#and also jon has way too much trauma surrounding her

[witchinatree]

i've been relistening to the magnus archives (by that i mean i just listen to it constantly. more than music at this point i think.) and i really really really really love jon & daisy's dynamic and every time i thnk about it i just get hit with this new "oh my god...."

like they're the two i think of when i see the "there's only one person who's ever truly understood me, unfortunately i fucking hate the guy" (i think i'm quoting it wrong but ykwim)

one of my favorite moments in the show is when they're following daisy after the change and jon is like "i never forgave daisy for what she did to me, but she never asked me to either. she knew she had no right"

also it's like they both died twice (kind of) the first time during the unknowing after trying to protect the others (daisy giving into the hunt to kill breekon or hope i forget & jon trying to stop tim from blowing himself/everyone up) and the second time when they gave up the last of their humanity for the people they love the most & those people had to kill them

they also doomed themselves for each other if you think about it. like jon went into the buried (technically he didn't know about the marks but he still knew he might not come back) and daisy gave into the hunt for the final time to protect him from trevor & julia. they don't even really know each other but at the same time they know each other like the way they know themselves??????

like WHAT those are the same person but also they aren't but they are???? sorry i'm actually incoherent but i really love their dynamic and i just keep putting together more pieces the more i'm thinking about it/listening to the show.

i think there's more i wanted to say but i forgot

[dulcewrites]

What do you think of Alys? There are lots of rumours surrounding her, but I think we both know how men used to write about women who refused to play the victim in patriarchal society and actually achieved something. She was Queen of Harrenhall after all. But what is more disturbing to me is that some people say that she used Aemond for her own goal which was to climb on social ladder and give birth to royal child. I just can't help but think yep, she was supposed to be happy that she will spend her entire life as bastard serving her family which contained father who surely treated her poorly (since when bastards are treated well to begin with? Apart from Jon and Sand Snakes obviously) and his wife who surely wasn't happy about having to see the living proof of her husband's cheating and half brothers Harwin and Larys who most likely didn't care about her at all. Look how men who really work hard to better their position within Westeros society even though they weren't much influential from the beginning of their life, managed to climb really high due to their intelligence, wit and dedication - Varys and Littlefinger. And yet they are called masterminds, their morals are questionable but still their ability to achieve things because they were smart is impressive. They serve first and foremost their own interest, but when men does it, it's alright but when women they are condemned to hell. When a woman called Alys Rivers has ambitions, most likely doesn't want to spend the rest of her life as servant since she did it for like 30 years and has every right to have enough of it, aims for something better, doesn't play damsel in distress even for a second - she is evil, seductress, femme fatale who will help Aemond descent into darkness in order to gain something from it lol the level of misogyny is so high I just am shocked people still think like this where this mentality should be gone long ago

I think the conflicting way people speak about alys comes from 1) the extremely weird way she was written in the book (f&b in general is not good but that’s another discussion for another day) and 2) the very binary camps people put women, and through that, female characters into.

If she is a victim of her circumstances, she must be the right kind of the victim. If she “rises above” (which in of itself titers into misogyny bc why is it either she was ‘strong enough’ to pull herself up by her bootstraps or she was too ‘weak’ not to), it must be in a way the audience finds palatable and of their liking. People are extremely uncomfortable and frankly very nasty when women do not show responses to trauma in the way they like. Hence why people are fucking awful when it comes to Alicent.

If people want to see alys as some seductress that’s their prerogative. I think that is a very shallow and weird way to look at a woman who probably went through sexual trauma in her life. Same with people thinking Aemond is going to assault her. Once again, very odd to theorize that someone who in show canon was assaulted himself is a r*pist. I personally find the she got pregnant then sent him to his death on purpose argument not only weird but also.. lacking any sense. If she was trying to secure the bag, why on earth would she want to essentially kill the one person who could confirm they were together and the baby is his???Now I’m of the belief that Aemond was going to fight Daemon regardless but the notion alys put it in his head bc she knew he would die is frankly nonsensical to me.

I think alys is indicative of her time. It’s why I think her story, along with nettles and maybe even Sara if they include her, are important. The surface level way she gets talked about and sometimes erased in this fandom is a literal representative of how bastardy for women plays out. The fact that people want these three women wiped from the show is so wild to me. Another convo we will eventually have is how gross it is how this fandom treats the people that actually represent them. You are not a targaryen.. you are the smallfolk

Idk if this answered your question. I feel like I’ve answered this before in different ask and I always regurgitate the same stuff. I may not be making sense lol. I like Alys. I’m excited for alys. Here’s a shameless plug of how i truly see her

[majesticwren]

The Hanging Tree (Dean Ambrose | Jon Moxley x OFC)

Summary: Are you, are you comin' to the tree? Where they strung up a man, they say, who murdered three — She is on a path looking for war as her fate foretold. And he has war within him. Both, thirsty for vengeance, justice and blood.

Words: 4k. Trigger Warnings: Mention of Sex, Mention of Past Trauma, Mention of PTSD, Mention of Injuries, Mention of Paganism, Angsty Angst Angst, Toxic Display of Affection (don't do this at home, these are generally red flags), Secrets and Misunderstandings is a Valid Trope. Tags: my lovely @hirunoka and honorary mention to @literaryuppsala, thank you both for all the support 💕Let me know if you'd like to be added 🌻

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Chapter 5 - Over Soon

She basked in the warmth of the sunlight seeping through the opened windows.

Stretching between the still messy sheets, a placid smile crossed her lips in spite of her still tired, achy body. Feeling the linen on her naked skin was a simple thing that yet gave her so much happiness. Almost as much as feeling her body and spirit still completely relaxed and satisfied. Her mind was still fogged up and quiet. And everything was good.

Valkyrie pushed her face into the pillow and, recognising Dean's scent all over her and her bed, the warmest of feelings surrounded her chest.

She didn't dream of it. Everything that she remembered was real. He had been there, giving himself to her and taking everything she had to give in return. She didn’t need to push her mind too far to still feel the feeling of his ghostly hands on her body, or of his lips tracing patterns on her sensitive skin, or just feeling him surrounding her.

She regretted nothing.

Though, pushing her hand across the mattress on the other side of the bed, finding it cold and empty, did make her chest ache. She had no regrets, but her resentment was quick to bubble up in her blood making her anger rise towards all the reasons that brought them to that point. Knowing he wasn't there, and wouldn't have been ever again, was crushing her.

It was supposed to be that way. It was what they agreed on in a forced promise. One night. So, she was well aware that she would have woken up alone.

In all honesty, she was even grateful for his decision to just leave her before she woke up. If she had woken up between his arms it would have been simply impossible to let him go.

Even just wondering about it made her chest tremble and her hands shake. Thinking that if he had been close, maybe just barely awake, with messy hair and heavy eyelids, would have meant condemning them both.

How easy would have it been to slide across his figure, pushing him underneath her to straddle his waist? She wondered if he would have been up to spend the rest of the day in bed with her. And falling into that fantasy was so tempting, she released a small sigh imagining him wrapping his hands around her hips, helping her to find her position. How sweet would have been to wrap her hand around his neck and make him keep his hands off her, maybe tying his wrists to the bed headboard using his belt in the same way he did with her the night before, as she rode him. Just thinking about him stretched underneath her, whimpering and moaning, pushed towards the edge of control.

Just the thought of it made her hunger wake up. She felt an uncomfortable pressure weight between her legs, pushing her to have to rub her thighs together. She thought she was satisfied, but that single thought made her realise she didn’t have enough of that man. Not in the slightest.

But what she was given had to be enough. There was no other way and no other solution but a cold shower. She knew she could have touched herself, feeding into her desire and trying to rub off her desire for Dean – she was really close to losing her control and pushing her hand between her legs – but she also knew she couldn’t do such a thing, both because she feared it would not have been enough and especially because she needed to forget him.

Valkyrie kicked off the sheets, trying to find some solace in the illusion that she was now free.

Free to pretend that she could go on alone. Free to accept that protecting Dean was more important than giving in and being selfish, risking both their wellbeing. If anything had happened to Dean because of her, she knew she would have lost her mind, becoming immediately so extremely vulnerable. She was free to deny anything had ever happened between them. She was free to pretend she didn’t intend to spend every breath by his side.

She only needed to find enough strength to pretend that that was what she wanted.

It was easier to forget him or to pretend she had never known him to begin with if she had no regrets gnawing at her in the back of her mind.

Releasing a small sigh, Valkyrie started to make a list of things to do in her mind. She knew she should have had a cold shower to start with, she needed to melt her tired muscles, but she didn't have the heart to wash Dean's scent off her skin. Not yet, anyway. So, skipping that step there was dressing up, breakfast and packing.

It would have been probably wise to try and get in touch with Sylvia, trying to patch up with her manager whatever disagreement they had the night before.

And then she would have thrown herself into some intense training.

She meant it when she said she was ready to fight off anyone. And that didn't change. That would have never changed. Maybe she should have started to hunt Wyatt down. Maybe she should have started to invest energy in getting her revenge and going back home.

Valkyrie felt like it was time.

It was either winning or dying trying, after all. One way or the other she would have found her way back to her home.

That was the moment that she heard the electrical lock on her door click open as the key card was swiped into it.

Valkyrie jumped up and, moving quickly, grabbed the sheets to cover herself up. "Who's there?"

She shouted towards the blind corner where the door was, that she couldn't see from the bed.

"Who do you think, angel?"

"Dean?" She gasped. As soon as she heard his voice, everything she pushed herself to get convinced about shattered into a million pieces.

Why was he still there? Why would he come back? Didn’t he understand how torturous it was for her?

"Don't appear so surprised or I'll think you were expecting someone else." He finally appeared from around the corner carrying a small paper bag and a cup carrier with two paper cups stuffed in it.

He had a small smile crossing his lips as his eyes and skin seemed to be glowing. How was it that he could appear even more charming in the light of day? She wasn't allowed to find him attractive, not anymore. And yet, the need to just drag him back into bed with her was very strong.

He was wearing fresh clothes, different from the ones he had on last night, she was sure. His face was clean-shaven and his hair was pulled back on his head on its way to be dry in a look that drove her simply insane. She had to bite her tongue to distract herself from just rolling back on the mattress and kicking off the sheets, just to invite him back to her.

He struck her like a vision.

She wasn't able to say anything to him, looking at his figure was more than enough. She thought that if she had opened her mouth, she would have asked him to stay. Forever.

She wasn't expecting to see him at all. Actually, seeing him hurt her more than the idea of having to just forget him.

"Sorry you had to wake up alone." He interrupted her thoughts, filling the silence. "You were sleeping so soundly I thought I could have gone and come back without you realising." He explained, kicking off his boots before walking any further into the room.

God, he was so controversial and surprising. He didn't give a shit enough to know how to address people in his day to day, but he did care enough to remove his shoes before entering a room.

"It's OK." She finally managed to say looking at him as he sat at the end of the bed.

"Are you ok?" He wondered, giving her a good look up and down her figure. She tried to ignore how soft his gaze was.

"Thought you were gone."

"I'm far from leaving you, angel."

"No," Valkyrie sighed, gathering her knees to her chest, "you need to be gone. That's what we said last night."

"Ah," Dean's reaction didn't match the seriousness of her tone. He passed her the paper bag and one of the paper cups he was carrying and then winked at her, pulling a cocky smirk that made his dimples pop, "I rarely do as I'm told. Haven't you heard?"

She looked down at what he gave her and, smelling the strong coffee and the sweet fresh pastry, a cold clutch torn through her chest. "Dean-"

He shushed her as soon as she started talking, ignoring the grave tone of her voice. "Not before coffee."

His voice was deep, gentle and encouraging. And Gods, how did it make it so difficult for her to think straight?

"You don't understand,"

A spasm made his shoulder twitch. He looked away, hiding a wounded smile behind his cup of coffee. "Jesus, woman. I am not an animal. I do not fuck and leave. Just take a fucking sip of coffee and a bite of pastry and I'll be out of your life."

She felt the sudden sharpness in his tone as something cold took over him.

She sighed, fighting against the need to leave everything she had in her hands and slide across the mattress and take him between her arms and reassure him. The need to whisper to his ear how important he had become and how letting him go was the hardest thing she had to do was unbearable.

But she couldn't. And she didn’t. They didn't need to be reassured. They needed to get on with their separate lives.

She did indulge his request though, granting him his wish.

He looked intensely at her as she tasted her coffee. As she sighed, welcoming the caffeine into her body, a soft smile crossed her lips. The coffee was bitter, black, very strong - and she liked it that way. Then, she took a peek into the paper bag. Her heart creaked under pressure the moment she realised it was a cinnamon round pastry drizzled with sugar. She looked up at him, finding his attentive blue eyes waiting for her. His gaze was soft but sharp.

"I thought you'd like it. I think they call it Danish pastry. I don't know if it really has anything to do with Scandinavia, but-" He just shrugged, not finishing his sentence and looking away.

Emotions rolled across her chest, wild and uncontrollable, hitting her so violently she didn't even realise her eyes were getting watery.

He had gone out just to get her something to eat. And not just the first thing. He tried his best to get her something that could remind her of home.

A tiny smile trembled on her lips. "I love it." She whispered, nodding. She tried her best to hide her emotions, reclining her head, suffocating the pain that roared through her being, making it almost impossible to breathe. Every second they spent together made her feelings grow and root deeper. Every centimetre that divided them made it difficult for her to breathe. She was so lost for him and had fallen so deeply into her feelings for that man, not even realising that every decision she had made from when they met to that point had been a tremendous mistake.

There was no life, no existence, without him. She didn’t want to have any. She didn’t want to know future. It was terrifying.

She caved. Valkyrie left everything she had in her hands on the side just to move across the bed and throw herself in his arms. And Dean was more than ready to catch her.

She nested against him, her face dug into his neck socket, arms wrapped around his shoulders, with one hand stroking his hair. He held her tight against his chest, chin resting on the top of her head arms surrounding her like she was small and delicate, neither too concerned about the fact that she was completely naked between his arms.

“What are we going to do?” A small sigh left her chest.

There was no fight. There was nothing she could do. Her rightful place was between his arms, the only place where she felt safe enough so her mind and spirit could quiet down.

Part of her wondered if that was yet another self-destroying mechanism she had found. Just like aggressive training or fighting, a forbidden attraction worked too for the purpose. At the same time, she refused to believe that what there was between them could be nothing more.

“You could start by telling me what the fuck is going on.” His was a fair point. “You seemed shaken enough last night and, let’s be honest, for most of it, I was thinking with my cock and not my brain. But now I need to ask.”

“I can’t tell you.”

He grumbled, slightly annoyed but still not rude towards her. “Tell me how am I supposed to help you, Eir.”

“You are not supposed to. That is the point.” Valkyrie gave him a small push, looking into his eyes. “Dean, I am serious. You have to stay away from me. Please-”

“Is that what it is? Are you trying to protect me?” She didn’t reply. There was no need, her concerned gaze was more than enough. And something inside of him snapped. Dean jerked, and then looked away, avoiding direct eye contact. His eyes became suddenly cold and distant as a sharp smile crossed his lips. “I don’t want it. Damn, haven’t you understood it yet?! I don’t need it.”

“But you do! And you can’t stop me from trying to keep you safe.”

“Fuck you,” his words may have been harsh, but he wasn’t aggressive, not directly towards her, “do not treat me like I’m a scared little kid.”

“If anything happens to you, I won’t be able to take it. If anything happened to you because of me I wouldn’t be able to ever forgive myself. It would destroy me.”

“Do you think I give a shit?” He gave her a small shake. “Nothing will be justification enough for me to leave you. You said you wanted me to ruin you. I will ruin you, Eir.”

“You need to. I am begging you. Please, Dean. You need to give a shit about this. And you need to stop.”

His hold around her became tighter as if even on a physical level he couldn’t accept letting her go. “You know what I give a shit about? You.”

“Dean-”

“Shut up. I do not care about many people but you. You know what? Fuck you, for entering my life the way you did, and for becoming essential. What the fuck am I supposed to do now?”

Her heart broke into a million pieces.

Valkyrie pushed her hands around his face and gently brought him to look at her. She shook her head, emotions right on display through her eyes. “You need to move on. Please, do this for me.”

“What is scaring you this much? Uh?” He wondered looking right into her eyes. At first, his anger seemed to be pushing him over the edge of control. She felt the sparks of his rage flickering on her skin. But then, as if he had been suddenly shocked by lightning, Dean froze. His anger mutated into calm, frosty seriousness that was, if possible, scarier than his violent outbursts. “What are you scared of?”

It was as if he had been only using a figurative sentence before. But now he was serious and he had hit and sunk her.

Valkyrie was suddenly out of breath and the longer she took to reply, the more focused his attention would become. Though, despite his determination and seriousness, Dean’s hold on her remained soft and gentle.

“Angel?” As soon as he slid a hand on her face, Valkyrie immediately pressed her cheek into his palm. “Tell me what’s going on. You can trust me. Please, I need to know.”

“I trust you with my life, damn it,” she whispered, sighing to the Gods, begging to find the strength to proceed with her plan. Though with every second it seemed to become so much harder, “I cannot tell you because I know you. You’d do the opposite of what I am asking you. You will never leave my side.”

“Is it such a bad thing?” His broken voice and silent beg made something creak inside her chest.

Valkyrie trembled, unable to take it, unable to think rationally, unable to fight against him. She knew better. She knew so much better, and yet she was nothing wise right now. She was a bundle of pure emotion and everything she felt pulled her towards him.

She pulled herself up. Tugging on his hair, she made him bend his head so she could look down into his eyes. “Listen to me,” with her other hand, she gently caressed his chin and neck, as her eyes crossed his handsome features, “the reason why I am scared is something that could kill you. I need you to be far. I need you to be safe. Because if I’m concerned about you, then I’ll become an easier target and I’ll get hurt. You can’t let that happen.”

Her words seemed to finally reach him through his stubbornness. She didn’t like the idea of manipulating him, but then again, her words were not entirely wrong. It was only that as it was easier for her to accept the idea of looking after her own interests only to protect him, then she imagined he would act the same way.

“You are my weakness; do you understand me? I can’t let anyone find out-”

“Who is threatening you?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“Eir, for fuck’s sake, please, just-” he shook his head, angry and frustrated, “you know what? Ok. Fine.” He raised his hands, breaking contact with her. “You don’t want to have anything to do with me? Fine.”

“No, Dean-” before he could push her off himself she tried to appease him, “please don’t be like that.”

“And what the fuck am I supposed to be like?”

“It’s about my scars.”

The moment she spoke, Dean froze. He puffed up his chest breathing in deeply. She met his look with equal determination. Raising her chin, she was ready to meet Dean’s reaction as he fell silent. The dangerous glimmer in his eyes spoke louder than any word.

There was not an inch of her skin he hadn’t seen. And many were the scars that traced her skin and that he had studied with his lips. He hadn’t asked a single question about them, and Valkyrie had felt so at ease with him that it wasn’t a problem to have him so close to the marks of the cruelty inflicted on her. But she was aware that they both knew it wasn’t common. Some little scars, barely visible, small cuts and cigarette burns mostly, and some were bigger, like the two massive scars that ran respectively on her abdomen and following length of her back, proof that a slashing had happened. The deepest one she carried ran across her inner thigh, only by chance avoiding her artery.

It wasn’t like it was easy for her to forget the origin of her pain, but the scars she carried on the inside were deeper. Physical pain she could endure. Deep cuts and bleeding she could survive. The flesh healed much quicker than the mind, which was probably why her brain was keeping her safe, fogging up loads of horrible memories. And she had decided a long time ago that the only healing procedure she wanted to know about was vengeance.

As Dean finally decided to shut up, Valkyrie took advantage, knowing his attention was caught. “Tell me,” she began moving closer to him, again tugging at his hair to get him to bend his neck so she could look down at him, “in all honesty, tell me you would behave. Tell me you’d have control. Because I think I know you. And I think you would lose your mind.”

“God damn right I’d lose my fucking mind. I’ll tell you one more,” he pushed his chest closer to her, raising his chin proudly, not afraid to face her, “I’d kill whoever did that to you. I’d rip apart anyone who would hurt you. One word, angel, and I’d kill for you.”

He behaved like a crazed bloodhound, hungry and desperate. And she had no doubt believing his words. The promise that hid between them was so profound. Of course, dangerous, but extremely charming too. Gods, there was a small part of her that was really attracted to the idea of doing exactly as he was requesting, just the idea of him covered in Wyatt’s blood, offering her the retribution she was owed gave her a deep, ravaging shiver. But she also knew that was only a daydream. She had to keep Dean safe, that was her only priority.

She gently caressed his cheeks. “Please, baby. Then, if you’d kill for me, take my current request just as seriously. Forget it, let go. I can’t risk losing you.”

“I don’t understand it. You are losing me.”

“Yeah,” a sad smile crossed her lips, “but you’ll be safe.”

The moment he sighed, as she saw him dropping the battle, she leaned in kissing his lips softly. “Please go and don’t look back.”

A heavy sigh left his chest. “You need to know I am not doing this easily.”

“I know.”

