#I think grown up Jon might have been more widely accepted

[ghostybat]

It's the fact that Jon was in space for like 7+ years, came back, and then they just send him to college like what?? I highly doubt he was being taught at anything educational when he was up there. Algebra?? He doesn't know what that is. His reading and writing skills? When you're in 5th grade you're being taught reading comprehension skills, improving writing mechanics including proper grammar, punctuation, and spelling, understanding basic parts of speech, writing different types of paragraphs (narrative, informative), and learning to analyze text elements like theme and point of view. You think he was keeping up with any of that while he was being imprisoned in a volcano? No! He wasn't! Damian is over here, yelling at him, using words he doesn't understand, that's nothing new but it's still pisses him off cus he feels like he probably should know some of those words are by now.

My boy left with a 5th grade education, spent 7 years trapped in space, came back with that same 5th grade education plus trauma and they send him to college. Absolutely insane.

[sailorshadzter]

Can you write a fic where Cat survived the Red Wedding and has to accept that Sansa has to marry Jon to keep the Stark line and the North united? She knows Jon is now the heir but the prospect of marriage still haunts her because of what happened to Robb. And now, Cat wouldn't want to wish what happened to Robb to Jon Snow regardless of his heritage.

HIIII ANON

once again, this has been sitting in my inbox for a long time!!!

hopefully you see this!!!

send me prompts

When the gates open, a wagon rolls in, pulled by a white mare that has seen better days. 

She happens to be standing in the courtyard, talking with a few of the lords when the call comes, so her attention shifts away, blue eyes watching as the wagon comes all the way through. They aren’t expecting anyone, not that it matters, so she excuses herself, wandering away from the center yard and closer to the horse drawn wagon that has now come to a stop.

As the single passenger rises from the bench, her heart skips a beat, her stomach turning over like the wild waves of the sea. Somehow, her heart is telling her all she needs to know about this hooded stranger. 

Coming closer now, she waves away the guards barking questions- who are you, why have you come, and the like, because she doesn’t need to hear the answer the woman will give. As she comes around to the back, the figure is stepping down off the back, her feet crunching in the freshly fallen snow. For a moment, it is as if time is suspended, as if there is not a single other person in the world but the two of them- her lips curve around the syllables of the word she hasn’t used in years… “Mother…”

Catelyn Stark smiles, drawing back the hood of her cloak to reveal a somewhat scarred face, one older than she recalls, but it was her mother all the same. “Sansa,” she breathes, tears overflowing as she forces a smile. “My daughter…” A girl grown into a woman, a sight she thought she might never get to see… But here she was, standing just in front of her. It takes but a moment more for the young woman to fling herself at her, to fall into her arms as if she were that child she’d lost so many years before. “I’m here, Sansa, I’m here,” she whispers, running her hand through the red hair that has grown so long it falls to her waist, twisted back in braids like her own. Catelyn holds her tightly, wishing away her tears and murmuring the softest of words, until only the sound of footsteps draws her away.

When she looks up, over her daughter’s head, it is to look into the eyes of the man she knows has saved Winterfell, has saved Sansa. The boy she once detested, the boy she once neglected, now stands there now, grown into a man, staring at her with wide, gray eyes. Eyes that remind her of Ned, of Arya, eyes that bring pain to her already aching heart. But, she returns to her daughter, the last piece of her, and knows that this was where life was meant to bring her. 

[ x x x ]

“King in the North?”

Catelyn questions without hesitation, looking from one face to the other, once again feeling that ache in her heart. Once, Robb had been called such a thing. The truth was, she imagined to hear Queen in the North upon her arrival, but it was true, Robb had indeed named Jon as his heir, and it seemed as if the North agreed. Truth was, after hearing about all that had happened since the days of Robb, she supposes Jon deserves the title. 

Besides… 

“Have you met with Samwell Tarly?” She asks next, thinking of the man she met some weeks ago, traveling from King’s Landing to Winterfell, saying how once he was comrades with Jon Snow, no, friends even. “Is he not here?” 

Jon shakes his head, surprised to hear his old friend’s name spoken by his step mother. “I have not heard from Sam since before…” He trails off , shaking his head. Since before his death, he means. “Have you met with him, Lady Stark?” Lady Stark… She’s not been referred to by that name in so long now, it feels somewhat foreign. In truth, she’s heard Sansa called by that title all day, her inheritance certain. And now that she looks, there is a closeness between the two of them that she never saw before- perhaps it was one she prevented, in truth. 

“I have,” she admits, wondering if it was her place to tell him what Samwell Tarly had told her. She has but a split second to decide, for they are both staring back at her, Sansa with her wide-eyed gaze, Jon with his somber one. Perhaps this was the will of the gods, whichever ones were still listening…

So she speaks and she doesn’t stop until the story is fully told. 

[ x x x ]

It is the fourth morning of Catelyn’s return and she finds herself in Sansa’s rooms, brushing out her long red hair as she once did so long ago. 

Much has changed in the days since her arrival, the truth of Jon’s birth being an outright shock for all of Winterfell. But, the lords have taken it in stride and it would not be long before they would openly claim him as the rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms. 

In due time, of course. 

Catelyn has been thinking this moment over, again and again, trying to decide the best of the situation. The North deserved to be free, independent, just as Robb had intended…. But they still needed to back Jon, in order to win the war that was to come. Targaryen’s were not well loved here in the North, but lucky for Jon, he’d amassed love and respect from the Northerners that could not be stolen away simply because of his father’s blood. He was a Stark, many lords would say, shaking their heads. He was as much of a Targaryen as any one of them. 

“Mother?”

Sansa’s voice draws her out of her own thoughts and she smiles at her over her shoulder, their eyes meeting in the reflection of the looking glass. “I got lost in my own thoughts,” she apologizes as she places the last pin into place. For a single moment, she cannot help but to imagine her as she once was in this place; a hostage, a victim. Sansa hasn’t come out with all of the details of her two unlucky marriages, though she swears Tyrion never touched her, Catelyn knows Ramsay Bolton did the most unspeakable things to her. And these thoughts lead back to Robb, who married out of young, stupid love, that unwavering feeling many don’t get to feel in a world like theirs. Robb had died for love, Sansa nearly died from the violence of a loveless marriage. In the end, her children had found suffering in marriage, whether it be true love or political gain… There was no happy ending, not for Robb and not for Sansa.

But then there comes a knock on her door and when it opens, Jon is there, the sight of him bringing a smile to her face she’s never seen before. She watches as Sansa lights up from within, as she rises up from the chair she occupies to sweep across the room to stand before him. He spares her but one single nod before his eyes are all for Sansa, eyes that she swears she’s seen before… Eyes that she swore Ned once looked upon her with. 

Sansa offers a quick curtsy- sloppy, though she had it perfected at three- and with her arm slipped through his, she allows him to steer her from the room.

 Left alone in silence, Catelyn sinks back in the chair, laughter bubbling on her lips. 

[ x x x ]

Several weeks later, their betrothal is announced. 

Catelyn watches as the loyal Northern lords raise their glasses to the marriage, chanting their pleasure before they drink to it. At the head table, Sansa is blushing, but not in the innocent sort of way, while Jon pours her a second goblet of wine. They would be the finest of couples and the most powerful of monarchs- already Dorne had written of their support and she supposes the rest of the world would not be far behind. They had far more power than Robb ever had, which she supposes should bring her comfort, should hold her heart steady. 

The boy she once wished would die, she now wishes a lifetime of happiness, of health, of love. 

The boy she once wished never existed, she raises her own glass to toast, hoping for happiness, wishing for a lifetime of love.

[harimenui-forever]

I do not wish to be mean, but like, I feel like the format of tmagp is making the horror lesser for me... some stories are too quick for the fear to sink in (first episode) or like it happens at the very end so you don't really get much of it and it just kinda leaves you there (episode 5), episode 6 is very silly to me and like I think it knows that? But that doesn't make it scary and maybe it doesn't want to be idk.

Episodes 2, 3 and 4 are good. They're not necessarily scary, the bit with the tattoo in episode two is kinda silly? But the face thing is good. It's shocking, a different kind of dread but sure.

Episode 3 made me frustrated at the guy, then I realised he couldn't actually leave and like yeah the idea of this is kinda creepy and the acceptance and just I dunno how to put it, it works, but it did not make me shiver with fear yknow?

Episode 4 was fun, probably my favourite, but it's not very scary. To me it makes up for that with the story though, the themes, the morality and the time it takes to go through the story. It adds gravity to it. It's a fucked up lil episode with a lot of story and character

All in all, I have a feeling that the horror is not as much of a focus as it used to be in tma, which might be great for other people, but I've always appreciated the horror of tma, even when I liked the characters and the story. And I understand comparing the two is a bit strange, but... I understand that the "statements" are different here, they're not from scared people who survived something weird/horrible, they're from people who are deep into becoming something else (?), from people who have not survived most likely and, just like for them, there's not enough time for us to be afraid before it's over. And there are strengths to this approach too, I just...

I've relistened to the Anglerfish, because I was scared that perhaps I've just grown numb to the horror, but no. I could still feel the shivers run down my spine, I could still feel the dread building with every new detail, every new small thing that was off and just... terrifying.

The first episodes are so widely different when it comes to horror I think. And it's hard to put my finger on it, but I feel like the role of the investigation afterwards is missing and with it some of the horror.

It feels unfair to compare an entire episode statement with just one statement from the two in tmagp ep 1, but hear me out.

The reveals in mag1 are just very well done. You have the setting being creepy, you have the line being repeated and reenacted in that weird tone twice, before the guy notices on the 3rd time that the figure is not opening its mouth. You have the swaying pointed out multiple times and each time it feels a bit more extreme, weirder, the simile used to describe it, the anglerfish, is so vivid and creepy and RIGHT. When he realises its feet are not touching the ground. The weird way it disappears. AND THEN, because he survived you get the reveal of him finding cigarettes there the next day and connecting them to the missing person. That could have been him. But that's not all, sure Jon is a little bitch, but the reveal of more disappearances adds more credibility. And THEN the cherry on top is the photo, the hand (?), beckoning.

Now let's look at the email from tmagp1. It is very short. There is a set up yes, but the reveal is just...immediate, it lacks the suspense. Like the concept is scary. But the laughter, the laughter is just...sooooo, it's not that scary. Just, it's harder to describe what's not working here than it is to describe what DOES work in mag1. I guess I could focus on the absence of things...

Man, I do sound like an old man swearing at a cloud, my friend would laugh at me and call me 240 years old, I am never beating the allegations

Anyway, in short, I know this podcast aims to be different. I can see it. The character interactions, the more intrusive listening in etc. However, in my humble opinion, the horror gets the short end of the stick here. I wish it didn't

[dickwheelie]

sooooooo I wrote a sequel to that love entities jmart post that got pretty popular. all you really need to know is that post mag 200 jon becomes a local cryptid and listens to people's stories about encounters with the entities to help unburden them of some of their fear. please enjoy!

_____________

Just inside the entryway of Old Fishmarket Close, hidden just out of sight of the street, there stands a shrine. It is not an old shrine of weathered stone, nor is it carefully crafted with intricate religious symbols, nor is it static, weighed down by years of collected dust. It is in many ways a living shrine; flowers bloom and wilt at its feet, while above it, against the wall of the Close, piles of paper, photographs, and keepsakes are haphazardly stacked and stuck. The shrine seems to breathe as each day passes, as innumerable and unsung hands replace its flowers and let their offerings crawl up its wall like vines.

The shrine is not marked, but everyone who looks for it, in the shadows of the entryway, knows precisely who it is for.

You arrive that day with only a piece of notebook paper in your hand. Upon it is written a short message, and not an uncommon one to see at the shrine: Thank You. A substitute, of sorts, for the flowers and other gifts that people often leave. You, like many others, are not well off, and you hope that a small note can make up for your lack of material offerings.

As you approach the shrine, a gust of wind whistles through the alleyway and rustles the pages plastered across the length of the wall. You’ve brought no adhesive, so you slip the piece of paper partially beneath a bouquet lying on the stone walkway. It’s relatively fresh, so you hope it won’t be moved anytime soon. You’ve no idea who replaces the flowers, but you suspect it’s never the same person twice. The locals all know about the shrine and the person it’s meant for, and they’ve grown protective of them both.

Dozens of other people have had the same idea before you; the ground is littered with short notes of gratitude. Thank you for listening, says one, transcribed in loving calligraphy, the i’s dotted with hearts. Thank You For Finding Me, Whoever You Are, says another. I rely lik yor hat, says one written in crayon. Another says, You’ll probably never read this, but thank you for hearing my story. There must be hundreds of them, and there are more each time you visit.

You had spent the better part of the morning trying to come up with something more eloquent to write, but you’ve never been great with words. Telling the mysterious person your story had been the only time you’d ever felt as though your words matched your thoughts, that what came out of your mouth was exactly how you felt, and that the person you were talking to understood you fully.

You suppose a thank you is better than nothing, and after one last fond look at the shrine, you turn to go.

A footstep that is not your own echoes down the alleyway. You turn, half-alarmed, but relax at once when you see who it is.

You have only ever seen him once before, about a month ago when you told him your story, but he is difficult to forget; his figure tall and thin, his posture horrendous, his features hidden entirely by a long coat and a wide-brimmed hat. He stands now at the far end of the alleyway, hands clutched before his hunched torso, giving you the distinct impression he’s staring directly at you.

“Um, hello,” you say, haltingly. You’re not quite sure how to address him, but you figure a polite greeting is universal. You gesture at the shrine. “I don’t have, uh, another story or anything. I was just leaving a note for you.”

His hat tips curiously to the side, and he shuffles forward with his cautious gait, peering closer at the shrine. The dark brim of his hat swivels towards you, as though asking a question.

“The shrine,” you say. “I just left a short note. It’s no big thing, I just—I wanted to leave something.”

The words seem to mean nothing to him. He looks at the shrine, then at you, then back at the shrine. He steps a bit closer to it, and reaches out a long-fingered, gloved hand to touch the petals from a bouquet of daffodils. After the briefest of moments, he pulls away again, hands resuming their wringing.

A thought occurs to you. “Do you . . . do you not know what this is?”

He shakes the hat once.

“This is . . . this is for you,” you say, spreading your arms to encompass the garden on the ground and the sea of pages above. “The flowers, the little trinkets, the thank-you letters—it’s for you. From . . . from all of us, who’ve told you our stories. You’ve helped us so much, we wanted to let you know how much we appreciated it. How grateful we are.”

He doesn’t react, and so you reach out and pick out a card, one that says, Talking to you about how scared I was of the dark made me less afraid of it. I sleep better at night because of what you did for me. Thank you, mysterious stranger. Much love, E.M.

“Here,” you say, handing it to him, and he takes it with a shaky glove. The brim of his hat lowers as he reads. "That’s just one of them. There are loads more just like that.” You survey the pile and pick out another. “This one’s from a kid, thanking you for helping their mom . . . And this one’s just a simple thank you note but they did cover it in glitter glue, so, there’s that . . . And this person wanted you to know that their anxiety improved after talking to you . . .”

He takes note after note from you, reading them all, silent and unexpressive as always, but there’s something in his posture that is unbearably human. Somehow it reminds you of how people stand when they hold a baby chick in their hands.

“I can’t believe you didn’t know,” you say, not unkindly. You’re both sitting on the ground now, amidst the bouquets and piles of thank-yous. “Who else would this all be for?”

As he picks up yet another note, a tremor runs through his body. He raises a gloved hand to the shadows beneath the hat, and you watch as two drops of water stain the page in his hand. His chest convulses as more tears fall, his hand moving under the hat to wipe them away, but they keep coming. Still he makes no sound.

You didn’t know he could cry. You don’t know why you’re surprised; he’s strange, certainly, and perhaps not entirely human . . . but he has heard so many horrible things, and human or not, he deserves a chance to cry.

“Are you—are you okay?” you say, not sure what to do.

The hat nods once, and then shakes.

“I . . . I know it’s probably a lot, all at once,” you say, and you reach out to touch his arm. The movement comes naturally, without much thought; you would have done the same for a friend.

He flinches at your touch, and you immediately pull away, but then he relaxes again, and nods. Tears are still falling from the shadows down onto his coat.

You touch his arm again, gently, and he doesn’t move away. “I’m sorry if it’s overwhelming. But we really are grateful, and you have a bad habit of not accepting thanks. This was one of the only ways we could think to . . . to show you.” You take a deep breath, and gaze into the shadows of where his face might be, doing your best to look him in the eye. “We don’t really know who you are, or why you came here, or why you choose to listen to us. But somehow, we know you mean well. I think everyone who’s told their story knows that, me included. That you’re trying to help us, that you want to do good. And you do. We . . . we want you to know that you’ve done good.”

His chest rises and falls shakily, and though he still makes no sound you swear you can hear a sob. He reaches out and grasps your arm in turn, and suddenly you realize what he needs.

“Can I give you a hug?” you ask.

The hat nods, again and again, and you open your arms, and he falls forward. You would have done the same for a friend.

You almost expect the hug to be gentle, but it is not; it is tight and desperate, and feels so human you do not think twice about hugging him back just as tightly. He is not terribly warm, but you can feel a heart beating beneath his coat. A few tears fall on the back of your jacket. You know that if you just looked up, you would be able to see his face beneath the hat, but you keep your eyes shut tight.

When you move apart, a few moments later, he seems a little more composed, and no more tears fall from beneath the hat. He straightens his back a bit, growing taller even in a sitting position, and you can see just the barest hint of a mouth, which is smiling a delicate, wobbly sort of smile. He brings a gloved hand up to his chin, placing his fingertips against it, and moves them towards you, once, twice.

You are by no means fluent in sign language, but you recognize the sign for Thank you when you see it.

You smile back at him. “You’re welcome,” you say.

He looks back at the shrine, at the piles and piles of notes he has yet to read. You watch as he picks up a handful more, seemingly at random, shuffling them in his hands and pressing them close to his chest. After a pause, he reaches out and slowly picks up one of the bouquets, overflowing with small blue flowers. You’re not entirely sure, but you think they might be forget-me-nots. He pulls a single flower from the bunch and tucks it, carefully, into the collar of his coat, as though for safekeeping.

He nods once, satisfactorily, and stands slowly, giving a small bow in your direction before he turns and shuffles back down the alleyway, the bushel of blue flowers peeking over his shoulder, rustling in the breeze.

Just before he is swallowed by the shadows at the far end of the Close, you call out, “Thank you! Again. For . . . for everything.”

It’s certainly just a trick of the light, but when he turns back to look at you, just before the shadows overtake him, you swear you can see the light catch on a single, twinkling eye, crinkled in one corner by what must be a smile.

[verymuchimmortalcat]

Maribat March Day 13: Reverse Robins

ao3

@maribatmarch-2k21 

Their Ages:

Damian: 25

Tim: 19

Steph: 18

Cass: 17

Jason:17

Dick: 11

Marinette: 8

Jason had a plan to bring Tim home for the holidays. Tim hadn’t responded to the invitation that Bruce had sent him. It didn’t necessarily shock anyone but Marinette had been really upset. She adored her second eldest brother and on the rare occasion Tim was in the Manor or the cave, he was always accompanied by the eight-year-old who followed behind him chattering on about whatever she had found interesting.

Tim was probably given the same place as Dick had. Though everyone had accepted that if Marinette had a favourite it would be Cass. Which was understandable.

It was funny how Dick had latched onto Damian and Marinette with Tim. The two of them had somehow managed to get attached to the two brothers, whose rare interactions usually ended in arguments.

His plan was simple. Take Marinette with him on patrol and go to one of Tim’s safe houses. Let her use her puppy eyes on him and if that doesn’t work, Jason can probably bribe him with Alfred’s food. Jason’s sure they won’t have to resort to bribery. He’s seen the Damian Wayne give in to her puppy eyes. (Cass had managed to take a video and had sent it to Jon, who sent it to the rest of Damian’s friends. Damian had taken to threatening to stab anyone who brought it up but none of them took him seriously.)

All he had to figure out now, was how to sneak her out on patrol with him. Dick had started his training but Marinette had decided she was going to help Steph and Alfred with comms and whatever little help she could provide around the med bay. It was adorable. But none of that helped with getting her out of the house, even if he picks a day where he’s on solo patrol, Alfred would notice that Marinette was missing.

In the end he tells Alfred he’s taking Marinette to talk to Tim. Alfred agrees, probably because its weird to see the most cheerful person in their house being gloomy. Even Bruce had tried to distract her to help her feel better. Not that it had helped.

He tells Marinette about his plan and she agrees. Tim doesn’t show up in the cave in the days after he tells Marinette of his plan. He seems to be avoiding the family completely in fact. He’s sure Marinette’s noticed too. Marinette gets more and more excited before his next solo patrol. The day he tells her they’re going; she’s practically bouncing in excitement. The whole family notices but doesn’t say anything, glad to have their ray of sunshine back. Jason thinks Cass knows and isn’t saying anything but he isn’t in a hurry to find out. For all he knows Marinette might’ve just told her.

He stays behind in the changing rooms for a while. And once he’s sure everyone’s left and he comes to grab Marinette, he realises Dick is still there. Dick will definitely notice his sister’s disappearance but he might tell Damian if they tell him where they’re going. And if Damian shows up, Marinette’s pleading or not, they weren’t going to achieve anything. Thankfully, Dick heads back up a while later, he must have been tired out by his training.

Jason hands Marinette a domino mask and takes his bike. He knows better than to grapple around Gotham City with a child. Steph just smiles at them as they scurry across the cave. He’s not shocked, if Cass knows than Steph definitely knows. At this point he’s just glad Marinette didn’t tell Dick.

They head to the safehouse Tim had been in the last time. Hopefully, Tim’s there. Jason doubts he’s gone on patrol, since he’s been trying to avoid the rest of them, he’s probably just working on case files.

Tim is there. Jason parks his bike in an alleyway and hands Marinette the mask solvent. She removes the mask soon enough and they go to find Tim. Marinette knocks on the door. Jason behind her, hidden in the shadows. The door opens to reveal Tim with a scowl on his face looking straight ahead, and before he can make out Jason in the shadows, Marinette hugs him, joyfully squealing, “Timtam!”

Tim looks down, bewildered, at the tiny kid that has currently wrapped herself around Tim.

“Marinette? What are you doing here?”

Still clinging on, she continues to speak happily, “Jayjay brought me.”

