#i don’t want both of my leads to be motherless

[kindheart525]

Drawing CharZoey art not because they have any canon chemistry (they don’t) but because I want that woman to do more than stand in the background lol

I also want Charlie (or any of the Smiling Friends guys tbh) to positively interact with a woman for once and not fumble it since that show is so lacking in any real female presence

No hate at all against CharPim or any of the other m/m ships, shippers are immensely creative and I’ve read a lot of heartfelt CharPim fanfic that has genuinely deeply touched me in ways that nothing else in fandom has. I love y’all so much and I genuinely adore all the art and stories that come out of this ship. Everyone is so talented and I mean that with my whole entire heart

Keeping Zoey around in my art is not anti CharPim but pro feminism, is the best way I can put it. I just want the women to have more of a role, and based on Zach and Michael’s track record with the show so far it looks like I have to do it my damn self

[dragon-queensguard]

Nettles, the Last of the Old Dragonriders, and Daenerys, the First of the New

Thought I’d create a post comparing Nettles and Daenerys, two of the best girls with significant roles in regards to the history of dragonriding, since I noticed a lot of similarities between the two, one marking the end of an era, one signaling the beginning of a new.

Both Dany and Nettles have rather humble beginnings. Nettles is a bastard, “growing up homeless, motherless, and penniless on the streets of Spicetown and Hull.” Daenerys is born a princess, and is able to spend the first years of her life in relative comfort under the care of Willem Darry, but things only went downhill following his death:

“They had wandered since then, from Braavos to Myr, from Myr to Tyrosh, and on to Qohor and Volantis and Lys, never staying long in any one place. Her brother would not allow it. The Usurper’s knives were close behind them, he insisted, though Dany had never seen one.

At first the magisters and archons and merchant princes were pleased to welcome the last Targaryen to their homes and tables, but as the years passed and the Usurper continued to sit upon the Iron Throne, doors closed and their lives grew meaner. Years past they had been forced to sell their last few treasures, and now even the coin they had gotten from Mother’s crown had gone. In the alleys and wine sinks of Pentos they called her brother “beggar king.” Dany did not want to know what they called her.”

Not much is expected from Nettles and Dany as they grow up. Nettles is considered an “unlikely” dragonrider, and the people around Dany expect her to serve as a pawn to marry off. Robert Baratheon fears her, but it’s less a fear of her herself, and more a fear of whatever sons she might bear, her potential to continue the Targaryen line.

But Nettles and Dany both defy expectations. Nettles is able to tame Sheepstealer, a notably ill-tempered dragon, who kills many of those who try to claim him before Nettles. Dany survives all the trials of her childhood, and the ones that follow in the first book, and brings dragons back into the world. Throughout all the challenges that continue to be hurled her way, she persists and she survives.

Then you have to consider the feat of taming and training dragons. The Targaryen royal family had centuries of experience in claiming and riding dragons, and an abundance of resources in doing so. There were people around them to teach them and guide them. Dany and Nettles have none of this. Nettles presumably only knows what she hears by word of mouth, but she still comes up with a plan to feed Sheepstealer and get him accustomed to her presence. Dany lives in an age where dragons have been dead for over a century, hearing a few things from her brother about them, but little in regards to their care and training:

“And they must be trained as well, or they will lay my kingdom to waste. For all her Targaryen blood, Dany had not the least idea of how to train a dragon.”

She quickly develops the “dracarys” command, though, giving her control over one of the most dangerous and volatile aspects of her dragon children. When she throws herself into the pit before Drogon, she’s operating on instinct, putting her life at risk in order to subdue him. When she flies upon his back, she does so bareback, using the whip at first, and then just her hands and feet later. Nettles and Dany conquered the feat of riding dragons all on their own.

Admittedly, we don’t know very much about the personality of Nettles, but she does share traits with Dany. Both are caring and empathetic, with Dany putting others before herself countless times throughout the books, and feeling sorrow at people’s suffering. Nettles is crying after the Battle of the Gullet, where thousands were killed, including Prince Jacaerys. But in addition to their sensitive sides, both Dany and Nettles are fierce as well, with Nettles flying Sheepstealer into battle and Dany conquering cities (in addition to countless other examples of her bravery). Both end up leading people who are known to value strength and proving your worth, Daenerys with the Dothraki and Nettles with the mountain clan.

Then you have the enemies of Nettles and Dany who try to cheapen and vilify their accomplishments by declaring them the work of sorcery and seduction:

“‘She is a common thing, with the stink of sorcery upon her,’ the queen declared. ‘My prince would ne’er lay with so low a creature. You need only look at her to know that she has no drop of dragon’s blood in her. It was with spells that she bound a dragon to her, and she has done the same with my lord husband.’”

Vs.

“‘Sweet?’ Qavo laughed. ‘If even half the stories coming back from Slaver’s Bay are true, this child is a monster. They say that she is bloodthirsty, that those who speak against her are impaled on spikes to die lingering deaths. They say she is a sorceress who feeds her dragons on the flesh of newborn babes, an oathbreaker who mocks the gods, breaks truces, threatens envoys, and turns on those who have served her loyally. They say her lust cannot be sated, that she mates with men, women, eunuchs, even dogs and children, and woe betide the lover who fails to satisfy her. She gives her body to men to take their souls in thrall.’”

(I have my doubts over whether or not Rhaenyra actually said this about Nettles, but if not her, certainly somebody was saying this kind of garbage about a bastard girl who dared to ride a dragon.)

Nettles’s story ends with her on the run from a monarch, and that’s how Dany’s story begins. Nettles flies away into the relative unknown, and her disappearance with Sheepstealer coincides with a weakening of Targaryen power, the extinction of dragons, the loss of magic in the world. This all sets the stage for Dany’s story, who, unlike Nettles, is in a better position to turn back and face those who want her dead. Far from exiting the scene, she’s stepping into the spotlight as she rises to power, bringing back all the things that disappeared alongside Nettles.

Anyways, just some similarities between two amazing female characters, both representing very different points in the story of dragons and magic in ASOIAF.

[kikyan]

How do you think the yanderes (Wei wuxian, lan xichen, jiang Cheng) would react to their daughters hating them? For an example seeing their mother (aka darling) crying because of what the Yandere was doing👀

Why are you requesting for the characters with severe mommy issues 

But of course I’ll write it! Let’s see. . . starting with Wei Wuxian! 

ALSO HAD THIS IS MY DRAFTS AND LEGIT DIDN’T EVEN KNOW IT WAS ALMOST DONE UNTIL I CHECKED I AM SO SORRY

Again, like I’ve mentioned countless times, I don’t like to split up Wangxian so this will be a poly relationship! 

Wei Wuxian/Lan Wanji 

For starters, this is one of the tamest yanderes you could be with if you listen. If you follow their few requirements you’ll forget that you were even kidnapped, they’re very chill but. . .let’s say that you didn’t listen to them. It was simple, stay within the house perimeters and don’t go out. The entire Lan Clan is happy with you being here for the two and happily welcomed your daughter. I can already see WWX and LWJ shedding tears at the birth/adoption of your daughter. Their newest addition to the family! 

Once they were brought in, rules were added for both your protection and your daughter! Think of if with the Lan brother’s and their mother. She was given a home but could not leave it. You could walk around the entire sect, you just couldn’t leave. Well, that’s exactly what you did and you got punished for it. They were really disappointed with your behavior but I think what hurt them the most would be seeing your daughter upset. 

Maybe they weren’t harsh on you, but you were scared of the possibility of them being angry. It’s been like that for years. You know they’d never hurt you but you were scared of being left alone because I do see isolation or maybe WWX calling up a ghost for scares might be a usual punishment to make you realize, you NEED them. Anyways, your daughter is exposed to this, it doesn’t take long to realize that this behavior isn’t exactly ideal. The next time they scare you or lead you into a panic your daughter stands up. She talks about how she can’t have a stable relationship with either of them because she knows that they’re bullying you. They are hurting you, they are causing you distress and to them, it’s an eye opener. 

WWX and his biological family are unknown, but the family that he had with the Jiang Clan meant the world to him. He can’t stand the fact that his own child hates him and neither can LWJ. LWJ cherished the time he spent with his mother, so to some degree, the both can see what their daughter means and realize, it’s time to change. The both come to terms that they should listen to what their daughter says because they don’t want their child to grow up motherless or to some extend, feel like they grew up too quickly with shit parents. 

WWX would opt to separate the two of you for the time being. Give one another time to heal and then properly apologize for what has happed. Bringing together the entire family and talking the situation and striving to change. Granted as their daughter gets older they might add some rules towards them to protect of course. LWJ would try his best to show his daughter their logic and reasoning, but I feel like maybe he’s emotionally manipulate his daughter, tell her of their upbringing and why being a parent is a hard task. 

Jiang Cheng

Aside from the angst I’m about to spill I know for a fact that his daughter would be best friends with Jin ling and he wouldn’t grow up sad because his daughter would stand up for him when they bully him for it. 

Just like his relationship with Jin Ling, he’d love to show emotion but he feels like that would be weakness. He has strict rules on you for sure and those same rules apply to your daughter as well. He’s scared to lose the both of you without a doubt, but does he have to say such harsh words? It almost sounds as if he doesn’t even want you around! His daughter doesn’t waste any time in speaking against him. Sure, growing up with someone like that is tough, because you were somewhat scared of him, but this is about their mother! 

They speak their concerns and thought to Jiang Cheng it doesn’t seem like it means a lot to him considering he dismissed his daughter away, the thought lingers in his mind. He does this to protect his family, both his parents are dead, yanli is dead, and he can never face Wei Wuxian again because of what happened. He understands where they are coming from though, its the same with his mother. His mother loved and cared for him, she had a rough time expressing it and a rough way, but all he ever wanted was his mothers approval. This is where it gets interesting, it will take time but he’ll start slowly changing. 

He’ll let himself indulge in certain feelings from now on. Making it easier on his daughter so she doesn’t try to seek his approval, but he also awaits the moment he can hold your hand and admit his love for you. He loves you and his proud of you and your daughter, but he’s so afraid that the moment he looks away or seems weak, someone will come in and take you away from him like the Wen Clan took his family. 

Lan Xichen

I think I mentioned that worst case scenario your child will live separately from you if things went south, but let’s say it did. Your child only gets a few hours of visitation a couple of days until you start craving more. Lan Xichen uses this tactic to make it so that you plead and beg him to bring you back to him. Your child catches on to this and tries to negotiate with him. He sees her side and begins to think, she’s right. As much as he knows that his plan WILL work, he’s been thinking of breaking you down for a perfect family instead of trying to create a perfect family. Well he did raise a smart girl after all. 

It would have been a shock to him when his daughter comes to tell him. She hates what he’s doing to you because it’s not good. It’s not normal and he’s going to break this family if he keeps trying. I honestly see his daughter attempting to manipulate him into releasing you or changing his behavior towards you. While he doesn’t fall for the manipulation because he finds it amusing, he does come to understand her side and agrees. He starts to see that he enjoys a family who is together as opposed to one that is far away. 

[ncssian]

A Favor: Part Twenty-One

Nessian Modern AU

Masterlist

a/n: as someone who is physically incapable of reading fics and other long tumblr posts line by line and word for word, i think it’s so fucking cool that a bunch of you regularly, excitedly read what i post. i would not blame you at all for skim reading. thank you.

***

The majority of Cassian’s life was spent battling with the fact of his own existence. First he was fatherless, then motherless, then homeless. Being taken in by Rhys’s parents, who bought him nice clothes and nicer gifts, was like putting a bandaid over a stab wound. It couldn’t change the questions that made up Cassian at his core: was he equal to everyone else in this world, or had he been born inherently inferior? Did he deserve the same happinesses that his friends so carelessly reaped, or should he step back and know his place?

The older he grew, the more he grappled with those questions—until the night he learned who his father was, and the truth behind his existence. That he was likely a product of rape. Nearly driving himself drunk off a mountainside in Monte Carlo was enough to make him realize with a startling clarity: he couldn’t keep asking himself the same questions for the rest of his life. At some point, he was going to have to buck the fuck up and make his peace with the world, whether he believed he deserved to be in it or not. And though it might have taken him a while to reach that conclusion, Cassian can proudly say he did it. Not long into his post-college years, Cassian finally grew up.

By twenty-seven, he was secure enough in himself and his place in the world to not have to deal with those doubtful voices every waking minute. His life was figured out, and his ego was unshakeable. Until Nesta Archeron entered the story.

Now at twenty-eight, Cassian is again unsecured—this time in a less tragic but more confusing way. Because everything he thinks he knows about himself, about life, she insists on proving wrong.

Including the issue of celebrating his birthday.

“I feel like I should have asked this earlier,” Cassian mutters to Nesta as they stand in the cozy resort lobby, “but why is Az here?”

Nesta looks both humiliated and resigned when she mutters back, “He wouldn’t pay for the resort unless I let him come with us.”

“At that point you should’ve just let me pay, babe.” He watches Azriel’s back as he chats up the lady at the front desk while getting their room keys.

“On your own birthday? It would have ruined the point,” Nesta says.

Cassian doesn’t retort that having his brother present at their couple’s retreat also ruins the point. He’s sure she already knows.

Nesta’s reaction when Cassian told her that he didn’t celebrate his birthday was unforgettable.

“No one in our inner circle really cares about birthdays,” he had shrugged. “Feyre’s birthday is the exception because she’s sort of the outsider, and Rhys will find any excuse to worship at her feet. But the rest of us? I don’t know, it was never a big deal.”

As someone who’s never skipped a birthday once in her life, even when she was isolated and ignoring her family’s phone calls, Nesta took this as a personal offense. “I need to get you out of this cabin,” she stated.

Which brings them here, to Colorado’s finest ski resort situated high in the Rocky Mountains. The lobby is littered with overstuffed armchairs and a crackling fireplace, and huge windows look out over the blinding white mountains.

Az starts heading their way, key cards in hand, when Cassian suddenly turns to Nesta. “We need to find him a woman,” he whispers.

“What?”

“We can’t let him third wheel with us for the whole weekend. We’ll never get time alone.” Cassian is set on this new plan, already scanning the lobby for women around Azriel’s age.

“I agree, but—”

Azriel reaches the two of them, tossing a room card to Nesta. “You can stop talking about me now. I’ll be spending most of my time hitting the slopes.”

Cassian and Nesta mumble a halfhearted, “We weren’t talking about you.”

He narrows his eyes at them. “Uh-huh. Just remember whose credit card this is going on.” Picking up his ski gear and duffel bag, he turns for the elevator.

Nesta frowns up at Cassian once Az is gone, more adorably than she probably intends. “Do you think he’s upset?”

He scoffs. “We should be upset at him.” He doesn’t want to have to worry about his brother while he’s on vacation, and Az definitely wouldn’t want him to worry either, but it isn’t something that can be helped.

Despite his irritation, he might go skiing with Az later this afternoon. Just to keep him company.

***

Nesta will give it to Azriel—he’s a man of fine taste, and also generous with his spending. She originally wanted a normal room for her and Cassian, preferably the cheapest one, but Az went behind her back and upgraded them to a fully decked out penthouse suite.

“This is too much for just a weekend,” she tells him over the phone while Cassian is in the bathroom. “How am I supposed to pay you back for this?”

“Why would you pay me back?” he says dismissively. “I’m rich.”

When Nesta tries arguing with him, he only replies, “I don’t take money from poor people,” and hangs up on her.

Which leaves Nesta to enjoy the four-spray shower and heated bathroom tiles free of charge. By the time she comes out of the shower, Cassian has already left with Azriel to hit some slopes before dinner, though not before leaving her a note promising to teach her how to ski tomorrow.

Nesta doesn’t even get to unwrap her towel from her body before realizing her phone is ringing incessantly, all the way from the other side of the suite. Jogging over to the living area, Nesta answers Emerie’s call. “What’s up?”

“Where are you?” Emerie greets without introduction.

“At the ski lodge?” Nesta answers, confused. “I already told you, for Cassian’s birthday.”

“I know that,” Emerie hisses. “I mean what room are you in? This place is huge.”

“Wait—you’re here?” Nesta looks quickly around herself, as if Emerie will pop up from behind the couch.

“Not just me. So is Gwyn.” Nesta hears rustling on the other side of the line, and then Emerie saying from a distance, “Answer for your crimes, Gwyneth. Say hi.”

A new, clearer voice comes over the phone. “Hiii, Nesta.” Gwyn sounds weak, like she is not having fun at all.

“What the hell do you two think you’re doing?” Nesta demands.

“Well, it’s a long story and I need to see you first. Also, I have to pee. Where is your room?”

Five minutes later, Gwyn and Emerie are sitting obediently before the roaring fireplace in Nesta and Cassian’s suite.

Now fully dressed, Nesta stabs a finger at Emerie. “Explain.”

“I didn’t do anything,” Emerie says indignantly. “Gwyn barged into my place at eight in the morning and dragged me all the way here—”

“It was an emergency!” Gwyn tosses her hands in the air. “It still is an emergency. That’s why we’re here.”

“I’m here because Gwyn is scared of traveling alone,” Emerie interjects. “And driving on highways.”

“Guys!” Nesta snaps.

Gwyn makes a whining sound of defeat and drops her head into her hands. After a long moment, she speaks. “He asked if we could go to dinner together. Like, right to my face. And I panicked and said yes, because I couldn’t think of a reason to say no, but obviously I can’t do that. So this morning I cashed in my sick days and told him I was going on vacation for a whole week.” Gwyn looks up at Nesta with pleading teal eyes. “Please can we stay here the whole week?”

Nesta stares at Gwyn, feeling like her brain was just sucked dry. “First of all, who’s ‘he’?”

“Max!” She stands in her outburst. “The love of my life. The man who works on the fourth floor of the library. Do you pay attention to the groupchat at all?”

Oh yeah, that guy. “You came all the way here,” Nesta drawls out slowly, “so you wouldn’t have to have dinner with your crush?”

“It wasn’t just any dinner.” Gwyn flops back onto the couch. “It was a date. I can’t go on a date with him. First dates lead to second dates, and second dates lead to—sex.” She whispers the last word.

“Really?” Emerie frowns, not missing a beat at the mention of Gwyn’s deepest fear. “What kind of dates have you been having?”

“I haven’t been having any dates,” Gwyn says. “Why, how long do you usually see someone before doing it?”

“First date, at most,” Emerie shrugs.

“No,” Nesta steps in, sending Emerie a bewildered look. “Gwyn, you’ve known this guy for a while now. If he’s half as decent as you think he is, he won’t expect sex by the second date. And even if he does—”

“What does it matter?” Gwyn wails. “It’ll come up eventually. And when it does, he’ll think I’m a freak.”

“He won’t get a chance to think anything before I kill him,” Emerie says, eyes darkening.

Nesta says nothing, knowing this is something she can’t advise Gwyn about. Whether or not Gwyn chooses to share her past and unresolved trauma with another man, and whether or not that man reacts in an unshitty way isn’t something Nesta can determine. So she just states for the record, “You’re not a freak.”

“But it’s what he’ll think.”

“Then you shouldn’t be with him in the first place,” Nesta says firmly. Even though she knows better than anyone that it isn’t always that simple.

Proving her point, Gwyn scoffs and looks away. “You don’t get it.”

“What I really don’t get,” Nesta says, “is why you took your lie so literally. Why did you come all the way out here instead of hiding out at home for the week?”

“Merrill sees and knows everything. I can’t lie to her.” Gwyn cringes. “If I stayed at home, she would sniff me out as soon as she got me on the phone, and then I’d really be screwed.”

Nesta cocks her head at Gwyn, squinting her eyes in something akin to fascination.

“I had the same reaction,” Emerie pipes up. She shakes her head at Gwyn. “I’ve never met a more melodramatic idiot, truly.”

Gwyn curls into herself on the couch, looking ashamed.

Nesta sighs sharply, then whips out a hand. “Give me your wallets. I’ll go downstairs right now and see if I can book a room last minute.”

Emerie sits up at that. “Uh… I’m not sure I can afford a place like this.”

“Neither can I,” Nesta says. “That’s why Azriel paid for all of us.”

Gwyn’s eyes go comically round. “Azriel’s here?”

“Unfortunately.” She snaps her fingers at both girls. “Credit or debit, now.”

“So… I’m assuming we can’t just share this huge suite with you guys, huh?” Gwyn says hesitantly.

There might be actual flames in Nesta’s eyes. This is Cassian’s birthday, goddammit. Cassian, who hasn’t celebrated a birthday since he was eleven. “Please don’t push me.”

Gwyn and Emerie, very reluctantly, hand their cards over to Nesta. Emerie hands over two, just in case.

In the end, Nesta doesn’t use any of their money, but charges the new room to her own account. She’ll work it off by putting extra hours into Night Court, she tells herself.

