#snow (implied)

[floworence]

God importance of food in HUNGER Games is such amazing aspect of the books and shows the mentality of both Katniss AND Snow.

Coriolanus learns that food is power. He sees Nero Prize cutting off maid's leg to eat it. He sees what tributes will do for food. He knows what Lucy Gray did for food. He knows what he would do for food.

In his eyes food is a luxury and ultimate means of manipulation. That's why there is a tessare system, that's why there are monthly packages for the winning districts, that's why Games are a yearly public spectacle in the Capitol. He keeps districts hungry for food and Capitol hungry for entertainment.

Katniss learns that food is love. It starts with Peeta throwing her the burned loaf of bread. Then goes further into her love for Prim, which is the main cause of her hunting. Then with Gale as her hunting partner. Then with Madge who is her best friend and loves strawberries. Then with Mr. Mellark who loves squirrels. Then with Rue and bread from District 11. Then with Peeta again, with the berries.

Katniss doesn't use the power of food over people. She shares it. That's how she builds connections, forms friendships, wins over people's hearts, starts and wins revolutions.

For Snow food it a tool with which you can sew starvation and chaos.

For Katniss food is a tool with which you can form bonds and find peace.

[effieotto]

Suzanne C. really saw all those anti-Effie dummies trying that hard to create the narrative where she was a bad person —selfish, indifferent, who doesn’t care about anyone but herself— and not just a regular capitol citizen who were drowned in propaganda since she’s born. And said fine, if you all won’t get the point by yourselves, i’ll have to spell it out. In a totalitarian regime you can’t hold everyone’s responsible for the system they were born into. Ignorance is a real weapon for submission. Take away the right of someone to developed critical thinking and you’ll dominate them completely. Make them trust you to keep them safe and you’ll have their eternal loyalty. And when someone has your mind and body in their hands, there is nothing you can do but to believe on them. There is nothing you can do but go down on your knees and show them all of your gratitude for the privilege of peace and protection

[for-horsemens]

i love how the accents make no fucking sense in ouat. like they are all from the same enchanted forest yet gold is scottish, mila is english and their son, baelfire, is american at birth. hook and zelena are english, belle is australian, the huntsman is irish and literally everybody else is american.

everyone just picks the accent they spiritually align with and i live, honestly.

[borzoish]

he may have been your father, boy, but he wasn't your daddy

[crowliphale]

Frost with the daughter he didn't ask for

[lunar-beauty]

was trying to wrap my head around why proserpina talked about effie’s accomplishments at the university in past tense yet didn’t say that effie had graduated, and i think i figured out why!

in tbosas, snow says that academy students graduate mid-summer, have a month off, and then start school again in september. and since the hunger games begin july 4th and last several weeks, it’s safe to say the academy graduation is held at the end of july after the hunger games have ended. and it’s implied that the university follows that same academic calendar since snow starts his freshman year there in september.

so based on this, and assuming this system wasn’t changed, it’s safe to bet that effie was a senior at the university during sotr and graduated after haymitch’s games. also, if effie was still a student during that year, she could be the person that drusilla was referring to here:

[dipperscavern]

THE BET - JON SNOW

pairing: jon snow x gn!reader, 4.2k words

synopsis: you’ve made a bet with jon snow — now begs the question, who will come out on top?

authors note: i heard the call for jon snow content, and this idea came to me in the middle of the night wearing dobby the elfs tea cozy. enjoy! <3 [ @eldrith ]

jon snow never considered himself a betting man.

he never considered himself a blushing one, either — or a swooning one. until he met you.

you bring out the best in him, it’s true. but you also (somehow) bring to light his playful side, the one he thought he left behind in winterfell; along with the games he, robb, and theon used to play, the peace of the godswood, the smell of the kitchens wafting through the corridors (stick them with the pointy end).

he had left it all at winterfell on purpose. he needed to shed jon, shed the princely stark-ness he’d grown up with (though he’d never consider himself a real one), and replace it with the black he adorned on his shoulders. ever since he knelt before the weirwood, swearing vows in the sight of the old gods, he was no longer boy — but man. and with that, he left the boyish attributes, replacing them by those of men. warriors. or, at least, he’d like to believe.

partaking in bets was one of the most boyish things he could do, but truly, he could not chide himself for it if he tried. it involves you — it involves making you smile. and that, he will never register as a thing needing scolding, even if it’s only internally.

it was painfully obvious to you and jon the way samwell tarly looked at gilly, daughter of the devil. you would know, it’s how you and jon spend your time looking at one another. sam is head over heels for gilly, always helping her to the best of his abilities, advocating for her, looking at her as if she hung the stars and the moon… yes, samwell tarly was smitten.

you and jon both knew gilly was taken with sam. gilly knew she was taken with sam. the only one who didn’t know gilly was taken with sam, was sam himself.

you and jon are rather protective over sam and gilly both, so while you’d kill and die for them, you’ve left their feelings to be sorted out themselves. of course, you give advice when asked, and perhaps give one a nudge in the right direction on occasion, but is it really meddling if it’s for a good cause?

