Summary: Bucky AU. After a major deal falls through, your father’s business almost falls apart. In a desperate attempt to save his livelihood, he seeks the help of his oldest friend, George Barnes, who happens to be the CEO of one of the most influential businesses in New York. He agrees, but on one condition. You have to marry his son.
Word Count: 2,201
The two of you had fallen into silence, both seemingly lost in thought. The appetizers were delicious, but you couldn’t do more than pick at them. You were too distracted by your thoughts to focus on eating.
So much had happened in so little time. Sure, it seemed like you had your best friend back, but who knew how long that would last. He seemed sincere earlier, but there was no way to guarantee that the two of you wouldn’t get into another stupid argument and find yourselves right back where you started.
Mightily Oats pushed himself up on his hands and knees. Hot flames roared around him, thundering like fiercely burning gas. His skin should have been blackening already, but against all reason the fire felt no more deadly than a hot desert wind. The air smelled of camphor and spices.
He looked up. The flames wrapped Granny Weatherwax, but they looked oddly transparent, not entirely real. Here and there little gold and green sparks glittered on her dress, and all the time the fire whipped and tore around her.
She looked down at him. ‘You’re in the wings of the phoenix now, Mister Oats,’ she shouted, above the noise, ‘and you ain’t burned!’
The bird flapping its wings on her wrist was incandescent.
‘You’re the scholar! But male birds are always ones for the big display, aren’t they.
‘Males? This is a male phoenix?’
It leapt. What flew … what flew, as far as Oats could see, was a great bird-shape of pale flame, with the little form of the real bird inside like the head of a comet. He added to himself: if that is indeed the real bird…
It swooped up into the tower.
‘It doesn’t burn itself?’ Oats said weakly.
‘Shouldn’t think so,’ said Granny, stepping over the wreckage. ‘Wouldn’t be much point.’
‘Then it must be magical fire…’
The phoenix above them flung back its head and screamed at the sky.
‘And to think I thought it was an allegorical creature,’ said the priest.
‘Well? Even allegories have to live,’ said Granny Weatherwax.
Peevils has felt the effects of fading before as a previous
character. She can’t remember what her name had been or even what type of
person she was, but she can remember the horror of watching herself fade away,
disappear, like a sweater with a loose thread will unravel until it’s nothing
but a mess of string. She can feel it again now.
Her arms and legs are already unraveled, not even really
there anymore. There is only the faintest outline of where her hand should be,
and her fingers are completely transparent. When Natemare reaches to grab her
hand, his own passes right through the space.
She can see it in his eyes, the moment that he wonders if
she’s already too far gone.
MadPat moves quickly. Too quickly, Wilford thinks just
before a smattering of blood dots his cheeks. It’s a familiar sensation, the
little pinpricks of warm blood that light his senses on fire with an insatiable
need for more, and never before has he tried to hold back like he’s trying now.
Host drops to one knee, the gun clattering to the floor, as
the blow knocks him off balance. A hand covers his face as Mad swings around
for the next blow with the serrated knife in his hand, but the Host whispers a
few words, just a simplest narration of, “MadPat’s heart stops,” and the other
figment crumbles, dead by the time he hits the floor.
Host turns his face up to Wilford, but the pink Ego already
knows that he can’t see him. The one blow that Mad managed to deal slashed
across the Host’s eyes, rendering them useless. Mare makes a guttural noise deep in his throat
at the sight of his friend’s dead body lying there on the floor, and the room
instantly fills with purple vapor so thick that Anti can’t see his hand in
front of his face as he glitches over to Other Bim and Other Wilford and
glitches them both out of the room.
It’s probably the most heroic thing he’s ever done, and then
he feels the stab to his back.
Host twists the knife as he holds Anti in place with an arm
around the glitch’s throat. “It’s a shame you didn’t think to save yourself,”
he whispers in Anti’s ear before pulling out the knife with a swift jerk and
disappearing into the mist.
Anti feels a dribble of blood drip down the corner of his
mouth as his vision starts to fade quickly.
Bim finds Mare and Peevils in the mist, feeling around for
them on the floor until he gets to them. Mare sees the other Ego through the
smoke and parts it so that Bim can reach them. Bim glances at Peevils with a
silent question on his lips, but Mare pulls a shard of the table out of his
Peevils takes a breath and transports Mare inside the piece
Wilford hears the slightest whistle of air bending around a
blade before he slips out of the way just in time to miss being stabbed by the
Host. The serrated knife, stolen from Mad’s dead fingers, drips with blood,
green and putrid-looking. Wilford realizes instantly who it belongs to and
feels anger rise like bile in his throat.
