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kemetic-dreams · 27 days ago

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A History of the Wench

How a medieval word meaning "servant" or "child" evolved to become a racist slur

n 2010, Dolen Perkins-Valdez published the best-selling historical fiction novel Wench. According to the back cover, the novel’s setting is “an idyllic retreat for Southern white men who vacation there every summer with their enslaved black mistresses.” The book’s front matter includes a quotation from 1836 about a slave owner who “especially prided himself upon owning the swiftest horse, the handsomest wench, and the finest pack of hounds in all Virginia.”

This title caught my eye for a few reasons. First, the story has particular personal resonance for me: My great-great-great grandmother was an enslaved cook on a plantation in east Texas. Her master, who owned the plantation, raped her. She gave birth to my great-great grandmother as a result. I do not know my great-great-great-grandmother’s name, but I think about her, sometimes, when I’m making dinner.

What was this Middle English term doing in a novel about the sexual exploitation of enslaved black women?

But second, I am a medieval scholar who was, at the time, in the midst of researching the term wench’s sexualized associations in the Middle Ages. What was this Middle English term, “wench,” doing in a novel about the widespread sexual exploitation of enslaved black women in the United States?

As it turns out, the term’s medieval history paved the way for its later use as a gendered racial slur, evolving from a relatively neutral term designating youth or servitude to one signifying femininity, then transgressive feminine sexuality, and finally black feminine sexuality. This long history enabled “wench” to become a tool for dehumanizing black women, insisting on their sexual availability to white men, and facilitating their exploitation.

“Wench” has its earliest roots in the Old and early Middle English “wenc(h)el,” which designated a servant or slave of any gender, or a child. (A text from around 1200 refers to “An wennchell thatt iss iesu crist,” a child that is Jesus Christ.) In 890, the Old English noun “wencel” translates the Latin “mancipium,” which means “possession, property, servant, slave.” Wencel is a term designating subordinate status and a lack of power, but during this time period, that disempowered status was tied to youth and servitude rather than femininity or sexuality.

This changed in the later Middle Ages as “wench” became both gendered and sexualized. It signified (per the Middle English Dictionary), “a girl” or “young woman;–occasionally with disparaging overtones,” “a serving maid, bondwoman,” and “a concubine, paramour, mistress; a strumpet, harlot.” This multivalence, with its underlying connotations of youth, femininity, lower social status, servitude, and sexual transgression, invokes multiple grounds of disadvantage. The “wenche” is subservient to higher-ranked women—“ladies”—as well as to all men, and she is marked by the stain of illicit sexuality. The Book of Vices and Virtues, a comprehensive guide to recognizing the seven deadly sins, forbids complaining by “wenches ayens here ladies” [wenches against their ladies], setting up a relationship of inequality and subservience between “wenches” and “ladies.” When her jealous husband suspects her of adultery, the character May in Geoffrey Chaucer’s Merchant’s Tale insists, “I am a gentil womman and no wenche.” She sets up a stark class differential between the “gentil womman” on one hand and the “wenche” on the other, portraying the latter term as derogatory and linking it to sexual transgression. According to May, only “wenches” cheat on their husbands. William Langland’s Piers Plowman mentions “wenches of the stewes” [whores from the brothels] at multiple points. Bible translator John Wyclif uses “wenche” derisively six times, in addition to “strumpet” and “yong strumpet,” to name the dancing Salome in a sermon about the beheading of John the Baptist, setting up “wenche” and “strumpet” as synonyms. The female speaker of an erotic song recalls her early sexual experiences “when I was a wanton wench / Of twelve yere of age,” underscoring the term’s popular links to wantonness. Finally, in King Ponthus and the Fair Sidone, Guenelet uses the term after becoming angry when Sidone rejects his advances: “he thretened her sore and swore that he sholde take her by force and make her his wenche yf she wolde not be his wyfe.” Here, “wenche” functions in opposition to “wyfe” and is part of Guenelot’s threat to overpower and rape Sidone “by force.”

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The implications of “wench” are most chilling in Chaucer’s Reeve’s Tale, which tells the story of two Cambridge students who spend the night at a miller’s house after the miller steals some of their grain. The miller has a 20-year-old daughter named Malyne. The tale introduces Malyne as a “wenche,” following the term with a sexualized description of her body: “This wenche thikke and wel ygrowen was…With buttokes brode and brestes rounde and hye” [This wench was thick and well-developed…With broad buttocks and round, high breasts]. Here the term “wenche” invites us to leer at Malyne, focusing on the shape of her buttocks and breasts. It guides audiences to view her as a gendered, lower-status, dehumanized body created as an object for others’ gratification. That night, the miller’s family and the two students enjoy a boozy dinner. The miller, his wife, and Malyne pass out afterward, and their drunken snoring keeps the students awake. “The wenche rowteth eek” [The wench snores too], we are told, the term here serving to emphasize Malyne’s unladylike snoring as well as the intoxication that causes it. As the two students lie awake in bed fuming over the miller’s theft of their grain, Aleyn crudely declares to John, “yon wenche wil I swyve” [I will fuck that wench]. Here, the term works to dehumanize Malyne and to position her as an acceptable target for assault. Finally, “wenche” is used two times in two lines to name Malyne just before Aleyn rapes her: “And up he rist, and by the wenche he crepte. / This wenche lay uprighte and faste slepte” [And up he rose, and by the wench he crept. / This wench lay flat on her back and fast slept.] By naming Malyne as “wenche” in these moments just before her rape, the text discourages empathy for her plight and sets her up as both naturally subordinate and as sexually available, the term working both to mark her as exploitable and to downplay her rape. In the Reeve’s Tale, the term “wenche” illustrates how Malyne is vulnerable to the students’ predatory actions due to her social status, gender, and age, while its sexual associations are insidiously marshaled to make her seem as though she is “asking for it,” to allow her rape to be read as not-rape.

The fact that the term already designated age, gender, subordinate social status, and sexual availability meant that it was ready-made for race to be mapped onto those other inequalities.

Three centuries later, the term “wench” proliferated in newspapers on the other side of the Atlantic. By now, in addition to connoting gender, social status, sexual availability, and age, it had become racialized to designate an enslaved black woman. In 1828, Noah Webster’s American Dictionary of the English Language defined “wench” as “In America, a black or colored female servant; a negress.” John Russell Bartlett’s 1848 Dictionary of Americanisms contains the entry, “WENCH. In the United States, this word is only applied to black females.” The fact that the term already designated age, gender, subordinate social status, and sexual availability meant that it was ready-made for race to be mapped onto those other inequalities so that it could function as a pejorative term for black women that disparaged them and advertised their sexual availability to white men. Once again, the term’s derogatory connotations work to overshadow the very real and constant violence that black women suffered as a result of their intersecting disadvantages. When a woman is called a wench, we are prepped by centuries of connotation to see her as something intended for sexual use.

The phrase “Negro wench” appears repeatedly in slave advertisements and runaway slave reward posters from the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. A 1735 issue of the Pennsylvania Gazette advertised “A likely young Negro Wench, who is a good Cook and can wash well, to be disposed of,” while a 1749 issue proclaimed, “To be SOLD, TO be sold cheap, a very likely young Negro wench, about 18 years of age: Also fine Palm oyl, by the half dozen pound, or lesser quantity.” This linking of the “cheap…Negro wench” with the “fine Palm oyl” emphasizes her status as a commodity to be sold. In these advertisements, the adjective “likely” means “good-looking” or “attractive” as well as “capable, vigorous, strong,” and almost always appears alongside “wench” as a rhetorical convention. In 1766, Pennsylvania botanist and explorer John Bartram wrote in a letter, “I have sent thee six likely young negroes amongst which is two young breeding wenches.” Bartram emphasizes the enslaved women’s age, race, gender, and sexuality, using the term “wench” to dehumanize them as reproductive commodities. In an interview about Wench, Dolen Perkins-Valdez discussed her choice to use the term as her novel’s title: “I felt that given the sexual servitude of my female characters, this word would most accurately evoke the set of cultural expectations they were tangled within,” she said. The novel features a reward poster for a runaway enslaved woman stating, “$100 REWARD for NI**ER WENCH.” This echoes historical posters such as the 1810 one proclaiming, “Runaway Wench. Absconded from Georgetown, Columbia…a mulatto wench named Lottie.”

In 1913, Julian Shakespeare Carr—a wealthy North Carolina white supremacist, Confederate war veteran, and outspoken Ku Klux Klan supporter who once referred to a massacre of 60 black citizens in Wilmington as “a grand and glorious event”—dedicated the Confederate soldier monument statue known as “Silent Sam” on the University of North Carolina-Chapel Hill’s campus. In his dedication speech, Carr shared a personal anecdote. He said,

One hundred yards from where we stand, less than ninety days perhaps after my return from Appomattox, I horse-whipped a negro wench until her skirts hung in shreds, because upon the streets of this quiet village she had publicly insulted and maligned a Southern lady, and then rushed for protection to these University buildings where was stationed a garrison of 100 Federal soldiers. I performed the pleasing duty in the immediate presence of the entire garrison…

Carr brags of brutally whipping a black woman seeking protection, calling his violent act a “pleasing duty” that he performs publicly for a group of one hundred men. Here, as in medieval texts, the “negro wench” is deliberately contrasted with the “Southern lady,” setting up a stark status differential. He uses the term “wench” to racialize and dehumanize the woman whom he attacks and to downplay his violence against her, illuminating the term’s cultural currency.

On February 12 of this year, antiracist activists in Chapel Hill erected a plaque dedicated to the woman. It read, “In honor of the Negro Wench. She ran to this University for safety and, for the color of her skin, was beaten at its gates. We fight in her name.” Three days later, the plaque was stolen. A video celebrating the theft was posted to Confederate 901’s Facebook page, titled “Antifa lost their first monument at Chapel Hill.” The plaque was reinstated on February 20, then broken and partially stolen before its pedestal and remaining portion were removed by town officials two days later due to “public safety concerns.”

When I did a Google image search looking for newspaper advertisements featuring the phrase “Negro wench,” something else came up as well. It was a still from a porn video someone had posted to YouTube, titled “Negro bed wench.” In the still, a naked white man is positioned behind a young black woman on a bed. With one hand, he holds her hair tightly. With the other, he digs his fingers into her mouth and pulls out her lips and cheeks. Her eyes are wide, her mouth yanked into a painful-looking grimace. Like Malyne’s rape in Chaucer’s Reeve’s Tale, this scene of racialized sexual violence illuminates how “wench” can operate: by bundling together different kinds of disempowerment and rendering its object always already sexually available, the term simultaneously makes “wenches” more vulnerable to violence and glosses over that violence by portraying them as “asking for it.”

The video’s title is also the name of a popular pornographic trope in which sexual violence by white men against black women is racialized and eroticized. It is meant to arouse desire, to get people off. In her study of black women in pornography, Mirielle Miller-Young analyzes how black women performers in early pornographic stag films from the 1930s, 40s, and 50s “often played sexually passive domestic servants in interracial encounters with white men.” She notes that “coercive sex, and the woman’s performed resistance, is part of the fantasy” that this trope entails.

The medieval paved the way for the later dehumanization and exploitation of black women.

It is imperative to understand this term’s medieval English and American racialized histories in order to grasp how the medieval, in this case, paved the way for the later dehumanization and exploitation of black women. The term initially designated age and social status in the early Middle Ages, then became gendered and sexualized in the later Middle Ages, functioning as a term of intersectional disadvantage. Once the Atlantic slave trade commenced, race was able to be seamlessly mapped onto “wench”’s web of preexisting associations with inequalities—gender, class, age, sexual availability—so that it came to signify a young enslaved black woman, its medieval pejorative sexual connotations enabling the “wench” to be viewed as hypersexualized and accessible to white men.

This is one of the many reasons why the medieval matters. It is the Middle Age’s derogatory linguistic freight that allowed this term to become a tool of misogynoir, a term coined by Moya Bailey and Trudy to name “the ways that anti-Blackness and misogyny combine to malign Black women in our world.” We are still reckoning with these attitudes today, as illustrated by the 6-part Lifetime documentary Surviving R. Kelly, which aired in January and detailed R&B singer R. Kelly’s decades-long sexual exploitation of black girls. This documentary starkly illustrated how our culture’s long history of viewing young, economically disadvantaged women as sexually available—specifically narrowing to black women in the eighteenth century—has devastating effects on those women. It just as clearly illuminated how our culture’s linking of these qualities together allows violence and abuse to go unrecognized and unaddressed. As writer Mikki Kendall states near the end of the documentary, “We still, socially, don’t perceive black women as innocent.” The history of the term “wench” can show us how those attitudes developed. And it is my hope that, armed with the knowledge of how those attitudes accrued and calcified until we took them for granted, we can begin to chisel away at them.

About the Author

Carissa Harris teaches medieval literature at Temple University and is the author of Obscene Pedagogies: Transgressive Talk and Sexual Education in Late Medieval Britain (2018). Her writing about medieval impotence trials (yes, you read that correctly), histories of intoxication and consent, abortion, and rape culture has appeared in a range of outlets including the Washington Post, Slate, avidly, Narratively, Vox, Aeon, and Electric Literature.

#kemetic dreams #wench

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hotilhotil · 9 months ago

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Israel, a land filled

<a href="https://www.sexfire1.com/%d7%a0%d7%a2%d7%a8%d7%95%d7%aa-%d7%9c%d7%99%d7%95%d7%95%d7%99/" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">נערות ליווי</a> Israel, a land filled with ancient historical sites, bustling cities, and stunning natural landscapes, is also home to a unique aspect of its culture – escort girls. While the term may conjure up different connotations for different people, the reality of escort girls in Israel is far from what Hollywood may portray. Escort girls in Israel are professional women who offer companionship, conversation, and even physical intimacy to their clients. They are not to be confused with prostitutes, as their services do not solely revolve around the act of sex. These women are independent, intelligent, and often multilingual, providing their clients with a meaningful and memorable experience. Many may question the legality of such services in a country that is deeply rooted in religious and conservative beliefs. However, the escort industry is perfectly legal in Israel, with strict regulations in place to ensure the safety and rights of both the escort girls and their clients. One of the main reasons for the popularity of escort services in Israel is the booming tourism industry. As a country known for its vibrant nightlife and party scene, there is a constant influx of visitors from all around the world. These visitors, especially those traveling solo, often seek the company of an escort girl to explore the city and its surroundings, attend events, or simply have a good time. But it’s not just tourists who avail the services of escort girls; many locals also turn to them for companionship and entertainment. With the fast-paced lifestyle in Israel, many professionals and executives do not have the time or energy for traditional dating. Escort girls provide them with a hassle-free and discreet way to unwind and fulfill their desires. Aside from the obvious benefits of companionship and intimacy, escort girls in Israel also offer a unique cultural experience. As a country that is home to people from diverse backgrounds and nationalities, these women are a reflection of that diversity. Clients have the opportunity to interact with women who hail from different countries, speak various languages, and have a fascinating mix of cultures and traditions. Furthermore, escort services in Israel are not limited to men; there is a growing demand for male escorts as well. Women, whether traveling solo or with a group, can also enjoy the company of a male escort for various reasons. It could be for a social event, a romantic dinner, or simply to explore the country with a friendly and knowledgeable guide. While the escort industry in Israel may still carry a stigma, it is important to understand that these women are professionals providing a legitimate service. They are not forced into the industry, and their work is a personal choice. In fact, many escort girls in Israel are highly educated and hold degrees in various fields. In conclusion, escort girls in Israel are not just about providing physical pleasures; they offer a unique and fulfilling experience for both locals and tourists. With their professional and discreet services, they add a different dimension to the tourism and social scene in Israel. So, if you ever find yourself in this beautiful country, don’t shy away from exploring this aspect of its culture. You might just be pleasantly surprised.

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perpetuelledaydreaming · 2 years ago

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Are we still friends? | chapter two

summary: honestly, everyone's getting on y/n's nerves. She gives a little lesson to mav and Rooster's blood pressure can't handle her.

warnings: dangerous maneuvers?

listen to: satellite - harry syles (playlist here)

word count: 2k

series masterlist + read the next chapter early on mi ko-fi!!!

Mav was staying at the base while the mission passed, therefore, he’d insisted you had dinner at a nice restaurant and although you were still a bit apprehensive that you might run into a pilot or a person from the base, you’d still accepted the invite anyway.

“Lovely to see you finally without the suit,” Mav said softly as he wrapped his arms around you. You haven’t seen your father in a while, three months in Asia and before that, your father had been completely immersing in a project named MC 10, a new jet.

Yes, you called each other every week but it wasn’t the same as seeing each other. Mav was the only parent you had left and he adored you.

“Same dad,” you answered as you hugged him and then pulled away turning to Bradley who nodded at Mav before Mav patted him on the shoulder.

Mav’s and Rooster’s relationship was complicated. Mav was like a father to Rooster after Goose had passed away but when Mav pulled his papers from the academy, it broke Rooster’s heart. It provoked a rift in their relationship that you weren’t quite sure how to handle, it got even worse after Carol passed away, but you’d forced them into dealing with it after a couple of years had passed.

It was never the same but you knew they cared for the other, especially now that Mav was Rooster’s only family that he had left.

“Bradley,” Mav stated.

“Mav,” Rooster replied, with a nod as he patted him back.

The dinner went along without any hiccups at first. Usually, dinners like this weren’t really formal, your dad liked to make it feel as if it was a family reunion, like when he and Goose would go out to places and Goose would someway and somehow run into a piano. The lives that you’d chosen for yourselves were chaotic but at least you always knew that you could count on your father, always.

Even if he was getting on your last nerve in the training like he’d been doing for the last couple of days.

“How was Hawaii?” Mav asked Rooster, who’d been on deployment for about a month.

“It was great,” Rooster nodded as he took a sip of the wine that you’d chosen that night.

Mav laughed. “I bet,” he said with a smirk and you couldn’t help but frown at the connotation of Mav’s smirk. You knew that he’d met quite the number of girls when he was younger in Hawaii and the thought of Rooster doing the same thing made your stomach twist in a painful manner.

“Y/N,” Mav then stated more seriously, snapping your attention back. “I wanted to talk to you about something,” he said.

“Oh no,” you stated with widened eyes. Maverick had a thing and that was that he wasn’t always that serious. Growing up you believed it was an advantage that he had a more carefree attitude, mostly it was because he trusted you to do the right thing, which wasn’t always the case. Then, when you fucked up, you saw the more serious side of your father, one you’d come to read the second the switch turned on.

“They told me you shot down an enemy jet. You have to be more careful,” he stated as he raised an eyebrow at you.

“Careful?”

“I’m not saying I’m not proud but y/n,” Maverick stated and you noticed how Rooster’s brows scrunched in curiosity while he glanced at you. “I saw the report, you almost crashed against that mountain,” he stated and you winced as you turned to Rooster.

“What?” Rooster asked, rather loudly as he turned to you incredulously.

The thing was when you told Rooster about your little adventure, you hadn’t mentioned that you almost hit the mountain that was in front of you and that if you hadn’t acted as fast as you did, you might’ve not been alive at the moment.

“Don’t worry. I handled it, I did,” you assured him, your eyes met with Bradley’s but you could already see the panic in his eyes and the irritation too as you placed your hand over his.

“Even at the risk of falling into G-lock?” Mav stated, calling back your attention to the conversation.

“I wouldn’t,” you frowned.

“y/n,”

“Dad,” you stated before you sighed gently. “You were the one that taught me how to fly, just have a little trust,”

“It’s not that I don’t,” he said as he licked his lips as if he was figuring out the right words. “It’s dangerous to fly like that, even now with…”

At that moment, when your father refused to finish his sentence, you knew that dinner had changed completely.

“You don’t believe I’m ready then, for this mission?” your asked, glaring at Maverick.

“We are not talking about the mission,”

You narrowed your eyes before you clenched your jaw.

“Why aren’t you answering?”

“You made that clear when I called you and told you I was going to teach it,” Maverick sighed before he raised his hands and leaned back in his seat, but you were not backing down from the conversation.

“You were the one that brought it up?” you snapped back.

Peter glanced at you as he passed a hand through his hair, you could tell that he was tired but you also knew that you wouldn’t let him off that easily.

“You are a great pilot sweetie,” He stated. The condescending tone made your skin crawl and your patience snapped at that second, not that you had a lot.

“Don’t treat me like I’m stupid,” you scoffed.

“y/n,” Peter warned through gritted teeth.

It hurt, more than the annoyance that you were feeling throughout the last couple of days. The thing was that Peter ‘Maverick’ Mitchell, one of the best pilots of his generation and especially, your father didn’t really trust you. On top of all, in top of all the insecurities that you masked so well through your attitude of yours, you had to deal with the distrust of your dad.

“I was one of the best in the dog fights today,” you stated back, your throat a little bit tight. “Why do you not trust me?” you asked, your voice sounding a bit too wobbly for your liking, your eyes locked with Peter’s and you stayed there for a few beats of silence.