the true reason sam had kept his feelings to himself so far, was an extremely sweet one. he didn’t want gilly to think he was just using her, or didn’t genuinely care for her. he didn’t want her to be able to look at him and see her father. well, that, and he was shy — but that was one of the things you and jon liked about sam. it somehow made him sweeter.

either way, even with his profound saint-like mindset, you could tell sam was getting closer to telling gilly how he really felt. you saw the way he would open his mouth to say something, how gilly would give him her full attention, then how he’d shrink back down, letting his nerves get the best of him.

sam only grew more frustrated as time went on (never with gilly, only himself). when asked, sam would stumble out something like-

“Gilly — oh, right, she’s um — she’s great...” with a defeated look in his eye, leaving before you could ask further.

staring at her (more than usual), never being able to fully concentrate when she was near. he’d always start to approach her, then let his nerves steer him in the other direction. gilly was now all sam could think about, it being the only topic of conversation jon could coax out of him. sure, it began to drive jon fairly mad, but it was better than the grumbling silence you’d endured at the start of his romantic-turmoil. samwell tarly was nearing the edge of insanity, and you & jon could both tell it wouldn’t be long yet. so, naturally, you’d made a bet.

“You know, I think Sam’s really gonna do it.”

your voice cut through the silence as you and jon cleaned up the mess hall. right now, you were looking out a window, watching sam and gilly have a conversation. sam was fidgeting, the way he always does when he’s nervous.

“You must not know him very well, then.” jon says. you turn to give jon an exasperated look, barely concealing the roll of your eyes. he looks up at you, and you see the upward quirk of his lips that tells you he finds this — the joint disagreeing — truly enjoying.

“I mean it,” you say, touching your tongue to the roof of your mouth, turning back to resume observing them. as gilly and sam share a smile, a noise akin to one you’d make seeing a small puppy rises from the back of your throat, voice softening. “Awh— Jon, look at them.”

this does the trick of grabbing jon’s attention, and he stops his table-scrubbing to come join you at the window. he shakes his head, exhaling through his nose. “It’ll never happen,” he says.

“Gods, Snow,” the use of his surname in place of your usual (honey-dripping) ‘jon’ has his head snapping to you. “I didn’t take you for faithless.”

the chuckle jon lets slip has shivers crawling up your spine. you choose to ignore it. “I only mean,” he says, re-wetting his scrub brush. “that Sam is one to take it slow.” you turn to give him a look that has him backtracking.

“Slower than he has been,” he clarifies. he looks to you, and takes your lack of response as acceptance, moving to resume his table-scrubbing. you resume as well, and a few seconds pass before you stop, looking at jon with newfound defiance.

“No— your absence of faith does not deter me,” you say, pointing an accusing finger at jon. he bites back his smile at how cute you look in your retaliation. “Sam’s going to do it, I know this.”

jon takes the bait, setting down his scrub brush, leaning both hands against the table. “Alright, and I know he won’t.”

you scoff at his stubbornness. “He’ll approach her by the next moon’s turn.” you don’t give sam much time, the next moons turn being only a week away. you don’t give it any thought.

jon raises his brows. “And if he doesn’t?”

“Then you win.” you say, lightly shrugging. “Aye, I would. What would I get in return?” he asks, unrelenting. you search for something worthy to offer, but come up short. he fills in the gaps for you.

“Whatever I want?”

you nod. you usually wouldn’t put such a promise in a man of the nights watches hands, most being criminals & rapists, but it’s not just anyone you’re trusting. it’s jon. he’s safe.

“You’re on, Snow.” you say, returning to your table-scrubbing without further word than that. jon ignores the butterflies in his stomach, and attempts to scrub them away on the hard wood of the worn-out oak table.

ʚ‎‏ ͜ ̩͙ ︵ ̩͙ ୨ ♡ ୧ ̩͙ ‏︵ ̩͙ ͜ ɞ

over the next week, you’re starting to become faithless; it seems the gods have abandoned you.

you thought his frustration would boil over, giving him the confidence he needed to confess, but yet again, samwell tarly has exceeded expectations in the department of pining.

jon silently relishes in his oncoming victory, you don’t think you’ve ever seen him so — prone to smiling. whenever he sees you, he bites the inside of his cheek (or his tongue), in every effort to conceal the massive grin that threatens to erupt on his face. this only makes you grumble, and edds told you if you don’t stop rolling your eyes so much they’ll get stuck like that.

sam has peeled away from everything entirely, it seems. keeping his head down, only speaking when spoken to, always looking like he has something on his mind. he’s like this with everyone, jon, gilly, and you included. the nights watch is feeling the absence of their usual beam of light, and edds proclaimed if you, jon, and gilly aren’t being spoken to, then they all should keep an eye out for wildlings flying over the wall until further notice.

now, when you and jon see each other, it’s more silent than ever. you know if he opens his mouth it’ll be boasting proclamations of onset victory, and you can’t say if that happens you won’t put your hands on him. he seems to know this too, smart enough to keep to himself and not press your buttons. somehow this only frustrates you more. maybe if jon was more insufferable, you’d have a harder time loving him.

even with your own romantic dilemma, the main thing on your mind is sam, and the stupid bet you shouldn’t have made in the first place. you’ve tried leaving sam alone, forgetting about it entirely, praying, and even giving him a nudge in the right direction. making sure jon wasn’t near, then asking about his day, and after, about gilly — but iif you ask about gilly, you get the same record on repeat.

