#i felt bad and i drew jon for the most of it

[geraiodli]

Hi here's some stuff I did yesterday's night while having kind-of crisis

[karuvapatta]

The silly Jonelias Fantasy AU continues!

Part 1

***

“How did it go?” Georgie asked him.

“Fine,” Jon said curtly.

“Oh,” she said. “That bad, huh?”

“I said it was fine!” Her smile was soft, sympathetic; she did not deserve to be treated that way. Guilt crept up Jon’s spine, and he tried to soften his tone. “I suppose it could have gone better.”

“I figured,” Georgie said. “Would you like something to drink, then?”

“Please.”

Jon adjusted his glasses and went back to the manuscript, already dotted with notes and corrections. It was a lot of drivel, honestly; he felt stupider for having read it as many times as he did. Well - editing wasn’t the most glamorous of jobs, but it paid the bills.

Few minutes later, the Admiral trotted up to him and rubbed against his legs. Jon scratched the fuzzy little head, and smiled involuntarily when the cat jumped up and curled onto his lap. Sharing the flat with Georgie after their breakup was awkward at times, but he reckoned he wouldn’t want to move out, even if he could afford to.

The Admiral kept him company as he worked, eventually falling asleep. Jon felt like the worst kind of criminal when the time came for him to leave, but he had to get Admiral off his lap. He did so as gently as he could, lifting him and placing him down on a cushion; still the Admiral meowed and twisted around, claws scraping Jon’s hand, wordless accusations in his eyes.

“Sorry,” Jon said. “I have to go.”

He wasn’t being forgiven that easily; the Admiral hissed and turned his back on him, stomping away in the direction of Georgie’s bedroom.

It was well past midnight. He made it to the training area with ten minutes to spare. Unsurprisingly, it was almost deserted: the last few stragglers were leaving, and by the time the clocks struck one a.m., Jon was alone in one of the smaller rooms.

Each room had a similar layout: an arena, encircled with a powerful barrier enchantment that absorbed all errant magic, and chairs or benches outside the barrier, so that spectators could safely watch whatever was happening. Bigger rooms had rows and rows of benches, to accommodate for duels, competitions, spectacles, or other events that invariably drew in huge crowds. That Jon, invariably, avoided.

He sat down in the sand and took out his old textbook. It wouldn’t do him much good right now; lamps and candles had a nasty habit of exploding when exposed to too much magical energy, so they weren’t permitted inside the training rooms. He’d have to rely on what he remembered.

There was one last thing to do. Just one thing.

He ran his fingertips over the clasp of the bracelet. There was no need to worry; no reason to hesitate. Nothing would happen. Nothing could happen. The barrier around him was impenetrable. He had to remember that.

The clasp snapped open. He watched, hypnotized, as the bracelet uncoiled from his wrist and slipped to the ground; it seemed like a living thing, woven from a myriad of delicate strands, each one reflecting the sparse moonlight in its own way, casting a shimmering pattern upon the sand.

It crept around him; Jon held his breath. He could see the light now, more clearly than before. He could see the barrier further away, the intricate pattern of spell work designed to absorb and dissipate energy. He could see every grain of sand seemingly shift in the wind, even though the air was deathly, unnaturally still. He felt the moonlight on his skin like a brand, burning through the layers of flesh. He had thought the room was silent; but there was sound all around him, the delicate chime of his discarded bracelet, buzzing of the barrier, and the rapidly quickening beat of his own heart…

He forced himself to exhale and raised his shaking hands. They looked—they looked like they belonged to a stranger, sluggish to obey his commands, and felt like a thousand needles pricked his skin, sending electric currents down his nerve endings. But he had to—he had to control them. He would control them. It was a simple spell, he knew the gestures and the words, he knew how it should go.

He held his palms together and tried to focus on the space between them. A single point. See it. Feel it. See the infinite possibilities, see not what is, but what could be…

Sharp, sudden pain laced through his palms. Powerful spasm seized his muscles. He collapsed onto the sand, gasping for breath, a wordless scream tearing out of his chest.

It took an agonizingly long moment for his muscles to relax. The pain in his chest subsided once he managed to draw in a handful of unsteady breaths.

Right. So that was that. That’s what would usually happen.

He tried, again and again. Conjuring light was the easiest trick in the book. He had seen children do it without issue. Yet here he was, struggling to do even that.

“You do realize you are going about it completely backwards, do you?”

This time, when the light burst from his hands and momentarily blinded him, Jon yelped and fell backwards. There were spots dancing across his vision and a ringing in his ears.

“How about you mind your own business?” he seethed through clenched teeth and tried to push himself into an upright position. “I don’t recall asking for your advice, so kindly go and fuck yourself—“

The barrier flared; sand shifted. Jon looked up at the approaching figure, and felt his arms give in.

“Master—Master Bouchard.”

Of course it was. Such was Jon’s rotten luck, apparently.

“Hello, Mr Sims,” Bouchard said, clearly amused.

“I didn’t know you’d be here,” Jon said.

He was still flat on his arse. Bouchard was looking down at him. He scrambled to get up with as much dignity as he could muster in this situation.

“Yes, I figured,” Bouchard said. “I do owe you an apology. I did not mean to frighten you.”

“I’m not frightened,” Jon snapped. “I—why are you here?”

He felt the cackle of electricity on his tongue; he could almost see it in the air around him.

Inexplicably, Bouchard’s smile widened. He offered Jon his hand and Jon took it without thinking, letting himself be pulled upwards, until they were eye to eye and—

He saw a reflection of himself in Bouchard’s pale eyes, the image clear and sharp, every detail of his own face, the messy hairdo, skewed glasses, sheen of sweat on his forehead; his own eyes, widened, dark, a faintest glimmer within the depths of them; his half-opened mouth; and then he was looking at the man in front of him, the images superimposed on one another, and then stretching all the way to infinity, like standing between two mirrors…

Strong arms caught him as he was about to collapse, a terrible ache splitting his head open. His vision swam, and blurred; he tried to close his eyes, but there was no reprieve to be found in darkness.

“Breathe, Jon.”

He tried to focus on that: the movements of his chest, the flow of air through his lungs.

Eventually he realized he was clinging onto Master Bouchard like a swooning maiden. He was almost too mortified to let go.

“What’s happening to me?” he asked, in a voice that was dangerously close to a whimper.

“Well, it appears you are attempting to weave magic you have absolutely no control over,” Bouchard said. “Which is rather foolish, if I may add.” Jon blinked. “I already know how you feel about unsolicited advice,” Bouchard explained, smirking.

“Oh! Oh.” Jon took a hasty step back and rubbed his upper arms, gaze stuck on the ground by Bouchard’s gleaming shoes. “I—apologize. That was rude of me.”

“No, you were in the right. I shouldn’t have startled you,” Bouchard said. “But it seemed like you were in danger of hurting yourself.”

“I wasn’t—“ Jon began. A quick glance at Bouchard’s raised eyebrows stopped him in his tracks. “Well. Maybe. Maybe a bit.” He let out a long breath. “Thank you, Master,” he said stiffly.

Bouchard’s smile worried him; his gaze worried him more. Yet Jon couldn’t bring himself to look away once their eyes met.

[imaginespazzi]

Once again suuuuper late with my GH thoughts (Chapter 6 now) so if you don't wanna answer since so many people have already sent theirs that's fine and I'll do Chapter 7 way sooner this time. Anyways here we go:

-Ok the flashbacks are always adorable so this one was no different. When they sneak out and Paige is being cocky, Azzi tells her not to tempt fate, to which Paige responds “Fate’s got nothing in front of Paige Bueckers. I make my own fate”. Now I might be reaching but I feel like it's foreshadowing since we can see that the fate Paige attempted to make for herself didn't work out, and maybe Paige and Azzi are simply supposed to end up together, because they're soulmates, because it's fate. The picnic gave me In Between Shades Of Blue vibes and I loved the whole thing. Azzi getting mad at the girl for never texting Paige after their date also really feels like when she got mad at Olivia for the questions she asked Paige during the press conference.

-I feel like we're seeing a lot of Azzi overthinking, Azzi worrying, Azzi pushing away, and Paige looks like she's ready to jump back into everything so fast which wouldn't make sense because then she could've and should've tried in those 8 years apart. "And I get it- I get that you’re not ready to be all in on this with me yet and if I’m being honest with myself, I’m not completely ready either." I think this is you subtlely warning us that now that Azzi's finally slowly pulling, Paige will start pushing. With the way the chapter ends, I also feel like if anyone runs away in the morning, it'll be Paige. 

-The car seat??? Adorable. "And this way if you ever need me to take Stephie off you" it would be amazing if you wrote a Paige and Stephie scene, maybe she takes her out for ice cream and to the park again or something like that.

-"She knows her parents had never cut Paige out; hell they’d been at her wedding to some other woman -and Azzi had pushed them to go knowing Paige would need it-" makes me wonder if they would've gone if she hadn't insisted. They most definitely still loved Paige because she's pretty much become a daughter, and it's not to say their supportiveness was fake, but I feel like maybe everyone has an inner Drew. For example in In Between Shades Of Blue, I felt bad for Zoe, I really did, but I couldn't help how I also loved the way Jon, José and Drew all seemed to dislike this new person taking Paige's "place" (sorta, even if they hadn't dated).

-"“Miss Buecks does not cheat,” Stephie yells back loyally." I really don't think of Paige as a cheater but this line also just made me think about something I'd already sort of given some thought, would Paige cheat on Olivia with Azzi? Did she? Even just 1 day, 1 night? "Jon rounds on Azzi, who’s been silently watching the situation, “did you help her cheat?”" I don't know, I'm overthinking as always but these are just my thoughts about the chapter and fic in general after all so why not share.

Ok so that's it and I'm really new to tumblr but you told me to pick an emoji when I sent in my Chapter 5 thoughts, from what I'm getting it's so you recognize anons? So here I guess, if I can have this one:🪐

Hi friend! Wether you review the day after or weeks and weeks later, I will always be just as excited to read and reply to your reviews <

-I'm glad you caught it. That line was definitely both a bit of foreshadowing and some tongue-in-cheek humor because obviously Paige didn't really get to control fate in the future. But it's also an ode to being a teenager and really thinking you do have the world in your grasp, only to get older and realize that, that's not quite true.

-A lot of you seem to be on the same page (pun intended lol) re: Paige being the one to run away. Guess we'll find out!

-Paige and Stephie scene coming soon!

-I think maybe they'd have been more wary to go if Azzi hadn't pushed them a little bit because they wouldn't want to hurt Azzi especially not when she was pregnant. I don't thin they're particularly happy with the wedding but I think Tim and Katie were able to swallow that up in part because of Azzi's insistence and of course in part because it's Paige and they love Paige. Jon and José could not however be convinced to attend.

-I mean cheating isn't just physical right?

And ofc you can have that emoji! I just like my reviewers to have emojis so I can have a general idea of what you said before and how that connects to how you feel after new chapters if that makes sense? It's also to make it easy for y'all to see my replies instead of having to scroll but just clicking the tags!

[mamahersh]

Time for Tim's perspective from that AU I mentioned earlier:

Tim had heard in passing through some of the pre-Eyepocalypse avatars he had fallen in with after his Becoming that there was a way to get some of their aggression out in a legally acceptable way. It didn’t surprise him that they were looking for that, as having all the power in the world suddenly removed and turned mortal in a moment would of course aggrieve the kind of people who were brought under the auspices of the Lightless Flame. Tim himself, after the Reversal, had been making due through a gym membership and reconnecting with Sasha. However, that part of him that he had tried to bury after the apocalypse reared its ugly head and whispered how nice it would be to properly cause someone pain again.

Well, he ignored the voice. Of course he did, he wasn’t a monster (not anymore at least). But the curiosity that drew him to the Institute in search of answers still wanted more info. After all, it wasn’t everyday you’d hear that the government had legalised something horrific. Not to say it hadn’t turned a blind eye to what happened to avatars after the Reversal (part of the reason Tim kept to himself and Sasha as much as he could nowadays), but more to say it hadn’t actively discriminated against people for what they did during the end of the world. It was very much, “don’t ask, don’t tell” on that front, and so long as you didn’t go around trying to be a sick freak while people were pulling their lives together, then no one made assumptions. Now, if you had had a large domain with plenty of people suffering in it who knew who you were and what kind of person you were, then there was always the possibility you’d find yourself battling off an angry mob ready to tear you apart. However, since Tim’s domain had been relatively small, and taken to tormenting anyone with fears related to losing their vast assets and reputation, he hadn’t seen anyone afterwards and he would assume that being placed in a world where their worst fears were a reality but not nearly as bad as they had feared, maybe they were content to just live and let live. Afterall, it wasn’t his fault the world ended. He just happened to personally know the guy who did.

Which brought him back around to this secret way of stress relief, which he finally got off a former Slaughter avatar he could never remember the name of. Apparently, within a month of the Reversal, it had gotten out that Jonathan Sims was the one who ended the world, and it was the combined effort of Martin, Basira, Melanie, and Georgie who stopped him from doing “worse” and instead kicked off the Reversal. What “worse” was, no one seemed to know, but it was the consensus amongst anyone who did know Jon’s fate that the government had done its job right for once. Apparently, Jon had been sentenced to “jail” for 3 years. While it had been hotly debated whether he should be given the death penalty or life-time behind bars; Martin had stepped in and made a convincing case for Jon’s innocence. Thus, between Martin and the judge, it had been decided that Jon would serve 3 years in prison. There was a caveat to the deal though, that in basically any other circumstance would have infringed on every humanitarian effort conceivable and caused a massive outcry, and that Martin was apparently uninformed on. This caveat was that Jon would be legally allowed to be tortured by the general public and the prison guards during his stay behind bars. So long as he didn’t die, the rumour went, you could basically do anything you wanted as long as you told the guards ahead of time.

Tim wasn’t sure how he felt about that, all he knew was that he would not breathe a word of it to Sasha. Besides, it wasn’t technically public knowledge and most people that knew about it were people who would be more likely to act on it. He would have suspected the Web was involved if he wasn’t already certain that the Fears were no longer tied to their reality. As it stood, all he knew was that whatever his coworker had done, ending the world might just justify 3 years of torture. (Many years later, Jon would later tell Tim in that soft voice he had taken to speaking in, and with a thoughtful frown he so often wore even before they were estranged, that even the Fears themselves could not have set up so perfect a punishment for ending the world. Tim would ask if it was the torture, and Jon would merely shake his head, allow himself a wry grin, and silently stare into the middle distance. (What Jon never told anyone but his therapist, was that living free after the fact, to learn how to be a person again, was more painful than a lifetime of torture before an ignominious end, and far more mercy than he had deserved.))

-

The first thing Tim noticed about Jon was that his hair was shorter than he remembered. Not that it really surprised him, seeing as he was in jail, but more that a part of him had been expecting it to have been even longer than before his Becoming. The second thing he noticed threw him off completely. Carved into Jon’s forehead, and seemingly almost on display, was a scarification tattoo in the shape of an eye that had been X’d out. He wanted to ask, but he had promised to be silent till Martin re-introduced them, and he had a feeling this too was a part of the infamous deal that was keeping Jon alive and not buried 2 metres down via angry mob.