Looking up Tim spots him immediately, stepping forward, Jason offers him a sheepish grin.

Tim narrows his eyes at him, “why are the two of you here?”

Jason ignores his question and says, “we should head inside, don’t wanna bring attention to ourselves,” gesturing to his costume. And Jason walks into the apartment, steadily ignoring Tim glaring daggers behind him. Marinette has stopped clinging onto Tim and is skipping into the house dragging Tim behind her once he shuts the door.

Marinette goes back to hanging off of Tim like a monkey once he comes to a standstill.

“Mind telling me why the two of you are here?”

“Don’t look at me, Pixie was the one who wanted to talk to you.”

He looks at Marinette, who offers him a blinding grin. Tim melts a little and sits down, Marinette now having settled on his shoulders. He can’t wait to check out the footage from his mask later. This is going to hilarious. Gotham’s scary anti-hero caving under grins from his littlest sibling.

Marinette cuts to the chase, clambering of his shoulders, she sits cross legged on his lap, eyes wide and pouting. Jason stifles his urge to giggle. She looks up at him, and says sounding so sad that Jason wants to wrap her up in blankets and eat chocolate until Alfred scolds them, “Bruce said you’re not coming to the Manor next week.”

“I- what?”

She sniffles, and damn is Jason impressed, “for the holidays, Damian came home yesterday, Jon will be there next week. Cass and Steph are both there, B’s taken the week off from work. You’re the only one not coming.”

He’s still staring at Marinette with wide eyes, and a confused face. But he sounds perfectly collected when he says, “And do the others want me there?”

She gives him an indignant look, “Of course they do, why would they send an invitation if they didn’t want you there?”

“I don’t know,” he says, phrasing it as a question.

“Great, then you’re coming,” she says happily.

“I am?”

Jason almost feels bad for Tim. Almost. He’s not physically hurt, the worst thing from this encounter would be when Jason sends his mask footage to Tim’s friends as revenge for the whole trying to kill him thing. Marinette’s going to develop a reputation of getting grown heroes (or anti-heroes in this case) to cave under smiles before she meets any of them.

Marinette continues cheerfully, “yup. It’ll be so much fun. Alfred promised he’s gonna make everyone’s favourites. Yours included. And then the gifts. Don’t forget to get gifts, by the way.”

“Uh…sure.”

They’ve been out for at least two hours, if they don’t leave now, they might not make it back to the cave before the others do. Before Marinette can start on another tirade, he interrupts her, “We’ve gotta go now, if we don’t wanna be grounded.”

Marinette pouts but she gets up. She hugs Tim one more time and makes him promise that he’ll be there the next week. She skips out of the apartment happier than Jason had seen her all week.

They reach the cave before the others. Marinette informs Alfred and Steph that Tim agreed to come and Alfred ensures her that he’d take care of the necessary arrangements and that he’s glad that she convinced Tim to join them. She casually says, “he thought we didn’t actually want him here, that’s silly. Of course, we want him here.” She misses the sudden pain in Alfred and Stephanie’s expressions

Steph puts a hand on the bouncing Marinette’s shoulder, “maybe you should keep reminding him.”

Marinette looks at her and nods gravely, “ok.” She yawns then and Alfred sends her up to bed. Telling her she’s had a long night. Marinette wishes them all good night and rushes up the stairs.

The next morning Marinette informs the others, that ‘Timtam’ will be joining them and they have to get him a gift. No one provides Bruce with an answer when he asks how she knows, even though Jason’s sure all his siblings know by now.

True to his word Tim shows up the next week. He leaves at the end of the week. But Marinette and Jason now have an established system. It takes Tim, three more times of the same process before he catches on. He’s not immune to it though. So, every time Tim turns away from their “family bonding” Jason takes Marinette to whatever safe house he’s in and Marinette talks him into coming. Eventually they don’t need to do that and Tim just agrees the first time.

Being Dick's sister, she's been performing most of her life, she'd be able to pull off the whole fake tears thing..

[vivilove-jonsa]

Spooky prompt: We're going to have to stay here tonight 🎃

Thank you for the prompt, honey!  This isn’t really spooky at all but it’s inspired by Katrina and Ichabod’s first meeting in Tim Burton’s Sleepy Hollow with a slight twist.  I hope you like it :)

**

“We’re going to have to stay here tonight.”

The announcement had been greeted with no surprise.  Even without tales of headless horsemen, witches or evil spirits in the forest, autumn in Northern New England carries its own hazards.  The weather can turn unexpectedly.  

The blizzard had kept anyone of sense from attempting the journey home and their host had gallantly offered refuge for his guests beyond the harvest feast.

“Stay as long as necessary,” Eddard Stark had told them.

Some had chosen not to stay. The Umbers had set off that first night regardless saying they did not fear a bit of snow or any ghost stories. Jon wonders how their coach and horses fared along the indifferent roads in such conditions and if they Umbers reached their hearth.  Or are they now headless victims of a malicious spirit?  More likely, they might be frozen corpses, their eyes unseeing and their spirits wandering through the woods railing at their own folly.

Most had stayed, like the Tarlys.  Samwell is his age, a likeable though bookish boy who often winds up the butt of jests which hardly seems fair since Sam’s twice as smart as most any man here.  Jon is glad to call him his good friend.  He is also secretly protective of him when it comes to settings such as this where Sam might not be shown due respect by some. His brother Dickon is here as well. Though he’s a few years younger than Sam, he does not need Jon’s protection.

There are some who Jon wishes hadn’t stayed as well, particularly Harrold Hardyng.  A puffed up jackanape who charms the ladies with his compliments and looks down his nose as Jon’s old waistcoat, the only one he possesses decent enough for the Starks’ house, while cruelly poking fun at Sam’s fondness for sweets when the ladies aren’t present.

Jon almost wishes he had attempted the journey back to his own modest homestead himself.  He knows Tormund won’t let his livestock starve or freeze but he feels his responsibilities as a newer landowner keenly and thinks he should be there, too.

But Mister Stark looks upon his former ward quite fondly and Jon could not refuse his entry to remain. “It’s four miles to home for you which may as well be ten leagues in these conditions.  Pray, stay a little longer, Jon.”

And why shouldn’t Jon wish to remain at Winterfell during a blizzard?  He spent most of his boyhood here after all.

Because of Mister Stark’s daughter Sansa, that’s why.  

From gawky and somewhat missish at thirteen, she has blossomed into a beauty, willowy, graceful and sweet at seventeen.  Jon had liked her well enough as a girl but they’d had little occasion to converse one on one. But now?  Oh, he’d enjoy sitting by her side at the hearth for hours upon end if he could.  

She’d been standing by her father’s side to greet their guests upon arrival when they’d met again for the first time in years. She’d shook hands with him, giving him a friendly smile and saying how much she’d missed him here.  Jon had been enchanted and his enchantment has only grown since then as one night of her company had stretched into several.  

Therefore, Jon cannot bear watching Harrold Hardyng’s obvious attempts to court her right under the nose of their elders.  What does Mister Stark think of Hardyng?  More importantly, what does Sansa think?  For her part, Sansa only smiles politely at his oafish gallantry like the gracious young lady she is but is there any attachment blooming?

Jon hopes not though he is likely a fool to hope.  He’s quite proud of his homestead but knows it wouldn’t have been unlikely for him without Mister Stark’s help and it is not a scratch on a grand house like Winterfell. If he thought an offer of marriage between him and Sansa might be accepted though…oh, he is a fool to hope.

On the seventh night of his unexpectedly extended visit, the young people are growing restless.  There is only so much gossip to share, only so many stories to tell.  Days and nights kept indoors with mixed company relaxes some of the usual decorum and makes them bolder.  

“A game!  Let’s play a game!” Sansa declares after supper while Tom Sevenstrings and his friends pluck out a tune.  

“The Pickety Witch!” someone suggests and several more agree.  

Sansa laughs as her friend Jeyne Poole covers her eyes with a length of fine silk.  What a sight she is in her pretty blue gown with her red hair shining brightly, curled and coiffed just so.  Her rosy lips and that bit of black silk upon her porcelain skin, she presents an image that Jon knows will revisit him in the night.  Honor will have him attempting to banish the thoughts it will spur.  Carnal desire will encourage him in them.

They twirl her around three times, the children, young ladies and gentlemen chuckling and edging about the limited allotted space for the game as their elders watch from nearby smiling with nostalgia for their own youths perhaps.

“The Pickety Witch, the Pickety Witch, who’s got a kiss for the Pickety Witch?” Sansa asks with her hands stretched out before her, eager to snare a victim and guess who it is she’s caught.  

All around the little area, she takes a step and then another, grasping at thin air.  She’s hemmed in by her would-be captures but the space is enough to leave her uncertain of anyone’s exact whereabouts.  

Beth Cassel screeches and scurries when Sansa nears her.  Samwell squeaks and dodges her at one point, making his brother Dickon laugh heartily and barely elude capture himself.  Little Rickon stomps on his brother Bran’s foot in his eagerness to escape his sister the Pickety Witch. She’s by far the prettiest Pickety Witch that ever was in Jon’s opinion.  

Jon grins as she nears him and stands his ground.  He hates to see her stuck in the middle indefinitely.  And he’ll gladly let her capture him especially if it means she might choose to give her victim a kiss (even if it means he’ll be the blind man next.)

But a sound from the left draws her attention before she gets close enough to touch him and she turns.

Jon scowls, seeing that Harry has knocked the fireplace poker from its place.  From his smug grin as Sansa moves towards him, Jon knows he did that on purpose.  

His heart clenches, waiting for her to reach him.  Like Jon, Harry isn’t moving.  

She’s nearly to him, no more than a foot away.  At any second, she’ll put her hands on his chest, his shoulders, touch his face and Jon will have to watch it all with a feigned smile as the sickening feeling in his stomach increases.  

But when she’s right in front of Harry, Sansa does something unexpected.  She darts to the right and nabs another victim.

Sam yelps.  Yes, it’s a bit undignified but Sam does startle easily. Jon sees her lips twitching with suppressed laughter as his own are doing the same.  

Sansa gently rubs his broad shoulders and then touches his round face.  She wears an expression of puzzlement though, surely, she knows who she’s caught.  

Or perhaps she doesn’t?

“Is it Loras?” she asks sweetly.  

��N-no, Mm-Miss Sansa,” Sam stammers while Loras Tyrell across the room looks positively aghast at being mistaken for Samwell Tarly.

His voice will have given it away, Jon is sure.

Or maybe not.

“Ah, it must be Dickon then!”

Dickon Tarly may be younger but he is a head taller than his brother and far less rotund.  Sansa doesn’t know the Tarlys all that well but she has spent the past week in their company and Jon has never heard her call them by anything but their correct names during that time.  

Unkind laughter from some of the other lads breaks out.  Some of the girls present titter cruelly, the girls who look at Dickon with moony eyes and give Sam dismissive looks.  Jon glares at them all as does Dickon.    

“No, I’m not Dickon, Miss Sansa,” Sam says, apologetically.  Jon feels sorry for him.

“You must be a stranger to me then but clearly you are a noble gentleman, sir,” Sansa declares before kissing Samwell Tarly softly on the cheek.  Sam’s eyes are wide as saucers as she removes her blindfold.  “Oh ho, my mistake!  He is no stranger at all but I was right to name him a noble gentleman,” she tells the others in a firm but merry tone.

The unkind laughter and cruel titters from a moment ago dry up in an instant.  Jon can hear pleased laughter from the true friends present and everyone’s spirits are jolly again as Sansa helps blindfold and spin Sam for his turn.

Everyone’s spirits are jolly except for Jon’s, that is.  

He’d never thought to be jealous of Sam in this manner but now, there is no denying that he is. Sansa kissed Sam on the cheek.  Sansa has named Sam noble, which he is, and Jon has never felt less noble in his life.  Sam carries an old, respectable family name and is the heir to more money than Jon will ever know.  Sam would make her a finer match than most of these fools would ever acknowledge if they had any inclination for one another in that manner.  

Feeling depressed and ridiculous, Jon decides to leave the circle of players and goes to fetch himself some cider.  Once he has it, he retreats to the Starks’ deserted library.

He entirely misses Samwell catching Gilly, one of the serving girls, naming her correctly at once even with his blindfold in place and chastely pressing a kiss to her hand, making the girl blush with pleasure.  

It is there where he broods alone in the library with his hard cider that he’s discovered.  She has caught him after all.  Tis only fitting.  She has held him captive from the moment he arrived here.

“Why did you leave the game?”

“I was feeling…”  Jealous.  “Tired.”

“I hope you’re not unwell.”

“Not at all, Miss Sansa.”

“‘Miss Sansa,’ is it? That’s terribly formal.  We’ve known each other since we were children, Jon.”

“Yes, you’re right. Sorry, Sansa.  You knew you’d caught Sam, didn’t you?”

“I did.”

“Why’d you pretend otherwise?”

“I don’t like the way some of our guests treat him.”

“Nor I.”

“I know.  I know he’s your friend and quite dear to you.”

“He is.  He’s a very good man.”

“Yes, everyone should open their eyes and see it.”

It’s true.  Why are his spirits are in such turmoil?  He agrees with her but envy is twisting it, turning it into snake in his guts that would eat his heart if it could.  

“I have a confession to make,” she says softly next.

“A confession?”

She bats her full eyelashes. It seems to make those impossibly blue eyes look even bluer.  “I knew I was right in front of Harry.  I could see just a bit beneath the blindfold.  I recognized his boots.  I reached for the person next to him because I didn’t wish to capture him.”

That snake in his guts is withering away as something else swells.  “Oh?  You do not care for him, do you?”

“No, I do not.  I was actually hoping to capture someone else. I was looking for a certain set of feet but never got close enough to see them.”  

“Not Sam’s?”

She shakes her head, her curls bouncing as her cheeks flood with color.

His heart may eat that snake.  There is no room for jealousy here tonight.  “Oh? Whose boots were you hoping to find, may I ask?”

She smiles as their eyes meet.  “Who’s got a kiss for the Pickety Witch, Jon?”

He licks his lips and grins back at her before cupping her satiny cheek.  “I do.”    

[heyitsani]

I Keep My Eyes Wide Open Chapter 3

Word Count: 6024

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Major character death (eventually), Mentions of past rape/non-con (eventually)

Pairing: Jason Todd/Dick Grayson, Damian Wayne/Jon Kent (hinted?)

Summary: Damian spends some time away from Gotham and learns a few things for himself and his future.

Notes: Just a heads up, I have decided to NOT post next week at all.  I have a lot left to do in regards to Christmas for my gremlins so I’m going to be focusing on that.  That MIGHT mean I’ll give you two chapters the week after, but it might not.  Who knows?  My oldest’s bday is New Year’s Day so it depends on that really.  You’ll get one that day, but you might get one before that too.

If you have not read When You Move I Move, this one won’t really make much sense.  So you can read that here: WYMIM

You can also read this chapter on AO3 here

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Leaning forward to look out the window of the carriage, Damian took in the large fields of what he assumed were crops, that paved the way up to the main city of Metropolis. He remembered Jon writing about how he and his father would go down and help with the harvest because his father believed that even a king should know how to reap a field.  

Damian also remembered being fascinated with the idea.  When he had inquired about it to his own father, the man had laughed and said that it sounded exactly like something King Clark would say.  He also said that if Damian ever wanted to experience that for himself, he was sure one of their local farmers would be more than happy to teach him.  He saved the idea for a later date because he was sure his mother would have many words to say about ‘lowering himself to peasant standards’ and the eleven-year-old was tired of the lectures.

“What do you think Little Prince?”  Damian glanced over at Ser Jason, who had accompanied him on his journey at his father’s request. “Their kingdom is different from our own, but I think you’ll find they are a people who love their king just as much as Gotham loves your father.”

Nodding his head, he looked back out the window.  “Father said the people are kinder, warmer.”  Ser Jason hummed and Damian didn’t bother looking back to him.  “I am looking forward to a different perspective when it comes to ruling a kingdom.  King Clark is so different from Father and Grandfather.”

“He is,” Ser Jason agreed. “Your father has learned much from his friendship with the King of Metropolis, but the same could be said the other way.  If you are not willing to learn from others, then you have no business ruling over anyone.”

“Why is that?”

He leaned back into his seat as he turned green eyes onto the Dragon Slayer, watching the other man’s relaxed posture across from him.  It had been a long journey, but Damian had noticed the other man relax the further they got away from Gotham despite who they were both leaving behind.

“A king should be strong, and he should be smart,” Ser Jason gave him a look, “but he should also be kind and malleable.  No one man is infallible.  No one man has all the answers.  And the man who thinks he knows all he needs to know is someone who will demand allegiance over earning it.”  And Damian didn’t need to know much about ruling to know that anyone who demanded their citizens follow them rarely was an adored ruler.

“How to you stop from becoming that person?”  He kept his eyes on Ser Jason while the other man considered him carefully.  Damian wondered what was going through his mind, but Ser Jason had always been good at protecting his thoughts from his eyes. Unlike a lot of people.

“I suppose you surround yourself with people who would be willing to tell you when you are making a mistake,” Ser Jason shrugged.  “And you always make sure you’re willing to admit when you’ve actually made one.”

Damian considered the words and nodded.  It made sense.  His grandfather had struggled with admitting when he was wrong.  It had been an issue with his council and even some of the citizens of Gotham.  His father didn’t seem to suffer from that same issue.  If anything, from what he had seen, the man accepted faults that were not his to accept.  But how did you find a balance that two of the greatest men he had ever known couldn’t seem to find?

“Little Prince, we have many years to be sure that you know how to be better than your grandfather and left self-sacrificing than your father.”  Damian wasn’t sure what to say to that, but was granted a pardon when Ser Jason leaned forward and looked out the window.  “Ah, we are here.”  

Allowing his gaze to look out the window, Damian saw as they passed the walls of the city and headed toward the center where the castle was nestled.  When he had studied the layout of the kingdom, Damian had been surprised that they had built the city around the castle.  But then his father had informed him that the castle used to be a religious center point.  But then the kingdom had discovered that the religious leaders had been sacrificing to their “gods” and the citizens had overthrown the establishment.  Once the religious leaders had been dealt with, the citizens voted to make the building the home of the king instead.  It brought new light to the mindset of those living in Metropolis.

Once they pulled up to the castle itself, Damian settled back into his seat and waited.  He could see King Clark’s imposing figure waiting for them, along with the other members of the royal family.  It made him a little nervous to be on their terms now, but at least he had Ser Jason with him.

Once everything had come to a stop, Ser Jason moved closer to the door so he could exit first when the footman came to open the door, allowing him to survey the conditions before Damian followed.  Once Damian’s feet were on the ground, he was immediately enclosed in a familiar pair of arms.

“Jon, my boy,” he could hear King Clark laughing.  “Let His Highness at least get both feet on the ground.”  Jon was suddenly being pulled away and Damian face to face with him and the king who had tugged his son away.  “Hello Ser Todd, Prince Damian.  Welcome to Metropolis.  Again, for you I suppose Ser Todd.”  

“Your Majesty,” Ser Jason gave a bow of respect.  “And Your Highness, good to see your exuberance again.”  Ser Jason chuckled at the fourteen-year-old’s enthusiastic greeting.

“Thank you for having us, Your Majesty,” Damian greeted the older man with a bow of his own before turning a smile onto Jon and allowing it to grow when Jon’s did as well.  “Your Highness, good to see you again.  And Your Majesty,” he nodded to the woman who came up behind Jon.  He could see Duke Kon and his uncle a few feet back, but he gave the royal couple his immediate attention because tradition called for it.

“Please, no need to be so formal here.  I know your father would not stand upon ceremony, so neither should you.”  Damian nodded at the king before looking around the trio to see his uncle.  “Ah yes, I am sure you have been looking forward to seeing your uncle.”

Without having to be told, Damian moved forward to reach his uncle who met him halfway.  “Nephew,” his uncle greeted him, hugging him tightly for a moment before releasing him so Damian could turn and hug his uncle by marriage.  “We’re so glad you’re here.  How was the ride?”

“Long, but comfortable,” Damian responded when he released the Duke and looked over at his uncle. “I have a few things from home for you that Father said you would appreciate.”  He watched his uncle’s gaze turn curious before he looked over at Ser Jason and smiled brightly.  

“Ser Todd,” he greeted formally, but laughed when the slayer picked him up in a tight hug before putting him back on his feet and shaking the hand of his husband.  “My brother was unable to break away, then?”

“Unfortunately not,” Ser Jason responded with a frown.  Damian knew that his mother had something to do with the fact that his father couldn’t join them, but he wasn’t aware as to what it was.  “But he sent me in his place.  Is that not just as good?  Am I not enough for you, Duke Timothy?”  His uncle chuckled and Ser Jason pressed a hand to his chest as though he were offended.

“Damian, I’ll show you where you’re staying,” Jon slipped in-between Damian and Ser Jason, reaching for the younger’s hand.  “You can talk to the grown-ups later.”

“No need to lie about it, Nephew,” the duke laughed.  “We all know you just want your friend to yourself.  It’s quite all right.”  The five adults all laughed as the Jon huffed and tugged Damian away from them toward the entrance of the castle.

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“Do you think you will make a good king?”  

The question was surprising mostly because it was coming from Jon and not King Clark, but also because rarely did people ask about his future role in the kingdom.  He didn’t like to think too much about taking over his father’s throne, not sure he would ever be ready for that.  His father was such a beloved man and his mother made it clear she expected him to be better than his father.  But how did you best that?

“I hope to make my father proud,” was all he could think of to say.  He looked up from the game sitting on the floor between him and Jon, considering the teen across from him.  “My mother has so many expectations, but Father just wants me to be who I am.  He does not tell me to be one way or another.”

He watched Jon hum before looking down at the game and making his move.  “My father is much the same.  He tells me what he would do, but then tells me that I must make decisions on what I think is best.  Sometimes I am not certain what that means.”

Damian could sympathize with that.  

His father was such a good man, a good king.  He was the ultimate standard to live up to and while Damian wanted nothing more than to do just that, he also knew his father didn’t want that of him.  He didn’t want Damian to be just like him.  

“When our fathers are such great men, it is hard to not want to be just like them,” Damian admitted as he watched Jon move his pieces.  “But if we are just like them, then who are we really?”  He glanced up at Jon and found the older boy nodded, looking at a spot somewhere behind Damian.  