The Host is narrating to himself, all of their positions
throughout the room, but he’s still smiling, savage and brutal as a bullet
tearing through flesh. “Your little glitch friend is dying, Wilford, and the
mad scientist is already gone. I wonder how long it will take me to pick the
rest of them off, especially since the lovely lady is already evaporating like
morning dew. Such a shame.” His head tilts to the side, and the blood running
down his cheeks changes direction slightly. “Do I remind you of someone? Is
that why you haven’t shot me yet?”
Wilford doesn’t remember drawing his gun exactly. It’s so
instinctual now that it comes as naturally as breathing, but even though he has
a clear shot, Wilford’s trigger finger won’t budge. The Host takes a step
forward. “Come on, Wilford. Go ahead.”
Warfstache feels his blood pounding in his ears, a racing
drumbeat that presses him on. Fire, fire, fire. It says, but all the memories
in his head and the memories of his muscles fight against each other. Until one
of them wins out.
And there’s an explosion like the sound of
a million shattering mirrors
Song Drabble to Monsta X - Blind [Can’t remember who sent in the request, sorry]
Member: BAP’s Bang Yongguk
Pairing: Mafialeader!Yongguk X FemaleAssassin!Reader
Genre: Smut, Fluff, Angst.
Warnings: Mafia stuff - Once again. Swearing, Mature stuff. Dominant Yongguk. Mentions of orgasm denial.
Summary: You had been running from him for too long. If you had known that being with him felt so much like home, you might have never left.
A/N. Although this is Mafialeader!Yongguk, it’s going to be in another “universe.”
like a game of hide and seek. Whenever he got close to you, you would pull
away. You’re always just a few millimeters out of reach. His arms always just a
bit too short and you knew that this kept him awake at night and you would lie
if you would say that it wasn’t the same for you, but you needed him to stay
away from you. He wouldn’t be able to deal with you, even though he’s Bang
Yongguk – the famous mafia leader.
The name echoed in whispers in his mind, vibrating in his head. Such a simple name, really. Short, one syllable, clipped. Really, truly just a name. No, it was the woman it belonged to that made it special. That made Jamie want to elongate the name, taste every letter.
It was his own personal poem, musical and song-like. A lullaby that dreamily drifted through his ears, lulling him into calmness.
And why should he feel so strongly about this woman? A woman he just met. A practical stranger.
He knew why, of course. No, it wasn’t just her beauty, though that didn’t hurt his impression of her. She was smart. Professor smart. Biology professor smart. And effortlessly funny. And kind. But, most of all, she was transparent. He felt as if he knew her in one conversation; her eyes stained glass windows into her mechanical mind, her face twisted with every emotion she felt.
He was infatuated with her: her voice, her eyes, her smile, her mind…
He tested her name out again, speaking to the darkness of early morning:
“Jamie? Jamie!” He shook himself from his thoughts, the large dining room coming into focus. His sister was speaking to him.
“I’m sorry, what?”
“What’s going on with ye, Jamie? Yer mind is somewhere else.” Jenny’s eyebrows were drawn in concern. Yes, his mind was elsewhere, but he wasn’t prepared to tell his family exactly where.
“Oh, aye. I’m just…tired. I was up late last night.” Jamie glanced around the table at his family.Sunday dinner at Jenny’s, a tradition that they had started when their father died. The family had grown since then, though. Jenny married Ian, Willie married Nora. Both couples had spawned 2 children each, and Jenny was round with another.
“Ye need to get more sleep, Sawny. Yer not sleeping enough,” Willie interjected.
“Sawny…Sawnyyyyyy…” Willie’s youngest, Elinor, sang sleepily, and dropped her head on her father’s shoulder.
“Aye, I ken. Just, ye never know when ye’ll be inspired.”
“I dinna understand it a bit,” Willie admitted, taking a large bite of pasta. “But I’ll always support ye. However. Ye need to be healthy.”
“I’ll work on it.” Willie placed his hand on his brother’s shoulder, squeezing slightly, before turning his full attention to the meal in front of him. A bottomless pit, that man was.
“Anyway, Jamie,” Jenny interjected. “I was asking what yer working on now?” With a little bit of natural artistic talent, but never taking it further than that, Jenny was always interested in Jamie’s ‘next big project.’
“Ach, just small canvases. Nothing special, really.” Very special, actually, but Jamie didn’t want to tell them about Claire.
“Nothing special? Ye just said yer getting inspired in the middle of the night!” Jenny laughed, blue eyes crinkling.
“Weel, I’ve just been painting…pretty things. Flowers and such. Nothing too…inspired. Just, when it’s in my heid, I have to do it, ken?”
“Nay, but I’ll pretend I do.” Jenny wasn’t convinced, and Jamie knew it. The way her eyes narrowed, and lips pursed; that was her concentration face. He would be asked about it when they were alone. He should definitely leave before there was a chance of that. “How’s the meal, loves?”
