#shoutout to the person who send me this and spend nearly 2 hours on my account sending boring rude asks

[crystaljins]

When the ice melts

Characters: Jimin x Reader

Word count: 10.8K

Synopsis:  They say never meet your heroes, and never has that been truer than when you meet your idol- former figure skater and two time Olympic athlete, Park Jimin. But maybe you can turn things around...

Sports!au (Figure skating) + prompt: “You did that on purpose, didn’t you?”

Notes: Here is my entry for the btsboulangerie August prompt! I will say, the only things I know about figure skating is from hours of watching Yuzuru Hanyu skate and let’s be real, he inspired a lot of the plotline to this fic. Do yourself a favour and look up the following things on youtube before reading:  Yuzuru Hanyu’s performance at the 2014 Cup of China, his performance to Notte Stellata, and Mao Asada’s performance to Rachmaninoff’s Concerto No. 2 (I can send you the links to all of these if you PM me ;).)

Huge shoutout to @yoongi-sugaglider for her inspiration and encouragement while writing this fic.

EDIT: Now with bonus drabble found here.

Warnings: Mentions of blood, bits of angst and fluff, a few scenes that a bit suggestive but not explicit, mentions of hooking up at a club.

 You’re sceptical from the moment you set foot into the club.

“Are you sure he’s here, Jungkook?” You call out urgently to your friend, struggling to keep up with him amidst the mass of pulsating bodies. You’re surprised he hears you over the heavily thumping bass.

“This is the kind of place you’re always going to find Jimin in. At least since his accident, that is.” Jungkook answers ominously as he continues to plough carelessly forward. He is nowhere near as uneasy as you are in such a place. As he loves to remind you, he has actively engaged in a social life outside of the ice rink you spend most of your waking hours in. In fact, after high school he actually lost most of his interest in being on the ice, despite his former status as a talented and well-loved hockey player. Instead he now focuses his attention into his degree in sports science. He still works at the ice rink your father owns part time, however, and it was during one of his shifts that he let slip that he personally knew your hero and idol, Park Jimin.

It was that fact that had led you to your current location. Park Jimin, two-time Olympic gold medallist and possibly the most skilled and talented figure skater in the history of the sport, had dropped off the ice-skating radar just two years prior. Such a fact had not deterred you from viewing him with the adoration and eagerness that only a loyal fan could understand. And so, the revelation that your good friend Jungkook knew him personally could only have one possible outcome. You had demanded that he introduce you to your hero. You’ve been a fan of Jimin since his first gold medal win at the tender age of 16, while you had been a starry-eyed 12-year-old taking figure skating lessons in the ice rink your father owned. And after much pestering and begging, Jungkook finally agreed to arrange your meeting.

Had Jungkook more tact and emotional sensitivity, he may have possibly taken you aside and reminded you of the sobering fact: One should never meet one’s hero. He does no such thing, however, and you are so busy in your eager plotting of how you could ask Jimin to coach you that you don’t even pause to consider the fact that you might be disappointed.  

As it stands, you nearly collide with Jungkook’s sturdy back when he halts without warning before a plush booth built into the wall of the night club. Your heart nearly skips a beat- this is it, you realise, as you lean ever so slightly to peer around your friend’s back. This is the pinnacle of your career. From the moment you first laid eyes on Jimin’s skills, you have eagerly awaited this moment. His poster has been on your bedroom wall for nearly ten years at this stage. You’ve never been fortunate to see one of his routines live- this is the first opportunity you have ever had to see your role model up close. You inhale deeply as you focus your eyes on his figure.

Only to find him otherwise occupied. He is engaged in a fierce lip-lock with a young woman who seems very comfortable seated upon his lap. Immediately you are mortified and straighten, allowing Jungkook to once more obscure your view of Jimin. It is not like you expected much from his meeting, or that you had anything more than the sort of crush a schoolgirl might have on a celebrity, but it is still, for some reason, crushing to see him in such a way. Your intentions in meeting him had been entirely innocent- you just want him to choreograph your next routine for the competition you have coming up. You had been recruited for the national team on the Olympics just 6 months earlier and this will be your last solo competition before you begin training with the national team for the Olympics which takes place in just one year. A chance to work with Park Jimin would be a tick on your bucket list. Still, your visceral reaction is also due to the realisation that perhaps Jungkook had not warned Jimin that he had arranged your meeting. Which means your request could be entirely unwelcome.

Jungkook seems undeterred by Jimin’s activities and folds his arms. He clears his throat loudly. The music is quieter here and normal conversation is possible, but Jimin does not immediately detangle from his… friend and so you think that perhaps he hasn’t heard Jungkook. But Jungkook merely waits and eventually Jimin pulls away with a long-suffering sigh.

“I’m busy.” Jimin snaps, and these are the first words you hear from your hero. Jungkook rolls his eyes.

“I only agreed to meet you here and not in a coffeeshop because you promised you wouldn’t pull this kind of stunt. You’re being rude to my friend.” Jungkook complains. Jimin smiles apologetically at the girl in his lap, who seems unbothered by the interruption and merely gets to her feet and vanishes into the crowd without a word of greeting. Jimin stares after her for a long moment before allowing his gaze to settle on you and Jungkook. You suddenly feel exposed beneath his stare- you should have dressed more nicely, more impressively. Isn’t appearance so important in the sport you have chosen? The unimpressed expression upon Jimin’s face as his eyes slide passively over you certainly confirms that.

“Hello,” You begin with an awkward smile, ducking your head politely. “It’s such a pleasure to meet you! I’m (Y/N) and I wanted to ask you if you’d-“

“This is the girl you were telling me about, Kook?” Jimin interrupts. Up close, he is beautiful in a way that cameras and youtube videos cannot portray. His face is smooth and sculpted and there is a chilling beauty to the detached way he regards you. There is also a subtle disgust to his gaze that mars his handsome features, however. And its directed purely at you- beneath its intensity you feel your gut roll and you battle the urge to empty the contents of your stomach before his neatly polished shoes. “Her?” He repeats for emphasis. “In the Olympics?”

Jungkook, ever the loyal friend, looks like he may actually leap to your defence. But you are quicker. Though you have always been on the quieter side, too preoccupied with your sport to focus on much else, you have never lacked a backbone. And if there’s one thing you are confident about, it is your skill on the ice. Suddenly you feel anger. How dare Jimin, legendary ice skater or not, evaluate your skill and worthiness to be in the Olympics without even having glimpsed your ice skating? How dare he be so shallow as to think your outward appearance is in anyway indicative of your passion and joy in your beloved sport?

“How dare you.” You snarl. Jimin looks mildly amused at your anger and watches you through narrowed eyes.

“Something wrong, sweetheart?” He mocks. He leans forward and rests his chin idly in his hand. His hair is pushed up and carefully done and it is no wonder that women would fawn over him in such away. He is unfairly handsome in his white button down and well-fitted black trousers. “Do you think you’re special? Do you even know what it takes to get to the Olympics? Because I do, and,” He looks you up and down, your frumpy sweater and messy hair. He wrinkles his nose. You’d come straight from the rink because Jungkook hadn’t told you Jimin would be at a club, and so you look completely out of place. “I don’t think you have it.”

“You haven’t even seen me skate.” You retort hotly. You had never imagined you would one day address your idol with such contempt. But he has proven to be anything but the man you used to worship. Jimin seems surprised at your vitriolic interruption. You look at Jungkook, who looks apologetic and inhale deeply. “I was going to ask you to coach me, and honestly, I would have walked away without a complaint if you’d just said no. But you don’t get to judge my worthiness to be on the ice without even seeing how I skate. I bleed, sweat, and cry on that ice. You don’t get to scoff at me before you’ve even seen what I can do.”