“I likely have many years before I am seated on the throne,” Jon told him.  Damian knew Metropolis allowed their king to rule until he felt unfit or he passed, unlike Gotham where an heir took the throne when they reached the age of 25.  Damian would likely be king before Jon, should King Clark’s health hold out and peace remain.  “But I think about whether or not I want the crown frequently.  I know I am my father’s sole heir, but Uncle Kon could easily take the throne if I didn’t want it.”

“And what would your father say if you decided that being king was not what you wanted?”

“I do not know for certain. It is only a passing thought, nothing to question just yet.”  But Damian felt like perhaps it was something that should be questioned.  Why continue with all the lessons and training if ultimately you didn’t want to take the crown?  He had never considered what it would be like to abdicate.  Between his mother’s expectations and the desire to be just like his father, he’s not sure he ever could.

“What would you do?”

“Hmm?”

“If you decided to drop your claim to the throne, what would you do?”  Damian questioned, watching Jon closely.  The fourteen-year-old shrugged and looked at Damian but remained silent. “I was basically born to take the throne.  My parents do not love each other the way your parents do.  My father…he loves someone he can never marry, and my mother came to him knowing, but hoping for more.  Her only purpose was to provide him an heir, me.”  He wasn’t sure where was taking this, but it felt like it had to mean something.  

“Just because the circumstances were less than ideal, does not mean you were only wanted for that purpose,” Jon commented.  Damian supposed he was right, but if he didn’t become king, what was the point of all of it?  “Your father would love you no matter what you decided.  But I know you well enough to know you will be King of Gotham when you turn 25 and your father will be so proud.”

“And you?”

“We shall have to see, won’t we?”

Damian wanted to answer, but there was something in his tone that made him pause and just observe. The look on his face was thoughtful, considering.  It was unnerving and Damian wasn’t sure how to take it.  He had seen a look like that on his father’s face before when looking at Ser Todd, but he wasn’t sure that was really comparable when he thought about it.

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The air was crisp as he walked the fields with Ser Jason on one side and Jon on the other.  The pair spoke over his head about some adventure Ser Jason had been on since the last visit Jon had made to Gotham, but Damian had long stopped listening.  It wasn’t that he wasn’t interested, it was just that the surrounding areas interested him more.

“Do you hear that?” Ser Jason’s question broke through Damian’s musings and pulled the younger man to look at him.  Furrowing his brows, Damian tried to listen for whatever it was the older man had heard but all he could pick up was the rustling sound of the wheat in the breeze.

But then there was a whimpering sound.

“There,” Damian said, turning and hurrying toward the sound.  The other two called out to him, but he knew they were following just by the sound of the wheat stalks moving.  His green eyes scanned the direction the whimper had come from as he rushed toward it, looking for anything that might have been making the noise.  

“Little Prince!”  Ser Jason called out in warning just as Damian spotted the small black creature attempting to pull its leg out of a tangle of rope.  The animal howled at the sight of them and backed away, baring its teeth at the perceived threat.

Damian held his hands up and approached slowly, shaking off Ser Jason’s hand when it landed on his shoulder.

“Damian, please.”  He paused to look back at the older man, frowning at the concern he saw on his features.  It was rare for the older man to use his first name so casually.  “Let me try and get the pup free.”  Looking back to the dog, Damian dropped his hands and stopped moving so the other man could carefully approach the dog.

Jon stood shoulder to shoulder with him and the pair watched the slayer carefully kneel down once he was close enough and held out a hand for the dog to sniff.  The dog nosed at the offered hand before going back to trying to get its leg out.

“Let me help,” Ser Jason muttered, reaching slowly for the rope.  He paused for only a moment when the dog let out a growl before he realized the man was trying to help.  “How did this happen, hmm?  You must have been dragging this rope for quite some way.  It looks like it has caught on some roots here,” he called over his shoulder as he worked to loosen the knot.

The instant the dog’s leg was free, he backed away from the three of them but didn’t run off.  Damian found it curious.

Moving forward, he knelt next to Ser Jason and watched the dog, locking eyes with the animal.  “What kind of dog is he?”  Damian questioned, shifting forward so he could get closer to it.

“Looks like a breed of hunting dog the villagers raise.  I am not certain,” Jon called over to him.  Damian hummed and stopped when he was within arms reach of the dog and just waited.  “What are you doing, Damian?”

“He needs to be looked at. He could have hurt himself.  And he certainly looks as though he needs a good meal,” Damian commented, still watching the dog as it began to inch over to him.  “He could have run, but he didn’t.  He is not afraid of us, but he needs reason to trust us.”  He could hear movement behind him and assumed Ser Jason had stood and moved over to Jon’s side, but didn’t bother looking.  He kept his gaze solely on the dog.  Slowly, cautiously, Damian moved to hold his hand out for the dog to smell just as he had seen Ser Jason do and waited for the cold nose of the pup to connect with his palm.

“That’s a good pup,” he murmured as he allowed his hand to run over the head of the dog.  “I shall call you Titus for now.”

“Saved.”  Ser Jason’s voice sounded amused and Damian spared him a glance, finding a smirk on his face.  “Fitting, Little Prince.”  The words were said in jest, but Damian knew that look in his eyes.  Pride.  With a nod, Damian looked back to the pup and carefully moved to run his hand over the leg.

“Can he walk?  We can take him to the healer in the city.  They should be able to tell us how Titus will fair.” When he was certain the leg was not damaged to the point of internal injury, Damian slowly stood and looked down at Titus.

“Come, Titus,” he commanded, walking toward the city walls where they had come from.  He didn’t glance back to see if the dog would follow and waved for Jon and Ser Jason to join him.  It was a few paces before the sound of paws hitting packed dirt sounded and the dog was slipping between his and Ser Jason’s legs.

“I’m not sure who will want to murder me more when we come home with Titus; your mother or grandfather,” Ser Jason joked as they made their way back to the city.  

“Not the king?”

“Oh no, Your Highness,” Ser Jason said seriously.  “No, King Richard would murder me if I denied his son something he so clearly wants. Especially an innocent something.” Damian pursed his lips to keep from beaming at the idea of his father approving of his actions just now.  He ignored the concern that wanted to bubble up with the thought that his mother was going to have a few choice words about it. He wasn’t going to think about it now. Not when he knew he would have his father in his corner.

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“Honestly, Titus,” Damian sighed as the dog panted at the window of the carriage.  Just three weeks after having found him and the dog had gone from skin and bone to healthy and growing quite quickly.  King Clark had warned them that the breed was one that grew quite large, but Damian had waved it off and welcomed the thought.  

He wasn’t sure how Titus had come to be at that spot the day they found him, but Damian refused to believe it was anything other than fate.

Ser Jason reached over and scratched at the dog’s ears before settling back in his seat.  “He knows home when he sees it.  We are almost there.  Are you happy to be returning?”  Damian considered the question as he stared out the window Titus was still sticking his nose out of, watching the trees rush past them.

“I have missed most aspects of home,” he settled on.  Though he loved Ser Jason as a father and knew he could trust him, he struggled to admit that he was not looking forward to being under his mother’s thumb once again. Queen Lois had been such a breath of fresh air.  To see the way a mother could love her child, it had left Damian wanting something he knew would never be his.  And though his father and Ser Jason loved him as parents should, he couldn’t help but wonder if he was missing out on something without the love of a mother.

“It is okay to be sad to be returning home, Little Prince,” Ser Jason spoke softly and Damian’s gaze dropped to his lap before looking over at the older man.  His eyes were earnest and caring, but understanding as well. “I do not know what goes through the minds of others, but I do know your father understands much of what you’re dealing with.”

“But not completely.”

“No, perhaps not completely since Queen Talia was gone well before your father was your age, but from what I recall, she might have been more rigid than Catalina.”  Damian didn’t know if that was possible, in all honestly, but he nodded anyway.  He knew stories of the late queen and knew she was not who his grandfather had thought she was.  His second wife, Selina, had not been very motherly but she was kind and she was loving. His father said he had found a friend and confidante in the former queen and it had been exactly what he had needed.  

“We’re here,” Damian chose to say instead of acknowledging the conversation any more, looking out the window and seeing the approaching city walls.  They were finally home and he found himself getting nervous as to what would happen upon the revelation of Titus.  “You won’t let them take him?”

His green eyes looked into Ser Jason’s turquoise ones and the other man nodded.  “They will have to take me down before I allow you to be parted from Titus.  You have my word on that, My Prince.”  Damian saw the truth in his eyes and nodded.  “Besides, I already wrote to your father weeks ago and told him about the pup.  His reply came a few days before we left and spoke of his excitement to meet the newest Wayne.”  Damian felt a smile spread on his face as he jumped forward and gave Ser Jason a hug in thanks.

“The Prince has returned!”  Damian pulled away at the shouts from the crowd and leaned closer to the windows to see citizens starting to line the streets at their passing.  He could hear various shouts of his name and greetings and it made a warm feeling settle in his chest.  

“You should lean out and wave,” Ser Jason instructed.  Nodding, Damian did just that and was rewarded with more cheers and calls of his name.  “The people already love you.  You do not realize how much of your father you have in you.  His influence is an overwhelming presence.”  

That was the kind of praise that could be considered dangerous when spoken around the wrong people, but with just him and Ser Jason in the carriage, Damian let the pride swell in his chest.  To be compared to his father and come out favorably, what more could he ask for?  His father was the best man he knew, the best man any of them knew, and he could only be so lucky to be loved like he was.

Settling back into the carriage as they breached the gates of the castle, Damian smiled at Ser Jason before smoothing his cloaks.  “Thank you, Ser Jason,” he said carefully.  “Thank you for accompanying me on this trip.  I know that I wouldn’t have been allowed otherwise, so thank you.”  The older man just gazed at him with a warm expression and gave a small nod.  It said more than words could.

When the carriage came to a stop, there was no waiting for formalities and Ser Jason opened the door so he could step out.  Damian followed and turned to make sure Titus was able to get out without struggle.

“Dami!  Jason!”  His father called as he rushed forward and embraced both of them, Damian first for appearances sakes, and then Ser Jason.  “We have missed you both.  And this must be Titus!  Your letter did not exaggerate his size,” the man laughed, kneeling to get level with the dog who now sat next to Damian’s feet panting.  “He’s a fine-looking animal, Damian.  And obedient already?”

“Yes, Father,” he agreed. “King Clark showed me how to train him. We still have some things to learn, but he knows the basics and will behave himself.”  Damian snuck a glance toward where his mother stood at the top of the stairs with a scowl.

His father laughed when Titus leaned forward and licked at his face before standing and wiping away the dog drool.  “Yes, well behaved indeed,” he teased, causing Damian and Ser Jason to laugh with him. “I asked the staff to have the necessary items placed in your rooms, but you let them know if there is something they missed.  I do believe you are more than old enough for this responsibility.”

“Thank you, Father,” Damian smiled, pushing forward to hug the king around his middle before heading toward where his mother was still waiting.  “Come, Titus.”  He called the dog as he walked, prompting the animal to trot next to him as he walked up the steps and came to stand in front of his mother.  “Hello, Mother,” he greeted.  He noticed her eyes narrowed on Titus before glancing at Damian.

“What is this?”

“His name is Titus. We found him hurt and King Clark gave him to me to care for.”  The scowl on her face deepened and Damian felt his heart sink.  He had been hoping for a better reaction, even if he had known it wouldn’t actually happen.  He had still hoped.

“You do not need the distraction.  Give him to a staff member to find him a new home.”

“But- “

“You misstep, My Queen,” his father’s smooth voice sounded from behind Damian.  Turning to look at the man who had his hard gaze on his mother, Damian held back his relief at his appearance.  A glance at Ser Jason, who stood a few feet back, told him he had nothing to worry about.  “I have already told him he may keep Titus.  The arrangements have already been made.  He is apparently a well behaved animal and it is a good responsibility to learn.”

The silence from his mother said a lot and Damian wondered if this was going to be a problem down the road.

“Why don’t you take Titus out to the fields, Son?  I’m sure he would be happy to run around before dinner tonight.”  Nodding his head, he clicked his tongue and hurried away from the three adults as quickly as he could to avoid being more of a problem. He also didn’t want to hear yet another argument between his parents regarding him specifically.

Those happened frequently enough as it was.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Glancing over to his left, Damian attempted to catch Ser Jason’s line of sight for a moment without much success.  He wasn’t sure what it was he thought he would figure out from the man, but anything would be better than the glaringly empty seats where his father and mother usually sat.

But none of the others at the table seemed to be interested in addressing the matter, given the conversation floating around from the other occupants of the table.

His grandfather had been in deep conversation with Ser Jason and his Aunt Cassandra since the moment their plates had been delivered.  He could hear words like weapons, forgers, and arsenal every once in a while, so he knew it was probably about the latest weapons that the soldiers had been training with.  He could hear his grandmother talking softly with his Aunt’s good friend, Stephanie, who had been his nurse when he had been a baby but was now basically a member of the family.  He couldn’t make out anything from their conversation, but it didn’t matter.

All he wanted to know was where his parents were and why they had started without the king.

He was about to ask whoever was willing to listen when a loud bang sounded from outside the room and had the entire table startling.  To the point that Ser Jason was on his feet, palming a dagger at his thigh and Titus had come to stand next to Damian’s chair, lips pulled back in a snarl.

Slipping his hand into the dog’s collar to keep him from running toward whatever had startled them all, Damian watched Ser Jason stalk toward the door and press an ear to the wood. Whatever he heard had his shoulders draining of tension and him putting the dagger away.

“Ser Todd,” his grandfather called out, pushing to his feet, but the Slayer waved a hand.  Quickly, he tugged both doors open and revealed the two missing family members.  The pair stood toe to toe and Damian wanted to shrink away from the look in his mother’s eyes.

He knew that look. This was about him.

But while his mother continued to look like she could spit fire, Damian watched his father slip back into the easy calm he always wore when people were around.  Even if it was just family, he would never allow them to glimpse into his personal difficulties.

“Your Majesties,” Ser Jason greeted, tone flat.  Damian saw his mother turn the gaze onto the other man and open her mouth, but she was unsurprisingly cut off by his father.

“Enough, Catalina!” It was the most forceful Damian had ever heard his father be.  It wasn’t like he was a stranger to his parents fighting and he knew it had been happening more and more since he had returned from his visit with Jon in Metropolis, but his father had always seemed so collected when he did see it. “If you have more to say then we will discuss it later.  You have already made your point quite clear and I have given you my answer.”

His mother jerked back as if she had been slapped and Damian wondered if that’s essentially what his father had just done with is words.  Just like he had, his mother had probably expected him to keep the venom out of his voice as he always did.  But he hadn’t.  The King’s voice had been dripping in it.

“This is not over.  I will not have my will ignored,” she growled out before turning on her heel and rushing away.  And though Damian wanted to know what exactly had been going on, he was more focused on his father rubbing at his forehead as Ser Jason whispered something to him.  There was a moment of tense silence between them before his father sighed and nodded.

The pair exchanged a few more hushed words before they entered the dining hall and took their seats. Damian kept his eyes on his father and tried to see if he could get any answers, but he had a feeling it would be the same as always.

And the smile he finally got from his father once he was fully settled and had his plate set before him told him he wasn’t wrong.  But his instincts told him he would personally pay for whatever it was that had happened between his parents.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In hindsight, Damian knew he should have expected backlash from his mother on the subject, but he hadn’t really thought about it.  If he were completely honest, it hadn’t even crossed his mind when he had started the exchange of letters with Prince Jon of Kent.  After he had stayed in Gotham when his brother and Damian’s uncle had come on formal business, the pair had just formed an easy friendship.  And the time he had spent in Metropolis with the royal family under the guise of visiting his uncle had only served to strengthen the friendship.

Damian had been jealous at the easy view of the world the older prince had and had wanted to absorb that ideal.  The same ideal that his father tried to instill in him, but his mother fought hard to extinguish.

“What are these?”  A stack of papers fell in front of him as he worked on his lessons for the day and with barely a glance, Damian picked out Jon’s familiar script.  “Explain yourself.”

Looking up at his mother with a frown, Damian watched her closely.  “They are an exchange of letter with the Heir Apparent of Metropolis.” His father had been thrilled when he had learned that Damian and Jon had formed such a strong friendship.  He had encouraged it and even gone as far as to offer to write to King Clark and the two boys might spend a few weeks each summer living in the other’s kingdom.

“They stop now.”  And though he would regret it, Damian reacted.

“But Mother, he is my friend!”  He shot to his feet and looked at her desperately.  “Why should I not write to him?  He will be King of Metropolis one day and this fosters good political bonds.” He knew it was a good argument but the look on her face told him she didn’t appreciate it.

“You are friends with people who can help you further our kingdom.  We are already in good relations with the Kingdom of Metropolis and that makes this friendship frivolous and juvenile.”  His mother glared at him and though Damian wanted to stand his ground, he shrunk a little under the weight of her stare.  “You are friends with who I say you can be friends with.”

“May I write to him one last time to explain?”

“No,” her voice was cold, and Damian hated it.  “And if you know what is good for you, you will not let your Father hear of this. Honestly, Damian,” she sighed, grabbing the stack of letters and heading toward the lit fireplace.  His heart dropped to his stomach and it took everything within him to keep from rushing forward to grab the letters.  “I am doing this for you.  To make you better.  To make you stronger.  To make you more than your father will ever be.”  

He watched sadly as she tossed the letters into the fire with a flick of her wrist and brush her hands down her skirts.  The papers fed the fire immediately, burning bright for a matter of seconds before simmering back down to its original state.  As if they had never been there to begin with.  As if they had been nothing but a dream he had once had.

Dropping back down into his chair, he turned his eyes back to the texts in front of him and sighed.

“You will be the most brilliant king this kingdom has every had the pleasure of witnessing.  And in order to do that, you must be strong. You must rule with your head and not just your heart,” his mother spoke, her tone much more even now that she had accomplished her task.  A tone he heard on a daily basis and knew much more than any other.  “Your grandfather ruled only with his head.  Your father only with his heart.  You will be better.”

But Damian wasn’t sure he wanted to be better than either of them.  He wanted to be loved like his father was.  He wanted to walk the streets of Bristol and have citizens call out to him just to say hello and see how he is.  He wanted to welcome other kingdoms into his own and break bread with them by fireside with a mug of mulled wine.  

More than that though, he wanted love.  Not the love he got from his father or the distinctive love he got from his mother. No, he wanted the love he saw between his father and Ser Jason.  Or his uncle and Duke Kon.  Love that was built upon years of friendship.  And maybe Jon had not been that love, but he had at least been a friend.

“Do you understand, my son?”

“Yes, Mother,” he agreed softly.  Glancing back to the fire one last time, he picked up his quill and went back to his studies as his mother took her place in the chair by the window.

[magalidragon]

“waiting room” | a Dadvos and Olenna drabble

This is all @nlights37​ fault.  I don’t know how or why, but somehow Dadvos came up (actually I do, but it is a secret for another future drabble) and then I wanted to write Dadvos waiting on Baby Targ.  And didn’t know what universe.  And so...here we go, back to the rose next door universe. 

And also, I was scared about doing another one in this universe after Dame Diana Rigg’s passing, but then figured she’d want us celebrating her in her amazing glory, so here we go, back to Olenna’s world!

The smell of hospitals made Olenna sick, which was the only reason she claimed she wasn’t in the waiting room.  She also told him, as he offered to take her to the hospital, that she wasn’t their “bloody grandmother.”  Although her lip twitched after she said it, which Davos suspected might have been her dark heart’s only admission that she thought of the young couple beside her as her grandchildren.  Probably more than her actual grandchildren.  

He didn’t push it; you didn’t get anywhere trying to force Olenna Tyrell to do anything. He just said he would go and wait it out, as the poor things didn’t have any local family.  As the father of seven sons, he remembered each time going out and announcing the birth of the next one, whether to someone in the waiting area or at least on the phone.  

From what he’d gotten from them both, sounded like only Jon’s family was around and even then it was only his two cousins.  The rest he didn’t much care for.  Poor lad, he thought, even now, as he flicked through a dated magazine.  He thought he was somewhat <i>responsible</i> as well.  Marya told him he should know beter than that.  ”Babies come when they want Davos, remember our boys?  Each and every one on their own time frame.”

Aye, that was true, but well, he’d run over to help Dany with some bags from her car, but she’d tugged one free from him, and then before he knew it, she was holding her belly and staring at the liquid trickling down her leg, mortified.  He’d had to calmly assure her that her water had broken, he would call her doctor and Jon, and things would be perfectly fine.  

But who was he kidding?  Olenna Tyrell happened to see the entire thing.  ”What are you bloody doing just standing there?”, she shouted, as he breathed calmly with Daenerys. ”Call the doctor and get out of the way, of the three of us, I actually pushed three of these brutes out of me.”

Poor Daenerys, her eyes were as wide as a deer caught in the crosshairs, and Davos didn’t think it was solely because she was in labor with her first child.  All told, Olenna went back to her house, saying things would take their time and come by in the morning or the evening or whenever the baby actually made its arrival.

He, on the other hand, stuck around.  He knew Jon was terrified; poor lad had confessed as much to him.  Over the years he’d grown very fond of the young man, considering him his adopted eighth son.  It was part of why he’d gone along with the antics of Olenna in getting him a girl.  And seven hells it worked out.  Jon didn’t have much of a father figure, he said, and Davos liked to think perhaps he could be that for the boy.  He was pleased that Jon seemed to accept him in that role as well.

“I’m having a baby,” he’d sputtered, as he arrived at the hospital; Davos rode in the ambulance, since Jon was almost clear at Storm’s End for training exercises of some sort and got caught in traffic.  He was ashen, gray eyes wide.  “A real baby.”

“Aye, and your other half is in there pushing that real baby out of her real body.  Now listen here.”  He pointed his finger into Jon’s chest, his words calm, but firm.  “You do whatever she wants.  No matter how stupid, silly, or what have you.  She asks you to jump, you ask how high.  She wants you to cut your balls off, you say you’ll do it.  She breaks your fingers, you offer your toes.  Understand?”

The pallor on Jon’s face went from white to sickly gray.  He nodded, gulping.  “Aye.”

“Go have a baby son.”

Hours ago now, Davos thought.  He’d gone home, had some dinner, told Marya he’d be back at the hospital and give him a call.  He closed his eyes, took a brief nap, and then tugged out the e-reader that his son got him for his birthday, glasses perched on his nose as he tried to read.  

“First one?”

