#silver snow spoilers
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I'm really surprised yall liked that costume breakdown so much! Glad it wasn't a waste of time lol By popular demand, I'm back with more unnecessary analysis, this time of the lettuce fam (and the church as a whole).
I bring you:
Fashion in Fódlan part ii: a very long, still not comprehensive, but this time solicited analysis
FYI this post is way more detailed and is significantly more focused on the relationship between the Adrestian Empire and the Church of Seiros, especially relating to politics and power, rather than the clothes.
The Curch of Seiros: tradition!
The reason I didn't originally include these babies is simply that the pool seems at first to be very small. Besides, Flayn is in an academy uniform, and Sothis is a god, so there's really only two outfits and it's kinda hard to get a real feel for it overall.
Fortunately, I Am Very Smart (jk) and was able to gather a sizable amount of material by broadening my horizons a little
Statues from left to right: Macuil, Cichol, Indech, Cethleann
Trends:
The very first thing you will notice is that, unsurprisingly, there are a lot of similarities with the generic clergy outfits, and the Saints are just in regular class uniforms rather than unique clothes. You can actually see a sort of evolution from Sothis's dress (the og) to the generic female bishop and priest, and a sort of similar silhouette between the male monk and Seteth:
Also, Rhea, dead Sitri, and the mural version of Sothis are all wearing the same white dress but with decreasing amounts of embellishments :) dragon ladies :)
Flayn's version of the academy uniform actually keeps a couple of these influences, as well, primarily the center-front embellishments and the dropped shoulder bows.
Enlightened!Byleth, on the other hand, is a bizarre hodgepodge of stuff that doesn't immediately seem related to anything else.
The Saints being depicted in generic clothing makes sense, because the statues were probably erected after they had all "died." It is odd that Cichol, despite being a wyvern lord in game canon and a formidable warrior in CoS canon (whoa, so meta), is shown in the male bishop uniform in his statue. I think it's because they needed to differentiate between Cichol and Emperor Wilhelm.
The statue in the imperial palace of Wilhelm Paul Hresvelg, the first emperor, is in full armor, but the statue of Cichol is not - the years Cichol lived in Enbarr may have overlapped with Wilhelm's rule, so Cichol, despite being as much (or more) of a warrior as Wilhelm, held a more spiritually significant position. His association with Cethleann likely reinforced that, thus leading to the badass warrior-priest depiction.
*pointing at myself in the mirror* don't draw warrior-priest seteth on a wyvern don't draw warrior-priest seteth on a wyvern don't dr
"But pg," you say, "of course they all look like the monks and priests, they're literally the church. What does this have to do with the empire?"
Analysis:
The church and the empire grew hand-in-hand for a very, very long time, and that shows in lots of ways, including the prevelance of magic in the empire. I actually believe that the way the clergy dresses now is actually somewhat similar to how a lot of people used to dress, or at least influenced it. (Note that TWSITD, a group that has been around for longer than the empire and is separate from the church entirely, still wears their variations of clergy clothes, and Arval/Epimenides even have a similar silhouette to Sothis. That suggests that the styles are indeed very old.)
Now that more than 1000 years have passed, the Empire has continued to develop new styles and fashions, while the church, being a church, has maintained their ceremonial outfits. That being said, some similarities remain. I want to take a look at two of them:
Most units have outfits that draw from their canon classes, so that's not unusual, and all the magic classes are clearly influenced by the church, but what we should consider here is why the fashion aesthetics lean toward the faith classes when these two characters in particular are clearly specialized in reason and dislike the church.
Dorothea's dress is elegant and fashionable and also happens to bear a shocking resemblance to a generic priest outfit (outlined in red the points of interest on Dorothea). The sleeves are also similar to the mage outfit, of course, but it's the cut of the skirt, the thing at her neck, and the waistband that make it a priest.
For Lord Arundel, I'm mostly saying the general *shape* of the thing is similar, but there's also the deep round collar and the strong vertical lines, but only on one side instead of both.
As a side note, I'll argue that the military jackets we discussed in the last post are actually related to the church too, since the Officer's Academy (which is of course founded and run by the church) uses the same button styles, and we don't see it in the other two nations. (If this all seems like a stretch, that's because it is <3 a thousand years have passed, okay, things have changed.)
Besides just the practice of magic in general and some of the styles, the ceremonial importance of wearing some kind of uniform to show your role also remained, imo. We have two clear styles of uniform in the Imperial nobility - robes and jackets (it's unclear exactly what determines who wears which - I would think it's based on military roles vs political roles, which would explain the strike force being in jackets, but Jeritza is heavily involved in the military and he wears the robes. Possibly the exception that proves the rule?) - which are of course related to the two styles we see the most of at Garreg Mach, those being the clergy's robes and the officer's academy students. They may have evolved pretty substantially by this point, but I'm inclined to say the robes worn in the empire are related to the clergy robes, especially if they're meant to be associated with the people in more politically-oriented positions rather than soldiers.
We see the importance of these uniforms in the fact that they actually supersede armor/class uniforms. Hubert (canon class dark bishop), Ferdinand (canon class paladin), and Lord Arundel (canon class dark knight), all wear outfits that aren't actually related to their canon classes at all, and they still keep those outfits when in combat as enemies.
One more similarity I'd be remiss not to point out:
Love to be a bisexual God-King and wear a big tall collar and shoulder embellishment and gold stuff around my neck and a gold crown with a little dangly pearl thing on my forehead~
More analysis:
So, we've established that there's a connection between the clothes worn by empire nobility and church leadership, as well as the nature of those clothes. Cool. Now let's talk $$.
I'm not going to consider Sothis's outfit here, because she's a god and I don't think she's going popping into shops to buy ribbons. Likewise, I think Byleth's enlightened one outfit is more of a divine creation than an actual outfit that cost money.
Rhea's costume however, which as we discussed earlier takes inspiration from Sothis's, definitely did cost money, and a lot of it.
On the inner layer, we don't have a ton of excess stuff going on, as far as the cut of the clothing goes - the white dress is very simple, pretty fitted, not extravagant in any way, but we do have those extra gold details and the headdress, which is honestly a work of art.
What I want to pay attention to is the cloak in particular. That fabric with the beautiful, intricate repeating design of the Crest of Seiros is almost certainly a white and gold brocade (not only is that what it looks like, but it's also a typical fabric for liturgical vestments).
Brocade is a very expensive type of fabric that's woven to look like it's been heavily embroidered, example above (fabric plus a painting of somewhere wearing it). High quality, 100% silk brocade, especially hand woven and using precious metals like gold, costs literally hundreds of USD per yard, and a cloak of that size would be multiple yards (4? 5 maybe? idk I can't actually sew). That's a lot of money.
You'll notice that Seteth has a similar pattern on the inside of his cape, but I highly doubt it's a brocade. It could be damask (similar to brocade but cheaper and easier to take care of - example shown below), but I think it's just a patterned silk.
I think his main garment - cape included - is meant to be a play on a cassock, so it's probably a lightweight, soft wool with the decorative facing only on the cape part, possibly not lined at all in the rest of it. The details around his cuffs and shoulders and the back of the cape are probably embroidery or applique, I'm guessing the same as the academy uniforms, whatever those are.
It's definitely nicer than what most of the students or everyday people wear, but not nearly as extravagant as the jackets in the Empire. You'll also notice that Flayn's officer's academy uniform is a little fancier than the regular students, but not enough to be worth investigation.
The blue is probably a pretty expensive dye color, and you'll note that Rhea has it too. (The black of the academy uniforms would be similar in cost...)
(Speaking of blue dye, I did more research while writing this post and it turns out that the dull blues most of the folks in the kingdom have are actually some of the cheapest and easiest colors to get and maintain! Woad my beloved... Indigo is still extremely expensive, though.)
So anyway, as we can see, the issue of excess is really just Rhea. Being the Archbishop, it's understandable in the exact same way that Edelgard's outfit is - they're both trying to show their legitimacy as a sovereign, in part through their clothes.
However, I do want to point out something extremely important: Rhea didn't drop a shit ton of money on a fancy cloak any time in the last few centuries. When you observe her headdress during a tea party, she has this to say: "This crown is rather elaborate, but it has been passed down through generations of archbishops." So it was almost certainly created hundreds of years ago, likely during the early and much more prosperous years of the empire before the kingdom was a twinkle in Loog's eye. I think the cloak is probably the same way, created around the same time as the crown.
So, is she wasting a lot of money to make herself look powerful? Probably not. Is it still a little out of touch to be dressed so extravagantly? Yeah, on a social level. On a political level, she's reinforcing the idea that she's in control, especially while groups like the Western Church are acting up.
Because that's what this is all about: Control.
Conclusion
The church still has a significant impact on the culture of the empire, but it's more than just an old and famous church building still standing in the heart of Enbarr or the gown of an opera diva. It's explicit.
As our very last exhibit, I present a crown.
The crown Edelgard is given at her coronation is not the same crown she wears during the war, and - though we can only see the tip of the little spire in the front - it bears a striking resemblance to the crown worn by Sothis/enlightened!Byleth. (Using the Sothis regalia to show it bc it's a better image lol.)
I believe this crown may have been crafted at the same time as the Archbishop's, though you'll notice it's quite a bit smaller.
That's because the church and the empire didn't just grow up together - the church was the empire. Seiros named the capital, chose and crowned the first empire, and gifted him her own blood to give him power. The Adrestian Empire exists because Seiros wanted it to, but the church was the higher authority.
The Archbishop traditionally witnesses the coronation of each new emperor not as a show of friendship or an alliance or whatever; it's to remind everyone that originally, the Emperor served at the grace of the Archbishop, not by virtue of their own authority.
Edelgard wears a different crown when she declares war on the church, because she can't have anyone questioning her authority, especially not the church. That means all remaining influence the church has over the Empire and Fodlan as a whole simply must be destroyed. Unfortunately, it runs far too deep. What's she going to do, make Dorothea wear a different dress?
-fin- (lol)
working on a much more lighthearted part iii, which will literally just be ranking the outfits on how expensive I think they are lol no promises on that one though
EDIT: someone pointed me to an item description from FEH that confirms Edelgard did *not* have a new crown designed, it's just a different crown that already existed. Here's the ask where we talk about it a little
#fe3h#fe3h analysis#church of seiros#adrestian empire#fe3h spoilers#silver snow spoilers#might edit this later to add more pics but I'm posting it from my phone and the mobile app still limits to 10 pics per post lol#fashion in fodlan
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Finally finished all 4 routes in Three Houses today, and I honestly think that even though I believe Edelgard has very good points that I liked Silver Snow more. A great deal of secrets are revealed and I chose to S Support Rhea because at first I thought it'd be funny.
I ended up really liking that scene, even more then Edelgards. I didn't know what to expect, but everything about it was honestly pretty nice to me. I feel like they did a good job writing it at least.
#fe3h spoilers#fire emblem 3 houses spoilers#silver snow spoilers#covering my bases here#I really didn't expect it to go that way but honestly the way it caught me off guard is unreal#i get way to invested in games so that whole scene almost had me in tears#i liked it enough that playing the other routes is going to hurt now which is the opposite of how my first playthrough was
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Fuck I just got an idea for the final boss of the Silver Snow rewrite, lemme cook for a sec
What if, instead of a rampaging Rhea that comes out of literally nowhere because we needed a final boss... it's instead Thales piloting what would basically be a Metal Gear?
And you have Rhea in her Immaculate One form as an ally (with people knowing it's her this time) and she's the only one who can deal any meaningful damage to Thales, and your role is to fight the other enemies to keep the pressure off of Rhea as well as destabilizing Thales' Metal Gear so Rhea can get a good hit in, while also stopping him from unleashing attacks that could seriously hurt her. And maybe unleashing the nuke that would destroy the map causing a game over. It is a Metal Gear after all.
And at the end of the map Thales is killed but managed to fatally injure Rhea, with her being able to survive only if she hit A support with all of the Church stuff at least (Seteth, Flayn and Cyril included of course). Basically, since she actually got closer to all of them and actually overcame her fatal flaw by finally opened up, they're even more able to rescue her, getting her to cling on and ultimately save her life (of course the students she got an A rank with would join in too, even just my talking to her and begging her to stay alive), rewarding her trust in humanity for once
I just love the idea of the endgame fight foiling the Crimson Flower one hard in all its aspects!
#fire emblem#fire emblem three houses#fe16#fe16 spoilers#rhea#silver snow rewrite#my writings#does this make sense? is it a good idea?#that's up to you to decide#no idea on where would this final fight take place though. any thematic ideas?
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Hey there, patrolling guardsman of this derelict outpost- Those rumors about a restless spirit haunting this moon are just rumors haha right?
Uh...
Right...?
#Archer art#oc tag#silver skysail#spoiler alert the Terror of the Wastes is very real. just stay out of the way and don't be too annoying and you should be fine. probably#even after those initial Events(TM) Sid will still get an occasional dream of wandering the area around the outpost#wakes up suspiciously un-rested like he did indeed go hiking#goes back there after a while and wouldn't'ya know it the rumors of a pale-clad ashen specter are still going strong#eyes like desperate lamps reaching through the wind and snow before blending back into the snowdrifts and out of sight#yes there are some that have gotten a good look at 'the specter' yes they are aware that he looks identical. no one wants to bring it up
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ooh can you elaborate the parallel between rhea killing nemesis with a dagger and dimitri giving el one? i'm curious but feel free to ignore, if you don't want to!
Thanks for the ask anon ! =D
For context, I just realized there even was a parallel yesterday while I was watching the opening cutscene - and though I thought I'd share it because people might have some interesting things to say about it, I didn't really think that deep into it myself.
That being said, I thought I'd at least give it a go !! Keep in mind though, this might be pretty disorganized since I am thinking it out at the same time as I am writing it.
Off the top of my mind, there are three important daggers I can think of when playing fe3h. The first one, and perhaps the most significant, is Edelgard's, that was gifted to her by Dimitri so she could cut her own future. The second one, which I talked about yesterday, is the one Rhea uses to kill Nemesis. And finally, there is a last one: the one Monica uses to stab Jeralt.
Interestingly enough, Seiros kills Nemesis for revenge- because her people have no future now that they've been genocided, because they themselves will not have the opportunity to cut their own future anymore. This is pretty similar to how Edelgard herself is the only one of her siblings left to build a new world where what they went through will never happen again. Both are motivated by their grief of their loved ones who were ripped away from them.