“What? Oh, Gilly, yeah… yeah she’s great. Working with Maester Aemon ‘nd… she’s great, really.” he’d say, fiddling with his hands, gaze trapped on the floor (or, if gilly was in the vicinity, on her).

your gaze would soften, but even you aren’t enough this time. “Sam, look, maybe you should—“

“Oh— I’ve got to go, I’m late for my meeting with Jon. Bye.. bye then!” he’d call, walking quickly in the other direction (not toward jon’s chambers), and as he walks away, you could almost see victory leaving with him.

by the end of the week, you and sam are in the same boat emotionally. jon thinks if you scrub the tables any harder you’ll break the wood, and this time, he doesn’t refrain from mentioning it.

“Careful.”

he means it in (half) good faith, but you glare at him all the same. and you see the shift in his tongue that means he’s biting down on it to stop his smile from appearing. you roll your eyes, and the image of edds face appears in your head as you do so.

you scrub angrily for the next few minutes, until you can’t bear it anymore.

“I can’t believe it. I actually can’t believe it, Jon.”

he glances up at you, a raise of his brows appearing as he speaks. “Who’s faithless now?”

“Don’t. You and I both know he was near to burst a week ago.” you say, crossing your arms and looking out the same window you did the night a bet was made.

jon makes a noise of disagreement, but (intelligently) doesn’t press any further.

“I just don’t get it. How can — how can you be so,” you look for the right wording, emotion punctuating your sentences. “so in love with someone without telling them?”

jon momentarily stops scrubbing, entire body pausing at your words. luckily for him, you’re too caught up with sam to notice. jon gets it.

“He doesn’t want to ruin what they have.” he says, and if you weren’t so frustrated, you’d pick up on the tone that says he isn’t just talking about sam and gilly. you come to sit at the bench of the table hes working on, and jon notices the color of your eyes bathed in the light exuding from the window.

“Right, but—“ you sigh, trying to string your thoughts together. “but they could have more. Isn’t it worth the risk, than to spend your time only being that? Always dancing on the edge of more?”

the sincerity jon can see in your eyes only makes his heart race, but it also makes him reflect on your relationship. jon’s in love with you, that much is easy to pinpoint, but do you love him? would you allow his tainted hands to sully you, if given the opportunity? jon’s gaze flickers to your lips, and returns back to your eyes.

though quick, in the silence, you notice it. you take pity, leaning back to allow jon his personal space (that you hadn’t even registered invading) back. he only wishes you’d return, even closer this time.

but he doesn’t say that. among all the things unspoken…

“Sam doesn’t think it worth the risk.” he decides, and he can see the gears turning in your head. he returns to light scrubbing to give you time to string your thoughts together. you don’t like speaking without correlation (the first thing jon learned about you).

a few seconds pass before you speak, and your voice is quieter than its usual volume. “Do you think it worth the risk?”

jon’s silence only prompts you to make the question clearer. “If you had the opportunity, would you risk it?”

would he? would he speak your name, of the devotion he harbors for you? he could take the risk, but what’s the rush? jon’s never considered his time with you limited. he shrugs.

“It depends,” he says. “On the person.. how long I have. Some are content where they stand.”

you nod, but he can tell that’s not the answer you were looking for. “I think so,” he adds as an afterthought. you seem content with it, and brush his knuckles in passing as you return to your own table. it makes his heart jump.

jon would think it accidental if he didn’t know you so well.

ʚ‎‏ ͜ ̩͙ ︵ ̩͙ ୨ ♡ ୧ ̩͙ ‏︵ ̩͙ ͜ ɞ

you think you could smell jon’s amusement from anywhere you stand in castle black.

the moon turns tonight, and sam seems no closer now than he was a week ago. the jest is on you for putting faith in the confidence of cowards.

you’re perfectly content to avoid jon for the entirety of the day, and even worse, he seems content to let you. you meet each others eyes in passing, and while your gaze is defeated, his is only cloaked with half-amused sympathy (accompanied by that smile he adorns only when he’s with you). if you looked closer, you don’t doubt you could find some arrogance in there, but you’re too busy being a sore loser to try. it doesn’t occur to you that jon hates not seeing you achieve, even if it’s only a bet. one that’s in his favor.

the nights watch had decided to celebrate the moons turning with drinks after supper tonight. usually, the moon isn’t any topic worthy of celebration, but things have been unusually quiet in castle black lately. as far as white walkers and wildlings go, that is. why not have a little fun?