He blinked, peering over his half-moon glasses at the woman who was standing beside the vending machine near him.  He chuckled.  “Not mine, but theirs.”

“Hmm.”  The woman had flame red hair, which matched her scrubs and the robe she wore overtop them.  She removed a cup from the automated coffee machine, blowing idly on the smoke, her eyes shining red in the haze from overtop the rim.  Her smile flickered.  “The night is dark and full of terrors, but the sun is bright and made of fire.”

He frowned, slightly disturbed to see she was a physician.  Even if she did look a tad familiar.  “Ah, well…good evening then to you.”

The woman smiled again.  “Good luck with your grandchild.”  She wandered off, humming to herself, before he had time to correct her.  

Well, maybe sort of a grandchild. He looked at his phone.  Olenna had sent a text telling him that she requested they name their child after her, because without her, that baby wouldn’t exist.  He rolled his eyes, but did not reply, because he was fairly certain it was true.  

He closed his eyes again and folded his hands over his e-reader, dozing.  He didn’t realize how deep he’d fallen into sleep, or for how long, until someone lightly touched his shoulder, startling him awake.  He scrubbed a hand over his beard and pushed his glasses back up, staring straight into the shaky, ecstatic face of Jon Snow.  “Ah!” he exclaimed, jumping to his feet.  “Well?  How is she?”

“Ten fingers, ten toes,” Jon squeaked.  He gulped, rubbing his hands over his dark beard which had grown darker over the last couple days.  Bags hung under his eyes.  He laughed, a little dazed.  “It’s a girl.  We have a girl…um, Aly…Alysanne, look.”  He showed Davos his phone, with video a nurse took, of a screaming baby girl being handed to her sobbing mother and father, both of them kissing her dark head.  He laughed again.  “She’s perfect.  They both are…gods Davos, I don’t know how they do it.”

“Mystery of the world.”

“I’ll tell you, pelvic floor exercises, that’s how.”

They both whirled around, Olenna marching towards them.  “Well?” she demanded.  She grabbed the phone, a satisfied smile pulling on her lips.  “Ha!  I was right, it was a girl.” She pushed the phone at Jon again, patting his face.  “Get that smirk off your face, you had a few minutes of fun, Daenerys had the rest of the work.  She’s going to have a lot more coming up too, so you get back in there and do whatever she wants you to do.  Give her these.”  She produced a bunch of pale pink flowers, varying shades and types.  “Brighten up that dreary room until they ship her home.”

Jon frowned at Olenna, but said nothing.  Mostly because she didn’t give him time.  She swatted at him.  “Go on!  Get back to your wife and baby, stop talking to us doddery fools!”

Davos chuckled, knowing this was Olenna’s way of trying not to burst into tears.  He reached for Jon, pulling him into a tight hug, father to son.  “Congratulations son.”  He pulled back, beaming, as Jon gave him another shaky smile.  His gray eyes shined.  He nodded fast and grabbed the flowers from Olenna, hurrying off before he could get yelled at again.  

Olenna smiled next to him.  She reached up and flicked at the corner of her eye.  He stared, mouth falling open slightly.  Is she…, he couldn’t even finish the thought, before she sneered.  “I have mascara in my eye, nothing more!  Come on, I’ll drive you home.  But first I have to stop at the store, I have to get a new set of noise-cancelling headphones, I’m not going to listen to a baby screaming.  Did that three times.”

He smirked, gathering his things and followed her, not bothering to tell her that he actually drove himself after stopping at home.  She had to save face after all.  

“Her name is Alysanne,” he said.  

“Lovely name.”  Olenna rolled her eyes, punching the elevator button.  The doors closed and she scoffed.  “Not as good a name as Olenna, mind.”

He laughed.  “No, certainly not.”

[ollieofthebeholder]

leaves too high to touch (roots too strong to fall): a TMA fanfic

Tumblr tag || Also on AO3

Chapter 26: Jon

When Jon’s grandmother passed away peacefully in her sleep, not long after his twenty-fourth birthday, he quickly discovered that her life insurance and savings weren’t enough to cover all the bills that needed to be covered and put the house he’d grown up in on the market. He only vaguely remembers the whole procedure, as he was in something of a state of shock at the time, but he does remember accepting the first offer presented to him despite the realtor’s comments that he could “probably hold out for a bit more” if he wanted. Thus, he’s the only one not really startled at the speed with which he, Martin, and Tim find out that they’ve got the house.

To be clear: He’s not startled at the speed. He is, however, startled that they got it. Surely someone must have been willing to pay more for it, been better qualified. But no. They learn their offer has been accepted less than a week after the Primes’ disastrous encounter with Basira’s partner and the closing is scheduled for the following Friday. Martin theorizes that their position at the Magnus Institute gave them some extra clout. Tim jokes that it’s his charismatic personality. Jon frets that Elias might have had something to do with it for nefarious purposes.

Sasha finally does some research and tells them that it’s being sold by a pair of siblings barely out of their teens whose parents died unexpectedly and probably just need the money fast.

Martin doesn’t have much, just the little he managed to bring with him to the Institute when first escaping Jane Prentiss and the few things he’s re-acquired since then, and Jon’s things are still packed up from when he declined to renew the lease on his flat in August, so it’s mostly just Tim who needs to decide what he’s keeping and what he’s ready to part with or needs to replace. It takes them the better part of two Saturdays, but they manage to get everything boxed and sorted in time to move out the last full weekend of September.

The moving-in process is surprisingly fun. Sasha and the Primes even come to help (Tim suggests the latter so that Martin Prime knows his way around the house from the get-go, which is actually really sensible) and they make a party of it. Tim insists on setting up the sound system first, then gets everyone to contribute a certain number of songs to a playlist on some app he has on his phone. He puts it on shuffle and lets it play while they work together on the various rooms.

“Oh, my God,” Sasha moans after the eighth song that she evidently didn’t pick comes on. “Do any of you listen to a single band that’s put out an album since 1984?”

“Yes,” Martin says indignantly, his cheeks coloring slightly.

“Remasters don’t count.”

Martin Prime grins. “None of mine have come up, either.”

“What did you put on?” Sasha asks suspiciously.

She gets her answer a few minutes later when, after shuffle coughs up a Spice Girls song they all tease her mercilessly about, an honest to God sea shanty comes on. Tim and Jon laugh at Sasha’s dramatic, despairing groan, but it’s hard not to respond to the Martins’ enthusiasm as they—surprisingly—harmonize along with the recording while they set up the living room.

They’re almost done assembling the new bed Tim bullied Jon into buying (“You’re not in uni anymore, you don’t need to be sleeping on a futon, and anyway, when was this made, the Thatcher premiership?” “Brown, and shut up, Tim.”), which is the last piece of furniture they need to put together, when there’s a sound from the front door—two firm, solid knocks, audible all the way upstairs. Jon nearly drops the screwdriver as his heart kicks against his ribs. It’s stupid, and he knows it’s stupid, but two knocks like that always makes him think of that book.

Tim makes a noise in the back of his throat. “God, hope the music isn’t too loud.”

“I don’t think that’s it,” Martin says, but he sounds uncertain. “I-I mean, it’s been ages.”

Jon pushes himself to his feet. “I’ll check.”

He hurries out of the bedroom before anyone can comment on the clear break in his voice. He is, and there is no way to deny it to himself, legitimately afraid of what might be outside. The likelihood of it being a being of another entity is slim, but…well, there was Mr. Spider, and Jane Prentiss knocked on Martin’s door more than a few times to keep him off-balance, so there’s always the chance. It’s something he feels he can deal with, though, so he heads out to face it.

He does not, however, expect to open the door and be faced with what is either a small child or a casserole dish with tennis shoes.

“Hello,” a tiny voice says brightly from behind the dish. There’s a bit of shifting, and then two big brown eyes and a mass of curls appear over the rim. “I’ve brought you a cake.”

Jon will deny to his dying day that those words freeze his blood in his veins and make his heart stutter to a stop, but since this might actually be his dying day, he’ll be lying if he tries. His lips part, but no sound comes out.

“And a casserole, too,” the child continues, completely oblivious to Jon’s unwarranted panic attack. “That’s not as much fun, though, but Nan says it’s important to eat good, hearty food when you’ve been doing lots of work and that cake shouldn’t be a whole meal. I think there’s no point in being a grown-up if you can’t eat whatever you want, but…” The child heaves an enormous, dramatic sigh that seems too large for such a small body. “My Nan’s very, very old, and you don’t get to be old if you don’t do something right, so she must know what she’s talking about. Anyway, we made the casserole with lots and lots of cheese and she said that was okay, so at least it’s a little better.”

“Ah—thank you?” Jon manages. “H-here, let me…take that.”

He manages to extract the casserole dish, which certainly feels as if it’s laden with cheese; it weighs the proverbial ton. Quite possibly a literal one. It’s solid enough to anchor Jon to reality, though, and he studies his benefactor. The child can’t be more than seven or eight, at the most, with a round face and limbs hidden in an oversized, threadbare sweater that looks like it’s been handed down through more than a few generations. Dangling from one arm is a wicker basket that does indeed appear to contain a cake.

“It’s a chocolate cake with marshmallow frosting,” the child says. “I tried to write ‘Welcome to the neighborhood’ on it, but I didn’t put the tip on the piping bag right and it came off, so now it’s just a mess, but it’ll taste just as good, I promise. My Nan makes the best cakes.”

Jon smiles in spite of himself. “I don’t think I have enough hands to take it from you now. Would you mind bringing it into the kitchen for me?”

“Oh, sure!” The child practically hops over the threshold. “I always wanted to see what this house was like on the inside. Tibby used to babysit for me sometimes, but she always came over to our house, never me coming over here. Nan says it’s better that way, and Tibby always said it was laid out exactly like all the other houses, but it’s not the same as seeing it for yourself. Firsthand knowledge is best, that’s what I think. What do you think?”

“I—I think I agree with you,” Jon says. He also feels a bit like he’s staring at his younger self. “I assume you live in one of the other houses on the row?”

“Two doors down,” the child agrees cheerfully. “With the window boxes. My Nan likes to garden a bit, but she can’t bend over so much anymore, so Toby set up the window boxes for her a couple years ago.”

“And, uh, who is…Toby?”

“Oh, sorry, I thought you knew. Toby McGill. He and Tibby—that’s his sister Tabitha, but everyone calls her Tibby—they were the ones selling this house after their parents died. He’s at Surrey University now and he says he’s going to stay out there when it’s all said and done, and Tibby got a job on a boat.” The child sounds deeply impressed. “I want to be a sailor someday, too. Can you imagine getting to see the whole wide world by water and getting paid for it, too? I’d never want to leave. I told Tibby she has to save a spot on the crew for me and she laughed and promised, so I can’t wait. I’m going as soon as I grow up. I’m not going to university. You don’t need to go to university for everything, you know. I know Nan really wants me to go ‘cause Mum didn’t and neither did Dad and she doesn’t want me turning out like them, but you can turn out well even if you don’t go to university, can’t you?”

“Absolutely,” Jon says gravely. He casts an involuntary glance in the direction of the stairs, thinking of Martin. “One of my housemates didn’t go to university, and he’s one of the most brilliant people I know.”

“How many of you live here, anyway?”

“Just three of us.” Jon has no idea how much this child has seen and how many people he knows are in the house at the moment.

“Oh. There used to be three of us in my house, too.” The child scuffs a toe against the carpet just before they step into the kitchen. “And then there was going to be four, but Mum died and the baby did, too.”

“I’m sorry,” Jon says softly, feeling a pang. “I grew up with my grandmother, too.”

The child looks up at Jon and smiles, in such a way that Jon can’t help but smile back. “And you turned out okay.”

“Debatable,” Jon says. He sets the casserole dish on the counter. “I’m Jon, by the way. Jonathan Sims.”

“I’m Charlie. Charlie Cane.” The child smiles up at him and hands over the basket. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Likewise. Tell your grandmother we said thank you. I don’t know that any of us will have the energy to cook tonight. We’ll bring back the dishes tomorrow.”

“There’s no hurry. Nan doesn’t go anywhere.” Charlie flashes Jon a grin that’s missing two teeth, then turns and waves to the doorway. Jon glances up to see Martin, looking somewhere between worried and amused. “Hi! I’m Charlie Cane. Welcome to the neighborhood. Do you live here, too?”

“Um…yes. I’m Martin Blackwood. It’s…nice to meet you?” Martin raises an eyebrow at Jon.

“Charlie and his grandmother made us a casserole,” Jon says, gesturing at the counter. “And a cake.”

“That’s very nice of you. Thank you.” Martin smiles at Charlie and winks, although Jon doesn’t quite understand why.

“Welcome.” Charlie’s beaming smile could probably light the house for a week. “I’d best go before Nan thinks I’m doing something stupid again. See you later!”

He’s out the front door before Jon can respond, or even blink. He looks back to Martin, who isn’t even trying to hide his amusement. “Is everything okay?”

“Everything’s fine, Jon. We were just wondering if you were okay. You were gone for a while.”

Jon gestures vaguely at the front door. “I don’t think that child has many people to talk to. Or at least not many people who will listen to him.”

Martin snorts. “I think you’ve got yourself a new best friend.”

Jon almost wants to say something flippant like Just what I need, but thinking on it, he actually doesn’t mind all that much. “Considering how much I would have given to have an adult pay that kind of attention to me when I was his age, I think I can handle that.”

Martin reaches over and pulls Jon into a hug. Jon lets himself be comforted for a moment, then extricates himself gently and smiles. “Come on. Let’s see if the others are ready to eat.”

As it turns out, the others finished putting together the bed and even made it while Jon talked to Charlie, so they’re all too happy to come into the kitchen for a hearty meal. It’s exactly as cheese-laden as Charlie promised. Jon recounts his conversation, to general amusement, although something flickers briefly across Martin Prime’s face and Jon Prime shoots Jon an understanding and slightly frightened look when he repeats Charlie’s opening words. If anyone else notices, they give no sign of it.

Tim lets the music keep playing while they eat. Jon mostly tunes it out, no pun intended, and he rather suspects the others do too. But just as they’re scraping their plates clean—the food is delicious, and Tim declares he’s going to try and charm Charlie’s grandmother out of the recipe—Martin Prime suddenly tilts his head to one side, as if trying to catch a sound. A smile twitches at his lips, and he stands up and holds out a hand to Jon Prime. “May I?”

Jon Prime looks startled for a split-second, then smiles—no, grins—and places his hand in Martin Prime’s. He lets Martin Prime pull him away from the table and into his arms, and the two of them start slow-dancing.

Jon pauses, fork suspended over his plate, and watches them. Jon Prime lets Martin Prime lead him in a simple box step, one arm draped casually over Martin Prime’s shoulder, while Martin Prime’s hand rests firmly at his waist; their other fingers are laced together in a way that would make it difficult to telegraph intended moves if they didn’t—probably—know each other so well. The space between them is so little it’s a wonder they don’t constantly trip over each other’s feet, and before long their foreheads touch. The song is gentle and plaintive, encouragement from one partner to the other to trust and relax and allow the first to take care of the second, a promise that the second person won’t be considered weak or lesser if they allow themselves to be comforted.

I promise you’ll be safe here in my arms…

Martin Prime lifts his arm and spins Jon Prime around gently, and when Jon Prime comes back into the closed frame, he leans his head against the shoulder where his hand isn’t resting and closes his eyes. Martin Prime pulls him closer and rests his cheek alongside Jon Prime’s as they continue dancing. It’s one of the most intimate and romantic things Jon has ever seen, and he almost has to look away from it.

Almost. Not quite. Something keeps him drawn, and there’s a tiny part of Jon’s brain that suggests it probably isn’t just the pleasure at seeing someone who’s basically him safe and happy and in love mixed with the vague sense of longing for something like that—maybe not that exactly, but something like it. It may also be that watching the Primes slow dancing means he doesn’t have to look at anyone else.

The song plays itself out. Martin Prime turns his head slightly; Jon Prime turns his at the same time, and their lips meet gently in the middle. This time Jon does look away. He’s never quite been able to figure out how he feels about kissing, to be honest; it’s one of the things that sent his and Georgie’s relationship down in flames, was the fact that he always acted like you think I’ve got poison in my lip gloss, according to her. But he finds himself wondering for a moment what Martin’s lips would feel like against his, if they’d be as soft and warm as the rest of him. If it might make a difference to kiss Martin instead of Georgie, or Meredith, or Kelly. And that’s not a question he’s comfortable asking himself just then, let alone trying to answer.

The scrape of a chair breaks his attention, and he looks up to see the Primes sitting down like nothing happened, although they’re still holding hands. Tim clears his throat. “Who wants cake?”

The cake is, as promised, a bit of a mess—it looks like someone tried to tease out the blob created by the icing tip popping off with a toothpick or something, but the resultant design looks like the pictures someone showed Jon once of a web woven by a spider that had been fed caffeine, and the fact that the icing is bright red doesn’t help—but it is absolutely delicious.

Afterward, Tim and Jon store the leftovers while Martin and Sasha start on the dishes. Jon Prime glances at the kitchen clock and touches Martin Prime on the shoulder. “We should probably go. The later it gets, the more likely that…someone might cruise by the Institute, and I’d rather not risk that.”

Martin Prime squeezes Jon Prime’s hand gently, and Jon swallows on the sudden surge of nausea. They haven’t seen anything of Detective Tonner, and Basira didn’t say anything about her when she showed up last week to switch out the tapes, but the memory of the Primes’ faces when they stumbled back to Tim’s place to change and return his car is a hard one to shake. Even though Jon Prime swears he and Daisy eventually became friends, it’s the eventually that sticks out, and Jon isn’t sure what he’ll do if Daisy turns up at the Institute. It’s also obvious that the Primes are more afraid of her than they’re letting on.

Tim opens his mouth, probably to invite them to spend the night or something, but Sasha beats him to it. “Can you wait a few minutes? I’d rather not walk to the tube station by myself, if it comes to that, and I think you said there’s an entrance to the tunnels near there.”

Jon Prime frowns slightly. “I…don’t think I did, but there is.”

“We’ll walk with you, Sasha,” Martin Prime assures her.

Tim sighs theatrically. “I feel a little better, which is a relative statement not to be taken as approval.”

“Your objection is duly noted.” Sasha hands Martin a plate to dry.

All too soon, everything is cleaned up, just as the playlist comes to an end, and there’s really no way of stalling them further. There’s a round of hugs and see-you-Mondays, and then Sasha and the Primes head out the door, leaving Jon, Martin, and Tim alone in their new house.

It’s not that late, comparatively, so Jon suggests a card game. They’ve played most nights since Sasha went back to sleeping in her own flat; they’ve played a couple of games of Rummy or Go Fish, and Tim once tried to teach Jon and Martin a game he learned from his grandparents that uses a forty-card deck (Martin picked it up quickly, Jon did not), but most of the time they play Crazy Eights. Tim declares that they’re going to keep playing until either he or Jon or both manage to overtake Martin’s score, which is clearly going to be an impossible task, as he’s up by nearly a thousand points and consistently wins at least three or four games a night. Still, they give it a valiant effort. After Martin manages to go out while both Tim and Jon still have an eight each in their hand, though, they decide to call it quits for one night.

“Someday I’ll figure out how you keep doing that,” Jon says, shuffling the deck lightly before putting it back in the box.

Martin shrugs. “Practice, I guess? I used to play with my granddad a lot when I was younger. We kept a running total, too, and I think I was up three thousand points or so when he died.”

Tim gives a low whistle. “How old were you?”

“Nine. We’d been playing pretty regularly since I was five. At least one game every time I went to visit.”

Jon thinks back to the conversation he and Martin had in Tim’s kitchen the morning after Prentiss’s attack. “Is this the grandfather who had the cherry trees?”

“You remembered.” Martin looks pleased. “Yeah, he was my mum’s dad. I never met my dad’s family, that I remember anyway.” He pauses. “You, uh, you told Charlie you were raised by your grandmother. Was that…?”

Jon didn’t know Martin was there, but he’s kind of glad he doesn’t have to figure out how to bring it up. “My father’s mother. She was…formidable. My father died when I was two, from an accidental fall, and my mother died a couple years later. Surgery complications.”

“I’m sorry,” Martin says softly. “That must have been hard on you.”

“Harder on my grandmother, I think. I was barely old enough to remember them.” All Jon remembers of his father is his laugh, and he’s fairly certain that most of his memories of his mother come from his aunt.

Tim leans forward, resting his arms on the table. “Is she still around? Your grandmother?”

Jon shakes his head. “She died just before I started working at the Institute. What about yours, Tim?”

“My dad’s dad is the only grandparent still around. I think.” Tim worries at his lower lip with his teeth for a moment. “I’d like to think someone would call me if something happened, but I don’t know.”

Martin hums sympathetically. “Is he…in a home?”

“Not as far as I know. Last I heard, he was still living with my parents. Moved in when Granny died, just after I left for university.” Tim sighs. “We’re not…close. After Danny…”

Jon reaches over and touches Tim’s arm gently. “It must be hard on them, losing a son. No parent expects to outlive their child.”

“That’s just it. Mum refuses to believe he’s dead.” Tim smiles weakly. “No body, you know? Dad isn’t sure, but he also thinks I know more than I’ve told them. Grandfather all but accused me of having a hand in Danny’s disappearance.”

“What?” Jon blinks, shocked. “How could anyone think you’d—you would never.”

“I know, but…well, Dad’s family was always a bit conservative, blue collar and all that, and I’m…well, me. I think that’s why Dad encouraged my hiking and camping and all that. Hoped it would knock some ‘sense’ into me,” Tim says with a wry twist of his lips. “Once I came out as bi, though, I think they decided there was no hope left for me. It just got worse after Danny died.”

Martin’s expressive face closes down, and Jon’s stomach lurches. This is the most they’ve talked about their families in…ever, he thinks, but from the little bits of information Martin—and Martin Prime, for that matter—have let slip, Jon has formed a very unfavorable impression of Martin’s mother. He’s always kind of had a hazy idea that Tim’s family situation was better, especially after he heard the pride in his voice when he talked about Danny when giving his statement, and finding out that it wasn’t much better than theirs…

“How old were you?” he asks, not sure why. “When you—told them.”

“Seventeen. There was a guy I’d been seeing—nothing serious, really, but we had fun together—and we went out for Valentine’s Day. My parents were confused because they knew my girlfriend and I had just broken up before Christmas and I hadn’t mentioned another girl, so I told them about Steve.” Tim gets quiet for a second. “Mum cried. Dad just…told me to stop upsetting my mother and never brought it up again. Not until Grandfather started in on me.”