You cannot, for the life of you, give a reason behind your next action. But fuelled by your anger and indignance, you reach into your bag and pull out a crumpled flyer, with the address and directions to your father’s ice rink printed across it. You hold it out towards Jimin who, after a moment of hesitation, accepts the piece of paper.

“I’ll be here practicing tomorrow, if you change your mind and want to see what I can do.” You say quickly. “If you want a chance to be part of something big, then I guess I’ll see you there. But if you want to sit here and get drunk and reminisce about when you had what it took, then be my guess. Have fun watching me perform at the Olympics and knowing you could have been there with me.”

And with that, you stride off, leaving Jimin alone at his booth with an impressed Jungkook in tow.

“Wow, ice queen,” Jungkook calls, when you’re outside the club and able to converse at a normal volume once more. “I never thought you had it in you.”

You don’t pause your hurried walking, however, until you are sure you have left the club well behind.

And then you promptly crumble to the ground, hands shaking and eyes wide.

“Did I… did I really just say all that?” You asks breathily, dizzy now that the adrenaline and anger has fled your system. “To the Park Jimin?” Jungkook laughs and pulls you to your feet with a hand around your arm.

“You absolutely did.” Jungkook declares proudly. “And I can’t wait to see the look on his face when he sees you skating tomorrow.”

“I shouldn’t have said all that!” You lament, and Jungkook laughs.

“As much as I love him, Jimin has needed a kick in the arse ever since his injury and he needs more in his life than just alcohol and girls. You did a good thing. Now come on, I’ll drop you home so you can get a good rest before showing Jimin how it’s really done.” Jungkook reassures you, dragging you off before you can freak out any further.

And you placidly follow, now filled with dread at what is to come.

++

The sun is too bright and the inside of Jimin’s mouth tastes worse than a men’s urinal. He’s hungover and grumpy and your irritating words ring in his head. And the absolute icing on the cake- he wakes up alone in his bed, instead of with the hot girl he’d been on the verge of going home with before you showed up. He’s going to kill Jungkook. He should have known from the second that Jungkook offhandedly mentioned he had a friend good enough to be in the Olympics that last night was going to suck.

So then, why the hell does Jimin find himself gazing with disgust at the ice rink you had mentioned you’d be practicing at, not an hour after that awful wakeup? He can still vaguely taste vomit in the back of his throat and the sunglasses he wears aren’t big enough or dark enough to lessen the stabbing sensation from the sun. He shouldn’t have drunk nearly as much as he did last night but he’d needed to forget. Your voice and your face and that look in your eyes. The spark, as you had talked about your skating. He’s seen it before- he used to see it every day, when he looked in the mirror before leaving for early morning practice. That spark has long since died- it’s been gone since the moment the doctors told him he would never skate competitively again.

It’s not too late- he can still leave. Pretend he never saw you and that your words didn’t burrow frustratingly deep beneath is skin. He could go back to his life of partying and drinking and struggling to forget a life he cannot leave behind. But he doesn’t want to. He needs vindication- he needs to see how bad you are, so that he can close up the gaping wound you’d reopened. So many old feelings of hurt and bitterness and agony have suddenly been dredged up and he needs something to seal it over. To ignore the ragged, ugly scar on his heart, and this time all the alcohol and drugs and women in the world will not smooth the rough edges. So he sips aggressively from the cheap coffee he’d picked up on the way which tastes like garbage and doesn’t even bother to remove his shades as he steps into the ice-skating rink.

At this hour, there is no one present but you. He’s momentarily taken aback to see you, alone in the centre of the rink. You look different to the uneasy, poorly dressed young woman from last night. You had looked like a geek desperately in need of a makeover from a cheesy teen movie, but the lone figure in a sapphire blue dress ice looks… different. He can’t find the words but something foreign heats in his veins as he is overcome with something other than the nausea and disgust that he usually feels when presented with any aspect of his past.

Music startles him as it crackles in through the speaker. His heart leaps into his throat as he recognises the tune- Notte Stellata. You don’t even know he’s there, yet it can’t be a coincidence that that is the song you have chosen to practice. You extend your arms slowly in a delicate pose as the opening strains filter slowly through the air and he sees your shoulders raise in a gentle inhale.

And then you are gliding across the ice. If the spark he had seen in your eyes last night was enough to plague his thoughts for so many hours, it is nothing compared to the way you smoothly cut through the rink. Perhaps, he thinks, you were not born. Perhaps you were carefully crafted with a loving heart to soar on angel wings formed from thin silver blades. You lift into the air in a triple lutz and land with the lightness and grace of a swan and then you extend your arms outwards.

You’re beautiful. But suddenly it is not you or your performance that Jimin is seeing. Suddenly, in his mind’s eye, another figure that dances over the smooth pool. The figure cuts across the ice with an impressive power and grace- that figure brought tears to the eyes of people who knew nothing about figure skating. That figure was him. People called him the Swan, because of his grace and beauty on the ice. Magazine articles had described him as an artwork as intricate and valuable as the Mona Lisa or Van Gogh’s starry night. It was to this very song that he had stood on a podium at the Olympics and proudly received his first gold medal.

He squeezes his eyes shut before he can be greeted with what happened to that beautiful, mysterious figure. For it had all evaporated like a dream- the kind you awaken from with tears on your face without fully understanding why. His entire life had been ruined in one go. Just one year after his triumphant second gold medal win, he had been in a car accident. His body, carefully trained to float with ease over the ice, to make powerful, jaw-dropping manoeuvres seem as simple as inhaling and exhaling, had refused to obey him. A broken leg, shattered in a way that would never heal properly enough to allow him to competitively skate again. No amount of physiotherapy or surgery or desperation would allow him to shine in the Olympic rink again. There would be no third gold medal win. Every single moment of hard work throughout his entire youth was gone in a single accident.

And when he opens his eyes, only you remain on the ice, hauntingly beautiful in the way that he had thought only ice can be. Lonely and cold yet majestic. Figure skating is about conquering- about overcoming the harsh, unwelcoming cold and holding your ground through gravity defying flips and tricks. Constantly, the sport strips you of warmth and comfort and familiarity and requires gruelling work and pain and blood and danger. It takes something special to make something so ugly and painful look so beautiful. And that it what you have just done on the ice. Tears pour down his face and he is thankful for the way his sunglasses hide the agony that no doubt lingers in his expression. It’s been two whole year and yet the grief is as fresh as if it were yesterday. Somehow, despite the pains such a sport brings, his happiness was on that ice and it was been cruelly torn from him before he could even fathom what its loss would mean.

He clears his throat and covers his face by taking a long sip from his coffee cup as you are startled from your finishing pose. You were completely unaware of his presence and somehow that makes your performance more startingly beautiful- even alone, just practicing, there is such emotion and power in your skating. He now understands, why you were so offended when he brushed you off based off of a cursory glance. You are amazing- better even than he had been, perhaps.  And now he understands what you are- a chance to be part of something he had thought he had been removed from. He’s never been able to cut the love of figure skating away from himself- he would have better luck sawing out his own heart. And you have presented him with a chance to relive that joy- through you.

“A week,” He calls. Your hand is clasped over your heart, absolutely stunned by his presence. It is charming, that despite inviting him, you genuinely do not seem to have expected him to come. But he has come, and he’s going to take out all his fear and pain on you. He’s going to take you to the Olympics, and you have no one to blame but yourself. “Give me a week to work out a routine. You’re going to get a gold medal in this comp.”

