#AND THEN HEEEE DID THE HAND GUN THING!!! holding his hand in a gun shape bc he didnt have his actual gun

[orcelito]

my wolfwood lover credentials: he made me cry 5 times & accidentally summersault off my couch

my vash lover credentials: i got so emotional about him while drunk that i kept going on about how he looks so dunkable in oil as an expression of endearment (bc he's lanky like a fry & also his hair looks like fries) and then i edited ugly turtles behind him to have as my icon for a day

yeah

[tiredandtoothless]

👀

Your turn.

heeee ok i’m up!

this is from a modern AU (bc i apparently only write AUs lol) one shot that i’ve been tinkering with off-and-on since like... july. basically, the premise is that sansa and jon send JB to go find arya after they get sansa to the wall, but jaime bows out at the last second. it’s a lot of brienne pining for jaime and feeling abandoned, as well as a lot of brienne and arya getting to know and learning to trust each other.

essentially, it’s an aged up brienne & arya road trip fic with a heaping serving of JB pining. because i guess i just love a good ol’ road trip fic? i definitely plan on finishing it eventually, but it’ll probably have to wait until a few other things wrap up.

this bit is pulled from the end of the first act. brienne’s in braavos and has just come back to her hotel room to find an unexpected visitor. warning for a LOT of monologuing ahead lmao

“There’s this woman who runs the kitchen where I live. She’s a good woman. Stern face, a bit crotchety, but a kind heart when it comes down to it. She’s old, this woman. She was old as sin when I met her and that was, what? Four? Five years ago? And she’s only gotten older since. Funny how that works, yeah? People growing older all the time. Used to be, anyway. The older I get, the more I find that things I took as absolutes—you know, aging and death and justice and the setting sun... taxes. Things like that. Not so simple anymore, are they? That’s what I like about this woman, though: she’s simple. She bakes the bread, simmers the stew, tells me to scrub this pot and then that one, and she gets older. The way we’re supposed to. Well, a couple of weeks ago she fell, the poor thing. Slipped on some beet greens and wham!”

The green-haired woman slaps an open hand, the one not pointing a gun at Brienne’s guts, against her thigh. “Just like that. Bruised her hip something awful, poor love. Nothing broken, though. Small mercy, that. She’d be completely out of commission if it had broken, and her apprentice is useless. Has no idea how to knead a decent loaf of bread. Like he’s afraid to hurt the dough, you know? He’s soft. Takes a certain brutality to knead the dough. That’s the only way you get it right.

“So, the woman, she says to me—to me, not the apprentice, because, like I said, he’s useless—she says, go down to the market and pick up the day’s catch from Beqqo—that’s the fella we get our fish from. No problem for me. I was happy to do it, actually, because I’ve got friends all over: in the markets and at every harbor. In the pillow houses and inns. Even got a few courtesans who’ll buy me a pint from time to time. It’d been a while since I had a chance to pop round and say hello to my friends.

“I get to Beqqo’s stall. I sign for the catch. He offers to fix up a few oysters for me. For the road, yeah? I tell him, thanks, Beqqo, you’re a catch and a half. Bit of fishmonger humor goes far with him. Funniest thing, he’s just about to hit the oysters with his special hot sauce when he stops. Just… freezes, really. And he looks at me, and he says, all cryptic-like, a woman’s come round here looking for a girl with a long face and grey eyes. That caught my attention. I ask him about to woman who’s been looking for a girl with a long face and grey eyes.”

She hops down from the table, feet landing silently on the cold stone floor. She keeps the basket to her back, protective, and the gun pointed in Brienne’s direction. Her finger rests steadily against the trigger guard.

“Big woman, Beqqo says, blond hair and eyes blue like the summer sky. Westerosi to be sure. Says the girl’s her niece. He tells me he’s seen the photo. He tells me the girl in the photo, she’s standing next to another girl with auburn hair. So, I start thinking to myself… it sounds like someone out there’s looking for Arya Stark.” The woman arches one green brow. “But how could that be? Everyone who ever cared about Arya Stark is dead.”

The green-haired woman pauses, gives Brienne the opportunity to confirm or deny her suspicions. Brienne says nothing. Grounds herself to the feeling of her fingers wrapped firmly around the hilt of her dagger. The green-haired woman’s eyes flicker to the dagger, and when she looks back at Brienne’s face, her expression is almost amused: go on, you big lug, try it.

“So I thank Beqqo and I head back home. Give the catch over to the woman’s apprentice. Finish up a few things here and there. And then I go back into town. Five friends I visited. First four all told me the same thing. Big blond woman with big blue eyes like the sky—did you know people around here call you the Sapphire Warrior? You’re something of a folk hero in the slums.

“I visit friend number five and I hit my luck. He has a picture on his phone. Well, a picture of a picture. The one you’ve been showing anyone who’ll look. Lo and behold, there’s little Arya Stark glaring right at me. It’s true, I realize! Arya Stark’s big blond aunt is looking for her.” She steps closer, adjusts her grip on her gun. Brienne’s heart rate picks up.

“Funny thing is,” the green-haired woman says, “Arya Stark doesn’t have an aunt. Not a living one, anyway. Not last I checked. Certainly not a blond aunt. Certainly not one with eyes like the sky and a big, scary gun she calls Oathkeeper.”

She smiles then, and nothing about it is friendly. “So, who are you? What do you want with Arya Stark?”

The gun is even closer now. Far too close. Brienne can smell the salt on her skin, intermingling with the scent of freshly baked bread.

There’s no way the green-haired woman could miss from this range. And the basket—something is wriggling in the thrice-damned basket. She wants to ask about it, but the answer would probably be a hunk of lead in one of her vital organs.

Brienne’s head swims. The woman in front of her has a soft, heart-shaped face. It’s hard to know for sure in the dim light, but Brienne would bet money that the woman’s eyes are honey brown. She’s certainly not Arya Stark. None of this makes sense. She shifts on her feet and chokes on the silence.

“I asked you a question, Sapphire Warrior. Two, in fact,” the green-haired woman says, and tilts her head as she briefly holds up two fingers.  

When Brienne scolds herself, it’s Jaime’s voice she hears in her mind. Why isn’t the gun strapped to your hip at all times? Why are you staying in this dump in the first place? I gave you enough money for someplace nicer. A small kingdom’s GDP, you said; an embarrassment of riches, you said. Why can’t I leave you alone for more than five minutes? Are you slow? Did you hit your head? Big, dumb, obstinate cow. Do you have a death wish?