Jon swallows. “You’ve a great deal more courage than I have. I—I never admitted to my grandmother that I ever had any interest in boys, let alone dated one.”

“Only one? You’re missing out.” Tim’s grin is a pale echo of his usual one, but it is at least genuine. “How ‘bout you, Martin?”

“A few.” Martin relaxes with a visible effort that makes Jon’s heart ache. “Been out since I was fourteen. Mum reacted…about as well as she reacted any other time I told her something she didn’t like or did something she wasn’t expecting. I never brought anyone home to meet her or…really talked to her about my dating, and she only ever brought it up in relation to herself. Like saying it was a good thing there wasn’t any risk of me passing on any of my numerous undesirable traits to a helpless child.”

“I don’t think your mum understands what ‘bisexual’ means,” Tim points out.

“Probably not, but it doesn’t matter. I’m gay.” Martin grimaces. “I’m also ace, so no risk there anyway, but…”

Jon wants to say any child would be fortunate to count you as a father or I can’t think of a single undesirable trait about you, but what actually comes out is, “Ace?”

“Uh, asexual. It’s—I don’t…get attracted like that. Romance, sure, aesthetic stuff and all that, but not…” Martin gestures vaguely. “Tried it anyway, for a couple of guys I was with, but i-it didn’t go well.”

Jon’s world view shifts abruptly on its axis. Tim, though, looks suddenly worried. “Are you okay? They didn’t—”

“No, no,” Martin says quickly. “It wasn’t—I just don’t like it. That’s all.” He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “Never bothered telling Mum that part. She wouldn’t…I’ve done enough damage.”

Tim pulls Martin into a quick one-armed hug, and Jon reaches across the table to squeeze his hand as gently as he can, but they change the subject after that.

They end up sitting up for a while in their new living room, relaxing. Tim props his feet up in the recliner and works on a crossword; Jon curls up at one end of the sofa with a book he’s been meaning to read for years that Jon Prime assures him he’ll love; Martin sits at the other end and knits. It about bowled Jon over completely when he learned that Martin made most of the sweaters he wears, but the sight and sound of him working away has become increasingly familiar in the last few weeks, especially after the Primes and the rest of the crew collaborated to get him an array of needles and knitting wool in all colors of the rainbow for his birthday. Jon usually finds the gentle clicking of the needles soothing, but tonight it’s just a hair distracting, and he keeps glancing up from the page to watch Martin’s fingers as they expertly manipulate the yarn or Tim tap the eraser of his pencil thoughtfully against his jaw while he contemplates an answer. He’s not even quite sure what he’s looking at.

Finally, Tim lays down his puzzle with a sigh. “I think I’m gonna turn in,” he says, sounding oddly reluctant. “Long day and all that.”

“Yeah, I’m just gonna—” Martin works a couple more stitches and folds up his project. “Probably a good stopping place for tonight.”

Jon considers saying he’s going to stay in the living room and finish the chapter he’s on, but if he’s being completely honest, he’s been on the same page for however long it’s been and hasn’t taken in a single word. Silently, he slides the scrap of paper he’s currently using as a bookmark back between the pages and closes the book. “Well. Good night, then.”

“’Night, Jon.”

The bedrooms are all upstairs, two on one side and one on the other with the bathroom handy, and the three of them wish each other goodnight again before disappearing into their rooms. Jon closes the door and looks around the room, his room.

There’s not much to it, to be honest. A nightstand, a dresser, a battered desk he’s had since he was a child, a lamp and the bed. He sets the book on top of the desk and changes into his comfortable sleep clothes, then crawls into the bed and pulls the covers up over his shoulders.

It’s…odd. No, not odd. Jon can’t quite think of the right word for it. But the sheets feel unfamiliar against his skin, and they don’t smell right, either, probably because they’re new. The mattress that felt perfectly comfortable when he tested it out in the store doesn’t seem to afford the same comfort now, and he wonders if the floor model has simply had much of the stiffness tested out of it over time. Even the pillows, which he did retain from his old bedroom setup, seem determined to thwart his attempts to find a comfortable position.

He rolls onto his back and stares up at the ceiling, arm draped over his midsection. He won’t fall asleep like this, he’s always been a side-sleeper, but his mind is a seething roil of emotions and he needs to get his thoughts under control before he can even have a hope of getting comfortable enough to sleep, he guesses.

Asexual. Jon probes at the word, at what it describes. I don’t get attracted like that. I just don’t like it. Honestly, until meeting Georgie, Jon had no idea that sort of attraction really existed; he thought it was just something out of the lurid romance novels his grandmother favored and he’d read once or twice in sheer desperation. It was something she’d wanted, though, so he’d tried a few times, but his efforts hadn’t satisfied her and he never really saw what all the fuss was about. He can take it or leave it, preferably the latter.

He never knew there was a word for it.

Suddenly, he wants to talk to Martin about it, about how he realized, how he knew. Where he found the word. If there are many more like—well, like them, he supposes. If that’s one of the reasons he was reluctant to tell Jon how he felt. He wants to ask about Martin’s experiences, if they were bad just because his body didn’t want them or for some other reason. A part of him also wants to cry from sheer relief. He isn’t broken. There’s nothing wrong with him. Well, not in that respect, anyway.

He sighs heavily and rolls onto his side again, plumping the pillows and curling one arm around them. They’re too flat, he thinks idly, too soft and yielding. Which is odd, because that’s never bothered him before. He can’t seem to get warm, either, which is also bizarre because it’s been an unusually mild day for late September and he’s under the duvet he’s had for years, which suddenly seems too light and insubstantial. The room is too quiet and still. It all feels…wrong, somehow.

Jon closes his eyes and stubbornly tries to force sleep, to no avail. The sense of wrongness pervades his being, curling through him and keeping him tethered to consciousness. He runs through the list of problems he seems to be having and tries to come up with which one might be keeping him awake. The only thing he can think of is the unfamiliar mattress. Everything else is exactly the way it was in his old flat.

And when was the last time you slept there? The thought hits him all of a sudden, and his eyes snap open. He forgot. The last time he slept in his apartment was the night before Jane Prentiss attacked the Institute. Ever since then, he’s been sleeping in Tim’s living room…or in Tim’s bed. With the others.

That’s all it is. He isn’t used to the silence of being alone. He’s not used to not knowing, right away, exactly where Tim and Martin are and if they’re safe. He’ll just go and check on them, see that they’re safe, and he’ll be able to get to sleep just fine.

He throws back the covers, slides his glasses back on, and heads into the hallway. Jon somehow ended up in the room by the bathroom, while Tim and Martin are on the other side of the hallway. Martin’s room is first, though, so Jon heads there. He’s as careful as he can be. Martin is probably asleep by now. He definitely seemed tired while they were still in the living room, and Jon wonders if he lingered because the other two were still sitting down there. It makes him feel slightly guilty, like he should have called it a night earlier so Martin can get some sleep. And after all, they did have a very emotionally draining conversation, which probably exhausted him as well. All that runs through Jon’s mind as he slowly, slowly eases the door open and peers around it to see into Martin’s room.

It’s sparsely furnished; nothing but a bed and one of those flimsy pop-up cloth jobs bisected into cubes, which is serving as his dresser. Martin’s laptop and phone sit on the floor, both connected to their chargers. The bed is mussed slightly and shows signs of having been occupied, but Jon’s heart rate accelerates when he looks at it. It’s empty.

There’s no sign of a struggle, he tells himself, and he heard nothing, so surely everything is fine. Martin’s probably just in the bathroom, or downstairs getting a glass of water or something. It’s fine. Everything’s fine. Jon will just…go check on Tim and Tim will be fine and then he’ll go find Martin and make sure he’s fine and it…will…be…fine. He pulls the door closed and turns to Tim’s room.

The door is slightly ajar, and there’s a faint glow coming from the room. Jon hesitates, then taps lightly on the door three times before easing it open. Tim is sitting up on the bed, cross-legged and leaning forward slightly. And—Jon’s shoulders slump in relief—Martin is there, too, on the edge of the bed, one leg hanging off the side and the other tucked underneath him. They’re talking quietly, but both obviously exhausted. They look up at the sound of the door opening and watch Jon stand in the doorway. He opens his mouth, then realizes he doesn’t know what to say and closes it again.

“Couldn’t sleep either?” Martin asks gently. The circles under his eyes are almost black.

“No,” Jon admits. “I—I just wanted to—” He breaks off, still not sure what to say.

Wordlessly, Tim holds out a hand. Jon lets the bedroom door shut behind him as he comes forward and takes it. Martin wraps an arm around him from behind, and the two of them pull Jon onto the bed and into a lying-down position. Tim rolls over and snaps off the lamp by his bed, then pulls the covers up over all three of them. Jon manages to reach down and snag the middle to help.

“Better,” Tim murmurs.

It’s not a question, but Jon hums in agreement anyway. Trying for levity, he says, “Shame to waste money on new beds, though.”

“We’ll be able to sleep there eventually,” Martin says. Jon only realizes how much stress was in his voice when it’s drastically lessened. “At some point we’ll probably want the space. But for now, there’s this.”

“For now, there’s this,” Jon agrees. He tilts his head back briefly to rest it against Martin’s shoulder, and Martin scoots in closer.

Tim does, too, the two of them sandwiching Jon securely between them. “Get some sleep,” he says. “It’ll be all right tomorrow.”

Jon yawns and closes his eyes, and it doesn’t really surprise him when he falls asleep straightaway. The nightmares are as present as ever, but in the morning, he can almost fool himself into believing they weren’t so bad.

Almost.

[wildandsexyjacks]

Where We Left Off

Pairing: Cho Seungyoun + Reader

Genre: Fluff? Maybe a little comedy? idk

Word count: 1.8k

Warnings: Mild swearing

In retrospect, it would have been better to just say no. 

When your friend came to work giggling and saying she had met the perfect guy for you to get over your idiotic ex-boyfriend with, you should have thanked her and politely declined her offer to set up a date with him.

It came from a good place, a place of love and concern, you knew that much. The poor girl had to put up with your incessant crying for over a week after your breakup with Seungyoun, so of course, she was worried - but you were fine now. Really.

The problem is: from the day you first met her, you’ve always had a hard time denying her anything. She’s always so bright and cute she can get away with pretty much anything, so just to humor her you had decided to accept the offer and go on the damn date.

Now you wish you hadn’t done it.

Not that the guy’s terrible. Far from it, he seems actually pretty decent. Fresh out of med school, he wants to save lives and help people and believes health care should be free for everyone. He’s smart and handsome, speaks with a lovely accent, and would generally fit your friend’s description of him as The Perfect Guy™…. If he wasn’t so dull you can’t even remember his name. Colin? Connor? You really have no idea.

While he tells you yet another story of his life as a medical resident, you poke at your chicken with a fork and consider faking a stroke or something simply to make him shut up. Then you remember he’s a doctor. It would probably just be an opportunity for him to showcase his abilities. 

Damn.

“... And I was like ‘Mrs. Kim, you can’t smoke in here!’ but she blew smoke right on my face and went all ‘I’ll do as I please’ and…” someone clears their throat behind you, and he stops telling his story “Um... Can I help you?”

To your surprise, Cho Seungyoun goes around the table and stops by your side. He looks better than he should while being your ex, and a small corner of your mind tells you it’s not good that you noticed it. For some reason, he seems mad.

“Y/N! Why didn’t you tell me you were pregnant?” he waves a folded paper sheet on your face “You weren’t picking up your phone so the doctor called me to confirm your appointment. Why didn’t you tell me?”

You frown. What the hell is he talking about?

“What was your plan?” Seungyoun insists, not even giving you a chance to answer, speaking slightly louder now “Dropping out of school and praying I would never find out? Well, that ship has sailed now.”

Turning his back to the guy at your table - Jesus, what is his name? - Seungyoun waggles his eyebrows in a way you know too well and then it hits you: he’s effectively making this up to try and ruin your date, even though you don’t understand why.

It takes more effort than you initially thought, but since you were looking for a way out, you manage to keep a straight face and decide to play along.

“We are over, Seungyoun. It’s none of your business.”

“Excuse me, sir.” Your date chimes in, confused “Who are you?”

“He’s leaving.” You explain.

Seungyoun flashes you one final amused smile before turning to face him - Maybe his name is Colin? He looks like a Colin.

“Who am I? Who am...? Who are you?!” He facepalms, and lets out a muffled sigh through his hand “Who’s this, Y/N? Your new boy? I will die before I let this tool raise my son!”

“Wait-” Possibly-Colin looks at him a little shocked. “What?”

“Daughter.” You correct with a deadpan. “And I’m sure he’ll be a better dad than you!”

“What?” as Possibly-Colin asks again, you try really hard not to laugh.

Seungyoun’s lower lip trembles, and for a second you think he might actually cry “It’s… It’s a girl?”

Completely panicked by now, your date stands up so fast he bumps into the table, then fishes for his wallet inside his back pocket and proceeds to drop some money on the table.

“OKAY, you two clearly have a lot to talk about so I’ll leave you to it.” he takes his jacket and phone “I’ll call you, Y/N.”

“Colin, wait!” You call, getting up from your chair.

“It’s Charles.”

Charles, of course. He leaves you at the table with your ex and made-up baby and aims for the door. When he’s finally out of sight, Seungyoun makes a sad face, pouting at you.

“I don’t think he’s going to call.”

The both of you break out laughing until you remember you’re mad at him.

“Why are you here? And more importantly what the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

He stands awkwardly by the table, tapping his foot on the marble floor. You can almost see the gears turning in his head to come up with a reasonable motive for him to show up out of the blue and ruin your date.

“Well, I was the one who brought you here for the first time, all those years ago, remember? You don’t own the place and it’s MY favorite restaurant too, I can come whenever I want.” he rolls his eyes, defensive “I was just having a few drinks with Hangyul-” he points to the bar and you recognize his roommate waving at you from the stool “then I saw you here with Mr. Fancy Pants and noticed you were being viciously tortured with utter boredom so I decided to help.”

He's absolutely right but you’ll never admit to it, so in an attempt to avoid lying you yank the folded paper from his hand to take a peep inside. It’s a music theory exam from a class you both go to and you remember staying up late to study together on more than one occasion. It’s his favorite subject.

“You’re a fucking troll, Seungyoun.”

He laughs and winks at you.

“You used to like that about me, darling.”

The statement makes you frown.

“Don’t call me that.”

His smile falters. “You used to like that, too.” He tries, in a small voice.

“Used to.”

You stare at each other as your dinner gets cold and some clients whisper about what’s happening. You hear the words baby and boyfriend very clearly and sigh.

“What do you want, Seungyoun?”

As if you had invited him to stay, he moves to sit on the now vacant chair, and you slide back into your seat as well. Being exposed to Seungyoun’s sweet smile is probably a set back to your arduous work on getting him out of your system, but maybe if you talk it out like grown adults and then walk your separate ways, it will hurt less to see him in class.

He shifts in his seat, then starts fiddling with a napkin while avoiding eye contact. He seems nervous, almost scared, and chooses his words very carefully before speaking: 

“Listen, I know I don’t deserve the best boyfriend award...”

“... You don’t say!” You look at him blankly and he puts his hands up in defeat.

“Okay, point taken. But come on Y/N, we were pretty good together for almost a year. It wasn’t all bad, was it?”

It wasn’t, really. In fact, Seungyoun was fun and romantic and gentle and in general a great boyfriend when he was around. The problem was that he was never around all that much, to begin with, especially after he started participating in rap battles with some guys from college. Between classes and friendships and his underground rapper stuff, he was too busy to be with you most of the time, it was like he always had more serious plans or some sort of inevitable appointment. You’d tried to be supportive, after all, he had worked so hard to get to where he was now in his career as a rising hip-hop star... But after so many months you couldn’t help feeling neglected, so you broke things off because you deserved better than what Seungyoun was willing to offer at that time. It was a difficult decision and you missed him a lot at first, but you were better now.

Sort of.

For the most part, at least.

“What do you want?” You ask again, annoyed at him for showing up when you were trying to forget him and at yourself for letting him do so.

“Nothing is fun without you.” He states matter of factly “My hip-hop gigs don’t mean anything when you’re not there to cheer me on. Cold pizza at 3 a.m tastes horrible if you’re not by my side pouring ketchup in literally everything.” He rolls his eyes “It’s a disgusting habit of yours but I miss even that. You know... I didn’t even finish watching Game Of Thrones because you weren’t there to cuss at Jon Snow with me.” He then sighs and looks at you in a way that breaks your heart “I can’t ever sleep on Friday nights anymore because you were supposed to sneak in and share the bed with me and when you don’t it just... It doesn’t feel right.”

“Seungyoun...”

“Tell me how to fix this.” He begs, clasping his hands together until his knuckles go white “Please, I need to fix this. I’ve been reflecting on what’s truly important in my life and what I hope for the future, and I can be the boyfriend you deserve if you give me another chance. I will do that, I mean it. Please, let’s start over.”

He looks the same yet slightly different - all wide eyes and trembling hands now, a picture of both hope and sorrow. Your heart aches for the millionth time in these three months you’ve been apart. 

Nothing is as fun without him too, you realize.

Not your classes, not binge-watching tv shows for two days straight on weekends, not drinking cheap wine while discussing classical music until you fall asleep on the floor of your dorm.

Certainly not having dinner dates at your favorite restaurant either, and that’s just one of the many reasons why Colin-Charles never stood a chance.

The place is packed and you can feel the heavy stares of every customer and employee near your table on the scene unfolding, but you don’t really care. Heart racing like crazy, you reach across the table - knocking the flower vase over in the process - and grab Seungyoun by the lapels. His eyes grow big as he waits for whatever is coming, and not even you are sure if you’d rather kiss him or slap him when your lips come together. Then you pull back again and leave him leaning over the table blinking at you in surprise.

“I don't think we can start over, but maybe we could pick up from where we left off.”

[honestgrins]

Set Sail || Gendrya

Two years after leaving Westeros, Arya manages to get Gendry on her ship.

.

Arya trailed a lazy hand across his chest, lingering on the feel of the soft curls that had grown since she'd seen him last. "You're really here," she marveled aloud. The ship gently rocked, lending to the almost dreamlike scene of having him in her bed. Panting against each other, she wasn't sure this wouldn't haunt her when it came time to leave again.

"Never thought I'd willingly step onto another boat," Gendry joked, his mouth settled and warm along her hairline. Eyes roving about the cabin, he held her just a bit more tightly. "Rowing away from Dragonstone took fucking ages, another almost led to my death beyond the wall. Then, this one took you away from me."

She winced, moving to sit up even as she mourned how easily he let her go. Two years after sailing the seas west of Westeros, and she still hadn't managed to forgive a bastard blacksmith for proposing marriage. Yet, as soon as she returned to King's Landing at her brother's request, she's pulling Gendry down to the docks and urging him into her captain's quarters. But he's not just Gendry anymore; he's Lord Baratheon of Storm's End. That was why it took her two years to get him onto the Winter's Bite. Had he still been only a boy that kept her secrets, he might have been with her all that time at sea. "You know I couldn't accept," she answered stubbornly. 

His head shook automatically like he wasn't fully conscious he was doing so. "What else was I supposed to do? We had- I had a name, a home to offer you. I-" Licking his lips, he hesitated before opening his arms, just as she paused before falling against his chest again. If she only had one more night to revel in his warmth, then she would take it. "It doesn't matter now, I guess. I've missed you." He looked around her cabin once more, giving a fond smile to where Needle hung next to the door. "So, this is where you've been?"

"It's been a good place to rest my head," she shrugged with her lips brushing against his neck.

"Not a lot of space, though."

An eyebrow arched. "Someone's grown used to his castle."

Gendry floundered as his whole face turned red, a stubborn pride taking offense. "I'm not a bloody lord, Arya, I'm just...doing my best. And I thought you might- I wanted to make sure that-"

She kissed him, something fierce as she clung to his lips before pulling away. "It's just me," she promised. "You were the one who was supposed to find someone to share a bed. A real lady. Why didn't you?"

Leaning in, he let the kiss last far longer. Their hands wandered, both moaning at the easy exploration. She left him gasping in her mouth when she reached down, grip insistent upon him. "That's not me," he finally said, forehead pressed to hers while her heart clenched in pain. "Us lowborns, we only marry when we really want to. Watching lords prance their daughters in front of me felt like a cruel joke, not when the only one I wanted fought like hell to make sure she didn't get stuck with the likes of me."

Horror fell like a cold stone in her stomach, and Arya scrambled away from him. Only mildly softened by the way he reached for her, she couldn't help the way she curled in on herself. Knees folded to her chest, she blinked at him. "You weren't the problem, Gendry." It was a confession, one that had weighed on her for many a moon. Regret wasn't worth dwelling on, but his slack face as she turned away from his earnest proposal was all that came to mind if the subject came up. 

"I was, if you didn't want to marry me," he countered, not unkindly.

"I wouldn't have been marrying you," Arya spat. "I would have been marrying Storm's End and the Stormlands. That's what my mother did for the North, and look how it repaid her. How it's repaying my sister." Sansa had been bandied about the realms for her Stark name and Tully blood for too long, and she refused to leave Winterfell with good reason. It was the whole reason she made the trip back to King's Landing alone, to represent their family at Bran's nameday celebration. Otherwise, she might not have met Gendry's eye at the tourney and all but dragged him back to her ship from the feast later that night. Hungry and full of longing they refused to acknowledge, they absconded to the docks not two courses in. "All I wanted in this life was freedom, to find my own path not defined by the sons I'd bear."

His entire face screwed up in confusion. "Seven hells, Arry, I don't care about all that. I only wanted you."

A small smile pulled at her lips, and she gave into the urge to kiss him again. It was a little melancholy, but she really had missed him. Her fingers scraped through the short beard he wore, a far cry from the patchy teenager he was when they'd met. Years, wars, bloodshed -- none of it mattered when he was right there. "I could summon my crew. If the whores and taverns are willing to part with them, the Winter's Bite could sail by sunrise. I'd let you share my chambers. Not exactly a castle, but-"

Gendry cupped her face with his giant hand, rough and worn despite his years of relative leisure. "I have people now, those that come to treat with me and expect my attentions. My protection."

"I don't need your protection."