“Fantastic as always, sis,” Willie mumbled through a mouthful.
“Chew wif yer mouf closed, Da,” Elinor woke up long enough to say.
“Aye, Peach. Thank ye.”
It was unusual for Jamie to go to the park after Sunday dinner, but there he was. It wasn’t a conscious decision; his body was heading in that direction before his mind could catch up.
He saw Claire from a distance, her dark mane hard to ignore. Instead of sitting on her usually bench, she was pacing the path, stretching her arms above her head.
Suddenly, she doubled over, grabbing her foot.
“Fuck!” Claire whined, examining her toe. Just a scrape, nothing life-threatening. But, a stubbed toe never felt too good.
“Watch her mouth. There are children present.” She jumped, unaware she had company. She turned to face her companion, a man with the sunset in his hair and a smirk on his lips.
“Jamie! You frightened me!” He blushed.
“I’m sorry, I dinna mean to.” He looked positively abashed with his pink cheeks and downcast eyes.
“No! It’s fine. I wasn’t expecting you. How are you?”
“Good, good. Just had dinner. Are ye alright?” He motioned to her foot, which she was still holding onto.
“Oh, yes. A stubbed toe.” She winked. “I think I’ll survive.”
“Good to hear, Sassenach.” Sassenach? What does that mean. She was about to ask, but he cut off her thoughts. “So…um…can I ask ye something?”
“You just did.” A dumb joke, she knew, but she wanted to see him smile again.
“Aye. Another thing, then.”
“Do ye… Could I, maybe, get yer phone number?” Whatever she was expecting…that was not it. She was undoubtedly pleased.
“Oh. Um. Yes, let me see your phone.”
“Let me see yers as well.” They swapped phones, typing numbers furiously.
“You can text me anytime, Jamie.”
“Aye, I will. I mean, yes. Sure.” Flustered. He was flustered, and it warmed Claire to know she had such an effect.
“I better be off. Got to be up early tomorrow. But… I’ll speak with you soon?”
Jamie woke with a start, the shrill ringing of his cell phone hitting his sensitive ears. What time was it?
2:54 a.m. the clock told him.
He glanced over at his phone on the nightstand. And thrill ran through him. Underneath the bold name “Claire Beauchamp,” was a picture of her, taken not 12 hours ago. He didn’t realize she had put a photo in her contact information. He didn’t realize she took a picture at all.
But, even more surprising, why was she calling him? He wasn’t angry or annoyed, quite the opposite really. It was just…a shock.
Steeling himself, he pressed the little green button in the corner.
“Who you texting?” You jumped at the sound of Dick’s voice in your ear, having been too preoccupied with your phone to notice him coming. Your best friend’s chin settled on your shoulder, his hands on your arms as he tried to sneak a peek at the screen. “Nobody!” You clutched your phone to your chest, swatting at him. Dick chuckled, backing off with his hands raised in surrender.
“You could just invite him over for coffee you know,” He raised an eyebrow, smirking knowingly. Instantly you felt your cheeks heat up. “He’s just.. interesting to talk to. We share very similar opinions of Mr Darcy, and are comparing notes. That’s all,”
Dick sighed, shaking his head exasperatedly and heading into the kitchen. You couldn’t really blame him. You had been talking to Jason an awful lot lately, and you really enjoyed his company but.. But. Then there was Tim. Tim, who, every time you saw him, made you simultaneously want to cry and cling to him just by being in the same room.
It had been months now, and you thought you were getting over him. You were back in your apartment, had filled the empty spaces he had left with things of your own. But just seeing him across the room at Wayne Manor sent you right back to square one.
Your phone screen lit up with a new message from Jason then, and you felt a stab of guilt in your chest. Jason had made his interest plain, and been nothing but understanding about the situation with Tim. You had been spending more and more time together just as friends, and he never pushed for more. And if you were honest with yourself, you had come to really like him.
So much so that, if your feelings for Tim weren’t holding you back, you would say you had a bit of a crush on him. Underneath his tough exterior he was sweet and kind and intelligent, not to mention his dashing good looks.
Steeling your nerves, you forced yourself to make up your mind. You typed a quick response to what Jason had just said, and then followed it up with an invitation for coffee. You hesitated only a moment before hitting the send button, and then hopped up to get ready for the day.
Dick was looking smug as he leaned against the counter, watching you give the kitchen a quick tidy. It wasn’t as if Jason hadn’t visited several times already, but this time felt different. Because this time you had made up your mind that you wanted to be with him. You weren’t going to be held back by the past any longer.