“I will never not look back. I will never not watch your back. I will always hide in your corner; do you hear me? I will be there, want it or not, it’s your problem if you don’t like it.”

“Ok.”

“And damn it, whatever you need just… Please just come to me, ok?”

“Ok.”

“Don’t go break yourself in the gym when something happens, just come to me, and I’ll take care of you.”

She didn’t reply. Everything she had given him was exhausted sighs and sweet approvals. She knew she wouldn’t have looked for him, she simply couldn’t, that was hard enough as it was, and she wouldn’t have been able to leave his side if they spent another night together.

Valkyrie just nodded, pressing her lips against his in another soft kiss, as to seal a promise.

“Damn you, woman,” he whispered gently caressing her face, looking at her devotedly. He pushed a lock of her hair behind her ear, “I knew you would have been bad news from the beginning.”

She kissed him again, ever so slowly, although this time Dean’s lips were more demanding as he pulled her into a deeper, more profound kiss. None seemed to really want to let go. Which was the reason why she fought against herself and gave him a small push.

She quietly moved away from him, back into her nest between messy bedsheets and pillows, covering herself up. She didn’t need to say anything. And nor did he. Dean gave her one last, long look, and then he stood up. He quietly put his boots back on and left.

It was what she had asked. She knew it was for the best. But surely it wasn’t what she wanted.

As soon as he left her alone her room became colder and quieter, even the light of the sun seemed to become dimmer and less important.

Her chest was torn open so her emotions could run free as pain just subdued her. She fell back into bed and curled up in a ball, trying her best to find comfort in her own hold. That was the moment her eyes fell on the pastry bag, now abandoned on her bedside cabinet.

The wave of desperation that hit her made her feel like she was turned inside out. Being stubbed right in the heart and skinned alive would have been nothing compared to that pain.

She pushed her face into the pillow, trying her best to suffocate her cries, unable to stop the tears from coming and the sobs from shaking her.

Why would her beloved Gods hate her so? Why would they set her on a path to find a worthy man, just to put her in such position? What had she done to deserve so many horrible curses?

[hellsbellschime]

Although House of the Dragon has been building up the conflict between the Hightowers and the Targaryens from the very start of the series, it's likely that the loss of Aemond's eye is where the Dance of the Dragons truly began.

The buildup towards the confrontation over Aemond's mutilation is an interesting one, and the framing of the fight between all of the children was rife with subtext.

The violence that the children inflict on each other was frighteningly over the top on all sides, and the broader context for all of their reactions is heartbreaking and sadly goes to show how much of the Dance of the Dragons is truly driven by crappy parenting and unresolved emotional tension.

Jace and Luke haven't gotten much individual development beyond simply being Strong bastards, but the trauma of both the realization of their true lineage and of losing their father and being completely unable to process or even acknowledge that is clearly terrible. Nearly killing Aemond is absurdly violent for such young children, but it is at least easier to understand in this instance because this is likely their first time truly expressing any of the trauma surrounding an issue that all of the adults around them are literally pretending isn't real, and they understandably have no idea how to handle it or express all of that pain without any guidance or support.

Baela and Rhaena are in a similar situation, as it seems that their grandmother has been doing most of the emotional heavy lifting for them since their mother's death, and the loss of Vhagar has the dual brutality of losing another enormous part of their mother and losing potential equitable treatment from their father. Rhaena's rejection by Daemon has to be painful and confusing for both of them, so to so quickly lose the opportunity to finally be equal must have been extremely difficult and infuriating for both girls.

And Aemond, also understanding how little value anyone of Targaryen blood seems to have if they can't ride a dragon, is finally lashing out at bullying that seems to have gone unresolved or poorly addressed for far too long. Because yes, mounting Vhagar is some king behavior, but it's also incredibly telling that a boy who is supposed to be ten years old at this point was willing to risk literal death in order to become a dragonrider, and it goes to show how early on anyone of Targaryen blood learns that they have no inherent value to the rest of their family if they don't have a dragon.

So, as scary as it was to see all of the children go full Lord of the Flies, it is not surprising that all of this unresolved tension finally messily and violently exploded, and it's tragic that the consequences for all of their outbursts had such permanent effects on Aemond. But the way that the situation is handled afterward is likely where the war truly began.

The confrontation over Aemond's mutilation is fascinating and so rich with subtext that it's almost impossible to pick up on everything that is happening for every character in the moment.

One of the most interesting aspects of the argument is something that anyone who hasn't read the books would clearly miss. When Rhaenyra discovers that Aemond has called her sons bastards, she demands that Aemond be "questioned sharply" about where he heard these rumors. In A Song of Ice and Fire, questioning someone sharply is a euphemism for torturing someone for information. It's not a term that comes up outrageously often, but it is never used to refer to anything aside from that.

For example, in A Clash of Kings, Jon 5 Mormont and Qhorin Halfhand are discussing a wildling who was questioned for information and Qhorin says "He was questioned perhaps too sharply, and died with much unsaid."

In another instance, Daenerys is discussing the interrogation of criminals with the Shavepate in A Dance With Dragons, Daenerys 2, and they have this exchange:

Mercy , thought Dany. They will have the dragon’s mercy . “Skahaz, I have changed my mind. Question the man sharply.”

“I could. Or I could question the daughters sharply whilst the father looks on. That will wring some names from him.”

“Do as you think best, but bring me names.”

So suffice it to say, being "questioned sharply" is not a pleasant experience, it is torturous interrogation that can be brutal enough to kill someone. Meaning that before Aemond's empty eye socket is even done being sewn up, she's asking that her ten year old brother be further brutalized for saying something that is essentially an open secret and that he arguably doesn't even have the full capacity to understand the importance of.

In the same vein, the lack of care that Viserys shows for Aemond is truly astonishing. He's a horrifically wounded and now permanently disabled child, and Viserys' only concern is where Aemond actually heard this rumor. And instead of telling his absentee father that up until 30 minutes ago he had two entire eyes and that's how he figured it out, he is clearly considering whether or not to out his mother for being the one to introduce him to this idea, and the interplay between Alicent, Aemond, and Aegon in this moment is really fantastically done without saying anything at all.

It's interesting, because while Alicent was clearly in the wrong to discuss the illegitimacy of Jace and Luke with her children both because none of the children deserve to have the burden of this issue put on themselves and because the open acknowledgment of their bastardy actually puts Alicent's own children in danger, this is likely the first time that Aemond is fully realizing that his mother's concerns about the threat that Jace and Luke's parentage could pose to Aemond and his siblings is completely true. Clearly, given that this knowledge can put the children in physical danger, it was insane for Alicent to inform them of this before they were mature enough to understand it and keep their mouths shut, but she definitely wasn't wrong about the danger that Rhaenyra's children could pose to her own.

There's no way that any children are fully capable of understanding the seriousness of the situation at this point, but Aemond having to confront the fact that he has been horribly mutilated, that literally no one besides his mother seems to even be concerned about his injury, and that there is the potential that he'll be hurt even further for mentioning Jace and Luke's illegitimacy, is an enormous reality check about his standing with everyone in that room. He might be the king's son, but no one besides Alicent is even acting as if something bad or unfair has happened to him, and there is a clear implication that he might actually be punished for what he said while no one is seemingly going to be punished for cutting his eye out.

Throwing Aegon under the bus was lowkey hilarious and more than deserved after all of Aegon's terrible behavior, but it's interesting to see Aegon and Aemond both wordlessly rally to protect their mom. Of course there is likely an element of them both caring for her and not wanting to get her into trouble, but I can't imagine that it it evaded their notice that in a room full of the most powerful adults in Westeros, Alicent was literally the only person advocating for them at all. And once again, that must have been a brutal reality check for both of them, and is likely a contributing factor as to why they covered for her.

It was incredibly inappropriate for Alicent to stoke any fears about Jace and Luke for her own children, and all of the parents suck for putting their kids in this position. But this is also the first time that Alicent's children probably realize that their mother was not only telling them the truth, but that the danger that their in as a result of it was very serious. From the beginning it seems as if Aegon liked the Strong boys better than he ever liked Aemond, and yet he follows suit with his younger brother, probably because he very abruptly realized if any of the people with power in this situation have to choose, they will protect Jace and Luke at his expense.

It's actually fascinating to see how quickly things turn around for all of Alicent's children. The scene literally begins with Jace, Luke, and Aemond squabbling like children would despite the severity of the situation, and by the end, Aemond is the one comforting his mother because he has come to the realization that if the situation isn't ameliorated, then his mother and his siblings are likely the ones who are going to suffer for it. They have all been very abruptly thrust into the realities of adulthood because they're being forced to recognize that being their father's least favorite kids can have real and dangerous consequences for them.

And what's actually interesting is that despite being in denial for more than half of her life at this point, Alicent probably snaps because she realizes the same thing. She realizes that her father was always right and that if she has any hopes for herself or her children having any kind of livable life, she is the one who is going to have to fight for it. She can't rely on anyone else's charity or expect that being an obedient lady, wife, queen, or mother is going to yield the results that the world always told her it should.

Clearly, lashing out at Luke and demanding an eye in return is insane, but lashing out at Rhaenyra and Viserys was a near inevitability. All Alicent really needed was exactly what she got, which was an object lesson in the reality that Viserys and Rhaenyra do not care about the welfare of her children and will throw them under the bus to save themselves or those that they do care about. Rhaenyra literally looked at the ripped-open face of her ten year old brother and demanded that he be tortured for information to find out where he heard that the Strong boys were bastards, as if he didn't have two whole ass eyeballs thirty minutes ago and just figured it out himself.

And what's worse, is Viserys went along with it. Viserys is undeniably a pushover, but as soon as Rhaenyra points out that Aemond was mutilated because he called her sons bastards, Viserys literally looked into Aemond's remaining eye and asked him where he heard this rumor before asking if his now-disabled son was even okay.

It's not as if his favoritism towards Rhaenyra is news to any of Alicent's children, but the level of deadbeat dadding here is truly beyond comprehension. And to add insult to literal injury, when Aegon points out the obvious, Viserys simply says that everyone needs to apologize to each other and if anyone speaks of Jace and Luke's bastardy again they'll be losing their tongues too.

Alicent likely wanted to believe that at the very least Rhaenyra likely wouldn't harm her own family, but her reaction to Aemond pretty clearly demonstrated that this wasn't the case. And that, along with the complete inaction of everyone around them, likely illustrated to Alicent that the price of Rhaenyra taking the throne was not something she was willing to pay, and if she was going to fight for her own children then she was going to have to do it herself.

There are dozens of contributing factors and people stoking the flames of this conflict, but Alicent's total freak out was the culmination of everything she has tried to ignore and has pretended wasn't real exploding into her reality all at once. Being the wife of the king isn't going to protect her. Having the children of the king isn't going to protect them. And regardless of whatever love once existed between them, she can't bet the lives of herself and her children on Rhaenyra's kindness, because if Rhaenyra has to choose between Alicent's family and herself or her own children, she will throw them under the bus to save herself.

The war is about far more than just Alicent and Rhaenyra, but this moment is likely the incident that made war an inevitability in Alicent's mind. Alicent has clearly been preparing herself for war for a very long time now, but it seems like Aemond's mutilation was the moment that Alicent decided that she had no other options outside of going to war. The Dance of the Dragons was begun by literal squabbling children, and Aemond's lost eye was the point of no return for Alicent.

[swordsonnet]

this maze inside my heart

Jon/Martin, 6439 words, rated T. Angst with a happy ending. Spanning from S1 to MAG 159. Also on AO3!

written for day 6 of @jonmartinweek, for the prompt 'lost & found'.

content warnings: depression, self-esteem issues, child neglect/emotional abuse, isolation. references to bugs, blood, death, explosions, eye trauma

There are many ways to be lost.

Martin Blackwood has encountered so many of them over the years that he fancies himself a curator of them now, confident he could collect and catalogue them all, put neat labels on them and preserve them in his own little archive. He could create a chronicle on disorientation, alienation, that unshakeable feeling that no matter where you go, you will never find where you belong. It’s the only subject he considers himself an expert in.

There are the literal ways to be lost, of course. Those are simple, basic, beginners’ stuff. They’re easy to categorise, less ambiguous, free of the diffuse murkiness that comes with being lost inside your own head. Martin remembers racing through the labyrinthine tunnels stretching out beneath the Institute, terrified of ending up as worm food and even more terrified of being left behind forever; remembers wandering the shifting, treacherous corridors of the Distortion alongside an increasingly irritated Tim; remembers that time as a young boy when he strayed too far into the woods on his way home from school and was picked up by a police officer hours later, exhausted and dehydrated. Those memories aren’t exactly pleasant, needless to say, but at least he knows what to make of them. It’s normal to spiral into panic when you can’t identify your surroundings; it’s to be expected, even.

 It’s much harder to justify being lost within a crowd, among a sea of familiar faces. Lost within a throng of excitable schoolchildren, so obviously out of place with his second-hand uniform and his insecure smile. Lost at the most excruciating job interview of his life, stuttering through his fabricated credentials while Elias Bouchard’s steely gaze bored into him, giving him the unnerving suspicion that he could see right through all his lies. Lost on the bustling streets of London, lost at a pub night where his wavering voice was drowned out by the raucous laughter of his co-workers, lost in the waiting room of a care home in Devon as a tired-looking nurse explained to him once again that his mother didn’t wish to see him. Yes, the figurative ways to be lost are far more manifold, and far more insidious.

Martin has learned the hard way that there are much fewer ways to be found.

Well, perhaps not for everyone. Perhaps other people are found every single time they stray from the right path, perhaps some people are lucky enough to never get lost in the first place. But he has never known that luxury.

That hasn’t stopped him from dreaming about it, of course. For weeks after his father left, he waited patiently for his return, spending hours sitting by the front door and staying up long after his bedtime to listen for the sound of a key turning in the lock. He was so sure that his dad hadn’t meant to stay away for so long, that he’d just gotten a little lost and would find his way back to his family any day now. But of course he didn’t return, and in the end, even poor, delusional eight-year-old Martin was forced to admit that his dad had left of his own free will, and that he was never coming back. He’d begun to draw comfort from a different illusion then, one even more ridiculous than the first one: that one day, some perfect picture book family would show up on their doorstep and whisk Martin away to their beautiful house with its sprawling garden and their three dogs, take him far away from the shabby council flat with mould creeping up the walls, from the bitterness in his mother’s eyes and the vitriol in her voice, from his dull, pathetic life, and shower him with all the toys and affection he could wish for. He could lose himself in that fantasy for hours when his mum was knocked out by her pain medication and didn’t need his help, watching re-runs of saccharine children’s shows on their grainy TV screen while doodling crayon pictures of his daydream family, a stick figure rendition of himself placed right in the middle with a huge smile on his face. He would glance over to his mum’s bedroom every few minutes or so, just to make sure she was still asleep, feeling, even then, a vague sense of guilt for even harbouring these dreams, as if his imagination alone was a form of betrayal.

He grew out of that fantasy soon enough, as children grow out of so many things, and realised that this wasn’t a fairytale. No one was coming to save him. That simple, brutal truth stuck with him for decades to come. Sure, he would occasionally dream of being found, of having someone grab him by the hand and steer him to a safe haven. Over the course of his early adulthood, he went through a handful of unsatisfying one-night-stands and a couple of even more unsatisfying relationships, but all of those men turned out to be locked doors instead of corridors, all of them were just further meanders in the labyrinth that was his life. Eventually, he gave up on the whole pointless endeavour entirely, contenting himself with stealing furtive glances at attractive strangers on the tube or in the breakroom at the Institute, never long enough for them to return his gaze, absorbed for just a moment in a fleeting fantasy of a life he could never have. It wasn’t such a bad way to exist, truth be told. It was almost comfortable. It hardly even registered as loss anymore.

It wasn’t until he was transferred to the Archives that the real trouble started. The issue wasn’t that he was lost there, although he certainly was, more so than ever before – first badly out of his depth and constantly berated by the pompous prick who called himself his new boss, then trapped inside his own flat for two terrifying weeks with nothing but cans for company. No, the trouble began when he was hiding inside an airtight Document Storage room, faced with the very real possibility of imminent death, and his aforementioned arsehole boss confessed that he had been feigning scepticism all along, and then, out of the blue, asked Martin if he was a ghost. Despite the direness of the situation, the sheer absurdity of that question startled a laugh out of Martin, a laugh more genuine than he’d been able to produce in a long time, and in that moment, something clicked into place. Something important. Martin was well aware he’d been nursing this ridiculous crush for a good few months now, but he’d just taken it as further proof of his terrible taste in men, and preferred not to dwell on it. Now, though, amid all the chaos of a worm attack on his workplace, an unbidden thought entered his mind, loud and clear as a divine epiphany: he would rather like to be found by Jonathan Sims.

He just about stifled a frustrated sigh as he reached over to turn off the tape recorder, then slumped back against the wall. Shit, he thought to himself. Shit.

Of course, the following months only saw him, and everyone else working in the Archives, getting more lost. Jon was descending into paranoia, Tim was turning into a bitter caricature of his former self, there was something off about Sasha that he couldn’t quite put his finger on, and Martin was… well, Martin was hanging in there. Or trying to, at least. He had been lucky enough to not have dozens of worms burrow into his flesh, after all, so the least he could do was keep it together for the sake of the others. Try to talk some sense into Tim, make tea for Jon and nag him to eat lunch or go home to get some much-needed rest. He’d always been a helper, could never imagine a purpose for himself outside of doing things for other people, and so helping was what he did, even if his none of his ministrations seemed to lead to any tangible change. Even if, for all his effort, he was as invisible as if he really was a ghost. At night, he tossed and turned for hours on end, trying in vain to shake the indelible images of Gertrude’s rotten corpse, the bullet holes in her chest. His ears constantly perked up for the dreaded noise of Jane Prentiss’s knuckles rapping on the wood of his front door, an echo of which haunted him even during his waking hours. He’d get up in the morning, bleary and disoriented from lack of sleep, and go to work pretending like nothing was wrong. He was fine, he told himself, clinging to that hollow denial like it was his lifeline. He was fine. And yet every step he took seemed to move him further from the fabled exit of this grand maze he was trapped in.

There was one day he remembered in more detail than anything else. He was out for lunch with Jon – Jon who maybe kind of thought Martin was a murder suspect; Jon whom Martin was still harbouring a stupid, stubborn crush on, despite the glaring warning signs – and they were eating overpriced sandwiches in a mediocre coffee shop, and Martin said something that he thought quite trivial and silly, really, and Jon… smiled. A proper smile, one that showed a hint of teeth and made his eyes gleam with mirth and a fondness Martin hoped he wasn’t only imagining. The kind of smile he hadn’t believed Jon was even capable of. It was a moment so monumental and ephemeral that Martin wanted to preserve it in resin, wanted to hold on to it for the rest of his life like a precious keepsake. It was like being found just for a fraction of a second, before losing his way again. It was so fleeting that it shouldn’t make any difference in the end, but somehow it did. Somehow, it made all the difference. For one brief, shining instant, Martin’s world was still alright.

Martin couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment he had fallen in love with Jon, when his intense, but still superficial infatuation had turned into something deeper, but he wasn’t surprised to find it had happened. It was inevitable, in a way. It was always going to be like this. Jon was bright and distant as a star, and Martin was always going to be sucked into his orbit. It didn’t cause him any grief; he found he rather liked the feeling. It was no coincidence that they called it ‘falling in love’, not just a random turn of phrase. It perfectly encapsulated how dizzying it was, how disorienting, how much like being lost. But if being lost could feel like this, he would gladly be lost for the rest of his days. He didn’t hold out much hope for Jon to return his affection, or for them to be in any way a suitable couple even if he did, but that wasn’t the point. The point was to sit with his feelings, clutching them close to his chest like a secret treasure yet never letting them see the light. The point was pining from afar, the point was furtive glances across a crowded room, the point was halting, awkward conversations that Martin cherished like love songs. Sometimes he felt like he could live on those little moments alone, like they were all the nourishment he needed. Jon was gone far more often than not, out of the Archives or even out of the country, and even when he was around, he wasn’t really there, would just rattle off a list of research requests before setting off on his next doomsday mission. Martin lived for those rare times he was in the same room as Jon, even just briefly, even if they hardly spoke. It was like he spent most of his days in a deep slumber, still going through the usual motions but utterly numb inside, and the only time he was awake was when he was with Jon. That couldn’t be healthy, he knew that only too well, but when had he ever been able to form a healthy attachment?