You wondered if you were going to feel like that always, that you were even going to allow it. But you knew better, maybe he didn’t trust you at the moment but you? You were going to prove him wrong.

“You know what?” you stated as you shot to your feet. “Come on, Rooster,” you announced loudly before taking his hand.

Rooster followed you swiftly, your hands lacing together. If you’d stared at Mav for a moment you might’ve seen how his eyes widened as he saw how you were touching each other, but you were too petty to even look back, Rooster simply gave an apologetic look to Mav before you were both walking out of the restaurant.

The next day, the tension between Maverick and you was palpable, at least for you and Rooster. The lesson started off well, with nothing unusual going on. Simply Maverick making the pilots bite the dust over and over again. You’d tried to delay the moment that you got your turn to fly with him, thinking that maybe if you took a bit of time, you wouldn’t feel so angry.

It didn’t work, honestly and your turn started.

It was you and Hagman on the air, Rooster along with the others in the control room, listening to the radio as Hangman and you took off.

“So, why haven’t you been on the air today that much?” Hangman asked through the radio and you glanced at him, you could still see his beautiful green eyes as he smirked at you.

“Not your problem,” you stated coldly as you looked on your radio and glanced around, hoping to see your father and finally prove to him that you were good, that you had it in you.

“Oh, sassy,” Hagman cooed and you look back at him, raising your eyebrows. “I like that,”

“Focus, Hangman,” You stated. “Where is he?”

“I’ve been here the whole time,” you heard your father muttering on your earpiece before he turned his jet over yours while you glared at him.

“Okay, let's deal with this you and me, kid” he stated while raising his eyebrows.

“It’s on, old man” you gritted through your teeth.

Before you knew it, you were both spinning around towards the ground while you glared at the other. It was a dangerous maneuver, that was for sure and you were aware as your whole system beeped and rang that you were going to be in deep shit once you landed, but you didn’t find it in yourself to care. Instead, you glared at your dad as he stared at you.

You knew what he was trying to do and you weren’t going to let him win.

“You’re going to make us crash, kid?” He asked, his voice strained as you suddenly passed the hard deck and your whole system began to scream.

“Pull up, pull, up”

But you refused to give up, even when you were spinning down to the earth, neither of you giving up an inch of your pride. You were 3000 ft when Maverick decided to pull his control stick and you then followed swiftly. It took a lot of strength but you managed to pull out of the downward spiral. You finally rose, too close to the ground but right on the tail of Maverick.

You got him.

Maverick’s maneuvers started off strong, managing to evade you but you had an eye on the pride and before Mav pulled up, you had him. You secured the missile lock and then the target turned red.

“Shot, you’re down dad,” you sighed proudly as you listen to the beep. Your breathing was harsh and you knew that you were covered in sweat but you couldn’t stop smiling.

You’d done it.

And yet, it seemed like everything brought you back down to earth when you heard Hangman’s voice.

“Holy shit,”

Holy shit, you thought. You’d just reveal to everyone who you were.

The air felt as if it was sucked out of the plane as you realized what you’d done, Maverick flew next to you and nodded.

“Well done, kid,” He stated with a curt nod before he was turning his plane back to take it to the base.

You’d landed back on the base softly, hoping not to have your ear being chewed by Hangman but you? You were too busy being yelled at by Rooster.

“What the hell, Brat?” Bradley screamed at you as you climbed down your F-18. You winced as you heard his tone, you’d heard it so many times and with yesterday’s news that you’d almost killed yourself, you knew that it wasn’t good.

“Don’t,” you stated as you took your helmet off as Rooster towered over you, your eyes widened as you realise how close he is to you. He’d been close to you so many times but not like that, not looking at you like he was. There was something restless, a shift in the atmosphere as you gazed back at his honey-burnt eyes that made your heart beat faster.

“That was dangerous, even for you,” he stated through gritted teeth. “You could’ve hurt yourself, what do you think that you’re doing? Do you know how worried I was?” he asked you as he searched your eyes, his scowl loosening as he stared at you and you felt like you were drowning in his eyes, in his scent.

“I…” you tapered off, swallowing your breath as you stared at him, he was so close and you felt like you could melt.

“Well, well,” Hangman stated, causing both of you to give a step back, jumping when Hangman walked in front of both of you, a glint of mischief in his eyes. “So, this is like Oedipus but you’re a girl,”

You glared at him

“Oh my god, you know how to read?” you asked sarcastically and Rooster couldn’t help but snicker at your answer while Hangman glared at you.

He was about to bite back but then you saw Admiral Simpson over his shoulder, glaring at you.

You were so fucked.

***

taglist: @mirandastuckinthe80s @thehouseofevangelista @sergantbarnesbitch @tallrock35 @maverick-wingman ***

authors note: thank you thank you so much for the kind comments everyone has been leaving on the last couple of chapters and like the ones that are on my kO-FI!!! LIKE OMG thank you thank you so so much. pleaseee I'd love to hear your thoughts on the chapters. I'm so excited for chapter 4.

***

feedback is always welcomed!!!

donate: help me pls with a glass of wine?

***

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beth-march · 3 years ago

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the only light we’ll see - ch 1

Summary:

The summer that Rue relapses, two guilt stricken friends turn to each other for solace, and find something more along the way.

A/N:

This is the start of the fic where Fez and Lexi are in an established relationship all throughout Season 1. Please let me know if you would like me to post all future chapters on Tumblr or if you’re happy reading on Ao3 :-)

Read on Ao3 here or under the cut

The girl wears a ribbon in her hair.

It is silk lilac, and it flutters in her gentle brown waves. She is honeyed by the summer sunlight, enveloped by a faint golden glisten. For a fleeting moment, Fezco considers how she is haloed, considers her sweet, pretty face, and is reminded of an angel.

She looks very much out of place on his doorstep. She bears no resemblance to any other person who has lingered there before. She even looks out of place next to Rue, and if not for the way that she clings close to Rue, Fez might have assumed that the girl had wound up at his house by complete mistake.

“Hey there,” Fez greets, opening the screen door.

“Hey, Fez!” Rue says, her grin already wicked. “This here is my friend, Lexi. We’re about to get her stoned for the first time. You gotta hook her up on that good, hard shit, you catch my drift? We’re really gonna fuck her up.”

In an instant, alarm blossoms rosy on Lexi’s little face.

“What?!” she yelps, turning to her friend. “That’s not what you said!”

Rue bursts out laughing, and Fez is stolen by a frown. He has no idea what she is thinking, bringing someone like Lexi around to his place. It seems unlikely that the girls even know each other, let alone like each other. Lexi, who shines with innocence and demurity, and who coordinates the colour of her hair ribbon with her lacy cardigan and the flowers on her dress, does not strike Fez as the kind of person Rue would keep company in. Curiosity rises, a question of how they came to be friends, of how they have managed to stay friends - if the sad, annoyed look on Lexi’s face is any indication, Fez has an inkling that it has involved a lot of quiet tolerance of this kind of teasing.

“Come on, now, Rue, leave the poor girl alone,” Fez huffs, throwing Lexi an apologetic look. “What you really want?”

“Well, I do want weed, but it’s not for Lexi. You got anything for me?”

There is no reason to feel strange about this. Not when it happens every other week, and it is clear that Lexi has no doubts about what it is that Fez does for a living.

Qualms, in all likelihood, but not doubts.

Fez pushes aside whatever trepidation he feels about handing product over in Lexi’s proximity, and steps aside from the door, ushering the girls inside. It is always very informal with Rue, and he wonders if this somehow improves the sheer shadiness of everything. He wonders why it is that he even cares.

“Thanks, Fez,” Rue says, stashing the bags away with an impishness to suggest that she’s a child who has just been gifted chocolate, and intends to eat it before dinner.

(Of course, she’s spoiling a lot more than her appetite. The thought occurs to him, but it does not feel like his own - he hears it in Lexi’s voice. He can see the pensive quality to her expression, the worry in her doe eyes, and he almost envies it, the luxury she has in wearing her emotions on her sleeve.)

“I’m just gonna use your bathroom, and then we’ll be out,” Rue adds, dropping her bag, twisting around in pursuit of his hallway.

“Rue,” Lexi hisses, trying for discretion, but Fez hears her. He understands why she doesn’t want to be left alone with a stranger, especially with the connotations of him being a drug dealer, but it still saddens him, to watch her posture stiffen.

But she is polite, even if she is nervous. She turns on her heel, offers Fez a smile.

“Um,” she says, uncertainly. “You have a really nice home.”

It is probably the last thing Fez expects her to say. It is surprising, what follows in his chest, a stirring of something foreign, something strangely soft.

“Shit, you think so?” Fez asks. “I know it’s kinda a trip, feels like you stepped in a time machine. But my grandma decorated it, so I didn’t wanna change nothin’.”

“Oh,” Lexi says. She sounds just as surprised by his answer as he had been by her question.

“So, how’s your summer goin’?” he adds, leaning against the wall.

“It’s good!” she answers, folding her hands over her front. “I mean, it’s been quiet, but I don’t mind the quiet. I’ve been doing a lot of reading. It feels like I never have time to read for pleasure during the school year, so it’s been good to have the chance to work through my reading list - and, well, you don’t really care about all that.”

Her brief ramble dies amidst frantic chuckles, and Fez is confused by the way she has wilted, by the way that her thin shoulders have shrunk in on themselves.

“Sure I do,” he says. “I get what you mean. You on break, you got time for you, you got time to be quiet. I like that, too. Like to have some peace, when I can.”

The worry disappears, and is replaced by something thoughtful. “I suppose you wouldn’t really get many breaks, though, would you?”

“No the fuck I don’t,” Fez says, sighing, but he grins, so she knows he’s making light of it. A Mondays, right? type of joke, something mundane and reminiscent of work day drudgery, something she can maybe relate to.

Lexi smiles, too, and it is only a small curve, but it is radiant. She still has her arms wound around herself, and she ducks her chin, curling up tighter. Fez doesn’t know what to make of her - how she seems so quick to emerge and then delve back into her shell every few seconds - but he does know that he likes her smile.

“Can I ask you something kind of… personal?” Lexi asks, in a hush.

“Go ahead.”

“Are most of your clients like Rue?”

“What you mean?”

“I don’t know,” Lexi admits, faltering. “I guess… Erratic? Unpredictable?”

Fez tries not to laugh. “You ain’t spendin’ much time around drug users, I take it?”

There’s wry humour in her expression. It is endlessly intriguing.

“No, I know,” she assures him. “I’m not stupid, I know. But this is Rue. I’ve known her forever, and she’s always had, well, difficulties, in her life, but I’ve never seen her like this before. I’m worried about her. Like, really worried.”

It comes bursting out of her, a wave of salt, and it furls around them like sea foam, enveloping them in her sadness. It is quiet in this hallway, and their window is passing, and Fez can see the desperation in this stranger. She has found a person to speak to about a matter she has been holding close to her heart for far too long.

He wants to reassure her.

“It’s only weed, I sold her today,” he says.

“But that’s not the only thing you’ve sold to her, is it?” Lexi asks. It’s not quite accusatory, her tone, and he doesn’t think she means to insult him personally - but the implication is inevitable, when she’s confiding in him about how scared she is of a friend being pierced, and he is the one who is handing over the sharp objects.

Like an intrusion, Rue returns, and she slips an arm around Lexi. She is so much taller than Lexi, and Fez wonders if it is because she is particularly tall or because Lexi is particularly short. He knows it’s the former, because Rue can look him in the eye without difficulty, but he’s still struck by Lexi’s littleness. Endeared to it, even.

“Thank you, Fez! You’re the best,” Rue sing-songs, already steering Lexi towards the front door. “Until next time, I bid you fuckin’ adieu - ”

“Yo, wait up,” Fez says, trailing after them. He is worried about Lexi’s worry, because he might not know her, but she has bestowed it upon him, and now it will stay with him, he knows it will linger.

“Sorry, Fez, places to go, people to see, you know how it is!” Rue says.

He has a new idea of what Lexi means by erratic. It seems emphasised, all of the sudden, as he watches Rue tug Lexi away, back towards their bikes. The pace she picks is fast, and the hold she has on her friend seems tight, severe.

Lexi turns for a final look at him over her shoulder, and her hair swishes around her shoulders in her movement. Fez supposes that she doesn’t expect him to be looking at her, because she quickly goes red, quickly turns away from him.

Fez makes haste to disappear, as well. But he watches from the window, as the girls take off on their bikes. He watches Lexi, fixates on her hair ribbons as they ripple in the breeze. He considers the ends, cut pristine like lavender snake tongues.

True to his prediction, the worry lingers.

Three weeks later, Rue overdoses.

There’s gossip about it at a party, and at first, Fezco dismisses it. People are talking about Rue having died, and that seems melodramatic enough to ignore it completely. It isn’t until he overhears Cassie Howard whispering to her friends about how distraught her little sister, Lexi, is, that Fez realises there must be substance to it.

The breath escapes his throat, and the haze of the party becomes overwhelming. In the calamity of his sudden anguish, Fez finds a getaway, slips from the house to settle on the back steps that lead out into the garden.

Inside, the party goes on, and it seems absurd, that life could go on, when a girl he knows, a girl he loves, has almost died. Vermilion lights shine through the windows and stain the leaves of the nearby trees with a sickly gloss.

The pictures come and won’t leave. Rue, tangled on the floor, in her sheets, covered in vomit, covered in a grey tinge. Fez doesn’t know the details, and wishes he did in the same instant of his gratitude not to know. He wants far away from this, and he wants to be in the middle of it, he wants to be the one to help.

He wants to help, where before he has only hurt.

“Fuck,” he says softly. “Rue.”

Lexi Howard strides into his store, and under any other circumstances, Fez thinks he would be happy about it. The girl had certainly left an impression on him, with her doe eyes, her bright smile, and the way she had let her compassion flow.

But she is so dolorous it envelopes her. She is ostentatious with it, her eyes puffy, her mouth wobbly. She wears her hair in two plaits, exposing her youth, and there isn’t any makeup on her face but she’s no less pretty than she was the day he met her.

Her hands are stiff by her sides. The way they curl holds a quiet violence of her own.

“You here to have it out with me?” Fez greets her, with a weary smile.

“No,” Lexi says, around a heavy breath. “I’m here for someone who understands.”

Surprise unfurls, and he cannot obscure it. She should hate him, the way that he has come to hate himself, since he has realised what he has done.

“And you chose me?”

“I mean, I wish you hadn’t dealt to her,” Lexi says. “Obviously, I wish that. I wish that none of this had ever happened. But it did. And it’s not like you had a way of knowing. It’s not like you’re close to her, it’s not like you know her.”

It takes him a moment to process this. There was always the chance that it might end this way. There were probably warning signs he could have picked out, especially after Lexi expressed her concern. Instead, he had done nothing.

His guilt is something with teeth, something that gnaws at his insides and refuses to relent. But indulging his guilt seems selfish, inconsequential in the face of what has happened to Rue. So he keeps it to himself, grapples with it on his own.

Until now. Until he has found himself faced with this girl.

“That’s where you wrong,” Fez sighs. “I do know her. Thought I did, anyway.”

“Fine then, fuck you,” she says.

It’s a weak joke, but it takes him off guard, and it is so incongruous, from what he knows about Lexi, that he still laughs. The sound tumbles out helplessly.

“That make you feel any better, kid?”

There are tears in her eyes, as she shakes her head. She brushes the first glaze away with her thin, graceful fingers, trying to hide that she is crying, but her voice pinches when she speaks, giving away how close she is to outright whimpering.

“No,” she tells him. “No, I’m sorry.”

“Nah, you good. You’re just playin’. But I wouldn’t be mad if you were for real.”

Something seems to dawn on her, and she regards him with curious eyes.

“Are you… feeling alright?” Lexi asks.

What a question. He thinks to nod his head yes, to shake his head no, on mumbling something vague, and settles on simply staring at her, offering an answer with the depth of trouble in his eyes. He hopes she doesn’t mind the blue gore.

He finds strange confidence in what he sees flickering in her gaze. An understanding, of sorts, an unshakeable thought of something shared.

“What about you?” he asks.

“I’m just…” Lexi spills with an incredulous laugh. “Rue has been my best friend for as long as I can remember, and I don’t even recognise her. I don’t know what the fuck happened to her. Or what the fuck happened to me. Why didn’t I tell her mom? I was planning on it for weeks, I even told her I was going to - but the moment she said something mean to me, the second I got my fucking feelings hurt, I caved.”

It is quick to make sense. Her guilt has teeth, too.

How unjust, when she is innocent in all this. Fez rushes to make her understand.

“You don’t gotta take any of that shit on, alright?” he tells her. “Rue made the choices she made. You can’t control addicts, you can’t make them stop, it’s on them. It fuckin’ sucks, but that’s the way shit goes, and there ain’t another way around it.”

She stares. In the quiet, he notices the shape of her throat, the shift of her breathing, how it seems to come quicker.

“I’m sorry if that ain’t what you wanna hear.”

“No, it’s okay. It makes sense. But I just… I can’t help but feel responsible.”

Unbidden, his feet move, tilting towards her.

“It’s not,” Fez tells her, gently. “There really wasn’t nothin’ you coulda done. On God, and I wouldn't say that for no reason.”

The way that Lexi smiles tells him plenty about her appreciation. She brushes more at her eyes, the sadness they seep, and she asks hoarsely, “Do you think Rue’s gonna be okay?”

(He has no idea. He hadn’t even realised she is a proper addict. He is terrified.)

“Oh, for sure,” Fez says. “That is one wily kid. I just know she gon’ be back on her feet in fuckin’ no time at all, causing trouble again before we know it.”

Lexi manages a laugh, and that he’s drawn it from her becomes his best accomplishment of the day. Fez wants to capture the sound, the sound of sunlight, and keep it woven in the air, a bit of brightness to alleviate the perpertual burdens.

“Thank you, Fezco,” she whispers. “I didn’t think I could feel better, but…”

“That’s aight, you’re welcome,” he says, and offers her a small smile. She is shy, and it is making him feel shy, too. It seems a strange way for empathy to form.

But it is not unwelcome.

“I’m sorry,” Lexi adds, twisting her hands together. “I probably shouldn’t have barged in on you like this. I’m sure you have work to do.”

“Yeah, shit’s wild, right about now,” Fez says, nodding at the empty rows. It drags out another laugh, and that makes his smile broaden. “For real, though, I don’t mind you comin’ here. You can stick around a while, if you want.”

There is surprise in her eyes, a kind of wide eyed hopefulness.

“You wouldn’t mind?”

There is no hesitation, for him.

“Not at all.”

“Okay,” Lexi says. And the beauty of her hopeful smile feels like a beginning.

#fexi fic

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beelovesnct · 3 years ago

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𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

— EPISODE 3: December 2018, days before nct dream show 2 [era: we go up]

"So, why are we avoiding Mark?"

Jaemin casually strode in, plopping his whole figure on Aiko’s unmade bed—his tone relaxed as if the query was nothing more of the girl’s preference for that night’s dinner.

Ever since Mark walked out of the practice room, the atmosphere between the dreamies has been tense —amplified to its fullest extent whenever Aiko and Mark were in the same room, as not even a single glance was shared between the two. Mark also recently stopped visiting the dreamies' dorms, limiting his meetings with the members on official schedules. The same could be said to Aiko, with her 127 older brothers; as despite not being in the group, Aiko made it a habit to visit the dorms at least once a week, but after their fight, Aiko made her absence apparent.

And as much as the dreamies wanted to let their members makeup, they were too afraid and lost on what to do especially with their previous attempts proving to be futile. Not desiring to intensify the misunderstanding, they eventually decided to take a step back and let things run their course.

But, they were ready to interfere in the instance they sense the strain to be irreversible.

This, of course, didn't apply at all to Jaemin—who found the perfect opportunity to ask about the situation the moment Aiko was alone in her room. In his perspective, he thought that Aiko also noticed the awkward tension and the pitiful gazes within the dorm, and thus tried her best to wander out—recently, only coming back whenever everyone was already asleep. Hence, in relation to Mark and Aiko's drifting relationship, Jaemin observed that the dreamies were slowly losing Aiko to self-isolation too.

As one of his pieces of evidence, Aiko didn't answer his question, never even sparing a glance as she busied herself with writing something in her notebook. Jaemin stayed silent for a few moments, scrolling his own phone as he waited patiently for any type of answer. But after getting none, he sat up from his lying position to face Aiko's back,

"Is this really how your friendship ends? After growing up with him, you're gonna give it up for something he doesn't even recognize as his own fault?" Aiko paid him no mind, but Jaemin knew from her scrunched eyebrows that she was just as well listening to what he had to say.

"Five years, Aiko. He's been with us—with you for five years; been your shoulder to cry and depend on, your older figure, and most importantly, your friend. Are you really willing to throw all that away?"