Rolling his eyes, he finally met her eyes with an affectionate gaze. "As if you haven't spent years proving just that." He pressed a sturdy kiss to her cheek, only to smile when she leaned up for a deeper one to her lips. Her whole body lurched up against his to accompany it. "Is this how we're doomed to live? Constantly begging each other to stay where we can't?"

Arya lifted a shoulder. "I can do what I want, you're the one being stubborn." But even Gendry's glare seemed too fond, and she wondered if Storm's End and all it represented was really so scary. Maybe if she made him slip back into his tunic, then she could think more clearly. But seeing him in his lordly clothes at a noble feast had been too jarring, and Arya made it a priority to remove them as quickly as possible. If anything, he'd grown bulkier in their time apart and the sight of him in her bed was...distracting, to say the least. "You could come with me," she tried more plainly. "Our names don't follow us across the sea, not that they should determine our happiness here anyway."

"Of course they shouldn't." His arms slipped around her waist, hauling her up to hold her close. Eyes closed, he nuzzled into her neck. "Doesn't clear up the situation at hand, though. I've got lands to take care of, the people that live there. Never asked for them, but they're mine now. You wouldn't like me to abandon them, not with how you talked about your father dealing fairly with his folk."

And there laid the crux of the issue. Circumstances had allowed them to be set at odds, entirely out of their control, therefore near impossible to overcome and set right. Her sister had tried in many a letter to convince her to marry Gendry, just as Bran dropped hint after hint that they end up in the Godswood anyway, with children and grandchildren to follow eventually - if only she chose that path.

With Gendry warm and naked and ever so lovely in her bed, Arya struggled to remember why she was so against the idea. Her parents seemed happy enough in their life together, after all, and there were worse husbands to be had in all of Westeros. Her siblings would be pleased at the political advantage of adding a Lord Paramount to the family, and even Jon liked him. 

Jon. She missed him just as much, and wanted daily to turn her ship north to visit the Wall. "Then you don't abandon them," she finally said, emotion catching in her throat. "Just...come with me for a spell. We can go to Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, check in on Jon. I'll return you to Storm's End safely, and we can..."

"We can...?" Gendry trailed off hopefully, his eyes nearly shining in the weak moonlight filtering through the windows. A hand drifted into her hair, gently massaging into her neck until she fell pliant in his hold. "Tell me what you want, Arya."

She looked up to see his eyes wide and honest, trusting her not to break his heart again. And gods, she didn't want to. "I want to live."

They could figure out what that meant along the way.

[haberdashing]

The End Comes Near (3/?)

TMA AU where Jon isn’t entirely wrong when he asks if Martin is a ghost in episode 39.

on AO3

Chapter 1 / Chapter 2 / Chapter 3 / Chapter 4 / Chapter 5 / Chapter 6 / Chapter 7

Jon looked like shit.

Martin knew why, of course, and he wasn’t judging, exactly. He was sure he didn’t look his best either at the moment, and he’d managed to avoid the worst of the worms’ wrath... somehow... with only a scraped knee to show for his troubles. Jon and Tim evidently hadn’t been so lucky.

Martin wondered, distantly, what would have happened if he hadn’t tripped in the tunnels, if he had been there alongside Jon and Tim to face the brunt of Prentiss’ attack. Would the worms have gotten over whatever had stopped them from... from injuring him when they’d gone after him in the tunnels, leaving Martin in as bad of shape as Jon and Tim now were? Or would the worms have died en masse in the attack, all of them that touched Martin perishing in the attempt like their comrades in the tunnels? Could he have protected his coworkers from it all, at least a little bit?

Whatever the outcome might have been, though, it wasn’t what had actually happened, and it’s not like he’d planned on tripping down there. What was done was done, and that was that.

Though Jon evidently wasn’t done with it all just yet, based on his insistence on taking Martin’s statement now, rather than after both of them had the chance to get some rest, reflect on some things, clean up a little...

Honestly, it was downright painful to look at Jon, to know how much he must be suffering right now, and to know that stupid, stubborn Jon would insist on getting Martin’s statement on tape just the same, no matter how long it took, no matter how much Martin pleaded with him to just call it a night already.

He did try, at least.

“Are you okay?”

“Fine. Painkillers are starting to wear off, but… it’s fine.”

It was not fine. It was obviously not fine, between the bloody holes that covered what looked to be the entirety of Jon’s body and the way he grimaced when he spoke. Martin wasn’t sure who Jon was trying to fool more, Martin or himself, but he doubted it was working much either way.

“Statement of Martin Blackwood, archival assistant, etcetera, etcetera. Go.”

It all really must have been getting to Jon, if he wasn’t even willing to say the full introduction before handing over the burden of speech to Martin. Jon was usually such a stickler for that kind of thing. Admittedly, Martin suspected that Jon had used the same tape when he’d pestered the rest of the staff into giving their respective statements, so the date and such would already be on it, but still... it wasn’t like Jon, to let something like that slip by the wayside, to just assume that he could flout a few technical requirements to save a bit of time. Usually it seemed like Martin was the one who’d try to find a way to cut through the formalities and Jon was the one who’d inevitably end up yelling at him for it.

He must really be hurting.

But Martin knew well enough that at this point, the only way he could help Jon was by telling his story as quickly as possible, get it over with sooner rather than later so they could all go get some rest.

“Right. Well, I was doing some background checks for case 0081709, when you and Sasha started screaming, so I went to ch-”

Jon interrupted, cutting Martin off without even a hint of hesitation, irritation evident in his voice. “Yes, yes, I was there! I was with you for almost the whole time, and that tape survived just fine.”

“Sorry.”

“Ah, it’s fine. I just… I only need from when you got separated. From when you got lost in the tunnels.”

“No, I mean...” Martin gulped as he considered his next words, though he was fairly certain both what the gist of them would be and that they probably weren’t strictly necessary. “I’m sorry I couldn’t keep up.”

Maybe it was silly, to apologize for tripping, to apologize rather than being the one apologized to when the others had been the ones who left him behind in the middle of the attack. But Martin had grown used to apologizing, over the years. Apologizing for mistakes, for accidents, for daring to take up space in the world... it came naturally at this point.

“...oh, Martin.”

And now that he’d started, he couldn’t stop, explaining and apologizing for actions that hadn’t been intentional in the first place but felt like some sort of grave error on his part all the same. “It was an accident. I mean, the worms came at us,  and they were so much faster, and then there was the gas, and the running, and I just… I, I tripped, there was a rock and it wasn’t even that big but it was big enough to do the trick I suppose, and I wanted to catch up but by the time I got up you were gone, you were both gone. It was an accident.”

“I know. It’s fine, Martin. Everybody’s…” Jon let out a long sigh. “Everyone’s fine… I just need you to tell me what happened next, and then it’s finished.”

“Fine” seemed like a bit of an overstatement, in Martin’s opinion, seeing what damage had been done to Jon and Tim (and there was still a voice in the back of his head saying that he could have, should have, done something to prevent it), but Jon had a point. All Martin had to do was explain his piece of the puzzle, and then it was all over with, at least for tonight. Then they could all go home. Then they could try to put this whole ordeal behind them.

“Alright. So, um, yeah, I tripped, scraped my knee a bit, and one of the worms actually jumped on my arm-”

Jon looked up from his gazing at the tape recorder, his eyes wide with a sharp clarity Martin was sure hadn’t been there a moment before. “Did the ECDC check you out?”

“Yes!” Martin said, perhaps a bit louder than necessary, and Jon nodded, his gaze slowly sinking back downwards. “But they didn’t need to, really, because the worm barely touched me. I looked away, just waiting for- well, for whatever came next, I suppose, and then I saw the worm was on the ground, still and dead. There were a few others laying dead there around where I’d fallen--I guess they must have gone after me and I hadn’t even noticed, and somehow that had killed them, too?”

Jon looked back up at Martin, but he didn’t say a word, though Martin could read well enough the curiosity in his eyes.

“Reminded me a bit of how you asked if I was a ghost, really. Ghosts can’t get eaten by worms, can they?”

Jon groaned quietly and made a show of looking anywhere besides at Martin, and despite everything, Martin found himself having to suppress a snort of laughter.

“So once I got up I, I tried shouting, but you didn’t answer...”

It was surprisingly easy to explain the rest from there. Martin felt like it would have been a lot harder if it was just a normal conversation he was having with Jon, like he would have tripped over half his words then, but it was different, somehow, with the tape recorder sitting between them. Like he was just another statement-giver, and it was his job to make sure what he had to say made sense, as much as any of this made sense to begin with.

Jon interjected once briefly, to help keep Martin on track, but he only really began asking questions once Martin reached the bit about finding Gertrude Robinson’s body.

“Martin, how did Gertrude Robinson die?”

Martin was pretty sure he knew how Gertrude Robinson had died; her injuries had been obvious enough, and he had left that room feeling a deep certainty as to the cause of death, though any details beyond that still eluded him. But the officers he had spoken to hadn’t appreciated his making assumptions, and Martin proceeded figuring that Jon probably wouldn’t either, especially given how thorough he was being about this whole thing.

“I don’t know. Not for sure. It was so dark, and I only saw the body for a few seconds. The police were quite clear that the cause of death could be absolutely any-”

“MARTIN!” Jon’s near-shouting startled Martin, shook him out of his previous train of thought. “How did she die?”

Martin’s answer came like a reflex. “She was shot! Three times, that I could see. Three shots to the chest.”

“Right. Right. Thank you, Martin.”

“...sure.” Martin didn’t feel like reporting a murder was something to be thanked for, but he was willing to accept it to keep the conversation moving just the same.

As Jon’s hand moved towards the tape recorder, preparing to turn it back off, Martin spoke up again.

“Er, I know it’s not strictly needed anymore, but can I keep living in the Archives?”

Jon’s finger rested atop the button to turn the tape recorder off as he stared at Martin as if he’d just grown a second head. “You want to stay in the Archives. Where there are thousands of rotting worm carcasses? That Archives?”

Martin could feel the blood draining from his face; he hadn’t actually thought through that angle of things just yet.

“Why would you want to, anyway?”

“Well, I keep thinking about when you asked if I was a ghost-”

Jon sighed, but Martin pressed on just the same.

“-and it’s true that I haven’t left the Institute’s building for some time now. I just keep thinking, what if you were right?”

“I was joking.”

Martin was quite sure that Jon’s question hadn’t been intended as a joke, and after a moment of uncertainty, decided to continue as if Jon hadn’t just claimed otherwise. “What if, if something happens to me when I try to leave?”

Jon pressed one hand against his temple, which had to be all kinds of unsanitary, given that both were covered with still-bloody worm holes. “You’re not a ghost, Martin. You’ll be fine. Just... just go home.”

Jon clicked off the tape recorder, and Martin considered how easily it could have been him telling Jon to go home already rather than vice versa, given the situation. It was probably just a weird bit of superstition that kept him wanting to stay in the building, or perhaps some variation of Stockholm Syndrome. Certainly, the last thing Martin wanted was to spend another night surrounded by worms, even if they were all dead already.

So Martin got up, collected what things he had around the office that hadn’t been utterly destroyed by the worm infestation, and went home.

[jae-writes-fanfiction]

Short-Term Fixes

Jon Snow x Reader  -  2312 words  -  Part 1 of 1

Notes: It’s two days late but here we are! Let me know what you think!

Warnings: None, just some possible angst and feels.

Summary:  Written for @kellyn1604‘s Oldies but Goodies 3K Challenge: using the tropes in vino veritas (love confessions while under the influence), mutual pining, and the song “King of Wishful Thinking” for inspiration.

- - -

You hadn’t stopped smiling for the entire evening. Your feet ached and the soles of your shoes were worn out from dancing, but none of that mattered. Each sip of sweet summer wine made your heart race. The world itself felt wide around you, much larger than the confines of your family’s great hall. Your engagement party hadn’t excited you at all, especially when you didn’t know your intended. You hadn’t seen him all night, it didn’t matter. You were drunk, the makeup your sister carefully painted on your face was smudged and couldn’t mask the flush spread across your face. The night’s occasion was far from your mind as you danced with your sisters, and even managed to pull Jon Snow, your oldest friend, along with you.

“Gods! Aren’t I a mess?” You pushed strands of hair out of your face as you sat next to Jon.

“You’re hardly a mess,” he mumbled aching to tell you how he watched you all night, and how much more alive you looked right now with your hair disheveled, and lipstick smudged at the corners of your mouth.

You wanted to reply that your fiancé was a mess; a greedy, self-absorbed, slug of a man. Instead as you looked up to meet Jon’s gaze you forget everything except how much you loved him, how you had for years. You reached out and cupped his face in your hand. The second he placed his hand over yours, you were doomed.

You whispered “I love you,” as someone might whisper a prayer and your heart beat against your chest so hard you felt it must be a bird trying to escape it’s cage, and you waited for a response that never came. 

Your confession landed like a knife in Jon’s chest. He’d loved you the way fire loved kindling, and he wanted nothing more than to wrap you in his arms and never let go. He wanted to tell you how he’d grown up falling in love with you a little more every day until it felt like his heart might burst. He held your hand in his for a moment longer, struggling to breathe and think within the stifling truth of his parentage. How could he love you, and damn you to a life with no family name, with no stability?

You never saw this turmoil in his heart, only saw the man you loved holding your hand in his, finally able to say he was the reason why you smiled all night.

“You’re drunk,” he said carefully letting go of your hand, “you should get to sleep.” You were too full of wine, and far too happy to hear the firm refusal in his voice and see the matching regret in his eyes.

When you woke up the next morning it felt like all the previous night’s dancing had happened inside your skull. You knew from the ache in your feet that you’d danced more than your parents probably approved of, but you couldn’t remember the night.

The wedding approached as planned. Your parents thrilled to have snared such a wealthy. Your temporary discomfort was worth it if this match could provide for generations of your family. As the days grew closer you spent what time you could away in your room. You thought ‘of all the things you could’ve done with your life; this was the worst’. You’d do whatever you could for your family but there was no way out. You’d be trapped in a marriage to a man you did not love, while the one you did would never know. That thought was always followed by another, more sinister one, that it didn’t matter if he knew. If he loved you, surely, he would’ve told you. Surely, he wouldn’t have sat through your engagement feast and danced with you had he loved you even in the slightest.

The morning of your wedding day came. The sunrise was gray, the clouds far and threatening to spill over with rain at any moment. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you hoped for snow instead of rain, despite the bad omens brought by both. You were sequestered in a small back room within your family’s keep. All morning you were crowded by family and servants alike, your sisters stopping in and out at will.

In your last hour unwed, your room was empty. The weight of your future hung on you like a noose, limp and one misstep away from a fatality. The eerie silence seemed to swell around you as you stood in front of the mirror, unable to look away from the white shrouded specter, smiling back at you. “So it’s true then?” Somewhere in the back of his mind, Jon has hoped it wasn’t true. That you’d refuse the match, even though you couldn’t, that you’d choose your happiness over your family’s future, even though you wouldn’t. ”That white’s not my color? Completely.” You smiled at your own joke, unable to take the moment to seriously for fear of crying and ruining the day’s work that had gone into making you look acceptable.

“You can’t marry him-“ Jon stopped unsure of how to explain himself. The pained expression on his face broke your heart and moves you to stand next to him.

“I have to,” you explained softly, “it’s been arranged.” You watched as the finality in your tone forced his expression to change from pain to defeat.

He responded by saying, “I love you, “as if the fruitless protestation could turn back time. It was a death sentence meant to hang low over your brow until the executioner could come and follow through. You were doomed the moment he looked back at you, seeing for the first time how dearly you both loved something you could never have.

You sunk to the ground, suddenly unable to breathe as if the laces on your corset were alive and trying to keep you in one piece. You sobbed carelessly; your obligations momentarily forgotten as makeup smudged across your face. He sat next to you taking a moment to hold you until you could catch your breath. He kissed the top of your head and whispered how he’d loved you for years, how he was so sorry he didn’t tell you. How he knew you loved him, but thought he was doing the right thing by staying away.

Amid your tears you wanted to laugh, because for the first time in your life you knew the person you loved, loved you; all of your wildest dreams came true and there wasn’t a thing you could do.

“Come away with me,” he said tilting your face towards his, “if we leave now no one would know.” His hopeful smile made you melt and felt like a knife in your side as you had to say ‘no’.

Your voice cracked as you shook your head and spoke. “I can’t. My reputation would be ruined.”

“It doesn’t matter. We’ll go south, so far away no one will know us or where we’re from or what we’ve left behind.”

“It’s not about me,” you said blinking yourself out of the daze caused by his closeness, “My entire family depends on this match.” Your face grew blank, your voice somber as you moved away from him. “It brings in land, protection. And I’ve three sisters that’ll need husbands soon enough.”

You were trapped, and you both knew it. If you left, your sisters would bear that burden their entire lives, your father would be untrustworthy, there was nothing for Jon to do but go.

“I’m sorry my lady,” he whispered kissing your knuckles in a show of formality that felt like a slap. You refused to respond, afraid you would start crying again and looked away as he stood and the door closed behind him.

You stepped back in front of the mirror and smoothed your skirts out before pressing powder over your face to conceal any smudged cosmetics. The woman looking back now was you as you were: heartbroken, vulnerable, and not at all what was expected from your parents. You closed your eyes and steeled your heart, resolving your face into a blank expression. You weren’t expect to be happy, you weren’t expected to love your husband. You were expected to show up, just as countless generations of women before you had, and put everything else before your own happiness for the good of your family. You squared your shoulders and when it was time left the room.

Jon couldn’t leave, his father’s family sat with the other lords and ladies. For once he was thankful to be a bastard, to stand aside in the crowd indistinguishable from any other lowborn man amongst those who wouldn’t watch him, or recognize the agony playing out in his eyes. In an act of wishful thinking he tried to believe this was good for you, that you would grow to be happy like so many other women. That he would go back to Winterfell and not wonder about you, that he might meet someone new that would be enough to forget you.

In the back of his mind, there was the tiniest glimmer of true hope that saw these thoughts as the lies they were. Behind them he hoped without reason to, that you wouldn’t show up. He hoped that beyond all logic and honor, that you would feign illness or runaway. That he wouldn’t have to live a life pretending his ships weren’t sinking.

The processional started, forcing Jon to laugh at himself. It was silly to think anything other than that this was for the best. The crowed around him murmured about how stiff you looked, how powerful and composed you were, how blank your eyes were, how dead it all was.

You held your head high; mouth pressed into a firm line and didn’t hear another thing for the entire ceremony. The southern ceremony had been your mother’s idea, and you were thankful for the omission of vows.

It all happened in one second, you blinked back to life your eyes suddenly looking around you in a clear panic as the Septon declared you husband and wife. Your discomfort dared to show to the entire room as your husband moved to kiss you. Sitting close by your mother noticed the life spring back into your subtly stricken face, if only a moment too late to help as you shakily stepped backwards and collapsed in on yourself. Despite her own complicated costume, she was the first to your side as you fainted.

Other than your mother barking orders for a nurse, the room was deathly silent where there should’ve been raucous celebration. Your youngest sister screwed her eyes shut, praying you’d get back up, unaware of how the room started to spin once you came back into the present moment, how the panic started clawing it’s way through your body until there wasn’t anything left to keep you standing. Far in the back of the hall, against a wall Jon grit his teeth and cursed himself. How could he have been so selfish? How could he promise to love you, to take you away someplace better, when he hurt you so?

You were only out for a minute before blinking back into the world you so desperately wished wasn’t real. You laughed loudly, glaring over at your mother and whispering, “it’s a damn mess,” as if it was the funniest thing in the world. She was displeased and moved to quickly escort you from the hall. Despite the laughter those who knew you recognized the sheer bewilderment and irony conveyed through the expression on your face. Unfortunately, almost all the guests in attendance didn’t know you, and took your laughter as a sign of good spirits, that you might be unwell but still felt the joy of being a new bride.

You were confined to your chambers on your mother’s orders. She feared some sort of hysteria had taken hold of you due to the day’s excitements and in a way she was right. You were in hysterics only at the impossibility of it all. Your confinement wasn’t strict, there was no guard keeping you in the keep, no one watching your room. And for a fleeting moment while you retrieved a cask of wine, you hoped. You hoped your absence would be noticed, that any of your friends might come to you and ask for the truth. That Jon might find you out and have some plan, some way to make everything right.

By your third cup, you knew none of that was possible. No one would question the authority of your father within his own keep. You were still trapped, staring down the rest of your life from across a cup of wine you never wanted to be empty. You tried to comfort yourself with the idea that you were doing the right thing. That your family would be taken care of, that your sisters would find better matches now, that your mother would never have to remarry due to money should your father pass. But it didn’t matter how many lies you told yourself, it didn’t matter how many cups of wine you drank; you were heartbroken, terrified of the future forced upon you, and completely alone.

The feast carried on without you, your father taking the time to make grand excuses about your absence, the common folk all saying how brave it was of you to show such good spirits after such an embarrassment. In different parts of the same keep, you and Jon scowled into cups of wine. You both thought that everything would be fine, because it had to be. You would go on wishing, go on thinking that way, until the pain was simply the background of your existence.

[seachanqe]

kiss the skin that crawls from you

Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Soulmate Identifying Marks ---- Martin/Elias (background Jon/Martin and unrequited Elias/Jon)

Rating: Gen (ish)

Link to AO3

Alone in his cell, Elias laughed bitterly, harshly, in disbelief. He had made a rare honest-to-god mistake, and now the universe had given him his reward. Though it was not entirely unexpected that he had been ousted from the Institute, he was still trying to wrap his mind around that the plan had originated from Martin. Martin, of all people, who knew Elias had completely underestimated him and, cunningly, used it against him. The Beholding help him, but Elias admired that. While he had been mulling over where he had erred, something in the unfathomable universe clicked, two strands of the Web’s thread intertwined, and a connection formed. Elias felt a searing pain on his wrist, enough to startle him out of his reverie in time to see “Martin Blackwood” in a dark black, messy scrawl burn into his skin, just under the neat, older “Jonathan Sims”. This was too much for Elias’ usually well-maintained self-control, and so he laughed. The way he saw it, on top of everything else that had happened, this might as well happen too.

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For most of his life, Elias had been apathetic towards the concept of soulmates; they were too closely associated with the Web for his comfort. And even when he had been young, popular opinion towards soulmates had been sickeningly romantic: star-crossed lovers, mythically perfect couples, doe-eyed sweethearts, all of which he viewed with overwhelming cynicism. Without taking into consideration the utter ridiculousness elevating a name on a wrist to finding the “one”, he fervently disliked the loss of control if assigned a soulmate. But the patience of the Web was unrivaled, except with perhaps the End, and it had been quietly weaving a web or two just for him.