Jon called him, once, all the way from America, just as Martin was getting ready for work. It was deep into the night over there, but Jon, as usual, couldn’t sleep. His voice sounded hoarse, almost raspy, roughened by exhaustion and things Martin could only guess at. He paused in the process of rooting around in his overflowing clothes drawer for a clean jumper and allowed himself the momentary indulgence of picturing Jon, stretched out on a hotel bed, his thin frame huddled beneath the duvet, the side of his face pressed into the pillow. His phone placed close to his head, almost as if Martin was lying there beside him. He wondered what Jon wore to bed. If he let his hair down. If he was a restless sleeper or as still as a stone, if he hogged all the blankets or threw them off because he got hot, if he talked in his sleep…

But then Jon asked him a question about Gertrude’s arrest records, and Martin had to force himself out of his embarrassing (and tragically hopeless) reverie, cursing the light tremor in his voice when he answered. The first part of their rather brief conversation was taken up by professional matters such as those (if preventing the apocalypse fell under ‘professional matters’), and Martin was sure that Jon would hang up the second he had gotten all the information he needed, but the lull that ensued when Jon had run out of questions stretched on for longer than natural, both of them breathing down the line and oddly hesitant to end the call. To his surprise, Martin found himself filling the silence by babbling on about whatever trivial topics came to mind, meaningless snippets from what little life he had outside the Institute, disconnected rambles about his poetry and the sci-fi show he was watching at the moment and the cute dog he’d seen in the park the other day. He broke off with a sheepish chuckle when he realised he’d been talking about himself for far too long, and asked Jon about his travels, receiving an equally rambling response about jetlag and roadside diners. He tucked his phone between his ear and his shoulder as he slipped into his trousers, smiling to himself. This was all so normal, just ordinary small talk between co-workers, maybe even friends, maybe even… no, he shouldn’t go that far. Not for the first time, he was spellbound by Jon’s voice, the rich timbre and careful inflection making even his sleep-deprived musings on hash browns sound Shakespearean. Martin knew with perfect clarity then that even though he was standing inside the flat he had lived in for the past decade, his home was an ocean away stuck inside a dingy hotel, his only anchor was a voice travelling to him across the phone.

He reluctantly brought their aimless stream of conversation to a close after Jon had failed to stifle a yawn for the third time, making him promise to get at least a few hours of sleep before leaving for Washington D.C. the next morning.

“Good night, Jon,” he whispered, once more letting himself, just for a few seconds, imagine that he was right beside him on that hotel bed.

“Good ni- Ah, I mean, good morning to you, I suppose,” Jon said awkwardly, and Martin smiled again. “I- I’ll see you soon.”

Martin stared down at the phone in his hand for at least three minutes after the call disconnected, replaying Jon’s words inside his head and scrutinising them for hidden meanings. He hoped nothing would disturb Jon’s sleep. He hoped talking to Martin had granted him even a small fraction of the comfort it had given Martin. Was Jon also staring at his phone with a soft smile on his face this very moment, all the way across the Atlantic Ocean? Would he fall asleep cradling it close to his chest, would he dream of being wrapped in Martin’s arms? But no, that was absurd. Martin wasn’t in this for reciprocation, because he knew all too well how astronomical the odds of that were. If anyone was ever going to find him, rescue him from the labyrinth of his life, it was not going to be Jon, he had no illusions about that. What was the use of getting his hopes up? Of making up silly fantasies about his unattainable boss? Of course, what complicated matters slightly was that in recent times, his unattainable boss had also become the only person in the world he might truly call his friend, but that didn’t have to mean anything. He’d learned from experience it was best not to open his heart, lest it become irreversibly broken. Still, when he went to work that day, his steps felt much lighter, like an immense weight had been lifted from his shoulders, like he was walking on air.

Given that the majority of the following weeks was occupied with preparations to stop the end of the world, and given the deteriorating mental state of most of his colleagues, Martin felt a little guilty to admit that those weeks were among the happiest of his life. For once, he felt like an active participant in his own life, not just a silent bystander doomed to watch from the sidelines and never intervene. He had come up with a plan, and he had a crucial part to play in that plan, even if it was still closer to backstage work than the lead role.

He hadn’t seen all that much of Jon since the latter had returned from the States, busy as they both were with getting ready for the Unknowing, but the snatches of conversation they shared here and there made everything worth it, and made it clear that their relationship was moving towards… something. Martin wasn’t quite sure where it was heading, but he was excited to find out. On the night before Jon left with the others, Martin gave in to the impulse to hug him goodbye. Instead of immediately pulling away as Martin had feared, Jon melted into the embrace and let out a contented sigh, like he had secretly always wanted this and been too afraid to ask. Martin’s heart made a dangerous little leap in his chest. They lingered in the hug for what must have been a full minute at least, neither of them willing to let go, and when they parted at last, Jon brushed his fingers against Martin’s in a gesture too fleeting to comment on but too emphatic to be accidental. Martin felt the imprint of his touch all through his sleepless night, like a dull phantom pain where Jon’s hand should have been, where his slender fingers would fit perfectly in the gaps between Martin’s. Once Jon was back from Great Yarmouth, Martin vowed to himself, he would ask him out for… a drink, or something like that. Something wonderfully mundane, just a commonplace outing between two co-workers who might have some kind of feelings for one another. They’d go for a drink, maybe even dinner, and then they’d take it from there. One day at a time. Maybe Martin shouldn’t give up on the hope of being found just yet.

What a difference a single day could make.

How quickly everything could fall apart, shatter into a thousand jagged shards that could never again be assembled into an unbroken object.

How laughable to think he’d known loss before. He’d known a feeble imitation of the real thing at best, had only glimpsed its flickering shadow, while now he saw the true creature in the terrifying flesh. All his life, it turned out, he’d been walking with an invisible safety net beneath his feet, a thin protection that kept him from slipping through the cracks completely. Now, he knew what it was like to experience that net being ripped away from you. Every misstep might hurtle him into a vast abyss from which there was no escape.

There was no way to spin the tale that contained even a tiny grain of hope. No gentle lies to tell himself to make his situation bearable. The man he loved was comatose and would probably never wake up, his mother had always hated him, a colleague he had once called his friend had died in a brutal explosion, and the Lonely had taken over the Institute. At least that last point made sense, didn’t it? The Lonely had always been a part of him, running through his bloodstream and engrained in the marrow of his bones, even long before he had encountered any of the Fears. And right now, he was more alone than ever before.

When Martin decided to accept Peter Lukas’s offer, he didn’t do so because he wanted to be found. He wasn’t naïve, not anymore. He knew that the Lonely could never offer him a home, but at least it could give him a space where his solitude didn’t feel out of place. Where being lost was the natural state to be. Where his grief and anger and despair were dulled around the edges until they seemed almost merciful. It gave him a twisted sense of purpose, that what he’d viewed as a personal failing all his life could instead be his destiny, his true vocation. The Lonely told him no lies. Didn’t try to seduce him with beautiful, treacherous hope.

Maybe Jon waking from his coma should have changed things, but it just fuelled Martin’s determination to see this through to its bitter end. At least Jon had been safe inside that hospital room, even if it came at the cost of him being all-but-braindead. Now that he was awake and swanning around like nothing had happened, walking and talking and getting into unnecessary trouble, Martin was all too aware of everything that could hurt Jon out here, all the ways he might still lose him. But Peter had promised his protection, and while that was a doubtful assurance at best, right now it was the best chance Martin had. And if it required even more isolation of him, required him to lose himself more with every passing day, then what about it? Any sacrifice was a small price to pay if it meant keeping Jon safe. Martin could be Ariadne, handing Theseus the thread he needed to escape the labyrinth after slaying the minotaur, then being left behind on his own while his almost lover set sail for more promising waters. He was used to loneliness, after all; he excelled at it.

It would be much easier, however, if Jon could just accept that. If he took Martin’s withdrawal as proof of his devotion, not as a rejection. Instead he seemed hellbent on catching sight of Martin, with the help of his strange new powers, and roping him into a conversation, no matter how hard Martin tried to evade him. He asked about his poetry, offered his condolences for his mother’s death, told him he missed him, for Christ’s sake. All those things that Martin had dreamed of, that he had never thought possible, and now they were just sharp blades in his chest. It was like everything he had ever wanted was being dangled right in front of his nose, but he was drowning in the fear of losing it again, too weak to keep his head above the water. He couldn’t afford to let his guard down around Jon, much as he might long for it. It wasn’t safe. On each of the select few occasions that Jon had managed to hunt him down, there was an incandescent heat radiating off him, even with Martin keeping his distance as much as the narrow corridors would allow, like there was a furnace at his core. Like his whole body was made of light. Despite everything, part of Martin couldn’t help being drawn to the flame, circling around Jon like a poor, doomed moth. He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt warm, and he couldn’t just blame it on the glacial outside temperatures. The heating in his office had broken months ago, in tandem with the one in the flat he rarely returned to anymore, and he hadn’t bothered to try and get it fixed. Even his thickest jumpers failed to give him a modicum of warmth. If he tried to touch Jon, he wondered, if he just lightly brushed their fingers together like Jon had done the night before the Unknowing, would it burn his skin? Would it be worth the pain?

But he resisted the temptation to reach out to Jon. To let him in. It was for the best, he reasoned with himself. Martin was already much too far into the labyrinth to ever find the exit, but there was still hope for Jon, he had to believe that. One day, Jon would come to understand that as well. One day, he would realise how pointless it was to waste his energy on someone who had always been, and would always be, a lost cause. Maybe then he would stop seeking Martin out, and maybe then all this would stop hurting so goddamn much.

Time got funny, after a while. The days still passed – the bottom right hand corner of his computer screen displayed a different date each morning – but they had become insubstantial, intangible, impossible to hold onto. He would blink his eyes and hours, days, weeks would have gone by, and he had nothing to show for it, nothing to fill the great emptiness. It was a relief, in a way. If time passed him by, at least that meant he wouldn’t have to wait so long for… whatever it was he was waiting for. For this to be over, he supposed. For better or worse. Probably for worse.

There was a mug of tea sitting on his desk. One of the collection of Sports Direct mugs that had accumulated in the breakroom over time, not one he would have ever picked if he had the choice, though it had been a long time since he’d cared about things like that. Had he made it for himself? He must have, even though he had no memory of the act, because who else would make him tea these days? Who else had ever made him tea? Peter had supplied him with a spacious office that included its own kitchenette, freeing him of the necessity to enter the breakroom and risk running into people there. Most days went by without Martin exchanging a single word with another human being, barring the occasional visit from Peter. He was grateful for that, secretly, though he’d never express it to Peter. People were… difficult. Exhausting. Unpredictable. He couldn’t understand why he had ever bothered with them. Why he had run himself ragged in his futile, ridiculous mission to gain their approval, their affection. It was better to accept that he would never get it, and that he didn’t need it anyway. He didn’t need anyone.

He took a cautious sip of the tea and found it to be ice cold, bereft of even the faintest echo of warmth. Less like it had cooled down, and more like it had never been hot in the first place. He left the rest of it untouched.

Even now that winter had given way to spring and then to summer, temperatures rising and leaves sprouting on the trees without him taking notice of any of it, warmth still eluded him. On the rare occasions where he ventured outside, the heat of the sun didn’t seem to touch him, like his entire body was encased in a thick shroud of ice, impossible to melt or break through. He’d started to make his peace with that. The cold barely even bothered him anymore. Maybe warmth was simply a luxury he couldn’t afford anymore.

He'd almost forgotten what warmth felt like when Jon came bursting into his office after months had gone by without any kind of contact, his eyes alight with desperation and something dangerously close to hope, proposing his ridiculous, harebrained scheme like it had any chance of succeeding. Gouging out their eyes and running away together. Like the premise of a macabre romance novel. The heat waves emanating from him were even more intense than they had been before, and Martin was sure that if he came any closer, they would both be set on fire. Maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad outcome.

He kept expecting Jon to falter, or to reveal that the whole thing was just a cruel joke, but his voice was as sincere as the unguarded expression in his eyes, and Martin realised, with a jolt of horror, that he was completely serious. He truly believed that he’d found a way to escape the labyrinth, and while it would hurt like hell, it might all be worth it in the end. His steadfast faith was enough to break what was left of Martin’s heart.

He was so close to saying yes. To saying of course I’ll do it, Jon, of course I’ll come with you, I would follow you anywhere. To throwing over everything he had worked for in the past year and risking it all on a plan too ludicrous to possibly work out. Risking everything on the sheer hope of it all. But even if, against all odds, Jon’s plan was successful, even if they managed to escape the clutches of the Institute, Martin knew, deep down, that they still wouldn’t be able to find their way out of this maze. They would both be blindfolded in a very literal sense, stumbling around in the dark without ever finding each other, without ever finding where they were meant to be. More lost than ever before. No, they just weren’t the kind of people to have a romantic elopement that didn’t end in tragedy.

But Jon – bless him and damn him – was too stubborn, too caught-up in his foolhardy idea, to accept that unless he witnessed it for himself, and Martin couldn’t do that to him. So he opted for the fastest approach, which was also the cruellest. Keeping his voice as cold and level as possible, not letting the slightest hint of emotion shine through, he told Jon that he didn’t want this, not really, that his only reason for asking Martin was to have an excuse not to go through with it. It wasn’t the truth and they both knew it, but the harsher Martin was now, the more walls he built around himself, the sooner Jon would realise it was futile trying to save him. And that would make it easier for both of them, in the end.

The crestfallen expression on Jon’s face pierced right through some part of Martin that hadn’t calcified yet, that was still soft enough to hurt, but he swallowed down the pain like he swallowed down all other feelings these days. When the door fell shut behind Jon and Martin was left alone in the lifeless void of his office, he almost wished he still knew how to cry.

There are many ways to be lost. Martin used to think that he knew them all, had recorded every single one of them in the private collection of his memory. But nothing could have prepared him for what it’s like to be truly lost. To pass the point of no return. The surprising thing about it is that it doesn’t feel like being lost at all. Like most human experiences, after all, being lost is defined by its opposite, and in the absence of a concept of being found, it simply ceases to exist. Just like everything else. There is nothing here, save for the soft lapping of waves on some distant shore and the faint scent of sea salt in the air. Here, the very idea of being found is absurd, like some fairytale notion that only children believe in. All that remains is the firm knowledge that he will never find a way out, that there is no way out to be found, an ironclad certainty that is almost comforting in its lack of ambiguity.

As Martin wanders the icy shores of the Lonely, he knows deep in his bones that no one is coming to save him. When he was a child forced to take on responsibilities that most grown adults would struggle with, no one came for him. When he was trapped inside his flat for two full weeks while Jane Prentiss and her army of worms stood guard outside his front door, no one came for him. When everything he had ever loved had been taken from him in the span of two horrible months and he had no choice but to turn to the Eldritch manifestation of loneliness, no one, nobody, not a single living soul came for him. Why would anyone come to his rescue now?

But Jon does. Of course Jon does, because for all his Knowledge, he is still the same old fool who can’t see the obvious truth right before his eyes. As usual, the fierce heat radiating off him warms the frigid air around them, and as usual, Martin recoils from his warmth. He speaks to him, though, because he can’t quite stop himself from doing so, but only to tell him to leave. To finally, finally give up on him. His voice echoes, and sounds alien even in his own ears, like it doesn’t belong to him, like he isn’t really here. And maybe he isn’t. Maybe he’s just an echo himself, a fading ghost of the man he used to be.

“I really loved you, you know,” he says. The mournful past tense, grieving not what once was but what could have been. What was never meant to be.

Jon leaves in the end, but only to retreat deeper into the bowels of this unending labyrinth, not to find an escape as he should have. Maybe there isn’t an escape for him anyway. Maybe he knew full well when taking on this suicide mission that it could only end in tragedy. Once upon a time, Martin might have felt anger at that, or grief, or guilt, but all his emotions have turned dim and muted, blurred shapes glimpsed through a murky window, too distant to touch him. This place only has room for numbness, and he tries to tell himself it’s a mercy. What use have feelings ever been to him, after all? It’s best to exorcise them, to cast them out before they leave a lingering mark.

When Jon returns, he is drenched in blood and radiant with purpose. Martin can’t bring himself to mourn Peter Lukas, or to have any emotional response whatsoever to his death, which he supposes is what Peter would have wanted. He longs to disappear like he did before, to dissolve into thin air where even Jon’s all-seeing eyes cannot ferret him out, but he finds himself drawn to Jon again, and this time he’s powerless to resist the pull. Jon is the flame and Martin is the helpless moth, and he’s doomed to circle around his only source of light even as he knows it will be the death of him. Even as he knows that so much brightness will kill him.

“Look at me and tell me what you see,” Jon says, and the words sound like the very essence of Beholding, but they’re all Jon, the dread powers relegated to a distant afterthought. Jon wants Martin to look at him, to see him for what he truly is and not flinch, and Martin wants nothing more than to follow his order, but he’s so afraid. Scared that it would be like looking straight into the sun, that even one glimpse would burn his eyes forever.

Look at me and tell me what you see, echoes in Martin’s head. Isn’t it funny, how he believed his whole life that he would never be found, held on to that certainty so hard that he lost sight of himself? Perhaps there were always people willing to find him. Perhaps that was never really the issue. Perhaps he couldn’t be found until he found himself first. And the truth, as simple as it is earth-shattering, is that he is still here. Even as a mere shadow of who he once was, even as a paltry spectre of who he might have been, he is still here. And that has to count for something in the end. No matter how far he has strayed from the realm of the living, he can always find his way back to it. It’s not too late for him to find his way back to himself. And there’s nothing wrong with needing a little guidance along the way.

He looks at Jon, and Jon’s gaze finds his, and his gaze finds Jon’s, and the fog evaporates. For the first time in ages, maybe his entire life, he can see clearly.

“I see you, Jon,” he says in a voice free of echo. “I see you.”

Jon’s relieved smile melts the residual ice within Martin, and he takes his outstretched hand without fear of burning himself on Jon’s incandescent skin. It turns out to be the perfect temperature to warm his frozen fingers.

“Let’s go home,” Jon says, and Martin follows him without hesitation. It’s been so long since home was a place he could point to on a map, but now he knows it’s less about the coordinates and more about the connection. His true home, his magnetic north, is a warm hand pulling him out of his own misery towards the light.

There are many ways to be lost, and nowhere near as many ways to be found. Martin has learned that over the years, but he has also learned that other people can only find you once you have found yourself. Once your body doesn’t vanish into smoke at the slightest hint of intimacy. He has also learned that no matter how strenuous the way out of the labyrinth may be, it’s much easier to navigate alongside someone else.

There are many ways to be lost, which is to say there are many ways to be alone. But Martin Blackwood isn’t alone anymore.

[winterwolf0916]

Batboys with a Medium! S/O

Request: If you're still accepting Batfam requests; may I request Batboys having a medium S/O? It takes a toll on them if they witness things from horror movies A/N: Happy late spooky day. Also I apologize this is short. I felt really down today and I just felt so...sad for so many reasons. Anywho who cares... At the end of the day, there's a light at the end of the tunnel, right? Word Count: 1K

Dick

This man thought you were joking

A medium?

Fr?

Yeah he fought aliens, atlanteans-

He was raised well enough to know to never fuck with Amazons. He knows they’ll kick his ass but they adore him like a little baby

-people, crooks, animal like people, and a couple of other beings that are just questionable.

Yeah he remembers a lot of horror movies with those sorts 

Yeah he went against some “monsters” who actually turned out to be people like an episode of Scooby Doo.

But come on, ghosts?

Oh how he ate those words

He was only brushing his teeth in his apartment until he felt the room go cold and saw a woman with a half ripped face appearing in the mirror.

-Was that Dick screaming?-

You sighed and grabbed your items for communication since you’ve figured the apartment was haunted for like a good 2 weeks

Dick tried to stop you from ever entering the room

He should’ve listened to you but nooooo

His jaw dropped when he barged in the bathroom to find you and the lady giggling.

Turns out she thought her relatives still lived here and she wanted to give them a scare

Woops

After that night he believed you and promised to never make fun of the paranormal ever again

You help him so much on patrols

You get visions of the future and warn him about secret plans from every single villain

“Aha! It seems like you have fallen for-why is my henchman in my trap?” 

-Cue Penguin hanging off of a building and police cars surrounding him-

On a special day, it was Dick’s birthday

You woke him up before the sun was out and pulled him to the couch

He was confused before you held his hands and told him to close his eyes before-

Oh…

He sees his parents

He also communicated with them by your help

After a few hours, he was awakened from the couch and you gave a sheepish smile.

“Happy birthday.” 

Jason

“Am...Am I a ghost or a zombie to you?”

He was teasing of course. 

He died ok?

So of course he believes in the paranormal but he wouldn’t think they would do so much harm.

Until one night...

You pleaded him not to go out for patrol

Since earlier in the day you got a vision predicting how the night will go for Jason

He’s can’t miss patrol for the night he said

No reason to be scared of that warehouse he said

He’ll be alright, he said…

Please say sike right now 

As soon as he returned home, he was so shaken up.

Jason has always been so tough on the outside but this…

His walls were cracked open to the point where you could sense his dangerous aurora broken apart.

You were pretty angry at the spirits of what they did to your boyfriend 

He was trying his best not to act afraid in front of you and flinch by your touch

As he was fast asleep and you cleared away the bad dreams, you left to the warehouse and spoke with the spirits

Turns out those bastards were having a blast reminding him of the terrible trauma.

Oh was that how they felt?

You cracked your knuckles and gave those suckers a hell of vanishing.

How bad?

You caused a slight earthquake at Gotham Harbor giving those assholes thousands of punishments in various painful ways

Not a single soul decides to mess with Jason because of what happened that night

Like Dick, you and Jason would meditate so he could talk to his parents or his old friends.