[thezolblade]

Could we get some more info on what Jon likes about Martin? But specifically during the darker routes where he's much more obsessive?

Sure! Jon likes Martin's tenacity, the way he's determined to survive the horrors and stay by his side as someone stubbornly loyal and affectionate. Jon wouldn't want someone who was too fragile to deal with his problems or too inclined to give up hope in dangerous times, since he wants someone he can trust to survive and stay dedicated to being with him.

He had conflicted feelings about Martin getting himself into trouble in the first place (walking up to Prentiss when he didn't need to and only barely getting away), and seeming unreliable sometimes (not wanting to research statements that are too gory or claustrophobic). But when he heard Martin's statement (and felt his fear as if it was his own, while he relived it, thanks to the statement magic), he felt the way Martin's terror had been tempered by a stubborn determination to survive, and was impressed by his endurance. And by the way Martin had done it all for him, and run straight to him afterwards for help and validation. He likes the way Martin takes him seriously as an authority on the topic (at least some of the time) and looks to him for guidance. Though that comes with too much pressure when Jon feels he can't live up to it, so Jon gets mad about his own shortcomings and displaces the blame onto Martin for causing him worry in the first place, and then craves a scenario where he can get catharsis from Martin following his lead.

He likes that Martin seems steady and homey, when he gets into a routine like regularly bringing tea. Jon hasn't had much reliably routine company for a long time, besides working with people who aren't as fond of him, and he really wants to think that if he gets attached to someone, they'll be his to keep. (With both of them having abandonment issues, they're quite inclined to stick together.)

He thought of Martin as aesthetically handsome even before he was attracted to him, since he combines looking strong and sturdy with enough softness and colourful fashion to look welcoming instead of intimidating. But he likes that Martin thinks himself unattractive to most people, and doesn't flirt much with anyone, since that makes Jon feel like he's got less competition, and keeps his jealousy & insecurity relatively manageable (compared to if Martin drew more attention from everyone).

Sometimes he finds Martin's stuttering and rambling irritating if he's feeling particularly impatient, but the rest of the time he finds it at least a bit cute. And he likes that he can one-up him sometimes. Like the conversation about wine tannins being headache triggers at Jon's birthday party, when Jon sounded mildly amused while telling him that tea has tannins too. Martin often invokes the conversational equivalent of the 'cute klutz' trope. Jon likes the thought that he could get Martin even more flustered in bed, with embarrassment and pleasure-pain, and startling surprises, and desperation, and oversensitivity.

The more Jon feels like he can do whatever he likes with Martin, and he'll get what he wants and Martin will promise loyalty every step of the way, the more confident Jon feels about getting invested, and the longer it goes on, the more intolerable the idea of losing him would be. So he'll go to great lengths in the bad routes, when nothing else matters half as much to him.

Still, even in Reconciliation, Jon likes those same things about Martin, and when he was hit with the realisation that Martin might leave, that possibility was hard to bear even on day one. He had just enough sense to realize that he needed to do something to make Martin happy to have the best chance of staying in his life and getting closer again somehow, when he'd flat-out been told "I need you to be better than this", and he really didn't want to have to deal with the police again (especially when he didn't know that he had Eye powers, or that he couldn't be fired and Martin couldn't quit). He really didn't know what to do, and wouldn't have come up with any great ideas on his own.

His feelings were so new to him that he wasn't consciously aware of everything that he liked about Martin. And what he was aware of, some of it wasn't the sort of thing he could use as a compliment ("I like how you think I'm the best you can do. Sometimes I think you're the only one who takes me seriously. I enjoy feeling amused at your expense, and I'm looking forward to repaying your loyalty by making you scream.") And what would have worked as a compliment, would have maybe sounded too vulnerable, or too clingy ("please keep putting up with me, please stay with me forever"), when he was vaguely aware that staying on his best behaviour after being told off meant acting a bit more 'normal' about dating.

And even if he could have told Martin that he liked how sweet and pleasant he could be, that would've highlighted the way he'd never told him that before, and maybe turned the conversation towards explanations and apologies that he didn't feel he could handle.

So, if Jon doesn't want to give an honest answer on that topic, it feels a bit safer to say "I don't know, let me think", and keep Martin eager to prove himself by eventually giving him an answer along the lines of "I like that you're eager to please, and I want to look after you if you keep that up".

In the darker routes, he'd also be inclined to praise Martin for obedience and dedication, to encourage those qualities, even if he'd be more confident in how he phrases it. And the gap between what he says and how he feels would still be basically the stuff above. At that point, Jon would miss the spontaneity and humour that Martin often used to bring to their conversations. He'd be more aware of what he liked about Martin's happiness after making it difficult to bring back that kind of mood between them. (Knowing that it's his own fault doesn't necessarily help.)

[elegantwoes]

The chapter starts off with Jon defeating boys older, bigger, and stronger than him, and being exhausted in the end. However poor Jon isn't allowed to rest for a small moment by our unfriendly neighbour Alliser Thorne:

Jon took off his helm as the other boys were pulling Grenn to his feet. The frosty morning air felt good on his face. He leaned on his sword, drew a deep breath, and allowed himself a moment to savor the victory. “That is a longsword, not an old man’s cane,” Ser Alliser said sharply. “Are your legs hurting, Lord Snow?”

I gotta say there's something strangely charming about how bitter Alliser is.

Most were two or three years his senior, yet not one was half the fighter Robb had been at fourteen. Dareon was quick but afraid of being hit. Pyp used his sword like a dagger, Jeren was weak as a girl, Grenn slow and clumsy. Halder’s blows were brutally hard but he ran right into your attacks. The more time he spent with them, the more Jon despised them

Jon is delightfully ruthless in the description of his fellow brothers and I am enjoying it immensly. I love it when Jon is so snarky and rude.

No one had told him the Night’s Watch would be like this; no one except Tyrion Lannister. The dwarf had given him the truth on the road north, but by then it had been too late. Jon wondered if his father had known what the Wall would be like. He must have, he thought; that only made it hurt the worse.

I really resent Ned's inability to communicate with his children and condemning them with his inaction. This is the second time he does it. First with Sansa during the trdent incident and now with Jon. He really hurts them both and god dammit I really hate him when he does it. Sure he does sacrifice his honor and life for them, but that still doesn't excuse his behavior.

As he watched his uncle lead his horse into the tunnel, Jon had remembered the things that Tyrion Lannister told him on the kingsroad, and in his mind’s eye he saw Ben Stark lying dead, his blood red on the snow. The thought made him sick. What was he becoming? Afterward he sought out Ghost in the loneliness of his cell, and buried his face in his thick white fur.

Kind of dark, but at the end of the day it's only an impulsive intrusive thought. So it's okay. I forgive you, my dear.

He missed his true brothers: little Rickon, bright eyes shining as he begged for a sweet; Robb, his rival and best friend and constant companion; Bran, stubborn and curious, always wanting to follow and join in whatever Jon and Robb were doing. He missed the girls too, even Sansa, who never called him anything but “my half brother” since she was old enough to understand what bastard meant.

A lot of people have a great deal of opinion on this line. Interperting it as Jon resenting Sansa. However that doesn't really go hand in hand with the more fond thoughts he has of her in future chapters. When you keep that in mind this line sounds like Jon wanting to be accepted and validated by Sansa. Anyway, I digress.

The recruits all called him Toad. The other two were the ones Yoren had brought north with them, Jon remembered, rapers taken down in the Fingers. He’d forgotten their names. He hardly ever spoke to them, if he could help it. They were brutes and bullies, without a thimble of honor between them.

I know a lot people of see that Jon's behavior towards his fellow recruits to be rooted in classism, and while that is valid and worth to call out, we should also keep in mind he is just as much judging them for their ugly criminal behavior. Some of them are rapers and Jon is allwowed to hate them. Sorry not sorry.

Jon stood up. “I’ll break the other one for you if you ask nicely.” Grenn was sixteen and a head taller than Jon. All four of them were bigger than he was, but they did not scare him. He’d beaten every one of them in the yard.

I really shouldn't be egging him on, but Jon is so funny when he is an asshole. I. absolutely. love. it.

“You looked bad before I ever met you,” Jon told him. The boy who had his arm jerked upward on him, hard.

Careful, Jon. Don't go around calling people ugly. If you do then the fandom will demand that you end up with ugly, villainous older people who abuse you. Oh wait, the fandom only demands that of Sansa. Edit: Fuck, I just realized. The fandom does demand this of you (i.e Ygritte). So technically you did get the Sansa treatment :(

Not my mother, Jon thought stubbornly. He knew nothing of his mother; Eddard Stark would not talk of her. Yet he dreamed of her at times, so often that he could almost see her face. In his dreams, she was beautiful, and highborn, and her eyes were kind.

I can't help be reminded of what GRRM often likes to do. He gives his characters what they desire but in the worst way possible. Based on that Jon's mother cannot be Ashara Dayne. That lacks any conflict. George RR Martin will not make it this easy for Jon.

“A bully?” Jon almost choked on the word. The accusation was so unjust it took his breath away. ... “Don’t call me that!” Jon said sharply, but the force had gone out of his anger. Suddenly he felt ashamed and guilty. “I never … I didn’t think …”

As much there's truth to this statement, I cannot really hold Jon too accountable for his behavior. Sure he's wrong to misdirect his anger at others (particularly Ned, Benjen, and even Alliser) onto the recruits, but at the end of the day, but the injustice done to Jon and how everything he ever wanted is impossible prevents me from judging hm too much.

Jon smiled at him. “I’m sorry about your wrist. Robb used the same move on me once, only with a wooden blade. It hurt like seven hells, but yours must be worse. Look, if you want, I can show you how to defend that.”

Look at Jon, acting so mature and attempting to make friends.

“I’ll take that wager, Ser Alliser,” Jon said. “I’d love to see Ghost juggle.” Ser Alliser never took his eyes from Jon. As the laughter rolled around him, his face darkened, and his sword hand curled into a fist. “That was a grievous error, Lord Snow,” he said at last in the acid tones of an enemy

But then the short moment of peace goes downhill. While this wasn't the most brightest move by Jon, what does it say about Alliser who picks a fight with young boy who is half his age? In this house we don't like the bullies of children, whether their name is Alliser or Cujo come again. Leave the children alone.

[officialleehadan]

Calls to Make

Hello darlings! Today’s story was brought to you by Jon! Darling, thank you so much for all your support. I hope you love it!

Prompt: HGE – Local Librarian (but includes spoilers, so find the rest of the prompt at the bottom!)

+++

“There’s a conversation we need to have,” Bei told Victor and Teucer quietly. Draco was beside Laure, walking her through the making of chickpea fritters, which were apparently an old favorite of his from Rome, and which nobody made correctly anymore. Laure suspected that he had mostly chosen the recipe because it involved a great deal of hand-grinding the chickpeas, which didn’t leave much time to get anxious over the conversation. “About our librarian.”

“I’m right here,” Laure felt compelled to point out, although she was somewhat out of breath as she turned the heavy grinding stone which was quickly turning chickpeas into chickpea paste. “Not that I actually have anything useful to say. But I am here. Also, why am I the one turning the stone, Draco?”

“Because you’re the one who needs something to do with your hands,” Draco said cheerfully. He, of course, was engaged in feeding chickpeas into the hole in the middle of the grinding stone. A task that largely involved dropping the occasional spoonful of chickpeas, and otherwise standing there looking pretty. Admittedly, he did that very well, but considering that Laure was working hard to keep the stone spinning, he was hardly doing his share of the work. “And because working a grind-stone is something I have avoided in my long life, and do not intend to try now.”

“He’s a lazy boy,” Victor said with a mock-disapproving frown at Draco, who struck a diva-like pose and pouted dramatically. “Ignore him, Laure. He’s been a soldier all his life. He doesn’t know a bit about honest work.”

“Says the mercenary,” Draco sniped and stuck his tongue out at Bei and Teucer, who were snickering. “Don’t either of you laugh. You’re both princes.”

“My father was a duke,” Bei protested through chuckles. “No prince am I.”

“Your family spawned the Qin Dynasty. You’re technically more royal than I am,” Teucer said with a grin. Laure couldn’t help but laugh at the lot of them. “But come on. Tell us what has you all excited. You’re not usually one for dramatics.”

“Laure is a demigoddess,” Bei said without preamble. Laure winced when all eyes fell on her all at once. It wasn’t less uncomfortable hearing the words for the second time. “She carries Bridget’s Light, and we’ve all been fools not to see it sooner.”

“She’s not such a direct descendant as all that,” Teucer said cautiously, although he did tilt his head to examine Laure more closely. “I’ve met several demigods. Evelene Petros comes first to mind.”

“Evelene is something of her own creation,” Victor said wryly. Laure wasn’t entirely sure who they were talking about, although she recognized the name from several other discussions. Teucer was apparently good friends with her, because they came from the same part of the world. Laure hadn’t known that Evelene was a demigoddess, and resolved to ask more about it later. “But our Laure comes by it in the usual way. You know how the fire-based deities tend to ignite in their descendants now and again.”

“I thought that was mostly the djinn,” Draco said, much to Laure’s surprise. Apparently he didn’t know any more about the situation than Laure did. That was something of a comfort. “Most of the time, Other blood waters down over the generations.”

“It’s a little different with some of the fire deities, particularly the crafters, and Bridget is a Smith,” Teucer explained. He was rolling one of his arrows between his palms meditatively. “Because part of their work and their power is rooted in creating, those of their blood who do a great deal of creating tend to attract their attention. Our Laure likely first drew her attention with her cooking, and then more so when she crafted her hammer.”

The hammer in question sat on one of the sideboards. Draco made the bad mistake of trying to pick it up and lit his fingers on fire. Laure eyed it and went back to the grindstone without thinking too hard about that particularly recent decision of hers. She didn’t regret it, since it allowed her to build the protection around them that glowed even now. Even so, it sounded like she had gotten a lot more than a hammer out of that sunrise adventure.

“Ah yes, they do tend to favor those who call on them particularly,” Victor admitted. “I’ve had some dealings with the gods of my own homelands, but yours got around with mortals rather more than mine, and I don’t know much about the ones from the Isles. They’re a quiet lot most of the time.”

“Until they are not,” Bei said ruefully and smiled at Laure, who was maybe grinding the chickpeas with a little more violence than was strictly needed. She slowed down long enough for Draco to tip more into the stone, and got back to work. “Laure, are you well?”

“I need to either cook something or hit something, and given the hammer, cooking is probably safer,” she said, a little breathless from her work, but deeply grateful that she was already occupied. Draco was absolutely right about her needing something to do with her hands. “But don’t let me distract you from the conversation. You were talking about gods.”