However, and I think that’s very important- unlike Edelgard, Rhea never really moves on from the grief. She tries so much to stop such horrible things from happening again that she helps build and preserve a system that is, at its core, centered on a romanticized version of the past (what’s with how she rewrites history) and resistant to change (I believe it is mentioned at some point in Cindered Shadows that she prohibited the development of the printing press and some medical progress). In that regard, you could say she doesn’t even have a “future” if you consider that with future comes change. She clings to the past while being stuck in a kind of “still life” that is her present- and hoping that she can go back to “the way things were” once she brings her mother back to life.
That makes Edelgard the polar opposite of that. She, too, disregards the present- but only because she herself cannot dwell on the past, and thus considers building what she sees as a better future her priority. Living in the present time isn’t worth it if her work amounts to no significant change, and fast -hence the radicality of her actions compared to the more gradual reforms Claude advocates for. She is the gal who devised a plan to take down Those Who Slither In The Dark with her goth best friend in her twenties, while Rhea barely made a move against them in a thousand years.
Her act of desperation at the end of Azure Moon, when she tries to kill Dimitri last minute, is because she is unwilling to give up on the future she envisioned, not a way to avenge the past. Now that I think about it, this is emphasized even more by the fact that her dagger is supposed to kill the one who gave it to her in a past she has no care left for, and barely remembers anyways. But this last action still leaves room for a better future- she doesn’t manage to kill Dimitri.
Rhea uses her dagger so the past can live again- Edelgard uses hers to kill the past.
So, now that I am wayyyy too deep into this to back down- where does Kronya’s dagger fit in all of this ?
Kronya/Monica killing Jeralt is the catalyst for change in Byleth. The one key element that allows for the return of the Goddess in the world of the living (speaking of that, have some cool symbolism about their fusion with Sothis I thought about the other day) . But, even more importantly, Byleth embodies the movement of the world itself, the force of change. They are interminatum, neither God nor mortal, everchanging and undetermined, unpredictable. They are the time that passes ("Byleth interminatum" is also slowly becoming my favorite way to call them but that's another matter entirely).
Without them, the conflict stagnates, torn in the struggle between the past and the future ; because neither Edelgard nor Rhea know how to live in the present. But you know what's pretty cool ?
Byleth never uses their own dagger. They literally have it on at all times but never use it. My guess is, it is exactly because they have been revealed "both sides of time" that they can live in the present without regret, kept in check by all of the ties they have made there with their loved ones. This might even be because they are the only character who was "cut from the world" and felt like they lived outside of it at the beginning of the story, whose entire character arc centers on finding their place into this world. Jeralt's murder is just what triggers this force of change.
Byleth is essential in that they teach both the archbishop and the empress something they have always been lacking- learning to live in the present, to be part of the world again, to open themselves up to others and love. Edelgard never uses her dagger in Crimson Flower because Byleth was there to keep her aware of the consequences her actions have in the here-and-now.
Aaalright, I guess that's a wrap ! Please forgive any mistakes as English isn't my first language. Similarly, I might not have covered everything and it's just me musing, don't hesitate to add anything to this !!! ^^ But the symbolism of the dagger was really cool to think about !!
#fe3h#edelgard von hresvelg#lady rhea#byleth eisner#seiros#archbishop rhea#kronya#jeralt#fe3h spoilers#fe16#crimson flower#silver snow#white clouds#me making that meme yesterday : well surely SOMEONE will have something interesting to say about it#me when i realize it's me - i have to do the thinking : ah fuck i can't believe i done this#seriously though this was super fun#thanks anon#anon#ask#azure moon#dimitri alexandre blaiddyd
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Three Hopes has got me reflecting on my time with Three Houses and while I love the game to death, I still can’t get over how much missed potential I think Silver Snow had as a route.
Rhea is a really fascinating and tragic character who is crucial to the game’s backstory, and whose past struggles with TWSITD and her grief-stricken desire to see her mother again makes for really intriguing parallels with both Dimitri and Edelgard. She could easily have carried a route in the same way Edelgard, Dimitri and Claude do. Plus, imagine how sick it would have been to play as her, as Seiros?
Likewise, whether you love her or hate her, the Byleth vs. Edelgard conflict could have had so much emotional impact. This is the route where Byleth spent ten ingame months bonding with Edelgard as a student and friend, coming to understand her past struggles, fears and ideals, only to be horrified to learn how far she really means to go in pursuit of those ideals and siding against her. That kind of teacher vs. wayward student storyline has the potential to be incredibly intense, especially since all the other Black Eagles are also taking a stand against their former classmate.
Yet when you play the actual thing, Byleth and Edelgard only get two scenes together (one of which gets recycled in Verdant Wind where it has far less impact), and Rhea is kidnapped and offscreen for most of the route, so that fascinating character arc only gets addressed properly at the very end after an out of nowhere final boss (and this assuming you met the criteria so that Rhea actually lives and completes that character arc). All while it becomes painfully clear that Byleth just isn’t a defined enough character to carry a route by themselves.
I know why this is the case, mind. I know Three Houses was kind of rushed, I just think this could have been so much cooler.
#fire emblem#three houses#silver snow#tldr we were robbed of playable rhea#and of more byleth v edelgard screentime#three houses spoilers
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He feels like crying but why? This was the woman who killed Rodrigue out of revenge for the death of her father. He hardly knows anything about the ashen demon but why was there a hole now making its way into his heart? As if in another life, she was his BELOVED. There’s a voice in his head to avenge her by killing the one who took her life.
#dimileth for ts;;#dimileth: tw#three hopes spoilers;;#fire emblem three hopes spoilers;;#okay so yeah I am not okay;;#dimi dies in like crimson flower; verdant wind; and silver snow;;#but I was not prepared for Byleth's death;;#not his beloved;;#no;;#death: tw#[ the gleam of the azure. THREE HOPES verse ]
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ngl not a huge fan of apex of the world being the final boss theme for just azure gleam while scarlet blaze gets funeral of flowers... personal feelings aside the context of those two final battles in 3hopes don’t align at all with the thematic relevance of those two songs in 3houses and while it’s nice to hear new renditions of familiar tunes and it def would’ve been too much to ask for a completely new soundtrack i can’t say i’m not disappointed since the original context of those songs adds so much more weight to them yknow
#hero.txt#fe3h#few3h spoilers#living up to my url i guess#im not usually this pretentious abt music theory or whatever i dont know the first thing abt soundtracks but like#they had thematic relevance!! they did!! especially apex of the world!!#but in 3hopes it seems like the only connection they have is which lord's route it is ://#this does minorly tie into how much i despise the ending of azure gleam too but like. very minorly. just a lil#the use of funeral of flowers in scarlet blaze is also. a bit strange. considering its context in silver snow#the new versions are bops tho i'll give em that
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Game: Hey so we’re going to take Dimitri away from you for this chapter so you can’t level him up or anything
Game: but we’re also not gonna boost him to match the enemy levels when you get him back, he’s still going to be six levels lower than the enemies on a map FILLED WITH FUCKING ARMOR KNIGHTS
Game: Because fuck you I guess
#alto plays three hopes#fe3hopes spoilers#this is as bad as silver snow giving you Cyril as a fuckign level 10 commoner#RIGHT BEFORE THE CHAPTER 13 BATTLE
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God Three Hopes made me finally understand how certain FE3H fans, namely those who wish Silver Snow had been about Rhea, felt about the basegame.
#Kirika Talks#fe3h#fe3h spoilers#few3h spoilers#I always disliked with the idea that silver snow should've been about rhea#because I felt that missed the point what that route tried to accomplish#but god just w three hopes I think I finally understand now
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BEAUTIFUL teamwork from my secondary OTP here <3
It feels weirdly appropriate that Lysithea would swing on in here with the godforsaken power of TWSITD to kill the immaculate one tbh.
#Will this become another installment of Based on a True Story? The world may never know#fe3h#pg plays fe3h#silver snow maddening mode ii#silver snow spoilers#cyril fire emblem
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waiting for winter (我期待的不是雪)
zayne; 1,616 words; fluff, pining, gn!reader, no "y/n", spoilers for lads ch.4, whipped!zayne
summary: he has never loved the winter
a/n: yes, this was inspired by that one chinese tiktok song. no, i will not elaborate.
He has never loved the winter.
But he remembers the first time he watched the snow fall reflected in your eyes — your cheeks kissed pink by the unforgiving wind, the sky a smear of white as the cold sunk into his bones. He remembers the silver bell ring of your laughter as you’d dragged him by the hand out to build a snowman, the look on your face when he’d remarked that your snowman’s nose was crooked because there were no carrots at the corner store so you’d had to make do with a potato instead.
“Look! It’s snowing!”
Zayne shakes himself into the present, glancing out of his office window at the cotton-soft flurries spinning by his windows. Across from him, you’re sitting with a muffler thrown haphazardly around your shoulders, watching the snow with an open, child-like wonder that makes his entire chest twist tight with —
He clears his throat.
“All the more reason for you to be careful — make sure to bundle up when you go outside,” he says, dropping his eyes back to your most recent health report.
You’re not sleeping enough, and your vitamin D levels are lower than he’d like. He’d hoped that becoming a Hunter would at least expose you to a decent amount of sun but then again, you had told him that Jenna’s been keeping tight reigns on you since the explosion.
“Yeah, yeah — I’ll be careful.”
He looks up, his eyes dark as he looks over the shape of you, fingers curled in your lap as you look up at him from beneath your lashes. He holds your gaze and fights to keep his expression neutral as you blush and look away, somehow reverting back to a much younger version of you — the memory of it superimposed upon the look of you now.
“You’re just as bossy as you were back then,” you say, sighing as you shrug up your shoulders like a scolded child.
Zayne scoffs, affording himself a small laugh, “Except I have a doctorate to back it up now, don’t I?”
You pout, pursing your lips. Zayne wonders, for the millionth time that day, how soft they might be beneath his own.
“I liked you better before you got your fancy creds,” you say, still pouting.
Zayne sighs, flicking off his tablet and putting it down on the table.
“Alright, what do you want?”
You blink up at him, eyes wide enough to convince anyone else of your innocence. But he knows better. He’s always known better.
“What do you mean?”
He ticks his tongue against his teeth and leans back in his chair, checking his watch.
“It’s almost lunchtime — c’mon.”
He pushes up from his desk and tugs his doctor’s coat from his shoulders, rolling them loose of the tightness that had gathered there all morning.
“Huh?”
He rounds his desk and tugs his winter coat from the back of the door, turning to fix you with a look.
“The noodle shop around the corner has your favorite as a lunch special.”
He counts down from five in his head — four, three, two —
“Really?” your face breaks into a grin wide enough to split your face. He chuckles.
“Yes, really. Are you coming?”
You stare for a second longer before leaping to your feet and bounding to his side. He reaches out to adjust your muffler, tying it tighter over the front of your chest, swatting your hand away when you try to loosen it.
“I’m going to choke!”
“Better that than for you to get sick again.”
He tugs open the door and watches you walk into the hallway, a bounce to your step that he hasn’t seen since you were both kids and he’d promised you he’d buy you sweets on the way home from school.
“How’re you so sure that the lunch specials gonna be my favorite?” you ask, pivoting on your heels and fixing him with a look, halfway down the white-washed hospital halls. Zayne takes his time buttoning up his own coat and locking his office door behind him.
“Because,” he says, voice steady as he strolls by you, glancing down with the shadow of a smile crimping his lips —
“I know you.”
* * *
He has never loved the winter.
But, he thinks as he watches you slurp down a bowl of wide-cut noodles, your cheeks flushed red with joy, he might just learn to love a winter like this.
You don’t question it when he reaches out to swipe at the corner of your mouth with this thumb, licking off the excess with a contemplative hm. But he revels in the way you swallow and blush and look away.
He wonders if you know.
He wonders if you know that you haunt him like the cold haunts him on the nights when he’s alone. He wonders if you see him the way he sees you, cast behind his eyelids like the frames of an old film whenever he closes his eyes, your smile more familiar to him than his own.
“Full?” he asks, watching as you wipe your mouth on a bit of napkin, lips stained red by the chili sauce.
“Mhm!” you nod, smiling up at him.
The noodle shop smells of chicken stock and green onions and the sharp dampness of snow on winter coats. You push the noodle bowl away and stare down at your hands.
“Are you — I mean… you have to go back to work, right?”
He can’t help but notice the note of reluctance in your voice, the way you look up at him as if hoping he’ll say no. He nods, folding his napkin into halves, and then forths. Outside, the sun is already falling toward the far horizon, casting everything in a goldenrod glow. Shadows fall long and sure along the pavement and Zayne doesn’t want to think about the endless hours of darkness ahead.
“Are you going home after this?” he asks, nodding stiffly to the waiter as he hands over his card, wordlessly pushing your hand away as you make a feeble attempt to try and snatch the receipt.
“I… was thinking about going to see a movie,” you say, thumbing at a stray thread along the edge of your coat. He watches you tug at it for a while before reaching out to take your hand in his.
“Go home,” he says, his voice level.
Your brow creases in a slight frown as you look up.
“But… I wanted to see —”
“We’ll see it this weekend,” he says, giving your hand a quick squeeze before letting go, thanking the waiter as he takes back his card and scribbles his signature on the receipt.
“We will?” you ask, blinking up at him as he stands up.
“Yes. It’s showing Saturday at 2:30 — we can get lunch before, or dinner after.”
He’s tugging on his coat when you reach up to loop his scarf around his neck, standing too close, so close he can smell the caramel milk and whipped cream of your skin. He fights down the shivers that threaten to shake down his spine as he goes still, waiting as you tuck his scarf securely around his neck.
“You never tie your scarf right,” you say, dropping back down onto your heels even as you shoulder on your own coat, cheeks dusted the most darling shade of pink Zayne has ever seen. As he watches you, he thinks it might just put the winter sun to shame.
He thinks he might thank you, or he might just bend down and kiss you — he’s uncertain all the way till you make it outside and you turn to smile up at him. And like this, with the dying sun caressing the edge of your cheek, the line of your jaw, you are nothing short of ethereal.
Zayne reaches forward, his thumb and forefinger catching your chin as he leans down.