Aiko flinched, her pen stopping the moment Jaemin finished his sentence, knowing full well the truth that lied behind the member's words. But as quick as she showed her vulnerable point, she was also fast to remove any traces of it—proceeding to write more aggressively this time around as a weak attempt to shut him off.

Jaemin once more, stayed silent, awaiting Aiko's response - taking her initial reaction as a positive connotation that she was indeed affected by his statement.

But when there was none, he released a big and slightly frustrated sigh before finally standing up—all hope of finding out the truth behind his friends' strained relationship going out of the window.

"I'm really not sure why you suddenly decided that ignoring Mark would solve whatever worst-case situation you've engraved in your mind, but it's not worth it, Aiko." He grabbed the door handle, glancing back once more to Aiko's still hunched figure, before stepping out.

His leg was already on the border of the doorway, before Aiko surprisingly spoke up, muttering a question so quiet that Jaemin swore if he didn't pay attention, he would have missed it.

"Why does it matter?"

Jaemin looked back in an abrupt manner, taken aback not only at her sudden query, but the downcasted expression that mirrored a broken person.

"If he's leaving anyway, then why does it matter?"

"Is this what it's about?" Immediately, the visual stepped back into the room, closing the bedroom door with a soft thud.

Aiko didn't reply, opting to continue her scribbling to avoid Jaemin's somewhat somber yet gentle gaze.

Not wanting to waste the small opening into the female idol's thoughts and innermost feelings, Jaemin prompted to grabbed both ends of her gaming chair, compelling Aiko's figure towards him.

"Hey," He called out softly, first attempting to peer directly into her irises by lowering his eye level.

But when that didn't work—as Aiko stubbornly redirected her face to the sides, he lightly grabbed her chin, consequently forcing her to face him.

Jaemin then whispered his next words, still practicing caution to make the member comfortable despite the leading question, "Is that why you avoided Mark? To make his departure easier for the both of you?"

Aiko sniffed harshly, implying to Jaemin—who has seen this scene way more times than he would like to admit, that the girl was on the verge of crying.

Aiko nodded once, her eyes starting to water, "It's selfish isn't it?"

Jaemin displayed a small smile, before placing his hands on the sides of her face to wipe the building tears, "No. That just shows how much you care."

His reassurance made Aiko scoff, but even she had to admit that it was something she badly needed to hear, especially when her own thoughts have consistently bombarded her with the idea that she was being unreasonable and self-absorbed.

And so, she leaned into Jaemin's hands before tiredly slumping into his shoulder—the tension that has kept her up the past few weeks immediately disappearing the moment she felt his comforting hands around her—she definitely needed this.

Aiko released a breath—of relief or sorrow, she didn’t know; but she did know one thing:

"I just don't want him to leave."

Despite being muffled, Jaemin understood perfectly,

"I know," He agreed without an ounce of hesitance,

"I don't either."

Jaemin proceeded to rub gentle circles on Aiko's back before releasing a breath, as even though he understood what Aiko felt, he knew that had to step in to tell her the truth.

"But Aiko, you doing this, isn't going to help." He started, feeling the abrupt flinch in the idol's figure; knowing he had hit a nerve, he continued.

"Right now, Mark is just leaving the group—we'll still see him, right? We'll still hang out, Donghyuck can drag him down here for our traditional sleepovers, and we could even convince him to visit our sets."

Jaemin slightly broke the embrace, peering into Aiko's slightly puffy eyes and nose as a result of her weeping—he swore that if it weren't for the somber mood, he would definitely have snapped a picture.

"Aiko, Mark out of NCT Dream doesn't mean Mark out of the dreamies." He gently fixed the hair sticking to her face,

"But if you push him away like this—without even giving him a reason, then that will be the time when he will truly be leaving your life."

He smiled warmly, "And I don't think you want that."

That night, Aiko never left her room—regardless of Renjun's calls, Jisung's gaming invites, Jeno's worried knocks, or even Haechan's cheery ones.

She simply stayed crouched in front of her desk, with her head laid on the table—cradled by her arms.

Aiko had thought long and hard, about how to patch things ups with the leader, completely aware that Jaemin's words had gotten through her.

But with the treatment she gave Mark the past few weeks—thinking back on how she intentionally avoided the member, made Aiko feel so guilty to the point that all the aspirations of rekindling their friendship gradually became non-existent.

She was losing both hope and time—as there were only a few days, before their last schedule with Mark would ensue: NCT DREAM SHOW 2

Her thoughts, however, were disrupted by a soft knock on the door. Assuming it was one of the dreamies—once again attempting to talk to her or get her out of her room, Aiko stayed completely silent, knowing that if it were truly them, then they would probably leave after about a minute of waiting by her door.

But the voice that came after the soft sound shocked every fiber of her being,

"Aiko, it's me. Can I come in?" Aiko sat up straight, her gaze stuck at the door separating her from the person she's been thinking about the whole night.

Yet, Aiko made no sign to move nor to speak—too taken aback by the appearance of his presence,

"I—Jaemin told me what happened." His tone was soft and gentle—as if being careful not to detonate any landmines he knew was set up around the topic.

"And I—I just wanted to say I—I'm sorry." The stutter in his words only indicated that he, too, was on the verge of shedding tears.

Yet, Aiko stayed silent, opting to listen as his words amplified not only Aiko's shock but also the guilt that had been on the surface of her mind that entire evening.

"Maybe it's because I've been so busy, acting like I'm not leaving that I failed to consider your actual feelings about it."

There was a quiet sigh, followed by a soft thud—Aiko assumed it was his head leaning on her doorframe.

"I'm not sure if you're sleeping or you're even hearing any of this, but…" Aiko unconsciously nodded her head, as if telepathically communicating that she was there, and she was indeed listening; her own eyes starting to water.

"I love you, and no matter what, I will always be here for you—even if I'm officially no longer in NCT Dream."

By this point, Aiko was openly sobbing—her sorrow breaking the dam she tried so hard to restrain in the past few weeks.

Listening to his heartfelt confession was enough for the idol to break down completely—the whirlpool of gratefulness, sorrow, grief, guilt, warmth and other emotions were swirling within the depths of her mind.

"I'm only one call and text away, so don't ever hesitate to reach out, because I too—" He paused, feeling his own throat closing up.

"—Am going to miss you so much."

With one last soft knock on the door, Mark left, unbeknownst to the weeping Aiko on the other side.

Episode 1: The one with the thoughts (2018)

Episode 2: The one with the silent treatment (2018)

Masterlist: The one with the missing puzzle piece

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young-dumb-and-vaccinated · 3 years ago

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The Cult Girl (Hannibal x Female!Reader) pt. 7

Sorry this took so long y'all. This chapter was difficult to write. Hannibal invites Theresa for dinner and y/n finally confronts her.

Trigger warning: mentions of suicide, child sex abuse; graphic descriptions of violence; confronting an abuser; body-shaming

The stitches in your cut hadn't even dissolved before Theresa intruded on your life again. Before you stormed out, Hannibal did in fact invite her to dinner. Polite society would rule the invitation null and void after that confrontation, but Theresa felt herself exempt from the laws of politeness. Like Evangelicals or craisins, Theresa loved to insert herself where she was clearly not wanted.

Of course, you were peeved at Hannibal for upholding the invitation when she called. But you could tell he had something planned. He was intrigued by her audacity and wanted to see how far it would take her. You couldn't begrudge him professional curiosity, as you too wondered what the fuck her problem was.

In truth, you saw what he did to your grandma, and you wanted to see him do it to Theresa. You wanted her subject to the same psychological torment that she put you through. And that, you realized, was why he honored that invitation. He wanted to vindicate you. And that was the sexiest damn thing you could possibly imagine.

Theresa showed up alone. That was her first mistake.

"Thank you for having me, Dr. Lecter." Theresa greeted, shedding her long coat and dropping it to the ground. "Will [F/N] be joining us?"

"[F/N] will most certainly be joining us." Hannibal said, his voice hardening. He noticed her coat in a pile on the floor and something in his head clicked.

"I hope I'm not overdressed." Theresa tossed her hair over her shoulders.

She was. And you knew even before she showed up that she'd wear that green evening dress with the plunging neckline. It was the same one she wore to prom. She kept it as a memento all these years to memorialize the day she completely fucked you over.

She was here to make history repeat itself.

"Not all, Ms. [L/N]," Hannibal grinned, glancing at the staircase. "[F/N] is just touching up her makeup.”

“That sounds like [F/N].” Theresa laughed. “She always took the most time getting ready in the morning. And she was always the ugliest. It was quite sad, really.”

Hannibal reminded himself what he had in store for Theresa before letting himself get angry. “If you could join me in the kitchen, I could use a little help with the appetizers.”

Theresa took the bait and followed him through the threshold into the massive kitchen.

“Could I trouble you for some psychological advice, Doctor Lecter?” She said, leaning against the island.

“That depends.” He answered, though the tone of his voice connoted a firm ‘no’. “Are you going to be honest with me?”

Theresa mounted herself on top of the island and crossed her legs. “I’ve just been having quite a bit of trouble in my marriage.”

"Please get off my counter." Hannibal politely demanded. "I just sterilized it this morning."

“My husband just isn’t so excited by me anymore.” She pouted like a child. “He just doesn’t seem interested in... well, any of the things I have to offer him.”

“Have you considered the possibility that you have nothing to offer?” You said. You approached them with purpose, the skirt of your purple dress fluttering behind you. Your favorite pair of strappy heels clacked against the tile and echoed through the room with every step.

“[F/N] makes a valid point.” Hannibal agreed, taking you under his arm. “You’re an abusive narcissist, a serial adulterer, and you’re quite horrible at flirting. I certainly don’t understand what you could possibly have to offer.”

“Nice to see you again, [F/N].” Theresa said, resigned to her defeat. “I didn’t want to say anything at the wedding, but you look like you’ve gained a few pounds.”

You almost laughed. Growing up, Grandma had subjected you to every form of body-shaming known to man. Nothing Theresa could say would have any effect on you.

“Really? Because I’ve never felt better in my life.” You smiled, knowing it to be true. “Hannibal is an amazing cook. You’d probably gain weight too if you were eating so well.”

"Well, I have appearances to keep up." She refuted. "Gideon and I both have very busy schedules. Besides, he finds the kitchen more of a woman's domain."

"Unfortunate for you." Hannibal threw a dish towel over his shoulder and picked up a wine bottle by the neck. He kept his hands busy by pouring three glasses of wine. "That Gideon does not put in the time to keep you well-fed and fulfilled. Might I suggest not molesting children as a remedy?"

You snickered as he handed you a glass. You migrated to the dining table, where the trial was set to take place.

"Did you invite me here just to gang up on me?" Theresa leaned back in her chair. "Because if so, that's really mature."

"Of course not." You said, Hannibal pulling your chair out for you. You placed your napkin in your lap. "Well, maybe a little."

Theresa took a long sip of wine. "You're not going to get an apology if that's what you're after."

"Oh no." You shook your head. "I've stopped expecting basic human decency from you years ago."

"Good." Theresa huffed. "Since that's clearly what you want me to be, that's what I'll be."

"Don't give me that shit." You sighed. "I know what gaslighting is and you're not as good at it as you think."

"Y'know I never asked to be a parent figure to you and Anna." She crossed her arms.

"You may not have asked for it but you sure as hell enjoyed it." You countered, furrowing your brow. "Don't act like you weren't the dictator's right-hand man. You sucked up to grandma and always got preferential treatment."

"I was a kid." She shrugged. "You're really gonna blame me for the shit I did before my skull fully hardened?"

"Well, it exposes a way larger pattern of behavior." You explained. "You're a megalomaniac that wants power without responsibility. So you attach yourself to someone with power, probably another narcissist who's too self-involved to see what a leech you really are. It's what you did with grandma and it's what you're doing with Gideon."

Dressing Theresa down like that gave you a rush. It made you feel alive. But more importantly, it made her look small. It stripped her of her power.

"Well done, Sherlock." Theresa taunted. "But you're forgetting one thing. If I were a megalomaniac, why would I waste my time beating up on you? Some nobody with no power to speak of?"

"Because I'm a living reminder of your past." You narrowed your eyes. "I remind you that you can't just beat everyone into submission."

"Ladies," Hannibal interrupted, holding three bowls. He placed one in front of you, the savory broth enticing your nose. "This is pot-au-feu. It is a simple French stew made from beef, vegetables and potatoes. I added a marrow-bone for extra richness. It's the perfect combination of simplicity and substance."

You couldn't even wait for Hannibal to sit down. You'd been so hungry all day. Smelling the meat slowly braise over the course of the day was torturous. You went straight for the marrow, which was a recent favorite of yours.

Theresa picked the bone up between two fingers and dropped it onto the table, her face wrapped with disgust. "I think I'll pass. I'm not a dog."

"You are not." Hannibal said, spearing a piece of meat on his fork. "I find dogs much better company."

Theresa tented her fingers and glared at Hannibal. "So you're just going to let her rip into me? Aren't you supposed to be the professional here?"

"Don't discount [F/N]'s analysis just because she is a student." Hannibal glared back at her. "From what I know about you, she's dead on."

"Isn't this entire interaction a professional conflict of interest?" Theresa folded her arms. "I don't trust her to analyze me because she hates me."

Hannibal put his utensils down. Anger flashed across his face. "I don't think you quite understand what this interaction is. You are not owed an unbiased psychological profile, especially not from me. You are not my patient. You are [F/N]'s abuser."

Theresa narrowed her eyes and leaned over the table. "So if you understand that, why am I here?"

"You think very highly of your intelligence, Theresa." Hannibal glanced down at his dish. "Perhaps you can figure that one out yourself."

You coughed, narrowly avoiding choking on your food.

"Darling, please pace yourself." Hannibal instructed, though he seemed pleased with how enthusiastically you inhaled your meal. "You're going to make yourself sick if you eat too fast."

"I'm sorry." You said after taking a long sip of water. "I don't know why, I'm just so hungry today."

Hannibal dropped his eyebrows, looking worried. "Did you take your medicine this morning?"

"I think so." You nodded.

Theresa smiled and reached for her phone. The movement caught Hannibal's attention, and he could tell what she was up to right away.

"Theresa, it's very rude to text at the dinner table." He scolded, taking a sip of wine. "Surely, anything you're saying to your grandmother and Anna, you can say to us."

Theresa, too proud to back down, slipped her phone into her purse and met your eyes. "You're pregnant."

"Brilliant fucking deductive reasoning." You rolled your eyes. "A woman gains a little weight and has a healthy appetite? That's the only logical conclusion I would draw."

"Well, aren’t we defensive?" Theresa taunted. "Congratulations, by the way."

"Theresa, stop it." You gritted your teeth, trying not to convey how pissed you were.

"You're going to need to drop out of school to take care of the baby full time." Theresa sneered.

You knew exactly where she was taking this and you wanted more than anything to just disappear. You reached for the wine bottle and refilled your glass. "Shut up, Theresa. Shut the fuck up before you say something you'll regret."

Her face lit up from the satisfaction of finally making you angry. "And someday you'll blow your brains out just like your mother!"

This time, she would regret it. You chucked the empty wine bottle across the table. It hit her directly in the face with a deafening crunch before ricocheting off the table and shattering on the ground.

Theresa brought her finger to her nose, noticing the stream of blood trickling from her nostril. She stood up, stabilizing herself with the back of the chair.

"I didn't think you had it in you." She jabbed before collapsing to the ground.

You went silent, too afraid to look at Hannibal.

"For what it's worth, darling." Hannibal piped up. "I always knew that you did."

#hannibal x reader #hannibal nbc #hannibal lecter #hannibal x you #tw violence #tw blood #cult girl #tw csa mention #tw suidice

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writtenvisionary · 3 years ago

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please don’t hurt me.

wrote for the prompt “start a story with ‘please don’t hurt me’” sent in by an anon to @mlwritersguild!

Summary: Tom says something that strikes Adrien the wrong way. Sabine goes into mama bear mode.

tw - mentions of abuse, small panic attack

Read on Ao3

“Please don’t hurt me.”

Sabine Cheng stares, mouth agape, at her daughter’s boyfriend. Her heart clenches at the tremble in his voice; the quiver of his bottom lip; the shakiness of his hands. The words he had just uttered came at an unexpected time and she’s now realizing that there’s something very wrong.

Adrien had been coming to the bakery for weeks now, both to see his girlfriend and to learn the skill of baking. He never explicitly said it, but he left hints that father had been controlling his meals. Already having a daughter with a fast metabolism, she knew that it was important for teenagers to eat well and often; it’s imperative for their health. This is why she encouraged him to join their family dinners almost every night, and Tom had invited him to learn how to bake.

Getting out of his father’s grip was hard, she was aware. He had to lie consistently, both to his bodyguard and his father’s assistant, in order to have dinner with his girlfriend and her parents.

She notices how jumpy and skittish he can be sometimes. This behavior only ever increases around Tom, and she wants to believe it’s because he’s a big, burley man with a drive to protect his only daughter, but she knows it has to do with his father.

(But to be honest, she forgets these things sometimes.)

Like tonight, they had been rolling the dough for a new batch of bread and joking around, when Tom said something that struck a nerve.

He had said, “Don’t disappoint me, son.”

Tom meant it jokingly, as their previous conversation had been about how Adrien might want to pursue a degree in culinary arts when he goes to university, and he fully supports this decision.

Both parents realized too late that Adrien isn’t used to hearing jokes from the adults around him. Words like that are only said in a negative connotation around him, so they really should have known better.

Adrien had gone pale, pausing his kneading of dough, and his eyes lowered to the ground. She watched in growing concern as he gulped and clenched his fists tightly for a short moment.

After sparing a glance to her husband, she took a tentative step over to Adrien. She placed a hand on his shoulder and he violently flinched away from her touch. Her heart dropped.

“Honey, he didn’t mean it like that…”

Her attempts at consoling him fell flat, because he didn’t seem to hear her. His glazing eyes stared past her at a blank spot on the wall. His breath became shallow, and he brought his arms up to wrap around his chest as a form of security.

“Adrien, I—“

Tom stops short as the young boy in front of him squeezes his eyes tight and takes a step backwards.

“Please don’t hurt me.”

It was a feeble request, his voice shaking with every word.

“Adrien, honey, no one is going to hurt you,” she says softly, holding one of her palms up to show that she has no intentions of putting it near him.

He still doesn’t open his eyes, instead his breath quickens even more. Tom bites his lip as he leans towards his wife, then whispers, “He’s having a panic attack. I’ll go get Marinette and some water for him.”

As a silent thanks, Sabine places a hand on his large forearm, and sends him a sad smile. He walks away, leaving her with a panicking Adrien.

She’s not sure what to do; Marinette had never told her that Adrien experienced bad anxiety. Her daughter is keeping a lot of secrets from her (which she is frustrated about, because she should know certain things as her mother; but also, she understands that Marinette is a teenager and she’s happy to respect her boundaries), but Sabine wishes that this was something she had told her. That way she might be able to help.

The sound of footsteps trampling down the stairs makes her whip her head around, seeing Marinette running hurriedly towards Adrien.

She slows, letting out a slow breath as she takes in the situation.

“Kitty, hey, hey, hey…” she says loudly, but not loud enough to where it startles him. “I’m here. You’re panicking. Kitty, can I touch you?”

Subconsciously, Sabine wonders where the nickname ‘kitty’ came from, but that’s not something to worry about right now.

Adrien, his breathing still unchanged, manages to crack open his eyes into slits. They dance around the room wearily, before landing on Marinette. Sabine swears she can see his fists uncurl slightly.

“Hi, kitten. Could I hold your hand?”

It takes a minute for him to acknowledge that she had asked a question, but then he just barely nods. Marinette takes this opportunity to move closer, cautiously, and slips her hand into his’. She meets his eyes.

“Okay. I want you to tell me five things you can see right now. Anything.”

His lip quivers and he lets out a small whimper, before blinking out a slew of tears.

“Uh. You.”

Sabine is astonished at how Marinette is able to stay calm in this situation. Her smile to him is forced, but comforting, and the mother can’t shake the evidence that she’s done this before.

“Amazing,” she hears Marinette say. “What else?”

Adrien sniffs, shifting his eyes to the wall behind the girl in front of him. “Th-that poster.”

“You’re doing great, kitty. Three more.”

Tom joins Sabine, wrapping an arm around her shoulder and pulling her into his side. She exhales at the contact, watching as Adrien rattles off item after item, feel after feel, sound after sound, smell after smell, and can’t help but wonder how often her daughter has helped bring him down from a panic attack.

Another question she has is, what prompted this? She knows that he’s not used to hearing jokes told in that manner, but that’s not enough to send someone into a spiral. It was his reaction to the specific words said to him.

There's one thing she can figure out right away; Mr. Agreste calls Adrien ‘son’; that may have reminded him of the man. Adrien is a people pleaser; just the mere thought of disappointing someone could cause him to spiral.

