, please. Just listen.”

He gives her a spiteful look, but he does not argue further.

“Starvation and anarchy are hardly foes she can burn into subservience,” she says.

Jon blinks at her, the realization slow and half-formed.

She continues. “Her crusade for freedom across Slaver’s Bay only worked temporarily because, while crucifying the Masters and burning their ships makes for an intimidating show of power, it doesn’t solve any of the problems still plaguing the cities. She’s not a ruler. She’s a conqueror. It’s what she does best. So we give her someone to conquer. We give her a body, a living, tangible foe. We give her a target in the North and she will go North.”

Jon stands swiftly, hand swiping over his mouth as he stalks to the hearth. “Sansa, what exactly are you suggesting?” He looks back at her with dark eyes, half-shrouded in firelight.

She swallows tightly, rising from her seat as well. “We need Jaime Lannister.”

Jon’s jaw tightens at the name, drawing in a deep breath. “We’ve no indication he even believes us, let alone has any inclination to fight for the living.”

“Brienne vouches for him.”

Scoffing, Jon gives her an incredulous look. “And that’s enough to think he’d join us?”

Sansa steps closer, hands clasping nervously before her. Jon eyes the motion with a sense of foreboding. She makes it to the other side of the hearth, standing across from him, when she finally speaks. “He knew I didn’t kill Cersei. More importantly, he knew I couldn’t.”

Jon stares at her, a tightness in his chest.

He remembers when Bran told them the news, the raven’s scroll from King’s Landing slipping unread from his still-gloved fingers as the three of them met in Winterfell’s dawn-lit rookery.

He remembers the harsh laugh that broke from Sansa, streaking through the silence with a brand of delirium so striking he actually took a step back from her.

But she couldn’t stop, a hand braced to her chest, the other moving to steady herself along the rail, her eyes glistening, laughing and laughing and gasping, chest heaving, face screwed up in sudden pain, fingers curled around the rail, her other hand clutching the hook-and-chain necklace at her throat, and then she’s sobbing so instantly her body actually quakes with it, a laugh choked into a wail, and she’s sinking down suddenly, knees giving way, dragging her form down the rail, gasping, keening, howling.

He’d been unable to do anything for long, immutable moments but stare – watching the wash of relief and grief and release rake through her like a storm.

He remembers leaning down behind her and gripping her shoulders, pulling her back to his chest and holding her through it.

When he’d looked up next, Bran was already gone.

“That doesn’t mean anything, Sansa,” he grits out. It’s a lie, he knows. Because it has to mean something.

Sansa closes her eyes, breathes deep, and something shutters beneath her skin he hasn’t a name for. It’s gone the instant she opens her eyes again. “It means there’s still something he wants.”

Jon steps closer, a growl brewing in his throat, the realization inking into color a moment too late. “Sansa – ”

“Tell him we can give him his sister’s killer.”

Jon expels a harsh breath with a muttered curse, dragging a hand through his hair. “Seven hells, Sansa, you can’t just – ”

She closes the distance between them instantly, eyes imploring on his, the heat of the fire licking across their forms. “I don’t mean giving up Arya. I’d never – I couldn’t – ” She stops, swallows, eyes shifting anxiously between his.

Had she expected him to think that of her? Had she expected him to know her so little? Jon’s shoulders slump at the thought. He reaches for her arms instinctively, a familiar measure of comfort between them, his rough palms curling around her elbows. “Sansa,” he breathes lowly, evenly, “Tell me what you mean.”

She relaxes somewhat, face softening. “He’s a remnant of a man, Jon.” The words come out sad beyond measure and Jon doesn’t know what to do with them. In the wake of his silence, Sansa reaches up, curling her fingers along the leather of his jerkin, eyes fixed to the motion. “This grief has unmade him. It’s plain for all to see. He has nothing left.”

Jon’s hands slip up her arms and then slowly back down, watching the curve of firelight dip across the bare edge of her collarbone.

He doesn’t like to think about what that sort of grief would feel like – what that kind of loss does to a man.

(He doesn’t like to think that he understands Jamie Lannister, if only a little, if only when his fingertips bare their mark on his own sister.)

“He has nothing left but vengeance.”

Jon blinks back up at Sansa. “You mean to use it.”

She nods, lips pursed tight.

“And Arya…?”

“We have Baelish’s spies, his face, his influence. Let us use it. Let us offer Jaime Lannister a chance at the vengeance he craves. Arya will be safest when she’s the one controlling the information he receives.”

“And when he comes North with us, when he agrees to this alliance – ”

“It will be the largest threat to Daenerys’ sovereignty. She cannot take such an alliance lightly, especially when the other kingdoms inevitably fall in line. She’d never allow such an alliance unless she had a hand in it, and she’d want to keep a watchful eye, work to dissolve it from the inside, rain fire and blood if she had to. But she would go North. She would not leave her enemies to treat with each other behind her back. If we cannot tempt her empathy, then we must tempt her with this.”