the mess hall is warm, bustling with the combined voices of black brothers. bellies are full, and the ale in everyone’s cup allows for a lighthearted atmosphere. you’ve decided to put the bet on a back burner, a simmering problem to deal with tomorrow. you’re warm & fuzzy, looser with your tongue than usual; although you can’t help wincing whenever someone drops food or creates a new stain on the tables.

you forego avoiding jon, and not just because you naturally gravitate toward him when drinking ale. he’s more than eager to keep you by his side, not fully trusting anyone in the room with you incapacitated (maybe edd on blood moons).

much to your dismay, there’s been no sign of samwell tarly. he had vacated the premises after everyone was done supping, and before the ale had been poured. everyone noticed; of course they did. sam was alike to the glue that held much together. sure, he was cowardly, and occasionally frustrating, but sam was the voice of reason. and everyone was starting to feel the weight of his absence.

bet or not, you think after tonight you might have to seriously intervene in your friends love life. you hate to see him like this, dejected and hopeless…. maybe you have a better chance of guiding gilly than sam. in the midst of your thoughts, you glance out the window noticing the sun setting. and with it, goes any hope you had at victory.

jon’s gaze follows yours, and recognizes your defeat with you. but still, ever the gentleman, he doesn’t mention it; only allowing a small upward tug to play on his lips. you return it, momentarily leaning into jon in a silent acknowledgment, before getting roped into grenns white-walker conspiracy theory.

the hours pass easily, greatly enjoying the boisterous atmosphere, the ale making you warm & floaty. you find it harder to keep your eyes off jon as the night goes on, and you almost internally chide yourself for it; until you recognize that every time you’ve stolen a glance at jon, he’s already been looking at you.

eventually, it gets late, and you want to turn in. the only reason jon’s been here so long is you anyways, so when he says his goodbyes along with you, silently following you out, you don’t pay it any mind. your tipsy brain clouds your judgement, and you wrap a hand around his bicep, the muscle underneath making you feel fuzzy.

jon only glances down to where you meet, afraid if he looks too long, you’ll get shy and pull away. and he really, really doesn’t want you to pull away.

you walk in silence until a thought occurs to you. you decide to push aside your pride and propriety, letting instead curiosity steer your tongue.

“So, Snow,” you begin, and he hums, propping you to go on. “Since you’ve won, what’ll it be?”

it seems that the ale isn’t just affecting you, because the question makes jon smile almost too easily. you want to see more of it, so you continue.

“A handshake… the clothes off my back… my soul…” you remark, and it gets you just want you wanted — jon shakes his head, smile not leaving his face.

“Not here,” he says, and he steers you both in the direction of the wall. what jon could possibly want that would need the privacy of the wall, you’re unsure (no you aren’t).

the walk there is quiet, the only sound being the wind flapping your coats. it only makes you more aware of the warmth emanating from jon, and you both pretend you don’t lean into each other. you only remove your hand from him as you approach the box, and he puts a hand on the small of your back to usher you in front of him. if jon would do so without the added ale is a thing that you question for only a moment, as the creaking of the box signals it’s begun ascent.

now you really are curious as to what jon could want. he’s an honorable man… does he need a secret kept? a new cloak? or does he just wish for a conversation in the solaced privacy of the wall?

the ride up feels shorter than usual, but you’re not sure what to blame it on. it’s a strange feeling, your nerves on fire, yet the ale douses it to a low buzz. you partially blame jon, always forgetting yourself when he’s present. how you ever hope to confront your feelings is beyond you.

when you step out, jon offers his arm this time, and you gladly accept it. perhaps you’re not the only one who finds comfort in the action.

you begin your walk, and based on the route, you think he’s taking you both to your favorite place. a quiet indent in the wall, close enough to not be a far walk, but long enough to get away from prying eyes and listening ears. it has a small wall of ice that acts as a (sort of) guard-rail, coming to the waist — but the rest is left open, the expanse of woods beyond the wall available to be gazed upon.

the quiet is comfortable, as it always is with jon. you have much on the tip of your tongue, but give him the courtesy of speaking first.

it’s not long before you’re approaching your little sanctuary; scattered black brothers are guarding the expanse of the wall behind you, and in front of you, but none linger around this area. the thought remains in the back of your mind as you make the turn, walking into the indent, the view beyond it making your breath hitch.

you remove your hand from jon’s arm, instead splaying it across the waist-high-iced-guard-rail. it’s freezing, even under your gloved hand, yet it’s a welcome respite from the way jon sets your nerves alight, turning your skin to fire. patience is hard, yet you wait for him to speak.

“What you said,” he begins. “about taking the risk,”

you turn to look at him, but this time, he doesn’t meet your eyes. his tongue darts out to wet his lip, the way it does when he’s nervous. what could jon have to be nervous about?

“It made me think…”

whatever jon was going to say, you’re not sure you’ll ever know, because rapidly approaching footsteps have the words dying on his tongue — looking behind you both. who is running down the wall at this hour? and why?

a figure appears, out of breath and panting. sam.

“I looked for you! In the— in the mess hall, but— Grenn and Edd said you weren’t there, said you’d left,” you and jon must look as confused as you are, since when did sam run?

a grin erupts on sam’s face as he gets past his introduction. “I did it! I really did it!”