When she returns to the penthouse suite, she spies tracks outlined in melted snow at the doorway. Shit. She barges inside to find Cassian and Azriel standing in the middle of the living area, with Emerie looking awkward on the couch.

“Uh, we just got back—” Cassian starts.

“I can explain,” Nesta interrupts.

A faucet turns off in the distance, and Gwyn peeks her head out of the bathroom door.

“Oh, shit,” Azriel says in delight. “Freckles is here too?”

Gwyn looks like she’s about to turn right back around to the bathroom. Nesta and Cassian both throw Az a baffled look, but Nesta says, “I can fix this. I’ve already fixed it.” She goes over to Emerie and hands her a key card. “You and Gwyn are going to stay on the first floor, and you won’t bother me or Cassian for the duration of our stay. It’ll be like you’re not even here.” She whips toward Gwyn, who still hovers near the bathroom doorway. “And at the end of this weekend, you’re going back to work like the adult you are and taking care of your shit.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Gwyn says quietly, lowering her head.

Cassian comes over to Nesta, whispering, “So, you didn’t invite them to keep Az company or anything, right?”

“I can hear you,” Azriel says.

“Of course not,” Nesta whispers back. “That’s a terrible idea.”

“Really? Because I thought it was kind of convenient—”

“I can still hear you,” Az repeats.

“So can I,” Emerie nods.

“Shut up,” Nesta hisses at the both of them. Grabbing Cassian’s still-gloved hand, she drags him upstairs and away to their bedroom. When the door shuts behind them, she turns to him and blurts, “I’m so sorry.”

Cassian only laughs, taking his ski jacket off and brushing away the wet snow from the back. “I’m not.” He tosses his jacket and gloves over a chair and approaches Nesta, tugging her closer by her oversized turtleneck. “And what did I tell you about wasting your apologies?”

Nesta doesn’t care. “I ruined your birthday.”

“My birthday’s not until tomorrow,” he says with a straight face. “But honestly, I like this a lot more than just you, me, and Az. At least he can’t third wheel anymore, right?”

She shakes her head insistently, frustration boiling in her blood. “Everything’s going wrong.”

“But you solved our problems.” He finds Nesta’s clenched fists and unfurls them with gentle hands. “You got the girls their own room, and now Az can be distracted with those two. We can still be alone. We win.”

Nesta purses her lips, unconvinced, when Cassian adds, “But seriously, though—what the fuck are they doing here?”

She exhales deeply, letting her head drop forward onto Cassian’s chest. “I don’t know,” she mutters. “Gwyn panicked about some personal stuff and thought it was a good idea to come to me. I don’t want to make her leave, though.” Gwyn is being stupid right now, without a doubt, but Nesta won’t abandon her. Neither will Emerie.

God, having friends sucks.

Cassian threads a hand through her loose hair and hums. “Gwyn was smart for coming to you.”

***

Dinner is held outside in the snow and cold, but everyone bundles up and sits down at a table that surrounds one of the multiple fire pits in the courtyard. Cassian convinced Nesta to let Gwyn and Emerie hang out with them for the weekend, because what else are those poor girls supposed to do, and now the women babble over each other as they decide what to drink.

Cassian sits back and takes it in, the sight feeling heartwarmingly familiar and strangely brand new at the same time. Nesta ends up being the one to order everybody’s drinks, and once the waiter scampers back inside, Gwyn releases a terse breath. “Sometimes I still get scared of that tone.”

“I’m always scared of it,” Az mutters, eyeing Nesta from the corner of his eye.

“What tone?” Cassian laughs. He knows Nesta is still a little wound up from her plans going off the rails, but she hasn’t done anything scary.

“I’m used to it,” Emerie says through a mouthful of fries, “but I think that waiter almost cried.”

“That’s how I sound all the time.” Nesta shrugs, sitting back.

“What tone?” Cassian repeats.

Nesta clicks her tongue impatiently. “You know how I talk. I’m straightforward.”

“And harsh,” Azriel adds. “Even aggressive.”

“Watch it.” Gwyn turns stern eyes onto him over the fire pit.

“I have no idea what you all are talking about,” Cassian says. He turns to Nesta. “You sound perfectly normal to me.”

She narrows her perfect brows at him, and Emerie laughs, “I don’t know if that’s romantic or ignorant.”

But now that they’re discussing it, Cassian does distinctly remember Nesta having a sharp edge to her words while they were getting to know each other. Did it disappear over time, or has he really stopped noticing it?

He doesn’t get to think about it before their drinks arrive, followed soon by a dinner of fancy sandwiches.

Cassian cuts his beef sandwich in half and gives the other half to Nesta, and she does the same with her turkey sandwich. They eat and drink around the crackling fire, laughing and talking about tomorrow’s plans (“It’s not your birthday, Azriel,” Nesta says. “Stop asking about gifts.”). Cassian and Emerie talk idly about video games over wine, and even though it isn’t really his thing, he can see her excitement over it and gladly indulges it.

Once everyone is finished eating and is slightly drunk, Gwyn pulls a small sleeve of crackers out of her puffy jacket, followed by a fun-sized Hershey’s bar and a handful of mini marshmallows.

“What are you doing?” Nesta says.

“Making dessert.” Gwyn builds a mini s’more and places it carefully on her fork so she can toast it over the fire pit. When it’s done, she leans forward even more to try to put it on Nesta’s plate. “For you. Thank you for letting me and Emerie stay.”

Nesta jumps, catching the s’more with her plate and batting Gwyn away from the fire pit at the same time. “You’ll set your hair on fire,” she hisses.

Gwyn’s hair remains safe, but now Cassian catches his brother watching Gwyn amusedly from the corner of his eye. “Can I have one?” Az says.

“I’m all out.” Gwyn says while building another s’more, refusing to meet his eyes.

Cassian and Nesta share a look, a hundred words thrown back and forth between them in that glance. She scoots her chair closer to him to slip her cold hands into his warm ones, but while the conversation carries on around the table, she leans in and whispers, “I’m not a busybody but…”

“I am,” he whispers back. “Az is being weird, weirder than usual.”

Nesta nods. “I’ve never seen him so—outgoing.”

Neither has Cassian, but before he can mention anything else, he looks up to find that Gwyn and Azriel’s seats at the table are empty. “How much did those two drink?” he breathes.

Nesta follows his gaze, seeing what he’s seeing: Azriel and Gwyn wandering clumsily around the snowy courtyard. Or rather, Az is trying to chase Gwyn down for a s’more, while she clutches her mini marshmallows to her chest and vehemently yells, “They’re mine!”

Meanwhile, Emerie is half asleep at the table.

Cassian watches as Gwyn nears the towering fir tree at the center of the courtyard and slips. Az shoots out a hand to catch her, but not before her ass hits the stone, hard. He pulls her back up, no longer fooling around, and Gwyn rubs her butt in pain.

Cassian suddenly feels Nesta squeezing the life out of his hands, and he looks over to find fury written across her face. For a heartbeat, he feels worried for Az.

“Go deal with him,” Nesta says lowly. “Before I do.”

Not needing any more words to understand, he stands out of his seat and heads out into the courtyard. He doesn’t know why Nesta thinks Gwyn needs protecting, but it makes him feel protective himself. Approaching the duo, he sees that Azriel finally acquired the leftover s’more ingredients from Gwyn.

“There’s only like half a cracker left,” Az mutters to himself, shaking the baggie.

“Is he bothering you?” Cassian asks Gwyn, who still looks grumpy over losing their skirmish.

Whipping her head to Cassian like he’s her savior, Gwyn nods furiously. “Please make him stop.”

Cassian turns to Azriel with rage in his eyes, a clear What the fuck do you think you’re doing?

But Az shakes his head in denial. “It’s not like that. Look, she’s smirking at me!” He points over Cassian’s shoulder.

When Cassian looks, Gwyn is already walking back to the fire pit, holding her bruised ass.

Az starts, “What a fake little—”

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Cassian interrupts. “Yesterday you’re crying over Elain and today you’re flirting with Nesta’s friend?”

Azriel goes serious, his face turning colder than the night air. “How do you know about Elain?” he says gruffly.

“Everyone knows, Azriel.” Cassian stares down his brother, wondering if he’ll finally get him to get his head screwed on straight after these past weeks of secretive bullshit.

Azriel sets his jaw, but a muscle there ticks.

“Will you finally at least tell me what’s going on in your head?” Cassian pleads. “Because I can’t keep guessing.”

Azriel glances toward the dinner table, as if checking to see that no one is paying attention to them. Looking back, he inhales a breath. “You want to know why I left Velaris?”

Like Nesta, Azriel is not one to quickly make himself vulnerable. So there’s no blatant emotion in his voice when he says, “I started seeing her at the end of summer, not long after she broke up with her ex. And it was so…nice after every other relationship I’ve been in has gone wrong. We kept it quiet, and because of that, it was peaceful.” Azriel’s eyes meet Cassian’s twin ones, and he smirks without humor. “But you already know what that’s like, don’t you?”

He does. Cassian crosses his arms, waiting for Az to continue.

“Anyway, we had a good run. For a long time, it was mostly just sex, but I liked her. I liked her a lot.” Az kicks at the snow-dusted cobblestones. “Then Christmas came around, and Rhys found out.” His face darkens as he remembers, and Cassian stiffens, knowing what’s next isn’t good. Sometimes Rhys forgets the boundary between boss and brother.

“He didn’t say anything about it to Elain, of course,” Azriel says. “But he dragged my ass aside and gave me this huge lecture about us using each other as rebounds. Said ‘Feyre’s sister’ deserves better or some shit. I told him there was more to it than that, but he wouldn’t listen. Instead he brought Vanserra & Co. into it, like his business matters had anything to do with me and Elain.” Azriel’s eyes crinkle at the corners in a puzzled way. “So I got to thinking, ‘why would he bring the Vanserras up?’ He made it seem like such a big deal.” The toe of his boot digs a hole into the ground.

Sympathy churns alongside anger in Cassian’s chest for Azriel’s situation, anger at Rhysand for crossing that line between brothers. He’s only momentarily grateful that Rhys never tried doing something similar to him and Nesta.

“I thought she was over that other guy, Lucien,” Az continues. “But maybe she’s not, if Rhys is so concerned about what Lucien’s stepfather thinks. Anyway, that’s why I ran. Because I knew she liked me, but I also knew she didn’t love me. I didn’t want us to cause all that trouble with Rhys just to end up backed into a corner one day, having nowhere else to go because she loves someone else and I’m just a rebound. It would be awkward for everyone involved.” He scratches the back of his neck. “It’s mostly my fault, for always chasing after women I can’t have.” He finally looks up at Cassian. “When you talk to Elain, does it sound like she hates me?” The question is quiet, straightforward.

“No,” Cassian answers, voice rough. Even if Azriel wants to hide his feelings, Cassian won’t. “She doesn’t seem like she hates you. I don’t even think she’s mad at you.” Concerned, anxious, upset—that’s Elain as far as he knows.

“She should hate me,” Azriel says. “She should get pissed, burn my old clothes, and swear to never talk to me again. That’s the only way she can move on.” Maybe even move back to Lucien, is what goes unsaid.

Cassian isn’t so sure about that. Even as he feels for Az, he thinks both of his brothers should get slapped upside the head for how they’ve been acting lately. He won’t be the one to do it, but he might get Nesta to relay a message to Elain. It’ll be the same thing. “I’m sorry,” he tells Az instead. “I know I’ve been hard on you lately. When we get home, I’ll start doing better.” He claps Az on the shoulder and squeezes.

Azriel surprises him by scoffing, looking away in disbelief. “Wow, being compassionate is really a full time job for you, huh?” He claps Cassian’s shoulder back, pulling him into a sudden hug. “You’ve already done more than enough,” he says into Cassian’s ear. “Go to your girlfriend and take a rest.”

Taken aback, Cassian nods and pulls away. He’s about to turn around and leave when Az says, “By the way, I wasn’t flirting with Gwyn.”

Cassian raises a brow. “You were definitely doing something.”

Az rolls his eyes. “I’m not giving her anything she can’t handle. But in case you haven’t noticed, I have no interest in other women right now.” He makes a face. “Especially not her.”

Cassian chuckles. “I believe you. It’s Nesta you need to worry about.”

“Whatever. I’m not scared of her.”

That makes Cassian laugh even harder, but he turns around, ready to go back to said girlfriend. As he nears the fire pit, though, he finds that Gwyn is already there and cuddled up to Nesta. On Nesta’s other side, Emerie now sits in Cassian’s chair, asleep on her friend’s shoulder. He stops in his tracks.

Cassian wasn’t lying when he told Nesta that he was happy about their changed vacation plans—he believes the more the merrier, and he loves these people. Yet he can’t help but wish the two of them could be alone for just one day. Only one.

God, sometimes having friends sucks.

***

a/n: this is a two parter so next chapter we’ll finally be getting more nessian alone time

tagging: @hellasblessed @sjm-things @thewayshedreamed @drielecarla @valkyriewarriors @superspiritfestival @aliveahaahahafuck @cupcakey00 @sayosdreams @rainbowcheetah512 @claralady @thebluemartini @nessiantho @missing-merlin @duskandstarlight @lucy617 @sleeping-and-books @everything-that-i-love @cassianscool @swankii-art-teacher @wannawriteyouabook @awesomelena555 @julemmaes @wickedqueenoffantasy @poisonous-bloom @observationanxioustheorist @gisellefigue08 @courtofjurdan @theoverlyenthusiasticwriter @wolfiixxx @cass-nes @seashade @royaltykxx @illyrianundercover @queenestarcheron @monstrousloves-explodinggalaxies @humanexile @that-golden-lyre @agentsofsheilds @mercy-is-alive @cassiansbigwingspan @laylaameer01 @verypaleninja @maastrash @bow-dawn @perseusannabeth @dead-on-the-inside666 @jlinez @hungryreadingaddict @anidealiveson @planet-faerie @shallowhighwaters @ghostlyrose2 @chosenfamily-valkyriequeens @rarephloxes @readiajin @nessiantrashh @live-the-fangirl-life @ifinallygavein @xoblivisci @sjmships @jungtaekwoonie-is-life @lysandra-tiara @lanyjoy-13 @frosted-crackers @post-it-notes33 @loosingdreams @fromthelibraryofemilyj @18moneytoad @dontgetsalmonella @champanheandluxxury @togreblog @arinbelle @ladygabrielli1997 @meridainthedisneyland

[my-sherlock221b]

Supernatural Rewatch Ramblings: Dead in the Water

This episode is the first one to be directed by Kim Manners. It was written by Raelle Tucker and Sera Gamble. It is still the MoTW format and once again the ‘monster’ is something that was created by human action. Ordinary seeming stories—of bullying, lies, cover up—with deadly consequences.

Read below the cut for more and also watch out for the add-ons by my partner in crime @soulmates-for-real​ who does the most amazing gifsets and image galleries 😎

It reminded me of this quote:

“If only it were all so simple! If only there were evil people somewhere insidiously committing evil deeds, and it were necessary only to separate them from the rest of us and destroy them. But the line dividing good and evil cuts through the heart of every human being. And who is willing to destroy a piece of his own heart?” Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, The Gulag Archipelago 1918–1956

It is a chilling experience—both the actual monster when we do finally see it and the backstory of what really happened. These monsters are all created by the flawed human beings. Here is another quote from the same source which could well be the underlying bedrock of the two very different approaches we see Sam and Dean take in later episodes to the whole saving people hunting things.

“Since then I have come to understand the truth of all the religions of the world: They struggle with the evil inside a human being (inside every human being). It is impossible to expel evil from the world in its entirety, but it is possible to constrict it within each person.” .

Philosophical overtones aside, we are also getting more glimpses into the heads and hearts of the two leads.

It is already obvious that Dean has put the whole ‘Dad- is- missing- and- hasn’t- been-home-in -a -few-days stuff’ on the back burner till …ummm  forever ? cos he has Sammy in front of his eyes who is sitting shotgun and being completely brotherly and sniping and bitching while also being boyfriend- level possessive.

As I said in the earlier review- I was just so swept away by the swashbuckling swagger of Dean that so obviously was an armour for his vulnerability that I almost didn’t notice Sam much. This is the episode where he became something more for me. Someone who was also finding out what Dean was all about at the same time as we were.

Someone who could pull him down to earth with a sharp: ‘People don’t just disappear, Dean. Other people just stop looking for them.’

But also reach out to him and remind him that they ‘can’t save everyone’.

In an early scene in the episode Sam scolds Dean for even starting to flirt with the waitress. 

He smirks when Andrea shoots Dean down. He mocks Dean’s pick- up line about kids are the best. He seems pleased in a very petty way that Dean’s attempt has failed and that he has no choice now but to hang out with Sam and to give him his full attention.

The episode does have plot holes –that house Lucas draws and the history of the friendship of the two men and the missing boy surely must be well known to everyone in that small town, including Lucas’s mother and how come no one joins the dots etc. etc.

But small quibbles aside, we get to see that the past casts long shadows—whether sins of the past or just events of the past. ( again a parallel to the lives of the Winchesters themselves. And in later seasons we find out just how far back into the past those shadows reach!)

We see that Dean connects with the mute boy, Lucas, but then we learn that he can do this because he had also shut down after he saw his mother die and he knows how scary the world can seem and how he needed to make himself brave to carry on.

Sam watches from the sidelines and we can see him have an ‘oh ok’ moment as he stores away this information because it has clearly never been discussed in the family earlier. Kudos to Jared for being amazing with the ‘active listening’ that Sheila O’Malley references so often.

So despite Sam challenging him to name 3 kids he even knows, we see that Dean actually focusses on the kid throughout. The shared sense of loss aside, maybe Dean also sees himself as the protector of all little kids especially after the Shtriga incident. (which we don’t know anything about yet) (and we do see him bond with kids in every episode that involves kids. It is adorable !!)

In this episode Dean is almost drowning in his dad’s leather jacket and the way the silver ring looks on his hand is just ridiculously sexy…sigh….and that amulet right where it belongs…..deeper sigh. Then the cocky grin, the unsubtle flirting, all macho/manly/me- so- hetero/me- see- me- conquer on the outside but the soft squidgy child- whispering caramel centre, the trauma of being a motherless kid—having become motherless in a brutal way, a missing and probably almost cruel dad, a brother he raised as his own who walked out on him to go seek his own dreams….all these layers are being put together slowly for us.

Dean is not what he seemed to be and that brash swashbuckling exterior hides a very complex and interesting person. The script and direction were excellent of course but Jensen brought to it just the perfect balance of bad-boy + I wuv hugs.

Sam is still finding his way into the story and we are still watching things from Dean’s perspective as narrator which is fascinating to realize during the re-watch. As I have mentioned earlier, I was so swept away by Dean that it took me a very long time to focus on Sam as a separate person.

Ok, now, all together shout--- --WHY do people DO the following things??!!!

Put hands elbow deep into a sink, give lifts to obvious deranged malevolent spirits in human form, ‘let’s split up so we can cover more ground’, go into a shower/bath in a scary scene—can’t they HEAR the dun-dun-dun music score in the background?!! Sheesh.

Anyway.     *eyeroll*

In a not- at- all- very- surprising turn of events Sam and Dean’s fake identity is called out and they are asked to leave town, which they do. But ….of course Dean does a very dramatic turn on the highway and takes them back to make sure the kid is ok!

Then Sam rescues the mother from the lethal bath- tub while Dean makes sure the kid is safe. Then they start to connect even more dots and eventually we see an incredible heroic rescue scene in the scary lake with Dean and the boy.

Jensen had described this shot in some interview as the most terrifying scene he had ever done apparently because he was responsible not only for doing the scene right but also for the young boy’s safety underwater.

What a fabulous visual we do get finally, with the boy in his embrace as they shoot out of the water!

That lake with its dark water is one super creepy place. That very first scene where we see the girl swimming from an underwater perspective had me yelling at the screen for her to GET OUT NOW.

So, finally, all is sorted and revenge has been had and bad folks die, good folks live and as they leave the town of course Lucas chats with Dean and they high five and just like the sister in the Wendigo episode, the young mother in this one also gives Dean a kiss on his cheek. Dean of course blushes and goes all gruff and drives off with Sam smirking in the shotgun seat.

The pattern is beginning to be established.

I am loving it!😍

.

The gag reel of this episode shows Jensen leaping into Jared’s arms.

This is the third episode only. So they have known each other only for a couple of months at this point?! Hmm…my J2 tinhat is also shining. And also wow. I mean Jensen is NOT a tiny guy.

  Here are some other possibly more erudite and informed reviews if you would like to go down that rabbit hole like I did.