“We were, but you’re also glowing a bit, and it’s making us all a touch nervous,” Victor said, a little nervousness under his good humor. “Might want to take a moment to breathe there.”

“Breathing is for people who didn’t just find out they’re demigods,” Laure said, just a shade above panicking. She had been doing a lot of that lately and she was getting tired of it. Not that the panic cared especially, but Laure rather thought she was about done being so easy to spook. “What does this change?”

“Mostly, Bridget’s likely willingness to intercede on your behalf,” Teucer said, apparently the authority on demigods of their little group. “And it rather changes how powerful that hammer of yours is, particularly in your hands. Not, I think, that it’s likely to let anyone else touch it, as Draco proved for us all.”

“Yes, yes, I lit myself on fire. Be a dear uncle and never mention it again,” Draco grumbled, and set the empty bowl aside so he could help Laure lift the grinding stone away. “So, they have a djinn, and we have a demigoddess. You know who we need to call.”

“I think we’re going to have to,” Victor said, much to Laure’s curiosity. He looked around at his brothers and Draco, and sighed. “It falls under the terms of the old agreement we made with them back when Draco created the Covens.”

“I have a few favors stored up with her,” Teucer offered, but Victor cut him off with a shake of his head. “No?”

“I’ll pay her fees,” Victor said, and sighed. “It’s not like I can’t afford it. I always keep a few goodies aside just in case. You call Evelene. Blaec needs to know about this too. Bei, call Malik. I know he hates the phone, but it’s urgent. Murrah al’Abayad needs to know about this too. It’s one thing to deal with a Jar. It’s another thing to have a demigod in the mix. Draco, aren’t you friends with Al’Mudhib?

“Associates, but he’ll take my call.”

“Call him too.”

“What are you all talking about?” Laure asked, since they all seemed very serious, in a way she rarely saw from them. “What’s going on?”

“We need more information than we can get on our own,” Victor explained as his brothers scattered to different rooms to make their calls. Draco stepped out onto the deck for his own. “Come, my dear librarian. It is time you met the Dragon of Knowledge. If anyone will know what’s going on, it will be Hoshi.”

+++

Prompt: HGE – Local Librarian, with Laure meeting either Hoshi or Brandon

+++

+++

HGE - Local Librarian:

Gift of a Rose

Curse-Bound Leather

Bloody Stress

Flip the Page  (Subscriber Only!)

Luxury Flight (Subscriber Only!)

Hotel of Memories

Ancient and Old (Subscriber Only!)

Hearth Not Home  (Subscriber Only!)

Of the Hearth

From the Earth  (Subscriber Only!)

Ring Panic  (Subscriber Only!)

Red Gems Black Stone (Subscriber Only!)

Unexpected Ally

The Words of History (Subscriber Only!)

A Bit of History

Enemies Old and Gone (Subscriber Only!)

Third Brother (Subscriber Only!)

Folding History (Subscriber Only!)

At War by Moonlight (Subscriber Only!)

Firebrand Burning (Subscriber Only!)

Sunrise Touched (Subscriber Only!)

Crafted Change (Subscriber Only!)

Coptic Code

The Opening Bell

Gossamer Fabric (Subscriber Only!)

Calls to Make (New!)

+++

MASTERLIST

[dickwheelie]

3, jm? :o

#3 - writing a love letter but keeping it to themselves

cheesed the prompt a little bit but it still kinda works!

_____________

The train rattled and Jon's pen slid across the notebook page, slicing his last sentence in two. Growling in frustration, he carefully drew two straight, deliberate lines through the words, and wrote them again. As a rule he liked to keep his writing neat and even, and this letter in particular he wanted to look nice, despite the inconvenient spot he was in.

He hadn't had much of a choice. The idea to write the letter had come to him while they were all standing on the platform back in London, and he knew there'd be no time once they arrived at Great Yarmouth. Besides, though the train was loud and shaky it was a night train, and the others were fast asleep in their seats, giving Jon the privacy he needed to really think about what he wanted to say to Martin.

Because, of course, the letter was for Martin. He was trying to use it to say everything he hadn't known how to say these past few months, things that Martin deserved to hear. Things he'd intended on telling Martin once they got back--because they would be getting back, Jon wouldn't entertain the alternative--but his mind had kept turning the words over and over in his head, not letting him alone, and so he'd put pen to paper at the first opportunity. He wanted to make the words tangible, real things, that he could show to Martin and make him understand.

As he finished up the last sentence, Jon turned back to the previous page in his notebook and read the letter through.

Martin--

I'm sure I gave you this to read and then walked away, probably said I was going to wait in my office or something. As I write this I'm promising myself I'm going to do that. But knowing me, I'm probably waiting right outside the door to hear your reaction. So feel free to stay as quiet as possible to give future me a hard time. He probably deserves it.

I know this isn't the normal way of going about this sort of thing, but . . . well, why start now? Our track record with normal hasn't exactly been consistent.

I suppose this letter is a confession, of sorts. Though it hardly feels like one; I feel like most of these things I'm about to write are things you already know. But I'm not sure, and that's the point of it, because these are things you should know. They're things I probably should have told you already, to be completely honest.

First thing is that I never properly thanked you for helping me after I got back from my little month-long "vacation." To be honest a lot of that time is a blur, but I do remember you offering me a place to stay, and helping me stock back up on groceries, and just being there. You didn't need to do any of that, so, thank you.

And thank you for believing me. About Leitner, about Nikola, about all of it. I know it's a bit very hypocritical of me to say that I was afraid you wouldn't believe me, but you did. You always have. Except when what I'm saying is bullshit, which, thank you for calling me out on that, too.

Second thing is that I'm sorry. For . . . everything, pretty much. For treating you the way I did, for not trusting you, for just generally being an arse and a stubborn idiot. For getting you involved in this mess--Prentiss, the Unknowing, all of it. I know an apology doesn't fix anything, but you deserve at least that much.

I won't apologize for not bringing you with us, though. It's not safe, where we're going. I suppose it's not safe where you are, either, but it's safer, at least. If Elias wanted to kill any of us he'd have done it by now. Which, now that I'm reading that back, I'm realizing it's not actually very comforting.

It doesn't matter anyway. If you're reading this, it means you're okay, that I'm okay. That we saved the world.

As I write this I really, really hope that that's how it works out. Because I need you to be okay, Martin. I need you to be okay and I need to be back with you. I care about you, a lot, and I need you to know that.

While I was in America I was miserable. Nothing was familiar and I constantly felt like I was being followed and I had nothing to do all day but chase imaginary leads that ultimately led me right back to my own front door. But I always looked forward to your calls. Talking to you was always the best part of my day. I kept counting out the time difference trying to anticipate when you'd be awake. I planned my days around those calls. And at first I thought it was just that you were a familiar voice, a port in a storm, that it could have been anyone. But then I realized no, it was just you, I liked talking to you and I wanted to talk to you more, and I missed you when we had to hang up. Hearing your voice made me smile, every time. I kept thinking about your tea.

That was when I knew.

And when I came back, you were there. You were happy to see me. At least I think you were--I don't want to assume. But I know I was so, so happy to see you, Martin. I should have told you then, but I was scared. I didn't want to come on too strong. I didn't want to ruin any of it.

But, well, now the world is ending, or it didn't end, and I want you to know how I feel. So the third thing is that I'd like to have dinner with you sometime. And when I say that I mean somewhere nice with a wine selection, not in document storage with day-old tuna sandwiches. Though that evening wasn't half-bad, either. I'd like to go out with you, on a date, and yes, this is how I'm asking you. Remember what I said about normal.

You're wonderful, Martin, and just because it took me too long to realize that doesn't make it any less true. You're clever, and kind, and strong--I'm envious of how strong you are. I like your smile, and your jumpers, and your tea. I really like your tea. I'm withholding all opinions regarding poetry as I am not an authority on the subject. But the point is I like you, Martin, a lot. You matter very, very much to me.

I just don't want to wait any longer. I'm tired of being careful, I'm tired of biting my tongue, I'm tired of not being with you. I'm tired of everything, really, but I'm especially tired of that.

You don't have to answer right away, of course. Please, I don't want to pressure you, you can tell me no or yes or nothing at all, I won't ask. Although if I am waiting just outside the door right now, I'm probably going to give you a very persistent look when you leave, so don't say I didn't warn you.

Fondly yours,

Jon

Jon read through the letter three more times. He still wasn't entirely happy with it, but it was late, and despite the adrenaline that had gotten him through the day his eyelids were drooping now. Before he could fall asleep on his notebook, he wrote out one last line:

P.S.: Apologies for how messy this is--I wrote it on the train. Couldn't wait to get it all down.

Carefully, following the perforated lines, he tore out the pages, folded them neatly into thirds, and slipped them into his coat pocket. He'd give them to Martin as soon as he got back, he decided as he leaned back in his seat. Lulled by the steady rocking of the train, Jon thought of what Martin's excited yes might sound like, what it would feel like to hold his hand over a candlelit table, and perhaps even what it might be like to press a kiss to his cheek, and though he knew he would wake with the train arriving at its inevitable destination, these thoughts carried him off to sleep with more comfort than he'd felt in a long time.

[radiosandrecordings]

Crossposting my @summer-in-the-archives-event fic here too. [AO3] [Accompanying beautiful art]

He’d never get used to the rolling fields of quiet.

Miles behind and miles to go, not that he could see any of it through the thick blanket of fog that clung to his ankles, and his wrists, and his eyes. Miles to go before I sleep…

It was hard to describe the rain that fell, because even ‘fell’ felt like too active a descriptor. It didn’t pour, it didn’t ‘beat down’, it didn’t pelt, because those all required a sense of agency that the landscape just felt too apathetic to muster. It simply existed, and just happened to be moving downwards by coincidence.

Jon wasn’t sure if he knew or Knew that it seeped into his clothes, coating his skin, but he couldn’t even feel the droplets landing, even pinpricks of touch creating too much of a sensation for this place. He briefly wondered that, if he still had need for his glasses, would the rain even make the effort to trickle down and cloud the lenses.

The last Lonely domain he’d passed through, he’d never seen the avatar that lorded over it. He didn’t have any real interest in finding out, not like the personal vendettas that lead him to seeking out Jude, or Jared. Because with Peter dead he wasn’t left with any Lonely avatars left to chase, save the vague notions of the Lukas extended family. He was simply going to keep his head down and keep trudging, hopefully emerging through the thick banks of mist before he lost his mind to the monotony. If there was ever something to make you miss muffled cries from beneath the earth…

“Why are you here?”

The sound was accusatory, and may as well have been a shotgun in the silence. The damped chill was nothing in comparison to the ice that shot up his spine. The voice had no clear origin, no figures even silhouetted in shadow against the overgrown grass, but it came in close, delivered on the gentle, numbing breeze. Despite this, though, never in a thousand domains could he forget the sound of it. Of course it was his. Of course. Of course. “Martin?”

“No! ”

The voice sounded… Angry. But hurt, like it flinched away from the word. Like something that had been left to sit in the dark too long, that recoiled back from a stinging source of light.

“... I’m going to assume no one has called you that in a long time.” He tried to keep his voice light, as much as the stifling atmosphere would allow it.

“No one is anything here. It’s easier that way. If you’re somebody, you can be hurt. If you have too much personality, too many little facets and cracks, things start to snag and catch on it, and it drags you down to where things ache. But if you’re nothing, then they don’t have anything to cling onto. You can just slip away unharmed.” The voice sounded like it was moving, curling around him and moving from ear to ear, forward and back as it droned on in that echoing monotone that Jon had hoped he would never hear again, and at the same time, had longed to.

“And what about the good things?”

“There isn’t anything good, not anymore. You saw to that.”

Jon snorted. “Low blow, but fair.” He hesitated for a moment, trying to summon the words.

He’d had time, after he left the Lonely, to consider his actions. Regret pooled like acid in his stomach at the memory, and somehow it hurt more than ending the world. He wouldn’t say it was more important. He knew whatever he felt, and moreso, knew that one human life, was not paramount to the suffering of every creature great and small, but it felt more tangible. When he walked through the hellscapes, they were dreamlike, hazy, information in such clarity but to an extreme where it still felt nonsensical to perceive it as reality. He knew the fundamental truths that surrounded him but it still felt hard to accept them even as he lived them.

Yet despite having lived without it for eight months prior, the space beside him that failed to solidify into Martin still stung with his absence. And Jon regretted it every not-day he spent walking the hellscape, both in knowing he doomed a good man to suffering, or worse, revelry, in this new world, and in the far more personal, and far more selfish, part of him that missed him so goddamn much.

“But- But Martin, I think I made a mistake.”

“Obviously.”

“Not- Not that. I mean, when we were in the Lonely. The- The first time. With Peter Lukas.” The silence droned on, and Jon took that as his cue to continue. “Do you remember what I said? That maybe you were safer here? And that’s… That’s why I let you stay. I didn’t push you to, to leave with me because I thought you wanted to be here, that you’d be safer here than you’d be with me. But I don’t think that was entirely true.”

“I am safe here.”

“Maybe so. It doesn’t mean it’s better though, does it. Martin, I saw those people, in the last Lonely domain. I know it’s different, they were victims and you’re… You’re an avatar, here, you’re feeding off of all of this, but I promise you they were not happy. They were so alone and it didn’t protect them, it just made it worse. Think about it, the logic of this world. There are threats out there of unimaginable horror, and yet they were still assigned here, it’s their worst nightmare. And you were assigned here too. You’re all suffering, just in different ways, but all calculated to be your personal worst.”

“The Martin Blackwood you thought you knew doesn’t exist anymore. He had to be filed down, too many breaks and tears in him that grew and grew, any time someone raised a harsh word. The best way for him to be protected, is for him to go away entirely. You cannot hurt something that doesn’t exist.”

“Are you sure about that? Because you just said ‘I’.”

“What? ” That anger reemerged again, and as staunched as it was it was beautiful, a return to form amongst the dull monotone, reminiscent of the few times Jon had been privileged enough to witness a truly pissed off Martin Blackwood.

Jon found himself grinning. “You said ‘I am safe here’. Emphasis on the ‘I’. Ergo, you still have some form of identity left, and thus I would wager that the part of you left is Martin. Unless I’ve wandered across some other avatar of the Lonely who sounds like him, of course.”

“You’re always so fucking smug, you know that?”

The voice is coming from behind him. Actually, physically, presently behind him and Jon spins around so fast he’s almost dizzy.

And as much as it made his heart soar, and much as he was glad to finally, finally , see him again when he’d thought he never would, Martin looked… Bad.

His skin had darkened, mottled and blotchy with large swathes of a bruise-like blue or sickly green cropping up across his face and neck, or the parts of his forearms visible where his cable knit sleeves rolled back. It was like frostbite from the cold, or some disturbing onset of trench-foot from the damp, corpselike and unsettling. What was worse, though, were the parts that simply ceased. His hair didn’t even reach the tips, simply fading out into a grey static that merged with the mist, and it consumed his eyes whole, tear tracks streaking down his face in patterns of fuzzy, crackling grey that snapped and popped in the silence, far too reminiscent of a tape.