He now believes you.

Tim

Ghosts?

Spirits???

Supernatural??????

This man sometimes uses tactics to keep himself awake at night

Watching horror movies was one of them

It was a semi for believing

He would sometimes be paranoid for certain things

Like someone watching him

Then after he confessed of his paranoia, it was strange that he never encountered that feeling again.

-You scared off a spirit that has been haunting him for the past month-

You would remind him where his items are before he could even ask or notice they were missing

“You left your jacket at the library.” “Your keys are on the counter hon.” 

Or “Babe have you seen my-” You pointed at the closet while going on your phone.

There are times when Tim have to leave for patrol after countless of all nighters

Which is something ludicrous and dangerous because one slip up could cost his life.

And you being you, would sometimes expose who was the one holding masacres or the location of the criminal to Bruce.

Or ask a friendly spirit of yours to haunt a crook for a short while so Tim would get some sleep instead of leaving for the night and haven't slept for a solid five days

Making sure he doesn’t get nightmares

You would give him calming dreams and making sure he has enough energy when he wakes up.

-You debating with Tim that tea was better than coffee-

Him asking odd questions.

“Is mothman real?” “Huh?” “Yeah, you’re right that’s too extreme… How about werewolves?”

He’s too cute

Damian

PFFT

In the beginning he thought you were pranking him but he slowly starts to believe you

Like-

“Beloved I told you I can’t-”

“Careful, you’re going to hit your face.”

“Wha-” the door slammed right on his face with full speed.

-Jason died that day-

Another time was when you were meditating while he was having trouble training

You helped him by asking a few favors from the spirits and the next day, his arm was better.

You were like Oracle to Damian during his missions. 

And his missions were pretty fast because of your visions

When one of his pets died, he felt so down for months.

So you did everything in your power to help him communicate with this deceased pet.

He felt better

Whenever your visions get intense and you start to get dizzy, he’ll always catch you when you go unconscious or fall back

You and Damian meditating together

Comforting him when he has nightmares and clearing them away

Damian pranking on Jon by using your tools for communication

When the Superson entered his room, there was a faint scream and sounds of furniture crashing. 

Damian was cackling as Jon came back to the living room and his face was pale

Boy, you were angry

You gave Damian a taste of his own medicine for a good 2 days before he asked -begged- for you to stop.

“Now you see how Jon feels.” “There’s a difference. I remained strong for 2 days while he couldn’t last five minutes.” “Ok then, I guess I could ask Benny to for a visit-” “L/n, put the Ouija Board down.”

[dontbipanicjonsa]

The Unkiss

TW: discussion of sexual assault

The purpose of this post is to explore how and why the Unkiss came to be, and speculate (poorly) on what purpose it may serve in the future. Read under the cut  (thanks @esther-dot )

So, I’m going to tell everyone right away that I’m not a very big fan of the pre-existing theories surrounding the Unkiss. Specifically, I tend to disagree with the “how”. This is partly because I think all the explanations offered are too Freudian (*shudder*) and partly because I’ve had a similar instance myself so I tend to project (sue me). 

THE HOW

First, let’s look at the pre-existing theories: 

The Unkiss is actually a sexual fantasy that Sansa has confused with the real events that happened (exactly what Freud would say. Creepy fuck.)

Sansa invented the Unkiss to romanticize an otherwise traumatic event so she could cope with it better. 

Is there any other theory I’m missing? These are the ones I know. 

I’m going to jump straight to the second theory. The issue (for me) in this theory is that it sort of assumes that Sansa herself would consider that kiss “romantic” or that it would somehow help her cope the BoB night.

He yanked her closer, and for a moment she thought he meant to kiss her. He was too strong to fight. She closed her eyes, wanting it to be over, but nothing happened. - Sansa VII ACOK

This is the moment. She is expecting a kiss, but wanting it to be over. It’s very clear that the kiss would have been non-con. More importantly, it looks like Sansa herself would consider the kiss non-con. 

Why on earth would Sansa invent a kiss she didn’t want in the first place to make coping with an already traumatic event easier? 

He kissed me and threatened to kill me, and made me sing him a song. - Sansa II ASOS

This is the first time we are introduced to the Unkiss, and it shows that Sansa’s memory of that night is perfectly intact. The Unkiss is an addition. It isn’t replacing any other, more traumatic memory (like the threat to her life). 

Now this is what I think happened:

Her emotions were running high that night, and her mind muddled up real events with the memory of that mounting (practically tangible) terror. 

Yeah, it’s that simple. You know how you get really angry in a fight and then later you can’t recall the exact the words? Memory is unreliable. There are plenty of studies to show the varied effects trauma has on memory. There are plenty of studies to show how easily memory can distort. There doesn’t need to be a great, complex reason for Sansa to misremember a traumatic event. Also remember that Sansa may not be entirely sober for this encounter, since Cersei did make her chug that wine before. 

Being stuck in a situation where you’re terrified and anticipating some sort of assault any second? Having a single moment where the emotions peak, where you’re sure the assault is going to happen right that moment? Misremembering if the assault did or didn’t happen later? Yup. Been there, done that. I still don’t remember what happened, and it’s been years. I sure as fuck wasn’t romanticizing shit, so it never occurred to me to think that Sansa might be. So when I heard the theories I went back to her chapters and honestly, I don’t think she is either. Not yet.  

Then this happened:

She could still remember how it felt, when his cruel mouth pressed down on her own. He had come to Sansa in the darkness as green fire filled the sky. He took a song and a kiss, and left me nothing but a bloody cloak. - Alayne II AFFC

Now this is Sansa romanticizing the Unkiss. She romanticizes the kiss she remembers. That does not mean she invented the kiss to romanticize the BoB, it only means she remembers a non-con kiss from a traumatic night and chose to romanticize it to cope. See the difference? 

The kiss isn’t a way for her to romanticize her trauma to cope, she romanticizes the kiss that was a result of her trauma- to cope. 

I won’t be so sure of this theory though, because (no offense) but GRRM does seem like the kind of guy who would read Freud and incorporate his ideas in his story. There’s already a shit load of incest and let’s admit it, Sansa canonically has daddy issues. How far or in-depth did GRRM think about the “how” of the Unkiss? We don’t know. 

THE WHY

Well, this one has been explained by GRRM himself:

You will see, in A STORM OF SWORDS and later volumes, that Sansa remembers the Hound kissing her the night he came to her bedroom... but if you look at the scene, he never does. That will eventually mean something, but just now it's a subtle touch, something most of the readers may not even pick up on. - GRRM 

He also said:

File this one under "unreliable narrator" and feel free to ponder its meaning...- GRRM 

So, it’s safe to say that the Unkiss is basically being used to establish that Sansa has an unreliable memory. Of course, other characters probably have unreliable memory too (for example: Arya misremembering the name of Joffrey’s sword) but this is still most likely about Sansa. 

Sansa has always been considered an unreliable narrator by the GA anyway, since so much of her narration in the first book was at odds with the narration of Ned and Arya, who were both fan favourites at the time. This should probably indicate to the readers that the other characters are unreliable narrators as well, but it doesn’t. People carry on reading simply assuming that only Sansa’s POV is unreliable, or at least the most unreliable. So using Sansa’s POV to lay the groundwork for memory issues in someone else’s POV is...not gonna work. 

This doesn’t necessarily prove that the pay-off of the Unkiss is going to come from Sansa’s POV only, but it makes it seem likely. So I’m going to restrict myself to looking at the possibilities of misremembering stuff from Sansa’s POV. 

One more thing we need to look at before we start looking at future possibilities:

"It's not the same," Sansa said. "The Hound is Joffrey's sworn shield. Your butcher's boy attacked the prince." - Sansa III AGOT

On the surface, this looks like another memory edit. The situation is remarkably similar; it was a traumatic event for Sansa, she was not entirely sober when it happened, and now she is misremembering what happened. We know that Mycah did not attack Joffrey, Joffrey attacked Mycah. However, it’s not quite the same. For one, we don’t actually know if Sansa believes that, or if she’s just trying to be contrary to Arya. 

Also- 

"Sansa, come here." Ned had heard her version of the story the night Arya had vanished. He knew the truth. "Tell us what happened." - Eddard III AGOT

Sansa had told Ned what happened. But then she said-

She blinked at her sister, then at the young prince. "I don't know," she said tearfully, looking as though she wanted to bolt. "I don't remember. Everything happened so fast, I didn't see …"- Eddard III AGOT 

So.......is she lying or did her memory actually get fuzzy afterwards? What exactly did she tell Ned? Considering that he’s the one who asks her to “testify”, I’d assume she told things as they really happened (as in Joffrey attacked Mycah). Did her memory of the events slowly fade...and then reverse (as in Mycah attacked Joffrey)? Or is she just taking the neutral stance here, and later the opposing stance (Joffrey’s side) in her fight with Arya? We don’t know. 

PURPOSE IT MAY SERVE GOING FORWARD

First, let’s assume that the Trident accident really does count as a memory edit. This would mean that Sansa has edited her memory twice now, which makes it very likely that a third memory edit is coming. There are two directions this can go-

The third memory edit has already happened pre-canon (so technically it would be the first edit)

The third memory edit is going to happen sometime in the next two books.

Warning: this is where I get back on my Jonsa bullshit. Turn back now if you don’t wanna watch me make everything about Jonsa.

Pre-canon Jonsa crush 

If the first option is true, and Sansa has already edited her memory once that we don’t yet know about, then a pre-canon crush/moment between her and Jon is...a pretty strong possibility. 

I’ll admit, I’m very very skeptical of the pre-canon crush, simply because I think there isn’t enough evidence or foreshadowing for it. On the other hand, the groundwork has already been laid, if GRRM were to go in this direction..it would be believable. Shocking, but believable. 

We have numerous mentions of kissing games in the godswoods. We have a pre-canon conversation between Sansa and Jon about How To Hit On Ladies. And much more. The possibility is there. 

Sansa having a crush on Jon and being so traumatized she replaced Jon with Waymar Royce?? Sansa getting tipsy on watered down wine and giving Jon a blue rose-

There are other possibilities though, for example, a fight between Sansa and her father and/or Arya that she’s not remembering correctly. It would explain her daddy issues (even more) and work to create conflict between her and Arya (why though). But I don’t THINK there’s any evidence for that..? I don’t know I’m just throwing out ideas.

Moving on to the second option- a third memory edit to come

These memory edits are not likely to be nearly as innocent. 

One possibility I’ve heard about is Sansa forgetting her identity and sinking into Alayne. No. Very Unlikely. Sansa’s Stark identity appears to be going strong even in the TWOW preview chapter.

Second possibility- Sansa memory edits Lysa’s death. 

She was mad and dangerous. She murdered her own lord husband, and would have murdered me if Petyr had not come along to save me.- Alayne I AFFC 

It’s...possible? But it looks like she does remember what Lysa said and how she died. She’s just suppressing/dismissing the parts that implicate Littlefinger, which is not the same as a memory edit, where the memory is changed somehow. 

More possibilities- Littlefinger will do something and that will lead to a memory edit. She’ll flee from the Vale and run into Ramsay (I dearly hope not) and bam trauma -> memory edit. The possibilities are pretty much endless. 

Now let’s assume that the incident on the Trident was not a memory edit. This means she’s only had one memory edit yet....in which case the pay-off is probably something kiss-related, or it is something she remembers, but which didn’t really happen. A pre-canon kiss, or some serious Freudian shit that I’ve been trying desperately to avoid, a Sansa-Sandor faceoff....yea I’m not actually good at speculation.

[magalidragon]

Romantic one-liners

“However many years we have left, I want to spend them all with you.”

Can it be some fluffy angst? 🥺😁

Sooo when I saw this quote I IMMEDIATELY thought of leap of faith universe. 🥺🤭 This is angsty fluff/fluffy angst in the only way I know how....with a happy ending! Enjoy! (?)

(Oh this has a TW for cancer)

Romantic One Liner Prompts

When his mother died, he'd been too young to be in hospital rooms with her for longer than a few moments at a time, the doctors afraid that he'd be bringing in all the germs and general dirtiness that followed around a preteen boy. It had been relatively quick; she fell off her horse and broke her neck and after a few days on a ventilator, his uncle made the sad decision to turn it off, with the knowledge that her organs would go on to help others. It was what Lyanna would have wanted.

All he remembered was entering the room a couple of times, the last time kissing her forehead, whispering he loved her and would miss her, and then being ushered out by his Uncle Benjen. The woman lying there with all the machines and tubes was not his mother, so it was easier for him to process. He'd kissed her goodbye when he had been on the way to school, surrounded by her earthy scent from spending her waking hours with horses in the stable, and the faintest sweetness of winter roses.

Any other time in the hospital as a patient, he had blocked it out, because he hated it so much, but there was one thing he oculd never get rid of when he walked through the doors nad it was that antiseptic coldness. It gave him a headache, forced him back to those days saying goodbye to his mother, to his uncle Ned after his heart attack, and then when he'd been there after his accident, his discharge from the military already stamped the moment he'd coded on the trauma room table Beyond the Wall.

Now, he was not here as a patient or as a visitor, but as a supportive partner. That antiseptic smell was still there, the room cold and sterile, and he maintained his composure, because he had to be strong. He couldn't afford to succumb to his own fears about why they were there or his spiraling thoughts of doom and gloom.

The papery gown crinkled under his light touch, his hand running up and down her cold arm, comforting her as best as he could. He didn't say "it will be fine" because they didn't know if it would be fine. He studied her blank expression, her lavender eyes sunken, dull shadows under them. It had been a long time since he'd seen those shadows.

They'd only been married a year, he thought, glancing at his silver wedding band. He leaned on the edge of the exam table, his arm wrapping around her shoulder, bringing her head to his shoulder. She rested it there, eyelids fluttering closed, her tiny body sagging against his, exhausted.

"What if it's back?" she whispered.

"Then it is back and we deal with it."

She nodded, turning her face into his chest, her hand clutching his shirt. He covered it with his, lifting to kiss her knuckles. "You didn't go through it the first time with me," she murmured. Her eyes clenched shut, tears trickling down her cheeks, wetting his hand when he tilted her chin up so he could gaze down a ther. She sniffed. "I was so sick, Jon. I thought the cure would kill me."

He cocked his head, knowing that all to well form his own accident recovery. "You have me now," he said. They'd talked about this, breifly, when she'd been having the headaches again, when he found her on the floor of their bedroom, sick to her stomach, too dizzy to stand, the pain blinding. She'd called her doctor immediately, scheduled an appointment.

They were waiting on rush lab results now, to determine if she would go down the hallway to get a brain scan. He brushed a lock of her hair behind her ear, tucking the long strands back over her shoulder. It had grown out since he'd met her, tumbling beautiful over her shoulders, like a silver waterfall.

The motion had her tears falling faster, but she remained silent. "I don't want to shave my head again," she mumbled. "It's stupid, but...I don't want to have to do that again."

"Dany we don't know yet if..." If it's back, he didn't say, the words stuck in his throat. He took a deep breath and moved his arms from her, placing them on her cheeks, her face tilted to his. He wasn't very good with words, he hoped he could explain this to her. "I love you, Daenerys, and I have loved you since the moment you walked into my life and jumped out of a plane with me." He dragged his thumbs over her cheekbones, her forehead furrowed. The motion drew his attention briefly to the thin silver scar that he could see in a part in her hair, from the first surgery she had.

He took a deep breath, his heart hammering into his ribs, swallowing down that fear that he'd almost lost her, but he didn't, because he had her now. And he would have her forever too, she wans't going anywhere. "Dany whatever those results show, I am here with you, forever. For a thousand years and more, like we promised each other before the heart tree and however many years we have left, I want to spend them all with you."

She hiccupped, her hands wrapping around his wrists, smile wavering. "I love you too. So much...but it's a lot..."

"You're my wife," he breathed. He grinned. "My dragon, my partner, and whatever happens I'm here. I'm with you Dany."

She nodded quickly, eyes closing again as he brushed feather kisses over her cheeks, kissing away the tears. Her arms snaked around him, holding tight, and she released a long, shaky breath, mumbling, "I am so lucky I found you."

Me too, he thought, eyes screwed shut, squeezing her close. He had made his peace with the idea that if it was back, he was going to be there for her in everything. It would be better, he thought, because he was here for her. Last time she had been alone. Sure, she had her brothers-- one of whom was an esteemed doctor himself-- along with Missandei, but this was different.

They remained in each other's arms for a long time, until the door opened, her oncologist entering, Dr. Mel a tower of crimson hair and odd robe-like dress with her medical coat. "Good afternoon," she drawled, her accent unique and entracing. She turned her blue eyes to them, smiling serenely. "Daenerys, how lovely, you have found your promised prince."

Dany laughed, wiping her eyes with the heel of her palm. "Um, yes, I suppose I have."

"Lovely. I reviewed your blood tests and I am pleased to tell you upon first look I do not see indicators of a cancer resurgence, however I will do a CT scan to confirm. That being said, there was an anomaly in your bloodwork." Mel smiled again, unblinking, her head cocked. "One I suspect you will be pleased with."

Pleased? Jon barely registered that, because all he heard was Dany's relieved sob, her hand clutching his, her other going to cover her mouth. "Oh! Oh thank you Mel! There's nothing?" She frowned, realizing there was more. "Wait...what...pleased? I don't understand."

Jon didn't either, an arm around her shoulder now, his hand so tight in hers he wondered which one might break the other's first. "Whatever it is," he began, but didn't finished, because Mel spoke over him.

"You're pregnant."

His heart stopped beating, before it lurched into his throat, strangling any sound he might have made. In his arms, Dany cried out, shocked, her hands over her mouth. She dropped them after a second, whispering, incredulous: "Pregnant?"

"Hmm, indeed. I suspect your migraines were the result of fluctuating hormones, the dizziness and the nausea were morning sickness that perhaps carried out throughout the day." She squinted. "Are you still jumping out of planes? That might also have something to do with it, you're dehydrated again."

"But I..." she stuttered, while he was also at a loss for words. She pressed her palm over her belly, breathing. "I wasn't supposed to be able to...after the chemo and...and the radiation..."

"This is a miracle from the Lord of Light," Mel cooed.

Jon thought it more a miracle from his Old Gods, but as Dany believed in neither the Fire God of Mel or the Old Gods of his forest, he said nothing. He wasn't sure how he felt, the knowledge that they were having a baby...he met her gaze, the joy within her formerly sad eyes. "A baby," he whispered.

"A baby," she laughed, beginning to sob, arms clutching him. "I didn't think it was possible!"

"I'll give you both a moment," Mel said, turning and leaving them, door closing quietly behind her.

In his arms, Dany cried, relief and exhaustion and happiness at once. He scrubbed his palm over his face, dropping it to her back, rubbing lightly. She pulled back and lifted up her gown, peering at her flat stomach. "Hello in there," she called, lightly touching her fingertips to her hipbone. "It's Mummy and Papa."

He lightly pressed his hand over hers, touching her belly, and smiled, unable to stop. It was frozen to his face, the dopey grin. "It still stands," he said, a moment later, after they had quietly reflected, fingers joined over her stomach.

"What?"

"However long in this life we have, whether it's just a year or for a thousand of them, I want to spen dit with you." He brushed his lips over her brow, embracin gher, amending it slightly. "With you both."

Dany nodded, touching her fingertips to his cheek. "Me too." She laughed, glancing down at her tote bag. After a second, she climbed from the bed and went to it, pulling out her battered notebook. She flicked to her list, which was all checked off and removed the pen, making a notation at the bottom.

When she left with Mel to go get a CT scan, just to double check, he took a quick look at the note she'd made.

Have a baby dragon.

He picked up the pen and made a simple edit, before folding the book back up and returning it to her tote.

Have Hatch baby dragon dragons.

[astradrifting]

Okay, okay, okay. I got one for you. Don’t kill me, it’s hard. How do you anticipate Jon’s character and personality to be changed after death/being comatose?

I’m kinda fond of the idea of feral Jon for immediately after his resurrection, boyo has been very repressed for a long time so maybe this will be a chance to release some pent-up aggression :P

Maybe feral is the wrong word though, because I don’t think Ghost is that feral himself, but for a while he’ll probably be more animalistic and share Ghost’s instincts, like the ADWD prologue indicated happens to wargs. Bonus points if he’s still a little wild when he and Sansa meets again, and we get those explicit Beauty and the Beast parallels 👌🏼

I’m hopeful that his core character won’t change too much though. I’ve seen some theories that he’ll be completely different after coming back, probably more violent and ruthless a la Lady Stoneheart (which will conveniently match d*ny’s incoming commitment to fire and blood). He’ll definitely be darker, as GRRM has said you can’t just expect a character to come back from the dead and be better off for it, but I think it’d be poor writing to spend 5 books getting us invested in a character only to then completely change up his characterisation, not even in a character development way but a complete personality transplant. Warging into Ghost hopefully would preserve more of himself than Catelyn and Beric’s methods of resurrection, but the massive trauma they experienced was also compounded by the fact that they were surrounded by people just as broken as they had become (the same people, actually, the Brotherhood without Banners is a very sad story) who can’t help them remember themselves and just end up facilitating their obsessions. Hopefully Jon will be different in that soon after his resurrection he’ll have people around him to help him heal from the trauma *cough* girl in grey Sansa *cough*. It’s not her job to fix him but helping him come back to himself would be greatly appreciated :)

[damianwaynerocks]

Zuko & The Waynes

tag list: @bi-fr0000g​

batfam x avatar crossover

PT 1

Description: Prince Zuko has just seen a light; the Avatar has returned. He was just about to go capture him, when he falls through a portal, and lands in Gotham City. He’s angry. He was just about to regain his honor, to regain his father’s love. After he is adopted by Bruce Wayne and becomes Zuko Wayne, the second youngest child, Zuko starts to have second thoughts about regaining his honor. Living as Zuko Wayne makes him think that maybe, just maybe, he’s deserving of love just the way he is. 