This one is cool https://the-orbit.net/entequilaesverdad/2016/05/10/supernatural-s1-e3-dead-water-summary/ and gives a fun and interesting score at the end which goes like this

Episode 3 counts:

Woman in the Fridge: 1

For Sophie Carlton being the first to get murdered by the vengeful spirit. It’s obviously meant to hook us harder: I mean, nobody would care as much about obnoxious brother Will, right?

Revenge from Beyond the Grave: 4

Sophie Carlton, Will Carlton, Bill Carlton, and Jake Devins.

Brotherly Love: 2

I had to give one to Sam for cock-blocking his brother right at the start. Another point goes to Dean’s sick-of-your-attitude lecture to his little brother, throwing Sam’s decision to go to college while Dean stayed behind with their dad in his face.

Toxic Masculinity: 1

For Dean downplaying his grief when Sam draws him out about the aftermath of their mother’s death.

Swimming in Sexism: 2

For Will Carlton’s comment to his sister that “guys don’t like buff girls.” I added a point for all the times they had Dean hitting on any available woman. They do want us to be extra-very sure he’s hetero, don’t they?

Cumulative Counts: Dean’s Man Tears: 3

One point awarded for all Dean’s choking up about Mom. We’re now three for three, folks.

.

This review totally calls out Dean LOL. I love the reviews that were written as first watch because they are without the benefit of hindsight we have on a re-watch.

.

http://markwatches.net/reviews/2013/11/mark-watches-supernatural-s01e03-dead-in-the-water/

“It was fascinating to me, then, that through this, Sam was able to learn about Dean’s own emotional reasoning behind his hunting. Of course, Dean, being the most stereotypical dude of all dudes who ever duded, has to immediately act like feelings aren’t cool because BLEH. Okay, that is one aspect of Dean that I’m not terribly interested in, especially since he expresses feelings like every five seconds. The whole “I am a straight man and I’m very straight and look at that butt straight I’m straight” thing is already exhausting because I get it. You don’t need to tell me this every five seconds.” 

The comments to this review are also super entertaining with gems like this:

“So, if you knew that someone had drowned in the lake recently and their body was never found, WHY WOULD YOU STILL GO SWIMMING IN THE LAKE? Especially if two people had. It wouldn't make you think, "Hey, maybe there's something dangerous in that lake?" This show has some of the least genre savvy people EVER. Like, for example, once this mysterious death thing shows up in a sink, why would anyone want to take a bath or really ever fill any basin with water again? Seriously, is this the Bad Decision Olympics?”

.

Here is an awesome review from Fangasm also

https://fangasmthebook.com/2021/01/13/looking-back-on-dead-in-the-water-classic-supernatural/

[stardust-walker]

High Hopes

word count: 4014

Chapters: 1 2 3

Chapter 4

The weirdest thing is that a few months ago, Dove wouldn’t think that listening to kids running and playing would sound as sweet as it did.

A small chuckle escaped her as she sat on the steps leading into Dale’s RV. The horrified look on Glenn’s face as he stopped mid-greeting was just as amusing.

“Well. Good morning to you too, sunshine,” Dove squinted as she stood up and moved to stand next to him.

“When did they start tearing it apart,” Glenn frowned as he folded his arms in front of his chest.

Dove shrugged her shoulders, “’Bout a half an hour ago, I suppose.” She ran a hand through her dark hair as she turned her head slightly. Rick was finally awake again. Dove raised a hand to shield her eyes from the sun as she greeted the newcomer. “Mornin’, Rick!”

“Go on! Tear it apart, you vultures.” Glenn scowled and shook his head. Dove couldn’t keep herself from letting out a snort of laughter.

“Generators need every drop of fuel they can get,” Dale stated matter-of-factly as he walked past them.

“He has a fair point. I’d rather have a shower than a fancy car,” Dove mumbled quietly.

“I thought I’d get to drive it another few days,” Glenn sighed.

Dove turned her head slightly as Rick responded, “Maybe we’ll get to steal another one someday.”

This new way of living sure was a hell of a thing when you had a sheriff encouraging grand theft auto.

Dove placed a comforting hand on Glenn’s shoulder, “Maybe an even nicer one! One that’s not going to send an alarm running for miles next time too.” Glenn just let out an annoyed sigh.

Glenn seemed to be resigned to the fact that his car was being torn apart by Jim. Dove patted his shoulder again as she watched him step forward to converse with the other man. Knowing him, he was still probably trying to talk about what a cool car it was to anyone who would listen.

A revving engine caught the attention of a few members of the camp as Shane pulled up. He announced, “Make sure to boil the water before use.”

Carol made her way over to Dove. “Too bad about Glenn’s car, huh?”

The response caught in Dove’s throat as a shrill scream erupted from the woods close by, followed by another voice screaming “Mom!!”

A panicked look was exchanged between the sisters for a moment and then they were both off. Carol screamed for Sophia and the relief was obvious on Dove’s face as the little girl broke through the trees with Carl hot on her heels.

Tiny arms wrapped themselves around her waist as Dove knelt quickly to survey her niece for any marks. “Are you alright, Soph? Nothing bit you?” Sophia shook her head quickly, only able to muster up a panicked whimper. Carol finally broke through the trees behind her and let out a relieved cry as Sophia released her aunt with a cry of, “Mommy!!”

Dove glanced around quickly before she pointed back towards camp. “Take them back now! I’m just gonna make sure everything’s alright!” Carol nodded her head and scooped Sophia up.

Lori, however, eyed her warily for a moment before the brunette disappeared into the tree line again.

As she broke through the trees she held back a hysterical laugh. They were just stood around the damn thing, beating it with sticks. So much for being evolved past a caveman brain.

Amy let out a disgusted groan as the walkers head was finally chopped off.

Dale muttered, “That’s the first one we’ve had out here.”

Jim replied, “They must be running out of food in the city.”

Dove looked over at Amy and Andrea. Both of the sisters were just looking on like a couple of deer in the headlights and she couldn’t blame them. She felt a little nauseous herself.

Branches snapped in the woods and all conversation stopped. Andrea put a protective arm around Amy and Dove took a slow step forward towards the men. Curiosity was a bitch of a thing, but she wanted to see what exactly was going to happen.

Her heart leapt into her throat and plummeted back to her stomach as Daryl Dixon came into view. Her eyes locked with Jim’s in a moment of panic before she quickly looked down at her feet. Honestly, she would rather have a walker run out of the woods right now than have to face the inevitable.

Daryl looked pissed already. Definitely a good sign for them. “That was my deer. Look at it! All gnawed on by this filthy, disease ridden, motherless, proxy bastard!”

Dale shook his head in disgust, “Now come on, son. That’s not helping anyone.”

Daryl’s temper flared up again as he stepped quickly over the walker, headed right for Dale. Dove took a quick step closer to Rick as she eyed the officer, trying to communicate that this was not a good sign. “What do you know about it, old man? Why don’t you take that stupid hat and go back to ‘on golden pond’?”

A surprised laugh, which was able to be quickly covered up as a cough escaped Dove’s lips. Glenn elbowed her slightly in the side and narrowed his eyes once he had her attention. The woman merely shrugged as she turned her attention back to the dead animal. Her stomach did begin to rumble at the thought of venison, or anything other than squirrels for that matter. A sigh left her lips as Shane stated, “I wouldn’t risk that.”

Daryl’s focus drifted to her, almost asking for another opinion. Dove shrugged her shoulders before she slipped her hands into her back pockets, “As good as it sounds, it’s too risky. We got kids to think about and what if they eat tainted meat? Get sick?”

Daryl sighed and shook his head, “Damn shame. I got a few squirrels though. ‘Bout a dozen or so. That’ll have to do.” The calmness in the air broke as the walker head at her feet started snapping its jaw again. Dove let out a startled shriek and stumbled back into Glenn as Daryl shot an arrow into it’s brain. “Gotta be the brain. Don’t ya’ know nothin?”

The focus of the group shifted again as Daryl stalked off towards camp. Dale looked startled, “I don’t see this going well.”

Shane removed the hat from his head as the group started to walk, Dove started to take longer strides to keep up with the two officers. She heard Shane mention Daryl’s name and spoke up.

“I think you guys really need to think about doing this,” Dove spoke, concern in her voice. “I think you oughta try and break it to him as gently as possible. People like him tend to react violently, plus he seems pretty hyped up from losing that deer.”

The two men kept moving, but Rick glanced over his shoulder at her. “What’d you do before this?”

“I was a therapist. Getting ready to work on my PhD. Why?”

She didn’t miss the look the two men exchanged and fell back a step. Glenn flinched as he heard Daryl yell for Merle. “This is gonna be a shit show,” Glenn sighed.

Dove shook her head as Shane stopped Daryl in his tracks. “Poor guy. I got money on Dixon, though. He’s a scrapper.” She whispered so only Glenn could hear. Glenn let out a nervous chuckle as the two of them came to a stop next to the Jeep.

“There was a problem in Atlanta.” Seriously, Dove thought, he’s going to drag it out like this? What a mess.

“He dead?” Dove gripped Glenn’s wrist a little tighter than she meant to as she took a step closer to him.

“We’re not sure.”

“He either is or he ain’t!” Dove couldn’t really blame him for being so angry. She could only imagine how mad she would be if it were Carol on that roof. She would probably be trying to kick the ass of anyone she could find.

“No easy way to say this, so I’ll just say it,” Rick stated as he finally took a step forward. What a time to play good cop, bad cop.

Rick introduced himself, only to be met with, “Rick Grimes, you got somethin’ you wanna tell me?”

“Your brother was a danger to us all. So I handcuffed him on a roof, hooked him to a piece of metal,” Rick finished. Damn, she had to admire how he got right to the point about it. “He’s still there.”

Daryl started pacing like a caged animal. “Hold on. Let me process this. You’re saying you handcuffed my brother to a roof and you left him there?” Daryl shouted. Dove could feel her pulse quickening as a million and one ways that she was trained to de-escalate someone this angry ran through her head. None of them seemed to make any sense right now under the heat from the burning Atlanta sun.

The next few seconds were a blur. Daryl yelled, Dove let out a startled yelp as the squirrels flew towards her, she stepped back closer to Glenn, and just like that, Daryl was on the ground. T-Dog stepped forward, shouting something about a knife. Dove took a few slow steps forward, eyes wide as saucers as she watched Shane bring him down in a chokehold after a few swings of a knife.

“Chokeholds illegal,” Daryl managed to choke out.

Shane sounded too comfortable with it for Dove’s liking. “Yeah, well, file a complaint.” Dove argued with herself internally as she watched Daryl keep struggling to be let go.

Rick knelt in front of the other two men, clearly trying to calm the situation down. “I’d like to have a calm discussion on this topic.”

Dove scowled as she squatted down between the two officers. “Not to tell you how to do your job, but it’s awful hard to have a calm discussion with a man whose air supply is being cut off,” she finished through gritted teeth.

 Rick glanced at her and nodded before he turned back to Daryl, “You think we can manage that?”

The two officers nodded at each other and Dove stood up quickly as Daryl finally got released. She watched for a moment, still in shock about what just happened, when she saw Daryl still trying to catch his breath as he pointed at Shane. Dove turned quickly and placed a hand on Shane’s arm. “Just back up, man. Rick’s got it. You don’t need to be bad cop right now,” she pushed him back gently before she walked past the other two men, joining Lori by the steps to the RV.

“You good,” the other woman asked, her eyes not leaving the scene in front of her.

“Yeah just adrenaline rush. I’m fine,” Dove nodded as she brushed her hair out of her eyes. She turned her head slightly and met Carol’s worried gaze through the window of the RV. Dove held her hand up and nodded her head.

“It’s not Rick’s fault,” T-Dog interjected and suddenly the focus was on him. “I had the key. I dropped it.”

Daryl snapped again, “You couldn’t pick it up?”

“Well, I dropped it in a drain.” Dove couldn’t help but roll her eyes at this. This just sounded worse and worse the more they tried to explain it to him. At least no one was dead yet.

Her heart sank as she folded her arms in front of her chest, her focus shifted with everyone else’s as the men moved slowly around camp. She knew that Daryl and his brother were close but, shit. She didn’t expect to see him cry for even a second. One of her hands flew up to cover her mouth as she looked down at her feet.

She wasn’t surprised when Daryl shouted. “Hell with all y’all. Just tell me where he is so’s I can go get em.”

What truly shocked her was Lori. The older woman spoke up from her spot by the door at this. “He’ll show you. Won’t you?” She almost insisted with just her words as she locked eyes with her husband.

Dove was torn between following Lori back into the RV or following after Rick as the conflict came to a close. She, instead, chose to check on Carol and Sophia. Her steps were quiet as she walked up the steps to the RV. Dove slid into the seat at the table opposite of her family and reached a hand out to stroke Sophia’s arm. “Hey, bug. You were real brave out there today,” Dove spoke softly as Sophia lifted her head from her mother’s arms.

Sophia sniffled and rubbed her eyes before she looked between the two sisters. “I was really scared,” the young girl whispered.

Dove smiled a little and nodded her head. “I was too, bug. But you did the right thing by runnin like that. Hell, I don’t think either of us knew you could run that fast!” Carol chuckled softly at this as she stroked the young girl’s hair.

“She’s right, Sophia. You kept yourself safe. That was the right thing to do.” Carol kissed the top of her daughter’s forehead before she whispered for her to do something that sounded a lot like ‘go check on Carl’.

Dove drummed her fingers on the table as her thoughts raced through her head. Carol’s voice finally pulled her out of her own head. “You want to go with them, don’t you.” Carol stated in a hushed voice.

Dove’s eyes shot up. Her hazel eyes widened a little bit as she felt color rush to her cheeks. “I…I was thinking about it.”

Carol clicked her tongue and shook her head. “I don’t want my sister out there dyin’ for someone like Merle Dixon.” Her voice didn’t raise above a whisper, though she didn’t sound pleased at all.

Dove rolled her eyes at this. “That’s not what I was thinking of!”

“Then what were you…”

Dove cut her older sister off as she reached out and took her hand, “What if that was me up there, huh? Or you? Would you want me to just leave you up there like that to die?” Dove hissed. “It’s the right thing to do, Carol. Merle or not, it’s the right thing to do.”

Carol’s eyes widened slightly as she took in her sister’s words and nodded her head slowly. “If that’s what you want to do, I can’t stop you. But I just want you to be careful. I don’t want to be explaining to Sophia why her aunt isn’t around anymore.”

A small smirk graced Dove’s face as she squeezed Carol’s hand gently. “Oh please. I’m always careful.”

It was Carol’s turn to roll her eyes as Dove rose from her seat, kissed her older sister on the top of her head, and descended the stairs out of the RV.

Dove looked around camp before spotting Daryl by the fire. She took a long deep breath in through her nose and out through her mouth before trudging forward. “Hey, you alright?” Dumb question.

“What kinda stupid question is that,” Daryl snapped at her.

Dove raised both her hands in front of her, a tired expression on her face. “Right. Guess I deserved that, it was pretty fucking stupid huh.”

Daryl just stared at her for a moment. He had the type of eyes that made her uneasy sometimes; eyes that could stare right into your soul if you’d let them. “What do you want?”

Dove let out a heavy sigh as she watched Carol approach her laundry station out of the corner of her eye. She stood up a little straighter and crossed her arms in front of her chest. “I wanna go with you and Rick. Try to bring back Merle. I figure the more people, the better. Plus, y’all might need someone to balance out all the testosterone in that car.”

Daryl stared at her again for a few seconds before scoffing at her. “Don’t need no one else out there, especially not you. Can you even shoot a gun?”

Dove grinded her teeth together as she nodded her head slowly. “Well, excuse me. I may not know how to shoot a gun but I am just as capable as Andrea and Jacqui and they go out into the city all the time! Give me a blunt object and I can take out any walker just as good as a gun, I bet.” Her hands were shaking as she unfolded her arms and shoved her hands in her pockets.

“Alright.” Daryl turned his attention from her.

Dove’s jaw almost dropped in shock as she stood still. “Excuse me?”

Daryl turned back to face her, eyes narrowed slightly. “You heard me, girl. You’re grown, you wanna go? Can’t stop ya. Just don’t expect to get your ass saved.”

“Oh don’t worry, I won’t,” a serene smile was on Dove’s face now.

Shane would definitely have to learn to hold his tongue if they were going to bring Merle back as he called Merle a “douchebag”.

Daryl pointed at the man, “Hey, you better watch what you say!”

Shane nodded his head all sincerely before uttering, “No no. Douchebag’s what I meant.”

Dove rolled her eyes and brought the palms of her hands up to rub her eyes, “Dear god what did I do to deserve this.”

Lori spoke up from her seat by what would be that night’s fire. “So what? You and Daryl, that’s your big plan?”

Carol eyed Dove for a moment before the group’s attention shifted to Glenn. “Oh come on!”

Rick spoke, “You know the way. You’ve been there before. In and out, no problem! You said so yourself.” He was right. Glenn wasn’t shy about telling everyone in the group how well he knew the city and he had dug his own grace.

“That’s just great. Now you’re gonna risk three men?” Shane scoffed.

T-Dog spoke up next, “Four.”

Daryl scoffed, “My day just gets better and better, don’t it?”

Dove rolled her eyes, “Might as well get this out of the way now and make it five.”

Dale glanced between them all and nodded his head. “That’s five.”

Shane shook his head and began to pace a little bit. “You’re putting every single one of us at risk. Just know that, Rick. C’mon. You saw that walker! It was here. It was in camp,” Shane lectured. “They come back, we need every able body we’ve got. We need em to protect camp.”

Rick nodded his head, “Sounds to me like what you need is more guns.”

Dove’s head was spinning. Sophia shuffled her feet as Dove walked over to them. She knelt in front of the girl, taking her hands in her as the others talked about the guns. “Now you listen to me, alright? I’m gonna be just fine! I promise. I always am. But I need you to promise me something too okay?”

Sophia nodded her head and listened intently. “I need you to look out for your mama until I get back, okay? Just make sure everything’s alright. Hold down the fort for me. Promise?” She released Sophia’s hands and held a pinky out to her.

Sophia locked her pinky with her aunt’s before she wrapped her arms around her neck in a hug. “Be safe.”

Dove kissed her niece on the forehead before standing up and brushing off her knees. “Be safe, Carol.” Dove hugged her sister tightly before she turned to see what was going on.

Dove lifted herself into the back of the van, her eyes were beginning to glaze over from boredom as she waited before she almost leapt out of her skin at the sound of a horn honking. From the driver’s seat, Glenn let out a startled shout as Daryl stepped on the horn again. “C’mon let’s go!”

Dove rubbed her temples and muttered to herself before placing a hand on the crowbar that she’d managed to sweet talk out of Jim. She would definitely have to make sure that she made it back now.

The young woman blew a kiss to her family as the door to the back of the van was slammed shut and they pulled away.

~

It was oddly silent on the way to the city. Dove positioned herself so she could see out the front windshield. “This is the first time I’ve left camp in the past two months.” She whispered to Glenn and Rick.

Rick turned his head, a sympathetic look on his face. “You might not want to look until we get there, then. Might be a bit of a shock. Trust me on that one.”

Dove took in the man’s words for a moment before she turned and faced the back of the van again.

Daryl finally spoke up for the first time since they started on the road. “He best be alright.”

T-Dog sighed. “The only thing that’s getting through that door is us. He’s fine.”

The van finally lurched to a stop and Glenn called back, “We walk from here.”

Dove groaned as she pulled herself to her feet and hopped out of the back of the van. “Oh shit, I’m getting old.” She mumbled to T-Dog as he hopped down next to her.

T-Dog shook his head at her. “You’re getting old? Just wait ‘til you hit 30.”

Dove laughed quietly as she took off down the train tracks after the rest of the group.

Rick paused as they stepped through a space in the gate that led from the tracks to the road. “Merle first or guns?”

Daryl snapped. “Merle! We ain’t even havin this conversation.”

Dove shook her head and motioned towards Daryl with her free hand, the other still tightly gripping the crowbar. “I’m with him on this. I mean a human life or ammo?”

Rick stared at both of them, clearly trying to keep his cool “We are having this conversation. You know the geography, it’s your call.” He turned to Glenn as the group began to walk.

“Merle’s closest. The guns would mean doubling back.” Glenn stated and Dove wasn’t sure if he was lying or not, but she was grateful for that nonetheless.

Her hazel eyes seemed to take in everything that had happened to Atlanta as they walked through the city. The city she had worked in and know so well was practically gone in a matter of weeks. It made her chest feel tight to see everything, but she knew she couldn’t stop moving.

She stepped lightly into the department store behind T-Dog and in front of Glenn as she went. She stopped, crowbar raised as a walker made it’s way through the aisles of the store. Daryl didn’t waste any time shooting the thing through the head.

Glenn moved forward and directed them to a staircase. It was a lot farther up than it looked, or maybe she was out of shape, but the steps were seeming to take their toll on her as they worked their way towards the roof.