And he can’t resist a parting shot as he leaves, before he takes his leave. Just one petty phrase, for the sake of his ego.

“Your landing for the double axel was too heavy and uncoordinated.”

And yet somehow you watch him go with an excited smile on your face.

++

A week later you arrive at the ice rink, your entire body pulsing with nerves. You had not thought Jimin would agree to choreograph your performance, and yet here you are. You can’t help but feel a bit of pride- your skating had clearly won him over, somehow. And so ,with your blood roaring through your veins, you take a step into the ice rink, feeling the familiar way cold air fills your lungs and settles into the base of your chest. You’ve always found the sensation enlivening- never are you more alive than when you are on the ice. And while you have your reservations about working with Jimin, especially after his rude behaviour, you cannot kill the flame of excitement that flickers deep in your stomach. This is a dream come true.

Jimin waits alone in the centre of the ice-skating rink. At your arriving footsteps, he turns slowly and watches your advance towards him with a curious look to his eyes. It’s an intensely probing stare, like he is evaluating every step of your body, measuring the weight that lands in your skates against the ground with each footstep. And then he slowly smiles and your heart flutters. Jimin is beautiful in an inhuman way and that he should ever look at you in such a way is more than your delicate heart can handle. You swallow deeply before stepping onto the ice and gliding towards him with a practiced ease you hope conveys grace and beauty.

Jimin tilts his head and keeps his arms folded across his chest as you stop before him. As you do you register the sombre, heavy tune of a piano concerto crackle through the speakers of your father’s ice-skating rink. It starts slow, with dark chords ringing through the air and climbing in intensity. Gradually the melody crests and builds until the piano erupts in a complex and powerful virtuosic passage, given weight and power by a grave string accompaniment.

“This was his second concerto.” Jimin says, instead of offering you a greeting. “Rachmaninoff’s, I mean. His first ever concerto was met with heavy criticism. It was an extremely challenging piece to write- it took him ten months to write and yet his efforts were spat on. And in the three years that followed he was depressed from the backlash and unable to write anymore. This song is his return after three years of darkness, and it brought his career back from the dead. This,” He informs you. “Is the song you will perform to at the competition for your free program.”

You stare wonderingly at Jimin for a moment and shut your eyes as the mood of the piece shifts to something lighter and freer. The piano bounces along and the orchestra follows behind yet hints of the initial darkness still linger despite the bright tone. You can hear it- the composer’s pain, his determination to clamber back from the pits of despair. You want to dance to this song. An intense longing fills you.

“Can you do it? It won’t be an easy piece to skate to.” Jimin asks, and you peer back at him with your jaw set in determination. The expression wins a slight smile from him.

“I can.” You reassure him. He nods and walks forward. He is not wearing skates- instead he wears heavy boots on the ice. Likely, the instability in his ankle means he cannot balance in skates without significant pain. And you are his chance to overcome that, you suppose. You will do for him what he can no longer achieve.

And thus begins your gruelling practice. You’ve pushed yourself hard before but never in the way that Jimin pushes you. Jimin, much as you suspected he would, has very little patience and his little experience with teaching means he gets frustrated easily when you do not pick things up in the way that he assumed you would. You are soaking in sweat as practice goes on despite the fact the ice-skating rink is kept at such a low temperature.

“Extend your leg further.” Jimin urges, combing a hand through his hair in frustration for what is probably the fifth time. “The pose looks messy if you’re all loose and floppy like that.” You wince and attempt to follow his instruction once more. You’ve been going for hours by this stage. “Once more from the triple lutz.” He snaps, stepping off the ice to give you the room to launch into such a complex and difficult leap. But your body is exhausted from such intensive exercise and from the second you catapult yourself in the air you know you’ve done it wrong. You lift unevenly into the air and though you clench your core and attempt to right yourself, it is too late. You come down at completely the wrong angle and wince as your ankle takes the brunt of your weight. Pain lances up your leg as you crumble, and your body continues to slide.

When you lose enough momentum to begin picking yourself back up off the ice, Jimin skids to a halt, sending up a spray of ice chips. He’s clearly carelessly sprinted across the ice to get to you and he throws himself down beside you without a thought as to his wellbeing. You hadn’t thought him capable of such concern for someone other than himself.

“Are you ok?” He cries out in alarm, wrapping his hands around your outstretched ankle. Despite the low temperature of the room, his fingers are somehow still warm, and you had not realised how chilled your body was until you feel the heat encircle your leg. Carefully, he rolls the ankle you had landed on back and forth and around, scrutinising your face for the slightest hint of pain. It is tender, but you know tomorrow you’ll wake up and not even remember what ankle you had hurt.

“I’m fine.” You wave him off with a smile. “Let’s try that again.” You say, about to get up, but a firm hand against your shoulder keeps you down.

“No.” Jimin almost growls, and there is a sternness and barely repressed anger to the glare he gives you that pins you in place. “It was stupid of me to push you this hard. Let’s get dinner and we can pick it back up tomorrow if you’re feeling ok. We’ll get some ice on this too.”

Despite your protests, Jimin decides to take you out for dinner that night. You almost succeed in wriggling out of it, but a growl of your stomach has him urging you to come along with renewed determination. And to make it more embarrassing, as soon as you arrive at the restaurant, he drags over a second chair and makes you rest your injured leg on it, placing the ice pack over your tender ankle with a gentleness that makes you uneasy for reasons you cannot understand.

“That’s more than enough for today.” He scolds you. “You need to take care of yourself after an injury or you won’t make it very far.”

He settles opposite you and orders you both food.

“My coach used to always take me out for hot soup afterwards. Said we had to warm ourselves up after being in the cold so long.” He remembers fondly as the two of you await your meals. He seems so different from the asshole you met in the club a mere week ago and you still aren’t even sure what made him change so drastically. “He was the best coach in the world. I only made it to the Olympics thanks to him.”

“Are you trying to follow in his footsteps?” You ask in an attempt to subtly determine his motive. Jimin shrugs and shakes his head as the waitress sets down two steaming hot bowls of soup before you.

“Who knows.” He admits. “Even I’m not sure what I’m trying to achieve. A week ago, all I cared about was getting drunk enough to forget what the Olympics were.”

He watches you curiously as you lean forward and raise a spoonful of salty broth to your lips.

“Why did you come, then?” You say, finally asking the question that has been itching at you since you received the text asking you to come to the ice rink. You can probably guess the answer, but you want to hear it from him. He’s made a drastic change after his awful first impression and you aren’t entirely sure he’s someone you can trust yet.

Jimin doesn’t answer for a long moment. Instead he takes a long sip of his soup and fidgets with the noodles that float in the broth. Finally, he raises his eyes to you and there’s a look to his eyes that you can’t seem to interpret. Somehow it is a gaze filled with sadness and yet he looks so peaceful at the same time.

“I love skating.” He admits. “There was a time where it was my whole world. To have it taken so suddenly, with no warning…” He sighs and shakes his head. “I felt like I had nothing yet. But I believe that sometimes we are given second chances, and that’s what you are. My second chance. I want to see you in the Olympic rink. I want the entire world to shed tears because they’ve seen true beauty. And I can’t convey that beauty anymore, but you can. I know you can.” He confesses, and to his credit, his ears are only tinged the slightest bit pink. You stare at him, completely gobsmacked. How can you even fathom such high praise? “But now it’s my turn, to ask you a question.” He admits, his eyes sharpening with interest. You wince, a little uncomfortable with the scrutiny, but you know it is necessary.

“Ask away.” You say, because you suppose that as your coach, he has a right to know about you to at least some degree.