This started out as an incorrect quote, but then I loved the idea of Zuko having his Book 3 realization through becoming a member of the bat family, so I did. Also, there will 110% be a part 2.

this takes place in episode 1. like the beginning. he hasn’t even seen aang yet.

-

Fire Navy Ship, Near the South Pole, Earth 24

The story of Zuko Wayne begins with a bright light over an icy sea.

A bright light rocketed into the sky, parting the clouds. A boy with his left eye horribly scarred in a military uniform on a Fire Navy ship, his black ponytail fluttering in the wind, gripped the railing of the ship as he watched the light.

"Finally!" Prince Zuko yelled, whirling around to face a smaller man in a similar uniform who was playing some sort of board game at a small table, "Uncle, do you realize what this means!?"

Iroh, Zuko's uncle, looked up at his nephew with a calm expression, a game piece in his outstretched hand. "I won't get to finish my game?"

Zuko rolled his eyes and he turned back around, staring at the space where the light had been. "It means my search is about to come to an end." At his uncle's disinterested sigh, Zuko turned around again, gesturing behind him. "That light came from an incredibly powerful source! It has to be him!"

"Or it's just the celestial lights. We've been down this road before, Zuko," Iroh said, placing the game piece back on the board before looking back up at the prince. "Please, sit. Why don't you enjoy a cup of calming Jasmine tea?"

"I don't need any calming tea!" Zuko snarled, "I need to catch the Avatar-" he broke off to shield his face with his arms from the sudden wind.

A small purple tornado was in between Zuko and Iroh, pulsating with a strange light. It started to flatten into a portal, moving towards Zuko.

"Zuko, Move!" Iroh cried, lunging to grab his nephew out of the portal's way, but his cries never made it to Zuko's ears as the prince fell into the swirling vortex.

-

Crime Alley, Gotham City, Earth 2

"Oomph," Zuko grunted as he landed on a hard concrete surface. He sat up slowly, resting his hand on his forehead, dizzy. He blinked several times, trying to take in his bizarre surroundings.

A carriage-looking device was rolling through the street, no animals pulling it.

There were poles on either side of the street with lights shining out of them, lights that weren't coming from lanterns.

However, the most bizarre thing he could see was the man dressed similarly to a wolfbat in front of him.

Zuko scrambled to his feet, igniting a fire in front of his fist threateningly. "Stay back!" he snarled.

The man said nothing, looking at him closely. Zuko's skin was crawling; there was something unsettling about this man- or at least, he thought it was a man.

After thirty seconds of only the sound of Zuko's heavy breathing, the man spoke. "What's your name?" he said in a deep, gravely voice.

Zuko tightened his fists. "I am Prince Zuko of the Fire Nation," he said, "Now tell me; where am I!?"

"Gotham City," the hulking man replied.

Zuko swallowed. His father had made sure that Zuko knew the name of every city in the world.

He'd never heard of Gotham City.

"You've never heard of it." The man's words were more of a statement than a question. "Well, I've never heard of the Fire Nation. It doesn't exist."

"What are you talking about!?" Zuko was struggling to keep his voice even at this point. "The Fire Nation is the most dominating force in the world!"

"Not in this world, it isn't," the man growled.

"What do you mean 'this world!?'"

"You fell through a portal, you claim to be a prince although there is no record of a prince named Zuko ever existing, and there is no such thing as the Fire Nation," the man listed, "It's clear you aren't from this world."

Zuko's eyes flew open as his breathing became heavier. A different world? That wasn't possible. The fire in front of his hand fizzled out as he gripped the sides of his head.

The man was silent, before; "Come with me."

Zuko, too mind-boggled to argue, followed the man robotically to one of the carriages. The man opened the door for him, and Zuko stepped in. He didn't register anything else until he heard another man speak.

"Batman," an elderly man on a holographic screen was saying, "How was your night?"

"Alfred," Batman grumbled, "Prepare a room. I'm bringing someone."

"Would this 'someone' happen to be another child?"

"Yes," Batman replied. The man sighed.

"Of course I will prepare him a room, but Batman, you really need to get a hobby other than collecting children," the elderly man said before the screen disappeared.

"H-How did you do that!?" Zuko asked, dumbstruck, "How did you speak to that man!? He isn't in this carriage!"

"Car," Batman corrected him, "And it's video chat. I'm assuming technology was not as advanced in the Fire Nation?"

"We had war balloons," Zuko defended with a sniff. He looked out the window at the surroundings zooming behind them. "How are we moving so fast?"

"Five cylinder engine."

"That makes no sense."

"It will, once you've been here a while."

"What are you talking about!?" Zuko said with a start, "I need to go home!"

"That portal," Batman said, turning to look at him, "has been a problem for the past three years. It only opens annually. We'll try to get you back, but you'll probably have to wait until next summer."

"Next summer," Zuko repeated. His eyes narrowed. "That's unacceptable! I just found the Avatar, I need to capture him so I can regain my honor!"

Batman said nothing. Another screen appeared, the words 'call from Nightwing' displayed. At Batman's word of approval, a man with black hair and a domino mask appeared on the screen.

"Batman!" Nightwing yelled with a wide smile, "I hear I'm getting a little brother! Who is he?"

"Someone who came from Ziphran's Portal," Batman replied. Nightwing whistled lowly.

"Ooh, a dimension hopper! Like Jon! They can bond- no Damian this does not mean he won't be your friend anym- Damian put down your utility belt you are not hurting your new brother."

"I'd like to see him try," Zuko snorted.

From off-screen, Zuko heard someone screech, "Was that a fucking challenge?!" before Nightwing turned around, scolding whoever it was for using that kind of language. The video feed cut out as they pulled up to a waterfall.

Batman drove the car through it, entering a cave. Zuko's eyes widened. There were machines everywhere. More high-tech than Zuko could have ever imagined.

Batman stopped on a circular platform, and the doors opened. Zuko stepped out, looking around at the room. His gaze landed on three people.

One was Nightwing, the other a boy in a red and green outfit who looked to be about thirteen, and another boy around Zuko's age in a red outfit. All were wearing masks.

"This is Zuko," Batman introduced, putting a hand on Zuko's shoulder, who quickly ripped it off. "He's a prince from a place called the Fire Nation."

The boy in red laughed. "Prince? Aww, poor Robin isn't the only prince anymor-" he was cut off as the youngest punched him in the stomach.

"So, are we adopting him?" Nightwing asked excitedly, looking Zuko up and down. Zuko stepped back nervously, not used to someone being so happy at the thought of spending time with him.

Batman didn't answer, instead looking down at Zuko. "How did you get your scar?" he asked.

Zuko almost didn't respond, but the glare Batman was giving him was too much. "I spoke out of turn and told my father that we shouldn't purposely kill our troops," he spluttered, "And so he challenged me to an Agni Kai, and when I refused to fight him, he lit my face on fire."

"Ope, he's got trauma!" the boy in red yelled from where he was seated at a chair, "And black hair! He meets all the qualifications for adoption!"

"No!" Zuko snapped, glaring at the boy, "I can't stay here! I have to capture the Avatar so I can regain my honor!"

The boy laughed again. "Okay, Edgelord, chill. You'll be able to go back in a year."

"He will be staying here," Batman said before Zuko could verbally assault the boy, "Because he's from another world, we can't put him on the streets."

"So, we should introduce ourselves!" Nightwing suggested. He took off his mask. "I'm Dick Grayson," he pointed at the boy in red, "That's Tim Drake," he pointed at Robin, "And that's Damian Wayne. There's also Jason Todd, Cassandra Cain, Duke Thomas, Stephanie Brown and Barbara Gordon."

Damian rolled his eyes. "Father did not adopt Brown or Gordon."

"Maybe not legally, but emotionally? Waynes." Dick turned back to Zuko, "We usually aren't all here together, but my apartment in Bludhaven got bombed and Tim got sick of his neighbors, so we're here until we find a new place. Jason's coming in a couple days to see Alfred, and he's supposed to start coming to breakfast once a week."

At that moment, two girls walked down the stairs. One had blonde hair, the other black hair. The blonde one smiled. "Ooh! Bruce, you got a new one!" she did a flip off of the stairs, landing in front of Zuko. "My name's Stephanie! I'm excited to get to know you!"

Zuko glared at her. "You won't have the chance to get to know me. I'm leaving so I can capture the Avatar. I need to regain my honor!"

Stephanie scrunched her nose as she took in Zuko's hair. "The only thing you need is a hair cut."

"On it," the other girl- Cassandra -said, before taking out a throwing star from her pocket and hurling it at Zuko, slicing his ponytail clean off. Zuko's jaw dropped as he watched it fall to the ground.

"No!" he yelled, "My top knot was the only thing distinguishing me as a member of the royal family!"

"Oof," Stephanie winced, "Sorry, dude, but it's ugly."

"On that note," the elderly man from the call- Alfred -said from the top of the stairs, "I think it's time Master Zuko get some rest. He's had a long day."

As Alfred spoke, Zuko realized that he was, indeed, dead on his feet. Maybe it was lack of sleep, maybe it was the fact that he didn't have anywhere else to go, or maybe it was Dick's bright smile, but Zuko felt that he would be safe at this place. He nodded, trudging his way up the stairs.

Alfred led him to a room on the third floor, and turned on the light. Zuko scrunched his eyebrows in surprise.

"How did you do that!? You just flipped that switch and that lantern lit!"

"It's a lightbulb, Master Zuko," Alfred explained, "I take it your world didn't have electricity? Here, almost everything is automatic, made to make activities easier. I'm sure you'll grow to enjoy them. Take a shower while I get you some of Master Timothy's clothes to wear to sleep."

"Shower?" Zuko asked.

"Yes, it's like a bath but the water falls on you." Alfred led him to a smaller room in his bedroom. "Here, I'll show you."

As Zuko stepped into the shower, his mind was reeling. A shower was warm rain solely used for washing. Cars were carriages with no animals to pull them that traveled ten times as fast. He was in another world, away from everything he'd ever known.

Away from Uncle Iroh.

Zuko sighed, stepping out of the shower, grabbing a towel to dry off with. He opened the door of the bathroom, and saw clothes on the bed. Putting them on, he noticed how strange they were.

They weren't robes. It was a plain red shirt and the comfiest pair of pants he'd ever been in. It was the comfiest outfit he'd ever been in, really.

But it wasn't Fire Nation apparel. Alfred must have taken his military uniform to wash it. His ponytail gone, Zuko had nothing to remind him of home.

As he laid his head on the pillow, one last thought fluttered through his brain: I'm completely alone.

-

The next two days consisted of Zuko staying either in his room or wandering around the manor, trying to learn the layout. Alfred would bring him meals three times a day, but other than that, he left him alone. He was starting to relax. If these people were going to hurt him, they would have by now.

On his fourth day, Zuko was in the library, when he overheard Damian complain that he had nobody to practice broadsword with.

"I'm good with those," Zuko said. Dick and Damian looked up from the corner where'd they been.

"Finally, someone who is willing," Damian replied, "Come, Zuko, let's go."

_

Damian and Zuko were circling each other, each holding blunted broadswords. Dick was watching from the sidelines, smiling.

Zuko struck first, spinning around and using the momentum to drive his sword into Damian's side, who did a backflip to dodge.

Damian rushed forward, slashing downward at Zuko's head. The latter quickly brought up both swords, blocking Damian's attack.

They were evenly matched, the 'princes' were. The fight went on for an hour, neither landing a hit on the other.

A 21 year old man with black hair came in 30 minutes in, cheered Zuko on, yelled that his name was Jason, and at the 45 minute mark began texting on his phone.

Finally, the two called a truce, both drenched in sweat. Zuko turned to Jason and Dick.

Dick was smiling widely at him, and Zuko was shocked at the effect it had on him. The smile made him feel like he was the only person in the room.

Zuko nodded at Dick, before turning to Jason. "What's that?" he asked, gesturing to the phone.

"This, my dear boy, is a phone," Jason waved it in the air. "You can talk to anybody in the world with it, no matter how far away they are, and they get it instantly and respond instantly. And you can search through the internet, which is like a giant library with every single thing you could ever want to know about in a split second."

"Seriously?" said Zuko, "That's insane."

"Tim's already working on one for you," Dick said, "He's putting all of our phone numbers in it and stuff." he gasped, slapping Jason on the shoulder. "We gotta put him in the group chat."

Four hours later, Zuko had his phone, and was in the group chat called 'The Waynez'

dick: YO ZUKO'S HERE duke: whaddup dude i'm duke i'm in san fran rn

Zuko frowned. He went to safari, and googled "san fran."

zuko: what are you doing there? duke: mission with kon tim: how is my bff duke: if he doesn't take those stupid sunglasses off i will literally steal his kneecaps jason: lmao me

Zuko sucked his teeth as he read the conversation, hopping on to his bed. "Steal kneecaps?" he muttered, "Just what kind of family did I get myself into?"

zuko: what kind of family did i get myself into ? dick: the best! jason: just wait till b lets you join us in our nightly activities zuko: like that nightwing and batman thing? zuko: also does b stand for bruce or batman? jason: it stands for Bitch jason: & yes that thing. i'm red hood, tim's red robin, duke is signal, and damian's robin damian: if you call father a bitch one more time jason: iF yOu CaLl FaThEr A bItCh OnE mOrE tImE jason: what are you gonna do ur like four feet tall damian: say goodbye to your kneecaps motherfucker dick: DAMIAN NO tim: AHAHDJ DAMIAN duke: GUYS HE'S GONNA THINK YOU'RE SERIOUS jason: you literally started it??

Zuko let out a huff of laughter. Siblings who only fought in a joking manner?

He could get used to this.

-

Zuko was nine.

He laughed, looking up at a younger Uncle Iroh with shining, happy eyes, unscarred. "I love you, Uncle!" he chirped.

Iroh smiled warmly. "I love you too, Zuko."

"ZUKE!"

Zuko woke from his dream with a start to see a figure standing over him.

Dick grinned. "Hey, do you wanna go on a- put that fire out, it's me -do you wanna go on a drive?"

"But it's-" Zuko looked at the clock beside his bed "It's 2:00 AM! And I was sleeping!"

"Did you have any dreams?"

"No," Zuko lied, looking at Dick's shoes, "I don't have dreams,"

"Fine," Dick said, putting up his hands in surrender, "Don't tell me. But come on, get dressed!"

"But it's so early!"

"It's only 2:00 am, I'm usually out right now!" Dick huffed, before walking to Zuko's closet and grabbing jeans and a blue t-shirt- Alfred must have gone and got him clothes -and threw them at him. Zuko groaned as the clothes hit his face.

"Alright, alright!" Zuko gave in, getting out of bed with a stretch of his arms. "Give me five minutes."

"I'll make you some coffee, so you'll be awake!" Dick said as he left the roof, shutting the door behind him.

"Coffee?" Zuko said aloud as he put on the clothes, slipping blue Nike tennis shoes on. "What's that?" His phone chimed- the group chat -and Zuko grabbed it off of his nightstand to look at it.

dick: hey Tim I'm giving Zuko some of your coffee

tim: ??? why

dick: So he'll stay awake. we're going on a drive.

jason: take the bat mobile i dare you

dick: no we're taking my mustang

jason: coward

dick: ANYWAY

dick: i don't think he's ever had coffee before

tim: like ever? fine but only this once maybe then he'll go to Starbucks with me

tim: SINCE NOBODY ELSE IN THIS FAMILY WILL

damain: will you all be quiet, I'm busy.

jason: yeah he's at emiko's

duke: OH SHIT

damian: i haven't spoken to emiko in months, you imbecile.

jason: that's not what Roy said, brat

"Who's Emiko?" Zuko asked Dick as he opened the door to his room where he was waiting for him.

"She's this girl Damian tried to get to join his team," Dick explained, leading him to the kitchen as he put a pack of coffee into the keurig, "Jason gives him crap about her because they're so much alike."

Zuko nodded. "So, what exactly is coffee?"

"It's this drink that has caffeine in it, which is a drug that gives you energy, in simple terms," Dick explained, "Tim loves it. I don't think he's addicted, but he loves the taste." Dick poured the coffee into a different cup, took a gallon of almond milk out of the fridge, and poured some into it. "Starbucks is a huge coffee chain. They're all over the world. They have tons of different recipes, but almond milk lattes are how I like mine." He handed the cup to Zuko.

Zuko took a sip, and he hummed. "This is really good," he said, "Kind of bitter, but good."

"Right?" Dick led Zuko to another room and opened the door to a garage filled with cars. He pressed a button on his keys, and the car blinked, the doors opening. "Hop in, Zuke!"

"Don't call me that," Zuko grunted, getting in the car as he took another sip of the coffee. Dick, not fazed, told him to buckle up and took off.

"Did you have music in the Fire Nation?" Dick asked as they drove down the road, not yet in Gotham.

"Yeah," Zuko replied, looking out the window. "We had sungi horns and folk songs."

"So... no My Way by Queen Key, I'm guessing?"

"What?"

Dick smiled widely and turned on the radio. "Play My Way," he said to the car, and a song started playing.

Zuko's face scrunched up as it started. "This is music?" he raised an eyebrow.

"Meanwhile I'm turnt as fuck!" Dick sang off-key, "I left my pizza in the oven that bitch burnt as fuck!"

Zuko raised his eyebrows with a flat look on his face, but to his annoyance, he found himself not minding the song. And eventually, with Dick's calming presence and encouragement, Zuko began to sing with him."Bitch, my way! My way! My way!" the brothers sang, Zuko's voice quiet while Dick's was loud. As the song ended, Dick handed Zuko his phone.

"Here, pick one!" he said, before turning his eyes back to the road.

"I won't know any of them, though," Zuko reminded him, "What if I pick a bad one?"

"Then we'll sing it anyways!" Dick replied, "Because you picked it out!"

Zuko looked down, scrolling through the playlist. Go Hard, Watch Me, Love Story... he didn't know any of these songs, but tapped the song Starstrukk.

Dick gasped as the song started. He turned up the volume until the car was vibrating from the bass. Headbanging, Dick started screeching.

“Nice legs, daisy dukes, makes a man go WOO HOO!"

"Dick, wasn't that a whistle?"

"I can't whistle so I have to say woo-hoo."

Zuko found himself liking this song too, and once again, sang along with Dick at the second chorus.

"I think I should know!! How!! To make love to something innocent without leaving my fingerprints out!! Now!! L-O-V-E's just another word I never learned to pronounce!"

"Here," Dick said, grabbing the phone and pulling up the lyrics, "Sing along!"

With the lyrics in front of him, Zuko sang the rest of the song with Dick, gradually getting louder until the both of them were screaming at the top of their lungs. At the end of the song, the two laughed.

"That was so good!" Dick praised. Zuko started to answer, before both of their phones chimed.

tim: zuko did you like the coffee

zuko: yes

tim: ok good we r going to Starbucks tomorrow

duke: ?? don't you have work??

tim: i'll tell them I'm spending time with the newest wayne so i'll be late tam will understand

duke: bro bruce hasn't had a press conference about him yet

tim: tam knows I'm red robin i think she can keep this secret

zuko: what time?

tim: 9 so u can sleep in

damian: you're being oddly nice, drake, you're never that nice to me

tim: i literally took a bullet for you like three months ago.

zuko: it's okay, you don't have to wait that long for me

tim: ?? what r u talking about ur my brother, ofc i do

Zuko blinked, not expecting that. They'd only known him for two days, and they considered him family? "Isn't it really soon to accept me?" Zuko said aloud to Dick, "I mean, I haven't helped or contributed or anything."

"So?" Dick gave Zuko a weird look. "You don't have to earn our acceptance. You had it from the moment Bruce decided to adopt you."

Zuko didn't answer. He must be lying, or just trying to make him feel better. You can't just accept someone into a family without cause.

"Now," Dick turned down the volume, "Look outside!" Zuko did as he was told, and his eyes flew open.

It was beautiful. Multicolored lights blurring as they sped past them, architecture that Zuko had never seen. "It's gorgeous," he whispered.

"I figured you'd like it," Dick chuckled. They drove around the city for a while longer, Zuko in awe. Finally, they pulled back into the garage at the Manor.

"So, you have fun?" Dick asked as they got out of the car. Zuko nodded.