Although, even with this information, she still feels like there’s a part of the puzzle missing. She replays the scene in her head over and over again until she can’t take it anymore, and nothing.

Words cannot describe how dumb she feels when Marinette talks to them, once Adrien is asleep in her room.

“His father is, cut and dry, mentally and physically abusive.”

Marinette speaks with such vindictiveness that it takes Sabine aback for a moment.

“Abusive? I know he’s a bit overprotective, honey, but—“

“Mom.”

Marinette’s tone makes Sabine stop in her tracks.

“He gaslights him constantly, telling him that he needs to be perfect and that if not, he’s a disappointment. That’s why your words struck something in him, dad. And Gabriel locks him in his room, doesn’t let him see his friends for weeks, and when Adrien can finally hang out with us, it’s only for an hour. He doesn’t join him for dinner — Adrien has to set a damn appointment to get this luxury — and hugs from him are rare. He’s neglectful and says things that hurt, and….”

Sabine’s eyes are wide in shock hearing everything. She’s sure that’s it, but when her daughter trails off, her fear only grows.

“What, sweetie?”

“…He hit him the other day.”

“What?”

It wasn’t her that spoke, but Tom. She glanced over to see him fuming. His eyebrows are narrowed and jaw is clenched. She can feel anger surging in her chest, as well.

Marinette shifts on her feet, seemingly uncomfortable with the topic of conversation, and nods.

“I don’t know exactly what happened, but I met him for pa— for a picnic in the park, and his shirt rode up. A huge bruise was on his abdomen.”

Sabine felt that she was telling a white lie there, but there are more important topics at hand.

“Has Gabriel ever hit him before?” She asks, worried for the boy she considers a son.

Marinette shrugs, “Adrien hasn’t admitted it, but I suspect that he has. Its not the first time I’ve seen him with bruises. They’re in different places all the time, though, so I just passed it off as clumsiness… but…”

“But you’re clumsier than him and come home with less bruises,” Tom breathes, finally pulling his hands away from his face and looking at his daughter, who nods.

“Gabriel doesn’t even talk to him unless he does something to disturb the appearance of his brand and reputation. But when he ‘acts out,’ Adrien gets more than enough attention from him; the wrong kind.”

Tom gulps.

“Right. And who really knows what goes on behind closed doors?”

The room falls into a tense silence.

“I understand that you were just messing around, dad. It’s just… when those words are something he hears almost every day, he’s going to take it seriously. Especially when he was raised to be perfect, and any little mistake will get him punished.

“It’s a reflex. He trusts you, dad, but years of trauma build up.”

Marinette’s explanation helps the older couple understand the situation a bit better. Tom suddenly feels extremely guilty. He holds his head in his hands, grumbling to himself. Sabine rubs his leg, keeping her attention on Marinette.

“Why didn’t you tell us sooner, Marinette?”

“I wanted to, and I was getting there. Adrien just…” she sighs. “He was afraid that things would get worse if someone found out.”

“Well, things will get worse before they get better…”

She looks to the ground. “I know. And he’s already been suffering so much that I…”

Marinette trails off, feeling her eyes well up with tears. Instead of fighting them, she lets them fall.

Sabine frowns, taking everything that’s been said into consideration.

“Do you have any proof of the bruises?”

Tom perks up, “Yes! If we collect evidence against his father, there’s a better chance to get him out of there.”

“I snuck a few pictures here and there. I wish I had a video, though…”

Sabine raises an eyebrow, “The mansion’s security cameras?”

She watches her daughter’s eyes light up, then dim, and then light up again. There’s a flash of determination in them, as well, and she can’t help but wonder what she’s planning.

“You’re right,” is all she says, before her optimistic facade turns sour.

“But I don’t know how I’ll get to them without being caught.”

The room falls silent for a minute as they all think about the best course of action.

Tom coughs, catching his wife and daughter’s attention. He shrugs.

“Is there anyone at that house Adrien can trust?”

“Umm. The only person I can think of is his bodyguard, even though we’ve run from him plenty of times,” Marinette says. “He’s pretty quiet, though, so I don’t know if he agrees with Gabriel’s parenting or not. I’ll ask Adrien, though.”

“I’d say it’s worth a shot. Every encounter with that man has been lovely. I’d like to think he’s still working there just for Adrien,” Tom says.

Sabine nods, letting her mind wander. She can’t help but think of every time Adrien has faked a smile, rubbed his arms, rocked back and forth on his feet… Every time he’s had dark circles under his eyes and the ghost of tear streaks on his cheeks... She’s starting to realize that those were all tells, and she should’ve noticed sooner. She feels guiltier than ever.

“Mom?”

Marinette’s voice pulls her away from her thoughts. She blinks, feeling tears gather in her eyes.

When had I started to tear up?

“Sorry, sorry! Let’s, uh—“ she pauses, not knowing what to say, before choosing her next words. “Let’s have him sleep here for the night and see what we can do tomorrow?”

Tom nods beside her.

“Yeah. It might be too soon to worry about all of this right now. Adrien will want to know that we know, too.”

Marinette sighs, “You’re right. He’s not going to be that happy about it. I mean, it took a while for him to understand that the way his father treats him isn’t right, but he’s still working out that concept with you guys. Getting the police involved will just overwhelm him more.”

“True,” Sabine agrees, “but I will not let him stay at that house any longer if that’s what he’s dealing with. No kid should ever go through that.”

She’s serious. No matter what it takes, she will make sure that no one hurts Adrien ever again. Especially not Gabriel Agreste.

#miraculous ladybug #miraculous fanfic #ml writers guild #adrien needs a hug #established adrienette #sabine is confused but she's got the spirit #protective tom and sabine #gabriel agreste is abusive #found family

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reidscanehand · 3 years ago

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10 Things I’ve Been Enjoying Lately:

(I’m doing this at the suggestion of a therapist because life has been a tad depressing recently, but I don’t want to annoy anyone in my private life by sending them this, so I’m sharing it here. Might Make it a Monthly Thing?)

TW: mentions of food, disordered eating, depression, anxiety, medication, loneliness, and cursing

1. Avocado Toast - As I’ve shared on here a few times before, I have lots of issues with food and disordered eating habits. However, I find this meal inexplicably comforting. I get up, take my meds, wait about an hour and drink my coffee and then make this meal. I get in some fiber, a healthy fat, and some protein (I top it with eggs) and I really love it. I hesitate to call it a safety food because I know those have really bad connotations, but this meal makes me feel full without feeling sick and I never regret eating it.

2. “And She Was” by The Talking Heads and “Come On! Feel the Illonoise!” by Sufjan Stevens - These songs make me feel like that girl. They’ve both been added to my regular playlists and when either of them comes on, I like to roll all my car windows down. It makes me feel like a million bucks.

3. “Last Week Tonight with John Oliver” - The news fucking stresses me out, but I like to stay informed. This show makes me laugh (my absolute favorite thing to do ever) while learning and staying updated.

4. The Silent Treatment by Abbie Greaves - I recently read this and it made me cry, but it’s beautifully written and I really enjoyed it.

5. My coworkers - I think I’m actually making friends (?) which is remarkable because I’m absolutely crap at making friends. However, I do believe I’ve conned one or two people into enjoying my presence in the world, which is very nice and I’d absolutely die for the lot of them.

6. Calling my sister - I was living with my sister and then she got an amazing job opportunity and had to move. I miss her loads, but I’ve found that calling her once a week for an hour at a time is really helpful in curing this.

7. Cleaning my apartment - I hate that I love this, but it genuinely makes me feel better to be in a clean space, which I know is really obvious, but when you’re depressed/have ADHD, etc. it’s really hard to focus on that kind of stuff. I have laundry days, I clean up after making meals, and I don’t give myself a time limit. I just try to do it once a day and it really does help.

8. Following comfort accounts - There are magical human beings that make specific comfort Tik Toks and YouTube videos. I used to be a little embarrassed at how genuinely comforting I found them, but I’m trying to be less judgmental of my own self and, honestly? Fuck it! If something is genuinely helping you (and doesn’t hurt you or anyone else) do it. Especially something as simple as following a man who cosplays as a butler calming you down in stressful situations or a guy opening Japanese gashapons and reacting to how cute the content is.

9. Brownie Crisp Espresso Ice Cream Sandwiches - I’m deeply obsessed with Trader Joe’s, to an almost embarrassing extent, but this ice cream sandwich is the greatest thing ever. First of all, I think ice cream sandwiches are the best dessert of all time because it combines my two favorite desserts (ice cream and cookies) into one, but this combo is just stellar. Again, I’ve got a lot of food issues. Until the pandemic, I hadn’t had an ice cream sandwich since 2018. I wouldn’t let myself have them. One night during 2020, I got in my car and drove for a long time. I finally stopped at an all-night truck stop to get gas. Because it was so late, I had to mask up and go inside to pay and I bought an ice cream sandwich because I hadn’t eaten dinner. This particular ice cream sandwich brings me that same amount of comfort. I can’t explain it, but it makes me happy and that’s all that matters, really.