Your gasp is little more than a hiccup of breath —
“Don’t be late,” he says, stopping mere inches from your lips, whispering the words against where your lips might be if he were a little more daring.
You hold perfectly still, your eyes round as you stare up at him, searching his face for… something — anything.
When he pulls back, he thinks you almost make to chase him. But you let his fingers drop from your skin and you tug at your muffler, toeing at the slushed-up snow on the sidewalk.
“Winter’s my favorite season, y’know,” you say. And Zayne doesn’t dare to hope. But he does — he watches you out of the corner of his eyes. Above you, all around you, the afternoon sun flickers and fades, a daytime aurora, like tendrils of some long-gone magic, coaxing willing believers toward their untimely doom.
“Hn,” he says, not trusting himself with more. He waits; you take a long breath before turning to look at him.
“You wanna know why?” you ask. And finally, finally he turns to you, his eyes catching your eyes — and in them, he sees the twisting colors of the sky reflected there, serpentine and sinuous. Ancient and inexorable. Reds and yellows, pinks and purples, bleeding into an endless, endless winter blue.
He wets his lips and swallows hard, “Why?”
You smile, and it is like the first glimmer of sun after an arctic winter’s night, and he can’t breathe for the sight of it.
“Because… it reminds me of you.”
lads requests r.... open lol
#love and deepspace#love and deepspace x reader#love & deepspace#love and deepspace zayne#love & deepsace x reader#zayne x reader#zayne love and deepspace#Zayne love & deepspace#lads zayne#love and deepspace x you#lads zayne x you#love and deepspace fluff#x reader#love and deepspace fanfic#floofy floof floof#li shen#YALL LMFAO#whawt the fuck why am i down SO FUCKING BAD#i like zayne so much more in chinese LOL hes got so much more#PERSONALITY???? in chinese IDK man#and it's not the translations fault cause its just... hard to translate#but yeah LMFAO#hes cute u__u
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It’s nice to see Ferdinand trying to help Hubert with Those Who Slither. It was always something I felt that he would do had he been clued in during Three Houses. He’s a really helpful person and wants to uproot the evil from Adrestia just as much as everyone else. You can see that with his father and with his supports with Lysithea. During his excursion with you he will admit that Hubert doesn’t want him doing anything underhanded, but he wants to be actively helpful. He doesn’t want to sit by and do nothing even if the battle is taken to the shadows. So if he can help he’s going to do it and I love that we get to see that opportunity in Hopes.
#; OOC || Bri ☀#; Analysis || Ferdinand ☀#Three Hopes Spoilers#//It's so nice to see him get more of an active role in Hopes.#//He had such good development and potential originally but it never felt utilized.#//So I'm glad they've given him more to do and that it shows what I wanted for him for so long.#//Now if only they had given that same detail for him in Silver Snow.
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nobody ; jon snow.
track five of WASTELAND, BABY!
pairing ; jon snow x martell!gn!reader
synopsis ; a child of sand and a child of snow—destined never to last, but somehow, you made it work.
words ; 9.0k
themes ; angst, action, fluff, healer au
warnings / includes ; heavy violence/gore/injury, wars/fighting, trauma, ramsay bolton, implications of sex, multiple mentions of death, reader is a bastard to oberyn martell, reader loathes the cold, a couple game of thrones spoilers, mentions of other characters in the show, and finally, fuck season eight !!
main masterlist.
You were fifteen when you first met Jon Snow.
The air was saturated with the ambrosial scents of spiced mulled wine and the rumbling thunder of tipsy cackling. Alcohol dripped from full golden chalices, heaping baskets of steaming bread rolls were passed around the mess hall, and plates were piled high with peppered mutton chops and creamed potatoes. You were seated near the end of the long table, quietly sipping on your honeyed apple cider as you politely smiled and nodded at the young nobleman who sat across from you, detailing a rather elaborate story of how he had hunted down a bear with nothing but a single hatchet and a lick of courage.
You didn’t buy a single word of it, but the exaggerated story was mildly entertaining nonetheless. You’d rather listen to his tipsy rambling than watch King Baratheon stick his tongue down a random maiden’s throat.
Once the man finished, he smiled charmingly, before grabbing your chalice and downing the rest of your drink. His loud belch was drowned out by the rest of the crowded hall of Winterfell, busy feasting and celebrating. Your lips twisted into a frown out of instinct, but you quickly fell back into a stoic expression, gently excusing yourself from the table.
You mourned your half-eaten food left on your plate, but you didn’t think you could stomach another bite of Northern food—you longed for the sticky sweetness of Dorne’s dates.
Hurriedly, you wove through the hall, quickly ducking when a silver wine chalice sailed across the large room. You made for the exit, squeezing past a couple children playing by the entrance.
Once you were outside, Winterfell’s frosty wind instantly nipped at your exposed skin, whispering snowflakes into your ear and tousling your hair in a haphazard fashion. A shiver spidered down your spine as you pressed yourself against the castle’s walls, pulling your fur coat closer to you.
How you missed the kiss of Dorne’s sun on your cheeks.
Damn the North.
You wrinkled your nose in frustration.
A repetitive, faint thudding drew your attention away from the howling breeze, resonating from just around the castle’s corner. Curiosity piqued, you sleuthed across the icy grass, looking around the bend with wide eyes.
It was dark—far darker than it was inside. The only source of light came from the lit torches lining the walls and the dewy luminescence of the moon.
The thudding came from a man—no, a boy—hacking furiously at a hay-sewn dummy with a dull wooden practice sword. You blinked, watching with mild awe as he relentlessly struck the unmoving figure, moving with an exact precision that was uncommon to see in such youth.
You didn’t realize just how long you’d been staring when he suddenly stopped, muscles visibly tensing beneath his thick leather tunic. The wooden sword drooped downwards when he lowered his arm, but his grip never faltered.
“What are you looking at?” he grumbled at last, turning around to face you entirely.
At first, you found yourself at a loss for words. He was quite a beauty—a large mass of dark curls adorning his head, dancing with the snowy gale. His eyes, a tempestuous hue of stormy grey, narrowed and scrutinizing, were studying your every move, as if preparing himself for some sort of attack.
You shuffled backwards out of pure instinct, but steeled yourself before you had the nerve to turn tail and run.
“Nothing,” you replied hoarsely, averting your gaze to a particularly interesting pile of rubble. “I just… needed to get out of the mess hall for a bit. It’s loud in there.”
It was silent for a moment, before he placed the sword down, regarding you with a somewhat intrigued stare whilst stepping closer.
“I’m sorry if I’m being disrespectful,” he said, surprising you with his sudden change of demeanor, “but I don’t quite recognize you. How am I to address you?”
“My name would be just fine,” came your reply, eyebrows shifted upwards. “I’m Y/N. Y/N Martell. My father is Oberyn Martell, brother to the ruling prince of Dorne.”
It was the boy’s turn to be surprised, and an amused smile itched across your lips when he seemed to fumble for words, wondering if it was customary to bow or to shake hands with you.
After his initial stupor, he shook his head, small bits of frost flying away from his hair. “Well, what are you doing out here? It’s cold out.”
“I told you, I came out to get some space. It was awfully crowded,” you hummed. Then, you leaned forward towards him, lowering your voice to a leveled whisper, “Plus, the sight of King Baratheon fondling a woman on top of his venison doesn’t exactly whet my appetite.”
A flit of a grin momentarily crossed his features, but it disappeared back into his regular brooding nature nearly as soon as it came.
“You know my name.” You tilted your head in a questioning manner. “It’d be rude of me not to ask for yours.”
“Jon,” the boy with curls of ebony replied in an off-handish manner.
“Jon…?”
His lips twitched downwards, twisting into a glower. Reluctantly, he mumbled, “Snow. Jon Snow.”
“Oh,” you whispered, stepping closer with widened eyes. Jon risked a glance towards you, surprised that he could see his own reflection in the dark of your pupils, frost clinging to your eyelashes and knitted brows. “Snow is a name for Northern bastards, is it not?” Your tone was not one of disdain like Jon had expected, but rather one of tender excitement.
There was a twitch to his jaw. He remained silent.
“I’m a bastard, too.”
Your words made him tear his gaze away from the snowy ground to your searching eyes. “You? A bastard?” he asked, plain with surprise.
You bowed your head once with a mild smile painting your lips with warmth. “I suppose my proper name would be Y/N Sand—the name given to bastards of Dorne. But we don’t care much for bastardy as the other kingdoms do. My father thought it proper to call myself a Martell during my stay in King’s Landing.”
Snow scuffed around Jon’s boots as he dug the heel into the grass. “What were you doing in King’s Landing?”
“I’ve been staying there to study medicine. Been about… seven months now? I left home when I was fourteen,” you said, teeth worrying into your bottom lip in thought. The hazy memory of saying goodbye to your father and sisters made your heart lurch with a sudden jolt of nostalgia.
“Do you like it there?” Jon asked, intrigued. “In King’s Landing, I mean.”
You wrinkled your nose in response, shaking your head firmly. “I much prefer the golden sands of Dorne. The wispy shade of a palm tree. The wiry muscles of our horses—bred to run for fortnights on end. The cool sip of water on a hot day. The spitting bonfires at night—the stars seem to be so much brighter in Dorne, Jon Snow, you wouldn’t believe it.”
The both of you tilted your heads up to look at Winterfell’s dark sky. There wasn’t a single star in sight.
You sighed with stinging disappointment, tilting your chin back down to nuzzle your cold nose into your coat.
Jon couldn’t help how his lips twitched upwards ever so slightly. “Sounds like a wonderful place.”
Humming your agreement, you uttered, “Enough about me.” You stepped closer so that you were nearly side-by-side with him. “What are you doing out here? Why aren’t you at the banquet?”
The smile on his lips melted away nearly instantaneously. “Lady Stark thought it improper to seat a bastard amongst the royal guests.”
“That’s stupid,” you said in a rather blunt fashion, which made Jon’s eyebrows inch closer to his curls. “Not to bash on your kingdom’s customs or anything—but I find the exclusion of bastards rather redundant. You’re still their family regardless.”
“It’s what I am,” the boy responded with half a shrug. “It’s all I ever will be.”
“It’s all you’ll be if that’s all you choose to be, Jon Snow.” You inhaled a lungful of frigid air.
The boy beside you seemed to mull over your words for a while, mouth twisted in thought. “I plan to join the Night’s Watch,” he said suddenly, looking almost surprised that he’d admitted that to you. He hadn’t spoken to anyone about the matter yet—it just happened to slip from his tongue without him giving it a second thought.
“That sounds fun,” you replied with a small smile, nudging your elbow into his shoulder. “At least, as much fun as you can have in this dreary place, anyway. No offense.”
For the first time, you heard the bastard of Ned Stark laugh. It was a quiet one, barely little more than an amused huff of his nostrils, but you heard it nonetheless. It made a queer sensation pool at the bottom of your stomach, one of warmth and selfish pride. You wanted him to laugh again.
“You’d look handsome in black,” you commented with a roguish leer, to which Jon shifted in an awkward manner, turning his gaze to the frosty ground. If you looked closer, you’d be able to catch a dusting of rouge over his pale cheekbones.
The silence warped around you two in a hazy cocoon, time slowing down to a slow drip, drip, drip of the sand grains in an hourglass.
Abruptly, you pivoted away from his side to face him, beckoning back to the mess hall with your head. “I’m sorry, in Dorne it’s rude to converse with someone who hasn’t had a meal when you’ve already eaten. You must be starving! Let me go fetch a plate for you.”
“Oh,” Jon started, already beginning to shake his head in panicked protest, “you really don’t have to—Lady Stark wouldn’t be very pleased—”
“Who said Lady Stark has to know? What if I just pretended I wanted a second helping?” You internally grimaced when you remembered that you hadn’t even finished your first helping.
Raven-hued curls shook haphazardly as he stepped forward to catch your wrist with his in a futile attempt to persuade you to stay. After all, he wasn’t all that hungry.
He could feel his stomach cinch painfully at the thought of roasted mutton chops and candied almonds, or honey cakes and creamed potatoes, or steaming rabbit stew and flaking raspberry pie. Alright, Jon supposed he was a little bit hungry.
“Sorry, can’t hear you!” you called out while waltzing away with a bright smile. “I’ll bring us two chalices of honeyed apple cider, too! Hope you like that!”
Despite all his efforts to stave away his mirrored excitement, Jon couldn’t help but watch you whisk away with a grin pulling at the side of his mouth.
“This is Ghost,” Jon said after swallowing down his bite of peppery chicken. You had been generous enough to add a bit of nearly every single dish available in the hall, walking out none-too-discreetly with a wobbling mountain of food stacked on the porcelain.
The white direwolf, still only a small pup, tittered towards Jon with a knowing glint in its eye, using its snout to nudge against his knee. Relenting, Jon ripped off a piece of mutton and tossed it onto the ground for the direwolf.
You were practically vibrating on your wooden seat beside him, grinning ecstatically. “I can’t believe you’ve got a direwolf!” you exclaimed in a hushed whisper, biting into a slice of spiced honey cake. “He’s gorgeous.”
Chuckling, Jon reached over to ruffle the creature between the ears. “He’s alright. Was the runt of the litter.”
That made your grin stretch wider.
The two of you conversed for what felt like hours—you found out that he was only a year older than you, that he hated blackberries, that he had nightmares about dragons sometimes. In turn, he learned that you had a pet snake at the ripe age of five, that you counted the stars outside your window when you couldn’t sleep, that you thought your father, Oberyn Martell, was going to kill the Mountain one day.
Jon found you fascinating—he couldn’t remember the last time he had listened so intently to someone.
Jon had wolfed down the food you brought, despite previously claiming he wasn’t all that hungry. Setting the empty dishes aside, you strolled alongside him, sipping on your cider and occasionally bumping into his side, which made both of you laugh as he kindly told you to mind your step.
When the guests inside the hall started to quiet down, small groups of people trickling out of the castle to retire to bed, you knew your limited time with Jon was coming to an end.
“We’ve only just met, but I’m gonna miss you,” you said, gazing towards him with disappointment etched plain as day across your features. Your hand lifted to brush away a bit of snow that had landed on his shoulder. “I certainly won’t miss the cold, though. I have no idea how you Northern folk live like this.”