“Why me?” He finally asks, after a moment of hesitation. “Where’s your coach? Why are you even entering this competition if you’ve already been selected to be on the Olympic team?”

The silence between the two of you stretches out for a long moment. You take the opportunity to shove a few mouthfuls of soup into your mouth. It’s not an unexpected question. In fact, he probably should have asked the question long before agreeing to coach you, to make sure he wasn’t stealing someone else’s athlete, and the fact that he hasn’t asked you before now means he probably senses it’s not a question you are ready to be asked. But with the atmosphere between the two of you warm and comfortable, now is the best time for him to ask.

“She died.” You say nonchalantly. The soup suddenly tastes bland, but you continue to eat it. It provides you a distraction from the heaviness of the conversation. “Six months ago. It was cancer. I had just gotten scouted to be on the national team and we realised she wouldn’t make it to the Olympics, probably. So this was our compromise. She was fighting so hard because she wanted to see me skate one last time and… she… she didn’t get to. She died a week later.”

Jimin stares at you in dismay, speechless. Perhaps he had suspected you’d had a falling out with your coach, or that you needed a new one now that you’ve been selected for the national team. He probably never could have guessed the horrible reality.

“(Y/N)…” He says softly. You shake your head and offer Jimin a slight smile.

“It’s fine.” You say. “I’m doing ok. My parents have been really supportive and have even been trying to find me a new coach. But I wanted you. I just thought it would be nice for my first comp after she… passed away. To this day, the routine you did to Notte Stellata brings me to tears and so I thought if you were the one choreographing, then I’d give a performance worthy of her legacy. One that she would have been proud to see.”

Jimin’s expression scrunches up at your words. You don’t shed a tear throughout the whole story even though it all feels so fresh. It still feels like she’s going to ring you and scold you for not being at practice or not following the strict diet regimen she always set for you. Somehow six months of grieving doesn’t feel like enough to get back on the ice, yet at the same time you are itching to go back out there. For her. She had been like a second mother to you and the fact that she didn’t get to see you skate one last time is a scar you know will never fully heal.

Jimin is a bit of an enigma, and you never know how he will react to something. Perhaps this is why his reaction to your story is such a surprise. He stares at you like he’s in pain. A single tear wells up in his left eye and rolls down his cheek, tracing down the smooth contours of his handsome face as it goes.

“Thank you. For that honour. I… Thank you. And I’m sorry for being harsh today. I’ve never been a teacher before and so I don’t know your limits or mine. But if you keep with me and tell me when I’ve gone too far, I believe we can do this.” He admits, and his voice is slightly raspy . “I… After I stopped skating, I didn’t have a purpose or goal in life. I’ve just kind of been… existing for so long. But… thank you. I think I finally have a purpose- I want to take you to the Olympics. I’d decided earlier that I want to go to the Olympics with you but I never actually asked you. Will you do it? Will you go to the Olympics with me?”

And Jimin is mean and harsh and awkward. He’s a drunkard and a loser and a shallow jerk. He’s not even qualified to be a coach and such an ambition with an inexperienced mentor could lead to the destruction of your own career. It would be foolish, to agree to go to the Olympics with him.

And then you recall, being a young teenager skating for the first time and watching his comps. Being lonely as you entered highschool with no friends and rushing home to watch his Olympic performance live. Following his rise to fame and shedding tears because his skating held a beauty you could not put into words. And therein lies your answer- it is thanks to the man sitting before you that you even dared to dream of the Olympics. Your dreams will always feel incomplete if it is not him you go to the Olympics with.

“Yes.” You say. “Let’s go to the Olympics together.”

++

After that first day, Jimin is softer and far less harsh. Every day he grows in patience. He remains a stern and difficult coach and choreographer, though. He pushes you far past what you think you can handle. But he never pushes you past what you can actually handle. He’s constantly vigilant, for signs of fatigue and always ends practice before you can go too far. And so, each night you go to bed and sleep deeply, satisfied with the work you have done. His choreography is technically difficult and extremely advanced and yet designed specifically with you, your capabilities and your strengths in mind. If you master it, it will carry you to a gold medal without any doubt.

It’s exciting. Who could have ever thought that one day it would be Park Jimin coaching you on the ice? Despite his inexperience with coaching, he knows figure skating really well and you find yourself improving drastically beneath his tutelage, as the months go by and the competition date approaches. He really could have a future as a coach if he was ever inclined to do so. If maybe he learned some people skills, that is.

“Extend your leg further,” He orders from behind you, placing a hand on your knee to prevent your instinct to fold it as he uses the hand wrapped around your ankle to lift your outstretched leg a bit higher. His hands are almost hot on the skin of your legs. You hadn’t realised how much your body had chilled beneath the air-conditioning of the gym you are currently in. You wince as he begins to hit the limits of your flexibility and wobble just the slightest bit.

His eyebrows shoot up, and he shoots you a glare.

“Was that a wobble?” He asks, his tone venomous. Your eyes go wide. Today is one of the days you practice off the ice- one foot is placed in the centre of a balance ball while Jimin adjusts your posture. Despite the ways in which you two have grown quite close, he still comes across as very menacing when he enters what you call “coach mode”.

“N-no.” You stutter as you lie. He releases your leg and you know he expects you to maintain the position. You do, though not without a slight fluctuation. Jimin’s sharp eyes catch the movement though and he walks around so that he is facing you, hands planted intimidatingly on his hips.

“A wobble could cost you your career.” He reminds you, and this is the third time he’s lectured you about this in the past three days. “All it takes is for you to launch yourself airborne from just slightly the wrong angle and you could break a leg.” He scowls, and he steps in close. You drop your outstretched leg and hop off the balance ball. You roll your eyes and fold your arms across your chest, refusing to cower at his ‘angry coach’ vibe. And maybe you would have gotten back on the balance ball obediently if it weren’t for the muttered, irritated comment that follows: “How can a figure skater be so inflexible?” He laments.

“Excuse me?” You blurt, eyes wide in outrage. “I am flexible!”

He winces, probably because he didn’t intend for you to overhear the comment, but also because he’s now quite familiar with the certain buttons he should never push while coaching you. For the most part, you are a reasonable student, one who follows his instructions diligently and practices hard. But any time the slightest comment is made about your skill or ability as a figure skater that isn’t constructive or contributing towards your improvement, you go slightly beserk. And this is one of those moments.

“I’ll prove it to you!” You cry, striding over to the yoga mat laid out in the corner. You almost throw yourself down on your back and glare at him. “Do the stretch! The warm-up hip one.” You order. He almost groans in irritation- the stretch in question is one he had suggested at a different practice to help keep your hips loose. But you had been too embarrassed to try it due to the intimacy of the positioning and so he hadn’t pushed you. But now, your pride has been hurt, and you are going to prove him wrong, embarrassment be damned. He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, scolding himself for his slip up, before kneeling over you and locking his ankle over one of your outstretched legs. He then wraps his fingers around your other leg, placing the flat of one palm against the heel of your foot and the other over your knee, before slowly lifting one leg towards your head.

“Tell me when.” He says with a sigh, his tone resigned.

“I won’t.” You reassure him petulantly. “You’ll see how flexible I am.”

And really his comment was quite unnecessary, because flexibility is a vital skill as a figure skater. A fact which is demonstrated as Jimin continues to push your leg towards your head. You wait eagerly for him to admit that he was wrong as it reaches the point where you are almost doing the splits, but it never comes. Instead, Jimin has gone oddly quiet from where he kneels between your leg. Puzzled, you tilt your head to meet his gaze to find that his stare has gone oddly misty. His lips are slightly parted, and his eyes are fixed on where his hand presses to the heel of your foot.