“Did what?” jon prompts, but you think he already knows.

“Gilly!” sam says, and you can feel your brows instantly un-crease themselves. “Well, I— you know, I was nervous. Didn’t want to ruin what we had or, or what she thought of me but.. I just sort of— went up to her and did it! I can’t believe she said yes…” he says, wistfully looking to the sky with a smile on his face, like he can’t believe the gods allowed it to happen, either. you wore one of your own, bathing in jon’s defeat.

sam looks at you both for a minute, then at jon, and the smile he’s wearing dies down as he realizes he’s interrupted. “Oh— oh, sorry… I’ll go now, I just—“ reality seems to hit him again, as another smile erupts on his face.

“I did it!” he says, then spins on his heel, leaving you both atop the wall.

a few moments pass, before you turn to look at jon. you both have a look of disbelief, yours mixed with a smile — and strangely enough, even in defeat, so is his.

“I’m thinking your rations for a month, the cloak you’re wearing...” you say, and jon huffs out a laugh (they come easier around you)

“What Sam did, is called blindsiding—“

“Hm,” you say, interrupting the end of his sentence. “It looks like defeat, instead. What were you going to demand, again?”

you’re only teasing, but you accidentally hit a soft spot. you see the way his smile falters, seriousness beginning its return to his face. it makes your own smile disappear.

“I didn’t— I wasn’t trying to…” you say, but once you see the expression on his face, something clicks. “What were you going to ask for, Jon?”

it seems like you’ve asked him to throw himself off the wall. he shakes his head, “It doesn’t matter.”

“To me it does.”

he begins to turn away from you, but your hand flies to his arm, halting him. he sighs in frustration. you try to catch his gaze, but he makes effort not to look at you.

“I won, and that’s what I ask.” you say, “For you to tell me what you wanted.”

you can see his internal turmoil, but that only makes you want to shrink away. what plagues jon so badly he dares not to speak it aloud? not speak of it to you?

you can tell he doesn’t want to say it, but a bet is a bet.

“You.”

your brows scrunch involuntarily. “Me?”

“I wanted to kiss you.” he says, his gaze flickering momentarily to your lips. “Want.”

your lips part in shock. not that he wants to kiss you (you’ve known. you want to kiss him) but that you’ve been able to coax him to say as much.

your gaze flicks to his lips once, twice, and you step closer — body almost flush with his. at the same time you reach up, jon leans down, and you connect your lips with his. they’re soft, warm; everything you thought they’d be when your thoughts would drift to him.

the kiss is sweet, tentative. exploring unknown territory, but also wanting — needing. you feel jon’s hand come to your waist, pulling you even closer (if possible), your body now flush against his.

eventually, the need to breathe takes over, and you both (reluctantly) pull apart. his cheeks are flushed, and you have an idea that it’s not from the cold this time. his pupils are blown, want pooling in them; but, also, something else swims in the midst. confusion.

“But— I lost,” he says, looking to you for an answer. you pretend to take mild offense, a playful roll of your eyes accompanying your words.

“You know, Jon, when someone gets kissed, they usually don’t consider it a loss.”

it seems to be the right answer, a smile tugging its way back up his lips. his response is him leaning down to kiss you again.

[front-facing-pokemon]

[smallpapers]

Every time you tell a lie, I’m praying that you choke

erk here’s some snow and lucy gray

[antigonesghosts]

What I loved about Cinderella's Castle is it is so entirely about Ella. We know starkid can handle a show with tons and tons of characters but I found it quite refreshing for it to be so wholly her story? I think it was a lovely choice for this show and man Bryce did such a perfect job of it, she is truly such a star

[shinynewmemories]

All the final lines of each part of every Hunger Games book

THG: 

Part I:

“Because . . . because . . . she came here with me.”

Part II:

Before I can stop myself, I call out Peeta’s name.

Part III:

I take his hand, holding on tightly, preparing for the cameras, and dreading the moment when I will finally have to let go.

CF:

Part I:

It’s my mockingjay.

Part II:

This is no place for a girl on fire.

Part III:

“Katniss, there is no District Twelve.”

MJ:

Part I:

And his blood as it splatters the tiles.

Part II:

That I’m of more use to her dead than alive.

Part III:

I tell him, “Real.”

[callalillywrites]

The Huntsman's Mission

My third entry for Bucky Barnes Birthday Bingo (hosted by @avengers-assemble-bingo). This time we're getting the Royalty AU with a bit of a fairy tale twist. All of this can be blamed on Halsey's Castle. This story just wrote itself once I listened to it a few times on repeat (not a hardship because I love the song).

Bucky Barnes Masterlist | Main Masterlist

Pairing: Huntman!Bucky Barnes x Princess!Reader

Other characters: Steve Rogers

Summary: Your evil stepmother, the queen, has decided to do away with you, so she enlists the Huntsman to complete the task. It turns out the Huntsman is none other than your friend, Jamie Barnes. The real question is if he's going to go through with her command or find some way to save you.