“Are you going to just stand there and watch me?” You shot Dick a look; you were unable to tolerate his gaze on you right now. It made you feel blatantly transparent, and you didn’t like it. Dick quirked a smile, glancing at the clock. “Actually I was thinking I should be going, I have a shift at the station tonight,”
“You’re not staying?” You didn’t know how you felt about that. You had assumed Dick would be there when you invited Jason over, had counted on him to tide over the conversation until you managed to calm your frayed nerves. “You’ll be fine sweetheart, trust me,” He threw you a wink and you blushed again, looking away.
Dick pulled you into a tight hug before he left, giving you some comfort before he left you alone to face your fears. You were trying to distract yourself by rearranging your bookshelf when the doorbell rang. Your heart leaped in your throat and you hurried to let Jason in.
As soon as you saw him all of your nervousness melted away. He gave you his signature lopsided smile, holding up a brown paper bag. “I brought books and muffins,” You groaned dramatically, stepping back to allow him in. “Why are you so perfect?” He shot you a playful grin, shrugging as he walked over to place his stuff on the table. “Guess I just can’t help it doll,” You laughed, closing the door and going to make the coffee.
Pretty soon the two of you were seated on the sofa, books littering the floor around you and two steaming mugs of coffee on the table. The rain was beating down hard on the roof overhead now, but you were both so absorbed in conversation that you hardly noticed.
You loved watching Jason talk, especially if it was about something he was confident in, like books. The way he leaned towards you slightly when he spoke, gesturing animatedly with his hands, the way his eyes lit up when you said something he found interesting, nodding enthusiastically. It was a side to him that you doubted many got to see, and you felt privileged to be one of them.
Jason was leaning over a book, scanning for a quote he wanted to show you. There was no helping the way your eyes lingered on his face, the soft white hair that fell across his eyes, his furrowed eyebrows, his sharp jawline, the curve of his lips. Butterflies took root in your stomach, and your breath caught.
You only realized that you were leaning in when Jason looked up, his face only inches from yours. His eyes widened fractionally in surprise, and then darkened. Your hand settled on his thigh. Your noses brushed. For a moment there was nothing but the sound of the rain, your mingled breathing. You weren’t sure who moved first, but suddenly your lips were pressed together, and you were kissing.
At first it was slow, tentative, but then the kiss deepened and you fell into each other. Jason’s hands were at your waist, steadying you, yours were tangled in his dark hair. When you finally separated it wasn’t by much, your foreheads pressed together and your noses touching. “You want this?” Jason was the first to speak, his voice low. “Yeah.. I really like you Jason,” you admitted, and it was easier like this, pressed so close that he couldn’t see you blush. Jason pressed his lips to yours again, and you could feel him smiling into the kiss. “I like you too sweetheart,” he chuckled fondly when you parted, pulling you into his arms.
You spent the rest of the evening curled up against Jason’s side, the blankets pulled close around you, a movie playing on the television (although you were too wrapped up in each other to pay much attention).
Blaise Zabini hated Halloween. He found it to be one of the most ridiculous holidays, and he often questioned its very existence and how it was even relevant.
But that wasn’t saying much. Blaise questioned everything, because he was the pretentious type who had to have an answer for everything, and quite frankly, he thought he was better than everyone else and could find the answer to any question.
Questioning things to the point of frustrating others was his lifestyle, and that wasn’t going to change anytime soon. It was humorous to him, especially when people could not keep up with his intellectual theorizing and detailed tangents.
So, when Pansy asked him to attend her obnoxiously loud and stereotypical Halloween party, he decided not to say no. It would give him an opportunity to make people think and to make a statement. It also gave him a chance to annoy people, which was his favorite pastime.
He was kind of a dick, but those who were friends with him loved him for it.
Oh no, Anonny. I screwed up! I totally didn’t realise you had written ‘modern’ royalty because I totally did a fantasy period piece instead. I hope that’s alright! Sorry!!!
The world he had known erupted in flames the night the royal family was massacred in their sleep. Rebels from the south swarmed the city of Winterfell in droves, wielding weapons forged in blood and steel, as screams echoed in the hollow city. Jon had barely been awake for more than a minute when incessant pounding forced him to hastily slip on his coat to answer the door. Brienne stood before him, blood trickling down past her armour, and blue eyes dampened in what he would later come to recognise as grief. She stepped to one side and revealed the princess. The eldest Stark daughter glanced up at him.
“Lord Snow,” she said. Her voice was soft, barely audible above the cries of the fallen city, but it was strong, steady and deceptively calm. “The Stark – I need your help.”
Jon shook his head. “I am no lord, m’lady.”
Princess Sansa’s eyes flickered over him, scrutinising his attire, which consisted of a simple tunic, coat and trousers. “You may not look as one, but you cannot hide your birthright.”