When Jon put in his application to the Institute and Elias interviewed him, the immediacy and strength of the kinship he felt with the man had been jarring, like the ground had disappeared beneath his feet. However, he adjusted to the feeling, as disconcerting as it was, and found it was not unwelcome, especially because he had been increasingly… displeased with his current Archivist. And from his estimation, Jon was just as born serve the Eye as he himself was; he was perfect. After 200 years of waiting, Jon’s name etched on his wrist became a reassuring sign that Jon was the one Elias had been waiting for, in every way possible. Elias felt an aching weight in his heart, the fathomless, dark need to possess what was his: his Archivist and the Crown that would fall neatly in his lap as a result.

But this thing with Martin was something else entirely, a living example of what he had always hated about soulmates, and he couldn’t even begin to figure out how he felt about it or how it affected his plans. But thanks to Martin, Elias had plenty of time in HMP Belmarsh to think and Watch.

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If Elias thought the Web had acted with spite towards him, it had ravaged Martin, who had grown up hearing a siren song of love and being wanted that he thought a soulmate would offer him. Instead, Martin had silently endured Jon’s constant dismissal of his tentative efforts to connect, and now a mutual bond with the one man he hated. Elias Watched from afar as Martin despaired at Jon’s bedside, clutching Jon’s lifeless hand. He Watched Martin sit in document storage, alone, eyes fixed nearly unblinkingly at his wrist, where Elias’ name had fit neatly under Jon’s, before throwing himself into his work to push it out of his mind. He watched Martin move around the other Archival assistants with only a quiet word here or there, continuing to record and file as if his whole life didn’t suddenly feel meaningless.

Then the attack on his Institute and Martin agreeing to work for Peter. Martin foolishly wanted his life to mean something, even if the meaning came from a pointless sacrifice to stop Peter’s Extinction. The more Elias Watched, the more their connection worked its way under Elias’ skin; he could taste Martin’s desperation, bitter on his tongue, and felt the wisplike echo of Loneliness already clinging to his skin. He knew Peter would think he had already won. But what Peter didn’t factor in, and Elias had counted on when he made the bet, was that Jon would wake up. Of course, this changed everything. Elias had his Archivist, more powerful than ever, and Martin had his anchor.

It was embarrassing for someone who’s life revolved around Knowing to realize how little he truly had understood Martin. But as Elias Watched him, Elias saw himself reflected back. Under his anxious exterior, Martin was tenacious, cunning, calculating, and, although he might not even want to admit it to himself, quietly burned with a desire to know. Martin had proved himself more than able to deftly manage both Peter and his Institute. Watching it all unfold with a such a different frame of mind, Elias could hardly fight the growing feelings of pride and affection. He could see a future where together, he and Martin, could protect and care for his Institute and Jon. However, with his acceptance of his and Martin’s bond came a slight hiccup in his current plan.

When Elias had originally constructed his plan involving Peter, he obviously had not considered the possibility that he might be bonded to whomever Peter picked to bring into the Lonely. Despite Elias’ newfound appreciation for and belief in Martin’s abilities, he didn’t quite want to leave anything to chance. Soulmate connections and the Lonely don’t generally mix; the Archive had several statements describing the excruciating pain and subsequent severance of a connection if one was lost to the Lonely forever.

And, in all honesty, he and Martin were long overdue for a chat.

--------

Elias and Martin sat at opposite sides of the cold metal table, in a guard-less room, flanked by two security cameras. Although physically closer than they had been in months, Elias could feel the wrongness of the wide gulf of distance that separated them. He longed to reach out, to touch, to claim. Martin wasn’t meeting his gaze, so Elias took the time to study Martin’s appearance. He was thinner then when Elias had last saw him, and rather wan, his freckles standing out in stark contrast to his pale skin. His reddish-brown hair had grown out some, making his previously slight curls more predominant. However, his expression, though currently not looking directly at Elias, was determined and, dare Elias say it, cold.

More than that though, Elias could smell brine and see fog wrapped lightly around Martin’s shoulders; the Lonely was tightening its hold on him, making it more difficult to experience their connection. But, although weakened, it remained. Elias brusquely pushed past the cold, the Lonely, to discover what Martin was feeling. Elias briefly felt a myriad of emotions: anxiety, resolve, irritation, and resentment. However, just as rapidly as they had washed over him, they disappeared behind a wall of fog. Martin’s eyes narrowed, but as he opened his mouth to speak, Elias silenced him with a hand, shaking his head.

“One second, Martin. I believe...” A tape recorder that had appeared on the table between them clicked on.

“There. Much better.” Elias folded his hands in front of himself.

“You know I don’t care if Jon hears this,” Martin said, crossing his arms.

Elias gave an exaggerated sigh. “Come on, Martin. Its been so long since I’ve seen you. Let’s not start with lies.”

Martin took a deep breath, finally looking Elias in the eye. “Fine.”

“I am very pleased to see you.”

Martin frowned, and raised an eyebrow in disbelief. “Mhm. I’m sure you are,” he said sarcastically. “I bet this is a dream come true for you.”

Elias raised his cuffed hands and gestured mockingly around at their surroundings. “What? Being at her majesty’s pleasure? Separated from my Institute? Or,” Elias paused for dramatic effect, “sharing a soulbond you?”

To his credit, Martin didn’t flinch. “All three I imagine.”

“I want to see it.”

“See what?” Martin asked, bemused.

“My mark.”

Martin sputtered. “W—why would you want to do that? In denial?”

“Clearly not. I just wish to see it for myself. My name on your skin.”

The tips of Martin’s ears turned red, his cheeks burned. Elias could practically feel Martin’s nervous heartbeat fluttering in his own chest. If he wanted to, he could try to project calm back, but he found he quite enjoyed Martin like this.

“You cannot honestly say you’re happy about this. That you wanted this,” Martin said bitterly.

Elias pursed his lips. “Well, I’ll admit I was not pleased at first, but,” Elias said, pausing as Martin made a noise of dark amusement, “But it has grown on me.”

“Sure-” Martin began, but Elias slipped in to interrupt before Martin’s self-loathing could get the better of him.

“I have had plenty of time to think about it, to reflect, and I came to the conclusion that I welcome it,” Elias said, his eyes never once leaving Martin’s face, his tone conveying seriousness in every syllable. He did not wish for Martin to mistake the meaning of this; he knew how Martin excelled at twisting words until they reflected negatively on himself.

Martin narrowed his eyes. “For what purpose?”

“Excuse me?”

“What do you get out of it?”

“You. Now may I please see my mark?”

With confusion and perhaps some curiosity Martin pushed up the sleeve of his jumper to his elbow, holding out his wrist, palm up. “Fine, here. Happy?” Expecting just a glance or a curious perusal, Martin gave a slight jump when Elias gently took ahold of his arm, his eyes intently focused on the two neat inscriptions on his wrist. His right thumb smoothed a circle over his name, and then Jon’s, a smile playing at his lips. Martin’s breathing changed, becoming shakier, and his previously faint blush blossomed beautifully.

After half a minute, Martin cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable, and Elias graciously let go of his arm. Martin pushed the jumper sleeve back down, but Elias saw him fleetingly run his own hand over the marks.

Martin took a deep breath and, appearing to make up his mind, or perhaps going against his better judgment, he gestured for Elias’ arm. “An eye for an eye?” he said, causing Elias to smirk. “Shut up, its just an expression.”

Elias gladly gave Martin his arm, awkwardly trying to adjust the metal cuff so Martin could better see. Martin gave a slight intake of breath when he caught sight of Jon’s name. It quickly turned into a quiet, bitter laugh. “Of course, of fucking course,” he spat. “That explains a lot, doesn’t it?”

“Would it placate your own self-loathing and enmity towards me if I told you he most assuredly does not return the bond?”

Martin made an abortive attempt to push Elias’ arm away but he couldn’t quite seem to be able to do it. His eyes drifted down to his own name in its messy script, his own handwriting, which caught his breath slightly. It was as if Martin didn’t quite believe it until this second, in one stroke disproving that no one could ever have him as a soulmate. Those unfamiliar feelings he had been experiencing were not all in his head. He hesitantly brushed a finger across his name, as if expecting it to disappear or to prove to himself it wouldn’t. Elias closed his eyes to enjoy the sensation that was over too soon. Martin’s hands left his a few moments later, and Elias opened his eyes to see a Martin who was resolutely attempting to compose himself and failing miserably. Martin clenched his fists, fingernails digging into skin, and stood up, his chair pushed aside.

“This was a mistake. I just wanted information on...” Martin made a frustrated huff, pointedly avoiding Elias’ intent, smug gaze. “It—it doesn’t matter. I shouldn’t have come.”

As Martin made a motion to turn and leave, Elias stood quickly enough that his chair fell on its side with a clatter. Martin flinched, instinctively looking directly at Elias. Elias moved around the table, and then strode directly up to Martin. Martin, in turn, backed up just as quickly, until his heels and back hit a wall. Martin frantically glanced up at the two cameras in the room.

“Don’t worry, the cameras are off. They do that sometimes,” Elias said smoothly with a small shrug, his eyes gleaming. He stepped up into Martin’s space, willing the fog to dissipate under the shear force of his own god’s influence. The shear force of his own influence. You can’t feel alone if you are given a physical reminder that you’re not.

Martin appeared to waver for a moment on whether to attempt to shrink further back or push forward before inhaling quickly, and shoved Elias away with both hands on his shoulders. “What do you want?” he asked through gritted teeth.

Elias momentarily felt regret that Martin didn’t share Jon and his Beholding abilities. He missed the feeling of Jon trying to compel an answer out of him. However, Elias could honestly say that Martin demanding answers was a good look for him. Elias smiled wider.

“I already told you, Martin. You. You’re my soulmate, and I take care of what’s mine.”

“Oh like how you took care of Jon? Like when you didn’t tell anyone he had been kidnapped? When you let us be attacked by worms? Or when you let Jon run off to get his hand burned? When he died?”

Elias sighed, shaking his head. “Martin, what Jon did were his choices, and he’s more capable then you give him credit for. You may have noticed he’s still alive. Either way though, you and I both know that we can’t tell him everything we are aware of, for his own safety.” Martin scoffed, but before he could argue back, Elias easily brushed aside Martin’s hands, pushing Martin back against the wall with his own body.

Elias had no illusions that Martin would suddenly join his side, but he still knew how to sow a little uncertainty, especially considering Martin’s past (and if Elias had a guess, lingering) romanticism of soulmates.

This close to Martin, Elias had to look up at him. Martin was breathing rather quickly, his brow furrowed, still looking utterly bewildered, but Elias could see that he was trying to work out what was going on. Elias placed his hands lightly, gently, on Martin’s upper arms, before sliding them up, one hand around Martin’s neck, where he could feel his pulse, and another to his face, so that his palm rested on Martin’s cheek. Martin’s skin was smooth, soft. His pulse’s staccato beat was comforting to Elias; a slow pulse meant apathy. Martin jumped a little at his touch, as if given a small shock.

Martin’s eyes suddenly widened, clearly realizing something. “Oh. You’re worried, aren’t you? I’ve read the statements, heard Jon’s recordings. I know as well as you do that the Lonely breaks soulmate bonds. And for some bizarre reason you want to keep this—this connection that we share?” Martin shook his head, swallowing. “Or—or perhaps this is a just further manipulation to get me to push further away from you to join the Lonely because you really do hate our bond as much as me.”

Elias sighed, ever so slightly rolling his eyes. “Surely, with our proximity--”

“Is that what you’re calling this?” Martin cut in, and grabbed Elias’ hands so that they were no longer touching his face or neck.

Elias closed his hands around Martin’s instead so he couldn’t, at least easily, pull away. “Do you trust me?”

Martin gave a shaky huff, nearly a laugh, but laced with bitterness. “Absolutely not.”

“A pity. Very well then. You were just able to grasp a small thread of my emotions. I want you to follow that thread and tell me how I actually feel about our soulbond. Do this, and you can ask all your other questions.”

Elias could the feel Martin’s jittery indecision like static on his skin and his need for reassurance of his current path with Peter eating away at him. After his little slip-up, Elias just hoped he had pushed his own anxieties far enough out of his mind that Martin wouldn’t pick up on them anymore.

“Fine. But I want you to step away from me. And I want for us to have this discussion back at the table. Not like… this.”

Elias sighed. It was honestly rather disappointing. “As you wish.” He let go of Martin’s hands, pointedly stepped away from him, and gestured back to the table.

Once they were both sitting back down, Martin just shifted uncomfortably in his seat, staring at his hands.

“Well?” Elias prompted.

“I… I’m not sure how, really. With...” Martin flinched, just ever so slightly. “With Jon, it was as natural as breathing.”

“And it probably helped that you didn’t have to worry about him returning that connection.” Martin’s eyes flashed, now affixed on him with an angry glare. Before Martin could interrupt though, Elias continued. “It was the same for me. When you actually have to deal with a relationship, it complicates things. When you have to open up to others, it gets messy. Not everyone likes being seen. But now, we both have an opportunity to see and be seen. I don’t think I appreciated what I was missing enough before with Jon.” Martin didn’t say anything, but muttered under his breath something that sounded like “I bet you didn’t, you spooky motherfucker.”

Ignoring him, Elias continued, “All of that to say, I do have an idea of something that may help you.”

“What is it?” Martin asked, eyeing him skeptically.

Elias offered his hands. “Here. Direct contact is frankly the most efficient way to strengthen the connection. That’s what I was trying to say earlier.”

Martin buried his face in his hands, his fingers tangling into his hair. With a groan of disgust, or perhaps exasperation, Martin clenched his fists, tugging on his hair, before looking up, his hands raised in surrender. “Fine. Fine, fine, fine.” With a deep breath, Martin leaned forward, hands firmly grasping Elias’. Elias relished the sensation of the warm, soft hands that enclosed around his.

“Now what?” Martin demanded.

Elias shrugged. “Its up to you now. I can only do so much, Martin.” Giving Martin a critical look, Elias continued, “Although thinking about me may help.”

“Thinking about you… Yeah, I’ll think about you,” Martin muttered under his breath, glancing down at their joined hands where Elias had begun to brush his thumb over Martin’s knuckles. “I’ll—I’ll,” Martin stumbled, his voice slightly shaking, before barreling on, “I’ll think about how irritating and awful you are, how you won’t tell us fucking anything, how you force us to-- oh.” Martin’s eyes abruptly, briefly widened, before he exhaled. “Oh.”

The connection between them flared, finally; it burned through Elias stronger than ever, and he smiled, basking in its warmth as a cat would in a patch of sun. He drew in Martin’s feelings of anger, bemusement, tentative interest, and grudging admiration as easily as breathing. He knew without a doubt Martin could sense his pleasure.

“You… y—you do like this. This—having me as a soulmate?” Martin said, dazed. “This—this—our bond. Its—“ Martin shook his head in bewilderment, as if still trying to deny it. “You—you… But—you hated me. I know that. You forced me to see—to feel my mum’s--” Martin’s brow furrowed, his lower lip quivering. When he continued, his voice was markedly shakier. “Why would this bond change anything for you? You’re no romantic, I don’t feel any romantic--” Martin stopped, closing his eyes, and was breathing heavily by this point.

“Martin,” Elias said in a low, quiet voice, his thumbs still dragging across Martin’s skin in small, slow circles. “Its okay. You’re okay.” He gave a small sigh, and pursed his lips. “In my defense, you were acting out. But--”

Martin laughed, a high pitched, nearly hysterical sound. “Acting out? You’re still...” he managed, his voice still high, wavering. Martin’s hands now gripped Elias’ as if trying to hurt him and as if clinging to a lifeline all at once. “You’re defending that even after we’ve become soulmates? You’re a bastard, you know that, right? A psychopathic bastard, and—and my soulmate.” Martin gave another broken laugh.

“So what does that say about you?”

Martin’s red rimmed eyes narrowed as he glowered at Elias. “Oh fuck off.”

As usual with Martin, this conversation seemed to be getting away from him. “Damn it. Martin.”

“What?” Martin gritted out.

“I had underestimated you… I… Hm. This won’t do.” Instead of trying to convey his thoughts with words, Elias pushed his feelings of admiration, the gratification he got from seeing Martin, and his possessiveness to the forefront of his mind for Martin’s perusal. With abstract interest, Elias thought he could actually sense Martin’s consciousness in his mind turning over these feelings.

Martin blinked, and his hands, still holding Elias’, relaxed imperceptibly. His expression also softened, though not to how he usually looked at Jon. He looked at Elias like an abstract painting, trying discern the meaning behind the forms and colors and shapes, attempting to work out how he felt about it.

“And that,” Martin said, gesturing towards Elias’ head, “makes everything you’ve put me, and everyone I care about, through good and fine?”

“I cannot presume to tell you how to feel. But you need to know that my feelings have changed. We are soulmates, and that is no insignificant thing.”

“Fine,” Martin said shortly, a ghost of a waver still in his voice. “I accept it. I still strongly dislike this whole situation, to put it mildly, but I’ll accept you… like having me as a soulmate.”

“Thank you, Martin.” Elias said, with an approximation of gentleness, and pulled his hands away from Martin’s. “Well, on to business.”

With some distaste, he told Martin that what Peter had been telling him was (unfortunately) true. He described his original disbelief in the Extinction, and how he now had to admit it was real. It was rather unfortunate that as a condition of Peter and his bet he wasn’t allowed to lie, at least about anything on Peter’s side of things.

“As for why I’ve done so little about such a looming existential threat, to be blunt, I’ve been rather busy.”

Martin laughed humorlessly, rolling his eyes.

“Don’t forget, I’m here,” Elias said sanctimoniously, and gestured at the room again, “due in no small part to your actions. So by this point all I can do is confirm that everything Peter told you is true.”

Martin’s eyes flashed back to his suddenly, catching Elias by surprise. “I think he wants me to join the Lonely,” Martin said quietly, his head slightly cocked, his gaze inscrutable, but somehow still managing to look vulnerable. Without warning, Elias felt… choked with a nameless emotion, curling inside his chest, like smoke. Peter couldn’t have Martin, Martin was his, Peter didn’t deserve Martin.

He folded his hands together, hoping Martin wouldn’t notice their slight shaking. “Then it sounds like you have a decision to make,” he said tightly, with a cold smile. Damn this bet. He forced his tone and his expression to be as cool and detached as possible to hide his disgust at the thought of Peter’s hands on Martin, the Forsaken hollowing him out until there was nothing left, unmaking the bond they shared. He resented having doubts about this bet with Peter though, especially with so much on the line; his long held plans were so close to coming to fruition, but he had not planned for this absurd set of circumstances. He never imagined he would have a... personal interest. Internally, Elias pulled a face. Not for the last time, he silently cursed the Web.

“That’s all?” Martin asked, eyebrows raised. “Great. Great, great. So what you’re actually saying is that you’ll be-- no help whatsoever?”

Elias gave him a bitter smile. “Just like old times.”

“I don’t know what I expected.” Martin rubbed his temples and sighed. “Right, we’re done here.” Martin stood, and this time Elias didn’t try to physically stop Martin as he turned to unlock and open the door.

“One last thing Martin, something I don’t believe Jon’s shared with you.”

At the mention of Jon’s name, Martin visibly tensed. “What?”

“Your soulbond with Jon is mutual. Its a rather recent development, since his... accident with the Stranger. I don’t blame you for not noticing of course. With how you’re running headfirst into the Lonely and all. The Lonely does tend to obscure things.”

“You’re lying.” Martin’s face was stony, but Elias knew it was a facade.

“Martin, I would never, not to you. What could I possibly gain from lying about this? It benefits only you.”

Martin snorted. “Right. Well, like I said, we’re done here.”

“Don’t forget to keep in touch, Martin,” Elias called out, shackled hands raised. “There are so many people in here, but without one’s friends… It does get rather lonely.”

Without so much as a glance back, Martin shut the heavy door behind him with a resounding clang.

Martin was beautifully enigmatic, swinging wildly between wearing his heart on his sleeve and being nearly impossible to read. So he had no way of knowing for sure if he had done enough to sway Martin away from Peter, but he done all he could. There was nothing Elias could do now but wait and Watch how it all played out.

[canonconspiracy]

Reek (1&2)

Fandom: Game Of Thrones

Pairing: Theon Greyjoy x Reader

Warnings: Clues to Rape and Abuse, but nothing graphically written pertaining to either.

Written By: @rmorningstar21

Cross Published on here and Wattpad (@rmorningstar21). On Wattpad, I have this in two separate parts.

AN: The escape may be a little less than accurate, and I apologize for that. A little fluff at the end, but mostly angst.

____________

It had been weeks since Ramsay had taken Winterfell, and with Winterfell, he had taken you as a lowly servant.  You had been unfortunate enough to be helping take care of Bran when the siege took place, and were grateful that Hodor had gotten out with Bran, though you were not nearly as lucky.  From that point on, you had become a multiple purpose slave for Ramsay, as a maid sometimes, someone to take out his anger upon, as well as someone he would have his way with when he was feeling up to angry sex.  

It had never been mutual, and typically landed you with a great deal of damage to your genitalia, leaving you a crying, bruised and broken mess.  Your only relief during your days was the occasional visit in the barn you would get from Reek, where you would be ordered to fix up the wounds that Ramsay had given him.  Though Ramsay could have just allowed him to bleed out, that would have been a great deal less fun for him. Reek was his entertainment, and his revenge.  

Reek was once the stunning, valiant, and flirtatious Theon Greyjoy, and each time you came to his aid, you stared at the face of the broken man.  Tonight, you were trying to be as gentle as possible, knowing that Ramsay had beaten Reek far worse than usual. The tears that you could see staining his beaten face merely confirmed the awful chorus of screams you had listened to prior.  

Your hands shook slightly as you brought the warm cloth to his face, gently dabbing at the bloodied spot upon his cheek.  Reek shrank away from your touch, causing you to grimace, before attempting once again to dab the wound. "I'm not gonna hurt ya," you whispered gently, "I love you too much.  I just want to ease the pain."  

The broken Greyjoy seemed to respond to your words, allowing you to dab at his wound as gently as you possible could, while his eyes turned towards you.  You were able to catch a glimpse into the broken blue eyes, seeing maybe a small touch of Theon still hidden behind the immense abuse that he had sustained over time from Ramsay.  