Jon heaves a labored sigh, thumbs brushing along the material of her sleeves, winding slow and unmeasured circles. His eyes fix to the motion. “Even if she helps us win against the dead, how can you be sure she won’t turn on us the instant the war is won?”

Sansa sighs, hands uncurling from his jerkin, smoothing over his chest. “I have to trust that Bran would not urge us to bring her North if he didn’t have the knowledge we’d need to protect against her.”

The discontent brews in his chest, releasing itself in a gruff exhale. “Such a risk…”

“I trust our brother.”

Jon clenches his jaw, his eyes roving her face, leaning toward her without realizing it. He stops breaths away from her. He lifts a hand to trace up her arm, along her shoulder, dipping down toward her collarbone.

Sansa sucks a breath between her teeth, swift and quiet. She does not pull from him.

Jon’s eyes follow the trail his fingers make along the edge of her dress. “The lords will not like an alliance with the Lannisters. I’m not sure I like an alliance with the Lannisters.”

Sansa huffs, and the sound almost makes him laugh, his smile a worn and weathered thing when it touches his lips.

“They will follow you if you lead them,” she tells him, and it seems such a simple thing when she says it. It seems such a simple, indisputable thing.

His eyes flick down to her lips, his hand around her elbow dragging her to him, bracing her against his chest as his other hand slips back along the nape of her neck. He revels in the mute gasp that leaves her parted lips, the flex of her throat beneath her swallow. “You can be so sure?” he asks, not knowing why it should matter so much. Not knowing and yet –

Knowing exactly.

“King Jon of House Stark” she’d called him.

(How he wants to hear the words again – how he wants to watch them stain her lips when he takes her.)

Sansa lifts her chin, baring her pale throat in the low firelight. “They’ve followed you thus far,” she says. “They will follow you further yet.”

She’s a slight thing, even for her height – all spine and teeth – but she fills his hands seamlessly, his palms fitting perfectly to the mold of her.

“Tell me again,” he whispers at her mouth, suddenly ragged with the need, suddenly quaking in his own skin.

Sansa’s brows dip down in confusion, her mouth parting.

Jon steps into her, walking her back, past the hearth, its flames spitting hot and unrelenting at their retreating forms through the shadows. Sansa stumbles when she hits the desk, one hand going out to steady herself along the ledge, the other still held at his chest. “Jon,” she breathes, voice catching.

“Tell me again,” he demands. “King Jon of House Stark…” It’s a heavy pant at her lips.

Sansa’s eyes flash with understanding.

He presses his hips to hers, pins her there against the desk. He braces his mouth just above hers, his hand winding into her hair to keep her to him. “My name,” he tells hers – begs her, teeth clenching behind a desperate mouth.

Sansa slides her hand up his chest and then along his neck, sinking into his hair. “Your Grace,” she breathes at his mouth, fingers clenching at the nape of his neck.

With a throaty moan, Jon’s hand leaves her arm and winds around her waist, fisting in the folds of her dress, digging into her hip with an urgency that sets them both to trembling. “Sansa,” he pants against her.

“My king,” she whispers darkly, and he groans in response, hand clenching in her hair, tongue wetting his lips, breath raking from him in ragged, unrepentant bursts – so close, so devastatingly close – and damn Arya’s warning, damn their disgrace – not now, not here – with her so warm and pliant in his hands and he leans in, eyes fluttering closed, a needy sigh already teasing his lips, the taste of her – just there – and –

A knock at the door.

Jon groans his frustration, lips half a whisper from hers, hands already fisted in her hair and her dress and the intoxicating, breathless whole of her.

“Your Grace,” sounds Davos’ voice through the door.

Jon pulls back from her, just slightly, just enough to meet her eyes. “What is it?” he barks.

Sansa hums quietly at his chest, nails dragging at the base of his skull.

Jon closes his eyes to the lure, smothering his own impulses.

A quiet shuffle sounds on the other side of the door, and then his Hand clears his throat. “A raven from Eastwatch, Your Grace.”

Jon glances toward the door, mouth parting. He looks back to Sansa in his arms, watches the shift of heat in her eyes dim to a familiar cold calculation.

“Tormund,” he says softly, eyes still fixed to hers.

She nods, seems to steady herself, head dipping low, breath easing into something slow and manageable, her fingers thrumming just the once along the nape of his neck to return his attention. “Go,” she tells him, when they finally lock gazes again.

Jon swallows thickly, hesitating, his chest still heaving, his mouth still aching for hers.

Her hand slips from his neck and he feels the loss instantly. “Go,” she says again, almost reproachfully this time.

He growls his frustration – with Davos’ interruption, with Tormund’s sudden letter, with her own sense of practicality. Jon curses beneath a sharp exhale – a heady, breathless thing – but he’s already pulling from her, already disentangling from her enticing heat. He nods, lips turned into a harsh frown.

She releases him first, but her touch lingers long after he’s left her side.

* * *

The summit recommences the next morning. Everyone resumes their places from the day before, and Sansa has to admit to her surprise at every seat still being filled. She half-expected to find certain lords (and queens) to have abandoned their efforts at peace. There is hope yet, she finds.