The sight made Jon’s heart clench like a fist, the combination of relief and horror, and in that moment he understood Jane Prentiss more completely than he ever had before. It would’ve felt like a rude comparison to consciously make, the person he cared for most equated to a pulped and writhing mass that churned out creatures that made your skin crawl before tearing into it. But he knew what she had seen in it, that call towards the thing that fascinated you, despite the turning it causes in your stomach.

Despite this, however, Jon steeled himself. This was rapidly becoming a battle, and he couldn’t afford the cost of emotions. He had to keep Martin, well… Martin. Draw out the emotion. In short, be a bit of a bastard. So instead, he cocked an eyebrow. “I thought you liked that about me?”

He could see Martin’s fists clench, the colour of his extremities dyed black from frostbite. The irritation was still clear as he started into “Fucking hell J-” but they both appeared taken aback as he dissolved into a choking, hacking cough.

It took everything in him for Jon to tamp down the need to surge forward, put a hand on his back and ask if he was okay. It was a strangely mundane thing; the man was made out of static and fog and despite seeming to have an on-and-off-again relationship with his corporeal form, this was the first recognisably human thing to adversely affect him. Why, though? What had Martin done to trigger- Oh. Oh .

“That- That priest from the statement… 0113005? Father Burroughs. He couldn’t say the name of god. Anything related to it, really. And you… You couldn’t say my…”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Martin spat. “You’re not a god or thee god, whatever your new eye magic might imply. It’s just…” He let out a breath that turned into a grumble. While his eyes had always been cloudy, he was now refusing to meet Jon’s gaze.

Regardless, it still drew a breathy laugh out of him. “No, I’m not that far gone into my own self importance yet. But… It’s about the connection, isn’t it?” Something in the conversation had changed, it’s tone or it’s flow, that felt contradicting. Tension coiling up to spring, or they’re barrelling towards a culmination, but at the same time, Jon felt like the wind had been kicked right out of him. He lowered himself to the ground, slowly, settling among the grass and trying to ignore the unpleasant dampness under him. Hey, he could feel the damp again. That was something.

“That’s more flattering, actually, I would say… The Lonely, it thinks if you acknowledge me directly, that would loosen it’s hold on you.” Jon huffed out a breath. “You know I listened to all the tapes. What was it that Daisy said to you, when I was on the run? ‘People say you two are close’? Well, the Lonely appears to agree.” He took a minute before adding, “I would, as well. And, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I was too… Too in my own head, before, to admit it. Too much of a coward to do it before that, even. But you need to know I love you. And I know that you… Cared for me, at least? Even if I stuck my head in the sand to ignore it. But the Lonely seems to think you do, still. So will you please come back to me? I know it’s not- I know it won’t be much better, travelling through the domains, but it’s all I can offer and it has to be better than this. I can’t promise anything kind will be waiting for us in London, but you’d be yourself again, and I can’t… Martin, I can’t lose you again. To leave here, again, without you, I’d be losing you. Please.”

“No.”

There wasn’t even a delay to his response, stating it in monotone the second Jon had finished speaking. It felt like ice, lancing through his heart.

“Martin. Martin, please -”

“I said no. I thought you would’ve learned by now; I’m not exactly amenable when you come crawling to me with half baked plans of escape. Because you don’t love me, you love the idea of me. You are quite literally the only free man left in the world and you’re lonely . So you’re looking for a familiar face. Kind Martin, caring Martin, always there with tea and taking your side in every argument. Defending you to Tim when you’d just as soon slag him off behind his back, or on tape. Pretty appealing when everyone else is trying to kill you. At least he treated you like a god before this even started.”

Each sentence felt like another dagger to the chest, and it took him a moment to compose himself, tears forming at the corner of his eyes. Eventually, though, Jon spoke. “That’s not true, though. I- Martin I can’t apologise enough that that’s what it’s felt like, for you. But I need you to know, that isn’t true. A-At the start, maybe, I can’t deny I was stupid and spiteful, but you didn’t deserve any of it. And after that… I didn’t do a one-eighty and decide you were a doormat. I liked you because you were secretly enough of a prick as well. Any time you’d pull me out for lunch when I dragged my heels, or argued back when I said something shitty, that was… It felt like I was seeing the real you. The one you didn’t want to let people think of you as, but the one you were, because despite wanting to appear like the picture of innocence, you are a bitch, Martin Blackwood. And that’s my favourite thing about you. Maybe time is sweetening my memory, slightly, but I truly don’t believe there’s rose coloured glasses here. If we walk out of here, I’m not under any sort of illusion that it’ll be a honeymoon. We will doubtless find something to argue over, if not several, but I want that. I want you at my side to, to disagree and point out all my blind spots. We’re both stubborn bastards but I’m stupidly fallible, and I need you to keep me balanced. I don’t want a yes-man, I want you, Martin, and I’m asking for that knowing full well what it entails.”

When the words stopped flowing, he found himself gasping for breath, sobs building in his chest and threatening to spill over. But Martin was standing closer.

“That’s- I don’t- Fuck.” As Jon looked up, wiping at his own eyes, he could see fog starting to trickle from Martin’s mouth, coming in short bursts as his nostrils flared and chest rose and fell noticeably for the first time that Jon had seen since he stepped foot onto the moors. This caused a conflict of emotion in Jon, because while it seemed to be another step towards humanity, Martin letting the Lonely fall to the wayside in favour of reclaiming himself, it also looked far too close to a panic attack to be something worth celebrating.

“I don’t understand,” he finally settled on, voice cracking on the words. He slowly let himself sink to the ground opposite Jon, knees pulled up to his chest. “I left you. Time and again I left you. I left you to work with Lukas, and I left you when you tried to get me to run away, and I left you when I stayed on the beach.” His palms were pressed into his eyes, mist seeping from between his knuckles as he dragged them across his face, though Jon couldn’t be sure if he was attempting to wipe the fog away, or if he was stalling while he faltered, trying to summon the words. Both, maybe. Jon took the silence from him.

“You didn’t really choose that, though. You didn’t feel like you even had a choice. So Martin if… If you’re worried that I think badly of you for that, I don’t. Martin, I’ve done so many terrible things, so to- No, no, actually I don’t mean it like that. I don’t mean that you’re a good person, compared with me. I think you’re a good person full stop. And I just want you to be able to see that. I know the Lonely is quite literally clouding your judgement right now but… Please, just, just make me a deal?”

Martin’s palms were resting on his chin now, cupping his cheeks and curving around his neck. He nodded once, wearily, for Jon to continue.

Jon drew in a breath “I think I’m in some sort of… Bubble. Like a miniature domain, when I’m travelling. I think, if you agree to come with me, even for a little bit, that might dissolve some of the Lonely’s more adverse effects. Make it easier to think, to, to be yourself without its influence. If that is what happens, and you want to return… I’ll bring you back. But please, just… Try? For me?”

Martin sighed, hands dropping from his face. “...Fine.”

“You- Really?”

“Yes. I… Look, J-” Martin bit back another coughing fit. “Look. I am… There is a lot of me right now that wants to leave. The fog is… It’s in my head, figuratively, probably even literally, but… I remember something Basira said. When she got back, from, from The Unknowing . Melanie wanted to know how she got out, when the other three… When you, and Daisy, and Tim, didn’t. She said she reasoned her way out. So I’m going to listen to reason for a minute, as much as it’s paining me.”

Despite those final words, Jon felt his face crack into a smile. “That’s… Yes, you’re right. Well that’s… That’s a very reasonable connection to make.”

And for the first time in a long time, Martin smiled.

“Uhm, so how does this work then?” He eventually said, hand coming up again to scratch the back of his neck in an old nervous habit Jon could not be more happy to see.

“Well”, Jon said, taking a moment to brush sodden grass from his trousers as he got to his feet, “I would say, based on the dream logic that everything here seems to run on here, it should be rather simple.” He held out a hand to tug Martin up after him.

Martin took it.

It was almost cliché, how the Lonely fell away from him. It only took a few seconds, all in all, for the bruising to fade, receding their colourful splotches until his skin lay clear again. His frostbitten fingers healing themselves, sewing broken skin back together and returning to a healthy colour. His face, too, was returning to its original pallor, the change creeping up his neck and across his cheeks and leaving rich brown in its wake. Dark eyes stared down at Jon from behind long lashes, blinking away the last of the fog. He was beautiful.

“Hi,” Jon managed to choke out.

“Hi,” Martin said, and pulled him into his arms.

Jon just let himself be held in the pressure of the embrace for a moment, before bringing a hand up to card his fingers through Martin’s hair. While it had solidified into soft curls, the colour had stayed the same, bleaching it white under his fingertips. He wasn’t sure if Martin had noticed or not, but that was a conversation for another time. They were both a little preoccupied for the moment.

“How do you feel?” Jon eventually said, words pressed into the side of Martin’s neck.

“Uhm. Strange?” Martin eventually settled on. “It’s… I can remember what my thought process was, what the Lonely was pushing me to believe, but it’s like… It’s like the camera panned out, and now I can see it all clearly, and it looks… It looks stupid. Thank you, Jon. For coming to get me.”

“Of course,” Jon whispered, “Of course.”

Another moment passed before Martin spoke up again. “...Did you mean what you said, though? Or was that… Was that just to try and get me to leave? I- I won’t be angry, if it was, that- that’s very clever, I just want to know.”

Jon furrowed his brow. “Which part do you mean?”

Martin let out an agitated sigh. “You- You know which one I mean, Jon. The- The part where that you said that you…”

“That I love you?” Jon said, picking up where Martin trailed off.

Martin’s face flushed, and just the sight of colour spreading across it made Jon’s heart soar, let alone the implications of why . “Of course I did. I- I’m sorry that you would think I would lie about that, even for something like this. No, Martin, I love you. So very much. And I know you might not feel that way anymore, in which case I am very much embarrassing myself here, but I know that you did at one stage so I hope it won’t make things too awkward between us.” “I do, Jon.”

“What?”

“I do. Still feel that way. I love you too, of course I do. My hero.”

It was Jon’s turn to feel his face flush, pleasant warmth bubbling to the surface. “Oh,” was all he managed to stutter out.

“Can I- Jon do you mind if I…” Martin trailed off again, and Jon began to think this might be a recurring theme between them. He’d make it work. He was pretty good at reading Martin, and the eyeline pointed directly at his lips made intentions quite clear.

“Is- Would just the cheek be okay?” He replied. It didn’t really feel like the time for a full run down on where boundaries lay, but he figured it was a start.

“More than,” Martin said, leaning down to press his lips softly against Jon’s cheek. He lingered for a few seconds, skin largely healed but still chapped from the cold, and it was one of the most beautiful things Jon had ever felt. He slipped one hand into Martin’s, and he felt their fingers twine together.

Martin leaned back, clearly trying to calm his grin into something more close-lipped and calm. “Where to now then?”

“Uhm. Forward, really, is just how I’ve been going. There isn’t any real sense of geography to it, we’ll just…. Get there when we get there.”

“Right. Because nothing can be simple these days.”

Jon missed this. He missed him. But he didn’t have to miss him anymore, did he? He was right there.

He squeezed his hand once, and started leading the way.

[bobathots]

smokescreen

i wrote the first draft of this in a lust-fueled haze in less than 24 hours a few weeks ago and then i watched a movie where tem was just absolutely off the rails h word and my brain went “haha smoking kink go brrrrr again” so literally this is just an excuse for boba to smoke. @jon favreau give him a cigarette u coward mob boss! boba/female reader. smut 18+  ~10k tags: pwp, smoking, oral sex, shotgunning, at one point u give boba a blowjob while he smokes also on ao3

He wasn’t expecting anyone — or at least, he wasn’t expecting you , that much was clear from his body language. You weren’t even sure it was him until you got close enough to see the dim streetlamp cast a familiar shadow across his face, until you could make out his staple leather jacket wrapped around his form. The tip of his cigarette stood out cherry-red in the evening light, hanging loosely between his index and middle finger.  He tensed and turned his head as you approached.

“Boba!” You kept your voice light and even; you didn’t know how to talk to the man at work, much less in a situation like this. You hadn’t exactly expected to come across him in the middle of the night, in a dark alley situated neighborhoods away from where you both worked. But, then again, it wasn’t as if this was part of your normal schedule.

He dipped his head toward you in greeting, then brought his hand up to his face to take a drag from his cigarette. Your gaze remained transfixed on the motion, how he rested his index finger on his tip lip while his hand remained splayed, as if he was trying to hide the action. You spoke before you could think, the words tumbling out of your mouth, “I didn’t know you smoked.”

His inhale sounded like a sigh. Dropping his hand back to his side, he courteously turned his head away from you and exhaled billows of ash-grey smoke from his mouth. “Meant to keep it that way, too.” Oh. You winced. “Sorry, I didn’t mean…”

He shook his head as if to waive away your concerns. “Don’t. I’m the one smoking outside in public.”

“At midnight,” you added, knowing that he probably chose this time and place specifically for privacy. Privacy that you were now infringing upon.

“...At midnight,” he echoed, the beginnings of a wry smirk on his lips.

The conversation died out there, but you remained standing next to him, casting your gaze out onto the buildings. Distantly, you could make out drunken conversations from the surrounding busy streets so filled with nightlife, mixed with the occasional prickle of Boba puffing his cigarette. A cool breeze swept through the leaves and across your skin, causing goosebumps to pimple out in response. You hugged yourself tightly, palms wrapped around your bare arms, as if you could chase away the evening chill.

“Speaking of midnight —” You glanced back at Boba; he pinched the end of his cigarette between thumb and forefinger and dropped it to the ground, crushing it underfoot with his heel, “— you shouldn’t be out alone this late.”

“It’s not so bad in this part of town.” It felt weird having your boss express concern for you, as subtle as it was, even if it was in his nature to take care of his own , as he put it. You figured you were more like a blimp on his radar; it wasn’t like you were a crucial employee. You hardly ever needed to interact with him at work. “The streets are always lit,” you continued, “and always crowded.”

“Right. Which is why you decided to go down a dark alley in the middle of the night.”

Heat rose to your face. “Because I thought I saw you!”

He let out a sound which might have been a chuckle — god, it was so hard to tell with him — and he pushed off the building he had been leaning against. “Let me walk you home, then. An apology for causing you to make a stupid decision.”

You can’t tell if he’s being mean on purpose, but regardless, you didn’t want to impose on him. “Boba, it’s okay, there’s no —”

“Start walking,” he ordered. His voice was stern, commanding; the tone he took when giving instructions at work, and that meant there was no room for argument, no wiggle room to barter or bargain. The words yes, sir sat on your tongue, burgeoning with desire, but you swallowed them down back to the pit of your stomach where they belonged.

Another breeze blew in. You shivered, both from the temperature and from Boba’s intense presence, but finally nodded in acquiescence. “It’s not far,” you assured him, turning to walk back the way you came. “Maybe like five minutes or so.” Then, something heavy and warm draped itself over  your shoulders and you paused, turning back once more to look at Boba.