“I never sought to deceive anyone,” he said with more bite than was appropriate, but the world was on fire and Jon was not going to have this discussion with a Stark.
“Jon,” Brienne cut in, sighing wearily. “The royal family are dead. Sansa is the only one left. We need to keep her safe.”
His heart stuttered to a stop, mind flashing through memories of grey eyes, dark hair and lips perpetually curved in a smirk. “No,” he exhaled, as his hand shot out to grip the door frame. “No. Not… Is she –?”
“My sister is dead.”
Jon shook his head. He refused to believe that Arya – wonderful, strong, determined Arya – could be gone from this world. She had been the only person in his life who ever thought he could amount to anything more than what he allowed himself to be, and not because of his family, but because she knew him.
“The rebels?” He finally looked up towards the last remaining Stark. Her face betrayed no emotion, but even stone cracked.
“The Lannisters led them,” Brienne provided, as if he had needed any more kindling for the fire raging inside him, but his head snapped up at that. She nodded minutely. “They have the South, North and then they will head West.”
“The Eastern lands are barren,” the princess explained. “It’s the only conceivable plan.”
An explosion rocked the city, and even from where Jon lived just on the outskirts of Winterfell, his home shook with the force. They were wasting time. They needed to leave now.
Jon turned away from the two women to grab his rucksack. He threw in clothes, food and weapons, unsure of what exactly he was taking with him, but his mind was in a haze. It was fogging over like the farmlands in the early morning, thick with grey mist. He could not make sense of this new world; he could not comprehend any more than the menial task before him. If he allowed himself, Jon would fall and he may let himself burn down with this city if he did.
“What of you, Brienne?” he asked as soon as he latched the door close behind him. If she was coming to him for assistance, she was not coming with them. It was the only reason the guard would ever abandon Princess Sansa.
“She will not be coming with us,” the princess answered instead, her tone effectively ending the line of query. She glanced to her personal guard and the women exchanged small nods. The princess clasped a hand around the older woman’s arm. It was soft and fond– the first crack in her steely armour.
Once Brienne had left, Jon led the princess round back to his trusty steed. “You will have to ride with me, princess. Two horses will attract too much attention.” To his surprise, she merely nodded. From all the stories Arya had told him about her older sister, Jon expected more of an argument. But then, in the few minutes he’d been speaking to her, Princess Sansa was nothing like Jon imagined. She was not a young girl caught in the throes of romance and songs; she had ice in her eyes, hardened against the coming storm, and in spite of the copper hair, she reminded him of Arya in this moment.
They rode for two days only stopping for food and water. Jon could ride to the West without much sleep and so he had planned to do exactly that, but by the eve of the third day, Princess Sansa removed her hands from around his waist and squeezed his right arm tightly. “Jon,” she said carefully, as if wary of startling him. “You need sleep. Please; just rest.”
“They’ll be looking for you, princess. I can’t let them catch up to us,” Jon answered, but he could feel his muscles beginning to tense with exhaustion, locking up against the strain it’s been put through.
“But if they catch up to us now, will you the strength to fight them?” she asked pointedly, and Jon knew she was right. “Now, we will find shelter and we will both rest.”
Even though she had just lost her entire family, her city, everything she’d ever known, the command with which she spoke was as authoritative as if she was on the throne. Jon could not be miffed at a woman who knew how to demand respect with just the snap of her words. She must haved learned it from her mother. Arya had the same way about her; although she was more aggressive. She played her emotions clear on her sleeves, whereas Princess Sansa appeared to keep it buried deep within.
It only took an hour for them to find a small hidden cave in the woods. The proximity to a stream was a small miracle, but Jon warned her that it could lead others here too so she was to stay by his side at all cost. If she wished to bathe, Jon would accompany her and turn to keep her modesty.
“It would scandalise all my ladies-in-waiting, but modesty is the least of my concerns, Lord Jon,” she said.
Jon ducked his head to hide his amusement. “That may well be, m’lady, but I’m afraid I must insist.”
She laughed and the sound brought his gaze back to hers. She looked as surprised by it as he did.
“If you insist then, my lord,” Sansa said, smiling at him, before wading ankle deep into the water still fully-clothed. “You may turn.”
As soon as Jon heard the rustle of her clothes dropping to the muddied bank, the air around them appeared to change, charging with some kind of current he could not readily recognise. The water splashed softly behind him with Princess Sansa’s ministrations. He was despicable for thinking of her in such a fashion when she was at her most vulnerable. Jon was sworn to protect her; was he so depraved as to stand here imagining her soft skin under the silver light of tonight’s moon? Could he not be in the presence of a beautiful woman without being so racked with want?
Jon shifted, fingers clenching by his sides. He would not desecrate Arya’s memory by lusting after her sister. She would punch him for it if she knew.