Or perhaps that is being generous. Perhaps it is better to say that there are still demands to be made. Perhaps it isn’t peace that keeps them here at all.

It is of little matter, she tells herself. Jon will get them North, one way or another. This she knows, because to accept anything less makes them as good as dead already.

Sansa glances to Theon beside her, eyes searching. He shakes his head slowly, a grim expression on his face.

No word from Yara, then.

Sansa takes a deep breath in, turns back to the floor, to her brother making his way to the center once greetings have been properly addressed.

“My lords and ladies,” he starts, and then to Daenerys, “Your Grace.”

She nods appreciatively.

Jon continues briskly. “I’ll not waste any more time.” He raises a hand, an unfurled raven scroll resting between his fingers. “Last night I received a raven from Tormund Giantsbane at Eastwatch. The army of the dead is already at the Wall.”

Murmurs break out amongst the crowd, unsettling them. Tyrion steps out from beside his queen to reach for the scroll.

Jon hands it to him for confirmation, not waiting to continue. “I don’t think you all quite understand the level of this threat, the numbers we’re facing.” His voice is low, gravelly, a strum of anger already lighting it.

They’ve wasted enough time already, to have come to this.

“The dead are quite literally climbing the Wall,” he stresses, pacing the room to look each occupant in the eye. “Thousands of them – hordes of them – climbing over each other, body upon body toward the top, cascading over the edge like a waterfall.”

Sansa closes her eyes to the image, her throat tightening beneath the latent fear. She smothers it well.

“A fall like that may kill a man, but the dead feel no such effects. They topple over the wall in a flood, resuming their march on the other side – on our side. And they do not stop,” he bellows, looking around the room. “The dead have no need for sleep, or food, or rest of any sort. We’re losing precious time. And we need to be there now.”

Daenerys bends her ear to Tyrion when he returns to her side, something whispered between them that never makes it to air. Jaime sits straighter in his seat, eyes focused in a way Sansa hasn’t seen before. Euron stews impatiently in his own seat.

Jon gives the crowd a moment, but only a moment, and then he’s plowing on. “The time has passed to argue the North’s sincerity. You either believe me, or you don’t. But that isn’t the point anymore. So, let’s cut all the horseshit and talk about why we’re all really here, hmm?” His eyes grow hard. “Everyone in this room wants something. Now, some of those things are in my power to grant, but others,” he says, gaze flickering toward Daenerys, “are not – and neither should they be.”

“If I may – ” Tyrion starts, never getting the chance to finish.

“Theon Greyjoy,” Jon calls out, turning to the man swiftly.

Tyrion stares dumbly at Jon as he ignores him.

Theon blinks up at Jon, standing swiftly, a measure of uncertainty lighting his frame, even with his shoulders straight and chin raised. “Your Grace,” he answers.

“You and your sister want the North’s support for her claim as queen of the Iron Islands, and our acknowledgement of your kingdom’s independence.”

Theon’s mouth opens, closes, opens again. Finally, he simply nods, hands folding behind his back.

Jon eyes him darkly, and for a moment, Sansa thinks he may take it all back. His word, his assurance, his trust. She sucks a quiet breath between her teeth, wanting to reach for Theon and yet knowing that she shouldn’t. She stays deathly still – hanging on a precipice.

Jon’s eyes find hers for the briefest of moments, something passing over his gaze she can’t identify, but then he’s looking back at Theon, and she has to remind herself to breathe.

“You shall have it,” Jon says finally, jaw clenching after the words.

Euron scoffs across from them, moving to rise in objection when Daenerys’ upheld hand halts him. She stays watching the exchange intently, lips dipped into a frown. Euron grumbles his reluctance as he retakes his seat.

“Your Grace,” Theon says, half question, half disbelief, his brows dipping low, and Sansa wants to hold him suddenly. She resists the urge to the point of pain.

Jon doesn’t forgive Theon, she knows, and he might not ever. But she has never asked him to, and never will. She has learned to lay her brothers down in the deep. She has learned to let them rest. Not because forgiveness comes easier to her, but because survival does.

Sansa learned long ago to bury her loves, or they will bury her. It started with Lady, and then never seemed to stop. There are holes in her heart dug in the shape of graves, and she knows now that some unearthings can never be.

She does not ask of Jon what he cannot give.

“Lady Olenna,” he goes on, turning to the Tyrell matriarch. Theon sits back down, hands fluttering over his knees in a motion to calm.

Sansa blinks back the ache, focusing.

Olenna cocks her head at Jon in expectance, a familiar, challenging smirk tugging at her lips.

Jon nods to her. “You want my assurance that I’ll not seek another crown – that the North keeps to the North and does not interfere with the sovereignty of the other kingdoms.”

Her only answer is a purse of her lips, a lone nail tapping along her armrest.

“You shall have it.”

“And your proof of the dead?” she eggs on, smirk still steadily put.

Jon releases a low chuckle, hand wiping down his mouth. “And my proof,” he repeats, mumbling the sentiment as though to himself. He shakes his head, not even sparing Theon a glance. “That’s seeming more and more unlikely as time persists.”