“Our blood must be thicker than yours,” he commented in a humorous tone, which made you roll your eyes and stick your tongue out playfully at him. The smile that spread across Jon’s lips made your stomach twist with a queer sort of warmth. A tentative silence warped about the two of you, and you felt him step closer to you, his hands clenched into fists by his side, as if he was staving off some sort of urge.
You were young and foolish then—it was only expected that you acted on giddy impulsivity.
You leaned forward slowly, making sure he knew of your intent—and you kissed him. It was a dry, chaste kiss, awkward and hesitant in nature but endearing all the same. Jon was frozen for a long moment before his calloused hand was brought up to cradle your jaw, movements stiff with uncertainty, softly tilting your face so it slotted just right over his. His nose gently bumped into yours. His teeth caught against your lip. His dark curls tickled your forehead when they knocked together. The kiss tasted of apple cider and winter’s frost.
You pulled away with a flustered beam, pleased to see Jon had turned a furious shade of scarlet, his expression mirroring yours.
“Goodbye, Snow,” you said to him quietly, just as the both of you spotted his family coming out of the mess hall. Subconsciously, you shuffled away from him. The last thing you wanted was for Ned Stark to catch the both of you in the act, even though it was merely a harmless kiss. “You stay safe at the Night’s Watch, alright? Who knows, maybe I’ll get you to come visit Dorne one day. Get that thick, chunky Northern blood of yours to loosen up.”
“It would be an honor to come,” he replied with a small smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. There was a glint of sadness hidden within his dark irises—perhaps he believed that this would be the last time he’d ever see you. “Goodbye, Sand.”
With that, you watched him trudge away with a tight chest, his fur-coated figure growing smaller and smaller as he disappeared into the castle walls.
You were twenty the next time you saw Jon Snow.
Five long, long years.
You shivered on the horse, Sansa’s cold fingers holding onto your waist tightly. She sat just behind you, breaths spilling out pale mist over your shoulder. Podrick and Brienne were only an arm’s length away on their own horses, faces stony and filthy with grime. You were sure your own face was no better.
“Open the gates!” someone screamed.
The creak of metal. The whinny of a horse. The schlop of mud.
Your eye was heavy with exhaust.
Brienne led the way into Castle Black, dismounting her horse first. You followed suit, helping Sansa down and watched as Podrick ambled off of his. Castle Black was far colder than Winterfell had been. The cold didn’t seem to bother Sansa as much—after all, she was well accustomed to the weather since childhood. That, or she welcomed the numbing sensation of the frigid wind.
Despite being stuck in cold conditions for years, you were still a child of sand. You were made for the heat. The thought made you pull your thin coat closer to you, lips warbling into a glower.
And as you turned your head away from Sansa’s pale, sallow face, you could feel a dozen pairs of eyes burning into you. Tilting your gaze upward, you nearly burst into tears of relief upon seeing a familiar face.
Jon Snow.
He held the same features as he did five years ago—the heavy-set frown, the stormy, curious eyes, the ebony locks upon his head. He was taller, evidently so, and had a well-tamed beard blanketing the expanse of his jaw. He had grown into his features, face more chiseled and physique just a tad more defined.
The bastard laid his eyes on his sister first, an amalgamation of shock and confusion morphing across his features before it crossed over to the two strangers he’d never seen before. One tall and blonde, one stocky and dark-haired.
Then he looked to you. There was a slight shift to his expression. One of slight dubiety. Then, like a ray of sun on a stormy night, realization dawned upon him.
You looked so different. You wore your hair differently than when he last saw you, dyed a significantly lighter shade than it used to be. There was a new, jagged scar carved down your left cheek, a dirty leather eyepatch fixed over one of your eyes, and you were much taller than you had been at the ripe age of fifteen. Nonetheless, Jon recognized the small quirk to your lips, your Dornish facial features, the brightness of your one eye (though far dimmer than it used to be).
He rushed down the creaky wooden steps.
He embraced Sansa first. The red-head breathed out a sigh of exhaustion when he held her, tears rimming her eyes like snow on a wiry tree branch. Jon held her tightly—it’d been five long years since he’d seen his family.
A lump formed in your throat when he gently pulled away from her, and cast his gaze to you. You felt small under his scrutiny, partially afraid that he’d forgotten you after all these years.
Then, he whispered your name to the frost and you bit back a sob, launching yourself forward to wrap your arms around his midriff. There was so much you wanted to tell him—so much he needed to know.
But you couldn’t force the words out. So you remained silent, burying your nose into the warmth of Jon’s neck.
Your hair was still damp from the icy bath they’d drawn for you. The cold made your heart jump up your throat—it took you around ten minutes of dipping your toe into the water only to retract it with a scalding hiss until you forced yourself in with a grumble. You were now wrapped in about three layers of thick, furry blankets, a bowl of warm chicken soup cradled in your palms.
The crackling of the fire in front of you filled the silence momentarily. The clementine flames licked into the air greedily, spitting out small orange embers for you to watch turn into grey ash.
Jon was sitting close beside you, thigh pressed up against yours. You hadn’t the time to say anything to him before you were whisked away for a bath and food. Now that you had his full, undulated attention, you weren’t quite sure what to say.
“It’s good soup,” Sansa chimed from across the both of you. She was staring into the fire with a nostalgic grin fiddling with the corner of her raw-bitten lips. “Do you remember the kidney pies Old Nan used to make?”
Jon chuckled. “The ones with the peas and onions?”
The two hummed in thought, then fell back into silence. You shifted to slurp up more of your soup, offering your spoon to Jon with a tilt of your head. He shook his head softly, gesturing for you to have some more.
You had offered out of courtesy—Dornish traditions never died—but you were ever so grateful that he declined. You hadn’t realized just how starving you’d been.
Ramsay went out of his way to make sure you barely had a meal a week. He was cruel like that. Glancing to Jon, you caught him watching you unceremoniously gulp the soup down with a wide grin.
“Sorry,” you coughed out in a small voice after wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. “Do you… do you have any more of this?”
“We have plenty,” Jon said, not unkindly. “I’ll have one of the lads fetch another bowl for you.”
As he left, Sansa looked to you with an amused expression. “He likes you.”
“I barely know him. He barely knows me,” you replied, eyebrows canted upwards at her statement.
“And yet he likes you,” she persisted, bobbing her head down to sip on her soup.
You didn’t grace her with a response, instead opting to stare down at your empty bowl.
Jon came back not too late after, handing you another serving of the warm chicken soup. “Thank you,” you said sheepishly, before tucking in once more.
“We should have never left Winterfell,” Sansa spoke up. Both you and Jon looked at her, grunting noises of agreement. “Don’t you wish you could go back to the day you left? Tell yourself, ‘don’t go, you idiot’.”
A film of tears glossed over your eyes. “I wish I never left Dorne.”
Jon shook his head. “How could we have known? All the things that have happened to us… it wasn’t our fault.”
“I wish I could change everything,” Sansa admitted, shame threading heavily through her tone. “I was such an ass to you.”
“We were children,” he replied. “Though, you were occasionally awful.”
You snorted at that and Sansa rolled her eyes before turning to watch the fire.
“I’m sure I can’t have been better,” Jon replied modestly. “Always sulkin’ in the corner while the lot of you played.”
The three of you chuckled mirthfully at the thought of young Jon muttering curses under his breath in the shadows.
“Will you forgive me?” Sansa asked, quiet.
“There’s nothing to forgive,” Jon countered firmly.
“Forgive me,” bit out Sansa, narrowing her eyes.
They both smiled.
“I forgive you.”
With a satisfied smile, Sansa drank the last of her soup and placed it on the table in front of her, rising with a certain kind of grace only she bore. She excused herself to go draw a long overdue bath.
Jon glanced at you once she left. “What have you been doing? After all this time?”
Hesitant, you fiddled with the spoon in your bowl.
“Well, five years ago, I followed your father and sisters to go back to King’s Landing. Continued my studies. Watched Ned Stark die in front of my eyes. My father came to King’s Landing for Joffrey’s wedding.” You paused for a moment, finding it hard to speak around your suddenly-thick throat. “I watched him die, as well, fighting for Tyrion Lannister. He was about to win. He was so close. But he wanted revenge for his sister—and his greed for revenge eventually became his demise. In a panic I… I ran away from King’s Landing. From everything.”
Tears of gold. Stolen bread from outdoor markets. Rats squeaking on cobblestone pathways at night.
“From then on, I bumped into Podric, Tyrion’s squire, and Brienne, a knight pledged to looking for the Stark girls. Pod recognized me from my time in King’s Landing—and knew all about my family, so that convinced Brienne enough to let me tag along. Besides, I knew more about medicine than half of King’s Landing combined, and that’s always useful when embarking on a journey.”
Bandaged wounds. Crackling fires. Clopping horseshoes.
“After a while, we ran into Arya and the Hound. I tried killing the Hound because his brother killed my father but I stopped upon realizing that he wanted his brother dead just as much as I did—if not more so. We lost sight of Arya. I’m sorry, Jon, I have no clue where she could be now.”
Blood. Sword. Blood.
“Pod, Brienne, and I kept moving forward and we eventually caught sight of Sansa at an inn with Petyr Baelish. Sansa remembered me from all those years ago at Winterfell—so I asked if I could accompany her. No, I didn’t ask. I begged. Tears and everything. I was foolish to leave Brienne and Pod. Baelish agreed to let me come when they were chased out.”
Panicked rambling. Desperate eyes. Hands and knees—begging.
“At Winterfell… it was a living nightmare. Ramsay Bolton tortured Sansa and I—he would lock me in rooms for weeks on end and forced me to run through the forest naked whilst shooting bolts at me. He fed me dog food and tied me to the bars of the hounds’ cage so he could watch them struggle against their ropes to rip me to shreds. He made me watch as he cut pieces of Theon away. He gave me these.” You pointed at the deep scar on your cheek, then to the eyepatch, voice warbling.
Hounds. Manic gaze. A scream of agony.
Jon’s hands found your face, slow and steady, his thumbs swiping at your cheeks. It took you a second to realize that he was brushing away tears, steadily falling from your eyes without you noticing. You nearly flinched away when his finger trailed down your steadily healing scar, but steeled yourself before you could retract away.
You trusted Jon Snow.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Sand, I can’t imagine what that must be like,” he said softly. You cried harder.
“My family is dead. Poisoned with hatred for each other—for everybody else,” you choked out. “And it feels like you and Sansa are the only ones who can understand.”
The man in front of you nodded solemnly. “Aye. It was a pain like no other—hearing about each of their deaths through raven letters. And knowing that there was nothing I could do about it.”
Far too caught up to care about your boldness, you placed your bowl on the table and sidled up to Jon, your head resting on his shoulder and arm curled around his back. He didn’t seem to mind at all, in fact—he shifted so that his arm laid over the back of your neck. He smelled of a hearth’s smoke and a fresh, tree-like fragrance.
“Enough about me,” you whispered. Jon smiled, remembering that those had been the exact words you uttered to him five years ago. “What’ve you been doing all this time?”
“I was murdered, for starters,” he said with a hint of amusement when you abruptly twisted in his arms staring at him with parted lips.
“You were what?”
“A story for another time, I promise,” he mumbled, waving away your concern and gently nudging you back down against him, as your arm was digging into his stomach uncomfortably. “I’ve been fighting nonstop, come to think of it. I’ve killed people I hated, people I didn’t know… people I admired. I hung a boy younger than Bran. I’m tired of fighting, Sand. I’ve fought and I’ve lost. I’m done.”
You opened your mouth to say something comforting, reassuring, anything. But you had little to say, so you kept quiet, pressing your nose to the underside of his jaw in an effort to convey your sympathy.
Jon’s chest rumbled beneath your palm as he said, “There’s also dead in the North.”
“There’s what?!”
The bastard hummed gravely. He hummed as if that was just a normal sentence to toss out.
“And both of those things mean… we can’t stay here.”
You turned again, making sure your forearm wasn’t pressing against his abdomen, instead slanted off to the side. This made you lean even closer to Jon, nearly nose-to-nose with him.
Well, you certainly weren’t cold now.
“Where do we go?” you whispered in a low voice, brows furrowed. “I’ll follow you anywhere, Jon Snow. You’re the closest thing I have to a family now. I trust you.”
Jon studied you for a moment with an indiscernible expression, irises darting between your glistening eye and your front teeth digging into the flesh of your bottom lip. You spotted the way his gaze lingering on your mouth just a bit too long, but you pretended you hadn’t noticed. “Sansa wants to go back to Winterfell,” he replied slowly, bracing himself for your reaction.
The way you physically tensed against him didn’t go unnoticed.
Blood. Screaming. Trees. A bolt grazing your thigh. Blood. Barking hounds. Sansa’s wedding. Theon’s screams. Blood. Trees. Blood. Manic gaze. Ramsay’s sweat. Hounds. Blood. Blood. Blood.
“Why would we ever go back?” you spat out, withdrawing yourself with a snarl.
Jon sighed. It was a long, winded one, laced with exhaustion and uncertainty. “Because it belongs to us. To her, to Arya, to Bran, to Rickon.”
Your face softened. “To you, too.”
After a tentative pause, Jon rested his cheek onto your head, beard tickling the skin of your temple. “Aye. To me, too.”
“Will this be your last fight, Snow?”
Jon snorted at the thought. “I wish it was, Sand.” Already, it seemed you had forgotten about the dead in the North he had mentioned—which was all the better. He didn’t think you needed to worry at the moment. You deserved even just a brief moment of rest.
“I hope you kill that bastard. I hope I kill that bastard. I may be trained in the art of medicine, but I know how to fight. I grew up with the Sand Snakes, after all.”
Jon wisely chose to remain silent at that. He had no doubt that you were capable to take care of yourself.
“We should go to Dorne,” you murmured, words growing quieter as your eyelids drooped. Now that your belly was full and you were warm from the blankets and fire, it was growing harder and harder to resist the urge to doze for twelve hours straight.
“Alright,” Jon replied with a smile. Then, he asked in a joking manner, “How’s the weather been up here? I personally think it’s quite warm, actually. Must be my thick, chunky blood.”
“You’re a real pain, you know that?” you barked out while pinching his arm, your words lacking any real bite. “And don’t even get me started on the damn snow! Why the devil is it always snowing here? It’s ridiculous, actually!”
Jon was smiling down at you so wide that his cheeks ached as you drowsily gesticulated at how horrible Northern weather was.