A now jacket-less Boba.

“I...oh. Um. Thanks?”

“Don’t mention it.” He kept walking the direction you set out, leaving you to play catch-up. You took a moment to slide your arms through the sleeves, and it thrilled you to find out just how much extra fabric hung past your hands. Even bunching it up at the wrists caused it to slide down from how loose the jacket sat on your body, so you simply clutched the hems in your palms to keep the fabric from slipping over your fingertips. The rest of it draped over you, his frame much larger than yours, and you felt weirdly protected in his jacket. It smelled like leather and faintly of cigarette smoke, but most importantly it smelled like him, a scent you had no other words for. It was the same smell that lingered in his office long after he’d left, something masculine and oddly comforting. Wearing your boss’ jacket was like being wrapped in a second-hand hug, and you were ashamed to admit how much you liked the idea.

You had to do a little jog to catch up to Boba. Maybe it was the night air, or maybe it was the fact that you had genuine one-on-one time with the man you’d been admiring for so long, but you were suddenly emboldened to nose into his personal life. “So...am I allowed to ask why you don’t smoke with the others?” The “others” you referred to were a sizable group of Boba’s underlings that you often noticed smoking together by the backdoor. 

“Not a social smoker.”

You wouldn’t call Boba a social anything , to be honest. “Okay, so why not in your office? I mean, you spend a lot of time alone there anyway.” You would have remembered if he kept an ashtray or a pack of cigarettes anywhere visible, and his office never smelled like smoke.

Silence stretched out between you. You thought maybe he was done with your invasive line of questioning — after all, this was the first “real” conversation you had had with him that didn’t involve work-related topics — but he spoke up after an elongated pause.

“It’s a nasty habit I can’t kick. I try not to indulge if I can help it.” If you didn’t know any better, you’d say that Boba almost sounded embarrassed at having a vice. “My turn to ask a question.”

“Hm?”

“There a reason you’re leading me through back alleys instead of taking the main streets?” He cast a sidelong glance at you, and even with the glint from the streetlamps you couldn’t place whatever subtle emotion danced in his gaze.

“Oh, uhm. It’s just a faster shortcut,” you said, hesitating despite your honesty. “I...normally don’t feel safe enough to do this at night, but…” The implied since you’re here hung heavy in the air between you. You drew his jacket tighter around your body, relishing in the shield it provided against the chilly evening air.

Seemingly satisfied with your explanation, Boba lapsed into silence beside you. You lead him around a corner and stopped at the base of a sloping hill, turning to face him. “Um, the house I’m renting is just up the road from here,” you started, nerves sitting at the base of your chest. The thought of Boba — your boss , who you were crushing on hard — knowing where you lived? It was almost too much to bear, because you were certain you’d do something stupid like invite him in for a drink, which would naturally lead to you into shamelessly begging him to do unspeakable things to you. You couldn’t. 

Instead, you shrugged off his jacket, internally mourning the loss of warmth and security it radiated. “Thanks again. And thanks for walking me home.”

Boba acknowledged you with a slight dip of his head as he pulled his jacket back around his own shoulders. You gave him what you hoped was a natural and normal smile that didn’t let your nervousness show, and turned to walk up the long sidewalk that led to your ramshackle house.

His gaze burned on your back the entire time, only letting up when you unlocked the door and stepped inside the safety of your home.

The second time had to have been a coincidence, an alignment of your schedules, because you found him at the exact same spot at the exact same time a week later. The only difference was that this time, he was grinding out a cigarette and raising a zippo to light another in the same moment.

You never took him for a chainsmoker.

“Boba —”

“What did I say about walking alone at night?” His tone wasn’t accusatory, necessarily, but neither was it condescending or patronizing. It was almost concerned, if you could call it that.

“I only have the same excuses as last time,” you admitted. He made that noise again, the little huff you’d taken to mean he’s amused, and your chest did a funny little skip in response.

“Means I’m responsible for walking you home again, then.”

“I - no! Not if it’s some sort of imposition. I’ll be fine on my own.”

“I’m sure of that, kid. But,” he paused to inhale, and deeply: his chest visibly expanded to fill out whatever room was left in his leather jacket, and he held it there for a beat, savoring the burn, before he breathed out in one fell swoop. “I’d like to see you safe with my own eyes.”

The white smoke obscured his gaze for just that moment, and all you could see was the bright burning end of his cigarette like a wine stain on a white tablecloth, like a gunshot wound through a white shirt.

You swallowed thickly. “Y-yeah, okay. Thanks, Boba.”

Something like gratitude settled over your shoulders, but there was also something else there, something you didn’t know how to describe. It meant enough to your lovesick heart to know that he cared , at least in some capacity, about your well-being. Enough to walk you home twice .

Even when Boba looked away, gaze on some distant point down the alley, you couldn’t keep your eyes from him. He looked so good , so imposing at all times, and the cigarette only helped add to his appeal. He was every bit like an intimidating mob boss, like he might decide to put his cigarette out on some thug’s eye for mouthing off — and you were only a little ashamed to say that the mental picture made you want to squirm.

At the same time, you could tell there was a different edge to him tonight. Something more coiled and tense, like he had a bundle of energy he needed to burn off and burning a cigarette was the closest he could come.

If he had been savoring it that first night, he was flat out devouring it now. It was aggressive, in a way; how he’d barely let his lungs take in a full breath of oxygen before he filled them with nicotine and tar again.

“You smoke?”

His voice startled you from your thoughts, bringing you clear back to the current moment. “N-no. Why?”

“You keep staring. Made me wonder if you wanted a puff.” He had caught you red-handed in your shameless oogling, and you supposed you should’ve felt embarrassed, but you were too enraptured with the way he spoke with his cigarette hanging from his lips, how the smoke leaked out in little wisps with every word. Deftly, he thumbed the filter to flick ash from the butt and immediately brought it back to his lips again. Your eyes followed every movement. “But it’s a good thing. Don’t start.”

“I hadn’t planned on it,” you said, which was the truth — the truth that existed before you knew Boba was a smoker, anyway. It wasn’t like you had a craving to smoke for smoking’s sake. Instead, you wanted to taste from the same filter that sat in Boba’s mouth, imagining it stained with the imprint of his lips; you wanted to inhale the same smoke that he exhaled and pretend that you were sharing breaths like lovers, or fuckbuddies; you wanted to kiss him and taste the nicotine on his tongue —

— but he was your boss, and a good deal older than you, and he’d never be interested in the first place. Instead, you had resigned yourself to watching him in the act with the hopes that you didn’t give off creepy vibes and that he’d fire you. It’d be best if you could turn your mind away from more unsavory thoughts, you decided. You would rather be a friend to him than someone he cast aside. You figured his stress came from the current negotiations between him and a potential business partner, but said partner was well-established in this area and, to the best of your knowledge, kept raising their “prices.” You didn’t know much about it because it simply wasn’t your job to know, but word did get around. “Are the talks not going well?”

He let out a derisive snort. “Hardly.” He exhaled and smoke escaped through his nostrils, giving him the momentary impression of a dragon. “It’s that obvious, huh?”

“It’s just…” You paused to search for the right words. “You seem very stressed. I thought it might be because of that.”

Boba grunted in response. He held his little nub of a cigarette between forefinger and thumb as the smoldering end continued to eat away at the filter. For a moment, it seemed like he was honestly considering trying to finish it off, but then he breathed out a quiet sigh and tossed the butt to the ground. 

“....So it’s a stress thing, then, huh? The reason you smoke?”

Boba crossed his arms over his chest and leaned his full weight against the building behind him. “Supposed to be,” he answered. “But then I got addicted.”

“You picked up smoking to cope with stress?” You couldn’t keep the incredulity out of your voice if you tried. Your response to stress was just to cry, something arguably way healthier than what Boba was currently doing.

He breathed in deep, then out, and caught the tail-end of a worrisome cough as he exhaled. “Stress used to make me angry,” he explained, taking a moment to clear his throat. “When I was younger, I picked a lot of unnecessary fights, broke a lot of bones.”

“Yours?”

“And others’.” You didn’t miss the uneven slant of his mouth, the slight grin he wore at the admission, as if he was proud . “But it was a dangerous outlet, so I found something else.”

“Like smoking is any less dangerous,” you pointed out.

“A cigarette kills slower than a bullet, kid. And besides, you’re...what, half my age? Maybe more?” He lifted himself off the building and beckoned you to follow him with a jerk of his head. “I’ve been smoking longer than you’ve been alive. There weren’t many other options beside violence or drugs when I was younger.” “Oh. I’m...I’m sorry,” you said lamely, not really knowing how else to respond. “Don’t be.”

He was leading you home, you realized with a start, both amazed and terrified that he remembered the route you showed him exactly once. As you walked, you stayed close to his side; the evening was no less chilly, and even though you were wearing a thin windbreaker of your own, you were still cold. Boba radiated body heat, and you tried to soak up some of his without being in direct contact with him.

“You don’t look stressed,” you offered after a minute of companionable silence. 

He turned to look at you fully, an obvious cue to continue, but his unwavering attention made you nervous, and you started to blabber. “I-I mean, like… just in case you were worried that you were projecting the wrong image. Whenever I see you on base I just think you look so cool and intimidating, so even if these talks are stressing you out, it doesn’t show, and you still look as powerful and scary as ever, and so —”

“Thanks.” His voice made you shut up instantly , though there was no harshness or anger behind his tone. You were glad that he stopped your rambling; you were certain that if you had continued, you would’ve said something you couldn’t come back from.

You stopped at the same place last time, at the base of the hill, and turned to Boba with a slight smile. “Well, thanks again —”

“No, kid.” His hand fell to the small of your back, so big and solid and warm , and for a moment your brain short circuited as you tried to process the contact. “I said I wanted to see you safe with my own eyes. I’ll walk you to your door.”

“Uhh, y-yeah, okay. Yeah. Good. Sounds good to me.” To your surprise, as you started walking again, Boba’s hand remained a constant on your back. Were he any closer, you could pretend he had his arm slung around your waist as if he were a lover, or your boyfriend, your partner — but, desperately, you attempted to put a stop to those thoughts. They were all fantasies, anyway, unreachable things that you were never meant to hope for.

You stopped in front of your house steps. They were shoddy and showed more tear than wear, and the building clearly needed some love and care. It was, however, home , for the foreseeable future.

“Um, this is me,” you said awkwardly. Boba’s hand finally fell from your back, unfortunately not stopping anywhere on the way down, and he glanced up to take in the state of the building. You couldn’t tell if he was impressed or not — his expression was virtually unreadable — and you didn’t want to imagine what he was thinking, or what information he could extrapolate about you based on your residence. “I wanted to say thanks for walking me home. Again.”

“You shouldn’t be walking alone in the first place,” he said in lieu of acceptance, his brows furrowing ever-so-slightly.

“I know, I know, just —” You shuffled awkwardly, half-wanting him to leave, half-wanting to invite him to stay. “Thanks.” You hoped it was obvious that you weren’t just thanking him for seeing you home, but for sharing pieces of himself with you, for allowing you to see the bits of himself he never showed at work.

For a moment, his eyes seemed to look you over, top-to-bottom. He dipped his chin slightly in response. “Get some rest, kid.”

And then he was gone, the phantom touch of his hand hot and heavy on your back.

You formed a ritual together after that.

You’d meet him at the same place every week, always around midnight, and he’d smoke while you had an easy conversation. He smoked depending on his mood: sometimes, it was just one cigarette, enjoyed slowly, the stick held between his fingers more often than his mouth. Other times, he’d smoke multiple in quick succession, never more than three, but always with a sense of quiet urgency, like he wanted to finish them as fast as possible. He’d usually smoke them down to nothing, too, leaving barely anything left to count as litter.

Consequently, you grew closer to him than your schedule at work would ever have allowed. Some nights, the conversation would stick to work or work-adjacent topics. Other nights, you’d talk about more personal things, like when Boba revealed how his father died and you stepped in to overshare about your own sob-story childhood — but no matter the topic, there was a general acknowledgement that your relationship had Shifted, with a capital s . The dynamic between you two was no longer strictly boss and employee, but neither was it just a friendship. It was something precarious, dangling over the edge, desperate for something to disrupt it.

And you were desperate to keep it there. Sure, Boba had gotten a little more physical with you in the sense that he always had a hand or an arm touching you as he took you home, and maybe he gave you his jacket more often than not these chilly evenings, but otherwise he was still...Boba. Still kind of hard to read, still a little emotionally closed off, and most definitely not into you. It sucked, but you had learned to be content with the crumbs you got, and it came with the added bonus of having a secret together that no one else at work knew about. It wasn’t scandalous, or taboo, but it definitely felt a little gratifying knowing that you got to see a side of the boss that most everyone else wouldn’t know existed.

Your weekly meeting was a ritual. A sacred thing.

Until it wasn’t.

One night, Boba simply wasn’t there .

His silhouette was missing . There was no figure leaning against the building, there was no cherry-red glow of cigarette embers, there was no one.

You checked your phone: just a little past midnight. Was he sick? Or busy? He had your number for work-related reasons, so surely he would have texted you if —

But why would he? It wasn’t like this was anything serious , right? It wasn’t a meeting he needed to cancel, or a failed date you could excuse your way out of. This was just… a thing . A repeated thing with a date and a time and a place, sure, but…

Nonetheless, you found yourself drawn to your phone, the screen casting a soft blue glow across your face as you waited for a notification to pop up over your messaging app. You wouldn’t call yourself a romantic, but surely expecting a courtesy message wasn’t beyond whatever little ritual you had going on, right? At least, as your employer, he could treat it like —

A hand grabbed your shoulder. On reflex, you twisted around and flailed your arm wildly, hoping to hit whatever would-be assailant in a place that would hurt.

He caught the fist you carelessly slung in one broad hand, his fingers wrapped around your wrist tight to hold it in place.

“ Boba! ” you gasped, both relieved and irritated at the same time. “Don’t sneak up on me like that!”

  He let your hand slide from his grasp, and if you were in the right mind to pay attention, you would have noticed how he purposefully let his fingertips ghost longer on your skin, how they ran from your wrist to fingers instead of dropping away outright. “Don’t stand oblivious in an alley. At least keep moving if you’re alone.”

You slid your phone back into your front pocket. “I was waiting for you . I didn’t think you were coming.”

At that, he raised an eyebrow ever-so-slightly. “Wasn’t aware I could be late.”

And, well — he was right. This was his thing, after all, his late-night smoke break that he just happened to be so kind as to let you participate as a spectator. Of course he could change his mind, of course he wouldn’t think to let you know. It was your fault for getting attached and thinking it was something more —

“You should stop walking alone so late at night.” Boba was close , you realized. The brief panic earlier had drawn you two together and you hadn’t parted very far, your chests merely inches from each other. It was closer than you had ever been to him before, at least face-to-face, and as a consequence he spoke quieter, his voice coming out as more of a husky rumble than an actual vocalization.