10. My Routine - I have ADHD so routine is really important to me. I’m also a Virgo, so, take that as you will. I have a little routine that I do everyday and, honestly it’s helped loads. I change it every now and then, but I find it really comforting. It really, really helps my anxiety, like, knowing that my workout routine lasts for two Criminal Minds episodes, so I can watch them (listen to them) and zone out at the gym so I don’t get uncomfortable. Or knowing exactly what I need when I go to the grocery store so I don’t get too overwhelmed. I require myself to drink 24oz of water before every meal because it reminds me to drink water (meaning that I’m finally drinking the right amount of water in a day and it reminds to eat all at the same time). They’re not always easy tasks, but doing them fixes small parts of bigger issues.

~~~

I don’t sing as much anymore. I don’t go on walks. I don’t make pancakes every weekend. I still smile less. I don’t take myself on movie dates anymore. And I’m not sure why. What I do know, though, is that little things like all the stuff on this list make me feel better. They don’t fix everything; doing my dishes doesn’t cure my disordered eating or anything like that. But it is helping and I’m still trying and I think that’s all I can hope for right now.

Love you all xx

#rchrants #about something no one cares about

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wickedjaime · 4 years ago

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How GRRM accidentally wrote Jaime as a repressed bisexual (or, why bi!Jaime supporters read it that way)

It’s nigh impossible to go too long in the Jaime and/or Jaime x Brienne fandom without hearing talk of people headcanoning Jaime Lannister as being a bisexual disaster, but from where did this talk derive?

Interpretations of the text, of course! But what could be there, you say? How much so called evidence could there possibly be?

A lot.

A whole lot.

Now, I think we can all agree that any such textual evidence was unintentional on GRRM’s part; it’s more than quite likely that GRRM thinks he’s written Jaime to be a heterosexual man. That doesn’t change what he wrote, though, nor how his writing can be interpreted—or, in this case, has been interpreted.

Bi Jaime headcanons were all born from endless textual bits of evidence concerning Jaime.

My fellow Jaime stans, let me introduce to you all the ways GRRM accidentally made Jam Lan far less heterosexual than he intended.

Unintentional Homoeroticism, Unintentional Homoeroticism Everywhere

There is a plethora of homoerotic imagery and wording throughout Jaime’s interactions and thoughts with the men he has literary connections with—the men he respects and admires, begrudgingly or openly, because he perceives them to be honorable. Those who read Jaime as bi half-joke that, because of the pattern of the sort of men he’s “into,” he’s honorsexual. Though we joke, our humor and our interpretations are all born from the text itself, and how they can be read, especially if the reader isn’t looking through a heteronormative lens. Let’s break ‘em down—in chronological order of Jaime meeting them/falling for them.

Jaime and Brynden Tully (or, slutty questions at dinner tables, with a side of silver fox thirsting)

Brynden “the Blackfish” Tully is example A, the one who started it all—Jaime’s first honorcrush, you could say. Dive in to the quote:

[Lysa Tully] had been a pretty girl, in truth; dimpled and delicate, with long auburn hair. Timid, though. Prone to tongue-tied silences and fits of giggles, with none of Cersei's fire. Her older sister had seemed more interesting, though Catelyn was promised to some northern boy, the heir of Winterfell . . . but at that age, no girl interested Jaime half so much as Hoster's famous brother, who had won renown fighting the Ninepenny Kings upon the Stepstones. At table he had ignored poor Lysa, whilst pressing Brynden Tully for tales of Maelys the Monstrous and the Ebon Prince. (AFFC, Jaime V)

This paragraph pretty much sums it up. Young Jaime found the Tully sisters to be attractive; he thought Lysa was pretty, but he was only legitimately attracted to Catelyn (we’ll dive into that later on). And yet, he ignored them both to chat up their uncle—who is quite likely to be gay himself, but that’s another topic.

Now obviously, this wasn’t written to have non-hetero subtext or connotations—GRRM wanted to stress that Jaime hero-worshipped Brynden because of his fighting prowess and achievements on the battlefield, so much so that he ignored two pretty girls, even one he was actually attracted to, in order to speak with said hero.

But... the phrasing and wording of it all:

Her older sister had seemed more interesting [...] but at that age, no girl interested Jaime half so much as Hoster's famous brother. [...] At table he had ignored poor Lysa, whilst pressing Brynden Tully for tales of Maelys the Monstrous and the Ebon Prince.

He ignored Lysa, a pretty girl, and Catelyn, the girl he was actually into, because no girl was more interesting than Brynden Tully. What a way to phrase that, right.

But that was pre-canon. What does Jaime think about Brynden currently?

[Brynden] Tully had a craggy face, deeply lined and windburnt beneath a shock of stiff grey hair, but Jaime could still see the great knight who had once enthralled a squire with tales of the Ninepenny Kings. (AFFC Jaime VI)

Enthralled. Do you know how strong of a word that is?

Let’s have Merriam-Webster define it:

Enthrall: to hold spellbound; charm

To hold spellbound. Jaime was spellbound by Brynden Tully. Charmed.

What an intense adjective to describe a teen’s hero worship. It’s a word with heavy romantic connotations to it, far more appropriate to describe an infatuation, or romantic relationship. You’d think GRRM would save such language for describing Jaime’s feelings for Cersei, but no, GRRM used it for Brynden. LOL. Out of all the words GRRM could use to describe Jaime’s attachment to Brynden, that’s the one he chose? And we’re not supposed to read that as homoerotic? Byeeeeee

So, to revise Jaime’s recollection concerning the time he ignored the Tully sisters to chat up their uncle: no girl was more interesting than Brynden Tully, the knight who Jaime was enthralled by.

Still not seeing it? Let’s look at the whole line:

[...] but Jaime could still see the great knight who had once enthralled a squire with tales of the Ninepenny Kings.

Jaime can still see the knight who had enthralled his teenaged self. So you could say that if he still sees that man, even now, that means that he is... still enthralled by Brynden. Still spellbound. Still... charmed.

And can we talk about the whole paragraph?

Tully had a craggy face, deeply lined and windburnt beneath a shock of stiff grey hair, but Jaime could still see the great knight who had once enthralled a squire with tales of the Ninepenny Kings.

That’s a medieval way of saying “Yeah you got older, but you’re still a snack.”

Like. Jaime really out here saying that Brynden Tully has aged like fine wine. How hetero of him.

Also, haha, I looked up “craggy,”—the word Jaime used to describe Brynden’s face—on my computer’s dictionary, and, WELL:

BAHAHAHAHAHA Jaime: He’s old and rugged but in a SEXY way I mean have you ever SEEN a silver fox like this

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAA

So, revising again: No girl was more interesting to Jaime than Brynden Tully, the ruggedly attractive knight who Jaime was, and arguably still is, enthralled by.

You can’t get any straighter than that, I’d say. And somehow, when you breakdown Jaime’s relationship Arthur Dayne, it only gets straighter.

Jaime and Arthur Dayne (or, symbolic virginity loss, ghosts living in Jaime’s head rent free, and putting a ring cloak on it)

Arthur Dayne is the second honorcrush of Jaime’s, but the most vital. As the man who knighted Jaime and mentored him, Arthur Dayne is Jaime’s ultimate symbol for honor and the zenith of knighthood, and imperative to Jaime’s characterization and story.

He’s also the one who provides us with a shit ton of homoeroticism in Jaime’s chapters, even years after his death, as Jaime thinks about him all the time.

And he'd held his own against the Smiling Knight, though it was Ser Arthur who slew him. What a fight that was, and what a foe. The Smiling Knight was a madman, cruelty and chivalry all jumbled up together, but he did not know the meaning of fear. And Dayne, with Dawn in hand . . . The outlaw's longsword had so many notches by the end that Ser Arthur had stopped to let him fetch a new one. "It's that white sword of yours I want," the robber knight told him as they resumed, though he was bleeding from a dozen wounds by then. "Then you shall have it, ser," the Sword of the Morning replied, and made an end of it. (ASOS, Jaime VIII)

Jaime reminisces about the first time he spent time with Arthur, when they fought the Smiling Knight and his goons. Similarly to Jaime’s memories of Brynden, most of the language Jaime uses can be read as romantic in tone, or flowery.

First, we have this:

What a fight that was, and what a foe.

Jaime is in awe of Arthur’s skill in battle. It reminds me of this:

Jaime had done many wicked things, but the man could fight! (AFFC, Brienne I)

Here, you could say Brienne is the young Jaime to a seasoned Jaime’s Arthur—expressing admiration for a more experienced warrior’s fighting skills in a dreamy or fangirlish manner. And while that’s true, we can’t forget the other connotations here. Considering the fact that Brienne is very much in love with Jaime—and so, any admiration she’d have for him is laced with sexual and romantic attraction—to have these lines be so similar does no favors for the “Jaime is straight,” narrative GRRM thought he wrote.

Jaime goes on:

And Dayne, with Dawn in hand...

This line is quite dreamy—you can practically hear Jaime fangirl sigh while thinking it. Dreamy is the only way to describe it; you even have the ellipsis to seal the deal. An ellipsis, a tool writers use to show a character is lost for words. Again, language. A writer isn’t going to put an ellipsis for no reason, especially in inner monologue. The ellipsis also implies that Jaime is stopping himself from full blown waxing poetic tributes about Arthur—showing restraint, living in denial, as a repressed bisexual or gay man from a medieval society might.

While thinking of Arthur on the battlefield, at his best—and, by a warrior’s standards, his most beautiful—Jaime is lost for words. Lost for words, while reminiscing of Arthur, and how amazing he looked on the battlefield, holding his sword, Dawn.

Swords. Something we know is constantly used as a euphemism for penises in GRRM’s writing. It wasn’t supposed to be one here, but, hey, with the dreamlike, fangirly energy exuding from this line, it does come to mind.

Now, to this:

The outlaw's longsword had so many notches by the end that Ser Arthur had stopped to let him fetch a new one. "It's that white sword of yours I want," the robber knight told him as they resumed, though he was bleeding from a dozen wounds by then. "Then you shall have it, ser," the Sword of the Morning replied, and made an end of it.

Jaime has full recollection of a scene and conversation he wasn’t even a part of from almost twenty years ago. Such a fixation, especially in fiction, is used to demonstrate a character’s fanboyism, yes (and that’s what GRRM was going for here, as well as showing that an older Jaime, in his trauma and bitterness, longs for what he considers the good old days, and is recollecting these events through a nostalgic lens) but more often than not, fixations such as this are usually reserved for romantic imagery. Jaime remembers how well Arthur won the battle by describing all the wounds the Smiling Knight had, and the Smiling Knight’s dialogue is remembered only to give Arthur’s witty reply context in Jaime’s mind. Every word and sight is preserved within Jaime’s memory to keep Arthur exalted as some angelic figure who remains pure, untainted, legendary, and unyielding in maintaining honor.

And if Arthur is an angelic figure, Jaime is his acolyte. Like an overzealous worshipper, Jaime sees Arthur’s state of being (or rather, the state of being Jaime believes him to have) as the standard so much that it’s gotten to the point of wanting to be him. And because that standard is impossible, he fails constantly. He uses the pedestal he has placed Arthur on to put himself down—remind him of how far he has fallen:

And me, that boy I was . . . when did he die, I wonder? When I donned the white cloak? When I opened Aerys's throat? That boy had wanted to be Ser Arthur Dayne, but someplace along the way he had become the Smiling Knight instead. (ASOS, Jaime VIII)

And even years after Arthur’s death, Jaime craves his approval:

He wondered what Ser Arthur Dayne would have to say of this lot. "How is it that the Kingsguard has fallen so low," most like. "It was my doing," I would have to answer. "I opened the door, and did nothing when the vermin began to crawl inside." (ASOS, Jaime VIII)

Postmortem, Arthur has Jaime’s undying love, his loyalty, his worship.

He also has Jaime’s symbolic virginity.

It had been years since his last vigil. And I was younger then, a boy of fifteen years. He had worn no armor then, only a plain white tunic. The sept where he'd spent the night was not a third as large as any of the Great Sept's seven transepts. Jaime had laid his sword across the Warrior's knees, piled his armor at his feet, and knelt upon the rough stone floor before the altar. When dawn came his knees were raw and bloody. "All knights must bleed, Jaime," Ser Arthur Dayne had said, when he saw. "Blood is the seal of our devotion." With dawn he tapped him on the shoulder; the pale blade was so sharp that even that light touch cut through Jaime's tunic, so he bled anew. He never felt it. A boy knelt; a knight rose. The Young Lion, not the Kingslayer. (AFFC, Jaime I)

In vivid, romantic detail, with the most sensual tone and flowery language possible, Jaime tells us of his knighting, not too long after he and Arthur defeated the Kingswood Brotherhood. And these details are brimming with sexual and romantic imagery, even marriage symbolism.

First, the setting. Jaime was knighted in a sept, a Westerosi church. In our own world, most weddings are held in churches. The setting fuels the marriage imagery here, and is its backbone.

Then we get to Jaime’s appearance. He is wearing white. White, the color of purity; a color associated with virginity in Western societies. Since Jaime was knighted before he had sex with Cersei in that inn on Eel Alley, it’s possible that Jaime was literally a virgin, here—as, considering how important Eel Alley is to Jaime, it seems that that was the first time he and Cersei went all the way, so that means that most likely, Jaime was literally and metaphorically a virgin at the time of his knighting. Either way, in a knightly sense, Jaime is a virgin, as he is about to become one and receive his title.

White is also the color most brides wear to their weddings—in our world, at least. The imagery reminds the reader of the traditions in our own world, whether or not it’s one in Westeros. So, by wearing white in a church, Jaime looks the part of someone about to be married. A virgin, awaiting their wedding ceremony.

Onto the actual knighting, where the sexual and marriage imagery intertwines. During a knighting, vows are made, just as vows are made during a wedding. The vows are similar—both make promises of loyalty, honesty, faithfulness, and most importantly, devotion. And Jaime is devoted to Arthur—he literally spends hours upon hours on his knees, awaiting Arthur’s arrival. He knelt so long that his knees bled open. Arthur even makes the blood symbolize he and Jaime’s bond, saying that blood is “the seal of their devotion.”

And that seal works in a pure manner as much as a carnal one. The image of staying on one’s knees for someone evokes both religious and sexual imagery. When most people pray, they do it on their knees... but, there’s also another reason someone would stay on their knees so long they’ve bled for someone—if they’re giving oral sex.

The religious imagery of bleeding knees while praying checks out. Jaime does worship Arthur, in a way, far more than he does the actual gods of the Seven. Symbolism for praying to show Jaime’s respect for knighthood, and especially Arthur, fits well, but also stresses his love for Arthur.

And the sexual imagery, well. Let’s look at the line in question:

When dawn came his knees were raw and bloody.

Arthur’s sword is named Dawn. Swords are metaphorical penises in ASOIAF more often than not. And dawn came. While Jaime was on his knees. So long that his knees had bled. Yeah. Read in a different light, that sentence can mean something way more explicit than intended.

Obviously, in the sentence itself, the dawn being referred to is the literal dawn—sunrise. But again, double speak. And if you combine this with all of the sexual imagery up next, it only becomes more potent.

So, Arthur knights Jaime. Let’s look at that quote closer:

When dawn came his knees were raw and bloody. "All knights must bleed, Jaime," Ser Arthur Dayne had said, when he saw. "Blood is the seal of our devotion." With dawn he tapped him on the shoulder; the pale blade was so sharp that even that light touch cut through Jaime's tunic, so he bled anew. He never felt it. A boy knelt; a knight rose.

Arthur has Dawn wielded, and he uses it to knight Jaime. He is gentle when he touches Jaime with the sword, only using “a light touch,” and tries not to hurt Jaime, but Dawn is so sharp that it penetrates through Jaime’s clothes and skin anyway. When looked through the “sword = penis” lens, Arthur’s actions symbolize a man gently taking his lover’s virginity.

The lost virginity metaphor resides in the cut itself. Jaime’s white tunic—white, the color of virgins and purity, the color of brides—is slashed by Dawn’s gentle touch, and his shoulder bleeds. Blood that is most likely virginal in a literal sense, but most certainly in a metaphorical one, as it bleeds through torn white clothing, and the blood belongs to one who has just become a knight, something he hadn’t been before.

Jaime also describes his wound from Dawn’s cut as “bleeding anew.” This evokes the imagery of one becoming undone in a physical and spiritual sense, one where the person in question has transcended beyond describable feeling. It’s like a religious awakening, which coincides with the worship aspect Jaime has toward Arthur and knighthood—but also an orgasm, especially one experienced by someone who has never had one before (and Jaime is that someone, in this case, as he’s either a virgin, or at least sexually inexperienced). That sense of euphoria continues with Jaime’s lack of awareness with the cut itself—he is in so much awe of what is happening that he never even felt the pain of the cut.

And after the state of becoming anew—which you could say is the afterglow of the knighting, the virginity loss—Jaime says this:

A boy knelt; a knight rose.

After being penetrated with Arthur’s sword, and bleeding through his white tunic, he is no longer a boy. He is a knight—an adult. A man. In Westeros, people refer to male teens—boys—losing their virginities as them “becoming a man.” That Jaime sees himself as becoming a man after bleeding from Arthur Dayne’s metaphorical penis’ cut only supports the sexual undertones of lost virginity.

I’d also like to point out that Arthur calls Jaime by his first name here—not “my lord.” This is vital. In this society, the highborn do not call each other by their first name unless there is a closeness between them, an intimacy, be it a platonic or romantic one. Considering the gentleness on display on Arthur’s part here, that he calls Jaime by his name shows the trust they share, specifically Jaime’s love and trust in Arthur, and Arthur’s respect of that love and trust. It only further shapes the imagery of a man gently taking someone’s virginity with someone he is close with.

In terms of imagery, Jaime’s knighting is not unlike his swordfight with Brienne, which was filled with double-speak, marriage symbolism, and sexual innuendos. Just as Arthur cuts Jaime’s white virginal tunic with his symbolic penis, so does Jaime cut Brienne’s inner thigh with his symbolic penis:

His point scraped past her parry and bit into her upper thigh. A red flower blossomed, and Jaime had an instant to savor the sight of her blood […] (ASOS, Jaime III)

Both young Jaime and Brienne’s virginal blood spill at the cuts, and in both instances, Jaime is enthralled by the bleeding. With Brienne’s blood, he “savors the sight,” and with his own bloodshed he is so lost in wonderment that he “never felt” the cut.

It’s both hilarious and beautiful that there are so many parallels with Jaime’s knighting by Arthur to the sex and marriage metaphor that masquerades as Jaime’s swordfight with Brienne. Brienne, who is Jaime’s canonical love interest. Like. GRRM legit wrote Jaime to have similar sexual and romantic scenarios and imagery with his female love interest... and a man. You can’t do that and just not expect me to see Jaime’s bisexual energy. You just can’t. The fact that both scenes work so well and are emotionally evocative just makes the whole thing even better.

Yep. With exaltation years after death, and the symbolization of marriage and lost virginity, Jaime and Arthur have a dynamic that is sensual, strong, devoted, and, most importantly for this meta—lacking heterosexuality.

Jaime and Rhaegar Targaryen (or, “Notice me, senpai!” plus way too detailed reminiscing)

Jaime’s crush on Rhaegar isn’t as prolific as the other dynamics listed in this analysis, but I still find it worth noting. Jaime respected Prince Rhaegar, and feels tremendous guilt over not being able to save him or his children, Rhaenys and Aegon.

But there’s a bit of a crush energy to Jaime’s views on Rhaegar. Here’s Jaime’s memory of the last time he and Rhaegar ever spoke.

The day had been windy when he said farewell to Rhaegar, in the yard of the Red Keep. The prince had donned his night-black armor, with the three-headed dragon picked out in rubies on his breastplate. "Your Grace," Jaime had pleaded, "let Darry stay to guard the king this once, or Ser Barristan. Their cloaks are as white as mine."

Prince Rhaegar shook his head. "My royal sire fears your father more than he does our cousin Robert. He wants you close, so Lord Tywin cannot harm him. I dare not take that crutch away from him at such an hour."

Jaime's anger had risen up in his throat. "I am not a crutch. I am a knight of the Kingsguard."

"Then guard the king," Ser Jon Darry snapped at him. "When you donned that cloak, you promised to obey."

Rhaegar had put his hand on Jaime's shoulder. "When this battle's done I mean to call a council. Changes will be made. I meant to do it long ago, but ... well, it does no good to speak of roads not taken. We shall talk when I return."

Those were the last words Rhaegar Targaryen ever spoke to him. Outside the gates an army had assembled, whilst another descended on the Trident. So the Prince of Dragonstone mounted up and donned his tall black helm, and rode forth to his doom. (AFFC, Jaime I)

What catches the eye is the immense detail. Just like Jaime’s memories of Arthur—whom we know he thirsted for—every single detail of Rhaegar is immortalized in Jaime’s brain—what Rhaegar wore, what the weather was like, exactly what was said. And it makes sense for Jaime to remember all of this so vividly—the Rebellion was an incredibly traumatizing time for Jaime, and it was the last time he ever saw Rhaegar alive.

At the same time, we have things like Jaime remembering that Rhaegar touched him, as well as his appearance. It’s relatively innocuous things to remember so vividly without a hint of romantic connotations being there, and as such, probably wouldn’t stand out in JonCon’s recollections of Rhaegar, who was definitely in love with him.

There’s also the matter of Jaime begging Rhaegar to take him with him to battle. Jaime was understandably eager to get away from Aerys, but I think he also wanted nothing more than to protect Rhaegar, the prince that he loved and respected. The prince he wished he was king.

This particular line should be noted:

"Your Grace," Jaime had pleaded, "let Darry stay to guard the king this once, or Ser Barristan. Their cloaks are as white as mine."

Jaime calls Rhaegar “Your Grace,” the title meant for kings or queens, not princes. It’s a strange thing, and, to my knowledge, no prince or princess is ever called “Your Grace,” in the entire series besides this one instance. It’s most likely author error, as Jaime outwardly calling Rhaegar by the king’s title is open treason, but in universe, it works at least for Jaime’s character. He sees Rhaegar as his king, and he wants to leave with him—maybe even die with him.

We also get a bit of “Notice me, senpai!” energy from the “their cloaks are as white as mine,” line. Jaime wants to prove his worth as a Kingsguard, but he also wants Rhaegar to see him. For someone who isn’t a weeb and, therefore, isn’t familiar with that trope (which seems to be more prevalent in anime than Western media) the connotation wouldn’t click, but for me... I don’t know, it just has that tone of the subordinate wanting their dreamy superior to take an interest in them.

Either way, on its own, Jaime’s loyalty and oddly vivid memory of Rhaegar is standard hero worship, but when you combine it with everything else in this meta, it’s worth mentioning, and doesn’t come off as straight as it’s meant to be.

Jaime and Ned Stark (or, villainous dick on the hero’s chest feat. obsession and boyfriend envy)

Jaime and Ned were a thing. On Jaime’s end, especially—and by that, I mean that Jaime is fucking obsessed with the guy. Ned lives in Jaime’s head rent free almost as much as Main Honor Boyfriend Arthur does.

And yeah, we all know why. Ned was the one who walked in on Jaime sitting on the Iron Throne, right above where Aerys Targaryen’s freshly murdered corpse grew cold. Ned was the first person to judge Jaime for his actions, and Jaime has never forgotten it. He’s seemed to have used Ned as a symbol for all the hatred and judgement he’s received for killing Aerys—a single representation of how the world perceives him, post Rebellion.

Ned remembers this moment in vivid detail, as well:

“Aerys was dead on the floor, drowned in his own blood. His dragon skulls stared down from the walls. Lannister’s men were everywhere. Jaime wore the white cloak of the Kingsguard over his golden armor. I can see him still. Even his sword was gilded. He was seated on the Iron Throne, high above his knights, wearing a helm fashioned in the shape of a lion’s head. How he glittered!”

“I stopped in front of the throne, looking up at him. His golden sword was across his legs, its edge red with a king’s blood. My men were filling the room behind me. Lannister’s men drew back. I never said a word. I looked at him seated there on the throne, and I waited. At last Jaime laughed and got up. He took off his helm, and he said to me, ‘Have no fear, Stark. I was only keeping it warm for our friend Robert. It’s not a very comfortable seat, I’m afraid.’” (AGOT, Eddard II)

But the thing is, Ned isn’t as obsessed with the incident as Jaime is—for obvious reasons. He has no fond memories of Jaime, nor does he approve of him, but he is relatively unbothered by the man, beyond the few times in which he is forced to interact with him, or discuss him.