Word Count: ~1330

Warnings: threat of death/violence (not by Bucky); bound character; impending death of character (Reader); twist ending; nothing too graphic but implied; lmk if I missed anything

A/N: I'm not saying I could be talked into making this a full-fledged fic, but I could absolutely make this into a full-fledged fic if there's enough interest. It's definitely a bit outside what I usually write, but I think that's why it definitely fascinates me to keep going and build this world up.

A/N2: Bucky goes by Jamie in this story, but it is Bucky.

I do not give permission to have my works copied, translated, reposted, or fed into an AI machine.

****

It shouldn't have happened like this.

You should be back in your castle, in your old room, where you're loved and cherished by your father and mother. You should be happily trying to get out of your lessons while finding solace in your many hobbies. It hadn't been like your mother and father hadn't doted on you.

It'd all gone so wrong, so fast.

One minute, you had a happy family and a happy kingdom.

The next, your mother was gone.

Your father remarried mere months later.

Your new stepmother turned out to be a real witch, complete with magical powers. She'd used them to banish your father to some place unknown. She'd stripped you of your title and tossed you into the servants' quarters where you were expected to earn your keep. She'd transformed your happy kingdom into a sad and dreary one as she hoarded all its beauty and wealth for herself, leaving none for your people.

When you thought she couldn't do worse, she did.

You found yourself staring into the soulless eyes of one of your oldest and truest friends. A boy now turned into a young man. One that has seen war beyond his years and bore the scars of countless battles. His dark hair hung almost to his shoulders, situated just so one couldn't make out more than shadows across his features.

So transformed himself, you almost didn't recognize him.

Huntsman.

That's what he called himself.

He'd bound your hands tight with rough rope before yanking you off your tiny cot. His steps dragged you from the palace and paraded through all those that served you and with you over the years. Your soft pleas to stop went unheard as he kept going even as you stumbled and tripped behind him. Your shame and confusion not once helping with the matter at hand.

"Why are you doing this, Jamie?" you practically shouted once he'd taken you beyond the castle's gates. "Please, you're my friend. Do you hate me this much? My family?"

Icy blue eyes slammed into yours. His hands jerked at the rope until you stumbled right into him. He didn't let you fall though, grabbing you around the shoulders. Leaning in until your faces were mere centimeters apart, his voice, raspy from prolonged disuse, dripped with desperation, trembling with a shaky breath, "I have no choice, princess. The queen has given me no choice."

His answer rendered you speechless for all of two seconds, snapping back, "We all have a choice."

"Not this time," he said, shaking his head and turning his back to you once more. His hand tugged at the short rope and dragged you onward.

You'd lost track of how long you'd been forced to walk. The sun had been high in the sky when he'd first pulled you out of your room with your hands bound. Now, the sun had started its slow descent at the horizon, the bottom already dipping out of sight. The castle, once so majestic with the sun highlighting it, had disappeared from your sight as you traversed the uneven stones and dirt beneath your feet. The same feet that had begun to ache in such a way that you were certain you'd have blisters from the too-tight and overly worn slippers that adorned them.

It wasn't until the sun had dipped completely, leaving only the softest rays to highlight the area, that this Huntsman, your once-sweet Jamie, halted his steps. His gaze surveyed your surroundings with a keenness that had you scooting closer for fear that something dangerous lurked nearby, waiting to attack at its earliest convenience.

You jolted when a low hum escaped him. The noise so unlike any of the grunts and puffed breaths he'd let loose during your long trek. It took you a moment to realize it was a pleased sound.

Glancing around his broad shoulders, you soon discovered why.

A small band of men blocked your further passage along the roadway. They each had a bearing about them that didn't exactly spell comfort in your opinion, but their presence seemed to settle something within your captor. His shoulders relaxed and his breathing smoothed out.

"Thought you'd be late," he said, his voice gruff as he acknowledged the group. "You get everything I told you to?"

The man in the middle stepped forward, giving you the first real glimpse of him.

It took everything in you not to gasp at the man's appearance, so unlike the way he'd looked the last you'd seen him. The possibility of such a transformation should've been impossible, but then so should an evil queen capable of magic.

"Took us a bit, but yeah, we got it," Steve said, his gaze moving towards you. A grin spread across his face upon seeing what had to be a surprised expression on yours. "Ah, wondered if you'd recognize me, princess. Glad to see you haven't forgotten."

"I've never forgotten a single person in my kingdom," you huffed with an indignant tone. "I'm my father's daughter after all."

Steve's smile softened as he regarded you, nodding. "That you are, princess. Silly of me to have forgotten that."

Silence descended briefly between you all.

In that time, Jamie turned toward you, pulling out a large knife. One quick, efficient strike had your bindings falling away. His gaze met yours through his long strands before he shifted to meet Steve's own curious gaze. "Keep her safe. Take her far away from here. The queen must never know what's happened or it'll be all our lives. You understand that, punk?"

"Yeah, I got it." Steve nodded. "We'll take her and keep her safe, jerk."

Apparently satisfied, Jamie allowed himself a final glance in your direction, murmuring, "Take care of yourself, princess."