The men reached the last landing as Dove rounded the corner just a few steps behind them. She took the last few steps slowly as she watched Daryl kick the door open after the chain was finally cut.

Something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong. She observed as she ran up the last few steps out onto the roof with the others. Merles Dixon was not a quiet man and he surely would’ve reacted to a door being kicked the fuck open.

Daryl’s screams for his brother turned into screams of panic. Dove’s heart dropped as she stepped out onto the roof behind Glenn and she saw it. A hand flew up to cover her mouth as she fought back the urge to vomit. Merle’s hand laid there on the ground next to a bloody hacksaw but Merle Dixon the man was gone.

-

@crossbowking​

[lady-divine-writes]

Klaine Advent Drabble 2020 - “To Tree or Not to Tree” (Rated NC17)

Summary: When Blaine tells Kurt that they're going out to "get a tree", Kurt never imagined they'd be trekking up a freezing cold mountainside to chop one down. (2820 words)

Notes: A re-vamp for the @klaineadvent Drabble Challenge 2020 prompt 'farm'.

Read on AO3.

“Oh. My. God!” Kurt groans, hopping out of his SUV and sinking up to his ankles in snow. “I thought you were kidding about this!”

“Nope.” Blaine rounds to the hatch of Kurt’s Navigator and pops it. He unzips a duffel he brought with, one Kurt had hoped was filled with fun surprises like a picnic lunch that they could enjoy in the vehicle with the heater blasting before they braved the weather to get their Christmas tree from a quaint but upscale tree farm, the kind that smells strongly of cinnamon pine cones and which offers customers plastic flutes filled with sparkling cider as they pass over the threshold into an idyllic Winter Wonderland lit by twinkling white fairy lights beneath the cover of a gigantic canopy. 

He’d dressed entirely in brands that Vogue recently featured in their center spread and had planned on snapping a few shots for the website - kill two birds with one stone. He’d even lent Blaine a few pieces he’d squirreled from The Vault. He could see the whole layout in his head. Behind his eyelids, the slideshow of images he had planned was fabulous.

But no. 

Disturbingly, Blaine pulls out a wood-handled ax, along with a pair of safety goggles; thick, brown gloves; and some rope. He holds them up for Kurt to see. “Totally not kidding."

“Do we really have to cut down a tree?” Kurt asks, watching Blaine gear up, a one-man wrecking crew, leading Kurt to the conclusion that he should stay at the SUV and let Blaine go on this ridiculous errand alone. 

“Yes, we do.” Rope looped over his arm and dangling across his chest, Blaine hoists his ax over one shoulder and begins the journey, carving a neat path up the slowly rising incline as Kurt follows behind, contemplating his options. He has the keys. He could definitely implement the stay behind and keep the heater company fantasy. But there is the small matter of he loves Blaine. He would be miserable and lonely waiting hours in the SUV without him. Besides, considering how well Blaine fills out those North Face pants and Carhartt jacket, Kurt sees how he can make this work in his favor. The new outdoorsman, who can go from big city to big country in the blink of an eye (courtesy of the right separates).

He’s not married to that headline, but he can hash it out as he goes.

“You do know there’s a Christmas tree farm right there,” Kurt points out, raising his voice to be heard over the howling wind. When Blaine peeks over his shoulder, Kurt throws out an arm in the direction that they came. Past the snow-covered asphalt lot, where Kurt’s SUV is currently one of five cars parked, stretch miles of evergreens, cut down and mounted onto wooden stands, waiting to be plucked, flocked, and paid for.

“Cutting down a tree has been a tradition in my family since before I was born,” Blaine says. 

Kurt looks at him sideways. “I ... didn’t know that.”

“Yup."

"How did I not know that? We've been married for three years!"

Blaine turns a full circle as he walks and gives Kurt a wink. "I guess I'm just full of surprises."

"You're full of something," Kurt mumbles under his breath.

"It's a tradition," Blaine continues, unaware of his husband's grousing. "One I want to hand down to our children someday.”

“Can’t we get them a pony instead?”

“I recommend not stomping up this incline,” Blaine advises, changing the subject, “or you’re going to exhaust yourself. I’m not sure I can carry you and a tree back down this mountain.”

"Hmph. Not with that attitude, you can't."

It’s a crisp December day, almost too cold to bear. The difference in temperature between the city and where they ended up is so drastic, it’s hard to believe they’re still in the same state. A perfect day to sit by the fire while binge-watching Netflix, with a cup of hot cocoa beside a beautifully decorated Christmas tree. Kurt had everything he needed to make that happen, too, except the tree. 

Kurt and Blaine had yet to have a day off together to pick one out. 

So when Blaine came home, tossed Kurt a coat, and said, “Grab your keys! We’re getting a tree!” Kurt had been ecstatic! Until he discovered that Blaine’s idea of “getting a tree” wasn’t a simple matter of driving to a tree farm and picking out a decent six-foot Scotch Pine. 

No. 

Blaine had Kurt drive over an hour away from civilization to a place where there are no Starbucks, spotty WiFi, and no doors on the bathroom stalls.

The snow on the ground at this altitude is deep, becoming deeper as the slope of the mountain rises. And as breathtaking as the world looks from this elevation, Kurt hates everything about this. He hates the snow getting into his boots, soaking his three pairs of socks. He hates the wind that seems to purposefully sweep down the mountain straight into his face. Blaine walking ahead, right in front of him, does nothing to provide a barrier from the wind.

That’s because Blaine is loving this. And as a reward, the wind must be going right through him.

Blaine leads them deeper into woods that climb higher and higher. Even though the man who greeted them at the entrance, dressed in head-to-toe red flannel and brown corduroy, directed them up the mountain, saying this was the place locals preferred to get their trees, Blaine and Kurt don’t see anyone else past the tree line. The air gets thinner. The sunlight off the snow is brighter, blindingly bright, but it doesn’t offer Kurt or his rapidly chapping cheeks any warmth. He folds his arms over his chest and shoves his gloved hands underneath his armpits, but it doesn’t help thaw the tips of his fingers, which he can’t feel anymore.

“There are trees everywhere up here!” Kurt complains.

“Yeah! Isn’t it great!”

“Pick one! What are you doing?” Kurt gripes when they pass a swath of gorgeous trees and yet keep walking.

“I'm searching.”

“For what?”

“I’m looking for the perfect tree.”

“And what constitutes the perfect tree, in your opinion? Because from what I can see, we passed over two dozen perfect trees getting here!”

“When you see the perfect tree, you’ll know the perfect tree.”

Kurt has no idea what the heck that means but decides not to ask for clarification in an effort to get them off this frickin’ mountain and home quicker. Home equals warmth, comfort, and not succumbing to hypothermia. “Well, what about this one?” Kurt asks, pointing to a tree on his right.

“Ooo! That’s a good one!” Blaine says.

“Really?” Kurt asks, surprised that he got it right on the first try. Maybe he has a knack for this, like his knack for fashion. He does have an eye for aesthetics. “So this is the perfect tree?”

“Nope.”

Kurt stumbles. "Oh." He did not expect that answer. Eager to prevail, he points out another one. “This one?”

“No.”

“O-kay, what about this one?”

“Not quite, but good try.”

Kurt would throw his hands up in frustration, but his arms are locked in place, hugging his chest. 

“How did you become the tree authority?”

“Years of practice.”

“If you’re the one with the tree picking knowledge, what am I doing here that I couldn’t do at home where we have eggnog and cable?”

“You get to marvel in awe at my magnificent strength and skill.”

“I can’t help but remind you that I could be marveling at your strength and skill at home while you hold me up against the wall in our bedroom and make love to me.”

“True. But seeing as we did that all of last night and Mr. Mulroney has the night shift tonight, I thought it would be nice if we let the poor man sleep.”

“The walls in our apartment are thin, aren’t they?”

“They really are.”

They pass through a tight cluster of trees and enter a small clearing, coming upon a scene right out of a Hallmark Channel movie. God rays shine through the foliage overhead, lighting a single tree in the center. In the quiet of this enclosed glade, Kurt can’t hear the whistling wind, and he immediately begins to feel warmer. All they need now are cartoon animals bringing them presents and an angelic choir singing carols and they’ll be starring in their own Christmas special. 

It would be ideal, Kurt thinks, considering he’s a motherless child and he’s standing beside an elf. He puts a pin in it, with a plan to write up a treatment as soon as they get back to their apartment.

Provided he doesn’t lose any of his fingers before then.

Blaine tosses the rope aside. He walks reverently up to the center tree and stops in front of it. He opens his arms wide, ax clutched in his right fist. “Here,” he declares. “Here it is.”

Kurt looks at the tree in front of them, then at all the identical trees surrounding it. “Here what is?”

“Our perfect tree.”

“And what makes this tree any different from the sixty or more trees we passed hiking up here?”

“This one’s fuller, more symmetrical, with an almost pyramid top.” When Kurt doesn’t immediately agree, Blaine motions to the tree more vehemently, trying to get his point across. “It’s just more … more tree than those other trees. More Christmas …” Blaine turns to his husband standing off to the side behind him, arms crossed, head tilted. Blaine sighs. “You obviously don’t know your Christmas trees. If you can’t see why this one’s superior, I don’t know how to explain it to you.”

Kurt shakes his head. “Sorry.” 

“You’ll see the difference when it’s up in our apartment.” Blaine grips his ax with both hands and gets into position. “Okay! Stand back!”

“You don’t need to tell me twice. I love you, Blaine, but I have no intention of getting anywhere near you and that instrument of death.” 

Kurt takes a step back, then three more as Blaine hoists the ax behind him. Kurt fishes his iPhone out of his pocket, preparing to document what is either going to be the sexiest thing Blaine has ever done, or evidence for the investigators who might try to pin Blaine's grisly death on him. Either way, watching Blaine attempt to chop down a tree might actually be worth wet socks and a nightmare case of the flu.

Kurt holds up his phone with the camera app accessed, ready to film as Blaine takes his first swing, which, surprisingly, buries the blade a respectable depth into the wood. But it’s the pullback that gets Kurt, the way Blaine locks his feet in the snow, bends at the knees, and dislodges the ax. Kurt can’t see Blaine’s back through his coat, but he imagines the play of his muscles, the rise and fall of his shoulders, the cut of his delts showing through as they strain with effort. Kurt has seen Blaine naked over a hundred times, has watched the man make love to him in videos they’ve made. He envisions everything going on beneath Blaine’s clothes as he swings that ax … and the frigid air around him doesn't feel quite as cold anymore.

“Mmmm …” Kurt hits record and focuses his camera on his husband’s assets. After a minute of chopping, Blaine realizes Kurt has stopped commenting. He lowers his ax and takes a breather, catching the tail end of his husband's complimentary hum.

“Mmmm what?” Blaine turns, curious to see what Kurt has been doing that’s kept him quiet this whole time. He raises an eyebrow when he sees the phone in Kurt’s hands. “Are you ... recording me?”

“Maybe,” Kurt says, biting his lower lip. “You know, now that I get a good look at it, you did find the best tree on the mountain. And watching you cut it down is becoming a massive turn on. You being all lumberjack-ish is kind of hot.”

Blaine grins, leveling the ax over his shoulder. “Only kind of?”

“Well, yeah.” Kurt switches off his camera app and puts his phone back in his pocket, seeing a make-out break forthcoming. “The walk up the mountain took a lot out of me.”

Blaine leans his ax against the trunk of a tree and saunters up to his husband. “Well then … perhaps I can put something in you.”

Kurt snorts. “Okay, that’s cheesy as hell ... but I wish you would."

With a suggestive smile on his frosty lips, Blaine wraps one arm around Kurt’s waist and pulls him closer, his other hand reaching between them to fondle the bulge growing in the front of Kurt’s jeans. He tugs at the buttons of Kurt’s fly, and Kurt knows Blaine has more on his mind than kissing. He shoots an anxious look around their private nook. “What? Here?”

“Why not? We’re alone. There’s no one else around. No one will see us or hear us. You can scream all you want.”

“When you put it like that, it sounds like we're in a horror movie!"

"Is that your only objection?"

"No. I'm objecting because it’s freezing!”

“Come on …” Blaine takes off his gloves and begins unbuttoning Kurt’s wet coat, starting at the middle and working down. “I’m not going to strip us naked or anything. Besides, you’ll warm up in no time. You know what they say about body heat …”

“This reminds me of one of those bad amateur porn videos on the Internet. The ones that try to have a storyline, but the acting is so awful it turns into a comedy?”

“As a professional actor, I think I take offense to that.” Blaine nuzzles past Kurt’s icy jaw and into the warm skin of his neck. “What videos are you watching anyway?”

“I can show you. Maybe we can … you know … watch one or two … when we get home …” Kurt stutters, shivering when Blaine’s cold lips connect with his flesh, then melting beneath the heat of his husband’s tongue. Blaine walks Kurt backward, away from their half-chopped pine to the shelter of a different tree, moving them a safe distance on the off chance the poor thing decides to finish itself off without their help.

“Oh, God! Kurt!” Blaine moans, warming his hands by wedging them between the soft skin of Kurt’s groin and his growing erection.

“Blaine,” Kurt murmurs as his husband sucks a mark into the sensitive skin of his collarbone, “I just … I just want you to know that … if we freeze to death … or get eaten by a bear … I’m blaming you entirely.”

Blaine grabs Kurt’s trembling hands and brings them to the zipper of his pants. “Fair enough.”

***

“Welp. That was less than memorable,” Kurt grumbles, trying to re-button his jeans with numb fingers. “I hope that doesn’t become part of the tradition.”

“For the ninth time, I slipped!” an embarrassed Blaine says, teeth chattering, rushing to help Kurt do up his now useless coat. “I didn’t mean for us to take a nose dive into the snow!”

“Who would have thunk that fucking on ice would be dangerous!?" Kurt says sarcastically. "Christ! I must look like a wet French poodle!"

"That's ... oddly specific."

In an attempt to salvage the look he had going, Kurt tries combing his fingers through his hair but hits resistance. “Ugh! I think I’ve got sap in my hair.” He tugs and tugs, abandoning his attempts with a huff after he manages to get his fingers free … along with a sizeable chunk of hair. 

“Fucking on ice,” Blaine repeats with a chuckle. “That sounds like an X-rated skating show.”

Kurt glares at his husband, unamused. “Yeah. Hilarious. Can we go back to getting our perfect tree now, Grizzly Adams?”

“I don’t know …” Blaine looks at the tree they’d been fucking against before his enthusiastic thrusting caused them to slip and take a header into the snow. “I think I like this one now.” He pats the trunk, shaking loose a minor avalanche from the branches that contains more needles than snow.

Kurt steps back, making a face as he judges the less than spectacular tree. “Why?”

“We had sex on it. That makes it ours.”

“This isn’t a department store, Blaine. I don’t think you break it, you buy it applies here.”

“I think this falls more under the guidelines of��I licked it, now it’s mine.”

“I understand the sentiment, but this one’s got a dent in it.” Kurt snickers. “A dent shaped like your ass.”

“That’s a good thing,” Blaine says, walking off to retrieve his ax. “We’ll know which side to face toward the wall.”

[devotionthatcorrupts]

ok so you sent me an ask about my tags, but i've always loved yours!!! i like it when people have tags that are poetic or songs or references or inside jokes. how did you choose the ones you use? they all seem related but if there's a story, i'd love to hear it!

I'm so happy to hear that I put so much effort into having a coherent tagging system on here it makes me delighted when people like them. They actually are all unrelated source wise but they are all themed around what I think the character/relationships central thesis is. these are going to be long so I'm going to put it under a read more.

knighthood as religion is dean's tag because I believe his core narrative is centered around being both raised and personally devoted to the idea of being a protector and shield for people but in particular sam in a way that goes beyond duty and exists as a devout calling. without that he lacks purpose and ambition (even though he doesn't but the fact that he actively chooses not to pursue anything outside of this adds to the religious sacrifice inmho) protecting sam, and through assocation, sam himself are his deities creating a very specific moral code that he operates under that only he understands and holds himself too. it's both a critique of his character and what I see as a personal tragedy as john raised him this way and he never really had a choice or an option to exist any other way - the fact that he embraces it is almost a non-existent point because he was created to be duty bound and dies duty bound in a way that he revels and finds peace in because he's always known that was his fate.

the devil that was is sam's tag because his identity is created on being lucifer's vessel despite the fact that his personality and nobility is the antithesis of it. his early narratives are wrapped around him struggling to work against this nature and briefly, embracing it as a means to an end but then ultimately rejecting his function and form and becoming himself again even if it is at a high cost that he never full recovers from. sam is actively choosing to not be what he was created for and so "the devil that was" is this idea that he both was, is, and isn't demonic and in way, that's the only act of agency he's allowed to consistently keep throughout the series. he doesn't own his life, body, purpose, direction, or connections but he did prevent himself from being the vessel of lucifier and I think that's central to the way that I understand and appreciate his character.

two people shorten a road comes from the irish term bóthar with that being it's literal translation as a means of saying "company makes the journey pass more quickly" and that companionship makes life better. I don't use that tag for them anymore because what I like about their relationship has changed but I still think it's a good tag. my brother tag at the moment is just the winchester brothers as placeholder until I find something new. the road leads nowhere is somewhat connected to two people shorten a road and it's my thesis of the show tag about how the entire story is about the fact that they are falling a pre-destined plan (both within and outside of the meta) that their journey is ultimately meaningless and that they revel and seek out that meaninglessness because the road itself is the only home they've known and they have never sought out, or settled at a destination. it's both a jab at the show's insane, convoluted narrative and a mythical commentary on their purpose.

I wait for you at roadside mass is my sastiel tag which I don't use as much anymore because my interest in the ship has waned as I've focused almost exclusively on s1-5 but it's the idea that sam is religiously devout and cas is both a representation of the divine, proof of the divine, and also a vessel for divine love. sam is always traveling and since he grew up in a family that wasn't interested in religion he has no concept of a stationary church or house of worship and so cas in many ways embodies that for him. cas is his holy house and he waits for him by the roadside for him to hear his prayer and create space and connection to the divine.

childhood is a kingdom where nobody dies is my pre-series tag and a edna st. vincent poem (my url is also from an edna st. vincent poem she is a very important poet to me) about the transition from childhood to adulthood and ultimately, the departure for it in a way that feels very appropriate for the winchesters. it's also a play on irony, as their childhood was filled with death and also a bi-product of the death of their mother but also they did not die, and their father did not die and in a way they learned to accept that as long as that didn't happen death lacked permanence.

love is where the knife goes in is my samruby tag and it's just about their jesus/judas relationship just the foundation of what it's like to love your own betrayer, knowing that they plan on wounding you and wincing when it goes in anyway even if you are waiting to hurt them in term and how if you experience that enough you start associating love with wounding, that even the wound itself become a deceleration of affection in its own way.

the motherless oven is my winchester family tag and it's from the title of a graphic novel from the same name that has no relation to supernatural but the phrase has always stuck with me and i feel like it embodies the family well. they are a hot-tempered, relentless family that are all trapped within each other and because of each other and all mourn and represent the absence of mary in their lives. they are both their own tomb and also entombed within their romanticization and martyrdom of mary.

and those are all of my active tags! I still want tags for ruby, john, both of the boys in relation to their father because each of them have a fascinating relationship with him, cas, and maybe the winchesters + cas because that is an engaging dynamic as well. I do not like deancas and don't blog about it but I probably would come up with a fun tag for it if creativity struck me.

thank you again for asking!!! this was so much fun to type out. I've been wanting to write out something like this for awhile because I have put a lot of thought into each tag.

[picnic-at-dreaming-rock]

Top 5 New Books of 2020

A round up of the top 5 new books that I have read this year, full 2020 reading list found here

Warning for possible spoilers below the cut.

Please Don’t Hug Me - Kay Kerr

Erin is looking forward to Schoolies, at least she thinks she is. But things are not going to plan. Life is getting messy, and for Erin, who is autistic, that’s a big problem. She’s lost her job at Surf Zone after an incident that clearly was not her fault. Her driving test went badly even though she followed the instructions perfectly. Her boyfriend is not turning out to be the romantic type. And she’s missing her brother, Rudy, who left almost a year ago.

But now that she’s writing letters to him, some things are beginning to make just a tiny bit of sense.

⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

I cannot stress enough how much I love this book. Growing up as an autistic teen girl, I really lack a lot of representation, both real and fictional, and this books is a huge step forward in remedying that. Written by an autistic woman (yes, this is an #ownvoices novel!), Please Don’t Hug Me shows autism in a new and beautiful light as to what is most commonly shown. Erin is no genius savant that is only autistic when plot relevant or has a lack of social skills used only for comedic relief, but instead a encapsulation of the ordinary and everyday autistic experience of just wanting to get through the day with as little meltdowns as possible while still maintaining your neurotypical facade.