Meanwhile, Jaime is...

You had no right to judge me either, Stark. (ASOS, Jaime II)

"Do you think the noble Lord of Winterfell wanted to hear my feeble explanations? Such an honorable man. He only had to look at me to judge me guilty." (ASOS, Jaime V)

"By what right does the wolf judge the lion? By what right?" (ASOS, Jaime V)

Only [Eddard Stark’s] eyes had spoken; a lord's eyes, cold and grey and full of judgment. (ASOS, Jaime VI)

[...] but the Blackfish was looking at him the way that Eddard Stark had looked at him when he'd found him on the Iron Throne with the Mad King's blood upon his blade. (AFFC, Jaime VI)

...quite fixated on Ned’s disapproval of him.

Now, the author’s intent behind Jaime’s fixation with Ned is clearly that Jaime subconsciously respects and admires Ned; he sees him as an honorable man, so it hurts that much more for someone of Ned’s standing to find him dishonorable, when Jaime wants nothing more than to be a peer with someone like Ned—which is why, as a coping mechanism, Jaime has taken that respect, admiration, and hurt, and twisted it into disdain and resentment. In a way, Jaime craves Ned’s approval just as he craves Arthur’s—postmortem, especially.

On paper, this dynamic is not romantic or sexual within itself—it’s simply two rivals connected through judgement and underlying trauma, where one character unknowingly manifests as an essential catalyst for the other character’s motivation and backstory. On paper, this dynamic can be quite heterosexual.

The execution of it, however, is anything but.

Jaime’s fixation on Ned is constant, and never loses potency; years later, it lives on, restless, even after Ned’s death—especially after Ned’s death. Ned Stark’s effect on Jaime Lannister is so powerful that you could literally organize Jaime’s life as Before Ned’s Judging Gaze and After Ned’s Judging Gaze, and, that... is inherently essential and specific enough in its intensity to have romantic and sexual connotations, whether GRRM intended it to or not. It’s difficult to write a connection that strong between two characters without it being just the slightest bit sensual, at the very least—or in this case, full blown homoerotic—and GRRM, to my utter Jaime x Ned shipper’s glee, failed to do so.

Not to mention that there is so

“I can see him still.” (AGOT, Eddard II)

much

“How he glittered!”

STARING

[...] through the night and the rain, he glimpsed the white of Jaime's smile (AGOT, Eddard IX)

“He only had to look at me to judge me guilty.” (ASOS, Jaime V)

BETWEEN THEM

Only [Eddard Stark’s] eyes had spoken; a lord's eyes, cold and grey and full of judgment. (ASOS, Jaime VI)

Ned could see rain running down his face. (AGOT, Eddard IX)

The backdrop for Jaime and Ned’s dynamic is one dipped in homoeroticism if one interprets Jaime’s obsession beyond what GRRM intended. And that backdrop fuels a certain scene between them that is kinda... sexy.

“I’m looking for my brother. You remember my brother, don’t you, Lord Stark?” (AGOT, Eddard IX)

Yes. This scene.

To recap: Catelyn Stark has kidnapped and arrested Tyrion Lannister on charges of Bran Stark’s attempted murder. Jaime, being a protective big bro (but still in his villainous fuckboy phase) doesn’t take it well, and confronts Ned over Tyrion’s kidnapping, with the intent to murder him for his family’s transgression. After being reminded by Ned that if Jaime kills him, Catelyn will kill Tyrion, Jaime goes down the petty route and chooses to order Ned’s men murdered, instead.

This confrontation is many things. Violent, shocking, dark—

—and beyond sexually tense.

First, imagery:

Ser Jaime ripped his longsword from its sheath and urged his stallion forward. “Show me your steel, Lord Eddard. I’ll butcher you like Aerys if I must, but I’d sooner you died with a blade in your hand.” (AGOT, Eddard IX)

Now, I think it’s not much to say that fighting and sex are heavily acquainted with one another in GRRM’s writing—he writes his male characters to become aroused during battle, and most of them sate their lust afterward with camp followers and the like. And we’ve already established that, in ASOIAF, swords are endlessly used as euphemisms and metaphors for penises.

Ser Jaime ripped his longsword from its sheath and urged his stallion forward.

Jaime ripped his sword from its sheath. Check the language there—ripped. In a literal sense, he’s only brandished his weapon in a rough manner. Metaphorically, ripping a sword from a sheath evokes the imagery of rough, violent sex. Sheaths are usually euphemisms for vaginas in GRRM’s work, but in this case, it works for anuses as well. Jaime plans to fight/kill Ned—or, metaphorically, “fuck him up his arse,” which is a phrase crude men in this setting use all the time to describe besting other men, physically or mentally.

There’s also the matter of Jaime “urging his stallion forward,” right after showing Ned his metaphorical penis. Stallions, symbolically, are associated with male virility, particularly concerning their penises, or sexuality. “Stallion,” in slang or informal language, is a term for men with large penises, or, at the very least, men who exhibit sexual aggression and skill. This further strengthens the intense, unyielding, violent sexual tension between Jaime and Ned in this scene. And not just regular sexual tension, either; considering the bad blood between the men, you could say this line brings about not just imagery of rough sex, but specifically hatesex.

And all of that is just from one fucking line. It gets even more tense. And gayer.

“Show me your steel, Lord Eddard.”

Jaime has already taken out his sword—his penis—and he’s asking Ned to take his out, as well. Not just take it out, but show it to Jaime. Mmhmm.

Also, there’s the fact that the line "Show me your steel,” sounds a lot like this:

"Give me the sword, Kingslayer."

"Oh, I will." (ASOS, Jaime III)

Both lines have similar energies—the identical aggression, the same mirroring contempt... even a twined context and theme, since Jaime and Ned’s dynamic and the conflict of their dynamic is centered around honor, and Brienne, at that time of that quote, held conflict with Jaime concerning honor and judgment, just as Ned did.

But most importantly, considering the fact that Jaime and Brienne’s fight in A Storm of Swords was filled to the brim with a plethora of sexual symbolism concerning swords, and the line “Give me the sword,” basically means, “Give me the dick”... well, “Show me your steel,” could certainly be used to mean show me your dick. And the fact that Brienne is Jaime’s love interest makes the parallel even more sexual. Jaime commanding a similar thing to Ned Stark that his love interest commands of him later on—something that was purposefully written to be a sexual innuendo—does nothing but rake up the homosexual energy here, and further stomp on any heterosexual “just two rivals having a pissing contest” imagery GRRM seemed to be going for.

And it’s still not over. No.

It gets. GAYER.

Jaime Lannister poked at Ned’s chest with the gilded sword that had sipped the blood of the last of the Dragonkings.

Do I even need to explain why this line is gay as fuck?

Jaime’s holding his sword, his metaphorical penis, and is putting it on Ned’s chest. Not just touching him with it, but poking. Poking, which is certainly a verb you could use to describe an erect penis touching skin, especially a body part like the chest. This further coincides with GRRM loving to associate sexual arousal with violence in his work. Jaime’s at full mast here, and he’s ready to go—thing is, considering all the unintentional layers of the relationship between GRRM’s violence and sex metaphors, it reads more like he’s ready to not only fight, but fuck, too.

The body part GRRM chose is a chef’s kiss, too. He could have had Jaime aim the sword at Ned’s throat, or right between the eyes. But no. He chooses the chest. Perhaps he was going for the “he wants to stab Ned in the heart,” kind of thing but, yeah, not working, my guy. When metaphorical dicks start touching chests after a slew of sexual innuendos has risen, there’s really no going back, is there?

Something else great about this is the phrasing and language Ned chooses to use here. Jaime’s “gilded” sword sipped the last of Dragonkings’ blood, huh? By R’hllor, that reads like the point of view of a poetic, naive maiden, swooning over the bad boy who’s about to seduce her. And yeah, this is about Jaime’s side of things, not Ned’s, but I want to stress here that the sexual tension in this scene is far from one-sided.

But here’s the true beauty of this line—which says a lot, because everything about this line is beyond gorgeously gay. This line comes after Jaime has ripped his sword from his sheath and commanded Ned to show him his steel—or rather, after Jaime has taken out his penis and asked Ned to show his own penis to Jaime’s.

So now, we have an order to these sexual metaphors. First, Jaime ripped out his sword from its sheath (in this context, the sheath being his pants or underwear). By doing so, metaphorically, Jaime was undressing—exposing his penis.

And now, he’s touching Ned with it.

So, the order of Jaime’s literal actions toward Ned coincide with the usual order of sex; typically, people take off their clothes before they start going at it.

And then, we reach the end:

“Kill me,” he warned the Kingslayer, “and Catelyn will most certainly slay Tyrion.”

Jaime Lannister poked at Ned’s chest with the gilded sword that had sipped the blood of the last of the Dragonkings. “Would she? The noble Catelyn Tully of Riverrun murder a hostage? I think … not.” He sighed. “But I am not willing to chance my brother’s life on a woman’s honor.” Jaime slid the golden sword into its sheath. “So I suppose I’ll let you run back to Robert to tell him how I frightened you. I wonder if he’ll care.” Jaime pushed his wet hair back with his fingers and wheeled his horse around. (AGOT, Eddard IX)

Ned reminds Jaime that his murder would bring about Tyrion’s, so Jaime abstains. He sheaths his sword—or, puts his dick back in his pants—and then he.... flips his hair, and leaves.

Flips his hair.

I just. It’s so flirty. Even out of context it’s flirty, considering Jaime’s flamboyant personality, but in context? With all the metaphors we’ve just broken down?

Bruh.

Let’s repeat the order here. Jaime rips his sword from his sheath, a.k.a. undresses, because he’s ready for some hatesex. He commands Ned to take out his sword, a.k.a. undress and show Jaime his penis. Ned warns him that he and Tyrion’s life are connected; you can’t kill one without the other dying. Jaime wants Tyrion to live. So he can’t fight Ned—the hatesex can’t happen. They are interrupted. No penetration took place—just some stripping, and a little chest-to-dick action. Jaime dresses, then flips his hair as he turns to leave.

Am I the only one getting imagery of someone flirting with their fuck buddy after a sex session? Hair flipping is an action done to entice the person watching; it’s a sensual movement performed by models, dancers, and any celebrity who uses sex as part of their brand all the time.

It’s flirting. Jaime is flirting with Ned.

And honestly, Jaime has lowkey been flirting with Ned during the entirety of this scene. Teasing him:

“The wolves are howling,” their leader said. Ned could see rain running down his face. “Such a small pack, though.”

“He was the Hand of the King.” The mud muffled the hooves of the blood bay stallion. The line parted before him. On a golden breastplate, the lion of Lannister roared its defiance. “Now, if truth be told, I’m not sure what he is.”

“I’m looking for my brother. You remember my brother, don’t you, Lord Stark? He was with us at Winterfell. Fair-haired, mismatched eyes, sharp of tongue. A short man.”

“You would not perchance have any notion of who might have wished my brother ill, would you?”

Jaime Lannister smiled.

[...] through the night and the rain, he glimpsed the white of Jaime’s smile [...]

Jaime’s drawing this out, having fun with it. Its predator taunting its prey—or, specifically, since Jaime is a lion of Lannister—a cat, pawing at his favorite enemy. The tone of Jaime’s dialogue is very much like a flirtatious villain who lowkey wants to fuck the hero.

And, most wonderfully, Ned knows he’s being teased, too, and Jaime himself admits to it:

“What do you think you’re doing?” [Littlefinger said.] “He knows what he’s doing,” Ned said calmly. Jaime Lannister smiled. “Quite true.”

And again, Ned isn’t helping the scene get any straighter. I already sort of mentioned how Ned and Jaime do nothing but stare at each other, but this scene really shows that, especially through Ned’s point of view. Throughout this scene, Ned is constantly describing Jaime.

What he wears:

On a golden breastplate, the lion of Lannister roared its defiance.

The times he smiles:

Jaime Lannister smiled.

The way he smiles:

Ned glimpsed the white of Jaime’s smile [...]

The wetness of his hair, and the way he combs his fingers through it:

Jaime pushed his wet hair back with his fingers [...]

And the fucking rain streaming down his face:

Ned could see rain running down his face.

(And yeah, it’s raining during this entire scene. As if we needed any more romantic imagery.)

There’s also Ned’s attention to Jaime’s sword—you know, his dick. First, Ned calls it “gilded.” Then, “golden.” The descriptors are not only flowery—again, evoking the imagery of an infatuated maiden taken by the bad boy—but they also tell us that Ned is watching this sword. Not taking his eyes off that dick.

And yes, in this scene, Ned’s constant observations of Jaime is meant to show that Ned is a warrior on alert, wary of a fight, preparing for battle... but we’ve already established GRRM’s insistence on intertwining swordfighting with sex, and his inability to make Jaime and Ned’s interactions fully hetero in nature.

Plus, when you remember how vivid Ned’s reminisce about Jaime’s appearance was...

“[...] Jaime wore the white cloak of the Kingsguard over his golden armor. I can see him still. Even his sword was gilded. He was seated on the Iron Throne, high above his knights, wearing a helm fashioned in the shape of a lion’s head. How he glittered!”

...it all just comes together. When it comes to Jaime, Ned is the “I am looking respectfully,” meme—but looking disrespectfully, since he has beef with homeboy. He is just so aware of Jaime’s physicality and external self, almost as aware as Jaime is of Ned’s internal self, his judgment of him—a judgment that haunts Jaime, and fuels his obsession over Ned. An obsession that is lined with sexual and romantic connotations.

Thing is though, the hatesex scene doesn’t just give us hatesex imagery; it also gives us more insight into Jaime’s emotions regarding Ned. Not all of Jaime’s dialogue with Ned is flirtatious or teasing; some of it is passive aggressive, and referencing Jaime’s issues concerning Ned’s disapproval of him:

“I’ll butcher you like Aerys if I must, but I’d sooner you died with a blade in your hand.”

Jaime unnecessarily brings up Aerys’ death, the very thing that causes the conflict between Jaime and Ned in the first place. As a coping mechanism, Jaime plays the part of the sadistic, violent, evil Kingslayer, the role society put him in after Aerys’ death. He reinforces Ned’s negative opinion of Jaime by bragging about killing Aerys, when in reality, he is incredibly bothered by the fact that Ned judges him for killing Aerys. He doubles down on the conflict between them to present the illusion that he’s comfortable with Ned’s feelings toward him, but the reader knows the truth—Jaime is hurt by Ned, even all these years later.

What stresses this even more is this random, odd line about Robert:

“So I suppose I’ll let you run back to Robert to tell him how I frightened you. I wonder if he’ll care.”

Now, upon first reading, this doesn’t sound too impactful. Jaime is just insulting Ned for using Robert as protection, yeah? No big deal.

Except Jaime says this to Catelyn, in the next book:

“As for your Ned, he should have kissed the hand that slew Aerys, but he preferred to scorn the arse he found sitting on Robert's throne." (ACOK, Catelyn VII)

Jaime makes it clear here that he hates the fact that Ned judges him, but supports Robert.

And it makes sense—Robert was a man who sneered at and dehumanized the butchered corpses of children, publicly shamed his wife by parading around his mistresses and creating bastards where ever he went, beat and raped his wife, and chose to drink and whore instead of running his kingdom. He is far from honorable, yet Ned Stark supports him... all while shaming Jaime for being dishonorable. Jaime finds this hypocritical, and it makes Ned’s disapproval of him hurt that much more, but also enrage him.

But that’s not all Jaime reveals to Cat regarding his take on Ned and Robert:

“I think Ned Stark loved Robert better than he ever loved his brother or his father . . . or even you, my lady. He was never unfaithful to Robert, was he?"

In Jaime’s eyes, Ned loves Robert more than he ever loved his brother Brandon, his father, even his wife—and especially more than Jaime, who he loves not at all. That part goes unsaid, but it doesn’t need to be spoken—the fact that Jaime randomly throws jabs about Ned and Robert’s relationship in the most bitter way possible more than once says it enough. Ned loves Robert. Robert, a man who is just as dishonorable as Jaime, if not more. The hypocrisy is salt in Jaime’s Ned-shaped wound.

But it’s more than just salt.

Jaime is jealous. He is jealous of Robert, because for all of his dishonorable flaws and shortcomings, he has Eddard Stark’s love, and Jaime does not. He is jealous of Ned and Robert’s relationship. He is like a scorned, rejected suitor, seething from afar at the one his crush chose instead of him.

And the fact that Jaime talks about them as if they’re boyfriends only makes that imagery stronger.

“He was never unfaithful to Robert, was he?”

Sure, Jaime’s just joking here, and is purposefully saying cruel things to hurt Catelyn, so he throws in her face that, while Ned cheated on her, he never “cheated” on Robert, his king—never forsook him, never betrayed him, never went turncloak. At least, that seems to be the authorial intent behind the line.

But here’s the thing. Firstly, during this conversation with Cat, Jaime is drunk as fuck:

As he laughed, she realized the wine had done its work; Jaime had drained most of the flagon, and he was drunk. (ACOK, Catelyn VII)

And, you know, in vino veritas. Many people argue that a drunk man’s words are a sober man’s thoughts. I wouldn’t say Jaime is exempt from that.

Secondly, the fact that Jaime not only compared Ned’s loyalty to Robert to a faithful lover, but be jealous of that dynamic, does nothing but add to the homoerotic subtext in his own dynamic with Ned. And considering all of Nedbert’s homoerotic subtext (“Muscled like a maiden’s dream,” anyone?) Jaime being jealous of it just comes off as homosexually charged, as opposed to a heterosexual man being outraged at Ned’s hypocrisy, and nothing more.

Also, quick side note. This...

“He should have kissed the hand that slew Aerys.”

and this...

You ought to be blowing me kisses, wench, he wanted to tell her. (ASOS, Jaime VII)

...are pretty similar. In both scenes, Jaime is frustrated with Brienne and Ned, upset that they’ve interpreted his good intentions to be dishonorable (with Ned, he misunderstands why Jaime killed Aerys, and with Brienne, she misunderstands why Jaime had her imprisoned).

Jaime gives us his deduction as to why Brienne and everyone else always assumes the worst of him:

Why must they misunderstand every bloody thing he did? Aerys. It all grows from Aerys. (ASOS, Jaime VII)

So Jaime believes that Brienne misunderstood why he imprisoned her because of Aerys... which isn’t really the case with Brienne at this point, but it’s definitely the reason why Ned also misunderstands him. Again, making parallels with Ned and Jaime’s love interest is a lot of things, but straight ain’t one of em.

And to top it all off, with both scenarios, Jaime thinks that, instead of judging him or making negative assumptions, Brienne and Ned should have kissed him.

So, yeah. With intense admiration, repressed hurt over disapproval, jealousy over boyfriends best friends, a whole bunch of staring, and an almost-hatesex scene that reads like a release to an almost twenty year build up of obsession, Jaime Lannister and Ned Stark’s dynamic couldn’t get any homoerotic—nor could Jaime’s bisexuality be any more prevalent.

But it doesn’t even stop there. Brynden, Arthur, and Ned may have been the boyfriends Jaime never had, but there’s a few other men who sexually sparked something in him, but weren’t honorable enough to reach Boyfriend Status.

Let’s get into the randos. And yes, Jaime is so fucking bi that he has random men he thinks about in almost exclusively sexual manners, rather than the romantic subtext he possesses with the male characters he has more of an emotional connection to. There’s a reason why I’m writing this meta, guise.

Miscellaneous Bisexual Shenanigans

Pube staring (feat. clapping asscheeks)

jealous!Jaime is best Jaime. Especially when that jealousy causes him to gift us with grade A 1970s porn novelization snippets:

Jaime had seen Kettleblack naked in the bathhouse, had seen the black hair on his chest, and the coarser thatch between his legs. He pictured that chest pressed against his sister's, that hair scratching the soft skin of her breasts. She would not do that. The Imp lied. Spun gold and black wire tangled, sweaty. Kettleblack's narrow cheeks clenching each time he thrust. (AFFC, Jaime I)

Lol, do I even need to break this one down? While thinking about Cersei cheating on him with Kettleblack, Jaime spends an equal amount of time picturing Cersei and visualizing Kettleblack’s clapping asscheeks—his narrow asscheeks, by the way; Jaime stared at Kettleblack’s ass long enough to know its exact size and shape. How hetero of him.

He also tells us that he got a good look at Kettleblack’s pubic hair when they were in the bathhouse together:

Jaime had seen Kettleblack naked in the bathhouse, had seen the black hair on his chest, and the coarser thatch between his legs.

Just. Just staring. At this guy’s pubic hair. Enough to remember the texture and fullness of it.

Well, it links up with Jaime checking out Cersei’s, Brienne’s, and Hildy’s pubic hair (and, in Brienne’s case, being aroused by it):

Jaime caught a glimpse of the thick blonde bush at the juncture of her thighs as she climbed out. She was much hairier than his sister. Absurdly, he felt his cock stir beneath the bathwater. (ASOS, Jaime V)

His glance fell to the water beading in the golden hair between her legs. (AFFC, Cersei V)

[...] she had enough hair between her legs to pass for Bracken's sister [...] (ADWD, Jaime I)

So yeah. Jaime just... likes to stare at people’s pubic hair and analyze it. It’s his thing. Maybe even his kink. And with Kettleblack’s pubes being thrown into the mix, we see that Jaime’s fixation with pubes is not restricted to women. I don’t think I have to explain how this is bisexual as hell.

Dick sucking and hickeys

Jaime and Ilyn Payne’s dynamic is one of mutual understanding and relatability. They are both men who still suffer from Aerys’ tyranny—Jaime, in a psychological and societal sense, and Ilyn, in a physical sense, as Aerys had his tongue removed for praising Tywin.

Jaime seems to understand this, as he offers Ilyn a chance to accompany him to the Riverlands. When he goes to Ilyn’s chambers to give him the offer, we get a brief glance of Ilyn’s living state:

The chambers stank of rotted food, and the rushes were crawling with vermin. As Jaime entered, he almost trod upon a rat. Payne's greatsword rested on a trestle table, beside a whetstone and a greasy oilcloth. The steel was immaculate, the edge glimmering blue in the pale light, but elsewhere piles of soiled clothing were strewn about the floors, and the bits of mail and armor scattered here and there were red with rust. Jaime could not count the broken wine jars. The man cares for naught but killing, he thought, as Ser Ilyn emerged from a bedchamber that reeked of overflowing chamber pots. (AFFC, Jaime III)

Ilyn lives in complete filth. This, to me, reads as a hint that Ilyn suffers from depression, most likely as a result of his trauma post mutilation.

Perhaps because of their shared effects from Aerys’ abuse so many years later, Jaime sees himself in Ilyn, and equates himself and Ilyn as people who just might be capable of bettering themselves:

"His Grace bids me win back his riverlands," Jaime told him. "I would have you with me . . . if you can bear to give up all of this." Silence was his answer, and a long, unblinking stare. But just as he was about to turn and take his leave, Payne had given him a nod. And here he rides. Jaime glanced at his companion. Perhaps there is yet hope for the both of us. (AFFC, Jaime III)

It’s a somewhat important bond for Jaime to have, and helps further his arc, especially as he and Ilyn become friends, and he starts using Ilyn as a mute therapist.

But you might be asking, what does this have to do with dick sucking and hickeys?

Well, Ilyn becomes Jaime’s sparring partner. Considering everything we’ve discussed about the merging of sex and swordplay in GRRM’s writing, their fight scenes come off as...

Ser Ilyn raised his blade in reply, and Jaime moved at once to the attack. Payne was as rusty as his ringmail, and not so strong as Brienne, yet he met every cut with his own blade, or interposed his shield. They danced beneath the horned moon as the blunted swords sang their steely song. The silent knight was content to let Jaime lead the dance for a while, but finally he began to answer stroke for stroke. Once he shifted to the attack, he caught Jaime on the thigh, on the shoulder, on the forearm. Thrice he made his head ring with cuts to the helm. One slash ripped the shield off his right arm, and almost burst the straps that bound his golden hand to his stump. By the time they lowered their swords he was bruised and battered, but the wine had burned away and his head was clear. "We will dance again," he promised Ser Ilyn. "On the morrow, and the morrow. Every day we'll dance, till I am as good with my left hand as ever I was with the right." (AFFC, Jaime III)

...rather sexual. “Dancing beneath a horned moon” is such an overly pretty way to describe fighting that it sounds like a chaste, old timey way of describing outdoor sex. Jaime’s straps “bursting,” only evokes the imagery of clothes being ripped off carnally. There’s also Ilyn letting Jaime “lead,” for a while but then taking the reins and... giving him the strokes. Good to know Ilyn’s a switch just like Jaime is.

To further push the flowery language of the fight, Jaime thinks of Brienne during this sparring. This only reminds us of the language GRRM used in Jaime and Brienne’s fight, which, again, was riddled with flowery language just as romantic as “dancing beneath a horned moon.”

The swords kissed and sprang apart and kissed again. [...] The dance went on. [...] Steel rang, steel sang, steel screamed and sparked and scraped [...] a red flower blossomed [...] (ASOS, Jaime III)

GRRM even describes the sword fighting as “singing steel” in both scenes, and also compares both fights to a dance. Yeah. It seems that there is no end to GRRM paralleling Jaime’s actions with men to the obviously sexual and romantic actions he has with his actual love interest, Brienne.