“I’ll stop when you stop smoking,” you countered, your mind too focused on your proximity to Boba to filter your words properly. You were worried he might pick up the true meaning, that it was the act of Boba smoking that lured you to him each week, but instead he huffed out a chuckle.

“We’ll see about that, princess.”

Princess . That was... oh . It sounded like a proper pet name, and the realization made a rush of heat go to your face.

“P-princess?” you finally squeaked out. “Really?”

“You’re spoiled often enough,” Boba said plainly, though the hint of a grin pulling at his lips made you realize he was teasing you.

Something overwhelmingly warm and pleasant tugged at your heart, replacing practically every negative feeling you’d experienced in the past ten minutes. “I’m spoiled, huh? How am I spoiled?”

“You usually get what you want.”

You hummed at that, trying to think of something he might be referencing. He didn’t interact with you much at work, and typically it was usually the opposite in your experience. “I don’t think so,” you finally said, drawing up blanks.

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

Oh.

Oh.

You hadn’t considered that maybe he kept up with the ritual for your sake. Maybe he didn’t smoke at the same time and at the same place on a weekly basis, but instead decided to show up because you expected him there. Because that made sense.

Guilt ate at your heart, replaced quickly by a sense of affection.

It meant he enjoyed your talks, then, right? That he at least enjoyed your company? You couldn’t think of anyone he might just hang out with other than Fennec, and even then, you couldn’t picture him going through the trouble of all of this just to talk with her.

“Boba…” Tentatively, you reached out and placed your palms against his chest, looking up at him. He smelled like leather and smoke and himself , and you were so close that if you wanted, you could… you could….

Thunder crackled sharply overhead, and you jumped back in pure surprise. Boba’s hands came to settle around your elbows, keeping you from fully peeling away.

“Oh, fuck,” you breathed. Ozone filled your nose — the threat of rain.

“Didn’t think it was supposed to storm tonight,” Boba admitted, and the change in weather made disappointment surge through your veins. You doubted he was the type to enjoy smoking while soaking wet, meaning you’d likely have to call it quits for tonight.

Unless…

“You could…” Oh, god. You already knew that the offer would be a mistake, but you swallowed down the nervous lump in your throat. “You could smoke. In my house. If you wanna.”

He regarded you quietly. “If I want, huh?”

“I-if you want,” you repeated. “But would a ‘please’ help influence your decision?”

“No.” And oh, that made your heart drop in your chest — but then he curled a finger under your chin and applied enough pressure to keep you gazing up at him. “But I want to hear one anyway.”

You couldn’t look away if you wanted to. There was something in his eyes that had you absolutely mesmerized , something burning like the smoldering end of a cigarette. God , you wanted to fucking kiss him. “Will you please come to my house?”

His lips curled into a small, self-satisfied smirk that bordered on a grin. The way he allowed you to see a flash of teeth seemed almost predatory , and it made you want to run away, or run toward him. “I’m not in the mood to get soaked,” he finally said. “Let’s go.”

You thought he would pull away from you entirely, leave you wanting and waiting,  but instead his arm curled itself around your waist to pull you against the warmth of his side. The gesture was so obviously possessive that it made your heart swoon . You tentatively leaned into him, a hand braced on his chest, but he took your weight easily, as if it were nothing.

The walk to your house was usually a quick affair, a five minute walk at most . Yet, now it felt like you were getting there at a snail’s pace, your body and brain hyperaware of your surroundings, dragging the walk out into one long punishment. Boba’s hand had slipped underneath the hem of your shirt to touch bare skin and it burned with promise. His body was so warm, and so solid, and he smelled so good that you just wanted to bury your face in his chest and just breathe. 

To anyone else, you would’ve looked like a typical drunk couple enjoying the evening together. You were invisible, and that knowledge made you almost giddy . He was no longer your boss and you weren’t his employee. The circumstances of your relationship didn’t matter, and for a moment you could pretend that you two were just —

Well, that you two were something together. Something with a future.

Too held up in your thoughts, you didn’t notice the pebble in your path, and you caught your foot on it and stumbled. Boba’s arms wrapped around you before you could pitch forward and he dragged you up to hold you against his chest, one strong arm braced around your middle. “Easy.”

His lips were right by your ear, so close that his voice had come out as barely more than a low rumble. You instinctively tensed in his arms, one hand resting atop his own, and turned your head back to look at him.

Christ , you were impossibly close. The angle meant that there were scant few inches separating you from him, and that a small adjustment would be enough to allow your lips to brush his, to allow you to have a taste of him that you’ve craved these past few months —

Thunder boomed overhead and you startled in his arms, enough so that you jerked away from him. You gave a nervous laugh moreso to assure him that nothing was actually wrong than anything else. The first few fat drops of rain splattered your skin, shockingly cold, and you both looked up at the sky in unison.

“We’d better hurry,” you suggested, knowing how easily torrential rain began in storms like these.

You reached for his hand this time, settling your small hand in the palm of his own, but it was Boba that pulled you along to your house with a renewed sense of urgency as rain began to darken the concrete in small splotches. The clouds threatened to open up and drench you both, but there was something a little more primal in the way he handled you, like it wasn’t just the rain on his mind.

By the time you reached the steps leading up to your door, he was practically manhandling you up them, and instead of allowing you to stop and fish your keys from your pockets, he kept himself in your space, crowding into you, forcing you back against your door. He braced an arm over your head, the other settling on your hip, and when he pressed his knee between your thighs you parted your legs willingly for him.

Boba stared at you. Water droplets dusted the shoulders of his leather jacket, shining dimly in your porch light. The same light reflected warmly in his brown eyes, eyes normally so hard and closed off, but soft for you , like he was sharing a secret, like he was barring some hidden part of himself just for you. Only you.

His thumb skimmed your bare skin where your shirt had ridden up, drawing slow and smooth circles that didn’t match the intensity of his gaze or the way your heart pounded in your chest. When he swallowed, you watched how his adam’s apple bobbed and longed to put your mouth there, to feel the motion against your lips.

“You gonna invite me inside?”

You wanted to hit him. You wanted to give him a snarky reply for all but forcing you up your stairs, or call him something that involved the words cheeky and asshole — but his breath kept ghosting tantalizingly across your lips and his damned smirk was so attractive and you felt like you had been waiting for this for literal years, desire and want and longing all bound up fit to bursting in your chest. “Only if you kiss me,” you challenged breathlessly.

Boba surged forward, hands sliding to cup your face between his broad and calloused palms, and he kissed you with more teeth than lips, something ferocious and desperate . His knee slotted itself higher between your thighs, purposefully rubbing against your center, and you moaned into his mouth, clutching desperately at his wrists. Against the awning, the spattering of rain turned quickly into a flood and for a moment you couldn’t differentiate between it and the blood rushing in your ears.

You never thought you’d find the taste of cigarettes appealing, but you did — at least, you liked them combined with whatever it was Boba tasted like. Maybe it was your attraction to him warping your senses but you couldn’t get enough. You licked into his mouth, sucked lightly on his tongue, teased his lip with your teeth — literally anything  to keep him pressed against you.

His hands left your face which made the chilly air feel all the more cold against your cheeks. Instead, they ran down the length of your torso, mapping out the curves and planes of your body. You arched willingly into his hands as they reached around to your backside, sliding into the pockets of your jeans —

— only to be met with disappointment when you heard the jangle of your keys as he pulled them from your pocket. “Could’ve —  asked ,” you managed between breathless kisses. Boba hummed into your mouth as he reached for the doorknob to your side. Reluctantly, he pulled away just long enough to slot the key correctly into the lock, and you busied yourself with tasting the expanse of skin on his throat that the new angle provided.

One hand still remained cupping your ass, and you squeaked when he suddenly grabbed a handful and squeezed. As he turned the doorhandle, he used his hand to pull your weight forward against him so that you wouldn’t fall backward into your house, which had the added advantage of pressing your chest to his.

“C’mon,” he murmured lowly, playfully swatting your ass. “Inside.”

You barely registered the sound of your keys hitting your tiled floor as he ushered you indoors, because the moment you both were safely inside you fell on him again, lip-to-lip, hands trying to work off his leather jacket. He took the hint and shed it quickly, letting it fall to the floor, and immediately he urged off your own shirt, breaking away from you long enough to pull the fabric up over your head.

His hands felt so big against your body like they were everywhere, his rough palms a stark contrast against your smooth skin. He thumbed just under your breastband, one hand settled on your back to keep your pelvis pressed to him as his other hand groped your chest over your bra, rough and demanding, and you whined into his mouth. The pleasure threatened to sweep your thoughts away, to turn you mindless and dumb and completely receptive to his whims. You turned your head away from his lips, trying to find the words to speak as he continued to grab handfuls of your flesh. “Boba —” you started, cutting off abruptly with a whine as he teethed at the delicate skin of your neck, each nibble a promise of a later bruise. “W-wait, Boba, I thought you came here to smoke?”

In an instant, his hands fell to his sides, leaving you completely untouched. If you weren’t keyed up and desperate, you might’ve appreciated the gesture, but now it just left you feeling frustrated and unfulfilled. He looked down at you in concern, brows slightly furrowed, but all you could focus on were his lips . They were slick with saliva, kiss-swollen, and you felt a twinge of regret that you had pulled away at all.

“....Do you not want —”

“No! No, I do, I just thought that maybe, y’know…” You gave him a sheepish grin, aware of how hot your face felt.  “I thought that maybe you could...do both?”

Concern gave way to slight confusion, then he chuckled in amusement. “I should have guessed.” Boba reached back into the pocket of his jeans. He pulled out his lighter and a carton of cigarettes and carefully shook one free. “You have a thing for smoking, huh?”

“No!” It was a gut-response to deny; smoking was gross . It was yucky . It did awful things to people’s bodies and it stained clothes and fingers and yet — “Or at least, I didn’t,” you amended, voice softening. “Not until I saw you that night.”

He paused, lighter halfway to his mouth. The cigarette dangled attractively from his lips. “You should have better taste.”

You choked on nothing. “Wh — you should have better stress relievers!” “Are you offering?”

That made you stop, heat rising to your face at the implication. Sure, you wanted him — but the thought of being his little toy , someone he came to when he needed a quick fuck to ease his frustrations — you liked the thought of it a little too much. Boba was smirking at you, but he seemed to understand to leave well enough alone, at least for now.

There was a flash of light, steel hitting flint, and then the familiar smell of smoke filled the air, more potent in your tiny house. He motioned his head toward your couch as he breathed out a mouthful of smoke. “Go sit.”

The command was almost unneeded; Boba practically steered you there himself, hot on your heels, his hand right back on your lower back like it belonged there. You settled yourself on the cushions, half expecting him to sit beside you, or maybe cover your body with his own — but when he sunk to his knees in front of you, nerves bubbled up in your stomach.

“Oh, Boba, I’ve never...No one has...gone down on me before.”

He grunted, deft fingertips already at the button of your jeans. “Don’t see how that impacts me.” You raised your hips to help as he tugged at the hem of one pantleg, and he slid your jeans off in one smooth movement. He placed your legs over his shoulders and jerked you forward so your ass was off the couch, hips suspended in midair by his arms hooked underneath your thighs. It left you trapped and pinned in place, your back slouched awkwardly against the back of the couch. He puffed on his cigarette before transferring it between his first two fingers, the burning tip pointed away from you as he gripped your thigh. Smoke escaped his mouth as he spoke, “Unless you want me to stop?”

You shook your head, and whatever nervous thoughts you had about tasting or smelling weird, or not looking the way he expected, or not being groomed the way he liked instantly left as Boba ran the flat of his tongue against your clothed cunt, so hot even through the fabric of your panties, and you jerked your hips both in surprise and want .

“Be still ,” he growled, so close that you felt his breath against your center. “I don’t want to burn you.”

“You won’t,” you breathed. You trusted him not to even accidentally harm you, like accident wasn’t a word in his vocabulary. Instead, you felt his arms clamp down on you harder, giving you even less potential wiggle room than before.

A moment later, his mouth was on you, his tongue licking broad stripes against your panties. It felt good even without direct contact; you had never had someone’s mouth on you before, and it had been a long time since you had anything but your hand to pleasure yourself with. 

“You’re already so wet.” He turned his attention to your inner thighs, and pressed wet, open-mouthed kisses to your heated skin. His free hand rubbed you through your panties, spreading your slick into the fabric, and you moaned . “Is it because of me, or are you just excited?”

“You. It’s you.” He hooked his thumb under the edges of your panties and pulled the fabric away from your crotch, exposing your heated core. Your breath came in short puffs as he finally touched you, skin against skin, his thumb dipping into your folds to collect your slick on his fingertip. “I’ve — thought about this for so long.” “About me eating you out?” You were so wet; you could see how your juices glistened on his thumb as he brought it to his mouth, letting his tongue loll out lewdly as he licked your taste clean from his finger. You whined at that sight alone and imagined his tongue tasting you for real, imagined how wet and hot it would feel against your bare cunt. He brought that same hand down onto the meat of your thigh, slapping you light enough to get your attention but not enough to leave a lasting sting. “I asked you a question, princess.”

“About this,” you repeated, as if it clarified anything. “About you.  About — Boba, please —” You tried arching your hips off the couch to tempt him, tried to explain without words what you wanted as your voice died off into a needy whine.

His hand returned to your cunt, fingertips grazing over your clit through your panties. They were so soaked with his spit and your slick that it was barely a barrier at all, made translucent by all the fluids. “Don’t make me guess what you want,” he said. “Tell me, and I’ll give it to you.”

Frustrated, you groaned and covered your face with your hands. “It’s embarrassing to say it.”

“It’s embarrassing, huh?” Boba teased the edge of your underwear, flicking it against your skin as a reminder that his fingers were right there , that you could have what you were desperate for if you only asked. “Is it embarrassing if I say that I love how you taste?” 

“Boba….” you whined weakly.

“I want to taste more of you,” he murmured, voice growing husky. He nosed against your clothed mound, breath fanning hotly against your core. “I want to bury my tongue in your little cunt and take everything from you. I want you to come undone on my mouth, princess.” He pressed an oddly-sweet kiss to your thigh, his lips lingering on your skin. “But I can’t unless you tell me what you want.”

You felt hot and extremely bothered by the casual way he said those things, how he just uttered his desires as if they were nothing. It wasn’t embarrassing to ask him to eat you out, but you found it embarrassing that you wanted it. You swallowed thickly, and when you finally looked out from under your hands you found Boba looking up at you through hooded eyes, just waiting. Watching.

“Please,” you whispered. “Please eat me out.”

“ That ’s it." In a blatant show of strength he ripped your panties right from your hips, tearing the cloth with one strong pull. You didn’t even have time to articulate a response, because a second later his mouth was on your bare pussy, his tongue eagerly lapping up the liquid that glistened on your folds. 