"Yeah. I did."

_

"WAKE UP!"

Zuko lurched awake, glaring at Tim above him. "Do you guys always wake each other up like this?"

"Only when there's things to do!" Tim answered, "Now come on! We'll take my car. I'm so excited man."

Zuko, exhausted, yawned as he followed Tim down the stairs to the garage he'd been in seven hours earlier. Getting into a Ferrari, they took off.

"So, Zuko, what was life like in the Fire Nation?"

"Very different."

"How so?"

Zuko pursed his lips together, not answering. Tim shrugged.

"Alright. Keep your secrets." Tim pulled into a parking lot and shut the car off. "We're at the second most glorious place in the universe!"

"What's the first?"

"My therapist's office," Tim replied casually, "My friend Kon's making me go. I'm the only one in the family who goes, even though we all need it."

"What's therapy?" Zuko inquired as they got out of the car.

"It's, like, treatment for your mental health. Your issues. Dealing with your past. I needed it for sure," he pointed at his head, "Lots wrong up here." He laughed. "You probably need it too, Edgelord."

Zuko grunted in response as they stepped inside the building. Tim inhaled the air with a smile. "Doesn't that smell amazing?"

It did smell good. It smelled like coffee. He'd only smelled it once before, but Zuko had decided that it was one of his favorite scents.

"So, Dick gave you his almond lattes with no sweetener, right?" Tim looked at Zuko with a raised eyebrow. At his nod, Tim added, "Was it too bitter or was it good?"

Zuko looked around the coffee shop, surprised at the number of people in line. "Too bitter," he answered.

"Okay," You could tell that the gears in Tim's mind were turning, and he asked, "Are you hot right now?"

"I'm always hot, I'm a firebender-" he was cut off by  Tim slapping his hand over his mouth.

"Maybe in your world, people are open about powers," Tim said sternly, "But in our world, if anyone finds out who you are, bad things will happen. That's why Batman and everyone else wear masks."

Zuko nodded, and Tim took away his hand. The firebender cleared his throat. "Well, yeah, I'm always hot. Doesn't usually bother me though."

"So do you think you'd like a cold drink or a hot one?"

"Cold coffee?" Zuko echoed, crossing his arms over his chests, "I'll try it."

"Alrighty," Tim said with a grin, gesturing for Zuko to follow him to the line. Zuko flinched as he saw people staring at him, at his scar. Hearing mutters about it, he looked down, trying to hide it.

Noticing this, Tim scowled. He raised his head high. "My name is Tim Drake-Wayne, ward of Bruce Wayne," he said loudly, "And if any one of you continue whispering about him, or make him uncomfortable in any way, I will personally sue you for harassment!"

Apparently the name 'Wayne' carried some weight, as everybody looked away. Tim turned back to Zuko. "So, let's try a caramel macchiato."

Zuko took a drink after the barista handed it to him, and he nodded. "I love it, really good."

"Starbucks is always good," said Tim, "Now come on, let's get you back to the manor."

Another week passed, and Zuko started to grow comfortable. He wasn't happy there, sure, but the Waynes were welcoming, and he was actually starting to consider them friends.

In therapy, Tim had been talking about his trauma, and because it helped, he'd roped the family into doing the same.

Zuko was shocked. He couldn't believe how much they've went through. Damian's childhood. Jason's death and resurrection. Bruce and Dick watching their parents die, and their sexual assaults. Tim, who'd watching everyone he cared about die. Cass, who was treated as nothing more than a weapon for most of her life.

Finally, it was his turn. "Do I have to do this?"

"Zuko, if I have to, you have to," Damian snorted. Zuko sighed, biting his lip nervously.

"So, my mom was banished before me. Then when I was 13, I was sitting in during a military meeting, and I spoke up, telling my father that he shouldn't purposely kill our troops," he laughed bitterly, "So instead of grounding me like Bruce does, he challenged me to an Agni Kai, and when I wouldn't fight him, he lit my face on fire and banished me, saying I could only return if I captured the Avatar, who hadn't been seen in a hundred years."

Jason whistled lowly. "No offense but your dad fuckin sucks."

"He only did it to teach me respect!" Zuko snarled, clenching his fists.

"Jason," Tim scolded, "The rule is that after we share our story, nobody comments on it."

"Okay, but Zuko's acting like Damian did when he first came here," Jason argued, "Thinking that the people who are supposed to protect them are allowed to hurt them." He turned to Damian. "Is that something your grandfather would do?"

"Yes," Damian said without a beat, "Absolutely."

Zuko gritted his teeth. "You're wrong. All of you!" He rose to his feet and stormed up the stairs to his room.

My father loves me, that's why he gave me the chance of capturing the Avatar! Zuko thought as he slammed the door to his room. If he didn't care for me, he wouldn't have gave me a chance to earn back his love!

Then why do these people love you without conditions? a small voice in his head spoke.

Zuko clenched his fists, and started punching the wall. He continued punching until his knuckles were bloody. He continued punching until he fell asleep.

And yet, he woke up in his bed. He blearily opened his eyes, confused as he looked at the spot where he'd fallen asleep. The holes in the wall were there, but the blood was gone, and his knuckles were bandaged. Looking to his nightstand, Zuko saw a note.

I'm sorry for carrying you without asking, but I didn't want you to hurt your back from sleeping on the tile. Come down to the cave in the morning to change your bandages. - Bruce

Bruce had listed him off the floor solely so Zuko's back wouldn't hurt. He'd cleaned up the blood in the middle of the night so Zuko wouldn't have to see it. He'd even bandaged his hands.

This family didn't make any sense.

_

A week later, Tim and Zuko were at Starbucks. Zuko was sipping his caramel macchiato, repeatedly checking his phone while Tim worked on his laptop.

Tim raised an eyebrow. "Nervous?"

Today was the day that Bruce Wayne was announcing that he had adopted another kid. There would be pictures of him, Zuko would have to post on the Instagram that Tim had made for him, and he couldn't imagine all of the comments about his scar. "No, not at all."

"It'll be okay," Tim said, shutting his laptop so he could better face Zuko. "It can't be worse than whenever Damian was revealed. 'Bruce Wayne has love child?' "Young Wayne looks to have serious mental health issues'" he rolled his eyes, "Damian was so mad."

"When will I be interviewed?" Zuko asked, tapping his fingers against the table.

"We don't know yet," Tim replied, "We're hoping to get anybody but Vicky Vale. She's a vulture." he paused. "But don't worry. We'll all be there with you."

"I'm not worried," Zuko insisted, "I just... need to know so I can clear my schedule."

Tim raised an eyebrow in disbelief. "Oh? Brooding take up a lot of time?"

"Shut it, Tim-Wit." Zuko's phone chimed, and he jumped with a start before looking at it. Sure enough, the article titled 'Bruce Wayne Adopts Another' was up.

"It's out!" Tim said, "Great! Time to post on Instagram!"

"What?" Zuko panicked, "Already? But- but my scar!"

"It'll get shown eventually," Tim pointed out, "Plus, Dick and I already have our pictures picked out. Dick has the one of you smiling when he got you two matching shirts."

Zuko smiled softly, tugging on the hem of the before mentioned shirt, a dark blue Ralph Lauren.

"And they're up!" Tim said with a grin, shoving his phone in Zuko's face, "Take a look!"

"That's a good picture," he voiced. Tim nodded, muttering an agreement, before showing him Dick's post.

Zuko replied to Jason’s comment with an eye roll, before he froze, the caption sinking in. He blinked in shock. Dick would... die for him? He shook his head. "I still don't get why you guys care for me so much. Like I said, I haven't done anything to earn it."

Tim gave him a sad look. "Zuko, don't you get it? We don't love you because you did something to earn it or whatever. We love you simply because you exist."

[ofdreamsanddoodles]

A lot of people bring up Martin and Daisy’s conversation in MAG 142 in the context of Jon and his trauma and the fact that Daisy says he has an obvious case of survivor’s guilt, but what everyone forgets is that Basira is the exact same way. So, lets talk about some of Basira’s decisions in relation to her trauma.

In MAG 142, Daisy says that Sectioned officers will do “anything to not feel helpless” and then says that what Jon’s doing is basically the exact same thing. Yes, what he’s doing might be risky, but it puts him in control of his own life, which isn’t something he often has. And Basira--especially after being literally kidnapped by the Institute--is the same way. Daisy tells Martin that Basira’s very good at reading situations, but no matter how much time she spends researching, she never makes a plan. According to Daisy, Basira doesn’t like to think abut the unknown. Once she sees an advantage, she’ll go for it no matter what, and then figure out what she can actually do with what she has.

We actually see a pretty good example of this when she saves Jon from Daisy. Basira tells Daisy that Jon can make Elias confess to murdering Leitner, and then makes them go straight to the Institute. There is absolutely no plan. Basira diffuses the situation with Daisy with a solution she comes up with on the spot, which means problem solved. 

Except, now she has to deal with Elias. Which she somehow doesn’t expect to go badly. In her mind, all they have to do is go to the institute, and get his confession. Elias is literally a murderer and she assumes she’ll have no problem arresting him. And yeah, after that, Basira doesn’t make a lot of decisions. She spends her time reading, but in her statement before the Unknowing, calls it denial. Basira says that her father raised her to solve her own problems--that if she saw something wrong with her life, she could fix it herself. But she has absolutely no way of doing that in the Institute, or even as a Sectioned officer, because what’s wrong with her life is the fact that she’s surrounded by the Fears, and that doesn’t go away, even when she quits the police force.

It’s also important to note that a friend of hers died when rescuing Callum. It’s not the existence of bodysnatching monsters that makes her quit, but that she saw a man die and could do nothing to save him. We don’t know a lot about her time as a Sectioned officer, but in her first statement, Basira says that there’s not a lot of evidence of the supernatural in many of the cases she used to get, and that she feels badly about it, but there’s no way for her to help them. So much of Basira’s life at this point has been watching while other people suffer.

And then the Unknowing happens, and Basira finds out that oh, she’s not a helpless human! She’s somehow so powerful that a world ending ritual can’t stop her! Which is why, when Basira tells Jon about how she escaped, she says that she learned an incredibly important lesson: to only believe in herself.

To her, what happens is this: a building explodes, and she finds out everyone is dead but her. And then, apparently, she goes to work to meet Peter! Who never actually shows, which means she just stands around in an office for like an hour, which would be incredibly funny if the timing wasn’t so awful. Basira acknowledges herself as the sole survivor of a traumatic experience, and then goes on to find out that their plan to get Elias out just made the Institute even less safe. Her new boss doesn’t care enough to actually meet her. She gets attacked by the Flesh. And the only person who helps her stop them is literally under the spell of an evil war deity but you know what? That’s fine! It just means it’s up to her to protect this place. Except, her gut instinct is apparently to be as useful as she can and get things done as fast as possible, which means that she’s heading straight for Elias’ jail cell. He has information, doesn’t he? Knowledge that she needs? So why not take it?

And it goes the same for Melanie! Melanie’s stronger, and that’s because of the Slaughter, but instead of thinking about that, Basira can just acknowledge that they’re safer now that Melanie can help protect them and not think a second more about it.

By the time Jon gets back to the Institute, Basira has spent months being the only somewhat sensible person, with Martin now deep in the Lonely & Melanie stuck with the Slaughter. Basira has no idea how to make a plan other than “stay safe.” If she thinks Elias can help with that, she’ll take her chances. If she thinks Jon’s Knowing powers will help, then she’ll use that too. After Elias sends her off to ensure Jon will get Daisy out of the Coffin, Basira still goes back to him to ask for advice! She doesn’t look at Elias and think that he may be, yet again, purposely misleading her, or if she does, she doesn’t care. Basira’s problem is that if she sees an issue that can be easily addressed--trying to stop Jon from taking live statements, fighting off the Dark, moving into the tunnels to protect herself from entities that might come after her--she’ll deal with it. As soon as Jon tells her a solution to Melanie’s Slaughter problem, Basira helps him save her. She genuinely does want to help, but working at the Institute means there’s a new problem every day. There’s just no way for her to fix everything, no matter how hard she tries.

Basically: Basira is completely overwhelmed by how many things have gone wrong in her life and copes by trying to find problems with easy solutions, but most of those “easy problems” are part of a bigger, more complicated issue which is why very few things actually end up solved.

[banashee]

Hi Folks, welcome to my third fic for the Archival Pride 2021 project! Look at their tumblr for more info :) @archivalpride

Archival Pride 2021, Week three (June 15-21) Prompts: Love Languages, Doubt, Post-Canon, Intimacy, Home

The key words I've used here are Post-Canon, Home and Intimacy

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- Off-screen Arguments - scars - Trauma recovery - brief but canon-typical violence - References to Canon-Stabby-Stabby in MAG200 - mention of coma, no details - reference to homophobic Parent

-

 A Second Chance

 Some days, it still feels like a dream. That they are here, together, that they get to have this. A home, a life - a second chance at everything.

 It’s been almost two years since the panopticon collapsed in an explosion, almost two years since Jon and Martin woke up… Here. “Somewhere else” they called it then, but now they simply call this place “home”. More precisely, they do so because first and foremost, they are home to each other.

 Even back when in the Institute, when both of them successfully managed to convince themselves their feelings for each other were one-sided, the few and far moments where they actually had time to themselves were precious. Even when Jon had woken up from his coma and Martin was working for Peter Lukas, just a small brush of hands or a quick hug in the hallway had felt like the only safe place left in the world. Just for a moment, before they had to move on, more alone than ever before.

 By the time Martin was deep in the Lonely and Jon had pulled him out, taken his hand and not let go until they were safely in Daisy’s little safehouse in the Scottish Highlands where no one would be able to find or hurt them. Or at least, that had been the plan… It only lasted for a little while.

 Still, even though the end of the world started there, the days and weeks they had before are precious to Jon and Martin to this day. It’s those weeks where they had a chance to really get to know each other, outside of work and countless terrifying encounters with the Fears.

 Days spent talking in front of the fireplace, curled up around each other or not talking at all. Especially on the bad days, when everything hits them at once, it is a little bit easier to deal with everything while they’re together. Cooking together, stepping around each other in the kitchen when they tried recipes neither of them had ever tried before, laughing at and playfully chiding each other when everything turns into a big mess.

 Hugs and kisses shared at the most random of times, just because they realized they can do this now.

 Over time, they shared a few personal bits and pieces. After the first time they  shared the bed, to be close and to keep the nightmares at bay, they started talking about their needs and boundaries.

 “I love you, and I love being close to you. But I, I also need you to know that… Well, I won’t be able to give you more than this. I don’t…  sleep with people. In, well, in      that     sense.” Jon had blushed and stammered his way through explaining what Asexuality means to him, and it is met with love and acceptance. He started to breathe a little bit easier then.

 A little while later, Martin told him about the disaster that was his coming out to his Mum. He didn’t mean to, he said that day in the safehouse with a bitter smile as he shook his head, but he’d hit a breaking point. One too many homophobic remarks, one too many unhappy sneers.

 “One day, I just. Snapped. Couldn’t take the bullshit anymore. I don’t even remember exactly what I      said     to her, but she was... “ Martin shook his head.

 “Not happy.” He laughed, but it wasn’t happy by any means. Jon understood all too well, and reached out with one hand, an offer to hold on tight, which Martin happily took him up on.

 “She didn’t… Like me very much before, I don’t think. Or, well, I      know     that now, but… But ever since I told her I am gay, that certainly didn’t help things. She never met any of my boyfriends or anything, but, well. That’s robably for the best.”

 Only a short while after this conversation, the world ended. After months and months of walking through a hellscape, they finally   arrived back in what once was London. Back at the institute - the tower of the Watcher.

 Once they got their chance to kill Elias and destroy Jonah Magnus, things… Went differently than planned.

 Even years after the fact, long long after, Jon and Martin wake up from vivid nightmares. The memories, both real and twisted, leave them sobbing and calling out for each other. Each time, they end up wide awake for hours, holding onto one another to try and keep the other from getting lost again. Dealing with everything is very much a work in progress.

 Guilt eats Jon up from the inside. He is talking about it, at least he does now, but the feelings are still there, sitting on his chest and taking his breath away. The guilt about walking off on his own and leaving everyone else, including Martin behind is one of the worst he’s ever felt, and even though they have talked and worked through this particular issue for a long time, Jon is still struggling with it. The main problem is that didn’t see another way, did what he thought was best. Now he knows there wasn’t a right decision in the situation they found themselves in, only damage control.

 But on a personal level? Yes, he screwed up, and he knows it.

 The scar on his chest hurts those nights, like a fresh wound. Jon finds himself clutching it, without even realizing that he is doing so. If he was, he would try to stop himself from it, but every time his hands rub over the place in the middle of his chest, when breath leaves his lungs for a while, he can tell that Martin’s eyes go blank and he hates himself a little bit more for having caused so much pain. .

 How often Martin wakes up in the middle of the night, dreaming again and again about that fateful day that ended with him stabbing the love of his life with a knife, he has long lost count. But it hurts, worse than anything else, and the memory alone sends him spiralling for a long time.

 If the Fears had any more power here, there is no doubt that Martin would find himself surrounded by thick, white fog those nights, cold and damp and utterly alone even with another person in the room.

 He’d spent months - years really - keeping it together just to keep going, doing what needed to be done and be there for the people around him. It’s what he’s always done, isn’t used to anything else, but Jon knows him well enough to recognize the signs and stop Martin before he destroys himself any further.

 “Let me take care of you.      Please    - You don’t have to keep going all the time.”

 Somehow, even with all the trauma and heartbreak, the two of them manage to form one functioning human being together when they can’t manage to be one on their own. On the really bad days, that is enough.

 Martin and Jon  have their hiccups - but they know just how much they adore one another, and that is usually enough to make them see reason even when things get hard.

       Especially in the first few weeks Somewhere Else, there is a lot of confusion and pain. Years of trauma and injuries they are unable to explain to anyone, because how do you explain even a fraction of the fears and the apocalypse they have walked through? None of it has happened here. This is a world that has never ended, and although the Fears certainly exist here, they are in the shadows, where they belong. As far as they can tell, none of the rituals have happened here, and the entities just. Exist, but don’t do nearly as much harm as Jon and Martin have experienced.

 So seeking out help, let alone from professionals, is hard. Lord knows, they need it - it takes the two of them countless trials to find individual therapists for themselves, and even longer to find one to attend for couples counseling who won’t make their skin crawl with anxiety. There are issues that need to be addressed, and it is hard to start somewhere.

 Some sessions are much, much harder than others. Unpacking the baggage is logical, it is something that needs to be done in order to deal with the trauma, but for a long time, it just hurts. It hurts, having to open up about things that are so deeply personal, and even though both Martin and Jon have come up with cover stories for their situation, they still have to work on all the emotions and the things that happened to them and their loved ones.

 Some days, either one or both of them will come home from a therapy session and simply collapse into bed. Most times, all they want then is to hold each other. Other times, they talk, but more often than not, being able to listen to each other's heartbeat as they shake apart or fall asleep from exhaustion is enough.

 Especially at first, when everything is still fresh, when the scars are still pink, raised and puckering, things are hard.

 Surprising no one, coming from a literal hellscape into a normal, relatively calm world, is a total whiplash. Things are tense between Jon and Martin for a bit. They want to stay together, because they love each other deeply - there was never any doubt, not even a bit. But there are some situations, issues and decisions that they need to adress.

 While things are still sore, it results in a number of exhausted, tearful arguments that leave both of them absolutely drained and limp from overwhelming sadness. The arguments themselves never last long, because both Martin and Jon are quick to make up and apologize after, but the feelings of exhaustion and heartbreak stay for long after.

 The arguments pull on wounds and it hurts. There really is no other way to put it. More often than not, Martin and Jon spend the night with no sleep, wrapped around each other so tightly it is almost painful. Holding onto one another is all they can do sometimes to keep each other from falling apart at the seams.

 Weeks turn into months, months turn into a year and so on. Both Jon and Martin have come a long way since they arrived here - they no longer call it “Somewhere else”. Their trauma still sits deep, but has become much, much more of a quiet background pain that occasionally comes out to play, rather than being a constant, stabbing sensation that leaves them bleeding and breathless, unable to function. Those days, thankfully, have become rare.

 They start to live, instead of just surviving.

 It is around that time that they decide they want to get out of the city. London, whether back in the old world or here, is not a quiet place to be, but now that they are free, they take the opportunity and run with it.

 A little bit of time passes, and between days spent walking hand in hand through the nearby park, nights curled up on the couch with books and tea and day jobs and even occasional evenings in the pub with coworkers, they find themselves standing in their empty apartment. All there is left is a single cardboard box and a potted plant, both of which are held by the two men who spent the last year and a half there.

 “...Jon?”

 “Yes, Love?”

 “I had no idea we had      so much     stuff, until we started to pack it all up.”

 “We do. I’m… Not entirely sure when that happened to be honest.”

 “....I believe somewhere between us starting to actually       do     things, and you discovering that tiny bookshop which I’m convinced should have been empty by now, thanks to you.”