When Sansa came back nearly an hour later, she wasn’t at all surprised to see you passed out in Jon’s arms, her older brother frantically motioning her to be quiet with his free arm. Much to his horror and her humor, all the jostling had made you rouse awake, blearily looking around with evident confusion etched plainly across your features. Jon gently coaxed you back down, telling you to go back to sleep with a soft tone—one that she’d never heard him use before.
Yes, she thought with a slightly amused shake of her head, he definitely likes you.
“You don’t have to be here, you know,” Jon said quietly, just loud enough for you and Sansa to hear. You shifted on your horse’s saddle uncomfortably. Of course you didn’t need to be here. But you weren’t kidding when you said you’d follow Jon Snow wherever he went.
Without sparing him a glance, Sansa replied with an even voice, “You know I do.”
Jon sighed. He looked towards you. If the situation wasn’t so serious, he’d laugh at how the fur coats you donned were nearly thrice your size. He briefly wondered if you were still cold under all that.
Ramsay Bolton certainly wasn’t a sight for sore eyes. He had a throng of men on horses riding behind him, the banner of a flayed man dancing with the wind, almost mocking in nature. His eyes were cold as ever, countenance serious yet still so very arrogant.
You could feel your muscles tensing so hard you were nearly stiff as a statue on your horse.
Blood. Trees. Theon’s screams. Barking hounds. Blood. Ramsay’s sweat. A knife flat against your cheek. Blood.
“My beloved wife. I’ve missed you terribly!” Ramsay preened with a sinister smile, scornfully bowing his head to Sansa. Then, he turned his horrid gaze to Jon, barely making note of you. “Thank you for returning Lady Bolton safely.”
Your blood boiled, an anger churning thunder within your stomach. You bit down on your tongue and steeled your emotions. Now was not the time for impulsivity.
“Dismount and kneel before me. Surrender your army and proclaim me the true Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. I will pardon you for deserting the Night’s Watch. I will pardon these treasonous lords for betraying my house. Come, bastard. You don’t have the men, you don’t have the horses, and you certainly don’t have Winterfell. Why lead all these poor souls into slaughter? There’s no need for a battle. Get off your horse, and kneel.” Ramsay sat up straighter on his horse, gesturing to the cold, muddy grass in expectation. “I’m a man of mercy. I promise.”
Liar.
Fury clawed at your throat until you could feel the metallic taste of iron sting your tongue.
Of course, Jon Snow did no such thing.
“You’re right,” Jon admitted with a level tone. “There’s no need for a battle. Thousands of men don’t need to die. Only one of us. Let’s end this the old way. You against me.”
The slight change of your expression was minute, but it was there. Ramsay noticed the way your brows pulled together and a frown carved over your lips.
The devil of a man chuckled. You’ve heard that laugh a million times before—it plagued your nightmares every night. It was one of utter contempt, laughing at the sheer ludicrousy of the offer.
“I keep hearing stories about you, bastard. The way people in the North talk about you… you’re apparently the greatest swordsman who ever walked. Maybe you are that good—maybe not. I don’t know if I’d beat you. But I do know my army would beat yours. I have over six thousand men. And you have, what? Half that? Not even?”
Jon nodded his agreement. “Aye, you have the numbers. Will your men want to fight for you when they know you wouldn’t fight for them?”
A cold fury washed over Ramsay’s features. His nostrils flared as he stared Jon down. “Tell me, will you let your little brother die because you’re too proud to surrender?”
For the first time since she left Winterfell, Sansa spoke to her husband. “How do we know you have him?”
A horrific leer flickered over his face. Those manic eyes came into play once more. He was enjoying this. Slowly, he gestured to one of his men. He was drawing this out.
Like a cat playing with a mouse before devouring it whole.
The man behind him pulled out a fluffy, black mass. It took you a moment to realize what it was. Horror settled itself, black as tar, in the pits of your gut.
It was the head of a direwolf.
You wanted to look away—but you couldn’t.
Ramsay studied your expression with glee. Whilst Sansa betrayed no hints of her inner turmoil, he could read you like an open book.
“Now, if you want to save your—”
Sansa interrupted him with a tone so sharp it would’ve cut straight through iron. “You’re going to die tomorrow, Lord Bolton. Sleep well.”
With that, she turned and rode away. You had half the mind to follow her.
Ramsay watched with shock clearly splayed over his countenance. He was quick to regain his composure, turning his head back to Jon. “She’s a fine woman, your sister. I look forward to having her back in my bed.”
Your breath caught in your throat, clenching your jaw so hard that it was a wonder your teeth didn’t crack under the pressure.
“My dogs are desperate to have their favorite playtoy back,” Ramsay simpered. Your head snapped up, finding his eyes trained upon you. There was a sickly grin to his features, twisting his pale face in an abhorrent way. “I haven’t fed them for seven days—they’re absolutely ravished. I wonder which parts they’d go for first. Those bright eyes of yours? Oh, I’m sorry. Eye—forgot I did that to you. Well, I suppose we’ll find out soon enough. In the morning, then, bastard.”
He sent one last smirk to you, bowed his head to Jon with a sneer on his face, before clicking his tongue and turning his horse around. The men followed closely behind.
The mutilated eye beneath your patch throbbed.
Bile rose in your throat.
You could feel Jon’s worried gaze on you, but you avoided his searching scan, mirroring both Sansa and Ramsay’s movements by pressing your heel into the horse’s side, and galloping away.
The amber glow of the candlelight did little to hide the morose expression folded over Jon’s features. His lashes cast long shadows down his cheeks, lowered with thought. You had come into the room just in time to hear his row with Sansa, their shouts echoing along the stone walls.
You waited for Sansa to leave, then a couple minutes more to allow Jon a second to mull over his thoughts.
Then, you stepped out of the darkness.
“Y/N,” Jon hoarsely said, immediately sitting up from his chair upon seeing you. “You weren’t at the war council.”
One of your shoulders lifted in a half shrug. “Didn’t think I’d be needed—I may be able to fight, but war strategy isn’t my forte.”
Jon regarded you for a second, before gesturing to the chair next to him.
“Still,” he murmured once you took a seat, drawing your knees up to your chest, “it would’ve been nice to have you there.”
“You want my advice?” you asked, mildly surprised.
Jon’s hand slowly reached out to sit heavy on your shoulder. “You know him better than anybody here—other than Sansa, of course.”
Chewing on your lip in thought, you shifted so that you were facing him. “He likes to play games. He wants to draw things out—prolong the inevitable as long as he can so he could squeeze every last drop of sick enjoyment out of it.” Your eye darted to the warbling candle’s flame, clearing your throat uncomfortably. “That’s what he did with me, at least. I’m sure that on the battlefield, he’ll play to his strengths first—dangle it in front of your face. Leading you on like you would a donkey with a carrot.”
“I’m sorry if this is… a hard question, you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to,” Jon started hesitantly. “But why you? What did he gain from hurting you?” There was a bitter sort of anger to his voice—but not the active kind. It was passive, almost wistfully so, and frustrated that he could do nothing about it because it was in the past.
“I’m a bastard, remember? I am what he hates in himself the most.” You sniffed disdainfully. “And I suspect he’s somewhat jealous. I’m a bastard just like him, yet I’m considered royalty back in Dorne. How come I get to have what he’s always wanted? He reminded me of Joffrey in a lot of ways. But far worse.”
Jon’s eyebrows raised at that. “You knew Joffrey?”
A smile flickered over your lips that didn’t quite reach your eye. “Not really. But the stories Sansa’s told me—they seem nearly one and the same.” After a brief pause, you turned your head back to Jon. “I’m coming with you tomorrow. Just so we’re clear. I want to see him dead.”
Grimly, Jon bowed his head. “There’s no shame in staying here, Y/N. Especially not after what you’ve been through.”
“I know,” you said. “But I can fight. Or who knows? Maybe—just maybe—my medical skills will come into play on a battlefield. Slim chance, though—men rarely ever get wounded in a war.”
The last sentence dripped with sarcasm, and it made Jon gruff out a short laugh.
There was a beat of amiable silence before Jon nudged you with his elbow. “Just don’t die on me, alright?”
“I think you’ve got more experience than me in that department,” you joked. “Which, by the way, you still haven’t told me about.”
Jon wrinkled his nose humorously. “Tell you what—if we both make it out alive, I’ll tell you about it.”
“Deal,” you agreed, swiftly sliding off the chair. He stood up with you, just inches away. “You should get some rest, Snow. Big day tomorrow.”
“Aye,” he whispered, bending forward to ring you into an embrace. He softly patted the back of your head just as you pressed your cold nose into the bushy fur of his coat. “Sleep well, Sand.”
When you pulled away to look at him and say goodbye, you found your throat running dry. You couldn’t find it in yourself to say the words.
Jon seemed to understand.
“This isn’t goodbye,” he whispered in a low, reassuring tone, rubbing his palms up and down your forearms. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
With that, he tenderly kissed over your eyelid, then moved to kiss the eyepatch with an equal amount of affection. The raw compassion behind the action made tears sting the corner of your vision, but you blinked it away just as quickly as it came.
Determined not to start bawling in front of him, you nodded once, then stepped away, retracting from his warmth.
Damn Northerners and their thick, chunky blood.
A raised blade.
Rickon running.
Flying arrows.
Jon on a galloping horse.
Terror.
Ever so close.
A sick squelch.
Rickon Stark was dead.
Mud, everywhere.
Was that the barking of hounds you heard?
No, those were the dying whinnies of horses.
A rally of arrows.
The song of steel against steel.
A man screaming as you sliced his throat.
Gurgles.
You picked up a fallen shield.
Another rally of arrows.
Blood trickled out of your nose.
Copper in your mouth.
Piles of dead men.
Parrying strikes.
A grunt.
Your sword sticking out of another man’s abdomen.
Jon Snow a whisker away from death.
Your boot against his attacker’s jaw.
Jon Snow’s frantic hand gripping your arm—pulling you.
Where was he taking you?
Shields in a circle around you.
Trapped.
Trapped.
Trapped.
Mud.
Jon Snow yelling your name.
Trampled.
Clawing for air.
You, screaming for Jon.
Inhaling dirty water.
Coughing.
Choking.
Air.
Jon Snow’s wheezing, exhausted gasp as you hauled him up.
Sansa Stark, in the distance.
More men. Horses.
Ramsay Bolton riding away.
You spat out blood.
Coward.
There were three arrows embedded into the wooden flesh of the shield. Three.
Jon Snow managed to block Ramsay’s arrows thrice.
Before a fourth could be nocked, Jon drove the edge of the shield straight into Ramsay’s face, a bilious crack of his nose echoing across Winterfell.
Ramsay was on the ground, mud flying up between the two as Jon straddled him. His fist rained no mercy. With every brutal punch, a ferocious grunt rumbled from Jon’s chest. Each time he pulled away, his skin grew more and more damp with the Bolton’s blood—sticky scarlet mingling with the dark soot.
It sounded less and less as if Jon were striking something solid, and more like he was hitting a pool of liquid.
A snarl appeared on Snow’s face. Your Snow. There was a manic glint to his eyes.
You shuffled forwards, then back, uncertain of whether to stop him or to let him keep going. Fear reared its familiar, ugly head within you.
Ramsay smiled through the blood.
Jon paused for a second—a mere second—to glance up. He caught your eye. It looked like he was about to punch Ramsay again, kill him, even, but he hesitated.
You were afraid. Of Jon? Neither of you were quite sure.
Slowly, painfully slow, he slid off of Ramsay’s bloody figure, panting with both exertion and pent-up frustration.
It nearly shattered him when he approached you, and you took another step back, merely out of pure instinct.
“Jon,” you whispered, snapping out of your dazed reverie and reaching out to him. It was only Jon—you trusted him.
Jon Snow was nothing like Ramsay Bolton.
You wrapped your arms around him, uncaring of the dirt and blood on his clothes. Three seconds ticked by. Before the fourth could strike, Jon gingerly lifted his arms to tug you closer to him. He mumbled out a couple breathy words into your hairline, but you couldn’t quite hear what he said.
You supposed it didn’t matter—not when he remained silent for the rest of the time he held you. Barely, you registered the way his entire body trembled. He tucked his nose against the column of your throat.
And he cried.
That only had you holding him tighter.
You watched in the shadows of the hounds’ kennel.
Watched as Sansa set the hounds on a tied-up Ramsay.
Watched as they slobbered drool over his face.
Watched as he screamed agony when they tore into his limbs.
Sansa’s hand brushed your shoulder on her way out.
You stayed.
You stayed until the screams turned into gurgling.
You stayed until the gurgling died away—a flame using the last of its wick.
You stayed until you knew Ramsay Bolton was dead.
It happened in the dead of night. When the winds quietened to but a feathery whisper, when the moon shone silver and gold, when the fires in the hearths had waned to a soft orange glow.
Jon’s face, now freshly void of any grime, was cradled in your palms.
“We match, Snow,” you whispered, thumb trailing down the faded scar over his eye.
A smile flittered over his lips.
His own hands raised to faintly trace your new white patch on your eye, careful not to press too hard. “Yours is a lot worse than mine, Sand.” In a much less humorous tone, he said, “Thank you. You saved my life out there, while we were fighting. I owe you.”
You regarded him with a strange look, one so very tender and affectionate that it made Jon’s stomach squirm. “You owe me nothing, Jon Snow. You would’ve done the same for me.”
“You’re a good fighter,” he quipped, a dusting of pink on his cheekbones. “I was watching you more than I should have. You distract me.”
Instead of responding, you boldly leaned forward and enveloped his mouth with yours, nose slotted against his. It took no less than a second for Jon to reciprocate—as if he’d been waiting for this for a long time.
All the frustration of the fighting, of the battles, of the wars, came pouring out of the both of you. It was raw, needy, brutal with want.
Boots thudded to the ground. Fur coats were hastily shed. The back of your knees hit the bed, and you both fell onto the mattress with quiet oomfs. Your fingers tangled into his dark curls, tugging, yanking.
Jon made a guttural noise against you, eyes half-lidded.
Stars of Dorne colored behind your eyelid as Jon moved against you. Sweat beaded your body. Your chest pressed against his, rising and falling with each staggered breath. His skin was burning, near scalding to the touch. But you were a child of sand. You were made for the heat.