“Jimin?” You call. It rings out oddly loud in the quietness of the section of the gym you are in, like a gunshot. Jimin flinches like he’s been punched in the stomach. His eyes land on yours and they are oddly wide. The expression reminds you of the face a child might pull if they were caught in the middle of stealing candy from a jar. Wide and panicked and a little bit glazed.

“I…” He says slowly, and his voice is a little bit croaky. He clears his throat and moistens his lips with his tongue before trying again. “I…”

You don’t get to find out what he was planning to say though, because in the next moment you hear Jungkook’s familiar voice call out.

“Special delivery!” He cries. Jimin drops your leg like he’s been burnt and scrambles away like you have rabies. He takes a moment to frantically smooth out his clothes and run his hands nervously through his hair, before turning to face the intruder who strides quickly towards you. There is a wide grin on Jungkook’s face, and he waves a large package wrapped in brown paper towards the two of you. You sit up and watch curiously as Jungkook prances forward. Jimin, oddly, still has a lot of nervous energy and gives off an oddly frantic air and when his gaze lands on the package in Jungkook’s hand, it seemingly worsens.

“Jungkook!” Jimin cries, eyes bugging out of his head and his face almost going purple, so severe is his blush. “How did you get that?”

Jungkook skids to a stop between the two of you and beams cheekily.

“You had it delivered to the rink.” He says coyly, wiggling the package playfully in front of Jimin’s eyes. Jimin makes a hasty snatch at it and grabs it out of Jungkook’s hands. It’s a fairly bulky package. “But I knew you two were here, so I thought I’d use my lunch break to come visit the two of you and deliver the package.”

By now you are standing, and you move in close to examine the package.

“What is it?” You ask curiously, and then it’s shoved unceremoniously into your arms by a surprisingly flustered Jimin.

“It’s for you.” He says quickly, his head turned determinedly in the opposite direction of you. “I ordered it online- I thought you could wear it for the comp.”

You blink a few times, confused. But then you peel away the brown paper wrapping to reveal the contents within. It’s a figure skating dress. The skirt is a deep, midnight blue though the torso is something icier and paler. They mix together in a gentle gradient and jewels scattered over the bodice glint like starts as the catch the light above you. The sleeves and décolleté are nude- when you wear it, it will look like you are painted in the night sky. Your throat goes hot and sticky and you find yourself battling tears at the thoughtful gesture.

“Jimin,” You say softly, genuinely touched. He smiles and rubs awkwardly at the back of his neck.

“It’s nothing… it was on sale and I thought it would look nice on you.” He admits sheepishly. “I was just going to leave it in your locker later today, but I guess someone had other plans.” Jimin shoots a meaningful but venom-filled look at his friend, but you are too preoccupied with examining your new outfit to notice. You clutch it tightly between your fingers.

“I have something for you too.” You announce suddenly. “Wait right here. It’s in my locker.” You urge, turning around and sprinting across the gym. A few people at the cycling machines pause their exercise to watch you go.

Jimin uses the opportunity to whirl on Jungkook.

“You did that on purpose, didn’t you?” Jimin snarls, and Jungkook laughs and dodges a swipe from Jimin. “I didn’t ask for a personal delivery!”

“Of course I did.” Jungkook cries mirthfully. “Did you think I’d pass up an opportunity to see you actually be nice while sober? Her reaction was so sweet, wasn’t it? Don’t you just wanna hug her and kiss her and stop being a douchebag 90% of the time? Oh man, I’ve never seen you go that shade of red before. Totally worth the drive over here.” Jungkook wipes at amused tears that are pooling in the corners of his eyes. “I mean, I also came over because there’s a sushi place next door that is to die for and (Y/N)’s father is treating me to lunch, but this has been a great little adventure. Thanks for the show, Jimin.” Jungkook says, waving his friend goodbye. Jimin aims another whack at the back of Jungkook’s head, but his reactions are quicker, and he merely darts off. He whistles a cheerful tune as he goes. Jimin is about to follow after him and give Jungkook a proper piece of his mind, but you arrive back beside him before he can do so. You’re slightly out of breath from your quick sprint, but you quickly straighten and beam.

“There’s a bit of back story behind this.” You explain, stretching out your hand and uncurling your fingers to reveal a long, thin box that fits easily into your hand. Curiously, Jimin accepts it and is about to remove the lid but you hastily place your hands over his to stop the movement. Your fingers are slightly cold, and his eyes catch on the contrast of your skin against his. “I bought this for you right after your second Olympics win.” You confess, and you drop your gaze from his. There’s embarrassment in your expression and it’s oddly endearing. Jimin feels an odd, fluttering feeling just beneath his sternum. But then your words register and he’s a bit confused.

“I didn’t know you then, though- that was 3 years ago.” He reminds you and you shake your head and smile.

“I’ve been your fan since I was 12 years old though!” You exclaim. “I bought it because I was going to mail it to you to show my support. And I never plucked up the courage to do it until my coach managed to get me a seat at one of the comps you were supposed perform at. I was going to throw it onto the ice after you performed. But you… you never got to perform.” You say softly, and Jimin feels himself tense just the slightest bit. He knows the competition you are talking about- it was one of the few ones in his hometown he still competed in. But then the accident had happened, and he’d cancelled his registration. “But I kept this all these years because I still wanted to meet you. Even if you couldn’t skate anymore, you were and are still my hero. And I found it again the other day and realised that I finally have the chance to give it to you.”

Slowly, you release your grip on his hands enough that he’s able to pull the lid off the small box. A thin silver chain rests in it and in the centre against black velvet lies a tiny pendant shaped like a cat. He blinks at it a few times in confusion.

“You always talked about your family cat growing up in interviews. The fat tortoiseshell one. You said she was your inspiration because of her calm approach to life.” You recall fondly. “And fans always through cat plushies onto the ice because of that and I guess I wanted to set myself apart a little.”

Jimin just stares incredulously at the little trinket. It should be offensive, to have such a reminder of how his life has gone wrong resting in his hands. And as a gift from you, no less. But it isn’t offensive, for some reason. It’s touching. It’s flattering. Slowly a smile grows on his face and his hands start to tremble. There’s a warm, full feeling in his chest. What an honour, to have someone like you be such a loyal fan. To have kept this reminder of his golden years despite the fact that you’d never even met him. And your skating is so beautiful and with enough time will outshine his own, but it’s thanks to him. He inspired that beauty in you, and to know that is an honour and joy and privilege that he will carry with him throughout the rest of his life. And this necklace symbolises all of that.

“Thank you.” He mutters softly. He raises his eyes off the pendant to look at you. Your eyes are slightly round and a little uneasy, but when he responds with gratitude a smile splits your face. “But I can’t accept this.” He tells you with a smile. With careful fingers, he plucks the necklace from its box and comfortable bed of velvet, and steps towards you. “This necklace is yours.” He says. You seem to sense what he’s trying to do as he steps in close, because you raise your hair off the back of your neck to allow him to put the necklace on for you. It clasps shut and falls to rest safely against your collarbone.

You stare up at Jimin and you don’t really understand the tenderness in his gaze, or the ensuing ache in your chest in response. You just feel… happy. Warm. Excited. There’s so many feelings racing through your chest and while you don’t have the time to process them now, you know that things will go well. Instead of pulling away after fixing the necklace in place, Jimin leans in close so that his lips almost brush your ear. You feel your face heat.

“Take it to the Olympics for me.” He whispers softly.