Olenna steeples her hands together over her lap, considering, but Jon isn’t one to linger.

“Ser Jaime,” he says, turning to the Lannister knight.

A single, cocked brow is his only acknowledgement.

Jon licks his lips, fingers flexing at his sides. “You want your sister’s killer.”

A thick silence pervades the room. Tyrion dips his head, shoulders bunching with his unsteady exhale. Jaime stares unblinkingly at Jon, his one good hand curled stiffly over the armrest.

Jon takes a breath, jaw grinding. “You shall have it,” he promises lowly.

Jaime stands swiftly, pushing from his seat with such a fervency Jon’s Northern guard shifts into a ready stance, the clang of their arms resounding in the room.

Everything goes eerily still.

Jaime stands staring at Jon, his face screwed up into a visage of quiet wrath, a dangerously still vehemence. “What did you say?” he breathes out, the words slipping through bared teeth.

To her credit, Arya does not flinch a single muscle in Baelish’s skin. Sansa can see her watching the exchange from her place two seats down from the Protector of the Vale. Somewhere behind Sansa, Brienne shifts, a barely-heard rustle of armor. But it’s there all the same.

Jon turns fully to Jaime. “The North will pledge to search for Cersei’s killer and bring her to justice.”

Somewhere behind him, Lord Glover grumbles a curse but Lady Mormont’s sharp gaze silences him. Sansa sends the girl a grateful look and Lyanna nods in return, chin tilted high.

Jaime takes a step closer, stiff and warring. “You know who killed her?”

“No,” Jon lies easily enough, a trickle of pity lining his voice just enough to lend it some truth. “But we will.” A short pause. “Lord Baelish,” he calls, turning to the mock Littlefinger.

Arya offers a perfectly piqued brow.

“You are a man of the world. You must lend your efforts to Ser Jaime’s quest. Commit your resources to discovering Cersei Lannister’s murderer.”

In Baelish’s skin, Arya takes an expected moment of silence, seeming to consider the request (or command, rather). She doesn’t spare a glance to either of her siblings, only nodding slowly to Jaime, a twist to her lips with just enough reluctance to seem credible.

Jaime exhales loudly, staggering back a step, eyes fixed to the false Littlefinger. There’s a pleading to his gaze that strikes Sansa with its earnestness, its unhindered sincerity. She tightens her hands over her lap at the sight.

Jon glances to his Northern guard, motioning for them to stand down. Jaime drops back down to his seat, glancing over to Tyrion. They stare silently at each other, and Tyrion is the first to look away, a wet sheen to his eyes that Sansa does not miss. It is hard for her to fathom anyone mourning the loss of Cersei Lannister, but then she remembers that day long ago in the gilded cage that was King’s Landing.

“Love no one but your children. On that front a mother has no choice.”

It’s perhaps the most honest, the most vulnerable, that Cersei has ever been with her. The moment wears at Sansa some nights, when she lays awake staring at the ceiling, an unspeakable sadness crashing through her.

Perhaps Cersei’s greatest mistake was in loving all the wrong people in all the wrong ways.

Sansa blinks back the sudden wetness at her eyes.

It doesn’t matter. It never did. Because dead is dead, and there is no way to love that into un-being.

She knows. She’s tried.

(The muddy steps at Baelor’s Sept will always be the start and end of every nightmare she ever has.)

Jon sighs heavily, shifting to face Daenerys, brows dipping down in consternation.

Sansa turns away from Jaime, ignoring the way he stares blandly at the floor, eyes grievous, jaw tight.

“Your Grace,” Jon addresses, stepping closer.

Daenerys lifts an interested brow, a look of amused curiosity crossing her features.

He licks his lips, taking a steadying breath. “You want the North – and others – ” he says, motioning toward the room, particularly to the silent, dwelling Jaime Lannister, “to declare you our queen, to welcome back a Targaryen reign – to bend the knee.”

Daenerys looks on smugly, back straight, a regality to her posture that Sansa imagines took years to turn from practiced to intrinsic.

Silently, Sansa waits for the break.

“But I cannot give you that,” Jon says firmly, eyes never leaving the dragon queen.

The room goes dead for many moments, and Sansa swears she can hear her pulse thrumming frantically in her own ears. She swallows back the trepidation, eyeing the room cautiously for any particular reactions.

Most telling is Daenerys herself, of course. It takes her a moment, a perfectly groomed eyebrow twitching in displeasure, but the shadow that crosses her face can be called nothing but Targaryen in its darkness.

Tyrion’s eyes widen, and he glances swiftly to his queen, then back to Jon, stepping forward as though to speak. Daenerys beats him to it.

“Just as much as you want me for an ally, Jon Snow, you would not want me for an enemy,” she guarantees evenly, a touch of calm to her voice that tells Sansa she is no stranger to voicing such threats.

It tightens the ball of anxiety in her stomach.

Euron smirks beside her.