You had not lied when you said that you loved Theon, either.  The two of you had grown up together under the care of Lord and Lady Stark, though neither of you were looked fondly upon by Lady Stark.  Catelyn had found it a bit much that Ned had taken both of you as the Stark's wards, especially since you had been brought home at the same time that Jon Snow entered the picture.  

You grew closer and closer to Theon, though you strayed further as he begun seeing the whore that he paid to bed.  You did not comprehend why the young, handsome Theon Greyjoy would always bed a whore, when you thought you had made your advances rather obvious.  Though he was oblivious, he had his own reasons, and you felt that you had to accept it.  

After a while of dabbing at his wounds and stitching what was necessary with a threaded needle, occasionally hearing a whimper escape his lips, you watched in shock as his bloodied lips formed your name.  At first, it was a silent speech, as if the slave was silently screaming for aid, though no matter how silent it was, it had brought your attention to the lips that you planned to clean last. Your gaze studied the broken man's features, showing him that he had your attention.  

"Y/N," he whispered, barely above a whisper.  The damaged man's voice crumbled as he spoke, though it still tugged your heart strings to hear him speak a word to you.  Over the weeks of tending to his wounds, this had been the first time he had any recollection to you at all.  

Feeling a shaky hand reach to cup your cheek, you felt as if you may break down in tears right there.  His hand was warm, despite his condition, and you softly nuzzled into it, though you made with haste to get his wounds taken care of.  Never had Ramsey allowed you enough time to care for "Reek" anyhow, and you knew the tyrant would enter simply to hinder your care for him.  

"Theon," you murmured out, a whisper nearly inaudible, but just enough that he would be able to hear you.  Through his pain, he managed to give you the lightest smile, as if he were fighting to do so despite his condition.  "I need to get you out of here." 

"The Wall," he said, struggling to form each word, as if he were battling the abused form that had become of him to speak each one.  "We will be safe there, with Jon." Each word he spoke was hushed, thank the old and new gods for it, since you would not want to know what could possibly happen if Ramsay were to overhear.  

"In a fortnight I will come to your chambers and we will make our escape," you whispered in return, placing a gentle kiss upon his forehead before turning to leave.  "Be ready." With that, you made your way with haste back to report to the cruel man you served, making sure he was to know that you had completed your task.  

What you had not heard as you walked out of Reek's cell was that small bit of the old Theon, holding a broken, hushed tone as he let the words slip from his mouth for the first time.  He may have assumed that you would not hear him regardless, but he felt the need to say them as he watched your broken figure walk away from him. The two of you were in rough shape, counting the days that either of you would be able to withstand the barbarous treatment from Ramsay Bolton.  He hoped to the old gods and new that you were right - that the two of you could escape the callous treatment you received.  

His mouth uttered the words in a way that they fell with care from his shaken mouth, saying, "I love you, Y/N," paired with Reek's stutter.  Something about his recollection of you had brought some of Theon to the forefront of his mind, attempting to stash away the Reek that Ramsay Bolton had created of him.  

***

The fortnight from your prior meeting with Reek was upon you, and you had courted Lady Sansa into your escape as well.  You were to retrieve Theon from his cell and meet Sansa at the wall close to the entrance of Winterfell, where the three of you would have to scale the wall and make your escape into the nearby trees.  With enough running towards the North, the three of you would be able to reach the Wall, Sansa reunited with her half brother, and the two of you seeking shelter in the wall until you knew what the two of you would do from there.  

You knew as well as he would have that Jon would not be fond of Theon after everything that had happened before the siege.  Theon had gotten too big for his name and created falsities that were unforgivable to most, especially for the Starks. Tonight, your main objective was to get yourself, Theon, and Sansa away from the merciless tormentor that you had almost become accustomed to.  

Theon, as Reek, stared at you with wide eyes initially as you walked in, reaching a hand to him.  Meekly, you managed to coax the fractured man to take your hand, before you noticed that he was limping.  Thinking quickly on your feet, you brought your shoulder underneath his arm, helping him to walk without placing pressure upon the leg that was injured.  

With this action, you were able to walk semi quickly from the cell, to the wall to meet Sansa.  No one dared utter a word as the three of you hopped down from the wall, trying to partially scale it.  You could hear from a distance that your ruse was already caught on, and that Ramsay had begun sending the hounds out for the three of you.  Ominous sounds in the malicious chorus of blood seeking hounds filled the chilled air as the three of you made your way out of Winterfell and into the wooded area.  Sansa had the easiest time making it through in the beginning, and was in front of the two of you. You still had to support Theon as the two of you made your way out, which had made you significantly slower than the redhead, but you moved with all your might, taking Theon along the way.  

The three of you made haste in the snow, though the bitter cold nipped at your skin, especially newly felt cuts that Ramsay had riddled your bodies with.  It stung to the point that tears dared well in your eyes, but none of you could look back. Further and further the three of you sought towards the direction of the Wall, freedom seeming to draw closer, yet still be so far from reach.  

One or two hot tears dared to fall from your e/c eyes as you made haste towards the wall, your body beginning to tire already.  It had seemed like Theon was moving faster than you were, but you pushed your body to your limits to keep pace with him. Occasionally, you had stolen glances to see Theon's sad yet determined face, causing you to let your lips curl lightly into a smile.  

His determination seemed to give you more strength, and it was as if the two of you were beginning to catch up with Sansa, when in actuality she had slowed her pace slightly during the escape.  There was no knowing how long the three of you had been traveling by this point, but the duration was wearing on everyone. The chorus of hounds grew close to your group, as did the sight of Castle Black, your destination.  The Wall was within sight, chill and exhaustion eating at the three of you, while Ramsay's hounds were right on your tail.  

Theon tried pushing you off of him, saying, "You will get there without me," in a broken tone.  It could have truly torn your heart to pieces, and you knew what he was thinking. He would not be accepted at Castle Black by Jon.  Both of you were already more than aware of what he had done, and the pentance that he likely would need to pay just to get into Castle Black's safety, but you did not plan on leaving him behind.  

You tightened your grip around him, shaking your head.  "You are coming with, Theon," you said in an affirmative tone.  Sansa had agreed with other words, and yet you barely even heard her.  Your attention was purely focused on Theon by this point, and you were determined to get him to safety, even if it would be temporary. 

"Y/N…" he attempted to counter, while he watched you shake your head once more.  

"No, Theon," you said firmly.  "I don't care if you don't love me as well. I refuse to let any more harm come to you again.  It may take some time, but Jon will understand. If he doesn't, I will find another place to keep you safe." 

Through your words, you were blind to the solidity that your walls had been broken down, tears onset in waterfalls down your cheeks.  It had only been when his free arm reached to your face, using his thumb to remove the tears that he could from your cheeks that you were made aware of it.  Unwittingly, you had nuzzled into his hand as he did so, causing him to allow his lips to turn upward the slightest bit.  

"We need to go, now," Sansa stated, fear laced in her voice as she brought attention to the hounds drawing even more near the three of you.  

All the same, your moment had been cut short, and Theon had simply nodded, the three of you making your way through the openness to Castle Black.  Even with it in sight, it was a long and precarious journey from the woods to Castle Black itself, and through the way Theon and yourself were especially struggling to make it to your destination.  The two of you were trailing behind Sansa, chills continually shifting down your spine as you made your way with him.  

The three of you had finally made your way to the front, greeted not by anything initially despite the large drawn door opening, followed by it shutting behind the three of you.  Catching your breaths, Sansa was the first to be recognized by Jon himself, and the two of you watched with panted breaths as the two of them shared a long, wonderous embrace. If you were to get yourself caught in the moment, you would have allowed a smile to stretch brightly against your skin, seeing their happy reunion, though you knew it was not time for rejoicing quite yet.  

Jon's eyes glowered as they met the two of you, though the look was mostly towards Theon Greyjoy, the one whom had disgraced the Starks and denounced them with the lies that he had spread for fear.  You let go of Theon to allow him to stand in his own solidarity, though you conceded into a look of sympathy, your heart tied in knots at the scene before you.  

"You brought a traitor into Castle Black," Jon spat out, venom laced in each word.  

Theon bowed before Jon, as if for a moment he was once again Reek, waiting for his punishment.  Jon was in fact not Ramsay, though, and would not lay a hand that was undeserving upon Theon. Sansa was the one to grab her brother's arm initially, and pled her side of Theon's case before anyone else was able to utter a word.  

Much to your relief, Jon's expression had seemed to change from Sansa's words, and you allowed yourself to release a breath that you were unaware you were holding.  "I want to apologize for all my misgivings, Snow," Theon said submissively, his eyes meeting Jon once again.  

"Bran is alive, from what I last saw of him, Jon," you said, barely above a whisper.  You dared not speak at a normal tone. "He was accompanied by Hodor." 

Jon smiled lightly at you, acknowledging you with a simple nod.  "The two of you may stay until other arrangements can be made," Jon had declared, before ordering one of the men to set up a chamber for the two of you.  Since they had not had a copious amount of room, you had assumed, that was why it was simply one chamber being altered for the two of your stay.  

With his last words, Jon had disappeared in his office area with Sansa, expectedly to catch up with his lost half sister.  The two of you were left alone near the entrance of Castle Black, seemingly warmer than you were in the wind, though the cold temperatures still nipped upon your skin.  Your eyes had shifted to Theon, where you saw there was still a hint of shock inside of those blue eyes, and the brokenness still had yet to dissipate from the hell that Reek had provided.  

After a few minutes, what you had presumed was Castle Black's Maester had appeared, hushing the both of you into his study.  The old man had started with you, since you had been far more injured than Theon. It was not because of Ramsay's sheer hatred taken out upon you, though, and instead was the fact that Ramsay had never had someone tend to your wounds.  Even with your knowledge of needle work and first aid, you were unable to perform the majority of it upon yourself.  

"If you would be more comfortable, my lady, this could be in private," Maester Aemon as you had learned, had said to you in his almost sickening tone.  You knew precisely what he was referring to, as he would need to check you out fully, and you in turn shook your head. It felt as if tears were going to once again descend down your face as he lifted your dress to see the damage that Ramsay had done to your nether regions.  

The maester's lips turned to a frown as he examined your pelvic area, and did the little that he possibly could to fix you up.  "I regretfully inform you that you may be barren, my Lady," he mused out as he placed your dress back down, covering you once more.  You simply nodded, unable to formulate words for the news you had received. 

He had moved to work upon Theon next, and was shocked to see the torment that Ramsay had truly done to him.  Thankfully any stitching up and cleaning did not take longer than it took to get your chamber situated, and the two of you were led to the chambers that you would be staying in for the duration of your time at Castle Black.  Once the two of you were alone, Theon managed to catch your attention, grabbing your wrist gently to make you turn towards him.  

You bit your lip gently as your gaze met Theon's, taking in each bruise and scar that was exposed on his upper body.  Ramsay had truly broken the man in front of you, and all you wanted to do was lay with him in your arms, comforting him.  "Theon," you mused out softly, after what was longer than an uncomfortable time of silence, unable to even form the words you wished to say to him.  

"Y/N," he said gently, straightening his posture out as best as he could.  His eyes reflected the seriousness that he was attempting to convey, though his mentally and physically fractured features made it difficult.  "I'm so sorry…" 

You shook your head, trying to plaster a smile upon your own face.  "We're both alive, Sansa's alive, and we're safe," you assured him gently.  "We're free, after all." 

Despite the plastered smile upon your face, tears did threaten to spill from your eyes.  Neither of you would be able to have children, you barren, and him without the tools for the task either.  Both of your bloodlines would end with the two of you, but you did not wish to dwell upon it for his sake. What you had not expected was that he brought you into his arms tightly, resting his forehead in the crook of your neck as he held you.  

The warmth around you was incredible, as if you had stepped beside a fire, though you presumed he was as cold as you were prior.  You wrapped your arms into him in return, holding him closely. "I want you to know, I love you, too, Y/N," he whispered gently, his voice breaking as he did so, but you felt as if your heart may have stopped the moment you heard it.  

The two of you separated just enough to stare into one another's eyes.  Meekly, the two of you slowly closed the gap between your lips, as if the two of you were too scared of one another's reaction to meet quickly.  Your lips moved cautiously at first, treating him as a glass that could easily shatter with the wrong move. As the two of you continued, though, your feelings seemed to ooze through the kiss, passion and love reflecting on either side.  

When the two of you separated for air, both panting at the lack that both of you had allowed yourselves to receive, you motioned to the bed.  "Will you lie with me, then, Theon?" 

For a moment, his mind did not process what you meant, and thought that you meant more, causing you to sadly chuckle.  "You're likely as exhausted as I, and I wish to fall asleep in your arms," you clarified, giving him a genuine smile.  

He nodded, delicately separating from you and joining you upon the cot.  Theon lied on his back, beaconing you to lie your head upon his chest. You were cautious at first, hoping not to harm the man, but did as you were motioned, feeling his arms wrap around you protectively.  "I have always loved you," he murmured softly to you, holding you closely.  

You smiled in return, cuddling closer to him.  "And I have always loved you, Theon," you whispered to him in return.  It did not take long for either of you to fall into slumber, comfortably resting in the comfort of one another.  Though you may never bare children for him, he would never be able to spill his seed, and the two of you would simply need to love one another in any way you would ever love.  That was the most comforting thing that either of you could do.  

[sailorshadzter]

The Last Dragon and the Lone Wolf. Jon Snow is the last Targaryen, the Last Dragon. As Maester Aemon once said, "A Targaryen alone in the world is a terrible thing. Sansa Stark is the Queen in the North but she is alone, for there must always be a Stark in Winterfell. She is the Lone Wolf. As Ned Stark once said, "The Lone Wolf dies but the pack survives." A Stark reminder. Also Bran has found Drogon in Essos burning cities. Grey Worm tries to tame him to no avail, he needs Jon Snow.

i seriously might consider doing a part 2 of this. thanks for the request! 

send me prompts

The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives.

And yet, where was her pack? Sansa sighs, rising up from where she sits upon her throne, the direwolves carved into the wood a reminder of who she is. The Red Wolf, they call her, The queen who never bends, the Queen in the North. She had been crowned some months before after the retaking of Winterfell from the Bolton's. She had schemed and fought and clawed her way back up from the bottom. It had taken nearly everything within her to win back her home, her birthright, but she had done it thanks to the houses that still yet remained loyal to her name and house. With the support of the North behind her, she reclaimed Winterfell in the name of House Stark and they had made her their queen in return.

"Sansa..." She turns at the sound of the voice, her distant brother rolling towards her in his chair. He was the only person who addressed her in such a way still, a reminder of the boy he had once been. For a moment, they were children again, and Sansa was watching him climb the towers, despite being told over and over again not to. For a moment, she could see his wide, childish grin as he waved down at her from the highest peak. But then it was gone and she sighs, her blue eyes finding his Stark gray eyes. "I must speak with you." He goes on and Sansa nods, coming around to grab the handles of his chair, pushing him towards the door she had been heading to.

They go in silence until they reach his chambers. "I've had a vision." Bran says when she's closed the door and settled herself into the chair nearest the fire. Her eyes widen, a brow arching slightly as she waits for an explanation. "Daenerys Targaryen has died in Essos," he says in his monotone voice, speaking a name she had heard little of lately. "And her dragon remains without a rider to tame him. He is burning cities even as we speak." He recalls the rush of fear he had felt standing in the unnamed city, watching as the great beast flew overhead, fire gushing from its mouth.

"There are no Targaryen's to tame him, though," Sansa says, recalling what she had learned a long time ago in King's Landing. "There must be a way to stop the creature. It will come this way, if we don't." It would only be a matter of time before the dragon flew west, towards Westeros, and then there was no telling the bloodshed it would cause.

Bran stares at her for a long moment before he nods. "There is a way, yes," he begins, watching his sister closely as he speaks. "There is still yet a living Targaryen that no one knows of." Her face changes as surprise takes root. "It is Jon Snow, our half brother." Jon Snow? That was a name she thought of often, a boy now grown into a man, though one she had not seen in several years now. She knew him to once be Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, but rumors swirled that he was now called the King Beyond the Wall. "Though our half brother he is not." Sansa leans back in her chair, blue eyes widening ever so slightly. "He is our cousin, born of the lawful marriage between Rhaegar Targaryen and our aunt, Lyanna Stark." Understanding is blooming in her eyes, as she realizes the story they had heard about the kidnapping and rape of their beloved aunt was but that... A cruel story. "You must go to him, you must tell him the truth of his birth and you must sail for Essos. Jon is the only person who can tame the dragon. He is the last living Targaryen."

It takes a moment, but Sansa finally gives a single nod. It was her duty as queen to protect her kingdom from those who would do it harm... And so protect it she would do.

[ x x x ]

"Your grace, riders... At the gate."

Jon looks up from where he sits at his desk, eyeballing the redheaded man that stands before him. "I told you not to call me that," he says with a shake of his head, returning to the scrolls upon the surface of the desk. "Let them in and feed them, warm them. I'm sure they'll be on their way then."

"Your grace- I mean, my lord, ah fuck. Little crow, it is a woman." Tormund says, his words bringing the younger man's attention back to him. "A redheaded woman." Jon draws back, the scrolls suddenly forgotten. He knows very few redheaded women. At once, he's thinking of the half sister he has in the Queen in the North, but surely it cannot be her that has come to him so far out into the North.

"I will go out to meet our guest, then." Jon rules as he rises to his feet, pulling on his fur lined cloak as he went across the room, Tormund following after him. The moment he had stepped out into the morning cold, he could see her there in the courtyard, knelt down in the snow with her arms around Ghost. The wolf was licking her face, nearly knocking her down in his effort to get close to her, his tail wagging with pleasure as her soft laughter carried along the breeze. As he approaches, Sansa lifts her face to him and he's pummeled with dozens of memories; its her, with a crown of flowers woven into her vibrant red hair. It's her, singing softly to Lady as she strokes her coat. It's the flash of her smile, radiant as the sun itself, a sight he thought he would never see again. Jon also recalls how the moment he had been brought back to life by the red priestess, in his ears had rung a laugh... A laugh he now knew to be hers, without a shadow of a doubt. His heart has begun to race as she rises from where she kneels beside Ghost, reaching up to pull back her cloak's hood, revealing to everyone there the red of her hair. Now, all of the castle knew who stood in their courtyard. "Sansa..." Her name is on his lips and she smiles, though tears gather in her eyes as she takes a step towards him.

Then, she's in his arms and he's never felt so at home.

[ x x x ]

"You can't be serious?"

They are tucked into his chambers with only Ghost between them, the wolf having laid himself at her feet. "I am, Jon," she says with sympathy, knowing it must be hard to accept what she's told him this night. They have spent the better part of several hours just talking... About everything. She told him about the death of their father and her abuse in King's Landing by Joffrey and his court. He told her about Ygritte and his need to fit in with whoever would have taken him. She told him about marrying Ramsay Bolton in hopes of securing her home, but was instead taken prisoner yet again and abused in ways she could not find words to explain. Jon told her about his men's betrayal and his death and resurrection. She told him about taking back Winterfell and ensuring Ramsay Bolton never could harm another soul.

And then... She had to tell him why she had come to him after all this time. She told him everything that Bran had told her and more. With her she had brought papers from King's Landing, sent to Bran by a maester in training there named Samwell Tarly, the very same man that had once stood alongside Jon in the Night's Watch. "I am sorry, but it's true." Sansa speaks softly, knowing what it must do to him knowing he is not who he thinks he is. All his life, Jon has wanted nothing more than to be a true Stark, be something beyond Ned Stark's bastard son... Now he's not even that.

From where he sits, Jon can only stare back at her, at this young woman he once called sister. "Targaryen..." He murmurs, leaning forward in his chair, hands coming to cover his face. His heart is in tatters. All he's wanted was to be known as Jon Stark and now he must be called a Targaryen instead? And then he feels it, the soft but warm touch of her hand to his shoulder. Jon looks up then, his eyes finding hers, the smile she offers him is as warm as her touch and even more comforting. "I just wanted to be a Stark," he admits brokenly, ashamed by the tears gathering on his lashes.

"You are to me," she responds as she rises up only to settle onto the floor at his feet. She presses her head against his legs and she feels his hand slide into her hair. They both have felt it, the strange spark between them, though neither will speak on it. Not yet. "Targaryen, Stark, Snow... You will always just be Jon." He feels warmth spreading through him like wildfire and he's thankful for her. Despite the years apart, despite the lack of a childhood connection, Jon feels closer to her than he's ever felt to anyone in all of his life. "And now you must rise to your destiny. You are the only one who can stop Drogon from burning all of Essos and even here. You are the only hope, Jon." He listens to her soft words and knows she is right. He cannot stand aside while a creature such as a dragon roams freely, not when he has the ability to stop it. Innocent people do not deserve to die because he doesn't want to face the truth of his birth.

And so he raises her to look up at him and then pulls her to her feet as he rises to his own. "You will come with me?" He asks to which she nods eagerly, another smile curving on her lips.

"I will go anywhere you go," she says, her heart beating faster than usual, her skin warm where his hand still remains on hers. Relief washes over him and he nods, his smile suddenly appearing as he gives her hand a squeeze. They return to their chairs a few moments later, Ghost still between them, and they talk. They talk about anything and everything they can until darkness falls and they realize neither of them have left the room in hours. Only then does Jon lead her from his own chamber to the one just down the hall he's ensured was prepared for her upon her arrival.

At the door, they pause, as if neither are truly ready to let the other one go. Sansa is amazed by the rush of feelings running through her and has no idea that Jon too is overwhelmed by the emotion he feels having her near. "Until the morning, then." He says, reaching up to run a hand through his wild curls, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "Sleep well, Sansa." The sound of her name upon his lips is sweeter than anything, and Sansa smiles before she leans in, brushing a soft kiss against his ragged cheek.

"Good night, Jon." And then she's gone, disappearing behind the heavy wood door, though she would carry with her the feel of his hand in hers and the warmth of his skin when her lips had touched his cheek. Jon returned to his rooms and as he fell into his bed, he could think of little else besides the softness of her lips against his cheek and he could not help but to reach up his hand and touch the spot they had been. As he closes his eyes, it's her image that comes to mind and he realizes he's not felt this way ever before. So soft and warm, full of something strange yet comforting. He is happy, he realizes as he drifts off, happier than he's been since the day he left Winterfell all those years ago.

And it was all because of her.