To make matters gayer, Jaime equates that flowery, sexual swordfighting with sex in his own dialogue, because of how he refers to the bruises Ilyn gave him. Observe:

Come morning, none of the others was so bold as to make mention of his bruises. Not one of them had heard the sound of swordplay in the night, it would seem. Yet when they climbed back down to camp, Little Lew Piper voiced the question the knights and lordlings dared not ask. Jaime grinned at him. "They have lusty wenches in House Hayford. These are love bites, lad." (AFFC, Jaime III)

Love bites. Out of all the excuses he could have made, he chooses to say the bruises are hickeys?

Jaime even doubles down on this metaphor:

Another bright and blustery day was followed by a cloudy one, then three days of rain. Wind and water made no matter. The column kept its pace, north along the kingsroad, and each night Jaime found some private place to win himself more love bites. (AFFC, Jaime III)

This one is in his inner monologue, so it can’t even be argued that it was just some nonsense he told Little Lew. Add to the fact that he describes getting the hickeys as winning them, plus that he gets the hickeys in a private place each night, it can’t possibly get any more sexual here—

—except that it can. And will. Because it’s Jaime.

They fought inside a stable as a one-eyed mule looked on, and in the cellar of an inn amongst the casks of wine and ale. They fought in the blackened shell of a big stone barn, on a wooded island in a shallow stream, and in an open field as the rain pattered softly against their helms and shields. (AFFC, Jaime III)

This quote comes right after the “winning himself more love bites” line. If you replace the word “fought” with “fucked,” the paragraph would work exactly the same, if not better, considering all of the sexual language and connotations that came before it.

It gets to the point where the prose gets tired of being subtle and just straight up does this:

It was as if Ser Ilyn heard his thoughts. He parried Jaime's last cut lazily and launched a counterattack that drove Jaime back into the river, where his boot slipped out from under him in the mud. He ended on his knees, with the silent knight's sword at his throat and his own lost in the reeds. In the moonlight the pockmarks on Payne's face were large as craters. He made that clacking sound that might have been a laugh and drew his sword up Jaime's throat till the point came to rest between his lips. Only then did he step back and sheathe his steel. (AFFC, Jaime V)

I don’t need to keep reiterating that “sword = dick,” and that, in these sort of contexts, “sheathe = underwear/pants.” We’ve been down this road with both Arthur and Ned’s sections.

So yeah. Ilyn brings Jaime to his knees, and raises his sword up Jaime’s neck so that the point can come between his lips. And Ilyn only sheathed his steel after it came on Jaime’s lips. He sheathes it because he’s done; he’s won the fight. He’s found his release. He’s satisfied.

That’s just. I mean. It’s straight up a dick sucking euphemism. Just right there on the page. Not even slightly hidden like Jaime’s dick sucking metaphor with Arthur. Just. There.

Damn. Should I change this meta’s title to “How GRRM totally wrote Jaime as a repressed bi on purpose?”

Bisexual Voyeurism

Jaime walks in on Jonos Bracken and Hildy having sex:

They were well and truly at it when he entered, so intent on their rutting that neither took any note of his arrival. The woman had her eyes closed. Her hands clutched the coarse brown hair on Bracken's back. She gasped every time he drove into her. His lordship's head was buried in her breasts, his hands locked around her hips. Jaime cleared his throat. "Lord Jonos." (ADWD, Jaime I)

Instead of immediately announcing himself, Jaime chooses to get an eyeful of their rutting beforehand. And, similarly to his fantasy of Cersei and Kettleblack, Jaime gives both the man and the woman equal attention. He takes notice of Hildy’s pleasure—her closed eyes, her gasps, her clutching hands... but he also stares at Bracken’s thick body hair (which probably is a kink for Jaime at this point— he’s checked out people’s body hair way too many times now for it not to be) as well as where his hands are, and what he’s doing with his head and face.

Jaime is checking both Hildy and Bracken out.

After the sex is interrupted, it’s made more than clear that Jaime is still watching them both:

"You are putting those breeches on backwards, my lord," he told Bracken.

Her face was almost as dirty as her feet and she had enough hair between her legs to pass for Bracken's sister, but there was something appealing about her all the same. That pug nose, her shaggy mane of hair … or the way she did a little curtsy after she had stepped into her skirt.

Jonos had finally gotten his breeches turned the right way round and was lacing them up the front.

I mean, what more can I say here? Despite his strong preferences for people who he perceives to be honorable, Jaime is still outchea thirsting for every man and woman in Westeros especially if they’re super hairy. None of these hoes are exempt!

And yet, despite the unending thirst, Jaime is a monogamous, highly romantic man, and as such, has significant ties to those he’s taken a legitimate romantic interest in.

Yeah, that’s right. Time to talk about Jaime’s taste in women, and how even his heterosexual attractions are lowkey bi.

“Masculine femininity is so sexy ahaha.” —Jaime Lannister, probably

I’ve already addressed this in my “Jaime has positive masculinity” meta, but Jaime has a pretty specific type of woman he takes serious romantic interests in—women who openly display masculine traits, along with the feminine.

Cersei, in many ways, is the opposite of what Westerosi women are expected to be. She’s ambitious, outspoken, violent, angry, aggressive, arrogant, promiscuous—traits that the Westerosi patriarchy praises in men, but shames in women. For all her beauty and feminine charm, Cersei is, by Westerosi standards, more man than woman—or, more masculine than feminine.

And Jaime is very much attracted to Cersei, because of these traits. He describes Cersei as “all wildfire,” (AFFC, Jaime II) and even outright says he wasn’t attracted to Lysa Tully for the sole fact that her personality was the opposite’s of Cersei’s:

[Lysa] had been a pretty girl, in truth; dimpled and delicate, with long auburn hair. Timid, though. Prone to tongue-tied silences and fits of giggles, with none of Cersei’s fire. Her older sister had seemed more interesting, though Catelyn was promised to some northern boy, the heir of Winterfell. (AFFC, Jaime V)

Young Lysa was delicate; timid, shy, quiet. These are attributes associated with the typical (and desired) highborn Westerosi woman, and as such, are considered feminine. Lysa’s hyperfemininity, with no masculine traits to balance it out, was a turn off for Jaime.

In contrast to his distaste for Lysa, Jaime found Catelyn far more appealing. This makes sense, as, in many ways, Catelyn shares traits with Cersei, traits that are considered traditionally masculine; strength, outspokenness, dedication, rage. But to balance these out, she also possesses traditionally feminine traits—beauty, a maternal nature, softness.

Both Catelyn and Cersei appear extremely feminine on the outside, but possess internal masculinity along with internal femininity. This is a balance of both sides, and Jaime is really into that.

On the reversed side of that, we have Brienne, Jaime’s primary love interest. Brienne is a perfect blend of femininity and masculinity. Physically, she looks more akin to a male athlete than a traditional woman (especially by Westerosi standards.) Along with her broad, ugly face, her height and muscles are what truly gives her a “masculine” look, especially in a world where only men are athletes, with only a few exceptions. So, Brienne’s physique is quite “manly.”

And yet, Jaime checks her out, specifically her muscles:

Beneath her roughspun brown breeches were calves like cords of wood, and the long muscles of her arms stretched and tightened with each stroke of the oars. (ASOS, Jaime I)

Not only does he stare at her muscles long enough to describe the size of them in a poetic manner, but he’s also watching long enough to see how her muscles strain with each movement. Jaime is looking, and because he is a clown, he doesn’t realize he’s staring because he likes what he sees. But he’s checking those muscles out.

Just as he checks out at her breasts and vagina (and pubes, can’t forget the pubes):

"I'd ask you to open your bodice, but from the look of you that wouldn't prove much." (ASOS, Jaime I)

The wench looked ridiculous, clutching her towel to her meager teats with her thick white legs sticking out beneath. (ASOS, Jaime V)

Even from the first page of his first chapter, Jaime is aware of Brienne’s physicality—a physicality that isn’t the typical female look. There is one part of her appearance that is typically feminine though; her blue eyes, which Jaime also finds attractive.

Jaime watched her eyes. Pretty eyes, he thought, and calm. (ASOS, Jaime I)

She does have astonishing eyes. (ASOS, Jaime IX)

Brienne’s eyes are beautiful to look upon, and calm. Beauty and calmness are feminine traits, and the fact that her eyes are calm reflects Brienne’s gentle nature—a gentleness that Jaime appreciates:

Pain shuddered through him . . . and suddenly the bathhouse was spinning. Brienne caught him before he could fall. Her arm was all gooseflesh, clammy and chilled, but she was strong, and gentler than he would have thought. Gentler than Cersei, he thought as she helped him from the tub [...] (ASOS, Jaime V)

Beneath her armor and muscled exterior, there is an immense softness in Brienne; an innocence, and Jaime sees that:

She is such an innocent. (ASOS, Jaime V)

Innocence, in this world, is associated with children and maidens. Brienne, being an unmarried virgin, falls into the latter category. The thing with Brienne is that she thinks and feels very much like a typical maiden; she longs to be swept off her feet and made to feel womanly and beautiful, but her society scorned her for her ugliness, and blocked that path for her; the path of hyper-femininity. That does not stop Brienne from being feminine internally, however. She is quite maternal to Podrick Payne, and she plays the part of caretaker well when Jaime is injured.

In truth, besides Brienne’s skills as a warrior and her physique, she is quite womanly; and, in theory, the perfect blend of masculinity and femininity.

And Jaime is here for it.

He constantly recognizes and admires the masculine and feminine blend that is Brienne of Tarth, and shows how alluring he finds it:

In this light she could almost be a beauty, he thought. In this light she could almost be a knight. (ASOS, Jaime VI)

[Brienne] was as tall and strong as he remembered, yet it seemed to Jaime that she had more of a woman’s shape now. (ASOS, Jaime VI)

Jaime also sees Brienne both as a warrior (i.e. “masculine”) and a woman (i.e. “feminine”) simultaneously:

Hoat may not know how freakish strong [Brienne] is. He had best be careful, or she’ll snap that skinny neck of his, and wouldn’t that be sweet? (ASOS, Jaime VI)

“I will fight you one by one or all together. But who is there for the wench to duel? She gets cross when you leave her out.” (ASOS, Jaime VI)

[Jaime] swayed with the motion of his horse, wishing for a sword. Two swords would be even better. One for the wench and one for me. We’d die, but we’d take half of them down to hell with us. (ASOS, Jaime III)

"You are speaking of a highborn lady, ser. Call her by her name. Call her Brienne." (AFFC, Jaime III)

"My lady. I had not thought to see you again so soon." (ADWD, Jaime I)

He respects Brienne’s status as both woman and warrior so much that he gifts her a sword and a dress on the same day:

Someone had dressed her in woman’s clothes again, but this dress fit much better than that hideous pink rag the goat had made her wear. “Blue is a good color on you, my lady,” Jaime observed. “It goes well with your eyes.” She does have astonishing eyes.

Brienne glanced down at herself, flustered. “Septa Donyse padded out the bodice, to give it that shape. She said you sent her to me."

[…] "A sword so fine must bear a name. It would please me if you would call this one Oathkeeper.” (ASOS, Jaime IX)

The fact that someone like Brienne, someone who has the heart of a maiden, but looks “manly” and plays a male role in her society is Jaime’s love interest says a lot about Jaime’s desires, as does his attraction to Cersei and Catelyn. The fact that Jaime prefers feminine women who possess distinctive traditionally male attributes implies that Jaime subconsciously finds the perfect partner to have masculine and feminine traits because it caters to his repressed bisexuality. Through women like Brienne, Cersei, and Cat—women who, let’s be real, all have big dick energy in some way or another—Jaime would be getting the “best of both worlds,” or, residing in a place that expresses love for both.

And considering all the mancrushes he’s had, that place sounds like a happy one for him.

So, there’s my over long answer as to why Jaime comes off as bisexual, and just how GRRM accidentally made it so.

Or maybe none of it was an accident, and GRRM is somewhere grinning at the thought of how he’s made our boy as blatantly bi as possible through every literary tool at his disposal.

Either way, I’m here for it.

#jaime lannister #jaime x brienne #valyrianscrolls #asoiaf #jaime x arthur #jaime x ned #jaime x brynden #jaime x rhaegar #longpost #long post #reign writes metas

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tirsynni · 3 years ago

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Unpopular opinion: I hate the phrase “girl boss.”

Honestly, I hate most of the pseudo-feminist names which has “girl” in it. They tend to be less about the empowerment of women and more about the shallow, safe appearance of the empowerment of women. It keeps the childish “girl” descriptor, a major pet peeve of mine, and is usually found in cutesy font with cutesy pictures and done in bright pink.

There is nothing wrong with either “pink” or “cute.” There is nothing wrong with anything traditionally feminine. No one can deny, though, that there are concerns when something which is supposed to be “empowering” is typically found packaged in soft, sweet things.

“Girl boss” (and most “girl” marketing) comes off as something safe, sweet, easy to dismiss. The bright pink bumper sticker found on the back of a large truck before the woman goes home and makes dinner for her husband and cleans the house, making sure to assure everyone around her that while she is strong and independent, you don’t need to worry about her calling herself a feminist, because ew. It reminds me of female Republicans who support their party and “traditional values” and then act surprised later when Republican men don’t respect them.

Gender neutral or things with the connotation of adult women tend to be avoided in favor of the more socially acceptable, infantile “girl” label. I get it: “girl” with its singular syllable is easier sometimes than “woman” with its plural syllables. Yet there is no escaping that for many, especially cis men, “girl” is far less threatening and far more socially acceptable than “women,” even as they slap “man” on everything to make it acceptable, including soap.

The phrase “girl boss” is safe and marketable. It’s a cute phrase, decked with pink lettering and sparkles, with the semblance of empowering while reminding women of their traditional, submissive place. “Girl” phrases remain safely childish and thus a non-threatening message to send.

#rant #random #unpopular opinion #i sincerely hate the girl phrases #i moved to a conservative area #with blonde women with orange skin #who cling to the girl power bs #and then vote republican #and kill their own rights #wtf

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fairytsuk1 · 4 years ago

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my heart weeps for you. (a)

pairing: izuku midoriya x reader

genre: angst

warning: graphic descriptions of injuries, character death

words: 3.1k

summary: please find me in my next life so I can properly tell you that I love you!

a/n: this is a long emotional one, please enjoy it :)

Midoriya used to think that he'd only ever felt genuine sorrow in his life the day his mentor, father, and a love of his passed away.

"I'm so proud of you, Young Midoriya...I suppose you aren't so young anymore, are you?" his hand rested atop his poofy hair, Toshinori could almost see him when he was much younger. When his embraces still had the familiar teenage gentleness behind them, he'd grown up so much, "I am proud of you. To know that you are my successor is the greatest gift you could have ever given me."

Midoriya had watched Toshinori take his final breaths after he proudly exhaled those three long-lasting words. He didn't cry then. Only when he was lost in the coldness of his bedsheets did his heart weep from anguish as though he had lost a part of himself. He hated the sky and the way it shone so brightly because he would never get to see All Might look up at it once more before smiling.

The world looked at the number one hero as a symbol of peace and that he was! He saved the day as Deku with a small pin of his former mentor near his breast, a constant reminder that he was always with him. Grief lasted what felt like forever, but every day things grew just a bit easier. Only, his biggest regret was that Toshinori Yagi had never gotten to meet you. He would have loved you. It seemed that people who had changed Izuku's life could never coexist. It was if life was trying to tell him something.

In the end, it's just you.

The next time he felt genuine sorrow was on a day bright like the one before. Though the pain wasn't because of how alone he felt or how much he missed those who had passed...No, he felt the wave of sorrow overtake him the moment you'd died in his arms. Unlike last time, he wept. His heart cried out for you even when he chose not to think about it. It wept his entire life, for he was never able to find the same type of love ever again.

"Deku! It's me, Signal, I'm sorry I'm late! The train was packed! This lady asked for help retrieving her cat, and I just couldn't say no in my hero get-up! But I am truly honored to be your sidekick. I will do my best for our newfound team!"

You were young and bright and so colorful. Your hero outfit was a pure white and gave you this sense of innocence, but the red rings gave you a bold and courageous aura. You looked more like an angel rather than a hero. He didn't prefer the traditional cliches when it came to romance, but he couldn't help but feel shocked when suddenly things seemed brighter around him. You made things seem brighter.

"Huh?! It's no trouble at all! Really, don't worry about it! That was great for you to do, you're gonna have everyone's vote in the popularity poll if you keep it up. Ready for patrol?"

You reached into your bag and grabbed a clunky helmet with a black shaded screen, it covered your face. Midoriya felt a frown tug his lips before scolding himself. Why are you frowning at her costume? You haven't known her well enough to be upset by how she looks! Later, he would grin in happy remembrance when he had gone to visit your grave. He hadn't frowned because he thought you were ugly, he'd frowned because he thought you were beautiful.

You talked a lot, mostly about the latest things in pop-culture and anything to do with animals. You seemed to be really into music and saving stray dogs. You also tended to ramble about the mundane things in life like blue-spotted pigeons or plump old ladies offering homemade churros. You also ate with your helmet on, and it made you look pretty silly. He couldn't stop himself from grinning every time you turned your whole body to talk to him. You never knew what he was smiling at.

"Okay, watch this!" he watched you intently while sitting on the park bench, he didn't want to ask what exactly he was supposed to be seeing and had no idea if there was supposed to be anything at all.

"Um-haha! I don't see anything--"

Neon pink. A blushing emoticon with small letters appearing under it.

"Signal loves Deku!"

It was like he could hear Mina's words saying that when he blushed, he looked like a firetruck. He was sure he looked like a million firetrucks right then.

"It's true! I'm a big fan and I've always dreamed of being near you! It's like a confession towards your senpai! Have you ever seen those types of anime? It's usually done better in the manga, but I like the romantic connotations either way. Pretty cool, right? During a stressful mission, I thought it might be better to display messages so people would know it's okay while I'm still kicking ass! Also-"

He laughed so sweetly that it felt like drinking honey and milk. He'd never heard of displaying messages like that, it was different! But it was a good type of different, a uniqueness that made you stand out. It was weird how he had only briefly met you once under the cherry blossom trees when it felt like he'd known you forever. He had only first seen you in your third-year school sports festival at his Alma Mater, but it felt like he'd been with you before. Your energy felt so familiar, and you felt so warm. He chalked it up to your infectious bubbly personality, but he had no idea how deep your energy truly ran.

His sidekick Signal gave him a rush he had never felt before. You were sweet, but your quirk was terrific and incredibly powerful, you could sense civilians and give out concentrated waves of vibrations to either alert heroes or ward off villains. The two of you worked like a well-oiled machine because when he punched? You rescued. When you signaled? He arrived. When you both started? You both finished.

"Hey, Deku? Did you know that I love spicy pork ramen?"

"Is this your way of telling me we should get ramen?"

"...No."

"Let's go then! I'll pay since I am the older one, of course," he grinned back at you, "let's get going short-stuff!"

"I'm average!! We've been over this before you bozo!"

It wasn't a date, it was just dinner after work. No biggie. Midoriya didn't need to fix his hair when he walked past the department stores' glass, and he didn't need to nervously look away from your eyes when you spoke with such intensity.

"Am I too young for you?"

His beer sputtered out from his lips like a faucet; quickly, he began to mumble apologies as the brown liquid was wiped away from the table and his chin, "young?! What do you mean too young?!"

"It's just as I said! I'm only nineteen and you' re-gosh-like twenty-five? No, twenty-six! Am I too young for you?"

"Hey!! I'm only twenty-three! I'm not some old geezer or a pervert or something!! ... You're just fine but...dating looks problematic, so we should just avoid it. Especially for your future career because of power dynamics and stuff."

"Dating? I was talking about being a sidekick."

"W-What?!"

You tossed your head back and barked out a laugh as you blatantly made fun of him, "I'm just messing with you! I meant what I said. If it's so problematic, then please wait for me!"

It had only been six months since he'd met you under a bright blue sky with one wispy cloud floating in it. It had been only a year since he first saw you on his tablet with the most radiant smile on your face even though you'd lost to your opponent.

It had only been six months since he had properly gotten to know you, and it was at this moment he could confidently tell himself that he loved you. Even with that clunky helmet.

"Okay, I'll wait for you. But you better not make me wait too long! Who knows what'll happen?"

He wished he wouldn't have jinxed it.

Red was a fantastic color on you and you knew it. It was merely coincidental that it matched his tie and the two of you looked like a couple. The whispers and comments weren't malicious, they were just curious. Who was Deku toting on his arm? Why did they look so compatible? At first, your curious eyes wandered all over the Pro-Hero Praise Party. (It has an official name, but after hearing your joyful excitement of being able to attend a "Praise Party," it just stuck.). You took it all in before glancing back at him with an open mouth of awe.

"So, are the snacks any good?"

Of course you were amazed. After shrugging in response to your question, Midoriya watched you quickly run off to chat with some of the girls, Uravity and Froppy. You were weird if he was going to be honest, you had this childlike excitement that followed you wherever you went but at the same time...you had a presence. It was commanding, demanding, and it called everyone to pay attention to you. You shone so brightly that it stuck to people's hearts like superglue; walking away almost made his vision go blurry because oh my god, please don't let that force be taken away from me.

You always came running back though. When things began to get a bit more intense with flirtatious comments or lots of alcohol, you were always there to seek comfort. With your exuberant nature came his calming one. You two fit together like two peas in a pod.

"Izuku? I have to tell you something."

"Yeah?"

"I...I had a good time! Thank you for bringing me as your plus one to the party!"

He raised a brow in confusion as the two of you stood outside your apartment complex.

"Oh! I had a good time too! We should go to more, it's fun with you," was that coming on a bit too strong? Is that creepy ?! "I--"

Soft lips on his cheek, you had to go up a step because he was just that much taller than you. The gloss made it a bit sticky but you pulled away with a heart-shaped smile.

"Pervert! You're blushing!"

"You're the weird one! Didn't your parents ever teach you not to fool around with older people??"

"Psh, don't pull the 'I'm your senior' schtick!! I heard enough about it from Mr. Ground Zero!..."

He smiled and stepped down, letting a hand squeeze your shoulder. He didn't want to make you uncomfortable with too much affection.

"Well...Big day tomorrow, I'm going to jump right into bed!"

"Got it! Me too! See you later, and thank you. F-For the kiss."

You grinned, your teeth nearly blinding him as you squeezed his hand before turning to go into the complex.

"Also, that hand move was a little weird. Just hug me next time! There!" You stuck your tongue out and hummed, "romantic advice from someone younger than you! Suck it!"

That night, he lay in bed, wishing you were there with him. You two could lie together or watch movies or do anything, really. He just wanted to be close to you. He liked being close to you.

You lie curled up on your side, eyes wide as the heat from your previous action coursed through your veins. Hands lightly rubbed the frilly fabric of the pillow before you squeezed your eyelids shut. Oh, how much you wished the warmth was his and not the space heater near your bed.

SEND DISPATCH OUT! DEKU AND SIGNAL ARE UNRESPONSIVE! NO WORD FROM INSIDE THE BUILDING, WE NEED SOMEONE TO LIFT THE PILLARS!

Dust and crumbled roof fell onto Midoriya's face as he coughed and took in a deep inhale, the fall must've been bad considering the next cough brought up blood. Broken ribs? For sure, he'd broken enough bones to know that the affected area had been his ribs. He was just lucky enough that his hero costume provided enough support to keep him from having anything too serious. Well, he supposed broken bones were still pretty serious...his mind's wandering. Focus on the task at hand.