The Dictionary of Lost Words - Pip Williams

In 1901, the word bondmaid was discovered missing from the Oxford English Dictionary. This is the story of the girl who stole it.

Motherless and irrepressibly curious, Esme spends her childhood in the Scriptorium, a garden shed in Oxford where her father and a team of lexicographers are gathering words for the very first Oxford English Dictionary.

Esme’s place is beneath the sorting table, unseen and unheard. One day, she sees a slip containing the word bondmaid flutter to the floor unclaimed. Esme seizes the word and hides  it in an old wooden trunk that belongs to her friend, Lizzie,  a young servant in the big house. Esme begins to collect other words from the Scriptorium that are misplaced, discarded or have been neglected by the dictionary men. They help her make sense of the world.

Over time, Esme realises that some words are considered more important than others, and that words and meanings relating to women’s experiences often go unrecorded. She begins to collect words for another dictionary: The Dictionary of Lost Words.

⭐⭐⭐⭐

One of my favourite parts about this novel is how perfectly it showed both misogyny and classism/elitism, and how they intertwined. Although it is set in the mid/late 19th century and early 20th century, there is this sense of relatability to it that I think I lot of people might be able to recognise. Williams deals with a lot topics that I don’t often see in other media, such as menstruation without fancy allusions or making it into anything other than what it is, pregnancy out-of-wedlock without it being seen as a character flaw on the woman’s part, and showing characters one might consider like a hag or spinster to be good people worth celebrating because of things that deem them lesser rather than despite it or not at all. One main criticism I do have with this book, however, is how it seems like William just adds tragedy for the sake of moving the plot forward/to add shock value or drama. I will admit, it did get me crying at some parts, it did get a little tedious and lack-luster to have the last half of the novel just be death after life-altering event after death after life-altering event. 

The Book Thief - Markus Zusak

It is 1939. Nazi Germany. The country is holding its breath. Death has never been busier, and will be busier still.

By her brother's graveside, Liesel's life is changed when she picks up a single object, partially hidden in the snow. It is The Gravedigger's Handbook, left behind there by accident, and it is her first act of book thievery. So begins a love affair with books and words, as Liesel, with the help of her accordian-playing foster father, learns to read. Soon she is stealing books from Nazi book-burnings, the mayor's wife's library, wherever there are books to be found.

But these are dangerous times. When Liesel's foster family hides a Jew in their basement, Liesel's world is both opened up, and closed down.

⭐⭐⭐⭐

I read this book for my advanced literature class earlier this year and it was a great choice on the schools part. Everyone in my class enjoyed it, even if a lot of us were crying by the end of the novel. The book itself is rich with literary techniques that enrich the actual reading if you are one of those people that like to dissect what they read. I think Zusak made a really good choice with having Death narrate, as well as how he tied in his own experiences/interjections in these mini vignette-type extracts which I found really enhanced both the overall atmosphere and environment. The only qualm I have is that there were a lot of questions left unanswered that made the story feel somewhat empty.

Picnic at Hanging Rock - Joan Lindsay

It was a cloudless summer day in the year nineteen hundred.

Everyone at Appleyard College for Young Ladies agreed it was just right for a picnic at Hanging Rock. After lunch, a group of three of the girls climbed into the blaze of the afternoon sun, pressing on through the scrub into the shadows of Hanging Rock. Further, higher, till at last they disappeared.

They never returned.

Whether Picnic at Hanging Rock is fact or fiction the reader must decide for themselves.

⭐⭐⭐⭐

I watched the Foxtel miniseries first a couple years and thoroughly enjoyed it and sought out the novel very quickly afterwards. I will be honest, I picked the novel up first around 2018/19 and dropped it until earlier this year when I reread/finished it and loved it. Lindsay’s ability to create this perfect and constant juxtaposition between the natural Australian bush and the intruding colonialism is really amazing and adds this interesting aesthetic that the academia community on this site seems to enjoy. There is also a really interesting dynamic between the female characters (which is most of the characters, to be fair) and they feel complete and authentic, something that doesn’t always exist in other works of literature. There is also one canon queer character, but there is so much subtext in the novel for so many other characters that it feels purposeful. All in all, this is the gayest straight book I ever read.  

The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes - Suzanne Collins

It is the morning of the reaping that will kick off the tenth annual Hunger Games. In the Capital, eighteen-year-old Coriolanus Snow is preparing for his one shot at glory as a mentor in the Games. The once-mighty house of Snow has fallen on hard times, its fate hanging on the slender chance that Coriolanus will be able to outcharm, outwit, and outmaneuver his fellow students to mentor the winning tribute.

The odds are against him. He's been given the humiliating assignment of mentoring the female tribute from District 12, the lowest of the low. Their fates are now completely intertwined -- every choice Coriolanus makes could lead to favor or failure, triumph or ruin. Inside the arena, it will be a fight to the death. Outside the arena, Coriolanus starts to feel for his doomed tribute... and must weigh his need to follow the rules against his desire to survive no matter what it takes.

⭐⭐⭐⭐

The Hunger Games was one of the series in primary school that rocked my literary world (joining the ranks of The Great Brain, Harry Potter and The Books of Beginning) and helped inspire my love of reading, and when I heard about a prequel I was over the moon with nostalgia. I found it a couple days after its release at Target for $16 and I loved it. I finished it in about a week and I could barely put it down. I loved reading how the hunger games came to be and how they ended up the way they were, as well as advancing Collins’ previously established and incredible world building. The book also adds upon the themes in the original trilogy of government corruption, classism, elitism, individualism and propaganda, but from those that benefit from it (e.g. Snow) instead of those that suffer (e.g. Katniss). I have seen some criticism from people about not liking it being from Snow’s perspective but I personally think that it was the perfect choice, as no other character’s story would be able to add to the story in such a meaningful way.

[wittygaypuns]

ke prompt - v/e take a dance class

In which they are both very bad at taking instruction when they can be flirting instead? 

»»»««« »»»««« »»»««« »»»««« »»»««« »»»««« »»»«««

“Do we really have to do this?” Oksana muttered, arms folded over her chest as they stood before the building.

“Yes, we do. Can you please just cooperate?” Eve rolled her eyes at the younger woman, looking to her. “Come on, you already agreed to this. No take backs!”

“I don't want to. I hate dancing.” She insisted, looking away from her lover.

“You don't want to, yet that's what you wore? Oksana, you look like the fucking dancing girl emoji.” Eve protested.

“Just because you choose to downplay your natural beauty doesn't mean I will. Besides, I'll be in a dress when we need to actually do this. You should have worn a dress too since you'll be in a dress for it, because someone needed to have a proper ceremony and couldn't just go to the courthouse with me...” Oksana grumbled, turning her body away from Eve now. Just to be a pain.

“Do you really want to explain to Goldie and Jeanie that they can't give you away anymore because you couldn't be bothered to have a ceremony?” Eve said.

“... Don't you dare use them against me, you monster.” Oksana spun to look at her, flowing red dress catching just enough air to billow dramatically. Her resolve had crumbled immediately, though, at the idea of disappointing the couple that had practically adopted the two of them upon their arrival to Alaska. Goldie and Jeanie were a pair of old lesbian homesteaders who raised sled dogs and had taught them more in a year about life on the frontier than they would have ever known otherwise. They were especially charmed by young, pretty, motherless Oksana, who didn't need to be taught proper gun handling but had almost lopped her own foot off the first time she attempted to cut firewood.

“I can call Goldie right now. I'll tell her you won't learn to dance properly with me for our special day.” Eve threatened, going into her purse to fish for her phone.

“Gah! Stop it!” Oksana whined, wrapping her arms around her and pouting down at her. “Fine, I'll take the stupid lesson. Kiss me. For strength.”

Eve rolled her eyes again, but couldn't stop the fond smile from painting itself in her every facial feature. Oksana was still so wild and ridiculous, even since she had dropped her alias and former life for a more quiet life in rural Alaska. They lived in a little cabin an hour and a half north of Anchorage and everything about it was perfect to them. She leaned up to kiss her, arms going up to wrap around her shoulders. She pulled away when she felt Oksana's hands dropping down to grab her ass, giving her shoulder a gentle shove.

“Cut it out, you perv.” She laughed, cheeks going pink as she squirmed from her arms.

“I can't help it. You wore leggings. Your ass looks so good.” Oksana wiggled her brows, grinning.

“Come on. We're going to be late. And you'd better behave yourself while we're in there.” Eve told her, wiggling a finger at her. Oksana grabbed her digit, kissing the tip of it.

“I never behave.” She let her finger go to take her hand instead, walking with her into the building. It was a recreation center more than anything, but the class being held there had drawn in a number of couples looking to hone their skills for their weddings. The couples were largely young, white, male-female couples aside from them, but it didn't matter. They had found that most people in Alaska, while they didn't expect the pair to be to be an actual couple, did not care. No one had ever given them any trouble. Today was no different; there were a few glances in their direction, but no one let the looks linger, focusing on their partners as the instructor looked around.

“Okay, I think that's everyone... Are we ready to begin?” The instructor smiled to his gathered couples, waiting for their attention. “Now – the first thing we'll be doing is learning positions. Men, bring your right hands to the lady's left shoulderblade, like so...”

The man blinked as Eve and Oksana gave him a blank stare.

“Ah – well – whoever is leading will take this position. Maybe the taller...” He trailed off. Oksana was the height of feminine beauty and significantly taller, while Eve was shorter and dressed in leggings and a flannel shirt. He was clearly puzzled as to who would lead in this scenario.

“You lead. I want to make my nemesis angry by you being the butch one at our wedding.” Oksana smirked down to Eve, shifting into position.

“Can you not refer to my mother as your nemesis?” Eve muttered, half listening to the instructor as he continued on.

“She is my nemesis. I can't wait to show her how gay I made you.” Oksana grinned, also half listening.

“Oh my god. Please don't say things like that at the wedding. And she's not your nemesis, I know you two adore each other. I've seen her facetiming you when you two think I'm not home, giggling and drinking tea together.” Eve returned.

“You know nothing. Know thine enemy, I'm gathering intel on her in case I need to take her down someday. Besides, I'm trying to get a better idea of what I'm in for when you get older.” Oksana said dismissively, smirking as the instructor continued.

“We're going to do an underarm turn, switching spaces, like so...” The man said, demonstrating to the class how to properly turn one's dance partner in a way that looked natural and smooth.

Eve and Oksana had no such luck – the height difference made it hard to get Oksana's arm over her head, and she had to lean up awkwardly to do so.

“Maybe we don't do that one at the wedding.” Oksana mumbled.

“Yeah, probably for the best. Wait, what do you mean about getting a better idea of what you're in for, huh?” She pulled Oksana back in closer. Much closer than necessary for the instruction they were being given, but it was more comfortable to them both.

“You know. Like, what you'll look like. And lemme say, it's a good forecast.” Oksana gave a devilish grin. “Your mama aged really well.”

“Oksana, please. I am begging you not to hit on my mom. I know you like 'em older, but she's in her eighties, I don't think she could handle it.” Eve groaned softly, dropping her head to Oksana's shoulder.

“I won't, I won't. I'm just saying.” She wolf whistled after the last bit.

“Stop it, you're going to get us in trouble with the instructor. And you're going to get in trouble with me if you keep talking about my mom that way.” She glared up at her as they swayed, Oksana's hand sliding up to hold her shoulder; it was quickly becoming more of an embrace and less of a formal dance.

“Sorry baby.” Oksana smirked, closing her eyes as they swayed.

The rest of the class had begun to melt away from their perception, the instructors words becoming more and more distant as they whispered to one another. Now and then they would attempt one of the moves, but it would be a little clumsy and they would both laugh about it. At one point, Eve surprised Oksana with a dip, executed precisely, and smirked down to her. Oksana's eyes had gone wide, and she had held on only just barely, trusting Eve not to drop her.

“Holy shit that was hot. Can we leave now? I think we should leave.” Oksana mumbled, cheeks flushing a little. It was an almost imperceptible flush, but Eve knew her down to the molecule. Lifting her back up, Eve nodded a little, looking around.

“... Yeah, we can just watch a YouTube video or something.” Eve took her hand.

Together, they fled wordlessly from the rec center and headed back home to their idyllic little cabin, where Eve had every intention of getting her  intended out of that dress.

[princesssarisa]

Fictional character ask: Cathy Linton (Wuthering Heights)

For @astrangechoiceoffavourites

favorite thing about them: That she’s a better person than her mother without being more demure than she was. A lesser writer might have made her into a classic “angel in the house” in total contrast to her mother, but instead she’s still allowed to be feisty, sassy, audacious and passionate, and to relate to her love interest as an equal, or even as the dominant partner. She shows that a girl can be all of those things, yet also be kind, compassionate and unselfish; that just because she rejects her mother’s narcissism doesn’t mean she needs to reject her high spirits and strong will too.

least favorite thing about them: Her initial snobbish treatment of Hareton. I wouldn’t change it about her, because outgrowing it is a key part of her character arc, and Hareton shares the blame for overreacting to her mistaking him for a servant. But it is her most unpleasant flaw.

three things I have in common with them:

*I usually seem sweet, but I have a temper too.

*I’m close to my father.

*I like natural outdoor beauty.

three things I don’t have in common with them:

*My mother is still alive.

*I’m never snobbish, or at least I don’t think I am.

*I’m not blonde

favorite line: “One time, however, we were near quarreling. [Linton] said the pleasantest manner of spending a hot July day was lying from morning till evening on a bank of heath inn the middle of the moors, with the bees humming dreamily about among the bloom, and the larks singing high up over head, and the blue sky and bright sun shining steadily and cloudlessly. That was his most perfect idea of heaven’s happiness – mine was rocking in a rustling green tree, with a west wind bowing, and bright, white clouds flitting rapidly above; and not only larks, but throstles, and blackbirds, and linnets, and cuckoos pouring out music on every side, and the moors seen at a distance, broken into cool dusky dells; but close by great swells of long grass undulating in waves to the breeze; and woods and sounding water, and the whole world wide awake and wild with joy. He wanted to lie in an ecstasy of peace; I wanted all to sparkle, and dance in a glorious jubilee.”

brOTP: Her surrogate mother Nelly Dean. I’d also like to imagine her meeting and befriending Cosette from Les Misérables, because they have a lot in common: their extremely sheltered motherless upbringings and close bonds with their fathers, both having been abused (albeit at different stages of their lives), both having been separated from their fathers only to reunite with him at his deathbed, and the fact that both of their love stories end a largely gloomy book on a note of hope.

OTP: Hareton.

nOTP: Linton, or Lockwood, or Heathcliff.

random headcanon: She’s the only other person besides Heathcliff whom her mother’s ghost loves. It was no coincidence that she found her mother’s bedroom window to climb out of and escape from Wuthering Heights to get to Edgar’s deathbed – Cathy 1 guided her there. It’s also partly for her sake that Cathy 1 haunts Heathcliff and finally leads him to his death – not just out of love and longing for him, but to free her daughter from him.

unpopular opinion: I don’t think her storyline’s parallels with her mother’s are a weakness. So many critics seem to sneer at the Hareton/Cathy 2/Linton love triangle’s similarities to the Heathcliff/Cathy 1/Edgar love triangle, as if the “rehash” were a weakness in Brontë’s writing. But I think those parallels are very deliberate, because they play out in almost opposite ways: Cathy 1 is first drawn Heathcliff, but then gains snobbery, switches to Edgar, and meets a tragic end/Cathy 2 is first drawn to Linton, but then loses her snobbery, switches to Hareton, and finds a happy ending. The same themes are retreaded so she and Hareton can “set right what once went wrong.”

song i associate with them: The old Scottish love ballad Broom of the Cowdenknows, just because my mom happened to have it playing on CD in the background when I first read her introduction in the novel. Its sweet, lively melody and the love the chorus expresses for UK countryside and flowers do feel appropriate for her, though.

favorite picture of them: These pictures of Sarah Smart from the 1998 Masterpiece Theatre version, showing her kiss with Mr. Darcy Matthew McFayden’s Hareton in the final scene:

[gondorosi]

A story of identity, loss and the misplaced children of ASOIAF

Thematically speaking, ASOIAF is one hell of a loaded tree. Even a gentle shake of the trunk is enough to dislodge atleast a couple. But through all these elements, the themes of loss and identity form the foundation, and the children of the saga are inescapably bound to these threads.

In the interest of clarity (and simply because I care about them the most), I’ll focus on Jon, Dany and Arya. And yes, they ARE children. 

Dany 

The shadow of destiny hangs heavy over Dany’s head. She’s almost certainly the centerpiece of the Azor Ahai prophecy (whether alone or in conjunction with Jon remains to be seen). She’s being slowly, but steadily, driven towards a fate much bigger than herself - considering just how many ‘suitors’ are out there vying for her (i.e her dragons) at the point of ADWD it almost seems as though iron pincers are closing in around her. But what brings Dany to this point?

We first come across ‘the house with the red door’ in Dany’s first introduction where she is being prepared for Drogo’s perusal (blech) at Illyrio’s mansion. Dany’s ruminations of home and childhood center around the manse where she and Viserys were sheltered by Ser Willem Darry and the place where she last knew some semblance of carefree joy and childhood innocence.

Dany had cried when the red door closed behind them forever

Ser Willem’s death signaled the end of safety and the beginning of a long journey of wandering the free cities looking for shelter. Through her marriage to Drogo, gradual acceptance within the khalasar, finding her voice and her strength and her dragons, Dany never stops yearning for that elusive sense of home. 

She was walking down a long hall beneath high stone arches. She could not look behind her, must not look behind her. There was a door ahead of her, tiny with distance, but even from afar, she saw that it was painted red. She walked faster, and her bare feet left bloody footprints on the stone.

We may interpret the red door in a number of ways, but they all boil down to a half remembered memory, tinged with nostalgia. It’s freedom, and safety and a sense of belonging. Its something she desperately wants but which seems to slip further and further away from her, and it seems as though every decision she’s ever taken in her life is pulling her away from it in the opposite direction. 

Dany’s search for home takes place on a blank canvas. She has some memory of what home feels like, but no answer to what it looks like. She’s tried to find happiness and belonging with Drogo and the Dothraki under the stars on an endless plain, but that wasn’t to be. As of ADWD she’s TRYING to feel at home in Mereen, but by now she’s fixated on Westeros as home, even though the place isn’t quite real to her. The Iron Throne is only tangentially associated - in her mind the Throne belonged to Viserys and she’s his heir thus its her duty to recover it. But Dany wants to go HOME - in her mind Westeros is everything she is looking for. 

She’s battling with the specters at the back of her mind going 

“See what you were supposed to have? They took it from you and you will never know what it was like. You will never know happiness.’ 

Jon 

Unlike Dany, Jon knows exactly where he wants home to be and at the same time knows with absolute certainty that it will never be. The narrative wastes no time in showing us that there’s no place for Jon behind Winterfell’s walls, and that Jon knows it, resents it and fears it. 

There was no place for him in Winterfell, no place in King's Landing either. Even his own mother had not had a place for him.

He’s just barely 14 at the beginning of his POV and I don’t want to think of a 6 or 7 year old Jon wandering the halls of his home thinking over Robb laughing at him wanting to be Lord of Winterfell. But it is what it is, and by the time the story begins, Jon has already accepted that his path, if any, will lead him out of the Stark castle. In a way, whatever remains of his sense of youthful hope looks upon the wide world outside the walls with wistful longing, since he’s pretty much sealed himself inside a frozen prison.

Winterfell was down that road, and beyond it Riverrun and King's Landing and the Eyrie and so many other places; Casterly Rock, the Isle of Faces, the Red Mountains of Dorne, the hundred islands of Braavos in the sea, the smoking ruins of old Valyria. All the places that Jon would never see. The world was down that road... and he was here. 

Jon’s search for his own place and purpose in the world is strikingly similar to Dany’s search for home even though we’re looking at two seemingly different objectives. Dany knows exactly who she is, but not where she wants to, or needs to be. Jon knows exactly where he needs to be, but has no true sense of who he is. His entire sense of identity is wrapped up in being Ned Stark’s bastard son - but with the bitterness of being unmoored, unwanted and unseen.

He was who he was; Jon Snow, bastard and oathbreaker, motherless, friendless, and damned. For the rest of his life-however long that might be-he would be condemned to be an outsider, the silent man standing in the shadows who dares not speak his true name. 

Jon’s fate is hurtling towards him at a dangerous pace by the time we reach ADWD, even though he’s now started to take charge of his own future. 