Caught up in the intense fervor of the moment, your blunt nails scratched down his abdomen, leaving raw red marks in its wake. You were about to apologize, but Jon seemed not to mind, kissing you even harder, all teeth and tongue. He smelled of cedar and honey cakes.
At one point during the heated session, you switched positions so that you sat on top. “Didn’t you say you’d tell me about how you died if we both made it out alive?” you questioned, stroking his stubbled jaw.
A brief frown crossed his expression. “You’re really bringing this up now, of all times?” he grumbled.
“Fine, fine.” You rolled your eyes and smoothly moved against him, like the push and pull of an ocean’s wave. A soft, desperate noise scratched at the back of Jon’s throat. “You’re telling me after, though.”
Abruptly, Jon hooked his leg over the crook of your knee and flipped you onto your back, hovering over you. An unattractive squawk of surprise wrangled out of your lungs. His long ink-hued locks tickled your forehead and you wrinkled your nose at him, flushed with desire.
“I’m hoping you’ll forget that by the time I’m done,” Jon gritted out, sounding unfairly confident in his abilities, kissing along your jaw, your clavicle, your chest—and further down he went. Waves of heat danced across your body and you bit down on your tongue in near torment.
He took his time with you, savoring every last second he had before facing the outside world once more. The grip on your hips grew impossibly tighter. Jon could smell the snow on your skin, paired with the faint aroma of smoke, most probably because you’d been hovering by the fire, complaining about the cold just before this. He smiled into your flushed skin. He just couldn’t get enough of you.
You were about to retort something scathing in response when his teeth sank into the flesh of your inner thigh. Immediately, your lips snapped back shut. You didn’t trust yourself to speak without dissolving into a fluster-fucked mess.
It was safe to say, the thought of Jon’s past-death was the absolute last thing on your mind for the rest of the night.
You were fourteen when you left Dorne.
You were twenty-two when you returned home.
“So…” you just about purred into Jon’s ear, draping an arm over his shoulder. “That thick, chunky Northern blood of yours loosen up, yet?”
He side-eyed you with faux-annoyance, before returning his gaze to the large expanse of Dorne’s gardens. His elbows were resting against the balcony’s marble railings, the sun’s rays kissing his skin with golden warmth.
“It’s beautiful,” he observed, bowing his head. “I still can’t believe all of this is yours now.”
“Well,” you shrugged your shoulders, kissing his cheek fondly, “I suppose that’s what happens when I’m the last Martell standing.”
Jon turned to face you, expression turning grave. “I’m sorry, love. I didn’t—”
“Oh, hush.” You pressed a finger to his lips, other hand lifting to tuck a strand of hair behind his ear. You made the mental note to ask if he wanted to get his hair trimmed—though, you rather liked the long hair on him. “It’s okay. What happened, happened. It’s over now. The battles have been fought—we defeated the Night King. Ramsay Bolton is dead. Cersei Lannister is dead. Daenerys Targaryen is dead. The war is won. We can rest.”
He looked as if he wanted to say something else, but he nodded once solemnly, then cast his gaze back to the sunny view. Palm trees arched to the cloudless sky, lush greenery neatly arranged in the gardens. In the center was a large fountain, with four red scorpions as its centerpiece. Just past the gardens were the beginnings of a yellow desert, where the camels roamed and snakes thrived.
A servant came up to the both of you, offering two chalices of honeyed apple cider and a bowl of sticky date cakes.
“Thank you,” Jon told them graciously, nearly groaning with delight when he sipped the sweet drink. “I’ve missed this.”
You hummed your agreement, taking a generous bite of the cake. “I have something to ask you, Snow.”
An eyebrow arched in question, silently boding you to keep going.
You fiddled with the loose, ochre fabric of your shirt. “Will you stay with me? Here, in Dorne?” Uncertainty splayed over your features, and you were quick to backtrack. “I mean—I understand if you wouldn’t—you’ve got family in the North, and it’s where you’re from but… I wouldn’t want to rule without you by my side.”
The question was one Jon expected—one he already had an answer prepared for.
“I don’t know.” Jon scratched at his recently-shaven stubble. “It’s a bit… hot.”
After getting over your initial shock at his nonchalant response, your fist collided with his forearm, which made him burst out into peals of laughter. Much to your dismay, you felt a smile cracking through your annoyed glower.
“You’re a bastard, Snow.”
The raven-haired man turned to you fully, placing the chalice onto the flat of the railing and gathering you into his arms. His forehead leaned against yours as he stared into your single bright eye, glimmering with hope. How could he ever say no to you?
“Aye. That I am,” he said wistfully, before pecking you chastely. You tasted the apple on his lips. “And so are you, Sand.”
You nodded. “You’re right about that,” you whispered, sighing out a breath of relief.
“Of course I’ll stay, love. You said it yourself—we can rest now. I can think of no better place than with you.” Jon slotted two fingers beneath your chin so that you’d meet his sincere gaze.
There were tears pricking the corner of your eye, and you quickly blinked them away before yanking him closer by the collar of his tunic, and kissing him under the scorching sun of Dorne.
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𝗶 𝘄𝗮𝘁𝗰𝗵𝗲𝗱 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗱𝗶𝘀𝗮𝗽𝗽𝗲𝗮𝗿.
pairing. gojo satoru x f! reader
genre. heavy angst, heartbreak
summary. satoru realized something. he wasn't only losing his life. he was losing you, too.
warnings. chapter 236 spoilers, major character death, blood/violence, denial, no comfort
words. 1.3k
note. i can't see anything through my tears
Pristine snowflakes gently fell from the night sky, embracing what was once Shinjuku with a smooth blanket of innocent, pure white. Little puddles, thin branches were all frozen solid while a peaceful silence seemed to linger in the air. It was cut by soft sobs and begs, hot tears and crimson blood staining the pure blanket of snow,
Your knees were buried in the snow, Satoru's head rested on your thighs. Blood spilled from his mouth like water from an overflowing sink, but he still had the energy to smile. Hot tears dripped onto his cooling skin. "Don't cry. You're So much prettier when you smile."
"Don't talk like you're dying! You're gonna make it, you hear?!" You yelled out loud. Fat tears streamed down your cheeks while you were cradling Satoru's face with trembling fingers. Defeated – that was what you were. "You promised..you promised to marry me once this was all over..you can't go.."
With the way you were denying Satoru's looming death, you would end up cursing him and that was something you would never do to the man you loved so much and yet..and yet..
"There's gotta be something..anything at all.." Your voice was nothing but a strained whisper.
That promise was all Satoru could think about. That warm ring on your finger which warmed his gradually cooling skin, the silver that glimmered even underneath the darkest night sky that even the moonlight couldn't penetrate. It was proof of his devotion to you.
Satoru realized something. He wasn't only losing his life. He was losing you, too. He coughed, his voice unusually quiet and vulnerable. "I wish I could live out that promise, tell you how much you mean to me and make lots of babies, too.."
Satoru nuzzled into your trembling hands. His vision was slowly but surely darkening, but he was happy. He could still feel and hear you clear as day. "But you won't ever be alone. I'll be with you..every step of the way, my love."
Satoru's words tore a hole right through your heart that nothing could ever fill. Both of you had already made plans to settle down, build a cozy home and fill it with the family you always wanted without the expectations of Jujutsu Society on his shoulders. A place where no one expected Satoru to be The Strongest. A place where he could be Gojo Satoru.
Gripping Satoru's shirt with your fists, your knuckles turned white. You knew you had to pull yourself together for the last moments you could spend with the man who always stole the blanket in the middle of the night, never failing to kiss you good morning and good night. The man who always brought home some kikufuku for you. The man you wanted to spend the rest of your life with.
"If we're ever reborn as human beings..In a world without curses.." You spoke in hushed tones as you lowered your forehead on Satoru's. "..will you make me your bride again..?"
Usually, Satoru would chuckle at you and call you cheesy for saying such sappy words, but not this time. Not when he was bleeding out in your loving embrace, feeling so, so safe and so protected. Those words..they comforted him, too. "I'd do it in another lifetime, in every life. You're the one I want to grow old with..be happy with.."
A single snowflake got caught in your hair and oh, how badly Satoru wanted to brush it away. He tried. Lord knows he tried, but he couldn't even lift his arm anymore. How he yearned to run his fingers through your hair and feel your soft lips on his one last time..
"You're the love of my life. It's always gonna be you." He felt at peace with you. The most content he'd felt in a very long time. Even though he was more dead than alive, Satoru looked so..peaceful.
You were gentle when you pushed Satoru's messy bangs away from his face – you weren't even sure if he could still feel your touch with the way the light in those sky-colored irises was fading.
"Then this shall be our Binding Vow. I, too, will meet you in every and any lifetime. We'll grow old together, make a family and be happy together."
Silent tears still ran down your cheeks as you pressed your lips to Satoru's bloodied, cold ones as if to seal the Binding Vow you had just made.
"Close your eyes, Toru. It's..it's okay to rest now." You whispered, knowing how hard it had to be for him to keep his eyes open and so, you gently slid his eyelids shut with the delicate tips of your fingers. "I'm right here.."
Satoru couldn't be happier. He got to kiss you, he was surrounded by the woman he loved in his final moments and he got to hear you call him "Toru" one last time.
Taking a slow steady breath, Satoru focused all of his attention on you. Your voice, your touch and your breathing. He'd miss the way your hair was in his face when he spooned you from behind. He'd miss the way you'd comb your fingers through his hair as he fell asleep on your chest and he'd miss that beautifully radiant smile of yours that you only ever showed him.
You heard a whisper, one that was meant for you only. "I'll miss you, my love."
Silence filled the space around you. Satoru had taken his last breath and his heart ceased to beat. Satoru, the strongest sorcerer, was dead.
"I'll miss you too, Toru.."
You two were torn apart with nothing to do about it and you finally allowed yourself to shatter into countless little pieces while the sun was finally rising, ringing in a new day which was adorned by a clear blue sky. A blue that only his eyes could ever hold.
Tears and snot streamed down your face as you bent over Satoru's body, your face buried in his chest like you could breathe life back into him. You sobbed and wailed painfully, holding his cold body incredibly tight. Cries and begs and pieces of yourself cut through the tranquil day.
It was unfair.
It was unfair how wedding plans suddenly turned into a funeral.
bonus;
Several hours had passed and cries of agony had turned into deafening silence. Your ear was still pressed to Satoru's chest like you were expecting a heartbeat to return, but it was over. This wasn't just a nightmare. This was cruel reality. Eyes that once sparkled for the love you had for Satoru were now dull and lost their former shimmer. Motionless, you were still bent over his body, protecting and shielding it from the curse called reality.
"[Name].." It was Shoko who stood by your side along with the medical team. Judging by her swollen eyes and sore nose, she had been crying not too long ago, as well. "You need to let him go. Satoru..he wouldn't have wanted you to be like that."
No reaction. If Shoko didn't know any better, she would've believed you had died as well and maybe..maybe a part of you actually did. The doctor frowned. She knew how much you loved Satoru, how many plans the two of you had and that all of your future plans were tied to him, but..she also knew that the longer you'd remain in the snow with a dead body, the more your health would be endangered.
"Come. It's time to go home, [Name]." Shoko gently pried you away from Satoru's dead body and although you didn't resist physically, you immediately raised your voice and started crying the moment you saw the medical team picking up Satoru's body.
"Don't! Anything but that!" You yelled, vision blurry with tears. You reached out your hand to the body that belonged to the man you had given your heart and soul to.
"Don't take him away from me!"
taglist; @torusmochi (i'm so sorry)
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The Gamemaker's Apprentice
Level 6
Pairing: Dark!Young!Coriolanus Snow x You, named!Reader
Overall Warnings:
NON-CON, DUB-CON, Dark!Young!Coriolanus Snow, Snow himself should be a warning, lots of blackmailing, gaslighting, manipulation, obsession, possesiveness, eventual forced marriage, eventual loss of virginity, breeding kink, canon-compliant major character death, reader is named but has no physical descriptions in the fic so one might also consider her an OC but in 2nd POV, will have canon inconsistencies, and other stuff that may be added
Masterlist
Level 6 Warnings:
Some noncon touching and canoodling (no spoilers)
Replay Level 5
Ready? Level 6 Start:
A knock on the ornate door reverberates inside the empty lab, giving you a tiny jolt in your chair. This must be him, coming over to ‘collect you.’
Like the Grim Reaper who’s come take your soul.
Or maybe it isn’t him. After all, the door isn’t locked, and he’s used to visiting by now to know he can just come in after a knock or two. You get up to open the door, willing your hands to stop shaking so he doesn’t see that you’re fazed by his mere presence.
How are going to win this if you start crumbling like a stale cookie whenever he’s around?
You yank the door open, expecting the Devil himself disguised in slick platinum-blond hair and a finely tailored suit, but instead, you get a man in a hat and a courier’s uniform.
“Ms Prunella Innis?” He inquires.
“Yes?”
He hands you a clipboard for you to sign and picks up this enormous white box wrapped in a satin crimson bow lying by his feet. He also hands you the bouquet he’s cradling, then strides past you to deposit the box on the nearest table. Judging by the red roses in the bundle of blooms, you know who sent you everything without even asking.
Coriolanus Snow never does subtle.
You thank the courier as he exits the lab, tipping his hat in response as he does. Gingerly, you prod the box with a finger, thinking maybe anything could come flying out of the box and rip your face out. It doesn’t move, so maybe the thing inside is dead and he just sent it for the funsies. You brace yourself as you unravel the bow, eager to just get it over with. You lift the lid and a subtle waft of roses greets you.
You gasp when you discover that the contents of the box are nowhere near what you’d been expecting.
They’re actually much worse.
Inside the box are three smaller boxes, all wrapped in red satin ribbons, placed on top of what looks like fancy crepe paper. A card lies atop the tiniest of the boxes with handwriting you can recognise from a mile away.
To my Sugarplum,
Wear this tonight. A car will pick you up from the Corso III entrance at six. We will talk about your response to my request then,
Your Coryo
The box underneath the note reveals a heart-shaped ruby necklace with a fine white gold chain, similar to the chain of that plum-coloured diamond he gave you. In the confines of the second box lies a small black silk clutch, embellished in minuscule silver beads, and embroidered with fine-spun silver, making up a pattern resembling roses. The third box contains a pair of single-strap black satin high-heeled pumps. Underneath those boxes, covered in what you originally thought was just wrapping paper, is a floor-length slip dress made of silk in the loveliest shade of crimson. Based on the superb craftsmanship of the dress alone, you can tell that it isn’t something one can buy off-the-rack. Tailor-made by Coriolanus Snow’s choice of tailor shop, judging by the logo sticker sealing the crepe wrapping paper together.