++

The day of the competition dawns bright and sunny. Jimin is gripped with a fluttery kind of nerves. It’s a thrilling sensation though, one he hasn’t felt since he’d been able to skate. So much of his time has been spent in darkness, spiralling deeper and deeper away from the sun and suddenly today he feels a warmth and brightness he hadn’t realised he’d been missing.

You nail the short program in the morning and are all smiles and jitters as you come off the ice. You’re leading with your point score and if you follow the routine for your free program well, then you’ll take the gold medal home for sure.

“Did I do well?” You ask breathlessly, the second you step off the ice. You stumble a bit, shaky from the adrenaline, and Jimin steadies you with a gentle hand on your shoulder.

“She’d have been so proud.” He reassures you warmly and the resulting beam you give him makes him think that nothing could drag him down.

There is something that could drag him down, though he doesn’t know it in that moment.

Typically, there is a break in the middle of the day, where skaters are allowed to have a warmup on the ice before the afternoon program starts. Jimin is a little hesitant to have you out on the ice, though he can’t really put into words. He writes it off as just nerves though, and sees you off onto the ice with a smile. He doesn’t really focus much on your warmup- you know what to do. Instead, he scans the seating section where he knows Jungkook is. It doesn’t take much time to locate him and Jimin quickly darts up into the audience section towards his friend. Jungkook is waving a little paddle pop stick with an unflattering image of you stuck to the end and watches the figure skaters warm up with his mouth slightly ajar.

“She’s really good, huh?” Jungkook admits aloud, as Jimin takes a seat next to him. Jimin grins and nods.

“She’s got this one in the bag.” Jimin brags, and Jungkook offers him a strange smile.

“She really did a number on you.” Jungkook says suddenly, with a laugh. “To think, just a couple of months ago you’d be angry and hungover at this time of day. And now you’re smiling and laughing. I really think that (Y/N) is the best thing to happen to you.”

Normally, Jimin would deny it. Maybe flush a little and frantically discourage Jungkook from such a sentiment. But for some reason, he can’t bring himself to do it- probably because he can’t deny the weight and truth of such a statement.

“She is.” Jimin admits softly. Jungkook’s jaw drops in response, but a ruckus on the ice distracts him from whatever response he may have given.

Puzzled, Jimin directs his gaze to where medics are suddenly rushing onto the ice. And then, like two magnets clicking together, his gaze lands on you. You’re sprawled out on the ice, unmoving, with one of your competitors similarly collapsed. She, at least, is sitting up, looking slightly dazed and confused, but you are unmoving. Jimin’s heart leaps into his throat as he realises what has happened- there’s been a collision.

He leaps to his feet, but Jungkook’s hand around his wrist stops Jimin for rushing straight for the ice. Two medics help you to your feet and lead you off the ice.

“Wait.” Jungkook calls. “She’s ok- she’s standing up. Don’t get in the way of the medics. We can go to her after they’ve done first aid.”

Jimin glares at Jungkook, long and hard. His friend merely stares evenly back until Jimin reluctantly lowers himself back into his seat. He watches desperately as you are able to groggily step off the ice. Even at this distance, he can see the way blood streams down your face. Once he sees the dreadful crimson staining the ice, he can sit still no longer, and he gets to his feet and dashes off before Jungkook can say a word in response.

In the kiss and cry area, a crowd has gathered around you- some are medics, some are camera crew and some are your fellow competitors. Jimin shoves them carelessly out of the way, forcing himself forward until he is face to face with you. Your eyes are slightly out of focus and they’re in the middle of bandaging your head, and when you look up at him, your eyes fill with tears.

“Jimin,” You cry, choked. They haven’t cleaned up the blood yet - it has dripped down your neck and stained the misty blue of the outfit he had bought you. Jimin crumples to his knees in front of you.

“Is she ok?” He demands of the medic trimming a bandage for you. The medic winces and evaluates you.

“We think it’s just a minor concussion. She’ll be fine with some rest- but maybe she should skip the free program. Maybe if you take her home-“ The medic suggests tentatively, but you cry out in response.

“No!” You almost shout. The crowd buzzing around you goes silent at your outburst, but you don’t seem to notice. “I have to skate. I have to compete.” You cry, begging the medic, begging Jimin, begging anyone who can let you go back on the ice.

“(Y/N)…” Jimin calls quietly. “It’s ok- there will be other competitions. Your health is more import-“

“There won’t be.” You argue vehemently. “I promised her, Jimin. I promised her.” Tears are really streaming down your face now, mixing with the rivulets of blood that pour from the cut on your chin. You’re wearing the cat necklace and the silver is marred with angry droplets of red. You gently push the medic away and struggle to stand upright. You wobble a little, but you keep upright. It’s only minor injuries, but Jimin highly doubts you’d be able to skate properly like this. And if you take another fall, things may only get worse. Skating now could cost you your career. Blind panic rises in his chest and makes him nauseous- it reminds him of a darker time just two years ago, when he had been informed that he would never skate again. You’re so small and fragile and it’s something that could just as easily happen to you, but before you’ve even gotten the chance to compete. He can taste sour fear in the back of his throat.

But when Jimin looks into your eyes, he comes to understand something. As much as he wants to take you to the Olympics- as much as you yourself probably want to go to the Olympics, this takes priority. He remembers how important his coach had been to him during his career, and how he would have reacted if anything happened to him. He can’t imagine what you must have gone through- what it must have taken, to get back on the ice, just six months after her death. You have to do this, and though his heart aches with fear and agony at the thought of you endangering yourself again, he knows that you will never forgive yourself if you don’t do this. You are skating for her and he doesn’t have a right to stop you.

“Finish the first aid.” Jimin requests of the medical personnel, before turning and dismissing the crowd. They quickly dissipate under his intimidating stare, but not without a few surprised mutters of isn’t that Park Jimin?. And then he turns to you. He’s only just met you in the last few months and you’d given him so much hope that now dangles precariously on a thread. But he doesn’t want hope or purpose or ambition if that’s not what you want. “Whatever happens out there, she’ll be proud.” He reassures you, and then you’re smiling with relief through your tears. You reach out and wrap your fingers around one of his hands.

“Thank you.” You say, and somehow the weight of your gratitude now means more to him than any Olympics medals you may win- heck, more than the medals he’s won. He finds himself smiling despite the dread that sits deep in his stomach.

“No wobbling out there is allowed.” Is all he tells you.

++

Amidst the silvery glow of the white ice, you stand as a lone figure. Jimin remembers when he first saw you skate, all those months ago. This reminds him of that time, although this time your head is bandaged, and your hands shake as the opening piano chords ring sombrely through the arena. There was a lot of murmuring when you first stepped onto the ice but it has all gone quiet as you wait patiently in the centre, raising your arms delicately above your head. Then the piano erupts fiercely, notes scattering and spilling across the ice in the same moment that you take off. There is power as you launch yourself across the ice.

The strings pad the rich sound and climb in intensity as your first jump approaches. Jimin holds his breath as he sees you brace one leg before you push outwards. You spin through the air and he couldn’t breathe even if he wanted to. But you land at the wrong angle and your leg skids out underneath you. You’ve missed your first jump.

You aren’t deterred though. Quickly you scramble back onto your feet and begin to skate across the ice as the piano melody grows more and more complex and urgent. This next jump is your hardest. But again, you miss- you’re dizzy and you miscalculate the angle you must land in. Still, without hesitation, you clamber back onto your feet even though Jimin can see the way frustrated tears are starting to pool in the corner of your eyes.