"Wait," you said, reaching out and grabbing hold of his jacket, "you're not going back there? Please, Jamie, I just got you back."

The corner of his lip curved upward for a mere second before his face turned almost stone-like again.

A sob threatened to rip out of you as you demanded, "At least tell me we'll see each other again. I can't let you go back without that promise."

His stony countenance cracked the smallest bit, a shaky breath working its way out of him. His face twisted as though he'd tasted something bitter as he promised, "We'll see each other again."

The lie rested between you, but that lie gave you some hope that it could become a truth. You would cling to that lie as long as you could. As long as you didn't have proof that something had happened to him. It would be a lie that would lead to your mission to retake everything the evil queen, your stepmother, had taken from you. It would be the lie that liberated your people and restored you to your rightful place, not as princess but as queen.

*****

James Barnes watched from the shadows as you left with Steve and his small band of men.

He'd done exactly as he'd promised he'd do for your father all those years ago. He'd kept you safe from the clutches of your evil stepmother, and he'd keep doing it as long as he drew breath.

With you safely tucked away, he made quick work of the poor creature needed to complete his subterfuge. If his mind kept traveling back to you and how beautiful you'd grown, he couldn't help it. His hands had long since memorized the movements necessary to carry out his work while his mind wandered.

It took mere moments before he filled the sack with the remnants he needed, hefting it over his shoulder and trudging back the way he had come.

Maybe, just maybe, he'd get the chance to see you again.

Of all the lies he's told over the years, this was the one he really wanted to turn into a truth. He wanted to be by your side as you reclaimed everything you deserved and more.

[nokk0]

Doodles in college

[babybells123]

(ASOS, Sansa II)

(ASOS, Jon XII)

[pretty-face-breaker]

it's snowing where i live and i'm imagining early NaH days hayko getting snowed in with nick, no way to get away from him and long before he learned to be 'comfortable' with it..

Snowed In

Two months in their relationship, Hayko gets evicted. Nick is happy to extend a helping hand.

cw. coercion, intimidation, referenced captivity, implied future torture, creepy whumper, dependent whumpee, damn it Nick

—

It was freezing in Chicago with the kind of chill that clung to the window edges.

Hayko hadn’t slept or stopped moving. Coffee ran like battery acid through his system—third cup of the day and his hands were finally trembling. 

Half of his clothes were on the floor. The other half were in a trash bag. Lease papers scattered across the coffee table, beside an unmarked folder containing one of Don Miguel’s files, which still felt like a bad dream he’d conjured during a fever in the hospital, recovering from Nick.

He sat cross-legged on the floor in thermal socks, scanning apartment listings with dull, anxious eyes. Places that were miles out of his budget. Listings that read like jokes: “charming loft with urban appeal”—which meant no heating. “Basement unit with character”—which meant mold and a leak. “Studio with shared kitchen”—kill me.

His eyes burned. He’d known the eviction deadline a month ago but let it loom over him like an execution date, too bruised and tired to have done anything about it. Four days left. His landlord, a bloated chain-smoker named Travis, had been gleeful when he told him the lease wouldn’t be renewed, claiming the building needed “renovations.” Then put it back on the market, marked up $700 for the next guy.

Hayko closed the tab. Opened it again. Hit refresh.

A knock. He froze.

No one was supposed to come by and he hadn’t even ordered food.

He looked around at the chaos and cursed under his breath, already standing. The floorboards groaned under his heels. The apartment looked like a crime scene, or maybe just the scene of someone falling apart quietly, one sock at a time.

He opened the door.

Nick stood there, neatly coated up, hair styled back, with stylish black gloves. His smile and silver hoop glinted against the dull hallway light.

“Why is it that you look so tragic anytime I see you?”

Hayko swallowed.

“We don’t—uh—we don’t have a meeting scheduled until Thursday,” he said, voice cracking with the tail end of sleep deprivation. “I haven’t looked at the files yet. I was going to—”

Nick pushed past him with an easy, one-handed nudge.

“Relax. I’m not here for work.”

Hayko hesitated at the threshold before shutting the door. He turned to find Nick standing in the middle of the room, surveying the chaos with an expression that was somewhere between amusement and suspicion.

“Just here to see you,” Nick added, glancing around. “Jesus. You’re not actually trying to flee the country.”

Hayko tensed, realizing how reasonable the interpretation seemed.

Nick cackled. “Let me guess. Witness protection?” he mused, half-serious. “I really wouldn’t recommend it. The guys who’d come after you don’t give a shit what name’s on your mailbox.”

Hayko shook his head once and flatly corrected him.

“I’m getting evicted.”

Nick blinked. Visibly recalibrating.

“Ah. Huh.”

He rocked back on his heels, still scanning the room and picking up details. Boxes. Open drawers. Mismatched socks balled in a laundry basket. Mug-stains on the carpet.

“Shame,” he said, almost pleasantly. “Best of luck finding a place in January. Chicago real estate’s a bloody dream.”

Hayko’s arms crossed. He’d started to sweat under his hoodie from stress alone.