“ Boba! ” You jerked hard in his grasp but he pinned you down with his hands alone, his grip on your thighs so tight you knew that there would be ten marks in the shape of his fingers the next morning. He was relentless, lapping and slurping at your cunt like a man starved, and the sounds were so lewd and so pornographic that you’d have found them gross were you not so aroused. 

You wanted to snap your thighs closed and rut against his mouth so bad , but his hold on you was unforgiving. He kept you spread and held in place, completely at his mercy as he licked and sucked and devoured you. Little gasps and moans kept escaping your lips, mixed in with mindless repetitions of Boba and please and yes, yes, like that.  This was the loudest you had ever been; months of pent-up desire and sexual frustration had you quickly approaching an orgasm, vastly helped by Boba’s skillful tongue. The urge sat heavy in your gut and only grew with each passing second until you were frantically trying to grind into him, hips moving minutely in his iron grip.

And then he began to pull away. Your hand shot out to grab the back of his head to hold him in place, a desperate whine leaving your throat. “No! No, Boba, please, I’m so close, please —”

“Shhh.” He turned his head to place a soft kiss to your inner thigh. “Relax, princess. I’m not going anywhere.” His assurances were enough to cause you to let go, and he rewarded you by peppering more gentle kisses to your slicked skin.  “You got an ashtray?”

You had to think through the haze of want that clouded your thoughts. “A... huh? Why?”

“Don’t want to burn you.” He motioned toward the cone of ash on his cigarette, which had been steadily burning the whole time his mouth was on you. Carefully, he unwound his arms from around you and you slumped, boneless, back into the couch. “Unless you want me to use the carpet?”

“N-no, god, my landlord would kill me.” You spotted an old mug sitting on the endtable right next to the couch and reached for it, almost spilling the scant liquid left inside as you haphazardly handed it to Boba. “Use this.”

Sitting back on his haunches, he flicked the excess into the mug and then brought the cigarette to his lips, inhaling deeply. You watched the fabric of his shirt stretch across his chest as he breathed in, how his shoulders seemed to broaden with the action. When he exhaled, he blew from the side of his mouth, keeping the smoke from reaching your face.

Which was considerate and all, but… “ Boba .” You stretched your lower half toward him in need, letting your thighs fall open. “Please?”

“You invited me here to smoke,” he reminded, even as his free hand slid up to brush tantalizingly close to your slit. “You gonna make me waste a cigarette?”

“N-no, but…” Tears pricked the back of your eyes; you had been so close , and the longer you went without his mouth on you the more you worried you wouldn’t get to come at all. “ Please .”

Boba flicked ash into the mug again and set it aside on the floor, out of reach of flailing arms and legs. “Spoiled little thing,” he said, so affectionate, and then he was upon you, his head back between your thighs. And, fuck, maybe you were spoiled, but it was his fault for indulging you and giving you an inch so you could take a mile. His tongue just felt so good, and without his arms pinning your legs open you rutted freely into his mouth, moans and pleas rolling off your lips anew.

Boba turned his head to the side as he took another drag from his cigarette, holding the little nub a safe ways away from your skin. He exhaled before he wrapped his mouth around you again, hotter than before, and his lips latched around your clit.

“Fuck!” Pleasure shot up through your spine and you moaned shamelessly, your eyes shutting tightly against the feelings that threatened to overwhelm you. “Fuck, fuck , Boba, please, oh my god —”

“Gonna come from my mouth alone?” His lips barely left your cunt as he spoke, his hot breath only serving to further tease you. “Wanna come for me, sweet thing?”

“ Yes ,” you hissed. “Yes, Boba, please , wanna come on your tongue —” You weren’t even wholly aware of what you were saying, just babbling mindlessly as he kept torturing your clit with attention. The urge you were chasing earlier came back full-force, leaving you teetering on the edge. “Please, please , Boba, Boba —”

“Then come,” he ordered. “Come for me.”

It might have been his voice, it might have been because his teeth skimmed your clit, but you came and you came hard . You think  you screamed, or blacked out, or screamed and then blacked out — and when you finally relaxed, body no long tight and taut, you opened bleary eyes to find Boba’s face still buried between your legs, his tongue lapping at your sensitive pussy in slow, languid movements.

“Boba,” you whimpered, pushing at him weakly. “‘S’too much, please …”

He peppered hot, open-mouthed kisses on the heated skin of your inner thighs as he pulled away, settling back on his knees. To your embarrassment, his mouth and chin shined with your juices; he turned his head to wipe himself clean on the sleeve of his shoulder and replaced his cigarette back between his lips. It was evident he’d enjoyed himself, too, because there was a sizable bulge tenting the fabric of his jeans.

“Hey.” You stretched a leg out, brushing a toe across the top of a clothed thigh. “It’s not fair you’re still dressed. Take off your shirt.”

He exhaled slowly, smoke drifting lazily upward from his mouth. “Take off your bra if you want it to be fair.”

You had completely forgotten that you were still wearing it, and you realized how ridiculous you must look: stripped nude with your bare pussy on display, but still wearing your fucking bra. It wasn’t even cute .

Sitting up, you hesitantly reached behind yourself and unclipped your bra. You let the straps slide down your shoulders but left the cups covering your chest, suddenly very acutely aware of everything: the couch beneath your bare thighs, the drying slick on your skin, Boba’s warm eyes focused intensely on you .

“Don’t get shy on me, now.” Gentle and slow, he reached a hand up and helped ease your bra the rest of the way off your chest. He palmed your bare breast, pebbling your nipple underneath his thumb. “Beautiful.”

You flushed at the compliment but gently pushed his hand away. “Your turn. Fair’s fair.”

He extended his cigarette out to you as he stood up from his knees, and you didn’t miss the quiet noise of exertion he made at the effort. “Hold this.” It was burned down to almost nothing, wasted, but as you took it from his fingers you remembered how often you’d imagined holding the filter between your lips, how often you dreamed of tasting him second-hand.

“Want to try?” He must’ve caught you staring; when you glanced back at him, he was bare-chested, and you marveled at the power that flexed underneath his skin, at the tattoos that spanned his chest and upper arms. You’d have to ask about them later.

“I thought you didn’t want me to start?”

“You’re an adult. I’m saying the offer’s there, if you want.”

You considered it — you really did — but then you thought about how sweeter it would taste coming from his mouth, and you passed it back to him.

“I...can we try something?

The end of it burned red-hot as he inhaled. “What?”

Your earlier shyness came back, your nerves sitting heavy in your chest. “What if...you kissed me, right? But with your mouth full of smoke? And then...y’know….” You wrung your hands in your lap as your confidence died out.

But Boba merely chuckled and took a seat on the couch next to you, the cushions dipping under his weight. “You won’t like it,” he warned.

“I don’t care.” Half-surprised he agreed, and half-giddy with desire, you crawled loose-limbed into his space, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth as you settled into him. “If it’s from you, I don’t care.”

You had tucked yourself into his side, but Boba hauled you into his lap instead, swinging your legs across his own. His clothed erection pressed into your hip and you had half a mind to ask if he wanted his pants off, too — but then he grabbed your chin between one large hand and held you in place as he puffed from his cigarette. His lips ghosted across your own, soft and tentative, and then he kissed you for real.

Unlike before, this was gentle and sweet, the slow molding of his mouth to yours, until he urged your lips to part. On instinct, you inhaled, and the smoke that entered your lungs was hot and spicy . You coughed once against his mouth before you had the chance to turn away. Your lungs and throat burned and tears quickly filled your eyes as you coughed away the sensation.

“I told you,” came Boba’s smug reply, and you narrowed your leaking eyes in a glare even as small coughs wracked your body. Gently, he smoothed his hand up and down your spine. “Wanna try again?”

“So you can —” you stopped, coughing, “— laugh at me?”

“Not laughing.” He wiped away some spittle on the side of your mouth. “It’ll be easier if you just hold it in your mouth. Don’t breathe it in.”

You nodded. After he took another drag from his cigarette, well and truly burning it to the filter, he kissed you again. This time, when you felt smoke fill your mouth, you fought off the urge to inhale. It almost tasted sweet beneath the bitter burn. You forced yourself to breathe out, the smoke pouring from between your connected mouths, but despite your best efforts you ended up inhaling a little anyway. You pulled away and coughed to clear your throat.

“Better?

You shook your head. “Not really,” you said sheepishly. “At least I know there’s one fantasy I don’t want to try again.

Boba extinguished the nub of his cigarette between forefinger and thumb and tossed it to the mug he left on the floor. “You fantasized about this?”

“Well, duh.” You sunk down against his chest, resting your head on his shoulder as he drew you close. “What else am I supposed to think about at work?”

It was a tease, mostly, but Boba pinched the soft skin of your thigh. “Naughty thing,” he admonished. “I pay you to fantasize, huh?”

“You occupy my thoughts even when I’m off the clock,” you admitted. As you shifted a bit in his lap, his erection pressed into your side, and you remembered another worktime fantasy and spoke before Boba had a chance to reply to your honesty. “Hey, you brought a whole pack with you, right?”

He huffed out a chuckle. “You trying to give me lung cancer?”

“No! No, no, just —” You squirmed. “Do you maybe want a blowjob? While you smoke?”

He answered you by reaching into his back pocket to pull out his lighter and cigarette carton. “You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?”

“W-well, I mean, I thought you might like it. It’s supposed to be every man’s fantasy, right? A good blowjob and a smoke?” You eased yourself onto your knees before him as he lit up another cigarette, smoothing your hand over his broad thighs.

“Never considered it before,” he said as he began to undo his belt, “but I won’t say no.”

Your deft fingers helped undo the button on his jeans, and you pulled the waistband down just far enough to free his aching cock. “Oh, fuck ,” you breathed. He was big . Bigger than anyone else you’d taken, and you felt a phantom twinge of pain in your jaw just imagining him in your mouth. 

“Like what you see?” Boba grinned down at you, his freshly-lit cigarette hanging from the side of his mouth. Oh, he knew he was big. He knew it, and he knew you liked it.

You wrapped your hand around him and almost moaned when you realized you were barely able to touch your thumb to your middle finger around his girth. “Holy fuck , Boba.” You had never wanted to suck a dick as badly as you did now, even if you were questioning how any of it would fit in your mouth. Would he even fit in your cunt? If things escalated to that point, would you be able to take him, or would he just split you in half?

You subconsciously squeezed your thighs together and leaned in, pressing kisses up along his shaft. He smelled good , like musk, like Boba , the scent that you could never name. You parted your lips and dragged the tip of your tongue along his shaft, feather-light, stopping to take his leaking head into your mouth. He tasted salty on your tongue and you braced your hands on his thighs as you leaned in farther, relaxing your throat as his girth stretched you mouth impossibly wide. Already, it was almost too much, your jaw threatening to ache, and you worried you’d have to give him a handjob instead.

“‘Atta girl,” Boba praised, and oh if that didn’t make you feel like you could do anything . He ran a hand through your hair and settled a palm on the top of your head — not pulling, not pushing, but a comforting weight that held promise. Potential.

You pulled off his cock, tilting your head to look up at him through your lashes. “You can be mean,” you breathed, cognizant of how his hand tightened in your hair. “It’s okay.”

Boba hummed low in his throat, as if he were considering it. “Some other time,” he promised. “You have to learn to take me. I can’t break you on the first day.”

His words made you whimper automatically with want as your brain immediately filled in the gaps. Boba exhaled a mouthful of smoke around his cigarette and applied a little pressure to the top of your head, encouraging you to bend down again. “C’mon, princess. Take me into your mouth.”

You held his gaze for as long as you could manage as you wrapped your lips around his cock again, sinking down on his length. Despite his size, you wanted to take him deep in your throat and feel his jeans rub against your chin. You tried to relax as much as possible as you sunk lower but he was just too much , and you ended up gagging audibly.

He gave a sharp tug on your hair, pulling you off his cock. “Go easy ,” he stressed. “Don’t hurt yourself.”

Spit dribbled down your chin. “I want to take all of you,” you whined.

Boba’s hand cupped your jaw, his thumb smearing your saliva across your lips. “Be patient. I’m not a small man.”

“You make it sound like I’ll get another chance to do this.”

“You will. If you want.” Ash fell from the end of his cigarette and onto the cushion below, but in that moment you couldn’t care less about your stupid couch. “I’d like to have fun with you again.”

You hid your grin behind kisses as you peppered them along his shaft. “Okay,” you finally said. “Okay, I’ll go easy.” Boba made it sound like you’d have all the time in the world later to train your throat to take his cock — and hopefully there’d be time to train other things, as well.

No longer focused on deepthroating his entire cock, you worked on fitting as much as you could comfortably handle into his mouth and settled into a rhythm as you sucked and licked. You stroked the rest of his shaft with your hand, aided smoothly by your excessive saliva that drooled down his length.

You took a chance to look up at Boba, and found him with his eyes closed, an arm thrown over the back of your couch. The cigarette bobbled in his mouth as he inhaled around it. “ There you go,” he murmured, smoke trailing from his lips. “Just like that. Easy.”

You swallowed around him and his hand tightened in your hair. The taste in your mouth grew saltier with each passing second as his precum leaked from the tip of his cock and mingled with your spit. Boba groaned above you, something guttural and almost primal , and you felt the ache between your own legs grow in response.

“Want my cum, princess?” 

Grateful for the chance to give your aching jaw a break, you lifted from his cock and licked a broad stripe up from where your hand had been. “ Yes ,” you plead. “Yes, please, will you come in my mouth?”

“Gonna swallow me, huh?” At your enthusiastic nod, he grinned. “Good girl. My good girl. Scoot back.”

He moved to stand up from the couch and you realized at once what he intended to do as you shifted backwards, sitting pretty on your knees. He towered over you in this position and you couldn’t take your gaze away from him; at this angle, he seemed larger than life, intimidating and scary and huge , and the cherry-red of his cigarette burned brighter than ever. 

Boba cupped your jaw in his hand, tugging at your bottom lip. “Open your mouth.” You whined and clutched at the fabric of his pants as you obediently parted your lips, moving your head so that the tip of his cock was pointed at your mouth.

He fisted his cock in one hand, jerking himself hard and fast, and with the other he gripped the back of your hair and held you in place. “Gonna come, princess. Stick your tongue out for me.” 

You stretched your tongue out of your mouth as far as it would go, lips parted wide, and stared longingly up at him. Each of his exhales contained a mouthful of smoke, and it gave him the impression of standing in a translucent cloud, the tip of his cigarette standing out amongst the white.

He grunted something unintelligible and you felt something warm and thick land on your cheek. The next one hit your upper lip, and Boba drew you forward so that the head of his cock sat on the tip of your tongue. The rest of his cum landed hot and salty on your tastebuds.

Boba jerked himself from base to tip, coaxing out whatever droplets he could give you. “You look so good,” he murmured, voice husky. “Good girl. Swallow.”

You obeyed, opening your mouth wide after to show him. His thumb came up and helped guide the mess he left on your face into your waiting mouth, where you sucked his tongue clean each time.