The castle is always empty. Even the ravens are gone from the rookery, and the stables are full of bones. That always scares me. I start to run then, throwing open doors, climbing the tower three steps at a time, screaming for someone, for anyone. And then I find myself in front of the door to the crypts. It's black inside, and I can see the steps spiraling down. Somehow I know I have to go down there, but I don't want to. I'm afraid of what might be waiting for me. The old Kings of Winter are down there, sitting on their thrones with stone wolves at their feet and iron swords across their laps, but it's not them I'm afraid of. I scream that I'm not a Stark, that this isn't my place, but it's no good, I have to go anyway, so I start down, feeling the walls as I descend, with no torch to light the way. It gets darker and darker, until I want to scream. That's when I always wake.

The specters in his life are grey shadows and stone figures going 

“This is not yours. This will never be yours. See what you covet, not-Stark and weep for you will never know it.”

Arya

Arya’s path is one which enmeshes both Jon and Dany’s yet in a different manner. Her loss of home and identity has little of the unknown - she knows what she’s lost and she knows who she was before she began her commitment to the Faceless Men. Her uprooting and subsequent fugitive journey comes with an extra helping of poignancy - she’s not looking for something she has never known but desperately hopes for, but she’s literally wishing to go back in time to a place she remembers with ABSOLUTE clarity.

It's just a stupid sword," she said, aloud this time... but it wasn't. Needle was Robb and Bran and Rickon, her mother and her father, even Sansa. Needle was Winterfell's grey walls, and the laughter of its people. Needle was the summer snows, Old Nan's stories, the heart tree with its red leaves and scary face, the warm earthy smell of the glass gardens, the sound of the north wind rattling the shutters of her room. Needle was Jon Snow's smile.

What makes it worse is that we SEE how Arya begins to lose everything dear to her, beginning with Mycah, her notions of justice and fairness and then most heartbreakingly, Nymeria. Prior to the beginning of the story, Arya was the odd one out, but there was no questioning that she was a Stark of Winterfell. post her escape from KL, it is imperative that she sets herself aside from that identity if she is to survive. The road towards Braavos, and No One, begins to form slowly.

But there is no pack," she whispered to the weirwood. Bran and Rickon were dead, the Lannisters had Sansa, Jon had gone to the Wall. "I'm not even me now, I'm Nan.

“You are Arya of Winterfell, daughter of the north. You told me you could be strong. You have the wolf blood in you."

"The wolf blood." Arya remembered now. "I'll be as strong as Robb. I said I would." She took a deep breath, then lifted the broomstick in both hands and brought it down across her knee. It broke with a loud crack, and she threw the pieces aside. I am a direwolf, and done with wooden teeth.

Arya is much younger than Jon and Dany and has horrors heaped upon her in a far shorter span of time. She’s had to watch her father die, get captured by the Mountain and watch Yoren die, serve at Roose Bolton’s side in Harrenhal and arrive just at the time of the Red Wedding and as Nymeria, pulls her mother’s corpse out of the water. It’s understandable that her anger builds up and she begins to reject her father’s words and her mother’s gods.

The old gods are dead, she told herself, with Mother and Father and Robb and Bran and Rickon, all dead. A long time ago, she remembered her father saying that when the cold winds blow the lone wolf dies and the pack survives. He had it all backwards. Arya, the lone wolf, still lived, but the wolves of the pack had been taken and slain and skinned.

I am not entirely sure where Arya’s arc is going to end up since there’s no clear ‘destiny’ guiding her. In that sense her journey is entirely of her own making. 

She’s waging a war against the ghosts whispering 

“See what you had? This won’t ever be yours again. This is what happiness was. It was taken from you and you will never get it back again.”

[judexgraves]

The Unwelcome

Grace was born in just that. At least that’s what her father told her. She was born in the grace of God, even though her mother died during labor. The doctors had to cut her open just to rescue the suffocating fetus with an umbilical cord wrapped around its neck. Why her father loved to tell the story, she’d never know, but it always ended with a pat to the head and a weak smile as he said: “But now Mommy’s home with the Lord. That’s what matters, it’s what she always wanted.” Grace sure didn’t want a life motherless, but her father didn’t understand her feelings.

“Hurry up, Grace! It’s time to talk to the dead! You should be most excited about this after all. What if your mother talks to us?” Katie giggled as she tugged her friend along to the living room.

“I highly doubt this will work, Katie. Come on, we bought this board at Wal-Mart, not some spooky old shop with rumors of witches in it. It literally has the makers logo on the box.”

“You’re being a buzzkill, Grace.”

“And you are overzealous that we’re going to talk to dead celebrities.”

Katie giggled as she sat down on the ground and patted the area across from her. “Shut up and let’s see if this works at all.”

“Spoiler alert…”

“Shut. Up.”

Grace only laughed at Katie’s demand as she watched her set up the dinky board and unbag the pointer. “Katie, who are you even wanting to talk to?”

“Michael Jackson, duh!”

Grace burst out with laughter as she took the pointer in her hand, examined it, and then placed it down on the board. “Oh mighty Jackson, please come to us lowly teenagers who have only listened to the zombie song and fulfill our needs to hear from the dead.”

Katie smacked Grace’s arm. “Fine. How about we do this right and ask to hear from your mom. She might want to tell you to shut up!”

“Okay, sure, but when this doesn’t work, can we please order a pizza?”

“Sure. If it doesn’t work, we’ll order pizza. Now first, let’s set the mood.”

Grace watched Katie leave the room only to return with an arm full of various candles. “Those look like your mom’s décor candles. She’ll kill us for burning them.”

“That’s why we’ll only burn it for a little bit. They’re so high up on the wall she’ll never notice a little burn dip in them.”

Grace sighed and watched her set up candles on the hardwood floor around them, lighting each one with care. She felt a sudden chill and looked toward the a/c vent. She was too close to that thing. “Alright, so what’s the plan?”

Katie sat down and took the pointer and laid it center of the board. “Now we both put our hands on this thing and we start asking questions until someone or something answers.”

“Something??”

“Demons use this thing too, duh.”

“Bull-”

“Grace! Dad’s in the other room. Language!”

Grace rolled her eyes, knowing well how much Katie spouted off at school.

“Alright,” Katie began, “fingers on the pointer.”

Grace obliged and placed her index fingers on the pointer.

“Close your eyes and let me lead.”

Grace rolled her eyes before she closed them. She didn’t believe in any of this for one second, and in all honesty, her father would have her head on a platter, John the Baptist style, if he knew she were messing with something like this.

“Please, to whoever is out there listening to us. Reveal yourself to us, talk to us, or even give us just a sign.”

Silence.

That was, until Grace snorted out her laughter and began to cackle. “I’m sorry! I just don’t believe.”

“Come on, Grace! Take it seriously and maybe we can get at least creeped out! This is something I really want to do!”

Grace conceded with a nod as she placed her fingers back on the pointer. “Mom. Katie wants to hear from the dead. So if you can do anything for me right now, here’s your big chance.”

Silence.

Grace opened her eyes and sighed. “See. This is just a bunch of bull.”

Just as Grace began to let go of the pointer, it moved to the letter ‘D’.

Both girls snapped their heads up to look at each other before they both shook their heads. “Wasn’t me!” they both said in unison.

Slowly the pointer moved again. ‘I’. Then to ‘E’.

Grace let go of the pointer and stood up. “Not funny, Katie!”

“I swear to God I’m not doing anything!”

Suddenly, the window shattered open and the wind blew out all of the candles. The two girls screamed and then they heard the harsh foot falls on the hard wood floor. As if someone was wearing boots.

“Girls! What’s going on?” Katie’s father yelled out as he flung the door open.

Both girls screamed out as the blackened figure with glowing, yellow cuts throughout its figure shoved its hand and arm through the mans torso. Katie’s fathers still beating heart in its hand before the creature dropped it and tossed the body to the side.

Katie’s horrified screams silenced as she passed out, but before she hit the floor the creature caught her, took one angered look at Grace with its glowing, red eyes, and then disappeared with Katie.

Grace looked all around the room and before she could say or do anything she felt breath on the back of her neck. Slowly she turned, only to be faced with Katie’s father staring her down with those familiar glowing, red eyes.

“Where’s… my… daughter?” he croaked out.

Grace began to walk backwards, crying as she shook her head. “I don’t know!”

“Where’s my daughter?!” He let out a high-pitched scream after his question as his mouth contorted and stretched far past what was natural until the jaw fell to the floor with maggots that scurried about the flesh.

Grace was nauseated by what she could see, shaken and horrified by what was happening. It had to be a nightmare, but it was all too real. There were no words, only fear and she knew whatever was happening was the end.

Katie’s father crouched slightly before he lunged and tackled Grace. A long tongue slid out from the gaped hole and glided across her left cheek and into her hair. His hand gripped tightly to her throat.

Grace began her struggle. Her own hand gripped the tight arm of the creature Katie’s dad had become. She knew she only had moments before she would be choked out and unconscious. She began her fight. Kicking and jerking her hands on his arm as she tried all she could to save herself. However, it simply wasn’t enough. Her vision tunneled, and the dim moonlight grew dark all around her before her body went limp in the creature’s grasp.

*****

Bird chirps was what drew Grace out of her unconscious state. Quickly, she leapt up, looked about the blood-stained room, and began to shake all over again. It really happened. Katie was gone, her father’s heart was on the floor, as was the jaw, but no sign of the creature he’d become. She walked upon the shattered glass, winced as it cut up her feet, but made it to the window where she saw the horrifying sight. Katie’s body was mangled and disfigured in the tree, and her father’s body lay by the trunk lifeless.

Grace tried to scream, but no sound would come. She attempted to make any noise possible only to be met with silence. It was then she heard footsteps once more behind her. Turned on heel, she gasped at the sight.

It was her mother.

She recognized her from photos.

“Mom?” she whispered.

The woman nodded and smiled. “I saved you last night my beautiful daughter, but I can only keep you safe for a few more moments before he comes for you again. You knew better than to play with this sort of stuff. I know your father taught you better.” Her hand reached out and maggots fell from her sleeve to the ground.

Grace instinctively stepped backwards against the window. The wind whipped her hair about. “Get away,” she demanded. She knew this was not her mother.

The woman’s smile went from loving to angered before it contorted and stretched. Skin fell away in thick strips around the hoofed creature that showed itself to Grace. Screams began to sing all around her as the creature began to advance her.

Grace knew of no other option. She leaned back and let herself free fall from the second story window, head first she collided with the ground in a sickening crunch as her neck snapped. The world disappeared from her vision in an instant.

*****

“No! I have no idea why she would do this. She started screaming, and attacked my father! We both ran she was so enraged and had almost inhuman strength! We didn’t know she’d hurt herself while we were gone getting her father.” Katie’s tears rolled down her cheeks as the police officer took her statement. “I don’t know what possessed her to be that way.”

“Did she show any signs of mental illness in the past?”

“No. My daughter was a perfectly normal girl. This is completely out of character for her.” Grace’s father was able to respond through his own tears as he watched them roll his bagged daughter away on a stretcher to an ambulance with the lights off.

“Again, I am so sorry for your loss.” The officer spoke in a solemn tone before he closed his notepad and walked away from the two as they grieved the loss of Grace.

[onemilliongoldstars]

a crown seldom enjoyed - chapter 30

To maintain the fragile peace between north and south, Clarke of House Tyrell is sent to live in Winterfell as an act of faith between the two kingdoms. There, she is put under the protection of the first queen in the north, Queen Lexa of House Stark, Daughter of Wolves. A woman draped in steel and silver, wolves at her heels and rumoured to be a manifestation of the fury of the old gods; Clarke refuses to be awed be her quiet violence and cold smile. Instead of fostering unity, the meeting of the wolf and the rose lights a spark that spreads through the rest of Westeros, threatening to burn it to the ground.

30/33

clexa game of thrones au

read on ao3

—

Book Three: Chapter 9

The baby in her arms is warm and heavy, a little sleeping bundle with dark curly hair and lashes as delicate as a butterfly’s wing. Having never been around many young children as a child, Clarke is surprised to find that little Benam has changed even in the few weeks since she last saw him. His features are more pronounced, his hair thicker and he is definitely bigger than he was. She gazes down at him in the candlelight, utterly entranced. Jasper’s new wife Maya had told her that he would likely sleep through the night, but she can’t help but hope she is wrong. She would love to see his little eyes blink open, his little mouth stretch in a contented yawn.

The knock that comes to the door startles her, though the babe in her arms doesn’t stir. She calls a quiet entry and watches as Octavia escorts Wells into her quarters. The captain’s gaze lingers on the baby, but Clarke has no eyes for anyone but Wells. He stops just steps from the door, his wide eyes flickering from her face to Benam’s sleeping form.

“Clarke, what-”

“Wells wait,” She cannot help herself, reaching out to stop him and jostling the baby by accident. He squirms and lets out a tiny wail, his eyes still closed, and she hushes him quietly, rocking him back and forth in her arms.

“Is that…” Wells is still frozen in place, as if vines have grown from the floor and affixed him in place. She watches him, watches the way his eyes cannot seem to stray from the bundle in her arms.

“I thought you should meet your son, Wells.”

His gaze finally finds hers, but to her surprise it is filled with rage. He snaps, furiously, his voice low and mindful of the child but no less angry for it. “What were you thinking Clarke? We agreed that he would be safer away from here?”

“We did,” She admits finally, shame spilling through her like water over the banks of a river. “But I needed you to meet him Wells, if only once, before you made your decision.”

Wells eyes meet hers and they are filled with a familiar anguish, one that will not seem to leave the Baratheon heir. If she had doubted his feelings for Ivy before, if she had wondered whether the Flea Bottom girl was just a product of too much wine and a thoughtless cock, she knows now that she was wrong. Her friend has been withdrawn and filled with despair ever since Clarke told him of Ivy’s death, and there is a shadow to his eyes that she feels far too keenly.

Slowly, Wells takes a step in her direction. His hands are shaking, she realises, but he edges closer to her regardless. She watches with baited breath as he approaches and when he is close enough to see the baby, she tilts her arms to give him a better view.

“His name is Benam,” She tells him softly, “Benam Baratheon. Your son.”

“Benam,” Wells echoes, quietly and Clarke pulls in a shaking breath.

“Don’t you see,” She entreats him quietly, “If you give up your right to the throne you are giving up on Benam, don’t you want to see him take his rightful place at your side?”

Wells lets out a shaking breath and when he raises his gaze to Clarke again she is startled to see that his eyes are glassy with unshed tears.

He voice shakes. “I know that you see only me when you look at him, but I see Ivy as well. I can’t- I couldn’t bear to watch him grow and see her in every part of him and know that I caused him to be a motherless child.” She opens her mouth to argue with him, but he seems to know what she is about to say because he cuts through her. “I cannot be king Clarke, I cannot- not after Ivy and my father and your father-” He shakes his head, his voice breaking and she soothes him quietly.

“I’m sorry, Wells, I didn’t mean to push you so hard. Benam will be well cared for with Maya and Jasper, I will see to it that they have all they need to be comfortable and protect him.”

“No,” He shakes his head, his eyes dark and clouded. “I may be naïve,” He bites out a bitter laugh, “But I am not so foolish to think that you won’t need Benam when the time comes. He has the name Baratheon after all.”

“Wells,” Her stomach sinks at the sound of his voice, so twisted with grief.

“You are not pregnant Clarke, despite the rumours floating around the castle. You will need an heir within the next few months or your claim to the throne will be disputed.” His gaze settles on Benam again. “Especially one with the name Baratheon.”

“Speak clearly Wells,” She demands, frowning over Benam’s body, which is heavy with sleep.

“I will renounce my claim to the throne,” Wells tells her firmly, “And pronounce Benam my true born heir – I’m sure we can offer some country Septon enough gold to say he married Ivy and I- and you can take him as your ward.”

“But Wells, he is your son, your name, your House.” Clarke insists, as Wells turns to make his way to the door.

His hand on the frame he pauses and when he looks back at her it is as if all of her ghosts are reflected in his eyes. “I have no House anymore.”

—-

Her mother is at least kind enough to send a messenger on ahead, giving Clarke a few hours to prepare for her arrival. The castle is aflutter with the news of her coming, but nerves churn in Clarke’s gut as she stands upon the steps, surrounded by her advisors and waiting for her mother’s carriage to pass through the imposing gates of the Red Keep. She hadn’t been lying when she told Lord Marcus that she was filled with trepidation at the thought of seeing her mother again. Something has settled in her stomach at the thought of her mother, flowering up through her chest and spreading its leaves through her ribs, a queasiness, a fear of the look that her mother will level her with when she steps out of her carriage. 

The horns blow and she pulls in a shaking breath, standing straighter. The weight of the circlet on her head feels immense, pressing down through her skin and bone. Her mother’s attendants appear and the weight in her chest eases at the sight of her House sigil on the banners and uniforms. Her marriage, short and illegitimate as it may have been, have made her a Swann forever, and it is Finn’s banners that are strung through the castle. The sight of her own golden rose on a green field almost brings tears to her eyes. 

The procession of knights and squires and horses come to a stop and her mother’s carriage arrives before the steps. A footman hurries out to open the door and offer his hand, and Clarke lifts her chin as her mother steps out of the carriage. Her dark hair is slung back into a neat twist, and Clarke is unsurprised to see that she still wears a black veil of her dark blue dress. While never a woman for the trappings of noble life, her mother’s appearance is even more bleak than usual, her face wan and pale as she turns to look up at the imposing castle. The smile that passes across her lips when she sees Clarke is so bright, however, that it makes everything else fade into the background. 

Before she knows it, Clarke is descending the few steps to the courtyard, holding out her hands, and Abigail takes them between her own, pressing them together. Her mother’s eyes are just as they have always been, and Clarke feels emotion rise so strongly in her throat that she is worried she will cry before all of court. 

“Clarke,” Her mother squeezes her fingers, her voice thick with emotion. “My daughter.”

“Mother,” Clarke’s voice cracks, but it is pitched low enough that only Abigail can hear. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

Abigail’s eyes dart over the castle and there is a shadow to them that pokes at Clarke’s heart ache. Still, she lies. “So am I.”

“Please, come inside. You must be tired after your journey.” It is immensely strange to realise that this is the first time she is welcoming her mother into her own home. The Red Keep does not feel like a home in the slightest, it is only just beginning to feel like a place she can stand to be rather than a place drenched in nightmares. 

Her mother accepts her invitation, following her up the steps. She glances at Lexa, and her brows furrow even as she gives a respectful bow of her head, but when she spots Lord Marcus beside her all animosity fades from her expression. She holds out her hand and Marcus takes it gratefully, clasping it in both of his. Lady Tyrell’s voice is deep with sincerity when she says. 

“Marcus, how good to see you here.”

“And to have you here, Abby,” He answers, earnestly, and they exchange a glance that Clarke cannot quite decipher before her mother turns back to the steps into the castle. She has her servants and handmaidens take her things to her chambers, and immediately lets Clarke lead her to the queen’s rooms. The moment the door shuts behind them, Octavia and Roan loyally posted on either side of it, her mother looks at her and opens up her arms. 

Clarke allows herself to sink into them, and though there is something strange to the action which seems to set it in offset from the world around them, she is glad to rest her head against her mother’s shoulder and let familiar arms hold her, if only for a moment. Eventually, she pulls herself away, trying to ignore her mother’s yearning gaze and reaching hands. 

“How was your journey?” She asks at last, when she can think of nothing more to say, and her mother’s shrewd eyes flicker over her, seeing every doubt and uncertainty, and it is this which makes her turn quickly and pull her crown from her head, setting it on the wide table near the window. 

“Fine enough,” Her mother’s gaze is so heavy it feels like a cloak around her shoulders. “I’m glad to find you well here… better than well I suppose. You are queen.”

“Mother,” Her voice is terse and short, “Please, spare me your judgement, I did what I had to.”

“I know,” Abigail’s voice is less angry than she expected, and when she chances a glance at her she sees sadness in her eyes as her mother sinks into an armchair by the fire. “You have done more than I ever expected from you.”

“So…” She falters, her anger stuttering. “You aren’t angry with me?” 

“I was not best pleased when you didn’t return to me in the Eyrie as instructed, make no mistake,” The look Abigail fixes her with is intensely reminiscent of her childhood, when she had been caught stealing buns from the kitchen, or sneaking around with the handsome stable boy. “But what could I expect, you are your father’s daughter after all.”

“And my mother’s,” She settles into the chair beside her mother. “Lord Marcus says you went looking for trouble when you were young.”

Abigail scoffs, pursing her lips in annoyance. “Marcus says things he should not. That was a long time ago, when I was just a girl.”

“Before you met father,” Clarke says, quietly, and her mother nods. 

“He made a woman out of me,” Abigail says quite simply, and her eyes settle on Clarke, soft with apology now. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here for your wedding.”

“It wasn’t safe,” She disputes, instantly. “Not as it is now.”

“Lord Finn was always a nice boy,” Her mother’s eyes dart over her curiously, “Did he… make a woman of you.”