Abruptly, a quiet giggle tore his attention away from the self-loathing waging inside of him. Jon nearly turned in curiosity, but stopped himself just in time. “Princess?”
She giggled again. “I did not think of how short my sister was.”
“Oh, Jon, you may turn.” And when he did, he found the princess standing there in a white tunic and tight dark breeches. She met his eyes with a small bemused smile on her face. “A dress is not so helpful when you are running. This is Arya’s.”
“Aye,” he nodded, smiling back at her. “There’s a tear right there,” he pointed to the top of her thigh, “where she ripped it trying to escape being seen by your mother.”
Sansa’s eyes widened and she bent over to get a better look. “Oh, that girl. She was always so troublesome.” Her smile turned despairing and Jon’s heart ached with grief. Sansa returned her gaze back to him. “You loved her.”
It wasn’t a question, but he answered anyways. “Yes. I loved your sister very much. She was –” He sighed, rubbing a hand wearily over his face. “The greatest friend a man could ever ask for.”
“Friend?” she questioned. “You do not have to lie to me, Jon. I would not hold it against you for falling in love with my sister.”
Jon gaped at her for a long second before chuckling loudly, disrupting the quiet of the evening. “Princess, I assure you I am not,” he said. “She is like family to me.”
It shouldn’t please him as much as it did when her face brightened at his words, but it felt like they were dancing on the precipice of something, and Jon couldn’t quite tell if he should be afraid of what that might be.
“I see,” was all Sansa said, as she ducked her head and walked towards the direction of the cave.
Jon followed obediently behind, watching the sway of her copper hair, wet from the stream. Droplets of water dripped down the white tunic and turned the cloth transparent. Jon clenched his fists more forcibly. “Princess,” he said as calmly as he could. She stopped and glanced at him over her shoulder. “Your hair. You’ll be cold.” He stripped himself of his jacket and closed the distance between them to drape it across her shoulders.
Her brows furrowed together, a frown settling on her lips in a way that made him long to kiss it from her face. Jon nearly reeled back from that sudden and unwelcomed thought.
“And what of you, Jon? Will you not be cold?”
“I’ll survive, m’lady,” he answered a little more gruffly than he intended, but her prolonged presence in his life was beginning to overwhelm him.
Sansa nodded slowly, reluctant to agree, but she turned back towards the cave.
The night was long and harsh. Even in the safety of the cave, the wind carried to where they slept, reaching out for any exposed patch of skin, biting and unrelenting. Jon wouldn’t have been able to sleep even if he had the intention of doing so. He knew they had stopped specifically to allow him rest, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that they were far from safe. His eyes scanned the darkness beyond their shelter, listening for movement and waiting in anticipation for something he hoped would never come. But it was hard to hear anything through the howling wind.
“Princess.” He moved to her prone figure. “What is it?”
“Why –” She stopped and pulled herself up to a sitting position to level a glare at him. “Why are you awake? You should be resting.”
Jon sighed, and ran a hand through his unruly curls. “Someone has to stand guard, m’lady.”
“And do you think me frail, Jon?” Sansa questioned, and there was that steely glint in her eyes again that warned him against answering. “Because a few less hours of sleep a night will not kill me.”
He should have realised that in spite of their differences Sansa Stark would be as stubborn, if not more so than her sister. He glanced back to the cave door. The night was cold and harsh; it would be reasonable to assume they would be safe inside here till morning.
“We will both sleep.”
He laid his head down on the hard floor and wrapped his arms around himself to preserve some warmth. But the thin tunic he wore was no match for the raging wind. He longed for a fire, but knew it was an unnecessary risk. He could survive. He had survived much worse than this night.
It was barely a minute later when the princess spoke again. “I can hear your teeth chattering, Jon.” He made an affirming grunt, which earned him a resigned sigh. To his surprise, he felt her settle in behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist and throwing the jacket over the both of them. “Stop thinking so loudly,” she said, a teasing lilt in her voice. “Propriety is the last of my concerns when we could both easily die in our sleep from the cold. Just rest.”
“Princess Sansa, if anyone were to –”
“And who would?” she interrupted, the teasing gone, replaced by a sharpness he hadn’t heard before. “Who is left out there to care? My family is dead. The royal family is no more. I am as much a princess as you are, Jon. I have nothing left.”
“You are not alone,” he said instantly, a fierce yearning to protect her draping over him. Against all odds, come hell or high water, Jon would lay his life down for her.
Sansa stirred behind him, burrowing her face into the crook of his neck. “You kind-hearted buffoon. No one can protect anyone in this world. I am merely prolonging my death.”