Ser Davos tries for diplomacy. “Your Grace, please.” He takes a deep breath. “You’ve come to Westeros at an ill time. We’ve barely survived the carnage that the War of the Five Kings rained across the continent, and our people are tired of war and subjugation. A man just wants to till his own soil, to put food on the table for his wife and children, to swear to a lord that honors the protection of his own. That is the kind of freedom the North – and Westeros – wants.”

“And you think I cannot give them that?” she challenges, chest heaving with her indignant breath.

Jon steps forward, standing partially in front of his Hand. “What I think is that the last city you promised such freedom to has paid that price tenfold in blood. So, you’ll forgive us our skepticism, Your Grace.”

Her lips purse, nails digging into her armrests. “Come again?”

False-Baelish rises smoothly from his seat before Jon can speak further. “Your Grace, you must know by now the fate of Meereen? Your last conquest?”

“Know what?” she snaps.

Arya lets slip a barely held smirk across Baelish’s thin lips. “Daario Naharis is dead, Your Grace, as is the council you put in place before you abandoned the city. The Masters have made war on their former slaves. The streets run red with the blood of your promised ‘freedom’.”

Sansa sometimes thinks Arya plays her part too well, or rather that she enjoys it too well. Either way, it gets them a reaction.

At first, Daenerys is stiff, hardly moving, her eyes widening only minutely with what seems to be a previously unknown revelation, her nostrils flaring in her outrage. But then something shifts, a crease to her brow, a quiver to her jaw, the quick blinking of her violet eyes. It’s gone but a moment after it passes over her face.

Daario Naharis.

Sansa’s eyes narrow at the dragon queen. There was affection there. Perhaps there still is. Her heart clenches at the realization, a sliver of empathy bleeding out into the light. She smothers it instantly.

Daenerys clears her throat, the momentary exposure shuttered up with cool authority. “Lord Varys,” she calls, glancing toward him out of the corner of her eye.

He steps forward gracefully, head bowed.

“Is this true?” Her voice is low, a decibel away from being called a hiss.

Varys glances toward Baelish, eyes narrowed in consideration, a thoughtful breath leaving him. Eventually, he nods, his face shifting into one of remorse. “I apologize, Your Grace, for not informing you early. I thought the news would…detract you from your current goal.”

Her spine snaps impossibly straighter. “You are not responsible for deciding what it is I should or should not know, Lord Varys. You will inform, and you will advise, but you will not omit. You will not presume to think for me, do you understand?”

“Of course, Your Grace.” Another bow of his head, hands still hidden in his sleeves. He keeps his gaze from Baelish this time, flicking toward Sansa instead.

She sucks a mute breath through her lips, face a blank visage, giving nothing away.

He only looks just a moment, but it’s enough to prickle her skin with unease.

“I suppose that’s what you should expect when you leave the running of state to a sellsword,” Lady Olenna throws out, shifting in her seat to a more comfortable position.

Daenerys gives her an unamused look.

Olenna rolls her eyes in the most ladylike fashion Sansa has yet to master.

“My queen, we must continue to look forward,” Tyrion interrupts, stepping up to her seat, just at her side. He raises his hand as though to settle it over hers on the armrest, perhaps in comfort, but a swift glance from her stills his hand mid-air. He flexes his fist, dropping his arm back to his side.

Sansa watches the quiet exchange with interest.

Tyrion clears his throat. “Your vision takes time. It takes patience, and endurance, and fortitude. But Westeros can only benefit from such vision.” He looks about the room, addressing the rest of the occupants now. “You say you want freedom? Well, sitting here before you is the Breaker of Chains. You want a strong leader? They call her Mhysa and the Unburnt. You want a way to win against this ‘Night’s King’? She is the Mother of Dragons!” He pauses, takes a breath, steadies his voice. “We’ve all had our failings – some of us more than most.” He hardly dares to meet Jaime’s eyes across the way. “There isn’t a person in this room who can say otherwise,” he says critically, voice hardening. “But Daenerys is the queen we need. Now – at the edge of this ‘Long Night’ – and always.”

Sansa bristles at the words – even more so with the fervency with which he says them.

This is not the man she remembers. But then, none of them are who she remembers. Every person in this room is a stranger of sorts – even Jon.

None of these faces filled her childhood. It is not something she mourns. It is just a truth. Just the way of life.

(She does not think she could have Jon the way she does now if he still wore the face from her childhood.)

“You’ll forgive my reluctance to follow a Targaryen, brother,” Jaime says finally, “given my history with the last one I served. A pretty face is not enough to save you from madness.”

Daenerys flashes unforgiving eyes his way. “Brave words from a murderer.”

Jaime leans forward suddenly, face screwed into something ugly. “And I’d murder him again, given the chance.”

Daenerys steals a heated breath through her lungs, eyes darkening dangerously, mouth curling into a sharp scowl. “Shall I just present my back to you now? Would that be sufficient invitation?”

“’Burn them all’,” Sansa says with a dark inflection, the words staining her lips in their heat.

Daenerys snaps her violet gaze to her, sharp and focused, mouth tipped open as though to speak, but no words come.