Her cheeks heat at the words, despite all that has happened. “Not in the way you would think,” She says at last, “I am older than I was, but you will have no grandchildren despite what they are saying in court.”

“I hear that you only got the Baratheon lords to agree to crown you on the understanding that you would give them a Baratheon heir.”

“And I still will,” Clarke answers quietly, “But not in the way that they expect.”

—-

Clarke announces Pike’s imprisonment the day after her lady mother returns to the capital. She sends Lexa a note that morning to tell her of her announcement, and Lexa stalks about her rooms like a trapped animal when she reads it. Fear has settled deeply in her heart and despite herself, there is a large part of her that wishes she had let Anya kill Pike the moment that they threw him in a black cell. This moment is crucial for Clarke in the story of her reign, more crucial even than the first time she stepped before the people after Finn’s death. If the lords and ladies, even the smallfolk of the southern kingdoms do not accept what she tells them of Lord Pike, she will surely be overthrown in days and cast down as a traitor. Lexa has her horses readied, hoping vainly that she will be able to steal the southern queen away should anything go awry, but there is little more she can do than troop down to the Great Hall with the rest of the nobles in Kings Landing when the sun has reached its highest point in the sky. 

She finds Clarke upon her throne, that appalling iron monstrosity, and around her stand her privy council. She is resplendent as always in a dark blue dress, her crown heavy upon her head and a girdle so wide it appears like plated armour around her waist. She gives Lexa the barest of nods as she enters, but otherwise watches on in silence as her nobles fill the hall, murmuring and whispering amongst themselves. 

“My lords and ladies,” She says finally, and a hush falls over them all as they watch on with bated breath to see why they have been summoned. “It is with a heavy heart that I call you all here today. A grievous crime has been committed against our crown and kingdom which I cannot allow to go unpunished.” A wave of gasped breaths come from the hall as people exchange unsure glances. “It is my sad duty to inform you all that Lord Pike of House Lannister has been arrested by the crown.” A louder gasp and affronted cries accompany her statement, but Clarke ignores them all, waving to an attendant. 

Lord Pike has been cleaned up for his appearance in front of the court. He is dressed in a plain but fresh doublet and jacket and scrubbed of the worst of the smell of death that lingers in the black cells. He is noticably thinner and there is a sickly pallor to his face, but otherwise he appears unchanged as he steps out before the crowd, a look of defiant smugness on his face. 

“I bring Lord Pike here today to announce to him and you that he is accused of regicide and muder, and plotting against this kingdom to see it thrown into war once again.” The voices of dissent grow louder, but Clarke does not hesitate, only raising her own voice above the hubbub. “Tomorrow at dawn his trial will begin, let any man who would speak for or against Lord Pike come before me and the rest of this land to make their case heard.”

“May I speak, your majesty?” There is something to the way that he speaks, a smooth confidence to his voice that sits beneath Lexa’s skin and eats away at her. 

“No, my lord, you may not.” Clarke answers him sharply. “Save your lies for the morrow, you will need them then.”

---

She retires to her chambers, Lord Marcus and Lord Robert falling into step behind her. Once inside, Harper hurries forwards to take her crown from her head, settling it carefully in a chest, and she rotates her neck once, easing it of stiffness. Then she settles her eyes on the two lords of her privy council. 

“You are ready and able to do your duty tomorrow, my lords?”

Lord Marcus bows his head, and Lord Robert answers her gruffly. 

“It will be my honour, your majesty,” His chest puffs up, as it always does when he is angry. “If Lord Pike truly is guilty of killing our beloved king I’d be happy to swing the blade myself.”

“I’m sure my late husband would be touched by your affection, my lord,” She softens herself just slightly for him. “But that is why we have a royal executioner.”

“The northerners have a saying,” Lord Robert begins, “He who passes the sentence-”

“Should swing the sword,” She finishes for him, allowing herself a small smile. “Yes, I know of it.”

“The northerners aren’t right in many regards, your majesty, but in this I think they could be.” 

She cannot help but think of the times she has seen Lexa swing a sword and end a life. Three times she has seen the northern queen take life and death into her own two hands. She thinks of the dagger Lexa gave her, thinks of Faith ripping the first assassin from on top of her, of Roan passing his sword through the second, of her own hands suffocating the life out of Cage Wallace with a strength that was not her own. 

Her voice breaks, “You may be right, my lord, but I’m not sure I could swing a sword to end Lord Pike’s life, even after everything he has done.”

Lord Robert’s smile edges on paternal and sympathetic. “Of course not, your majesty. But who better than your master of laws to end the man’s life.” His fingers twitch to his sword. 

Her eyes widen as understanding rushes over her. “I see, I will think on it, my lord.”

“That is all I ask, your majesty.”

“You must be weary,” Lord Marcus intervenes, much to her relief. “We will leave you to rest, your majesty.”

As they step from the room, Clarke turns to the wide balcony, running her fingers along the warm stone and stepping out to breath in the warm summer air. From here she can see the ocean, stretching out in a wide expanse of blue that reaches to the horizon. The sun glistens against the waves and ships come and go like dark shadows on the scene. It is good to remember that there is a whole world going on beyond the walls of this city, this castle, this room. 

“Your majesty,” Harper hesitates close by, looking out at her, and Clarke attempts to shrug off the mantle of queen. 

She is almost successful when she says. “Yes, Harper?”

“I’ve been helping the maids move things from your old room to these, and when I was cleaning I found these.” She dips her hand into her apron pocket and pulls out a scrap of parchment wrapped around a small glass vial filled with dark liquid.

Dread fills Clarke’s stomach, like sticky black tar, and she reaches out to take them hurriedly, gathering them into her hands. “Did you read this?” She demands, harshly, and Harper shakes her head, alarmed. 

“No your majesty. I just thought they might be important.”

Clarke’s eyes flicker across her face, searching for any sign of deceit, but she finds none and finally lets her breath flow from her chest. “Thank you, Harper.” A flush of affection spreads through her. “Truly, you are the most loyal handmaiden anyone could ever ask for.”

Harper colours, but is saved from answering by a knock to the door. She hurries to answer it, stepping back to let Lexa look into the room, offering her a bobbing curtsey. Clarke’s heart flourishes at the sight of Lexa looking in at her, a smile creeping across her face unbidden, brushing at imaginary creases in her dress. 

“It’s the queen, your majesty,” Harper says, unnecessarily, and Clarke offers her a wry smile. 

“I can see that Harper, you may go.” As the handmaiden slips away, Lexa shuts the door behind her and Clarke takes a few steps to the archway leading back in to the room, hesitating there like a marionette caught on her strings. 

Lexa fixes her with serious, uncertain eyes, and pauses in her place near the table. “Have I disturbed you?” She asks, quietly, and Clarke shakes her head so fiercely she fears her hair will escape its tight braided confines. 

“Not at all,” Her voice is hurried and breathy. “I’m so glad to see you.”

“You are?” Lexa’s face brightens at her words, and she steps out to join her on the balcony. “I know today must be difficult for you, I thought you might appreciate a distraction.”

“You are a wonderful distraction,” Clarke confesses, and she has to tighten her fingers around the vial and the letter to stop herself reaching out to touch Lexa. The northern queen notices her struggle, her eyes flickering down to look at her hands with interest.

“What are those?” 

“Oh,” Clarke flushes, glancing down at her hands. She is torn for a moment, wondering which Lexa would more hate to see, and eventually crumples her fingers around the letter, holding out the vial for Lexa to look at. “Harper found this beneath my mattress.”

Lexa’s eyes widen when she realises what she’s looking out. She doesn’t reach out to take it, instead she flinches back just slightly, and distaste colours her voice when she says. “The poison from Winterfell.”

“Black Thorn,” She supplies quietly, after a moment of silence, and Lexa looks at her curiously.

“I’ve never heard of that.”

“My great grandmother fancied herself an alchemist. It’s a Tyrell poison, passed from woman to woman. My grandmother gave it to me when I came north, to protect myself.”

“I suppose that was wise,” Lexa says at last, and when their eyes meet again Lexa’s are softer. “I never told you how much I respected you for coming north alone, it must have been a frightening thing to do.”

“You respected me?” Clarke’s brows shoot up, surprise painting every feature. “I always assumed you thought I was a spoiled southern lady.”

“Well,” A slight smile curls at the corners of Lexa’s lips, a lightness to her that Clarke has never quite seen before, and she finds her breath caught in her throat at the sight. “Maybe just a little.” At Clarke’s laugh she continues, bolstered. “But I saw the bravery in you as well. Perhaps I was foolish to assume you would come to us utterly defenceless.”

The words sober her, and she glances down at the poison, turning it between her fingers. “I would never have used it on you. Even when I hated you more than anything.”

“I know,” Lexa answers, after a moment of silence, and then, quickly, as if she cannot help herself, ““I’m sorry for the way that I treated you then. I was angry and I didn’t know-” 

“Stop,” The words almost pull a laugh from her, so ridiculous are they. “You have nothing to apologise for. I tricked you and lied to you, and I will spend all of my life trying to earn your forgiveness for that.” 

“Clarke,” Lexa reaches out to touch at her fingers where she is fiddling nervously with the bottle of poison. “You already have my forgiveness, I swear it.” Their eyes meet again and Clarke reads only sincerity in Lexa’s, simple and plain, and she feels her breath catch in her throat. 

“I will continue to try to earn it anyway.” She promises, solemnly. Her eyes fall back to the poison between her fingers and revulsion curls suddenly up her throat, tightening like a noose. “I should throw this in the sea.” 

“Don’t,” Lexa’s hand tightens around hers, and when their eyes meet again there is a darkness to them. “You have many more enemies here than you did in the north. You may need it yet.” 

Clarke swallows at her words, but nods once, slipping the poison into the pocket of her dress. Lexa continues a little uncertainly. 

“Speaking of enemies, may I ask you about your meeting with Cage Wallace? I know you didn’t want me there, but I had assumed you would keep me informed of events.” She bristles just slightly, and Clarke feels a flood of guilt. 

“I’m sorry, I should have told you sooner. That was not Cage Wallace.” Confusion rushes over Lexa’s features. 

“But Lord Marcus said-” 

“Lord Marcus was wrong, he was a Faceless Man wearing Cage Wallace’s face.” 

“He what?” Lexa’s voice ricochets up, her eyes widening with surprise. Her hand slides to the pommel of her sword, “He was a Faceless Man, Clarke how could you not tell me?” Her eyes flicker over Clarke’s face, suspicion settling in them, “If you really are Clarke.”

 Clarke gapes at her, “Of course I am, don’t be absurd!” 

“Prove it,” Lexa demands, though she does not draw her sword. “Tell me where we were the first time that we talked- really talked.” 

“We were in the Godswood,” The words bring back the shiver of winter, the snow settling in her hair and around her shoulders, legs like ice from kneeling in the snow. “I was picking flowers to make a garland. You gave me your cloak.” 

Lexa’s breath stutters out of her and her grip on her sword slackens. “It is you,” She breathes out, and the relief in her voice is palpable. “But how did you escape them again?” 

“He didn’t come to kill me,” She reaches in her pocket and pulls out the iron coin. “He came to free me.” 

Lexa takes the coin into her hands, passing it between her fingers with interest. “What do you mean, free you?” 

“Their god no longer wants me dead, it seems. They will not attack me again. The final assassination was Cage Wallace himself trying to kill me,” She cracks a small smile. “Which is probably why I was able to overpower him.” 

“You shouldn’t underestimate yourself,” Lexa counters, returning the coin to her. “From what I’ve seen you’re plenty able to defend yourself.” 

“Well,” She offers her a charming smile, which only widens when she sees Lexa blush. “I had an excellent teacher.” 

---

The noise coming from the Three Crows, one of the most popular taverns in the city, spills from the windows and door and out into the street. Men perch on upturned barrels and crudely made benches outside its walls, smoking and drinking and talking. Inside, the hall is filled with hubbub as people talk and bet over the dice tables, leering at the especially pretty barmaids that the owner had managed to procure. At a table near one of the open windows, Octavia watches her brother from the corner of her eyes as he sullenly drains another tankard of mead. Across the table from them, on a cushioned bench, Anya watches with feigned boredom as Raven demonstrates a trick with a silver coin that Monty had taught her, bouncing the coin from knuckle to knuckle.

There is a tension sitting upon Anya’s shoulders which Octavia knows is echoed in her own. Though they have left their queens in the capable hands of the rest of their Queensguard, both insisting that they take the evening for themselves, they are not quite content with leaving them alone. It is strange to sit across from Anya Mormont, in the same white cloak that she wears, when only months before she had thought even Queensguard was an utterly unreachable goal, let alone Captain of the Queensguard.

At her side her brother gestures for another tankard from the pretty serving girl, and utterly ignores her simpering smiles and fluttering eyelashes, shoving a couple of coppers into her hand in exchange. He is hunched over the table like an old man, cradling his cup between both hands and staring morosely into its depths.

Octavia sighs softly. When she had suggested that he join her for a drink that evening, she had not expected him to be quite so resentful. He had arrived at her quarters in the Queensguard tower – quarters she is still struggling to get used to- and scoffed darkly when she had opened the door to show the grandeur behind it. Now he glowers down at his cup, as mute and unhappy as he has been all night, and takes a long drag of the mead.

“So,” Raven finally tires of trying to impress Anya, and slips the coin – Anya’s coin if Octavia remembers correctly – into her pocket. She turns her attention to Bellamy, “Will you take up a post in the castle now Bellamy, to see your sister more?”

Bellamy’s glower only deepens at the suggestion and he presses his lips together stubbornly. ”No, I’ll be staying in Lord Pike’s service.”

“How will you do that?” Anya asks lazily, swirling her wine around her goblet. “By tomorrow he’ll no longer have a head if the queen has anything to say about it.” 

Bellamy’s eyes flicker with fury and his head snaps up to glare at her. The hatred in his voice is enough to make Octavia flinch when he spits. “I don’t give a fuck what that bitch says, she’s no queen of mine.” 

Anya’s eyes dart to Octavia, and Raven’s widen, her lips pressing into a furious line. Octavia suppresses the rage that boils up in her chest. “She wants what’s best for the kingdom, Bellamy.” 

“Like seven hells she does,” Bellamy turns to unleash his fury on her, his voice rising. “She may have bought you off with a new cloak and grand rooms, but I see her for what she really is.” 

“And what’s that?” Raven snaps, her fingers tight around her goblet.

“A murderer,” He answers hotly, “And a liar.” 

“She isn’t lying about Lord Pike,” Raven shoots back, so loudly that Anya puts a hand on her shoulder to quieten her. “I translated the letters myself.” 

“How do you know they were real?” Bellamy demands and it is Octavia who answers. 

“I took them from Lord Pike’s desk!” 

“Only because that lying whore tricked you…” 

“Alright,” She grabs him roughly by his shirt collar, pushing him from the bench so hard that he stumbles to keep his footing. “We’re leaving, you’ve had too much to drink.” 

“We’ll help you,” Raven offers, but Octavia shakes her head tersely. 

“I don’t want you to have to listen to any more of this shit. See you tomorrow at the trial.” She shoves her brother from the tavern so quickly that she doesn’t notice the unease pass across Raven’s face.

They walk in tense silence for several streets, neither one willing to speak first and both so furious that they have to walk several feet away from one another.

 Finally, Bellamy turns to say, darkly. “You’re being used Octavia.” 

“You’re being used.” She argues, “Lord Pike is a tyrant and a murderer Bellamy, how can you be so loyal to someone like that?” 

He rounds on her in the middle of the street, his expression so outraged that she momentarily pauses. “You call Lord Pike a murderer and a tyrant but what about your queen? Her father is dead and her husband… and she arrested Lord Pike in secret! You should take a long, hard look at Lady Clarke.” He shakes his head over her protests, “Pike has more supporters than anyone knows, we’ll get him out before he can be hurt.” 

Before she can say anything to rebuke him, he turns on his heel, marching away into the darkness. Octavia watches him go, trembling with rage and glad that she had managed to resist punching him in the face.

—-

When a furious knocking comes to her door while the sky is still dark, she is not startled awake. In fact, she barely remembers what sleep is like any more. When the night comes and she is bathed and undressed, settled into her bed by Harper, she spends her nights staring at the canopy through the darkness, her mind humming with her thoughts and fears. Since her visit from the Faceless Man, she at least feels slightly more at ease, and the iron coin that shines on her bedside table brings her comfort when she turns it between her fingers, but she knows she was never destined to sleep well this night. Her pieces are carefully laid and she knows the words she will say as well as any mummer’s apprentice, but still her heart thuds when she thinks of the upcoming trial. Swinging her legs from beneath the covers, she pulls the dagger from beneath her pillow and crosses the room to the locked door.

“Your majesty!” Outside the door, the familiar sound of her newest Queensguard comes, and she breathes out a small sigh of relief, unlocking the door to find Princess Emeline shifting nervously from one foot to the next. 

It had taken some time to decide who to appoint to her Queensguard, and still she has only five where there should be seven, but she has a good feeling about her most recent appointment: Princess Emeline Martell, Princess Arianna’s young niece. The girl is only twenty summers, but already one of the most renowned fighters in the Seven Kingdoms, and eager to prove herself.  

“I’m sorry to disturb you,” She says hastily now, “But something needs you attention urgently.”

At her side is the fourth member of her Queensguard, Ser Andrew Tarth, one of only two Queensguard remaining from her late husband’s Kingsguard. Though the years have robbed him of some of his good looks, Ser Andrew is still one of the best knights in the land, and he handles his sword well. Most importantly, he had loved Finn like a trueborn son, and wept over his body, and Clarke is assured that with Finn’s name attached to hers she will always have his loyalty. 

He cuts Princess Emeline a tired glance, and says, firmly. “There’s no use in wasting her majesty’s time,” Here, he turns back to Clarke. “A man was caught by Ser Roan trying to free the Lannister lord from his cell. Ser Roan would have killed him in an instant, but he gave Octavia’s name.” 

“I see,” Clarke’s brows furrow, and she rubs a hand over her eyes, trying to clear them of sleep. “Send for Harper, I may as well dress now and see this matter through before the trial. It can’t be long before dawn.” 

They do as she instructs without hesitation, and soon Harper is there to dress her in gold and blue, the lines of her dress harsh and severe, rigid shoulders and a high neckline, nothing like the draping, floating materials and strips of skin she bared when seducing Finn. The sun is just beginning to creep over the horizon when she steps into her private audience chambers, so the room is lit mostly by flickering candles and Clarke’s lips part just slightly in surprise when the lighting reveals Octavia stood beside her kneeling brother, her hand on his shoulder holding him down. 

At the sound of the door they both look up from where they have been arguing in hushed voices and Octavia bows lowly, while her brother fixes Clarke with a glower. It’s enough to bring her back to herself, and she straightens her shoulders, setting them both with an impassive look. 

Ser Roan is stood only steps away, and it is to him that she turns first. “Ser Roan, Ser Andrew tells me that you caught Blake trying to free Lord Pike.” 

“That’s right, your majesty,” Roan looks as if he is ready to impale Bellamy on his heavy longsword in this very moment, his expression thunderous. “I would have killed him on the spot but the boy gave Octavia’s name and asked to see her, and she begged for your judgement in person.”

“I didn’t beg,” Octavia bites back, before gathering herself under Clarke’s severe gaze. “Your majesty, I just wanted you to speak to my brother for yourself.”

“I’m not sure what you want to accomplish with this, Octavia,” Clarke answers her, honestly. “Your brother attempted to free Lord Pike from his cell, that isn’t something I can easily overlook. He should die for trying to disobey the queen’s orders.”

“Of course you would have me killed,” Bellamy Blake snarls from his place on the floor, twisting against his sister’s grip to look up at her. “See Octavia? I told you, she’s a tyrant!”

“Watch your mouth boy,” Roan reaches for his sword, but Clarke cuts through him. 

“A tyrant?” The word sends a thrill of fury rippling beneath her skin, but she works to keep her expression settled and calm. She lifts a curious eyebrow at the doomed man. “Is that truly what you think of me?”

“You’ve given me no reason to think you’re anything less than a tyrant,” Bellamy shoots back angrily, and she gazes down at him, interested despite herself. “You’ve locked up my lord for no reason, in secret!”

“You were Lord Pike’s man, is that right?” Clarke looks down at him, “You truly never saw anything in him that suggested at evil?”

“Never!” Bellamy spits back, passionately. “He was a good man, he wanted what was best for the realm!”