The defeated sigh forced him to roll over to face her, his arms pulling her tightly against him, because she was right about one thing: propriety be damned. “Sansa, look at me.” She shook her head and hid herself against his chest. “Please, princess.”
“What, Jon? Are you to tell me everything will be better in the morn?” Sansa scoffed. “We are being hunted by an army of rebels who hate me and my family. We are riding to Targaryen land in the hopes that your family, whom you have not spoken to or seen in many moons, will let me take refuge. Your hope is misplaced, my lord. There is none.”
He fought against the voice telling him to place some distance between the Stark princess and himself, and cradled her face in his hands. “I won’t let anyone hurt you. And I won’t let you die until you’re grey and old, Sansa Stark. Your life is much too important.” At her sceptical look, he chuckled softly. “You will take back Winterfell. I’ll help you. And you will lead, better than any ruler ever had.”
“A queen without a king? It’s unheard of,” she whispered back, but her eyes were shining, fond and hopeful, and his heart constricted at the sight. Beauty had never looked so sweet until this moment.
“Then you will be the first.”
She placed a hand over one of his and smiled. “Will you be my knight?”
“What is a queen without her knight?” Jon grinned, unable to stop himself from tracing the line of her cheek with his thumb.
“One without her heart.”
The look she sent him was so earnest, so full of an emotion Jon did not want to see, yet relished in all the same. She would be his salvation and his damnation. “Sansa, please…” He needed to tell her how this could never be, but before he could even form his thoughts into words, her lips were on his, gentle, coaxing and shy all at the same time.
“You are thinking too loudly again, my lord,” she whispered against his lips, and that was all the encouragement he needed before his hands carded through her hair to tug her closer to him.
Sinking into the kiss was as easy as falling in love. In a way, it was easier. Jon could quiet his mind by letting his body react to hers, their lips moving in perfect tandem as they pressed needily against each other. Everything about Sansa was easy if he only let it, because loving her was more natural to him than breathing. He had never known anyone who understood and challenged him as well as her. In this moment tonight, she was his salvation – the mate his soul had searched far and wide for. And maybe tomorrow, their love would bleed out, crimson against the ground, as she damned him to death, but he would gladly cross that threshold if he could have this with her.
Lightning thundered out beyond their cave, and Jon sighed into her, pulling back to rest his head on her shoulder. “It should be impossible to feel joy in the face of such tragedy, and perhaps I have cursed us for it.”
“Then I have too,” Sansa said with a gentle smile that was only for him. “My heart still grieves, Jon. I fear it will never stop grieving for my lost family, but it will heal too and I believe that is because of you.”
He smiled back, leaning forward once more to capture her lips, when thunder roared above them again. But something in the back of his mind forced him to sit up, pulling her with him.
“Sansa,” he breathed out, dread rising in his throat. “That’s not thunder.”
I tend to be very…opaque? Tight lipped? About what is going on with me. I don’t know it’s just I set this out to be a writing/kpop blog and I never really felt like it was important to let anyone really know what is going on (or rather what’s not) in my life. But if it’s come to a point where it affects my activity on this blog, I shouldn’t really keep it from anyone.
I have been debating with myself about how open I should be about this, whether for my own…privacy I guess, or maybe because I just hate being vulnerable. There’s also the problem that my second instinct with things like this is to sugarcoat as much as possible, the first being to avoid the problem and pretend it doesn’t exist.
But eventually, I have to address the fact that I’m not okay, and haven’t been for a while. I don’t know if I should elaborate on the details, or if I even can at this point, because everything’s just blurring together in my mind. Or maybe it’s just…pathetic what’s happened… I withdrew from one of my classes and then failed one of my remaining ones, for one. A family friend passed away. Changed my major, miss my dead dog. The usual. This is all just external, though.
And I keep looking outside of myself for reasons of why I am the way I am, but honestly that’s not the source of the problem. Because I know that even without these things, I would feel the same way which frankly is… shit. And sometimes I don’t feel anything at all. I don’t know.
I’ve…shied away from using the word depression, not because I denied having it myself, but more because I didn’t want to let anyone know. I just… didn’t want how people see me to change. But I can’t just pretend that I’m not the way I am. Especially since this keeps happening, year after year after year… this has very much been a long term issue, and I mean long, not something that’s coming up just because a few unfortunate recent events.
I also didn’t want people to worry, because when people worry, they ask questions. And I… don’t even know how to answer those questions myself.
I say that I didn’t deny having depression to myself, but I didn’t accept it either. I didn’t want to be this way and so I tried to continue living as if I wasn’t. And that’s what made it worse. By not addressing the actual problems, they only grew worse. You can’t just will yourself into feeling better, and I should have known better to try.