"Signal? Are you there?" Silence. He wheezed and moved away from the dust waterfall. It was a small area and...he could see the white of your costume easily! Hey! "Y/N! Oh, why didn't you say anything…"

The words died in his throat. Red had pooled around you and a pillar lie where your midsection would be. Your helmet had cracked, and the screen was glitching between various emoticon faces. You lie still and stiff with your hair in your face.

"Izuku?..."

"Don't speak! Don't do anything! I'm gonna get this pillar off of you, and then I'm going to get you some help. Can you say okay?"

"Kay...It doesn't hurt too bad…"

He didn't respond as he leaped over the pillar to see the damage that had been done and how easily he could lift the object. He felt like vomiting when his feet landed on the bone in your ankle. It should've hurt badly with his steel-toed shoes and all, but you made no noise. He glanced back in concern before crouching down and examining your leg.

"You're taking so long, I'm tired…"

"...Can you...can you move your leg?"

"What do you mean? They were crushed, can't feel 'em at all."

If he pulled on your leg, the muscle and tendons would be exposed like red string and yarn. The blood would pool out of your thigh and further stain the concrete. The pillar that came crashing down had caught you on the way down, severing your spine when it hit the ground. If he lifted this pillar, your guts would spill out, and you would bleed out, and you'd be dead and holy fuck there's so much blood--

You sniffled, you had figured it out too.

"I can't feel them, Izuku, please, where are my legs?!"

"They're...Well…"

"It's fucking, oh my god, they're not there. Izuku, am I going to die!? I can get surgery, right? I'll be fine!" You breathed heavily and began to squirm around, "I can still be a hero! I-I'm still a sidekick! It's fine, right?!"

"Please stop moving…" The chip in his ear buzzed loudly though all he could feel and hear was static. He felt paralyzed, what could he do? His favorite girl lies in two pieces because a building happened to collapse, "I'm coming back over there."

You'd begun to cry in earnest, fat tears rolled down your cheeks as your arms beat down on the pillar.

"Stop! I'm fine! Deku! Just pull this fucking thing off of me! I'm fine !" You screamed out in fear, "Please!"

He knelt down and cradled your head with his arms, he smelled like sweat and the rainforest. He felt his eyes well, he was hardly able to blink the tears back. Your voice wavered as you asked the dreaded question. It was much softer this time.

"Will I die?"

How do you tell someone they will die no matter what happens? The silence hung poignant in the air as the distant sound of sirens blared as background noise.

"I'm so sorry! It's my fault! I should've grabbed you when I had the chance!"

"Shut up. Don't think like that. Don't say something like that!! How could it be your fault when a villain attacked this building? It wasn't you, was it?"

Your arm reached up to his face and cupped his cheek, your eyes memorizing every green swirl and every eyelash. There was no time to ponder on what to say, the sirens grew closer. You didn't have time to think about how scary death was or what would come when it was all over. The pillar was going to be lifted soon, and then you'd be gone.

"I'm sorry, Izuku. To leave you this way... I'm so sorry," the words felt like arrows in his heart. So final and spoken so softly. Like you'd already made up your mind, how could you make up your mind in a time like this?!

"You're not gonna leave; if I activate my quirk, I can race you to the medics in thirty seconds, maybe twenty. That's our plan, okay? And then I can--"

"I love you."

"Stop it! Stop saying things like you're ready to go! You aren't! I'm not! Just stop!"

"I love you."

"Please, I'm not ready...Please keep living with me, I just want to be with you!" He clenched his fist as tears freely fell onto your cheeks, mixing with your own, "This won't be your last time saying this, I promise! Just let me…"

You smiled, no teeth this time. Just your lips curving upwards.

"Don't leave me…"

"I love you!" It was merely a whisper this time.

The rock near them was blown away, surely by someone's quirk. But all he could see was your smile and your kind but sorrowful eyes.

"I'm sorry I made you wait so long. I love you, Izuku."

The lump in his throat ached as he smiled and took your hand off his cheek, interlacing the fingers together. The other free hand came to push the hair out of your face. Would he say it?

He stared down at the red and white headstone, custom made. It even had your aura with the bright flowers adorning the soft patch of grass in front of it. He knelt down, leaving red and white roses. He supposed red should be an awful color, having seen you drenched in it in your final moments. But whenever he thought of red, he just remembered those rings that made you look so bright. That dress that made you look so beautiful. The lips that often smiled at him. The love you two had shared.

"I'm sorry I couldn't say it then. But I hope you knew that I loved you too."

It was another day of bright blue skies with fluffy clouds and warm wind. He guessed that All Might would have been enjoying a nice cup of tea while he reminisced. As for you, he assumed you'd be out there saving cats and dogs while accepting churros from strangers.

It was one of the many bright blue-skied days, but one of the first without you.

#midoriya izuku #izuku x you #izuku x reader #bnha midoriya #midoriya angst #midoriya x you #bnha #bnha angst #bnha x reader #izuku midoriya x reader #izuku midoriya angst #boku no hero academia #my hero academia x reader #my hero academia imagines #my hero academia #boku no hero imagines

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otome0heart · 4 years ago

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[Fanfic] MLQC Secret Santa 2020: The Light at the End of the Tunnel (Victor)

A little late but this is my belated present for @mrs-victor-li for the MLQC Secret Santa ʚ♡⃛ɞ(ू•ᴗ•ू❁) I really hope that you like it.

Also, a big thank you to @ginkgowritings for organising this and being patient with my delay. I really, really appreciated it (灬ºωº灬)♡

Title: The Light at the End of the Tunnel

Genre: Fluff/Romance

Words: 3786

Notes: Even though I tried to merge it in the Dates timeline, in the end the story diverts from the canon, though it’s set after the Rooftop Date (possible spoilers if you haven’t read it). Also, this was partly inspired by the wonderful analysis of Victor’s character “Waiting for your consent” by @sharinluna. I just had time to revise and edit it once so please, forgive any big mistakes that you see and point them to me so I can correct them ^^ Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoy it.

THE LIGHT AT THE END OF THE TUNNEL

The curtain closed for the last time that evening and the clapping died little by little in the great hall. The audience started gathering their things and the young woman looked at her companion, her joyful expression turning into a puzzled one, as he sat down again. Victor returned her gaze with a tiny smile playing on his lips and she did the same, beside him.

“Are we waiting for something?”

He crossed his legs, making himself comfortable.

“The corridors are crowded right now, we’ll take the same amount of time to get out whether we’re there or stay here for a while.”

She hummed, a brief musical sound emerging from her throat, just like the ones she had enjoyed not so long ago, her eyes turning back to the now quiet stage and her feet moving in a spontaneous dance to a melody only she knew. At that moment, Victor would have given anything to know what was on her mind. She seemed to have gone to a world of her own though she was just at an arm’s reach and that unsettled him. He studied her profile in the warm-lit box partly hidden from prying eyes by a dark red curtain that framed her delicate features. They were in an impasse in their relationship which made him unsure of where he stood. He had told her of his feelings for her some weeks before but she had not answered him yet. However, as they had continued seeing each other outside work, he had noticed very little changes in her attitude towards him, mixed signals that sometimes led him to think she felt the same, others that gave away a sense of an inner struggle. And he knew why. The fact that his corporation was the main and only investor on hers made her tiptoe around him, not getting closer but not wanting to offend him either.

He pressed his lips in a thin line. He was not blind to the fact of other men appreciating her as well, she was a fine young lady with plenty of good qualities and the owner of a company; but he was also a mature man who separated work and personal clearly, and if she were in love with someone else, he would retire like the gentleman he considered himself to be. And if she thought that he was so petty as to retire his investment because of that, then, maybe she was truly a silly girl.

He breathed a silent sigh, shooking his head and relaxing his features, as the sounds of conversation in the hall started to fade. Whatever the future held for both of them, he was not going to waste his time dwelling in what-ifs. He would enjoy every single occasion he had to be with her at work or out of it until she made her mind up, starting from the fact that that meaningful evening was his alone.

The hall was almost empty by then, and he looked at his watch.

“Shall we go?”

Deeply lost in her thoughts, she startled a little upon hearing his voice.

“Yes, sorry” she smiled lightly and stood up just after him, grabbing the white coat on the back of her chair.

He extended his hand and she doubted for a few seconds just before giving it to him and turning around. As he helped her, he admired her exposed neck and upper back, normally covered by her hair, this time styled up in a braided low bun where she had held a hairpin with some poinsettia flowers. He could not help a smile. She had gone all out for the festivity and wore a dark green knee-length satin dress with some applique work on the body and sleeves, and red ankle-strapped shoes. She could pass as a very elegant dressed elf. A lovely one, he had to admit.

He put on his black coat too, and together, they left the box seat. There were only a few people in the corridors who had probably had the same idea as Victor. Some of them greeted them, glancing curiously at her as they exchanged a few courtesy words with Victor.

Finally, they exited the theatre, a cold gust of wind greeting them. It had snowed heavily while they had been inside and there was a thin layer of white covering the dark coloured pavement and the road. She let out an excited laugh and bounced on her heels, enjoying the sound of the crushed snow under her feet. He shook his head slightly, an amused smile drawing across his mouth and then, offered her his arm, which he was surprised to see she took without hesitation. Probably, she was more worried about falling down and making a fool of herself than about her confused feelings towards him.

At a leisure pace, they walked down the steps of the building and headed to the parking lot where he had left his car, a few blocks from there. They made their way in silence at the beginning, watching some scattered snowflakes fall from the trees lining the road, profusely decorated. From time to time, Victor stole glances at her, enjoying the Christmas lights reflected in her pupils and the expression of awe in her features, as if she saw them for the first time.

‘Childish’ he thought, aware that precisely that earnestness she possessed was one of the things that attracted him to her deeply.

And then, a soft hum reached his ears. Distracted as she was with the ornamentation, she had unconsciously started to sing disconnected fragments of the melodies she had listened to at the theatre, happy ballet songs about sweets and fairies, and dancing snowflakes and flowers. A pleasant feeling filled him inside and he breathed satisfied, focusing on her lovely voice.

No matter how many years she had seen Loveland’s Christmas illumination, it managed to amaze her every single one of them. Beautiful figures, curtains of stars, snowflakes projected on buildings and Christmas trees in the squares, they were all different from the previous ones, bigger and more colourful.

Without barely realising, she had started to hum, the familiar songs that she had heard so many times before that night finding their way from her mind and heart to her throat. Her father had brought her to see The Nutcracker ballet for several years in that same building they had been to that night. When Victor had suggested going to the theatre on Christmas Eve, she had hesitated a bit. Even though they had had lunch and dinner together a few times after his confession, it had never sounded as much as a date as that one, especially given the romantic connotations the day held for most people. It had been when he had told her that he had tickets to attend to The Nutcracker ballet that all her doubts had vanished, replaced by nostalgia and excitement and, as she had watched the dancers on the stage and heard the beautiful, happy melodies of the dances, warm feelings and memories from her childhood had filled her.

The streets were crowded with people of all ages, walking busily from shop to shop in search of a last-minute present or watching the decorations. Here and there, they also passed couples hand in hand, and she wondered if they looked the same to them, holding arms and strolling so close together. She lowered her head a bit, hiding her chin in the fuzzy neck of her coat. Victor declaring his feelings for her so straightforwardly that night a few weeks ago on the roof of LFG had left her confused and unsure. With his fiercely demanding attitude and his mighty position, she had never suspected that he could see her as something more than a “dummy”, a silly girl that stood up to him and that most of the time was never up to his standards at work. In very few moments, he had let her see what was behind his poker face and his tyrannical ways, allowing her to discover a fiercely loyal and protective man with a warm heart who loved his family dearly. And during those glimpses, she had felt closer to him, that the walls between them cracked and collapsed bit by bit, though sometimes, they were rebuilt again in the blink of an eye. She had wondered then if all that was in her imagination and his affection, just a dream. However, his words were deeply engraved in her heart, and his voice, loud and clear like that day, resounded in her mind once again.

I wouldn’t go near another woman. All I want is you…

Heat flushed her cheeks and she side glanced at Victor to see if he had noticed, but he was looking ahead, at the entrance of the car park just a few metres in front of them, across a square, and she breathed, relieved.

He had not mentioned the matter again. Unlike the idea she had of suitors from what she had heard from her friends or watched in films, he had left her space to think, not trying to be a constant presence in her daily life or influence her feelings in any way, not meddling in her bonds with the men who were important to her. His attitude towards her had been the same, overbearing and not giving her a special treatment, and at the same time, considerate and lenient with her whims. True to his word, he was waiting for her to see the light, even at the risk of that never happening.

The atmosphere in the square was very similar to the one in the bustling streets, though the decorations and colours were much subtler, giving the place a cosy, intimate glow, so different from when they had crossed it in the late afternoon on their way to the restaurant where they had a reservation for an early dinner before heading to the theatre, with the hot shades of the sunset reflecting on the glass windows of the nearby buildings, tinting the world as if it was on fire.

“Everything is so beautiful…” the girl sighed looking at a group of reindeers made with small white lights, except for one which was red. “It’s like stepping into a winter wonderland.”

“Well, I agree that it has its charm and that people feel compelled to spend is a great incentive for business.”

She lifted a brow, regarding him with an incredulous stare.

“I can’t believe you said that… Where’s your Christmas spirit? Don’t you feel anything special seeing so many awesome and creative things made with just garlands and trees and lights, the families walking together and the children so thrilled?”

“Like the one I have beside me?” he replied jokingly, his eyes sparkling with mischief.

She pouted despite clearly seeing that he was trying to provoke her, and turned her head away. However, a second later she forgot about it as her eyes fell on the loveliest decorative ensemble she had seen that day.

“VIctor, look!” the young woman exclaimed as she left him with fast steps, walking to a space between two trees where a string of bulbs in the shape of a holly branch hung. On top of it, two robins, also made with fairy lights were perched, looking at each other, one with its wings slightly opened, the other giving it what looked like a sprout of leaves and small white balls.

A young couple a few meters away from her laughed and she turned in time to see them kiss fully on the mouth, making her flush upon realising what that little sprig in the bird’s beak was.

The two teenagers parted from each other and glanced at her, giggling again and walking away. She looked at Victor, panicked but unable to move from her spot, not knowing what to do. He was just a few meters away, watching her with an unreadable expression that stirred an unknown feeling inside her.

Then, suddenly, everything stilled and there was no more sound of chiming bells moved by the cold breeze, no more rumour of excited voices and nervous chuckles. As if he had decided something, he walked to her, slowly, like a majestic lion, but at the same time, she had the impression that he was giving her a chance to escape, that just a step back would stop him completely, as the suspended time. But for some unknown reason, she could not do it. Her heart was beating strongly in her chest, almost deafening her, her breath coming in short puffs of steam between her slightly parted lips. She lifted her gaze as he stopped in front of her. His mauve eyes, always crystal clear, were darkened by the night and the emotion that glimmered deep inside them. But there was more, a flicker of uncertainty that surprised her. She had never had the impression that he could be insecure about something, and yet, there was so much she did not know about him.

And also, there was her. She could see herself reflected in his pupils and she felt that she was the only one that mattered in his world. That thought alone made her feel an inexplicable spark of happiness and warmth spread inside her chest.

He lifted his hand and slipped it gently behind her head cupping the nape of her neck, and his thumb swept over her cheek, feeling the heat of her skin. She was looking at him with her big eyes, shiny under the Christmas lights and confused at his actions. How he longed to cross the distance, physical and emotional, that separated them and feel finally complete, silence the yearn that surged in his heart each time he saw her. But he had promised her to wait, to leave her space so she could see him as the man who desperately loved her instead of just the powerful CEO that held her future and that of those under her in his hands. So, he would have to settle for just a little display of affection, just for the two of them.

He leant forward and, as she lowered her lids not knowing what to expect, he brushed her forehead with his lips tenderly, lingering just enough to breathe in the floral fragrance of her hair and feel the softness of her skin.

He let go just after his kiss, taking a step back, and suddenly, the young woman found herself missing the heat radiating from him, protective and comforting.

“Shall we go?” he asked, bending his elbow for her to slip her hand around again, as the little bulbs clinked together in the breeze and the atmosphere filled with laughter and noise once again.

The girl nodded, not really trusting her voice, and took his arm, both of them walking straight to the parking lot entrance.

Once they paid and found the car, he opened the door for her, waiting until she had taken off her coat and sat down comfortably to close it. Then, he did the same, leaving his garment on the back seat and took his place on the driver’s seat.

She leant her head back on the headrest as he drove carefully along the snow-covered roads, one of her hands folded over the other, where she still could feel his warmth, as if it wanted to keep it as much as possible. Her mind had been wandering to him quite often during those weeks, when she was not working, trying to decipher what she felt for him, but until that moment, she had not got a clear answer. It was difficult for her to separate the authoritative figure he represented from the caring man whom she was so precious for, as she understood that seventeen years ago, she had made a strong impression on him while she had completely forgotten about his existence. However, he was becoming a crucial figure in her life now, someone who pushed her past her limits and encouraged her to do her best; someone who she could count on and spoiled her just enough to make her feel happy again on a bad day. She was not sure if it was the light he was expecting or not, but the only conclusion she had reached was that she wanted to know more about him, to uncover layer after layer of the pragmatic LFG CEO and see the man behind the finance emperor.

Her eyes fell on her hands again, and a light colour appeared on her cheeks. It had also been the first time they had stood so close together since his confession, making her aware of her masculine presence and his status as a possible lover, someone who would have access to her most private thoughts and feelings, who would expect more than a platonic bond. Her face turned scarlet red at the mere idea of Victor and her crossing the invisible line that until that night had been clearly drawn between them. She recalled the warmth of his hand on her skin and the slight shiver that had run down her spine at the brush of his lips, awakening on its course a million of unfamiliar but thrilling sensations and she bit her lower lip.

“You're normally not so quiet” he said in a soft voice, his eyes on the road, and she turned her head to him, brusquely brought back to reality, which made silence fall between them for a moment. “Did you not like the performance?”

“I loved it!” he side-glanced at her briefly just enough to see if she was feigning her sudden enthusiasm. “Sorry if it seemed the other way…” she doubted briefly and then, she continued, her nervousness at being caught in her recollections set aside. “You know, my father brought me there several times when I was a child and a teen. it was like a Christmas tradition to see The Nutcracker together around this time. Then, I spent the rest of the winter playing the different melodies on the piano. In spring, I put the scores away until the following December, when we started the circle again. Tonight’s ballet has brought me many memories of those times” she looked at her fingers, still laced together. “It’s been long since I played them, I’ve been too busy…”

He kept silent, but she saw that his brows were knitted together in a frown and she knew that he was doubting his choice.

“I’m glad to have reminisced about those moments. It made me appreciate the dancing and the music much more and keep my memories of my father alive” she turned towards him and that grabbed his attention. “Thank you for taking me there, Victor.”

His posture relaxed visibly and the thin line in his forehead disappeared.

“You’re welcome.”

A few minutes later, he parked his car in front of her building. Despite the slight tension still tangible in the cabin, the young woman felt comfortable and wished she could enjoy his company for a while longer. Then, a sudden idea came to her mind.

“Do you want to come up to my place and have some hot chocolate?” she asked on a whim, surprising him.

His slightly widened eyes watched her for a few seconds, his features not revealing any of his thoughts, making her squirm awkwardly and then, shook his head.

“No, thank you. I have a meeting early in the morning.”

She seemed surprised by his rejection but did not feel discouraged and tried again.

“It won’t take long, and it’ll warm you-”

“You don’t need to do this” he interrupted her words, trying to end her struggle and laying his cards on the table.

“What?”

“To feel pressured. I told you I’d be patient so take all the time you need to sort out your feelings about us. The last thing I want is for you to feel uncomfortable or obliged with me, so I apologise if I overstepped-”

“I know” she replied with a light nod, interrupting him. “You can be imposing and a tyrant but also, respectful and considerate so I know that you’d never force or rush me to do anything I’m not completely sure about” she stared into his eyes with a serious expression which took him slightly aback. “I trust you.”

Those words reached the deepest part of his thundering heart. Never in his life had he felt so relieved and so right, reassured that his actions were correct and that she appreciated them. He had feared so many times that his confession had only made things between them even more difficult but she was too afraid of offending him. And at the same time, he had been worried about interpreting her acceptance of his advances as something more meaningful than it really was. Knowing that she was considering his feelings carefully and maybe taking baby steps towards a relationship between them filled his chest with even more love for her.

“Thank you for this evening, Victor” she smiled unfastening her seatbelt. “It’s been wonderful.”

He nodded, his features softening upon seeing her returning to her normal self.

“Goodnight.”

And then, she leant forward, putting her hand on his arm to bring him to her and kissed his cheek, a silent touch in the darkness of the enclosed space they were in which left him breathless for a second.

“Goodnight” she whispered, her eyes gazing at him briefly before turning and opening the door of the car.

He watched her run towards the entrance of her building, her coat still in her arms and her green skirt fluttering behind her, still puzzled by how fast everything had happened. She reached the gate and just before disappearing, she looked over her shoulder with a small smile playing on her lips and her cheeks flushed. Then, she was gone.

Victor brought his hand to his face and brushed his cheek with his fingertips. He still could feel the warm pressure of her soft lips on his skin and the caress of her breath sweeping his ear, the subtle fragrance of her perfume surrounding him, giving him a glimpse of what it would be like to have her in his arms.

He closed his eyes and swallowed, breathing deeply trying to calm himself down and focus on the road. He started the car and, using his turn signal, joined the traffic on his way home, a soft smile curving his lips as he started to hum under his breath one of The Nutcracker’s melodies.

It seemed that, even though there was still a long way to go, she was starting to see the light at the end of the tunnel.

THE END

#otome games #mr love queen's choice #mlqc #MLQCSanta20 #mlqc victor #fanfic

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