Jaime turns stiffly to her as well, but his gaze shifts quickly to the sworn shield at her back, and she doesn’t have to look at Brienne to know that she’s staring resolutely away from Jaime. Sansa swallows tightly, meeting Daenerys’ incredulous stare. “That’s what your father told him.”

Murmurs break out across the room once more, and Jon swings his startled gaze to Sansa.

(It’d been a moment of quiet confidence when Brienne admitted to her conversation with Jaime, his confession in the hot pools. She’d vouched for him, and not without reason.)

This is the man who almost killed their father in the open streets, bringing him to his knees, and back into the Lannister fold, where he eventually lost his head.

Sansa swallows down the bile.

This is also the man who killed the king who brutally murdered their grandfather and uncle, who would have brutally murdered more, had he not acted.

She is tired of trying to understand Lannisters. She doesn’t want to anymore. She wants nothing to do with them, really. But she’s played the game long enough to know that sometimes enemies make the best allies, when you know how to shift the board. She won’t forget that lesson easily.

Baelish taught it to her well, after all.

(Some wounds linger, she remembers.)

“Just before Ser Jaime here stuck a blade in him, that’s what your father said – with caches of wildfire buried beneath King’s Landing. ‘Burn them all’.”

Daenerys swallows thickly, eyes riveted to hers. Her ire bleeds from her slowly, almost imperceptibly, if one wasn’t watching closely enough.

But Sansa is watching.

The murmurs around the hall grow louder, shouts interspersing the rush of whispers, a wave of agitation and confusion sweeping over the room.

“Would you do the same?” Sansa asks her evenly, gaze a frost blue.

Daenerys opens her mouth, stops, huffs her frustration, clamps her mouth shut tightly. The words pry beneath her skin, Sansa knows.

“Would you do the same, Your Grace?” she urges, not letting up.

Chin raised, Daenerys blinks back the daze. “I am not my father,” she seethes, voice a tremulous wind, something of pain seeping through.

Sansa only stares at her. Jon sighs, wiping a hand down his mouth, looking about the room.

“Your Grace,” Ser Davos begins, an imploring look on his face, “You’ve given us no proof of that one way or the other. But perhaps, this is your chance.”

Daenerys throws a withering look at Davos, but she makes no comment.

“The last Targaryen to sit the Iron Throne murdered our grandfather and uncle in open court, and then demanded that Lord Arryn of the Vale break guest right and kill our father, as well,” Sansa continues, back straight in her seat. “King Aerys broke faith with his lordships first, and the Starks have more reason than most to refuse Targaryen rule, yet here we are, asking you for help, putting aside past grievances – justified grievances – because none of this will matter if we don’t stop the dead. None of this will matter when we are the dead.”

Daenerys takes a heavy breath, the ire now dimmed in her eyes.

Jon steps forward, dark eyes steady on Daenerys. “Make no mistake, Your Grace, that’s exactly what’ll happen if we don’t stand together – all of us, every single person here.” He turns to take in the room. “I can’t promise that we’ll win. I can only promise that the North will fight regardless. Now, I’ve come here to ask the same of you. You’ve all heard my arguments, and you’ve made your demands. But it’s time to decide. I understand if you need your proof, but the North can’t wait any longer. The dead are already at our door and we leave for Winterfell in the morning, with or without allies.” He looks pointedly at Jaime, a barely discernible nod sent his way.

Euron looks as though he’s ready to object when Daenerys’ upraised hand silences him in his seat. He grumbles reluctantly, but she’s looking at Jon with an expression of serious consideration. Sansa is too practical to call the feeling that brews in her chest hopeful, however.

Another silence pervades the room, this one so stilted and heavy that Sansa can feel it in her lungs. A shuffle of feet here, the creak of a chair there. ��A cough, a grumble, the rustle of fabric as someone shifts in their seat. It’s suffocating suddenly – this stagnation, this utter and useless stillness.

Sansa wants to howl for it.

“You won’t be leaving alone, Your Grace.”

Sansa’s gaze snaps to her uncle, watching wide-eyed as Edmure Tully is the one to rise from his seat, hands tugging his jerkin into place, chin raised even while his jaw quakes. He nods to Jon, swallowing tightly before speaking. “The Tullys broke bread with the Starks once, not so long ago.” His gaze shifts to Sansa, infinitely tender and resolute all at once. “’Family, duty, honor’. I’ll be damned if I’m the first Tully who disgraces those words.”

Sansa’s heart swells.

Just behind her, Brynden lets a gruff smile grace his features, eyes crinkling.

Jon’s brows rise in surprise, but only for a moment, before his face softens into a weary gratitude, nodding stiffly. An appreciative smile tugs at his lips as he allows himself the smallest sigh of relief.

Sansa cannot hide her smile at the sight, glancing down to her lap.

“The Vale is with you, Your Grace,” Lord Royce pledges as he stands, glancing down toward Robin, who looks up at him only mildly alarmed before he settles back in his seat at the nod of reassurance both Royce and Baelish give him. “Aye,” the young lord croaks out, clearing his throat, trying again. “Aye, King Jon, you have the Vale as well.” Robin puffs his chest out with the words, shoulders pulled back in a show of confidence Sansa is sure he doesn’t entirely feel, but is grateful for, nonetheless.