“What do you want?”

Nick was quiet for a second. And though he was still looking, it wasn’t at the apartment anymore—but at Hayko. Something was turning over behind his eyes. Suddenly, his smile deepened, spreading like a lit fuse across his face. 

—

Nick dropped one of the boxes a little too hard on the floor, and Hayko winced—and swallowed down the urge to snap about being careful with his damn dishes. 

He stood there and watched, wrists tense at his sides, as Nick’s shoes scuffed the polished marble and another box settled with a quiet thump.

He turned back to look at the corner where the rest of his things—shoved into his designated corner of Nick’s house. House being a generous word for it. A minimalist cathedral to bad taste and blood money. Stone countertops and designer furniture with zero warmth. That kind of eerie, showroom quality of people who decorate around themselves instead of for themselves.

Everything about it made Hayko feel like he was an ugly stain about to be scrubbed out of place.

He hadn’t even said yes at first.

He’d denied it outright when Nick offered—then tried to negotiate his way out of it: Just a few days. A hotel. Somewhere temporary. I’ll figure it out. But Nick had been relentless and asked, in that noxiously even tone, where else Hayko was planning on going in the middle of a Chicago winter? Did he expect to live out of his car and prep briefs on a laundromat table?

The thought of being seen breaking down in front of Nick again made his stomach twist. There was a kind of dignity he’d managed to cling to, in fragments. The illusion of private pain. He couldn’t stomach losing that, too. And yet, when Nick reminded him again that he still hadn’t found a place and was likely to be sleeping under a bridge by Friday, Hayko’s silence was all the agreement Nick needed.

Truthfully—even if it had been a real choice, even if Nick hadn’t slowly, tactically backed him into a corner until his rejections got smaller and smaller, until he was practically pressed up against the doorframe with Nick between him and the cold—he still would’ve caved.

He could barely last an hour outside in that coat. A week would’ve eaten him alive.

In some variant of generosity, Nick had called a moving truck and paid for it. Supervised the drop-off like a concierge, carrying in a few of the lighter boxes before disappearing again, leaving Hayko to deal with the bulk of it. 

Now, he trailed behind Nick like some weary tenant as Nick took him on a tour.

Nick nodded to the kitchen. “I cook but you’re welcome to, as well.” 

Then to the living room, complete with chandelier and a gas fireplace so pristine it looked like it had never been touched. Genuinely the least eclectic place he’d ever seen.

“That’s your room.” A nod down the hall. “Guest room’s next to it.”

And then—

The door.

Plain. White. Nothing ornate. But the handle was matte black and the lock was clearly, intentionally industrial. A bolt secured from the outside. Nick passed it with barely a flicker of attention.

Hayko didn’t ask.

“That’s the tour,” Nick said lightly. “Day’s yours.”

Outside, it had started to really come down, snow falling in heavy flurries and curling against the windows like ash. Nick wandered off and came back with a pot of tea, and before Hayko knew it, he was sitting cross-legged on a thick rug by the fireplace, a hot cup of something spiced in his hands. The heat radiated into his palms, through his throat, into his chest, relaxing him into his new environment, against his better judgement.

The fire flickered off the surface of the tea like molten gold. Hayko stared into it, long enough to forget himself, just for a second.

Then quietly: “Why are you helping me?”

Nick looked over, sipping his tea.

“You’re a smart cookie. You’ll figure it out.”

Hayko’s jaw tensed. He stared down into his cup. He was starting to sweat.

“I mean—besides the obvious. You need me functional. And I’m guessing I’m not paying rent.”

He looked up, expression flat. “But I’m not dumb enough to think that means it’s free.”

Nick grinned, shark-like and pleased.

“Couldn’t be more right.”

He sipped again.

“But if I tell you how you’re going to be paying me, it’d ruin the surprise.”

And just like that, Hayko felt the warmth turn to nausea.

Because now—without the pressure of deadlines or caffeine shakes—he could see it clearly. The slow tightening of the noose. It wasn’t a rescue. It was strategic intimacy. Nick had maneuvered him into the most intimate proximity possible. 

Hayko’s eyes flicked past Nick, to a cabinet in the corner.

There, mounted on polished wood, was a decorative knife rack. Carved handles. Beautiful, expensive. The blades caught the firelight like they were alive.

His heart clenched.

He thought again of the locked room.

The deadbolt.

There would be no privacy here. No dignity. No nights to himself to fall apart in peace. No safety in solitude. He’d been conned into trading one kind of cold for another.

Nick hadn’t carved his initials into Hayko’s shoulder just to forget about him.

The look must’ve passed over his face—too fast to catch, but not fast enough to hide. Because when he glanced back at Nick, Nick was already watching him, his smile dripping with faux-sympathy. A fox corralling a rabbit that had been too busy warming its burrow.

The light from the fire made Nick’s eyes glow orange. He looked lit from within, almost demonic. 

Hungry.

"Really coming down out there, isn't it?" Nick drawled, breaking Hayko's freshly terrified silence. "You might even have to spend a few days in."

—

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