What comes next is a spin, as you extend your leg outwards, your speed varying and changing as you adjust your position- you hold your leg out in the pose he had been constantly trying to get you to replicate and you execute it perfectly. You raise your leg above your head as your spin becomes more rapid. The music becomes more delicate and thoughtful and so does your skating. You glide across the ice and yet there is a carefulness that isn’t normally there- he can see the way you must concentrate, the way you desperately fight off the waves of dizziness that you are experiencing.

The pitch climbs into something brighter and hopeful and you once more attempt a desperate jump. You land badly again and actually end up on all fours. For a second, he thinks you may not be able to get up and the music threatens to leave you behind. The whole crowd holds its breath collectively. Suddenly your eyes meet his. It’s quick- you just so happen to be facing towards the wall he’s standing behind. But your expression changes, and so does the music, just in time for you to send yourself soaring with your arms outstretched behind you like the wings of a swan.

Suddenly, Jimin remembers why your skating has him to encaptivated. With the brighter music, you suddenly erupt with a brightness and grace that is entirely unique to you- you dance and skip over the ice rapidly. It’s because no one else can skate like this. No one can translate beauty into movement on the ice like you can. You have another leap coming up and this time when you launch yourself up, it’s with a determination and confidence that you didn’t have before. You land perfectly and Jimin’s heart skips a beat. You’re instantly flying again, soaring towards your grand finale. The music slows to another climax, slow and grave but with the brightness from before carried in the dancing piano melody and your feet bounce with the notes- a triple toe loop, a double axel. Gradually your confidence grows, and the music builds again for one last final climax as you enter your last spin.

The music fades and you are left, in the centre of the rink, gasping for breath. There are tears pouring down Jimin’s face. Somehow, despite all the flaws and errors, it is the most beautiful and moving performance he has seen in his entire life.

It’s in the moment that Jimin realises something. He doesn’t just want to take you to the Olympics. He wants to see you all the way through. Every loss, every triumph, every high-point and low-point… He wants to be there beside you for it all. He’d been in darkness for so long and he’s suddenly found his light. It’s you.

You meet his gaze as the crowd roars with applause and people pelt bouquets onto the ice. And your eyes are red rimmed and teary, but you smile, and it is the most heart-stoppingly beautiful smile he has ever seen in his life. It’s only been a few short months, and yet…

And yet he loves you.

Your coach would have been so proud.

++

You don’t end up taking home the gold medal. Despite your admirable determination to skate in your injured state, there were too many technical slipups for the judges to overlook. Still, with your awesome score carrying over from the short program, and your impressive recovery in the second half of your free program, you land an impressive second place.

Jimin likes the colour on you better anyway- as you walk along side him, the silver medal around your neck bounces against your chest and catches the light and it matches perfectly with the delicate silver chain and silly cat pendant that dangles at your collarbone. But none of it shines brighter than your smile.

“You did really well.” He reassures you, as he follows you out of the rink, towards your car.

“I know.” You say smugly. Your tone is at odds with the banadages around your head and on your face and the medal that glints silver instead of gold.

“She would have been proud.” He informs you, and your answering smile is even more smug.

“I know.” You answer cheerfully, and it brings a smile to his face.

“I’m proud.” He tells you, and you shrug nonchalantly as the two of you arrive just outside his car.

“I know.” Still, you are smug and Jimin is gripped with the sudden and cheeky urge to see what you don’t know.

“I love you.” He tries, one final time, and the smile slides off your face and is replaced with something shocked. Jimin grins as he gets into the car, and it takes you a moment to recover from your shock and slide into the passenger seat.

“I… didn’t know that.” You finally say, and Jimin laughs. He shrugs. You open your mouth and close it a few times before you attempt at last to respond sincerely. “I… I like…. no, I love y-“

“Save it for the Olympics.” He cuts you off, and your eyes go wide in a comical way that makes him laugh. “You can say it when you get the gold medal.”

Your eyes harden with the challenge and you petulantly fold your arms across your chest in answer.

“Just wait and see, then.” Is your answer, your pride provoked, and honestly Jimin wouldn’t have it any other way. Perhaps he should feel uneasy, or desperately need to hear that you reciprocate his feelings. It’s a risky gamble, to not just wait for your response for something that might not even happen, but to delay it. But see, that’s the thing. He knows it’s going to happen. He has all the time in the world, now, and he can absolutely afford to wait for the Olympics.

Because you’re going to take home his third gold medal for him.

#jimin x reader #btsboulangerie #park jimin x reader #jimin angst #jimin fluff #monthly prompt #writing

[thebestandworstdayofjune]

Queen in the North {Pt. 2}

Requested: By myself, because I am Trash™. Also some other absolutely lovely people.

Pairings: Robb Stark x Reader

Previously: {Part 1}

Summary: Y/N was sent to live with The Stark family at a young age, and ever since then, she seemed to fit perfectly, maybe even more than she had ever noticed.

Warnings: I just watched the episode so fluff to the max

Word Count: 2,433

A/N: I am so pleased to see how many of you like the first part to this, and I sincerely hope that the second part is even better! Special shoutout to @secretschuylersister for looking over this/encouraging me to actually post it. If you have any requests, please feel free to send them to my ask box!

It was nice of Sansa to say that she was almost done poking and prodding and adjusting your dress, even if you all knew that it was a lie. Sansa had and affinity for dressing you up, claiming that if she tried it with Arya, she would lose a finger. You couldn’t say that the idea was entirely off base.

The dress was lovely. It looked a bit delicate in comparison to the usual style that ladies favored in Winterfell.  It was somehow different and you’re the same as the dresses that you favored on an everyday basis. Although you had lived in Winterfell for most of your life, your mother and father had lived much farther south.

So, you tended to favor lighter dresses, made of silk and lace in a wide array of colors. Jon liked to tease you that you were the brightest thing to ever live in Winterfell. What you didn’t know is how much Robb silently agreed with him. The dress was white, with layers of gray peeking through towards the bottom. It was lovely, although you had no idea how Sansa had managed such a lovely effect in the short amount of time since she had asked you about making a dress.

“I may have been working on it for a little while before I asked if it was okay,” she said, picking it up off of the bed and motioning for you to change into it. “But I knew that you were going to say yes anyways.”

You laughed, she was right. You had a hard time telling people no, especially when they were doing something so nice for you. After all, the Starks were your family. And if they were willing to put the time in to help you, then there was no way that you were going to refuse. It did make your schedule feel a bit cramped at times, in between dagger lessons with Arya and the boys, knitting with Sansa and tea with Lady Stark, who was forever insisting that you call her Catelyn, there were never enough hours in the day, something you often fought about with Robb.

“Well then, put it on!” Sansa laughed, tossing you the dress and pulling out her needle and thread, claiming that there were a few alterations that needed to be made. Sansa worked in silence, adding a few stitches here and there. And somehow, when she was done, the dress looked even more spectacular. She had managed to somehow make it fit you like a glove at the top, yet have the perfect amount of sway and flow in the skirts.

“Thank you, Sansa,” you said, admiring the skirts in her mirror. If you hadn’t been so caught up in how nice it was for Sansa to make you this lovely dress, you might have noticed the smug look on her face as she admired you admiring her dress. And you might have noticed that you were wearing in the Stark family’s colors. “But I really think that I should go see if your mother needs help preparing-”

“I was downstairs with her all morning. While you were fretting over nothing, I was making sure that you didn’t have an excuse to run away.” She laughed, guiding you over to the chair that was set up in front of her mirror. “Now, you have to stay and let me do something with this.” She sighed, motioning to the braid that you wore every day. Sansa took your braid in her hands, making quick work of fanning it out across your shoulders, running a brush gently through the ends or your hair.