“You are one of three things, Bellamy Blake. Either you are utterly naive, completely stupid, or the most loyal man I have ever met.” Her eyes flicker up to Octavia, “I have known your sister for some time, so I am inclined to say you are neither stupid or naive, which makes you loyal. Loyalty is a valuable asset to me.” If she had not known Octavia for so long she would not have been able to interpret the tension in her shoulders and her jaw, the worrying of the inside of her cheek as her eyes dart between Bellamy and her queen. It is for her sake that she says. “I will give you a choice, Bellamy Blake: take the black and join the Night’s Watch, or face the hangman’s noose.”

“Your majesty,” Octavia’s surprised voice cuts through Bellamy’s protests, “You’re too kind, he’ll take the black of course.”

“I will not,” Bellamy turns to glower at her. “Just because she has you under her spell doesn’t mean I don’t see her for what she is.” Her looks back to Clarke and squares his shoulders as well as he can from his place on the floor. “I will not be sent to the Night’s Watch to live out my days freezing half to death. If you want me silenced, you will have to kill me.”

Her considering gaze flickers over him. “Very well,” She says, at last, ignoring the horror that washes over Octavia’s expression. Outside, bells begin to toll, long and loud, and the sun has crept high enough over the horizon to send a slant of light into the room. “But you’ve taken up enough of my time for today. Take him to the black cells,” She instructs Ser Roan, then turns a firm gaze on Octavia.

The girl seems torn, watching as Roan takes her brother by his arm and hauls him away. Carefully, Clarke crosses the space between them, pausing only inches away from Octavia to fix her with her gaze. Octavia’s eyes are wide, her mouth slightly agape as if she wants to protest, and Clarke looks upon her as if from a height, though they are nearly the same size. 

“I hope you can remember your vows, Octavia.” Her eyes flicker to the golden crown stitched onto the white cloak her Queensguard wears. “You are my captain, I trust you with my life. Am I right to?”

Octavia meets her eyes, and her chin tilts out, her jaw tightening. She nods once, a sharp motion. “Yes, your majesty.”

“Good,” She turns her back on the Queensguard, and tries to pretend she doesn’t feel a thrill of fear down the back of her neck.

[virareve]

While languishing over the fic exchange, I recently noticed that some of the first few times I shared some drabbles/one shots I posted from a collection of short J/B writings I’ve put up on AO3, I was just sharing a link to the main work and not the specific chapter. I wanted to reshare some of the ones I was most proud of/cared about the most that I didn’t properly link to previously.

For anyone who prefers, I’m posting the text to the chapter below as well. :)

Summary:   Unsent Letters from Kingsguard's Lord Commander Jaime Lannister are leaked to the press.

King's Landing Chronicles, Issue 1011

Excerpt from page 2:

Love Letters from the Lord Commander By Pia Waters

Once thought the coldest, cruelest man in the Six Kingdoms, unsent letters from the head of the royal Kingsguard’s Lord Commander shed light into the enigma that is Jaime Lannister, and reveal that he is not so much a mystery as he is a man with his own inner turmoils and a love long gone.

Content leads royal experts to believe that the letters were penned sometime after he was reinstated to the Kingsguard, following the execution of Dowager Queen Cersei, his sister, for plots against the crown. (This was the last time state sanctioned capital punishment was permitted before 'Ned's Law' was enacted and banned capital punishment throughout the six kingdoms.) Readers will also notice the subject of the letters does not appear to be the late Queen, his alleged lover for most of his career. Many are surprised by the emotional depth thought nonexistent in the man the press popularly dubbed the Kingslayer but King Tommen and the newly coronated Queen…( Cont. on Pages 5-7 )

- - -

King's Landing Chronicles, Issue 1011

Excerpt from page 7, The Last Letter:

What is more beautiful, my love? Love lost or love found? Don't laugh at me, my love. I know it. I'm awkward and naive when it comes to love. I ask questions straight out of a pop song. This doubt overwhelms me and undermines me, my love. To find...or to lose? All around me, people don't stop yearning. Did they lose or did they find? I can't say. A motherless child, who is raised by a heartless father, has no way of knowing. He lacks a first love. The love for his mother and father. That's the source of his awkwardness, his naiveté. You said to me, as the snow whirled down on us in Winterfell, "Stay." But I didn't do it. There, my love, is love lost. That's why I've never stopped wondering, since that day: Where have you been? Where are you now? And you, the shining pinnacle of my regrets, did you lose or did you find? I don't know. And I will never know. It hurts to even remember your name, my love. And I don't have the answer. But this is how I like to imagine it, the answer. In the end, my love, we have no choice. We have to find.

- - -

Brienne dropped the paper, swiping at the tears in her eyes.

“Oh Jaime,” she sighed, feelings of nostalgia bubbled in her. Now that so much time had passed, it no longer hurt to think of him. And her mind could only think of him now. Jaime with his part-time irksome, part-time cheeky smile. And his mischievous green eyes. Or his gazelle-like gait. Or the way he smiled and she felt like it was just for her.

It was nice to feel like that.

It was nice to feel warm at the memory of Jaime and not angry at herself for remembering him.

She traced the text on the glossy paper of King's Landing Chronicles. Sansa had mailed it in from the mainland with the insistence that she read it.

When Brienne and Jaime had stopped seeing each other nearly eleven years ago she'd been heartbroken and distraught. The memories in Winterfell had quickly proven too much and she left her new home for her old one. It was a comforting choice in the end. There was something welcoming that she felt on Tarth that she had not felt before. Something that perhaps the change she sought inside of her, and had experienced on the mainland, allowed for as she sought to build a life of her own.

Over a decade since, and she felt calm in knowing she’d met that goal. That her life in smalltown Morne was something that existed without ghosts of her dead mother and siblings and memories of a man she expected would never enter her life again.

Unburdened, she sat comfortably at the dining table her father had carved for her and her family. The laughs from her children, young and precocious and so full of love, teased into the house through the open windows. They were accompanied by the squeaks of skin against water and thick plastic as her children went through the slip-n-slide she’d made for them, over and over again.

Oh, how she loved Gal and Alys.

The choice to embrace motherhood and start a family after she’d given up on ever finding love again, had been easily the most rewarding thing in her life. It was something she had wanted as much as she wanted to fall in love. Raising her two had been a balm for so many internalized wounds, and the pain that used to flare constantly became forgotten and relegated to a dusty corner of her memories.

And yet to know that she’d still been on his mind brought a sharp relief to know that Brienne of yesteryears had not been a fool. She’d been in love and had been loved. None of that could be called a mistake.

Learning what had been in his mind, she could say, too, that the end was not her fault. Here was physical evidence to put her fears at bay and tell herself “Look, you are whole! It was him who was broken!”

But it sounded rather cracked and jaded and Brienne wasn’t feeling cracked and jaded herself. She had loved him and he had loved her.

Not all who loved were allowed to be together. It was the theme of her own parents’ tragically short love story and she would be remiss to think it could never apply to her. As sad as likening her story to her mother and father's was, she could also find the evidence she needed to point out to herself that what had existed in those brief months was a love story.

It had to have been. Because once he’d left, Brienne had never wanted to love another man again. The ending might have been harsh, but the rest of it was a fairytale. No one could ever know her, ever understand her, as well as he had. She had been prepared to never be loved in life and now that she had experienced a love to end all loves, she didn’t ever want to fill in the gap with a poor replacement.

She no longer felt like she needed to.

Brienne shook her head and stood up from the table, brushing her fingers gently over Jaime’s words one more time.

“Love bugs!” she called out, making her way down the back porch, pulling off her own clothes to reveal her own swimsuit underneath, “Wanna learn a trick you didn’t know Mommy could do?”

She jogged slowly past them in the direction of the nearby cove.

“Yeah!” they screamed joyfully.

They took off as fast as their much smaller legs could take them and crashed into her sides, each grasping for one of her hands. Alys was quick to intertwine her long, nimble fingers with her mother’s left, while Gal was clumsily forceful as he wrapped both his hands around her right in an airtight clasp.

Leading the children on, Brienne brought them to a short cliff overlooking the cove and kneeled before them, “Now we’re only ever going to do this with Mommy’s permission and an adult with you okay?”

The two of them nodded vigorously, enthusiastic at the prospect of whatever she was going to show them.

“Alright,” Brienne grinned, standing up and letting go of their hands. “Watch me and do what I do.”

Putting a good distance between her and the cliff's edge, Brienne squatted down into a runners position and quickly pressed off against the earth with a mighty push, speeding towards the edge. On reaching it, she pushed off with all her might and yelled into the air with a freeness she rarely allowed herself.

“Goldenhand!” she screamed, like a knight invoking the legends beside her into battle.

She’d forgotten what it was like to freefall in exposed air, exhilarating and a little bit terrifying all at once. But the air was warm and her hair experienced its own descent as gravity pulled her down and she couldn't help the want to yell again. So she did.

The ocean welcomed her lovingly when she breached the surface and for a moment, Brienne thought of Jaime, taking her just outside of Casterly Rock, encouraging her to take the leap.

Above the children cheered when she surfaced, then swam backwards to put space between her and the bottom of the cliff.

“Your turn!” she yelled, cupping her hands to her face.

Gal and Alys looked at each other. They grinned and moved away from view.

With them out of sight, Brienne briefly allowed her eyes to close, lapsing into that memory of Jaime, sunkissed and smirking as he pulled her after him into the water. His bright, light laugh as she screamed bloody murder and he yelled out “Goldenhand!” like it was the normal battle cry for this sort of event.

“Goldenhand!” the children screamed out in delight and she opened her eyes to watch Gal and Alys catch air. Of course, without her there, they’d decided to jump in holding tightly to each other’s hands.

Brienne couldn’t stop the love that overwhelmed her heart.

Their identical faces were lit with joy. Their golden hair fluttered in the Tarth wind.

When they surfaced, they paddled over to her, trying to talk over the other in their battle to hold all her attention. Their emerald green eyes glittered with impish glee.

[gatorsnot]

Tangleburr’s belly lurched painfully and her throat convulsed as she vomited into the ferns. She gasped, trying to get her breath back as she licked her lips free of the disgusting slime. The mouse she had eaten that morning had been so stale and foul that it hardly passed as fresh-kill, she doubted even a crow would’ve picked at it, and she was surprised it hadn’t sickened her sooner.

From behind, she heard her brother, Deerfoot, approach from where he waited among the roots of a tree. “Are you finished?” he asked.

Coughing, Tangleburr nodded.

“If you say so,” the brown and gray tom meowed. He rose to his paws and beckoned with his tail. “Come on, we’d better hurry up and finish marking the borders so we can have Runningnose check you out. If whatever you have is catching, we don’t want you spreading it to the rest of the Clan.”

Hauling herself to stand, Tangleburr fought the urge to lean on Deerfoot. She still felt queasy and a bit lightheaded, but she forced herself to keep her jaws clamped and her body upright. The only reason she ate that rotten mouse was because she had no choice -  Brokenstar had demanded that every cat focus all their energy on fighting and battle training, he deemed hunting a waste of time. “Every cat will be responsible for finding their own meals,” he had declared at a Clan meeting. “The only cats who shall gather food for for others will be queens for their kits until they are apprenticed, all other cats will fend for themselves.”

Yet again, no one had seen Brokenstar turning a paw to find anything for himself. Many had suspected he crept off alone to catch personal fresh prey while the rest of ShadowClan scavenged for crowfood or the remains of carcasses. Sorry flea-bitten pile of fox dung.

Deerfoot seemed to have read his sister’s thoughts. He let out a snort as a frog hopped out from the water as the two cats stalked along the edge of a pond. “Live prey seem to mock us now,” he hissed. “You bet your pelt that I’d catch that frog and swallow it whole if I knew no one would smell blood on my breath when we got back to camp. Crowfood tastes worse than I ever imagined it to.”

Tangleburr’s stomach gurgled nauseatingly. The mere thought of eating made her feel sick again. “Yeah,” she croaked out.

“You know what?” Deerfoot whispered. As the frog bobbed a little further away, he dropped into a hunting crouch. Slowly, he crept forward, silent as a snake with his eyes fixed on his anticipated prize. Tangleburr watched as Deerfoot eased himself into a perfect position, found a perfect range to pounce, and then he practically soared through the air and snatched the amphibian in his claws.

“GET OFF OF ME!”

An ear-splitting yowl startled Deerfoot so badly that he reared up in terror. The frog bounded back to the pond and disappeared under the rippling surface of the boggy water.

“Get moving, you waste of fur! How dare you disobey my orders, I’ll teach you to undermine me!”

Just as Deerfoot and Tangleburr were about to charge in the direction of the voices, the large shape of a dark brown tabby burst from the reeds, a slightly smaller and thinner light brown tabby in his teeth. It was Brokenstar and Lizardstripe! The aging she-cat struggled in the ShadowClan leader’s hold, the only thing that prompted him to release was when Lizardstripe struck him in his right ear with her claws. She tumbled away, but was back on her paws in an instant, back arched and growling.

“Lizardstripe!” Deerfoot rushed to his mother’s side, but Brokenstar thrust his muzzle into his face. “Back off!” Deerfoot spat. “What in StarClan’s name are you doing to our mother?”

Brokenstar looked twice his normal sized with his fur all flared out and his muscles hunched, large and intimidating. “Don’t you dare speak to me in that tone, warrior!” he screeched. “I am your leader, move aside and stay out of this, or your throat will be the one I tear out next!”

“No!” Deerfoot snapped. 

“You miserable kit of a rogue,” Lizardstripe snarled. Despite looking rather shaken and her state of malnutrition, her amber eyes glittered fiercely at Brokenstar, her tail lashing. “You have no right to be called the leader of ShadowClan, or any Clan. StarClan’s kits, I doubt even a band of rogues would accept you!”

Brokenstar lunged to knock the old cat aside, claws unsheathed, but Tangleburr tackled him. “Stop this!” she yowled. 

The ShadowClan leader tossed his assailant off with a shake. “I hate all of you!” he screamed. “First, this withered old elder thought she could humiliate me in front of my deputy and warriors when I ordered her to clear out my den and replace my nest, then she had the nerve to call me lazy in front of the entire Clan when she caused a scene! I am not an apprentice to be ordered around and degraded, I am your leader and it is the word of the warrior code that you listen to me and do as I say!” Spittle bubbled at Brokenstar’s lips as he advanced on Lizardstripe once again. He looked so deranged, so wild as he growled and spat and lashed his bent tail. “I think you’ve forgotten that I am not a meek little kit for you to mistreat anymore, old cat!”

“What nonsense are you spitting now?” Deerfoot challenged. He stood defiantly in front of Lizardstripe, his claws outstretched in case Brokenstar tried to leap at her again. “It’s not our fault you were a troublesome furball as a kit, it’s not like you had actual parents to keep you in line!”

With a furious yowl, Brokenstar swiped his claws across Deerfoot’s muzzle, drawing blood as the tom went down. “Says the cat who was at least privileged with acknowledgement and suckling rights, while I was always the one who was pushed away and harassed!”

 Tangleburr’s hackles raised as she joined Deerfoot’s side, helping him up while also acting as a barrier between the enraged ShadowClan leader and their mother. “Why are you digging up things that are long forgotten by now?” she hissed. 

“Long forgotten-” Brokenstar briefly broke off into incredulous laughter, which unnerved the three battered cats before him. “What a joke, for such things to be ‘long forgotten’!” He used the entirety of his body weight to push Tangleburr into Deerfoot, and the two warriors crashed backward into Lizardstripe, leaving them all in a scrambling heap. As Brokenstar snarled ferociously and stood over them, Tangleburr realized that he was indeed right; he was no longer the small, motherless, seemingly out-of-place kit no cat had stepped forward to claim. He was the son of Raggedstar, but no cat was sure who his birth mother had been. There had been speculation and talk, and all the gossip and assumption had made him an easy target for aggression among his adoptive family, who Tangleburr remembered resenting him relentlessly - herself included.

Lizardstripe struggled to her paws. Her flanks heaved, her ribs were beginning to show after a moon or so of not eating properly and the access work she was expected to do despite age rapidly catching up with her. “You were nothing but another tick on my tail,” she snapped. “About as tolerable as a thorn in my eye or a ripped claw. It wasn’t my fault that Mudclaw wanted kits while I didn’t, and then here comes Raggedstar and Yellowfang moseying right along into the nursery with an extra mouth for me to feed when I barely had enough milk for the three I was already stuck with. At least my actual kits had potential and listened to me, while you were defiant and full of yourself from the start, making things harder than they had to be for everyone!”

Brokenstar leaped clean over Tangleburr and Deerfoot, tackling Lizardstripe and the two tabbies became a yowling storm of teeth and claws. Screeching, Deerfoot flung himself onto Brokenstar’s back and tried to get a hold of his neck, but the larger tom flipped over and crushed him against the ground. Tangleburr went for his belly, but Brokenstar slashed her across the face and then tore into her hind leg, teeth biting down to the bone. “Not so easy to pick on now, am I?!” 

Tangleburr caterwauled and struggled and scratched, she could see Deerfoot struggled to stand and Lizardstripe was a trembling heap on the ground, fighting for breath as a deep gash in her shoulder wept scarlet. A sunburst of blood spattered as Brokenstar clenched his jaws tighter around her leg, the pain was absolutely unbearable as Tangleburr fought desperately to escape his vicious grip. Finally, Brokenstar lifted her up by her thrashed leg and slammed her into Deerfoot, and both warriors could only lay together on the muddy ground, their chests heaving for air.

Breathless with fury, Brokenstar turned sharply to Lizardstripe, who was crouching and blinking fearfully up at him. “As for you,” he growled. “Either get out of ShadowClan land and never return or I kill you and your precious kits that are so full of potential. That’s as merciful as I’ll be with any of you sorry furballs; either way, I’m done with you and I won’t ever have to look at your retched hide again.”

“But-” Lizardstripe began.

“Are you choosing death?” Brokenstar cut her off.

“Listen to him, mother,”  Tangleburr gasped out at last, her voice hitching as jolts of agony shot through her like lightning. The shooting pain in her leg was so intense she could barely force herself to speak at all, but she wasn’t just going to lay there and let this entitled barbarian slaughter Lizardstripe in front of them over a lousy nest and the pain of the past. “Deerfoot, Runningnose, and I will be just fine on our own. Save yourself and run, he’s not worth it!”

Lizardstripe looked wide-eyed at her daughter. She was still shaking and hyperventilating, obviously still reeling from the terrifying confrontation, but she swallowed hard and glared and Brokenstar, a growl replacing her breathless horror. “ShadowClan isn’t the same ShadowClan I grew up in with you leading it,” she snarled. “I’d rather be a kittypet than endure another day of eating filth so disgusting that a dog wouldn’t think of touching it and letting your brainwashed cats sharpen their claws on me for the sake of battles that haven’t come yet.”

Brokenstar snorted and growled.

“Away I go.” The old light brown tabby shakily rose to her paws, limped a ways into the trees before stopping and gazing at the kits she raised on last time before disappearing into the fog.

Brokenstar merely watched her go, a cruel mew of satisfaction escaped him. “She’ll make a fine meal for the rats in Carrionplace,” he declared. “That is, if a fox doesn’t make pickings of her first.”

Just then, Clawface and Blackfoot exploded into the clearing just as Lizardstripe was out of sight. “Brokenstar,” they meowed in unison.

Brokenstar turned to face his confidants. “Just dealt with an unsavory intruder lurking in the mist, that’s all. I drove her away.” Harshly, he grabbed Deerfoot by the scruff of his neck and tossed him at Blackfoot’s paws. “Not that this useless excuse for a warrior helped. Take him to the training area and let the apprentices and younger warriors practice their ambushing skills on him; it might even motivate him to be more productive and loyal in the future.”

“Yes, Brokenstar. Come now, Deerfoot, up on your paws! You heard the leader.” Blackfoot nipped Deerfoot until he rose up and, shooting a snarl and a glare back at Brokenstar, allowed himself to be herded away by the larger tom.

Clawface stepped forward. “Tangleburr is hurt,” he observed. “Shall I fetch Runningnose?”

Tangleburr’s breath caught in her throat ad Brokenstar studied the damaged he’d caused to her leg. “Yes,” he concluded at last. “She is to be healed as quickly as possible, you see. I have arranged for her to mate with Stumpytail and bear his kits so ShadowClan shall have new warriors in the coming moons. We’re going to need them for the battle with WindClan I have planned.”

                                                               ~~~

i’ve really, REALLY wanted to do a piece featuring brokenstar and his abusive adoptive family, and i’ve had this in my files for awhile! but i’ve been sick with a sinus infection for the past couple of days, so forgive me if this feels rushed or uneven ;~;

also NO: i am NOT trying to paint brokenstar in a positive light; he was a terrible cat who did terrible things, and i do not personally see his shitty childhood as an excuse to justify his behavior as an adult or make it okay that he did all those things. a confrontation scene between him and at least lizardstripe would’ve been very interesting to see in-canon, and this is just a take on that.

and yes, lizardstripe basically called him a son of a bitch