Jon turns to address the rest of the lords but never gets the chance. The sound of boots thumping on the hard stone sounds just moments before a Northern guard bursts through the door to the hall, panting, eyes wide. “Your Grace! Your Grace!” he shouts, taking a large gulp of air after his apparent sprint.

Davos stands swiftly. “What is it, man?”

“At the gate,” he says, bracing his hands to his knees as he tries to breathe. “It’s – it’s Yara Greyjoy!”

Theon jolts to a stand, eyes wide, and the room erupts behind him, Euron the loudest of them.

It’s moments later that Yara breaks into the hall, blood dried at her temple, hair and coat still speckled with snow, kicking a shackled undead into the center of the room, its snarl chocked off by the leash around its neck.

Daenerys stares on in dawning horror. Jaime’s jaw sets, his eyes hardening. Olenna blinks back the shock, glancing toward Sansa.

“Good thing these fuckers hate the water,” Yara says, wiping a hand under her nose, a brilliant smile breaking across her mud-streaked face as she braces a boot to the back of the scrambling corpse’s neck. “So, when do we leave?”

* * *

It doesn’t take long for Jaime Lannister and Olenna Tyrell to pledge to the North after Yara’s dramatic entrance, with the lords from the Stormlands following suit shortly after. Daenerys makes a grand enough speech about fighting for the people, about burning the evil away, and Jon suffers through it as stoically as he can, knowing it’s a small price to pay to guarantee her forces come North.

Euron Greyjoy, however, has different plans than his queen. He takes one look at the wight and renounces his support, cursing all of them for fools, ignoring Daenerys’ call to heel when he turns his back on her and makes for his ships at the coast.

They’re already on their march North when they hear word that Euron hadn’t even made it to Harrenhal, let alone Gulltown. Daenerys Targaryen doesn’t take too kindly to desertion it seems, having burned him where he stood.

Jon’s sure it’s as much a punishment for Euron as it is a warning for the rest of them.

Do not betray the dragon, the warning says.

Jon feels the sinking dread like a stone in his gut when they pass through the gates of Winterfell and the shadow of dragon’s wings blankets the courtyard, darkening the image of their brother’s face as Bran sits waiting for them in reception.

He doesn’t have time to think about it though, because they throw themselves into preparations quickly enough, shoring up the walls, building trenches, forging weapons with the dragonglass Daenerys promises from Dragonstone. Tormund and his people make it to Winterfell days later, and Jon’s war council lasts long into the night that first eve of their return.

Sansa takes to the crypts more often of late, and this is where Jon finds her in the short hours before dawn once the council has let out. He’s been hesitant to breach her solitude, her sanctuary. She stitches black direwolves to her handkerchiefs these days, and it’s a likeness he wishes he could forget, but the severed head of Shaggydog is as haunting a memory as the arrow-riddled body of the young boy who loved him.

The brother who loved him.

Sansa stands before Rickon’s statue with her hands folded before her. A ring of winter roses lays at the base, slowly wilting.

She heaves a sigh, and it seems to take all of her, but her voice is steady when she tells him, “We’ll have to burn them.”

Her admission jars him into movement, a hand coming up to brace at her elbow. “Sansa.” There’s a question laced through her name he doesn’t know how to ask.

She turns to him then, just slightly, just enough to catch his gaze over her shoulder.

He has learned, after many moons, how to read Sansa Stark’s grief – how to discern it by the lines of her face, the stiffness of her frame, the heady weight of her silence.

His fingers curl more surely around her elbow.

“If we want to survive the Long Night, then we will have to burn them.”

Jon looks past her down the long tunnel of crypts. It’s a shadow-drenched cavern of memory and stone and deep, still quiet that takes him – an ages-old memoriam of long dead Starks. It’s a line that stretches far, and he remembers suddenly, that it’s a line he is never to join.

King in the North he may be, but never a Stark.

Jon grinds his teeth, the ache in his jaw an easy distraction.

He’d hoped to be buried here one day. A child’s dream, perhaps. A foolish wish.

Jon wants to laugh suddenly. To laugh and laugh and choke on it – because what a joke. The gods have ill humor, and he has little appreciation for it.

Sansa reaches a hand to his side, fingers clutching at his furs. He sends a baleful look her way.

“I’ll light the fires myself,” she says softly at his side, and he has to swallow back the tartness, eyes fluttering closed at the breath that stains his lungs. “With Bran and Arya,” she finishes, voice softer than he’s ever heard.

He reaches a hand to the small of her back, dragging her against him.

She settles a palm at his chest where his heart lies, beaten and floundering.

“I would not have you buried here,” she mutters against his shoulder.

Jon grips at her dress, fingers bunching in the material at her back.

“Not yet,” she finishes, mouth sliding against his throat. “Not for many years to come.”

He should take it as the hope it is, as the single, rare confession it is – that she isn’t ready for him to leave this world.