Which is what it comes down to. Not necessarily that I’ve been feeling this way but that I should have known myself better and how I get when I’m like this. I should have known how much I could handle and accepted that, instead of pushing myself and promising things I couldn’t follow through on, both to myself and others. I don’t know, I just didn’t want to feel… weak, I guess. Worthless. Useless.
But I’ve found that… hiding your weaknesses only makes you even weaker.
As for writing…I’ve been caught in this feedback loop of where I don’t feel well enough to write, but writing also makes me happy, so in turn it’s turned into this downward spiral. So I’ve been conflicted, because stopping writing wouldn’t make me happier either, but I still need to take time to address what’s going on with me.
I think it’s not necessarily anything to do with what I’ve been doing, but the mindset I’ve been in, and what I’ve acknowledged about myself.
Honestly, this post was mostly for myself. Admitting to yourself what is actually going on is easier when you’ve decided it’s something you can share with others. Other than that, I’m not sure where to go from here. But I feel like I’ve taken the first step towards somewhere.
Prompt: Galleries are full of history. You just need to have someone who knows about it by your side.
Based on the prompt:
“You’re just another player, and it’s a game over to us.”
Warnings:ANGST, toxic relationship, drug consumption, mild explicit content.
Words: 4999 lolololol
A/N: Requested by one of the angst queens aka @buchananbarnestrash. Hope you like it, I made it as angsty as possible. The end might be a little bit confusing, but I hope you guys got it because when the idea popped in my mind I was like HOLY SHIT PLOT TWIST. And yes, this is some TJ Hammond lifestyle. Sorry it took me so long. After 3 days writing it i declare this fict is a crap. I think I could have done better, but still, hope you guys enjoy it.
Who thought that little kid, the one who used to hide under her mama’s skirt when they tried to cross a bridge would get on a plane to cross the Atlantic Ocean voluntary, to a brand new world, to a brand new inspiration fountain? She always had a fear of heights, yet she bought an apartment on a 10th floor in the city where buildings would be able to communicate with god, where the clouds were nothing but a low roof above the inhabitants head, brushing slightly the pointy skyscrapers built by simple mortals.
She was also afraid of forgetfulness, that’s why she made sure of picturing every single corner of what her pupils could perceive, making the sometimes unperceived beauty pop out with all its glory. That’s why she chose overcome her previous fear over hiding herself on the feet of those giant structures. She wanted to touch, to feel the lilac sky every afternoon, she wanted to capture the city lights like fireflies.
I started out aiming for a snarky little piece, so how did I miss so badly in so few words? (Possibly by starting writing at 5am…) Anyway:
Martellus had chosen a daring costume, no doubt of that, but frankly he looked like an ass. He strutted about in his toga—good lord, a toga, and in the middle of winter—playing the preening peacock to his sister’s bright butterfly. Not to disparage Seffie in any way, of course. She looked flawless. Safe behind his mask, Tarvek smiled at the very idea of her first reaction to her brother’s costume.
He supposed Tweedle had aimed for a regal look, what with that obnoxious headpiece and all, but he had missed. He looked like a sun god’s feckless younger brother. Seffie thought so too. Probably most of the guests missed the sidelong glances she slid his way, glances that betrayed only the leading edge of her monumental exasperation with her brother. Tarvek felt a deep fondness for Seffie. Of all his cousins, he thought her the most like himself, so of course he was also most wary of her.
Martellus paraded himself through the party, trying just a bit too hard to play the perfect king. Tarvek should have felt annoyed by his bravado, but he could not manage it. Instead, he saw a boy like himself, a child who had grown up under the constant threat of never quite growing tall enough in a family of giants. A young man of royal blood who had heard every day, at every turn and every potential misstep, that there was another heir. A better heir. You are not indispensable. You can be replaced at any moment.
Tarvek looked at his cousin, and he could not feel resentment. He could not muster envy or bitterness, nor even revulsion at Tweedle’s transparent need to make himself the center of attention. Tarvek looked at Martellus, and he felt nothing but pity.
The cheese sculpture really was a bit much, though.
When Nesta found out where they were
going — and why — she didn’t want to go anymore. What had started as an
assertion of her new power and a chance to spend more time with Cassian had
turned into a rescue mission.
You know, I’m working with psychologist right now. It’s a good lady that helped my friends a lot already. There are a lot of things I want to work on. It’s like… deconstructing myself, peeking deep down into my heart, realizing simple things I failed to notice. And it feels so right.
It’s not scary.
When I was a kid, I loved washing and cleaning things made from transparent glass. New Year tree decorations and lamp-shades from the living room - freshly washed, they sparkled and glistened, felt like there is some magic hidden in them.
I feel the same right now. I should have gone to psychologist years and years ago. I should have sought help earlier to wash my mind clean and find this light again.