There was one time these extravagant gifts would’ve sent you in a grateful, ecstatic mood.
That feels like forever ago, now.
At the moment, your gut just stirs in discomfort, looking at this luxurious mess.
Your trepidation only mounts as you watch the clock trudge slowly from day to night. By four, you get home and prepare for the inevitable. You try not to be surprised with the way the dress hugs your figure perfectly, because then that would mean he somehow got lucky with eyeballing your dress size, or that he got ahold of your measurements through questionable means. By five-thirty, the girl in your mirror is barely recognizable – a girl you’ve never seen before, put together on the outside and nearly falling apart at the seams on the inside.
It certainly doesn’t help that the near-nauseating scent of roses still emanates from the dress you’re wearing.
The reflection staring back at you seems to mock you, telling you this is your life now, all preened up at the behest of a stranger whose pastime is pushing other people under his thumbs. Oh well. You’ll get out of this invasive mask soon, you assure yourself.
The driver who’s expecting you right at your building’s entrance wordlessly opens the car door for you. An Avox, you recognise – a product of one of the Capitol’s many sophisticated ways of punishing dissent. Because sometimes death by hanging takes the rebels out of their misery too quickly, so one brilliant mind in the Capitol one day had this brilliant idea of cutting people’s tongues off and shunning them into the lowest wrung of society so they could live a life of servitude, not subjecting anyone else to their worthless, wayward opinions.
And of course, everyone else agreed with how fucking brilliant an idea it was.
Would you have preferred Sejanus be sentenced this way and still have him alive instead of dead? You banish the thought as quickly as it had come – too morbid, even by your standards. Besides, there was no way the Capitol could’ve shut him up, even without his tongue. He still would’ve fought tooth and nail for the change he wanted to see in the world.
Ten minutes to six and you’re already pulling up to the entrance of what looks like The Palisades Hotel, the grandest luxury five-star hotel in all of Panem. There are many other cars already milling at the entrance, with small crowds forming to presumably greet each other. The Chauffeur opens your car door, and immediately after stepping out of the rental car, you spot the very man responsible for you being here instead of at home, guzzling hot chocolate and stuffing your face with angel food cake.
Coriolanus Snow seems to be engaged in a lighthearted conversation with a group of older men in flashy tuxedos you only vaguely recognise by face, but his attention shifts the moment he sees you emerge from the car. You could see him mouth ‘see you inside’ to them as one of them shakes his hand vigorously. His piercing blue eyes scan your frame a few feet away, his lilting grin never vanishing from his face as he approaches you.
He seems to have lured you into some kind of party under false pretences.
He looks flawless, as he always does: his platinum-blond locks combed back, his sleek crimson tuxedo matching yours, and a signature white rose pinned to his lapel; no wonder he almost fooled you – that blinding charm he has always allowed him to hide something sinister underneath.
You could feel your pulse race with every step he takes in your direction. It takes you a fraction of a second to realise he’s holding out his hand, which you tentatively accept. He never breaks eye contact with you as he brushes his lips over the back of your hand.
You might’ve yanked your hand away a little too fast for his liking, for you see his eyes flash danger before shifting to his usual semblance of warmth.
He leans into your ear and whispers, “Sugarplum, you are a sight to behold.”
You put on the best realistic smile you can muster. “Thank you. And thank you for the dress and...everything else.”
You stay frozen to your spot as he tucks a lock of your hair behind your ear, his fingers briefly brushing against your cheek. “There. Perfect,” he says. “And there’s no need to thank me. I like spoiling my sugarplum with only the best.”
But despite the rather depressing outlook you had coming here, there’s a glimmer of hope you see as an idea strikes you. Maybe you can get out of this early, after all.
“Coryo, Uncle Cas agreed,” you tell him at once. And then make up an excuse and bolt. Anything to get out of here and away from him. “He’s willing to transfer my apprenticeship.”
Coriolanus beams in delight at the news, his eyes twinkling as he takes the initiative to wrap your arm around his. “I’m so happy to hear that, sugarplum. The highlight of my night. Let me take you inside; a lot of people are dying to see you.”
Before you can complain, however, he all but steers you inside the lobby and to the entrance of the Palisades’ grand hall.
“Where exactly are we going, Coryo?” you ask. He never said anything about other people, but maybe they could come in handy in case you need to duck and make a run for it.
He releases a short sigh, looking apologetic and slowing his pace. “I may have forgotten to tell you that we’d be attending Mr Plinth’s birthday party tonight. I’m sorry, sugarplum, I’ve been meaning to invite you in person, but I’ve been so busy lately it slipped my mind.”
Your hand makes its way to your mouth as you gasp. “But haven’t brought him a gift…”
He is quick to dismiss your concern as he waves to someone exiting the hall. “It’s okay. I wrote both our names on the card on my gift.”
“Why would you do that?” you ask, as the massive gold-painted doors open to a grand hall lined with marble and gold, revealing a crowd of people already chatting and enjoying the booze over a full orchestra playing at the corner of the stage. You could feel the blood drain from your face as a sea of curious, ogling eyes trails on you both entering the grand hall, but you power through and smile – there’s no escaping now, at this point.
“I’m simply taking responsibility,” Coriolanus responds in a teasing tone. “Would you rather have come here without a gift?”
You look up at him while you cling onto his arm for some support. He looks every bit at home with all the attention – so undeniably different from the eighteen-year-old Academy Coriolanus fidgeting with his collar all those years ago on the day of the Reaping.
You wonder inwardly if that’s the only thing in him that’s changed, while everything else that’s rotten in him had always been there, if not amplified.
“I guess not,” you acquiesce. “Thank you. Please let me know how I can pay you back.”
“Oh, don’t worry. I’ll think of something,” he says with a lopsided grin.
Coriolanus’s arm veers you to Mr and Ma Plinth, who are both entertaining guests. You give Mr Plinth your well-wishes for his birthday and get a motherly hug from Ma, who gushes over how ‘you look every bit like a princess.’
“My sons sure have excellent taste,” she tells Coriolanus with a wink, earning a hearty laugh from him before she pulls him into an affectionate embrace.
The dress. She’s referring to the dress for sure.
But just when you think you’re finally free to just face the farthest corner and disassociate, his arm wraps around your waist and leads you away to meet other people. People you’d rather not associate with.
The horror.
But as usual, you paint on the demurest of smiles, trying not to be fazed by the flashing of cameras in the hall. The party is apparently heavily covered by the media, so Coriolanus does his best to mesmerise everyone with his wit, his looks and his charisma, while you play the role of the dolled-up, docile arm décor, beaming and chiming in only when spoken to.
It’s nothing short of demeaning, but you’re here to play his game, and losing isn’t an option.
Coriolanus proudly introduces you to everyone you meet as his official gamemaker apprentice, much to their admiration. A lot of them, powerful, important heads in the Capitol and their children, some of whom you know by face at the University. Most of them, unfamiliar faces, but they feel the need to give you unsolicited advice – somewhere along the lines of being seen more among peers of the same societal status.
“How come we don’t see you out that often?”
“You’re so pretty, you should go out more and have fun!”
“Nellie, we usually hang out at this bar, it’s super exclusive, you should come with us sometime.”
The same thing, over and over, and you just go along, nodding or shaking your head and laughing whenever a joke is told, crack a few yourself, exchange toasts over minuscule sips of booze, and tell them through gritted teeth that you’ll see them around, only to be snatched away again by the waist by Coriolanus and be brought over to another clique. Your Uncle Cas would be laughing his ass off at you if he could see you right now.
The cycle goes on, and you find yourself getting better at it with practice. Just like a loop, repeating a set of code for x number of times, automating repetitive, boring tasks on a computer application.
The only problem with loop conditions: when poorly written, can lead to infinite loops, which can cause the application’s unresponsiveness.
You vaguely wonder how long this loop is conditioned to last.
A guy you’ve seen in one of your classes approaches you and strikes up a conversation, just when Coriolanus is looking away, his hand slack on your waist as he speaks with a Mr Rutherford.
“I read your paper on the application of artificial intelligence in automating retina-scanning and other security measures,” he says, adding for clarification when you flash him a questioning look, “It’s in the library, along with your other research papers. It’s so well put together.”
He holds out his hand as he introduces himself as Ovidius Browne, the youngest of three sons of business magnate Octavius Browne. The Brownes own a number of factories in District 6. You shake his outstretched hand. He reveals himself to be in his junior year in computer engineering, a career he decided to take to help improve their company’s factory conditions. He wonders if such levels of automation would be possible in basic manufacturing tasks like quality inspection and inventory scanning without taking jobs away or being too invasive to factory workers. It’s a terrific concept, you say, and you get so pumped with exchanging ideas that you forget to put up your facade and instead engage wholeheartedly, at least until a cold hand travels from the back of your neck down to your spine, settling on the small of your back and tracing circles with a finger.
“Browne, is it?” Coriolanus Snow’s baritone chips in.
You introduce them formally and they exchange a brief and polite handshake.
“I’d like to discuss more of that with you Ms Innis,” Ovidius says. “If we could perhaps exchange numbers – ”
“Of course, we’d love to chat, Mr Browne. I can give Nellie your office number and she’ll get in touch,” Coriolanus interrupts genially. His fingers are still drumming over your back as he continues, “Apologies, I have to take my apprentice away; there is someone I’d like her to meet.”
He grips your waist to pull you away without waiting for a response from either of you.
You shoot him a confused look. “Coryo, he was just – ”
“About to ask you to put in a good word on his behalf to your uncle? Yes, he was.” He says with an eyebrow raised in disapproval.
“But we were just talking about...tech stuff. Are you sure?”
The conversation you had with him didn’t seem like it’ll branch off into that territory.
He nods once. “A little bird may have chirped to me about a certain Browne sibling’s internship application getting rejected twice by the Dean of Computer Sciences. It’s like you said before, sugarplum: just another one of those sycophants complimenting you in exchange for something.”
How much inside information does he have stockpiled on other people? Maybe he keeps them stashed in his closet labelled ‘in case of emergency, break glass.’
Just when you thought you could talk to someone about something you’re genuinely interested in for once this night.
You’re recognised by a surprisingly pleasant, popular senior and it-girl from your college, Ursa Talbot – daughter of Labor Solicitor Ursinus Talbot – who ropes you in with her gaggle of girlfriends, chatting to you about the exclusive, invite-only social clubs she’s joined and offers to vouch for you.
Ursa’s fiancé, a fresh graduate now working for her father, joins in the conversation, rolling his eyes as the women around him start giggling and making suppressed squealing noises at someone behind you. Before you turn around to see who it is, you feel a gentle squeeze on the waist.
“Ladies, my apologies, but I’d have to take my apprentice away,” he declares with a wink, and they swoon and blush behind their hands. “I hope you enjoy the night. Nellie?”
“Yes?”
Like you’re programmed to do, you look at Coriolanus with a cheerful smile and let him haul you off.
He tells you something you don’t quite catch. With the music now reaching its climax and the chatter getting livelier, it becomes hard to hear anyone, so you have no choice but to lean closer to him to make out what he’s saying. He takes this further and tugs you close to his chest by the waist. The proximity makes you inadvertently place a hand on the lapel of his waistcoat, while he whispers to the side of your face close to your ear, “I said I’m going to introduce you to Dr Volumnia Gaul.”
You peer to your side, to where he’s eyeing, and true enough, Dr Gaul herself was there, wearing a purple and gold brocade dress cascading to the floor and leather gloves to match, her straggly, greying hair adding to her distinct look. She’s chatting away with an animated Strabo Plinth holding a dainty drink in one hand and a beetle-shaped clutch in the other.
Even in something as completely innocent and normal as a birthday party, she still stands out against the crowd as a formidable presence.
She’s what you think Coriolanus is trying to be, except for the speaking-in-riddles-and-rhymes part. Wouldn’t it be funny, a snide voice in your head says, if Coriolanus one day just starts saying ‘hippity-hoppity?’
The thought is enough is cheer you up a little bit.
Volumnia Gaul’s mismatched eyes roam over the two of you as you near her spot.
“Dr Gaul, it’s a pleasure to see you tonight. I’m glad you could join us,” he says with a tip of his head. “I know we mustn’t talk of work, but I’m sure you’ll be happy to know I have secured myself the apprentice of my dreams.”
“Mr Snow, what delightful news you bring me,” she drawls toothily. “Oh my, oh my. Prunella Innis!”
Her unnerving gaze lands on you, her gloved fingers lifting your chin as if to get a better look.
Just smile, dammit.
“The apple of young Snow’s eye. I was wondering when we’d get to meet. Finally putting a pretty face to your name is such a treat!” She releases a pleased, throaty chuckle.
You try to keep your voice as steady as you can. “Pleasure to be of your acquaintance, Dr Gaul.”
The grin she has from ear to ear does not extend to her eyes. “Clever little girl, this. I can see why...” she trails off, then flicks an odd, knowing stare at your friend. “Keep your eagle eye on this one, Mr Snow; you wouldn’t want her flying away with her teensy-weensy wings...”
Seeing as this friendly, albeit bizarre banter isn’t in your list of programmed interactions, you settle for the automated smile, careful not to let it falter.
“Of course, Dr Gaul. I’m not planning on letting her go anytime soon,” he responds just as playfully.
Thankfully, the exchange ends there, as you’re both called by party ushers to your table where the Plinth couple are sitting. Odd sitting at the table for what seems to be family and close friends only, but you keep your thoughts to yourself while the ceremony begins. The night goes on with well-wishing speeches from the Plinth senior’s closest friends and colleagues. Then, the dinner courses are served right after an honorary toast for the celebrant. Everything brought to the table by the servers looks expensive and sumptuous – all a grand display of opulence that is the seemingly infinite Plinth fortune.
And yet you find yourself only able to nibble at the food, having your appetite diminished by the stress of interacting with so many people in just less than two hours.
“You’ve barely eaten anything,” Coriolanus’s voice floats from beside you. His eyes are laced with worry as he asks, “Can I get you anything you’d like?”
Plus, having to deal with him dragging you from one place to another.