But something too long festered flares to life at the words. Something too darkly honed.

The hand bunched in her dress draws upwards, dragging the material with it. He presses into her, backing her up against the wall.

Sansa looks up at him with a flicker of concern, hands bracing at his shoulders.

He’s silent as he unfastens his cloak, letting it fall to the cold ground at his feet. He pulls his jerkin free of his breeches, unlacing it with practiced ease.

Sansa stares at him, breath hitching. Her hands hover uncertainly in the air above his shoulders, her hips pinned to the wall by his. “Jon.”

His jerkin hits the floor alongside his cloak, his eyes never leaving hers. He pulls his tunic free of his breeches, hands moving to the laces at his groin. Sansa’s hands fumble to stop him.

“Jon, please, what are you – ”

“I’m a Stark, aren’t I?” It’s a guttural rush of air that leaves him.

Sansa’s hands still over his. She blinks furiously at him, mouth parting, cheeks heated at his stare.

“You said it yourself,” he whispers, chest heaving.

Sansa’s eyes shift between his, tongue darting out to lick her lips in her anticipation. “Jon.”

“You said it yourself,” he hisses now, accusingly, a bite behind his words he hasn’t a name for. And then he’s rucking up her skirts, a hand gliding to the back of her knee, tugging it up over his hip.

Sansa gasps, arching against the wall instinctively. She pushes her skirts down frantically, chest rising and falling so fast she’s getting lightheaded. “Jon, wait, this isn’t – this isn’t – ”

His mouth finds her throat, his tongue reckless and heated against her flesh. Sansa’s head lolls back against the wall. “Jon,” she pants, fingers stilling at his shoulders with a fierce grip. “Jon, what – ”

He grabs at her wrists, tugging them up above her head, holding them there with a single, calloused palm. His other hand undoes the laces of his breeches completely. “I’m a Stark, aren’t I?” he asks again, the heat of resentment and longing and regret flaring white-hot inside him. It comes out a growl. It comes out a desperation.

Sansa’s chest heaves against his, tongue wetting her lips. “Jon.”

And he’s just so tired of hearing that name. Just so fucking tired of it.

He rucks her skirts up, tearing at her smallclothes, fumbling recklessly for the heat of her, that throbbing, sodden heat of her.

Jon groans when his fingers find home. He nips at her lips, catching her hitched breath between his teeth. “This is where I belong,” he says without repentance, sliding into her on a hissed breath, his head dropping to her shoulder as he shudders against her, a deep-seated groan leaving him.

Sansa’s sharp inhale sounds against his temple, her hips pushing up to meet him.

Jon releases her wrists, grabbing for her thighs instead, hoisting her up against the wall as he thrusts deeper, drawing her legs around his waist.

A sigh of contentment breaks against his ear, his name lost in the space between their pants, and he remembers suddenly.

He remembers where they are.

“Don’t stop,” Sansa moans breathlessly.

He grinds his hips into hers faster, deeper, with a mercilessness that almost scares him in its intensity. One of her hands reaches out to steady herself, bracing against the base of Rickon’s statue. Jon looks decidedly away from the motion.

He only fucks his sister harder.

The crypts fill with their ragged pants, their dark curses, the fumble of their forms against the crude stone.

“This is where I belong,” he groans against her mouth, biting down on her bottom lip.

Sansa cries out, nails digging into the naked flesh of his hips, drawing him deeper into her, and he feels himself breaking, crashing, barreling into her with a ferocity he’s never felt for anything – anyone – no one but her. “Mine,” he growls into her mouth, fingers bruising on her thighs, teeth etching their mark along her throat. He braces a single, trembling hand against the wall at her back, the rough stone cutting into his palm as his thrusts grow frantic and uneven. He curls his bloodied hand along the stone wall, nails catching on the rock, and he anchors himself amidst the tide.

“Mine.”

It’s a shadow-drenched cavern of memory that takes him. A place of no light. A hollow of stone so entrenched with the dead he finds a familiar home.

Sansa does not let him go.

Even when he spills inside her.

Even when he mars her thighs with the discoloration of his need.

Mine, he swears.

The declaration clatters around the stone crypts like a herald of war.

* * *

{“Fire sows no seeds,” he tells her. “It molds no stones. It tills no earth. How could it ever fashion life from death?”

Sansa stops, looking down at her still brother, knuckles white where her hands grip at each other in their wringing. She slinks slowly back to her chair, the wind rushing from her in something not unlike defeat. She is just so lonely, suddenly – so desolate and worn and without him.

Without Jon.

“You knew all along?” she asks almost plaintively, exhaustion echoing along her words. “You knew the dragons weren’t…” She stops, swallows, tries again. “You didn’t bring them here to defeat the dead. You brought them here because only the dead could defeat them.”

Bran gives her a look that could only pass for calculating – foreign and jarring though it is on her brother’s tender features. “She was never the solution,” he answers her.}

#jonsa #jon and sansa #jon x sansa #jon snow #sansa stark #arya stark #house stark #starklings #my writing #game of thrones #got fanfic #a violence done most kindly

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