 “Yes. And also the plants. Don’t forget your leafy children, Martin.” Jon leans into Martin’s upper arm for a moment, a small smile on his face. He would have pulled him into an embrace, but since Martin holds the last of their moving boxes, filled to the brim with books, and Jon’s arms are currently wrapped around the pot of a fairly tall dracea, just leaning in must be enough. The plant pokes far over his shoulder, long, dark green leaves lazily moving with him as he holds onto it, tight and secure.

 ‘Martha’ says a small, handwritten label on the pot, carefully stuck near the edge of the pot. Giving the plants human names had started out as a joke, a throwaway sentence, but then they bought more and more plants, and so a new tradition was born.

 “...To be fair, I had no idea there were so many until we had to get them all into the van.”

 “Oh, I’m sure you’ll find plenty of space in the new house that looks empty. Not for long though, knowing you.”

 Martin smiles at him, propping the box against himself. This thing is heavy - as small as their old flat is, it hasn’t stopped Jon from starting to form their own library throughout the living room. Truth be told, he is looking forward to seeing it expand once they’re settled into their new space. It'll be a fun opportunity to bicker over the proper way to sort them.

 (“By      colour    ?? Martin, Dear, Love of my life, what the       fuck    . You’ve worked in a      Library    for years!” Jon will ramble on in disbelief, and Martin will cackle to himself, knowing he managed to rile his boyfriend up about something that isn’t important at all. He knows they actually agree that books need to be sorted by Author’s names. But where would be the fun in admitting that right away?)

 “Ready to go?” he asks, and waits for his partner's affirmative nod before the two of them leave the apartment, for one last time.

 It’s time for a new chapter in their new life, and they’re more than ready to start it.

 The first morning in their new house, they are woken up by a fresh breeze coming through their bedroom window. It carries the scent of pine needles and damp earth with it. The birds outside are already singing the song of their people and have been doing so for hours, long before most humans are conscious. Waking up like this is bliss, even though the bed is about the only thing that is actually done in this room.

 There are boxes everywhere and their wardrobe is only halfway assembled, but the bed is comfortable and decked out in fresh covers that still smell of washing powder. Everything is fresh and new and feels a little bit like they’re on a holiday. Maybe someday, it will become their new normal, but as of now, it feels like a fresh start.

 As always, it’s Martin who wakes up first. He can smell the fresh, woodsy air, and it relaxes him in an instant. There is a small forest right by their house. It is at the end of the street where only a few more old, slightly lopsided houses are nearby. It is perfect for them.

 On their search for a new home, it was clear they wanted to go somewhere more rural, somewhere remote. Ever since the Lonely, Martin is struggling with too many people around him. He can go about his everyday life if he has to, but days with too many people and too much social interaction leave him sad and exhausted from pretending to be fine and peachy with it.

 It doesn’t help that many of the houses they looked at are seaside cottages. As beautiful as they look on the photos, conveniently taken on days with clear blue skies, this is England. There are way more rainy days filled with grey, suffocating fog, and that alone is enough to send Martin back into a full blown panic attack. It’s too much, way too much like the Lonely. Needless to say, they filtered their searches accordingly.

 Eventually, everything clicks into place and they find their dream house in a small residential area with little traffic and even less people. The quiet of the countryside makes both of the breathe easier-  it reminds them a little bit of their time in Scotland, even though the landscape isn’t nearly as raw here. They may or may not have found a field of very good cows nearby though.

 The cool breeze of the morning air makes Martin shiver a bit, and he pulls the covers a little bit tighter around himself and Jon. Predictably, his partner takes this as an invitation to adjust his octopus grip that he has around him to get even closer as he sleepily grumbles,

 “...Just five more minutes.”

 “Make it an hour and we’re good, Love.” With gentle fingers, he starts to detangle the long strands of hair that surround Jon. There is even more grey than there was only a few years ago - no surprise, what with all of the stress and trauma they have lived through.

 All that Martin gets in response to this is a low hum as Jon tightens his hold around him once more as he breathes a small trail of kisses along the side of his neck and up his jaw.

 He knows that Morning-Jon is not talkative, at all, but he knows him long and well enough to understand what he is telling him, even when he is half asleep himself.

 “I love you, too.”

[agentrouka-blog]

@ ygritte hate post. In broad strokes, we agree Jon and Sansa are on parallel journeys, there is also plenty of parallels between Hound's sexual assault night with Jon and Ygritte (steel kiss, hand on face, and so on). (1/3)

Then Jon gets into it at the water pool, that is his "unkiss", no doubt. Notice though, the details about him getting riled up by sex red hair, she saying she is half-fish, debating fucking your own sister. I'm forgetting stuff of course. I'm sure that chapter is rife with that. (2/3)

Jonsa fans have speculated over Unkiss being a cover for another kiss (always with the cousins, the blood and fire cloak, and so forth). It could be that cave means much the same for him. Like said they are on parallel journeys and there's all those throwbacks to each other. (3/3)

So like Sansa, Jon is repressing something there. Something that happened in the winterfell pools. Bran remembers bathing with his sisters, but unlike Bran (who did saw OSHA getting out of one in that segment), Jon saw something that was a revelation. Like Florian when he saw Jonquil bathing with her sisters. Something red and then wanted to kiss, not downstairs but upstairs. Maybe he did... and maybe Ned caught him at it, because he later dreams of being caught there being innapropriate. (4/3)

In the dream he screams he will never father a abstard, he hates being one for they are lustful creatures born of lust and lies. Like lusting after their sisters. Its not like he is a Targaryen! Distraught, Jon decides to prove his nature wrong. He is not a deviant because he is a bastard lusting after his sister! So he decides to go to the Nights Watch, where he'll be chaste ever. Maybe. Kind of creepy but funny. It all comes together too, all those tidbits that are otherwise scattered. (5/3)

PS: Six maidens in the pool... Six Stark children. Not seven for once either way. And so Jon says in the show "we should have never left Winterfell" because it echoes the We shouldn't have left the cave. And Jon says they'll go back and Yggrite yaps You Know Nothing, but he was right. Jon will go back with the real redhead Sansa, back to Winterfell real pools. (6/3)

Thank you!! This ask really sent my brain whirring.

I already like the idea of the Unkiss drawing from a repressed memory, but I hadn’t noticed how the Ygritte memory-edit might interlock with that. 

We have this confirmation that they were fairly natural and relaxed about nudity among children:

"Might be there isn't." She grinned. "What are you staring at, boy? Never seen a woman before?"

"I have so." Bran had bathed with his sisters hundreds of times and he'd seen serving women in the hot pools too. Osha looked different, though, hard and sharp instead of soft and curvy. Her legs were all sinew, her breasts flat as two empty purses. "You've got a lot of scars." (ACOK, Bran II) 

Hundreds of times. We know Sansa associated hot water in a bath with Winterfell. 

The hot water made her think of Winterfell, and she took strength from that. She had not washed since the day her father died, and she was startled at how filthy the water became. (AGOT, Sansa VI)

So does Jon:

It was short walk to the bathhouse, where he took a cold plunge to wash the sweat off and soaked in a hot stone tub. The warmth took some of the ache from his muscles and made him think of Winterfell's muddy pools, steaming and bubbling in the godswood. Winterfell, he thought. (ASOS, Jon XII)

Then we have the image of the Water Gardens.

It was Daenerys who filled the gardens with laughing children. Her own children at the start, but later the sons and daughters of lords and landed knights were brought in to be companions to the boys and girls of princely blood. And one summer's day when it was scorching hot, she took pity on the children of her grooms and cooks and serving men and invited them to use the pools and fountains too, a tradition that has endured till this day." (…) 

As the children splashed in the pools, Daenerys watched from amongst the orange trees, and a realization came to her. She could not tell the highborn from the low. Naked, they were only children. All innocent, all vulnerable, all deserving of long life, love, protection. 

(ADWD, The Watcher)

And we know that the children of all ranks played together in the godswood, too. 

He had watched wistfully while the Walders contested with Turnip the cook's boy and Joseth's girls Bandy and Shyra. The Walders had decreed that Bran should be the judge and decide whether or not people had said "Mayhaps," but as soon as they started playing they forgot all about him.

The shouts and splashes soon drew others: Palla the kennel girl, Cayn's boy Calon, TomToo whose father Fat Tom had died with Bran's father at King's Landing. Before very long, every one of them was soaked and muddy. Palla was brown from head to heel, with moss in her hair, breathless from laughter. Bran had not heard so much laughing since the night the bloody raven came. (ACOK, Bran I)

It’s fair to conclude that the Jon and the Starklings may indeed have not just played but also bathed together in the godswood. 

There is an interesting association with Maidenpool, which is tied to the romance of Florian and Jonquil.

At Maidenpool, Lord Mooton's red salmon still flew above the castle on its hill, but the town walls were deserted, the gates smashed, half the homes and shops burned or plundered. They saw nothing living but a few feral dogs that went slinking away at the sound of their approach. The pool from which the town took its name, where legend said that Florian the Fool had first glimpsed Jonquil bathing with her sisters, was so choked with rotting corpses that the water had turned into a murky grey-green soup.

Jaime took one look and burst into song. "Six maids there were in a spring-fed pool . . ."

"What are you doing?" Brienne demanded.

"Singing. 'Six Maids in a Pool,' I'm sure you've heard it. And shy little maids they were, too. Rather like you. Though somewhat prettier, I'll warrant."

(ASOS, Jaime III)

Jonquil bathed with ther sisters, when Florian first glimpsed her.

The pool becomes filthy and spoiled. Like Sansa’s bathwater, but also like the muddy Winterfell pools. Choked with corpses?

When the dreams took him, he found himself back home once more, splashing in the hot pools beneath a huge white weirwood that had his father's face. Ygritte was with him, laughing at him, shedding her skins till she was naked as her name day, trying to kiss him, but he couldn't, not with his father watching. He was the blood of Winterfell, a man of the Night's Watch. I will not father a bastard, he told her. I will not. I will not. "You know nothing, Jon Snow," she whispered, her skin dissolving in the hot water, the flesh beneath sloughing off her bones until only skull and skeleton remained, and the pool bubbled thick and red.  (ASOS, Jon VI)

The memory edit and the switch toward “love” in the cave is mirrored in this rather defiant dream, that recalls the pools at home, his father’s watching face, but also the laughter at home in the godswood. A pool in a sacred place spoiled with death. 

A memory spoiled by trauma.

Dany, who I would argue is a character strongly foreshadowed in Ygritte, has her own association with sacred pools.

They rode to the lake the Dothraki called the Womb of the World, surrounded by a fringe of reeds, its water still and calm. A thousand thousand years ago, Jhiqui told her, the first man had emerged from its depths, riding upon the back of the first horse.

The procession waited on the grassy shore as Dany stripped and let her soiled clothing fall to the ground. Naked, she stepped gingerly into the water. Irri said the lake had no bottom, but Dany felt soft mud squishing between her toes as she pushed through the tall reeds. The moon floated on the still black waters, shattering and re-forming as her ripples washed over it. Goose pimples rose on her pale skin as the coldness crept up her thighs and kissed her lower lips. The stallion's blood had dried on her hands and around her mouth. Dany cupped her fingers and lifted the sacred waters over her head, cleansing herself and the child inside her while the khal and the others looked on.  (AGOT, Daenerys V)

This recalls Ygritte in the pools and Sansa in her filthy bath. But the presence of the blood of a horse slaughtered for her to eat its heart, the presence of the Stallion that Mounts the World, the prophecy and the things we know comes after... all that is ominous and the kiss of the cold is unlikely to be tender. 

"When you find yourself in bed with an ugly woman, the best thing to do is close your eyes and get on with it," he declared. "Waiting won't make the maid any prettier. Kiss her and be done with it."

"Kiss her?" Ser Barristan repeated, aghast.

"A steel kiss," said Littlefinger. (AGOT, Eddard VIII)

or..

But the Dornishman's blade had a song of its own,

and a bite sharp and cold as a leech. (ASOS, Jon I)

or...

Then the steel was at her throat, and its bite was red and cold. (ASOS, Catelyn VII)

The layers in this… 

Anyway, there’s foreshadowing to Dany in the Ygritte mess, but it’s not exactly happy, while the Sansa connections in there tend to be positive. Sweet and foul all mixed up.

Sansa “remembering” the Unkiss in relation to kissing children (Margaery’s Girls, Sweetrobin) and with “awful” memories (Myranda’s wedding night)  has that same air of mixing something rotten with something that had been perhaps sweet but confusing. I.e. covering a traumatic event with something else. 

Then there’s another interesting association with the incest peach.

As she sat in the common room in her stupid girl clothes, Arya remembered what Syrio Forel had told her, the trick of looking and seeing what was there. When she looked, she saw more serving wenches than any inn could want, and most of them young and comely. And come evenfall, lots of men started coming and going at the Peach. They did not linger long in the common room, not even when Tom took out his woodharp and began to sing "Six Maids in a Pool." The wooden steps were old and steep, and creaked something fierce whenever one of the men took a girl upstairs. "I bet this is a brothel," she whispered to Gendry.

 (ASOS, Arya V)

Right after this they meet Gendry’s half-sister Bella, a “peach” at the Peach.

“I’m named Bella,” the girl told Gendry. “For the battle. I bet I could ring your bell, too. You want to?”

“No,” he said gruffly.

“I bet you do.” She ran a hand along his arm. “I don’t cost nothing to friends of Thoros and the lightning lord.”

“No, I said.” Gendry rose abruptly and stalked away from the table out into the night. 

Bella turned to Arya. “Don’t he like girls?”

While the bell recalls Dany, we should remember that 

Sansa plays “the high harp and the bells” (AGOT, Arya I) 

“Bella” translates to Beauty 

this scene is an unsubtle shout-out to Jon stalking out of the welcoming feast after Benjen teased him about fathering bastards and knowing a woman. After calling Sansa radiant. (AGOT, Jon I) 

So the Dany hints are joined by the Sansa hints. The Dany hints are negative (bells = battle), the Sansa ones positive (bells = music). Why are the Sansa hints there at all?

Before anyone goes “Jonrya!”, remember:

For half a heartbeat she forgot who she was supposed to be. She wasn't any peach, but she couldn't be Arya Stark either, not here with some smelly drunk she did not know. "I'm . . ."

"She's my sister." Gendry put a heavy hand on the old man's shoulder, and squeezed. "Leave her be." (ASOS, Arya V)

Arya is not a peach, she is a sister. Little sister. 

And there’s this:

He liked the deep, sweet ache it left in the muscles afterward. He liked the way the air tasted way up high, sweet and cold as a winter peach. He liked the birds: the crows in the broken tower, the tiny little sparrows that nested in cracks between the stones, the ancient owl that slept in the dusty loft above the old armory. Bran knew them all.  (AGOT, Bran II)

Jon only tastes the cold when silver-haired Val tastes sweetness in the air, but way up high the winter peach makes the air taste sweet, too. 

"Sweet smells are sometimes used to cover foul ones." (ACOK, Daenerys II)

But foul smells might cover sweet ones, too. The Unkiss covers a bitter trauma, but perhaps it was drawn from a more innocent kiss in the past.

The naked red-haired girl by the water might trigger a rewrite of Jon’s perception of Ygritte, but it might draw that from a different kind of confusion, surrounding the same memories that feed Sansa’s editing.

The godswood is certainly a stage for kissing:

As she stood there, all the memories came flooding back to her. Her father had taught her to ride amongst these trees, and that was the elm that Edmure had fallen from when he broke his arm, and over there, beneath that bower, she and Lysa had played at kissing with Petyr.

She had not thought of that in years. How young they all had been — she no older than Sansa, Lysa younger than Arya, and Petyr younger still, yet eager. The girls had traded him between them, serious and giggling by turns. (…)

Robb got to his feet slowly and sheathed his sword, and Catelyn found herself wondering whether her son had ever kissed a girl in the godswood. Surely he must have.  (AGOT, Catelyn XI)

Memories that flood back, young children, innocent games that have consequences much later on, a specific Connection drawn to the Starklings and the Winterfell godswood.

More kissing:

 "I won't! I saw you kissing in the snow. She's just like her mother. Catelyn kissed you in the godswood, but she never meant it, she never wanted you. (ASOS, Sansa VII)

and yet more...

Theon Greyjoy was no stranger to this godswood. He had played here as a boy, skipping stones across the cold black pool beneath the weirwood, hiding his treasures in the bole of an ancient oak, stalking squirrels with a bow he made himself. Later, older, he had soaked his bruises in the hot springs after many a session in the yard with Robb and Jory and Jon Snow. In amongst these chestnuts and elms and soldier pines he had found secret places where he could hide when he wanted to be alone. The first time he had ever kissed a girl had been here. Later, a different girl had made a man of him upon a ragged quilt in the shade of that tall grey-green sentinel. (ADWD, The Prince of Winterfell)

Starklings, kissing and the hot springs all in a paragraph.

I would say there is material here. If GRRM wants to write about Sansa and Jon sharing a memory that involves the hot springs, kissing and references to Florian and Jonquil, he will have planted the hints. It would certainly be a bit poetic if both of them used the same memory soup to create their trauma responses.

**

Before anyone tries to accuse me of hypocrisy when it comes to age gaps, abuse etc. I do not think this was a case of Jon perving on his young sister. Cat was 12 when she played kissing games with a much younger Petyr and Lysa, and I don’t think we are supposed to consider this a threesome. It’s child’s play. That’s my angle here. 

[misstrashchan]

Since @im-the-king-of-the-ocean did a post about what TMA fear entities the RWBY characters are aligned/avatars of, I’ve been itching to do one myself because as a result of overlapping hyper fixations I think about this A LOT

The basic concept is that avatars in TMA become what they fear most or embrace a fear they have developed the most complex relationship with that plays into their motivations and drive as a character. What negative impulses they have to constantly fight themselves on, the shape of the monster that lives in their heart.

To quote the RWBY song Fear, “But our greatest fear will be realised, if we fall and lose ourselves to fear, we’ll become what we’ve feared all our lives” yeah that’s a very loose definition of what becoming an avatar is.

Since MAG s5 has proven that you can be an avatar of more than one fear, (Like Martin serving both the Eye and the Lonely) some of the RWBY characters might have more than one, but I’ll try to limit it to two to avoid getting complicated, but at the end of the day it’s all fear soup, we might categorise them according to Robert Smirke’s 14, but they all bleed into one another, like Gerard’s colour analogy in 111:

GERARD

I always think it helps to imagine them like colours. The edges bleed together, and you can talk about little differences: “oh, that’s indigo, that’s more lilac”, but they’re both purple. I mean, I guess there are technically infinite colours, but you group them together into a few big ones. A lot of it’s kind of arbitrary. I mean, why are navy blue and sky blue both called blue, when pink’s an entirely different colour from red? Y’know? I don’t know, that’s just how it works.

And like colours, some of these powers, they feed into or balance each other. Some really clash, and you just can’t put them together. I mean, you could see them all as just one thing, I guess, but it would be pretty much meaningless, y’know, like… like trying to describe a… shirt by talking about the concept of colour.

O-Of course, with these things it’s not a simple spectrum, y’know, it’s more like –

ARCHIVIST

An infinite amorphous blob of terror bleeding out in every direction at once.

GERARD

Now you’re getting it.

ARCHIVIST

Like colours, but if colours hated me. Got it. 

Ruby Rose: The End. The fear of death itself, uncaring and unstoppable. Man this was hard to think about but I have a lot of Big Feelings about this one. Initially I really, really wanted to give Ruby the Eye simply because “can laser beam monsters with their eyeballs once they become powerful enough” and there is a fascinating overlap in how the Beholding powers and Silver Eyes function in the same way, (especially in how Cinder being exposed to the Silver Eyes fills her with an overpowering fear and reopens old wounds from trauma that have never properly healed; which is VERY similar in the psychological affect Jon’s has on his victims when he Beholds them) they’re both direct enemies/opposites to the Dark that expose their enemies/victims true nature and destroying them in the process at times. Only one feeds on fear and the trauma of others while the other feeds off of hope and love (Gerard says there’s no such thing as an avatar of hope and love, clearly he’s never heard of Ruby). 

But nope! The fear and nature of the Beholding just doesn’t really match with Ruby at all. She isn’t driven by a need of knowledge, nor does she fear being watched, followed or having her secrets exposed. The End though? Death itself? Ruby outright states that’s her biggest fear in volume 5 to Oscar “It doesn’t matter if you’re standing in Salem’s way or not. She’ll kill anyone. And that, scares me most of all” to me Ruby’s fear of death itself is projected onto Salem here, I think. It’s uncaring, unstoppable, it doesn’t discriminate, and it could come for the people she cares about at any time. What matters though is the context she says this is in explaining her motives to Oscar. Her whole life has been shaped by her inability to process death, her relationship with grief, all starting with the tragic and abrupt death of her mother Summer as a child. She’s also surrounded by a lot of death motif too, the hooded cape, mostly wearing black, the giant grim reaper scythe. She’s the End. 