You shake your head once and assure him you’re fine. You partake of the food a little more when the dessert course comes around, much to his approval.
“I’d hate to see my sugarplum getting sick,” he says as he watches you eat a tiny forkful of birthday cake.
This you ignore in favour of savouring the cake’s decadent caramel frosting and rich custard filling, balanced with an airy lemon-and-orange-flower chiffon base. You figure if you can’t have fun tonight, the least you can do is enjoy the cake.
With the food out the way, more booze comes flowing, and it isn’t long before the orchestra plays a lively tune, and the dance floor gets filled with delighted, slightly inebriated guests waltzing and tapping to the beat, and while Strabo doesn’t join in, he and Ma both look thrilled to see everyone in high spirits, before they’re pulled separately into light chit-chat by their friends.
If Sejanus was here now, you’d both be sulking together in a corner of the grand hall sharing what would’ve been your third slice of cake, arguing over who gets the side with more frosting.
You take advantage of this moment to extricate yourself from everyone – mostly Coriolanus and his imposing presence – and excuse yourself to the powder room. Locking yourself inside a bathroom stall, you let out a drawn-out exhale of absolute relief.
Alone, finally.
You gaze wistfully at the bathroom window to your left. It’s too high for your reach, but you figure you could use one of the large potted plants as a booster and get as far away from this place as you possibly can, even if you had to go on foot.
Groaning to yourself, you stew in the fact that this freedom of yours from your deviously charming companion is short-lived. He’d soon be wondering where you’d gone, and he’d likely tear the place down just so he could find you. You doubt he’d appreciate it if he hears that you’ve locked yourself in a bathroom stall plotting your escape.
The dancing is on full blast as you step back into the grand hall. You make yourself as inconspicuous as you can, strategically darting between people to reach the open bar. You choose a bar stool that conceals you from everyone in the room and order a drink on impulse. The bartender is kind enough to humour your request for an alcohol-free concoction, which he serves with maraschino cherries on a toothpick.
“Rough night?” he asks as he wipes a glass, smiling sympathetically at you. With his greying hair and the lines on the corner of his eyes, he seems to be wearier than you are, probably from having to be at the beck and call of thirsty, snotty Capitol High Society all night.
“Very,” you sigh. “I hope it isn’t as rough as yours.”
“Are you kiddin’ me?” he shakes his head with a chortle. “I had a lady just a few clicks ago demand I make the same drink four times because she wanted a Cosmo without the cranberry juice and the lime. Coulda just ordered a shot of vodka and Cointreau, but what do I know...”
You let out a suppressed, dry laugh. “I’m sorry you to had deal with that. Thanks for the drink, it’s delicious.”
“Eh. It’s nothin',’” he shrugs. A server enters behind the bar and whispers something to him, and he promptly takes his apron off and exits, but not before bidding you a good night. He is replaced by someone younger and more stern-looking, who resumes the abandoned task of wiping the other glasses.
Just as you’re about to bite a cherry off the toothpick, a sudden waft of roses floats in your vicinity, followed by a cold hand on your lower back and an airy baritone whisper over your ear.
“I was afraid you had walked out on me.”
Coriolanus Snow’s lopsided grin is inches away from your face as he leans against the counter beside you, his eyes eventually landing on the drink you’re still halfway through finishing.
“Hmm. What would my sugarplum be drinking liquid courage for?”
You shake your head. “This is alcohol-free.”
“Good.” He straightens his posture to full height and, bending to a stiff, formal bow, he extends a hand and asks, “Prunella Innis, may I please have the honour of this dance?”
You hesitate, but knowing that every move you make is now under public scrutiny, saying no and leaving him out to dry isn’t an option.
He sweeps you away to the dance floor as soon as your fingers touch his.
With the orchestra blaring their lovely rendition of Strauss II’s Voices of Spring, you both begin swaying lightly as you place your palms on his shoulder while his hands encase both sides of your waist.
Coriolanus beams down on you as his cobalt eyes search your face.
“Are you okay?” he asks, his voice mixed with a tiny tinge of concern. “I really hope I haven’t overwhelmed you, I know you never liked these kinds of parties.”
Your lips thin to a wry smile. “It’s a change of scenery, alright,” you admit. “What about you? You look like you’re having the time of your life.”
His eyes twinkle as he lets out a throaty chuckle. “That’s only because I brought good company with me.”
“Really? I thought this was your whole scene.”
“Well, if you keep going with me to the next ones, it might just be.”
His air of mischief continues even as the music ends and you join in applauding the musicians. When he doesn’t make a move to cart you off the dance floor, that’s when you figure out he isn’t done dancing with you just yet.
The orchestra begins their rendition of the Snowstorm waltz, so you both exchange a curtsy, as is the norm. With his hand clasping yours and his other hand on your waist, you begin to dance, spinning and waltzing to the beat. You’re aware you shouldn’t be making a big deal out of something as trivial as a dance, but you’re still unable to meet his eyes, afraid of what you might find. You settle for staring at his tux collar and concentrating on your footwork.
Thank goodness those etiquette classes in your early teens are proving to be worth your uncle’s money.
Soon enough, your surroundings become a blur, and all you can see is him, beaming down at you as you dip, then pulling you flush to his chest so he can spin with you some more. His gaze is heavy, feverish, never leaving your face. You see a split-second flash of the entire hall, which throws you further into a daze, discovering that eyes are trained on you both and most of the dancers have vacated the floor to give you room. The heady smell of roses, courtesy of the one pinned to his lapel, blurs your sense of reality, and you beg, you pray, that you don’t hurl what little food you ate and make a fool out of yourself. He angles his head in time to another dip and he whispers to ear in a low voice.
“You’re so intoxicatingly beautiful.”
Then he pulls you close again, your foreheads almost touching as he drinks all of you in with those half-lidded blue eyes. A few more trots on the floor and the waltz ends, and you curtsy as he bows, trying not to show just how lightheaded you are and how shallow your breathing is despite the dance itself being undemanding. The animated applause that follows echoes in the hall, and you join in mechanically.
Guests come milling in pairs to fill the dance floor once more just as the next waltz plays. Coriolanus entwines his fingers with yours.
“Come with me,” he says vaguely, and you both manoeuvre your way through the dancers and ignore some of the whispering and the staring that follows you as you exit the grand hall through the several ceiling-to-ceiling doors made of glass panels. He leads you down to the marble staircase and into the hotel’s expansive inner gardens.
“I figured you needed the fresh air,” he says as soon as you both reach a wall beside a well-manicured hedge, away from leering eyes and all the gossiping.
Your posture sags against the stone wall, letting out an exhausted exhale. “Thank you,” you say.
He just watches you wordlessly, his hands behind his back, as you compose yourself. When your head clears, you become aware that you’ve strayed a tad too far from the grand hall and are a little too alone with him than you’d prefer. Eventually, you straighten, your decision to go back to the party already made.
But Coriolanus is on you the moment you do.
“I want to show you something,” he says.
He gives you no time to complain, and he all but drags you by the arm further into a dimmer section of the garden, where you can barely hear the music and the chatter from the grand hall. A few more steps and you reach a large stone greenhouse covered wall-to-wall in creeping wisteria. Surprisingly, it’s unlocked, so he easily pushes the opaque glass door open and ushers you in first, with him following closely behind.
“The roses are to your far right.”
You hear the door’s dull click as it closes.
You shouldn’t be here, you think. But you get to the edge of the greenhouse, anyway, where the nearly overwhelming odour of a mishmash of different types of roses invades your nostrils. Despite the very little light coming through the opaque glass panels of the enclosure, you see the flowers sprawled in between a narrow path leading to the back of the building. Just more stone and glass panels, no doors.
No exits. No escape.
Your heart leaps to your throat when you feel a warm breath tickle the back of your neck and a pair of arms snake around your form. Tensing up in an instant, your breath hitches when that warmth reaches your ear.
Coriolanus’s deep, hushed tone sends shivers down your spine.
“I’ve been dying to have you all to myself the moment you stepped out of that car.”
In the blink of an eye, he turns you around and captures your lips with his.
It takes a while for you to realise what he’s doing, so he takes advantage of your momentary unresponsiveness and slips his tongue inside your mouth. As he’s moving his tongue all over yours, your back hits a hard surface. He’s pinned you against the stone wall, his body hunched over as he presses himself on yours, giving you no space to slip through or to push him away. His hand wraps around the side of your head to change the angle, allowing him to deepen the kiss.
Coriolanus Snow is kissing you, passionately and possessively, and he kisses like he’s running out of breath and you’re his only source of air.
And all you could do in your state of denial, paralysis, and fear is to close your eyes and wish he was Sejanus instead.
When he shifts his angle, you tilt your head to the side so you can catch your breath. Perhaps he sees this as an act of defiance, for he cups both your cheeks with a growl, making you face him, and goes back to kissing you just as fiercely as before. This time, you instinctively keep your lips shut, but a light nip of his teeth leaves you gasping in surprise, enabling him to tangle both your tongues.
Your hands manage to wedge between your bodies, so you push him away with all the strength you have. As he reluctantly pulls away, he has the gall to look affronted, but you could’ve slapped him, too, or clawed his eyes out for putting you in such a vulnerable position; only reason prevents you from lashing out.
“I’m sorry, sugarplum. I’ve had quite the drink tonight,” he whispers breathlessly, resting his forehead on your temple.
Liar. You can barely smell anything alcohol-related on him; just the sickening scent of the flowers he’s partial to. This is all just a part of the game to him, to make you feel isolated and powerless against him. A play for power and control, and one he’s currently winning.
“We should go, Coryo.” You hate how close to begging your voice sounds. “Please, it’s a school day tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow is Saturday.”
Fuck.
Of all the excuses, that’s what you come up with?
He begins planting butterfly kisses on your temple and your cheek.
“Not for my uncle,” you scramble to correct yourself. “He often has Saturday classes and I sometimes help.”
“Skip it. You’re my apprentice now. Mine,” he says sternly. He seems to immediately amend his tone by asking, “I mean, doesn’t he have interns for that?”
Damn it.
“Yes, he does.”
You could feel him smirk against your cheek, seemingly counting this as a win. With you still effectively trapped in between the wall and his unrelenting embrace, he takes your chin with his forefinger and thumb to make you face him and latches his lips on yours.
His hand finds its way to your back, brushing against the groove of your spine. He then grips the back of your neck and turns your head to the side, allowing him to leave a trail of open-mouthed kisses on your jaw, before moving down to the column of your neck.
You cave in and beg as soon as you feel his tongue on your skin.
“Coryo, please...please stop...”
It comes out as a broken whimper, making you hate yourself even more. The dread you felt when you opened his gift, the way you had to put on a mask that you hate for people you don’t care for, the way you had to pretend to him that you don’t despise how he kept making you feel so exposed and defenceless the entire night – everything you’ve been bottling up since this morning seemed to come spilling into that plea, rendering you to feel even more helpless and alone. It takes every ounce of self-control in you not to burst into tears.
You’re not supposed to act this pathetically in front of him, but here you are.
His grip on you grows slack and he draws his head back to observe you, his jaw clenched in disapproval. You don’t care; you try to wriggle away from him, your bodies still too close for your liking. You still refuse to meet his eyes, because if you do, he might see right through your crumbling facade.
He sighs and takes a full step backwards, finally giving you space to breathe in relief.
He still finds the nerve to let out a restrained chuckle. “I’m sorry, I let my emotions get the better of me. You’re right; this is neither the time nor the place.”
Neither the time nor the place. Does that mean he’ll do it again? At this point, you can’t bring yourself to care.
“Can we go back? Please?”
He takes your hand in his with a nod. Stepping outside the greenhouse, you both stop in your tracks as you spot another couple nearby, seemingly trying to stay hidden in the bushes and in the middle of making out. It’s Ursa and her fiancé. They both pull away from each other and Ursa waves at you spiritedly while her partner looks away in embarrassment. She then drags him by the arm to the now-vacant greenhouse, both of them bursting into a giddy laughing fit.
Coriolanus just smirks at the sight. With him refusing to let your hand go, you continue your trek back to the grand hall, where the party is still in full swing, and the guests are still drinking and dancing the night away.
Your feet are sore, your lips are numb, and your soul is drained.
Yet you still put on a good final show until the party ends as if nothing happened. By eleven thirty, Mr and Ma Plinth instruct Coriolanus to call it a night and get some rest, but not before he escorts you home. Like the dutiful Plinth heir he is, he gladly obliges, and that’s how you wind up with the same car ride as he, the tension in the air so thick you could cut it through with a butter knife.
Coriolanus breaks the silence.
“I will have a car escort you from your home the Citadel starting Monday,” he says matter-of-factly. “As per Dr Gaul’s instructions, you will be excused from any summer class you’ve enrolled in.”
“But I took those classes for extra credit,” you protest mildly.
He encases your hand on your lap. “You will be granted full credits for all of them if we succeed. This is, after all, for the cause, not only of the Citadel nor of the Capitol, but of all of Panem.
“This Monday, sugarplum, is the dawn of a new era.”
You refuse point-blank to look at him or even acknowledge the comment, but judging by the excitement in his tone, despite everything he’s forced you to do this night, you already know he’s smiling and extremely pleased with himself.
After long agonising minutes, the car pulls up before the Corso III lobby entrance, so you bid him good night, which he returns with a swift peck on your cheek. You don’t even look back at the car once you get out; you run straight to the elevator, lock your apartment door and head to the safety of your bedroom.
Your first of two tasks as soon as you lock the door is to rid yourself of everything that reminds you of that accursed party – the dress, the shoes, the clutch, the necklace – and chuck them all into a corner where you hope you’d never see them again. You have a half-mind to shower to get rid of his smell on you, but you’re so tired to the bone you move on to the second and last task of the night:
Curl up in your blankets and cry your heart out.
Enter Level 7
Author notes:
Please reblog and comment, it's always appreciated!!
Next Level will include a portion of the ball in Snowball's POV!! I wanted it to be here but then it'll get too long so...🫣 also reader is going to have to work this incoming Monday lol and more sympathetic I cannot be, esp with Snowball observing 😛
#dark!coriolanus snow#dark!coriolanus snow x reader#young!coriolanus snow#young!coriolanus snow x reader#named!reader#or#x OC2ndPOV#18+ only#dark!coriolanus snow fic#dark!coriolanus#dark!coriolanus fic#dark!fic
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