“I cannot understand why you never take the time to style your hair unless I force you to. You know that anyone would do anything for you.” Sansa rain her hands through your hair, twisting it one way and then another, attempting to choose a style for that evening.

“I would rather spend my time with other engagements. And I’m sure that every single person in this castle has at least five things that they need to be doing at any given time. And shockingly, none of them include helping me with my hair.” You laughed, raising an eyebrow at her in the mirror.

“And does one of those things include pretending that you aren’t in love with my brother? Or is that simply a given, considering it is something that you do every waking minute of every day?”

You felt yourself tense, your shoulders locking back into place and your teeth grinding against each other. Sansa, on the other hand, continued brushing your hair into place, humming a soft tune to herself. You wished that you had an appropriate comeback, but you were left to sit there, mouth agape, while Sansa fussed with your hair for longer than should have been possible.

You’d hoped that you would have a bit of time to yourself before the feast that evening, but Sansa had insisted that a bit of rouge had never hurt anyone. By the time that she decided you were ready, the both of you were late.

“A queen never arrives at her own party on time.” Sansa laughed as you hurried down the hall. You hated to be late, and it seemed that the only time you were more than a few seconds late to anything was when Sansa insisted on helping you get ready.

“Then it’s really too bad that I am not a queen.” you reminded her, withholding a glare.

She snorted at you in a very un Sansa-like way, simply brushing past you and breezing easily into the banquet. You, on the other hand, were not nearly as confident. You took a moment to steady yourself, a moment to catch your breath, before stepping into the banquet hall.

The noise and liveliness of the hall erupted around you, pulling you in. You glanced around, taking in the musicians and the dancers that took up most of the space in the large banquet hall. And as much as you didn’t want to admit it, you were elated to see Robb standing with Jon and Theon near the edge of the dance floor.

You gathered up your expansive skirts, making your way along the edge of the room to the boys.

“Well don’t you just look dashing in the Stark colors?” Jon teased you, gesturing for you to do a twirl.

You landed a punch on his arm, not hard enough to actually hurt him, but firm enough to tell him to shut his big mouth, paired with an expression that told him you were going to pretend to be cross with him for a while. “If you must know, your lovely sister made me this gown, and as usual I had no say about the colors. But, I’m sure that it is just coincidence.” You attempted to sound sincere, even though you knew what Sansa was most likely thinking when she was picking out the material.

You pretended to listen to the boys ramble on about one thing or another, but your eyes were scanning the room in search of Arya. You knew that she was not particularly fond of feasts, so you always made a point to seek her out and reassure her, even if it was only for a few minutes. After few moments of searching, you spotted her, slumped into a chair, looking like she would much rather be anywhere else but here.

You felt Robb’s hand rest on the small of your back, attempting to draw your attention away from the very important matter at hand. “Y/N, do you want to-”

“Maybe in a minute, Robb,” you said, already making your way over to Arya, not even bothering to look back towards the sound of Jon’s booming laughter.

“Arya!” you laughed, taking her hands in your own and pulling her out of the chair. “Won’t you come and dance with me?”

“You know that I have been skipping my lessons,” she mumbled, refusing to meet your eyes. Somehow, she was in a worse mood than usual.

“I never said that we were going to make our way through the most boring waltz in existence.” You were already halfway to the band, who looked almost as morose as Arya, which wasn’t surprising when you thought about the music that they were being forced to play. “If this is to be the mood for the entire evening, we are all going to die of boredom.”

You let go of Arya’s hands for a few moments to whisper your instructions to the band. They all seemed to perk up immediately, sitting up in their chairs, the light coming back into their eyes. The tune changed from the sullen one that you had grown accustomed to hearing, to one that was jubilant and full of life. Reclaiming Arya’s hands in your own, your spun her around, prancing around in ridiculous circles until a smile finally graced her lips, and then a small laugh bubbled through, and you knew that your work was done.

You gave her one last smile, twirling her in another circle before stumbling off of the dance floor. All of the spinning had made you a bit dizzy, and with all of the skirts that Sansa had swaddled you up in, you weren’t surprised that you had nearly tripped a few times before you had even made it away from the dancers.

Robb’s hand found the small of your back, guiding you away from the mass of bodies that had swarmed the dance floor. You would have been surprised, especially because you hadn’t thought that Robb was anywhere near you, but he had a habit of turning up when you needed someone.

“What was it that you wanted earlier?” You asked breathlessly, collapsing into the chair that he had guided you to.

“Do you remember when my mother was so angry at us for sneaking into these feasts that she made us attend all of those dreadful dancing lessons?” Robb asked, smiling at Arya dancing with Rickon among the masses.

“Of course I do,” you laughed, recalling the many afternoons you had spent with your slightly nasty dance master. “Your mother was so sure that we would never turn up to another ball again if we had to take those lessons, but you were at every single lesson.”

“Naturally, you were so excited, and there was no way that I was going to miss it when you tripped over your own two feet.”

“If I recall correctly, you were always responsible for catching me after I messed up a new step.” You lazily punched him in the shoulder, but the laughter died in your throat as Robb caught your fist and linked his hand with yours.

“And I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.”

It wasn’t the act of holding his hand in yours that caused your breathing to falter. You had been holding pinkies since you had met, so after that, what was a hand? It was the way that his eyes were staring into yours, unwavering. For the first time in a long time, you felt yourself blushing because of Robb Stark.

It wasn’t something that happened often, the two of you had grown up together, after all. Your mother had been best friends with Cat, and when they passed away, it was no question that you were going to stay with Ned and his family.

You had been quiet when you arrived at Winterfell for the first time. It had only been a day or two since your mother and father had moved on, taken from you suddenly by a terrible affliction. You were assured that your friends would all be waiting for you, but that wasn’t good enough. You wanted your parents.

And even though you constantly reminded Robb of that, he was there for you at every turn. Bringing you a flower he found near a spring, hoping to make you smile, or telling you a poorly thought out joke, just waiting for just a glimpse of the dimples he used to know so well. And as much as you wanted to give him a glimpse of your former self, you needed time. Somehow, even at such a young age, both of you understood. And you had remained solemn, until one afternoon, he heard a giggle echoing from her chambers.

Robb threw open the door to find you sifting through a drawer full of dried flowers, picking them up one by one and examining them. He marched into the room, demanding to know why you had been so sad before. You never had been able to give him an answer, simply handing him one of the flowers and telling him that you were sorry. You never had offered him an explanation for those first few weeks.

“Y/N?” Robb’s voice and both of his hands cupping yours somehow managing to effectively draw you back to reality. “Are you okay?” his voice was soft, almost as if he was afraid to scare you away. He should know better than that by now.

“I was thinking about when I first came to live with you, well everyone. And you worried yourself over making me feel welcome, and you were so confused when you found me with that drawer full of flowers.” You sounded dreamy, still thinking about the days when things felt easier.

“You never did tell me why you kept all of those flowers. Especially when they never made you smile in the first place.” He smiled down at your hands, where his thumb was stroking the back of your hand.

“Because I knew that they were going to make me happy eventually,” You met his eyes, hoping that he understood what you were trying to tell him. “And I was right, wasn’t I?” Robb looked like he was going to answer, but you were finished wasting time moping about when there was a party going on. “Let’s dance, Stark.”

And without another word, the two of you were out of your chairs and headed for the dance floor. The musicians had kept their promise, and the music was lively. You were pleased to see that Arya had dragged Sansa into a group of dancers, and it brought a smile to your face to see that everyone was happy, for the time being. It was rare to stumble upon a moment where someone wasn’t squabbling, and when you managed to find one, you most certainly weren’t going to take it for granted.

Read Part Three Here!

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