Of course, her being an Avatar of the End means having to imagine the worst version of Ruby, one that is fully consumed by that fear. Avatars of the End are not malicious or destructive in nature but instead are… very apathetic. They don’t need to seek out victims to feed off of, nor do they have a ritual, because the End comes for all. And that fits with what Ruby would be like if that fear fully consumed her. It’s more or less established in vol6 during the apathy arc when she tries so hard to fight against their influence and how horrified she is when everyone around her falls prey to it. Giving up, not caring, accepting the inevitable demise of everyone and yourself? Ruby was terrified of that. And when looking at the vol8 opening where we see Ruby being dragged down by what looks like the arms of the apathy? She fights the hardest against it because it’s what she’s most afraid of, but because of her inability to process her grief properly is ultimately what will make her the most vulnerable to it when she’s pushed to her limit. All Salem needs to do to break Ruby is to remind her of Summer’s death. Not even what actually happened to her or how she died, just the death itself. Hell, the first time we see Ruby in the Red trailer, she’s at her mother’s grave, the first verse in Red like Roses that’s about Ruby “Red like Roses fills my dreams and brings me to the place you rest” in which we come to understand that the “Red like roses” lyrics in both part one and two of the song is referring to Summer’s abrupt death which Ruby apparently dreams about, which brings to mind Oliver Banks, our most prominent Avatar of the End, whose first statement to The Magnus Institute in 011 (underneath the fake alias of “Antonio Blake”) is concerning how he started dreaming about the deaths of others, which he didn’t begin to take seriously- until it was his father that he saw in his dream. Upon which Oliver realised how terrifying death really was and that fear began to consume him. 

Okay I’ve probably gone off long enough about this but yeah. Ruby is the End. I mean, she also just got a song in the v7 soundtrack called Until the End 

Weiss Schnee: The Lonely. The fear of isolation, of being completely cut off and alone or disconnected from the rest of society. I don’t really have to go too deeply into this one. It’s pretty cut and dry. “The loneliest of all”? And the Schnees basically are the Lukas family. Actually thinking about it the Lukas’ are actually somewhat better? They were the only ones in the whole of TMA that understood to raise a child to be an heir/avatar of their fear they needed room to reject it or actively choose it, even if that had an 80% success rate. Both are still awful though. (Damn, I can’t believe Jaques is an actively worse parent than an eldritch fear avatar)

When Weiss comes back to Atlas in v4 she’s more aware of her loneliness than ever, feels more aware of how she and atlas high society as a whole is disconnected from the rest of the world and its struggles. Whitley commenting on her being in her room for months implies she’s purposefully been isolating herself during this time as well, in order to avoid her family members “A pleasure to see you out of your room for a change” (sidenote; the fact that whenever Whitley shows up it always catches Weiss off guard, like she didn’t even notice his presence until he wanted her too. That’s. That’s a BIG Lonely thing. Given Peter’s siblings eventually ran away and he was the only heir I can imagine Peter being what Whitley would end up like if no one intervenes)

I’d say they might also be an possibility of the Stranger due to her struggling to find her own identity and inability to recognise oneself, but that can be an aspect of the Lonely too, as we see when Martin is in a house that is a domain of the Lonely in s5, and is unable to recognise himself in the mirror or recall who he is.

What I do have to say about this is it’s pretty interesting considering at this point in the show Weiss’ relationship with loneliness is actually somewhat healthy and something she can use to relate to and help others. She understands other people’s loneliness, that Blake in v5 needed space and in time she’d come back, and Weiss would be ready to be there for her when she did. And she also understands Yang’s loneliness in the same volume and that she needed someone there to support her.

“But you’re right. I don’t know loneliness like you do. I have my own version. And I bet  Blake has her own version too.” 

Speaking of Blake…

 Blake Belladonna: The Stranger, I Do Not Know You. The fear that you cannot trust the perception of yourself or of others. The creeping sense that something isn’t right. I considered the Spiral, but the Stranger and the Spiral overlap more than any other two entities so I’m just gonna go with the Stranger. Especially with her semblance being a metaphor for disassociation, a coping mechanism for the abuse and gaslighting from her relationship with Adam being kind of the biggest thing here, since the Stranger and Spiral deal with that a lot. She literally creates false copies of herself, shadow clones which she uses to feint, distract and evade. As well as statues/mannequins when dust is involved, which the Stranger is known for manifesting. Her fighting style centres around misdirection, stealth and fooling people’s senses. She also used to be part of the White Fang, known within Sienna and Adam’s faction to wear the masks of monsters, appearing anonymous. And she literally disguises her identity as a Faunus in order to escape the White Fang and enroll at Beacon. Blake at first was hesitant to trust and rely on the others in the earlier volumes, to let her guard down, and when she finally did, the worst happened and her fears were proven right. In s2 Jonathan becomes more paranoid due to being marked and in close daily proximity to the Stranger (as Not-Sasha), much like how Blake in v2 becomes far more paranoid and less trusting of her team. She also does seek knowledge or answers even at the cost of her wellbeing, which is an Eye thing, but Blake’s desire for knowledge and answers isn’t really consistent or important enough with her character and motives beyond vol2 for me personally to consider her an Avatar of it, but I do think she is Eye aligned. 

Yang Xiao Long- The Eye. The Ceaseless Watcher, It Knows You, as well as The Hunt. For the Eye, the first time we see Yang is her trying to find information on her mother, and we see Raven in bird form at the beginning too, as she has followed Yang her whole life, never actually interacting or doing anything for her, just… watching her. We learn in vol2 that her search for answers surrounding her mother has been a part of her entire life, almost overwhelmingly so to the point where in her childhood she and Ruby nearly lost their lives to the Grimm when she decided to journey to a shack in the woods she thought would lead to clues in finding her mother. She is adamant because of that experience to never let her need for the truth and answers control her, but it is a need that is always there. When she finally meets Raven, she’s encouraged to “start questioning everything she knows” which, she does. Questioning and knowledge is a big part of Yang’s character, even now. She’s the one who questions Ozpin the most, as well as Raven herself, and in the recent volumes is the one who challenges and questions Ruby’s leadership the most. There’s also a moment in vol7 of her drawing parallels between herself and Robyn and relating to her when she says “I won’t stop until I find out the truth” Her being the one to take the relic of knowledge is hugely significant in this too, especially given the context that she acquires it right after confronting her mother, getting the answers she’s searched for her whole life, holding an artefact possessing infinite knowledge, and she sinks to her knees and cries because there is no sense of closure, that anything is better because of her knowing who and what her mother is, and that her choosing this path might have cost her ever having a relationship with Raven (which is more Raven’s fault of course, and Yang knows that, but that’s not how she’s feeling at that exact moment). 

For the Hunt, this one’s a bit simpler. The thrill seeker aspect to Yang’s character and motives in becoming a huntress and enjoying the chase and fighting in of itself. There’s another element in that as most Avatars of the Hunt start out as monster hunters who then develop the need to hunt and kill monsters, and gradually what qualifies as “monster” starts to blur more and more as they become consumed by the need and thrill of the chase and hunt itself. I bring this up because in vol3 Blake draws parallels between Yang and Adam after she is disqualified for attacking and injuring Mercury, worries with how familiar this all feels and that Yang might turn out the same as him (and just for the record Adam is a full blown Avatar of the Hunt, and the Slaughter too most like) 

 “I had someone very dear to me change. It wasn’t in an instant, it was gradual. Little choices that began to pile up. He told me not to worry. At first they were accidents, then it was self-defence. Before long, even I began to think he was right. This is all just… very familiar.” What Blake describes is… kind of similar to Basira’s relationship with Daisy with how Daisy, an Avatar of the Hunt, would justify to Basira and explain away how the violence and murders she committed as being for the greater good. 

Also just one more, because I have to

 Pyrrha Nikos: WebwebWEBWEB. Hoo boi Pyrrha is the Webbiest of Web Avatars as they come. Her whole character’s themes surrounding destiny, control and agency, feeling like her whole life had been decided for her, the fact she’d been blessed with incredible talents and opportunities meant she was supposed to be a huntress, the fact her talent as a world champion meant she was placed on a pedestal without her realising, becoming separate from the people who placed her there in the first place, that Ozpin and his inner circle tell her she has been chosen as the next Fall Maiden, but the method in which she must become so might result in the loss of her identity, that though they ultimately leave the choice to her do pressure and manipulate her into it. The idea of destiny being a predetermined fate you can’t escape is Pyrrha’s greatest fear, and rejects that idea in that she will not let her life be manipulated but will be the one to take control it instead, which is manifested in her having a semblance that she uses to subtly control and manipulate her surroundings. As Cinder puts it, “People assume she’s fated for victory when really she’s really taken fate into her own hands”.  

[mimosaeyes]

It doesn’t seem to make a difference whether Jon smites or spares an avatar. He can’t save anyone. 

Post-173. A conversation about morality, monstrosity, and hope. Angst and hurt/comfort, 1.5k

Speedily beta-ed by @emberidzae​. Many thanks, friend.

The houses seem sullen to Jon as they make their way down the endless street. The owls and nightjars have stopped their calls, and whereas before they’d heard the occasional shriek of a child, now there’s only silence. It feels pointed, almost accusatory.

He knows instinctively which direction will take them out of this domain, so he walks while keeping his gaze trained on the silhouettes of each building they pass. From the road, all that’s visible are darker shapes against the dark sky. The pinpricks of light in it are not twinkling stars but slowly blinking eyes.

A list of names plays in his mind as he focuses his attention on each house in turn. He may have stopped speaking, thanks to Martin, but he still knows what each child imagines lurking in the shadows around them. He listens to the trembling reasoning behind the hiding spots they’ve chosen: it can’t sneak up on me if I sit with my back to the wall; nothing can hurt me if I stay under my blanket. He experiences, vicariously, the tightness in their throats from trying to be quiet. The hands clamped over their mouths to stifle a whimper when it escapes.

At some point, without consciously deciding to, he’s tangled his own hand in the straps hanging off his backpack, wrapping them around his fingers and over his palm. He squeezes until the pressure and pain blot out thoughts of what’s going on around him. What he’s allowing to continue, even though he knows very well what it’s like to be an orphan alone in the dark.

“It’s getting brighter, at least,” Martin observes from somewhere to his left. There’s a brittle, slightly forced cheerfulness to how he says this. By now, Jon recognises it as him attempting to be optimistic.

Jon sighs near-soundlessly. “A little. Maybe.”

In the house to his right, a little girl opens the door to the last room she hasn’t checked yet. It has taken her a length of time she cannot easily quantify to work up the nerve to move around, rather than stay put somewhere that seems safe. The room is empty. She curls up in a corner, and Jon feels the moment she gives up on looking for her mother. She understands that there is no comfort to be found in other people. There is only the night and the unrelenting dark.

He shudders, clenching his hand into a fist and hunching his shoulders. “Let’s just keep moving.” His voice is hollow.

Martin is looking down and frowning. “Jon,” he says, “stop that. You — you’re hurting yourself.” Moving swiftly from disapproval to alarm, he reaches out and tugs on Jon’s hand, forcing them both to halt. 

Jon immediately tries to pull away. Then he goes still. Even without being able to make out Martin’s expression, he can feel the force of his glare.

But Martin’s fingers are gentle and warm against his clammy skin as he unravels the backpack straps. “What were you thinking?” he chides. “This is your burnt hand, you’ve probably already got nerve damage. It can’t be good to cut off the circulation like this.”

Jon remains silent.

After a few more seconds of fruitless squinting, Martin releases his hand and fumbles for the other one. “Come on, we need more light.”

Jon still doesn’t say anything. When they walk more quickly, the children’s names and plights reel off dizzyingly in his head. He closes his eyes, as if that would stop the deluge.

Martin’s grip on his hand tightens. “Jon? What’s going on? Talk to me.”

The names change. Not!Sasha, Jude Perry, Jared Hopworth. Oliver Banks, Arthur Nolan, Callum Brodie. It doesn’t seem to make a difference whether Jon smites or spares an avatar. He’d stood in that Flesh garden and said I can’t save everyone. I can’t save anyone. Now he really knows it’s true. Martin should know too, but he’d said he hates when Jon says things like that.

He bites his lip. He’s not good at lying, so eventually he settles on a partial truth. “I keep... knowing things about the children.”

“I thought you could control that now.” Martin pauses, then asks, “How much longer until we’re out of here?”

Faint static rises as Jon checks. “The equivalent of seventeen minutes.” Time and distance have little meaning now, so his estimate is based on footsteps and heartbeats.

Somewhere along the street, a little boy pulls a storybook from his bedside table and flicks on a nightlight. Jon knows the bulb will cast strange shadows in the room, and fizzle out before he reaches the end of The Monster at the End of This Book. Jon knows that that’s the all-time bestselling Sesame Street book, and that the plot revolves around Grover pleading with the reader not to turn pages because he’s afraid to meet the monster at the end. Of course, there is no monster except for lovable, furry old Grover himself. That’s been the case every other time the boy has read the book. He won’t know this time, though. Not for sure.

Martin is calling his name to get his attention. He’s already begun raising his free hand, presumably to slap Jon again, when Jon hurriedly says, “Sorry. I was just... It’s fine.” He gives a breathy, half-hearted laugh. “Anyway, it’ll be over for me in sixteen minutes.”

A beat. “Oh,” Martin says quietly. “I get it. You’re choosing to know. Because you feel guilty.”

Jon frowns. He really is terrible at hiding anything from him. “I’m already leaving them to suffer,” he points out. “The least I can do is... bear witness.”

Martin takes a deep breath and exhales noisily. “That’s not what you’re doing, though,” he says, and something about his tone makes them both stop walking at the same time. “You’re punishing yourself, Jon. Don’t.”

“Why? I’m the one who opened the door and ended the world. I’m the reason they’re stuck here.” Jon pulls his hand back from Martin’s and gestures wildly to indicate their surroundings. Even as he speaks, he wants to make himself stop, but the words keep spilling out of him, spiky and bitter and everything he wishes he could keep bottled up instead of taking it out on Martin all the time. “It’s these kids, but it’s also everyone else in the domains we’ve passed so far. If killing avatars doesn’t release those people, what am I supposed to do to Magnus to fix all this?”

He really wishes they’d decided to have this conversation somewhere they could properly see each other. As it is, he doesn’t know what to make of the long pause before Martin replies.

“I don’t know. But what are you saying — that we shouldn’t be going to the Panopticon in the first place? We can’t just give up.”

As soon as he says this, Jon reels backward as if he’s been physically struck. Because he has been giving up, he realises. With every encounter they’ve had, he’s been feeling more and more like he can’t do anything to help.

“We’ll figure it out,” Martin says, closing the distance between them again by taking a few steps forward. “And we’ll make things better. I know it.”

Jon searches his face, or at least, what he can make out of it. “What about what you said before you heard the statement? You said leaving children in this place would be inexcusable. That it would be monstrous.”

He’d made that call before Martin had even noticed anything amiss. Then he’d made his point to Martin in the cruellest way, knocking on Callum Brodie’s door and watching Martin’s reactions. He’d barely protested when Martin asked to hear about the domain, and afterwards he’d asked Was that what you wanted? like he’d been vindicated by his horror, like it’d satisfied some terrible hunger. Did that make him a puppet of the Eye, hoping to squeeze a little more dread out of Martin? 

Or did it make him the monster at the end of all this, himself addicted to dragging the trauma out of people?

“I think the monstrous thing,” Martin says slowly, “would have been to kill a thirteen-year-old boy to feel less helpless, when you knew it might not have helped all the children he was tormenting. I think every one of our options here is monstrous, so if you’re second-guessing the one we went with, you’re probably on the right track.”

The words our and we reverberate in Jon’s mind for a second.

“I think I made it too much your choice,” he blurts out. “I’m sorry. I don’t expect you to have all the answers. I — I rely on you a lot, so I don’t lose myself. I’m afraid I may already have.”

Martin makes a sort of upset noise and wraps him in a hug, which Jon returns after a moment of being stunned.

“It’s alright,” Martin says, his voice muffled as he presses his face into Jon’s hair. “From now on, we make decisions together, and if some of them are bad, we try to make up for it when we get to London. We rely on each other. Okay?”

Jon thinks there just isn’t enough strength or hope to go around, at the end of the world. But still he nods, and says, “Okay,” and holds Martin close in the dark.

Far above them, the filament in a broken streetlight buzzes and flickers. Once, twice.

[also available on AO3 here]

[my TMA fic on AO3]

[oleanderblume]

A little character analysis essay for Oliver.

WARNING TW FOR TALK OF ABUSE.

So, as those of you who pay attention to me at all know, I'm writing a book series. About clowns. Well— mostly about clowns.

Its basically one enormous allegory for the process of well...processing trauma. In the form of comedy sci-fi, multiverse saving fiction.

But Idk, I've been thinking of doing a little essay on the main character and main POV of the series, my boy Oliver.

Maybe I'll copy and paste this later and make a video essay lol.

Okay so, don't get me wrong, I love Oliver. I love all my characters in the series. But he holds a little special place in my heart due to some halfway through adjustments I made to him while writing. (Also the fact that writing Oliver directly led to my trans awakening)

Who is Oliver? Well, his full name is Oliver Tarsul— later changed to Jariwala when he is adopted by his step father. He's a manipulative, selfish, and insecure 14 year old with an incredibly abuse wrought history, a dead mom, and a fantastic fucking step father.

And his character arc is the most beautiful thing I have ever written.

Idk if you know this, but the book being published this year is the first in a series of 5. And Oliver's character arc spans the course of all five books. I've written the first 3 already.

So Oliver's initial arc when I wrote him was one about processing grief and becoming a better person and friend. Over time, that evolved with the backstop I gave him which inadvertently added so much more depth to his character.

He starts off like the average asshole teenager. He's rude, sarcastic, and overall a fairly unpleasant person to be around. And then I made his biological father abusive. I concocted this idea— that Oliver's current situation is due to his parents getting a divorce after his bio father attempted to kill him. His only goal was to get his mother back.

And then...I made him a victim of chronic physical and sexual abuse. I know! I know that hits a little bit close to home for me personally. I think I did that to have catharsis for my own feeling when I wrote about it.

But I turned Oliver's biological father into a horrific person who beat and r*ped his child for years before he came out as trans and the violence escalated to attempted murder.

So Oliver— obviously, would be really messed up about it. Seeing as all of this had happened before he got his life with Jon (his step dad)

The way Oliver has been treated in the past directly affects his character and his personality. He is selfish and cruel and manipulative because he thinks that's the only way he can protect himself and also get what he wants. And at the same time, he is insecure and self loathing and so, so afraid.

So he uses people and immediately pushes them away when they get too close. He is my all definitions of the word, flawed.

Of course, his arc is about realizing those flaws and working to improve. But at the same time, his arc is also about really and truly coming to grips with his trauma so he can finally process it and heal from it. It wasn't initially that. I didn't intend for it to be that at all, honestly. But I'm so unbelievably glad that it *is* that.

I sound like I'm bragging lol.

But I tied Oliver’s trauma to his personality so well that he as a character is forced to face those awful things in order to maintain the relationships he builds over the story. His relationship with Douglass (Oliver's love interest) is intrinsically tied to his fear of rejection and further abuse. And as a character, Oliver cannot grow or form a healthy relationship with Douglass UNTIL he can process the sexual abuse he endured as a child, he can't even bring himself to talk about it to Douglass until he understands that his seemingly irrational fear of being hurt by him is addressed.

And Oliver's relationship with Dindet is intrinsically tied to his deep seated rage in regards to the abuse he endured. Particularly surrounding his mother's inaction to stop it and her manipulation of him in order to maintain her own safety. THAT is something Oliver is even aware of.

So his arc not only involves personal growth in the form of building and maintaining healthy attachments, but also realizing the root cause of his struggles in order to face them and gain the ability to form healthy attachments.

And all of his arc, every minute shift in his character stems from the slow realization that he is, in fact, a victim of abuse. That he HAS trauma.

And boy, does his characterization really drive that point home.

Having been a victim of abuse myself, I have an intimate relationship with the behaviors victims portray, I know how I think, I know when I have control and when I don't and what sort of frame of mind I'm in when things are bad.

So writing Oliver as a victim of abuse is as realistic as I can possibly get. He has panic attacks. And flashbacks. He has outbursts of anger that are meant to dismantle his relationships to keep himself isolated and "safe". He is not the pretty, tragic victim of abuse portrayed in countless forms of media. He is the ugly, angry, shell of yourself person that uses his unregulated emotions to keep everyone at arms length.

And he is also terrified and self depreciating and constantly, silently screaming for someone to save him from the well of emptiness that his trauma has left in him.

I didn't do that on purpose either. But I'm glad I did it. I'm glad I built a main character that has such awful qualities and made him in such a way that it is still so hard not to care about him.

My beta readers, the folks who read books 1 and 2 before they get released, fell in love with him as a character. They saw through his awful behavior and into the core driving force of his actions and could even— on some level, relate to him.

And that is such an accomplishment. I haven't even mentioned the other characters thus far, or their arcs, almost all of which were well received by my readers.

Oliver though, hands down. Is something very important to me. And I can only hope that the people who read my book once it's published feel even a modicum of love for his character and the gradual, painful growth he goes through.