“You did so well,” he praised, and even though your jaw ached and there was a dull throb between your legs, you beamed . You pressed your face into his clothed thigh and sighed happily as he rested a hand in your hair, stroking down the strands he’d mussed earlier. He took his cigarette from his mouth and tapped the ashes off into what you hoped was the mug.

A sort of quiet peace settled over you, and even though you were completely nude and it was late and you kind of wanted to invite Boba to stay the night (or forever), you were content to just sit there on your knees as he ran his fingers through your hair.

Besides. He told you there would be a next time — there was no reason to rush.

[duvetsandpillows]

Lucky One

Pete Davidson x Reader 

Word count: 2k

Warnings: Swearing, mention of needles, slight angst, drug use

A/N: This is my first Pete fic but I think I will definitely be writing more. Please let me know what you think!

I sat in bed, joint in one hand, lighter in the other. I’d been staring at the wall for the past half hour or so, drowning in my thoughts, forgetting the joint I’d been fiddling with was there to be smoked.

I was thinking about everything and nothing all at once. Have I taken my antidepressant? What do they do with the bagel holes? You’re gonna be alone forever. Don’t forget your earring is behind the back left leg of the desk. New thoughts beginning before the last one could end. I was exhausted yet I hadn’t done anything to warrant feeling so drained. I’d only left my bed to piss.

“Hey you home?” I glanced over at my door, reality setting back in, before realizing how messy my bed was; sketchbook and pencils scattered everywhere, weed crumbs and ash from not paying attention to what I was doing and empty monster cans. I kicked as much as I could off the end of the bed before putting the long forgotten joint to my lips and sparking it. The door slowly opened, Pete standing in the doorway holding a bag and a coffee.

“Whatcha doing in bed B?” he asked climbing into the bed handing me the coffee. I took a toke and thanked him while passing him the joint.

“I just don’t feel like moving. I feel like shit, my brain won’t stop for just a second. I just want everything to stop.” My voice breaking as I began to fight back tears. He blew smoke into the air, putting his arm around my shoulder, pulling me into his side, handing me the joint.

“Breathe B, you’re gonna be okay. I know that sounds like bullshit but I’m here to help you through it.” I took a take and wiped a stray tear from my eye. “It’s always been me and you hasn’t it, that’s not gonna stop now. Did you take your antidepressant today?”

“I can’t remember,” I squeaked, letting the tears win the battle. Pete put his other arm around my chest and squeezed tight, resting his hand on the back of my head and rubbing his thumb.

He would whisper little pick me-ups every few minutes while I cried. “At least you didn’t walk straight into a street light like I did.” I looked up to see him pointing to a small bruise on his forehead. “I saw a woman carrying a dog in a baby sling thing and then boom! Street Light.” I giggled before taking a deep breath and wiping my tears with my sleeves.

“I guess you could say she threw you off your rhythm.” He rolled his eyes and pushed my head playfully before chuckling.

We’d been friends practically our whole lives, yet it was rare for us to talk about deep shit. Not because we didn’t care but we were good at talking each others minds off all the bullshit. 

“Movie, smoke, munch? I brought gushers and twizzlers.”

“Only if I get to pick.”

“Obviously, you always pick.” I scoffed and sat up, rolling my eyes.

“Bullshit, we constantly watching The Mule.”

“Not my fault you can’t appreciate a masterpiece,” he said as he grabbed my rolling tray from the end of the bed and I began flicking through Netflix for something to watch.

“Your hair looks nice by the way,” he mumbled, eyes focused on rolling the joint. I glanced over at my reflection in the mirror, I looked as if I’d just climbed out of the hedge. I smiled and thanked him, deciding to put on Knocked Up.

Pete told me what he’d been up to all week and who the guests were gonna be while we watched the film. I made him a twizzler ring and he attempted to make me a bracelet but he couldn’t work out how to get the knot to stay tight.” After a couple more joints I sat up on my knees and faced him.

“Could... I maybe colour in your tattoos?” I asked, placing my hand on his leg to stay balanced, realizing how high I was after not moving for so long.

“Yeah of course, which one first?” I smiled and pointed to the unicorn on his arm and leant off the end of the bed to grab my pens, Pete grabbing hold of my foot as I almost fell off. After I’d finished the unicorn I moved onto the direwolf underneath. Pete was flicking through the pages of my sketchbook as I added icy blue to the eyes.

“Y’know,” he started, passing me a joint, “I reckon you could be a tattoo artist. You could even practice on me.” I stopped and looked at him a bit taken back.

“I’ve never thought about it before.”

“Maybe you should.”

Once I finished the direwolf I looked up to see Pete had dozed off, I smiled and pulled a blanket over him, moving the sketchbook off his lap. I rolled a joint and glanced at the open drawing of a group of clouds I’d been working on but hadn’t yet worked out what should accompany them.

I thought about what Pete said and picked up the sketchbook and a pencil. I smoked while drawing Frank the bunny’s head from Donnie Darko. It was my favourite film and Pete had watched it with me countless times.

After an hour or so I finished the outline and most of the infill with different shades of blue. I felt Pete roll over and put his arm across my lap. I looked down to see him, eyes half open, observing my drawing.

“That’s amazing.” His voice gruff and low.

“Thank you,” I said passing him a monster from my bedside table. He sat up partially and took a sip before handing it back to me. “Good nap?” He nodded and laid back down into my side.

“You should put that on me,” He kicked his leg out from under the blanket and pointed to the side of his thigh. “Here would be perfect.”

“If you’d like.” He sat up again and gently tore the sketch out of the book.

“Come on then.” I frowned and tilted my head slightly. “There’s a guy that could do this now, you could get one too?”

I stared at him in a bit of shock, not expecting him to actually want one of my pieces on his body. I thought he was saying it just to be nice. Also as I’d never considered getting a tattoo before. Not because I didn’t like them but more because I was nervous; I wasn’t great with needles and if tattoo’s would suit me.

“You up for it?”

“What if I look awful with one?” I blurted, Pete’s smile morphed into confusion.

“Why would you look awful?” You always look great.” I could feel my cheeks getting warm and I couldn’t help but ever so slightly smile. “Plus I think you’d look hot with one,” he mumbled handing me the sketchbook, open to a small drawing of a sheep I’d done high while watching Shaun the Sheep.

“It’s small, if you want it to be hidden then it’s easy.” I looked down at the doodle and thought about it for a moment.

“Fuck it lets go.”

I sat on a chair next to Pete watching as the tattoo artist, Jon, carefully traced over the light purple outline in dark blue ink. I began adding to my sheep. A few clouds in the background, similar to the ones on Pete’s.

“What you doing?” I handed him the paper, glancing over at his leg, in awe at how it was turning out. I looked back at Pete who was smiling at the drawing. I held out the pencil to him, when he didn’t notice I poked his arm with it.

“Ow, dick,” he said pouting and rubbing his arm. “What am I meant to do with this?”

“Add something to it, you got a piece of me,” I pointed to his leg. “Your turn.”

“I can’t draw like you and-”

“And I don’t care. Draw.”

While Pete drew, not phased at all by the needle going in and out of his leg, I chatted with Jon, asking him question about how he became a tattoo artist and what it’s like. I was slowly becoming more interested the more I watched him work. Once he was done he turned to me.

“You ready?” he asked, I nodded nervously and Pete passed him the design. Pete swapped places with me after taking a look at it in the floor length mirror. I decided to get it on my arm as I decided I wanted to always be able to see it now Pete had added to it. I told them I didn’t want to see it until it was finished, wanting Pete’s addition to be a surprise. I looked over at Pete, nerves starting to kick in a little.

“Have I ever told you I’m not brilliant with needles?” He chuckled and took my hand in his.

“Yep,” I winced as the needle hit my skin. “Like the time you gave blood because you thought that nurse was cute and threw up all over him before fainting.” I chuckled before biting the inside of my cheek and gripped his hand tight. “You’re good, just keep your eyes this way,”

Pete kept chatting with me and rubbing his thumb on the back of my hand, keeping me distracted from the pain.

“Should I be nervous with what you drew? It’s just clicked how much trust I’ve given you.” He pursed his lips, holding back either as smile or a laugh. “Pete...”

“Nah nah nah, it’s not that bad, but you said to add a bit of me. Trust me you’ll love it.” I raised my eyebrows before gripping his hand again, feeling a muscle in my arm unintentionally spasm.

“You’re good, it happens sometimes, we’re almost done here.”

After ten more minutes it was all done and he was wiping it up. It was aching it a little but I was really excited to see it.

“You ready to see it?” I nodded and looked at my arm to see the best tattoo I could imagine. The clouds were a beautiful combination of greys and whites, my sheep now with a spliff in its mouth and a second, slightly wonky looking, sheep with a spliff also in its mouth and sunglasses on. It kind of looked like a child drew the second sheep but I loved it even more for that.

“I put our initials at the bottom so we don’t forget who is who.” I giggled looking at his scruffy handwriting underneath. “So... what do you think?”

“I fucking love it!” I said wrapping my arms around him hugging him as tight as I could. “Thank you Pete.” I pressed a kiss to his cheek and let Jon wrap my arm up in cling film.

We grabbed some Taco Bell on the way home, I was designated DJ and he driver. I was, questionably, rapping along to Colson and Corpse’s new song while Pete laughed at me. He slipped his hand into mine, giving it a small squeeze and continued driving and started rapping along as if that was a normal for us to hold hands. I smiled and gave his a squeeze back even though I was a bit shocked. Shocked but yet it felt normal.

“You can roll the next one, my arm aches,” I said flopping onto my bed.

“Is that gonna be your excuse for the next week?” 

“Did it work?” I looked up to see him shaking his head and chuckling as he picked up the rolling tray.

“You’re lucky you’re cute.” I smiled and winked as it sat up. 

“You’re lucky too, you get to look at this cute face all the time.” Pete leant forward and took my hand, pulling me into his lap.

“What would you say, if I asked you out... to dinner or something?” I wrapped my arms around his neck and furrowed my eyebrows.

“What like a date?” His smile and confidence drained from his face immediately and I had to force myself to hold back a laugh.

“It doesn’t have to be no, I just- aw fuck.” I started pissing myself laughing, holding onto him tight to keep my balance.

“Yes I’d love to go on a date, if you hurry up and roll that joint, I teased winking at him, swinging myself off his lap. “I’ll even put on The Mule yeah?”

“I’m definitely the lucky one.”

[kellyvela]

Blue hair and beard didn't seems lucky. Blue Bard had blue hair and had been tortured to insanity. Daario had blue hair and beard is in captivity of yunkai. Jon C and Aegon dyed their hair blue. Though they are going to shed the dye to reveal themselves but they are going to die. Thoughts?

Color blue in general is a bad omen. Especially for Jon's aunt:

When they were alone, Ser Jorah drew his dagger. Deftly, with a delicacy surprising in such a big man, he began to scrape away the black leaves and dried blue mud from Drogo's chest. The plaster had caked hard as the mud walls of the Lamb Men, and like those walls it cracked easily. Ser Jorah broke the dry mud with his knife, pried the chunks from the flesh, peeled off the leaves one by one. A foul, sweet smell rose from the wound, so thick it almost choked her. The leaves were crusted with blood and pus, Drogo's breast black and glistening with corruption.

—A Game of Thrones - Daenerys VIII

"Then why do men lower their voices when they speak of the warlocks of Qarth? All across the east, their power and wisdom are revered."

"Once they were mighty," Xaro agreed, "but now they are as ludicrous as those feeble old soldiers who boast of their prowess long after strength and skill have left them. They read their crumbling scrolls, drink shade-of-the-evening until their lips turn blue, and hint of dread powers, but they are hollow husks compared to those who went before. Pyat Pree's gifts will turn to dust in your hands, I warn you." He gave his camel a lick of his whip and sped away.

—A Clash of Kings - Daenerys II

The merchant prince sat up sharply. “Pyat Pree has blue lips, and it is truly said that blue lips speak only lies. Heed the wisdom of one who loves you. Warlocks are bitter creatures who eat dust and drink of shadows. They will give you naught. They have naught to give.”

—A Clash of Kings - Daenerys III

A long stone table filled this room. Above it floated a human heart, swollen and blue with corruption, yet still alive. It beat, a deep ponderous throb of sound, and each pulse sent out a wash of indigo light. The figures around the table were no more than blue shadows. As Dany walked to the empty chair at the foot of the table, they did not stir, nor speak, nor turn to face her. There was no sound but the slow, deep beat of the rotting heart.

(...)

. . . three heads has the dragon . . . the ghost chorus yammered inside her skull with never a lip moving, never a breath stirring the still blue air. . . . mother of dragons . . . child of storm . . . The whispers became a swirling song. . . . three fires must you light . . . one for life and one for death and one to love . . . Her own heart was beating in unison to the one that floated before her, blue and corrupt . . . three mounts must you ride . . . one to bed and one to dread and one to love . . . The voices were growing louder, she realized, and it seemed her heart was slowing, and even her breath. . . . three treasons will you know . . . once for blood and once for gold and once for love . . .

(...)

The Undying were all around her, blue and cold, whispering as they reached for her, pulling, stroking, tugging at her clothes, touching her with their dry cold hands, twining their fingers through her hair. All the strength had left her limbs. She could not move. Even her heart had ceased to beat. She felt a hand on her bare breast, twisting her nipple. Teeth found the soft skin of her throat. A mouth descended on one eye, licking, sucking, biting . . .

—A Clash of Kings - Daenerys IV

“Blue lips speak only lies, isn’t that what Xaro told you? Why do you care what the warlocks whispered? All they wanted was to suck the life from you, you know that now.”

—A Clash of Kings - Daenerys V

And the Crow's Eye, Euron Greyjoy.

He looks unchanged, Victarion thought. He looks the same as he did the day he laughed at me and left. Euron was the most comely of Lord Quellon's sons, and three years of exile had not changed that. His hair was still black as a midnight sea, with never a whitecap to be seen, and his face was still smooth and pale beneath his neat dark beard. A black leather patch covered Euron's left eye, but his right was blue as a summer sky.

His smiling eye, thought Victarion. "Crow's Eye," he said.

"King Crow's Eye, brother." Euron smiled. His lips looked very dark in the lamplight, bruised and blue.

—A Feast for Crows - The Iron Captain

A smile played across Euron's blue lips. "I am the storm, my lord. The first storm, and the last. I have taken the Silence on longer voyages than this, and ones far more hazardous. Have you forgotten? I have sailed the Smoking Sea and seen Valyria."

(...)

The captain took the cup Euron had not offered, sniffed at its contents suspiciously. Seen up close, it looked more blue than black. It was thick and oily, with a smell like rotted flesh. He tried a small swallow, and spit it out at once. "Foul stuff. Do you mean to poison me?"

"I mean to open your eyes." Euron drank deep from his own cup, and smiled. "Shade-of-the-evening, the wine of the warlocks.

—A Feast for Crows - The Reaver

“Not all your enemies are in the Yellow City. Beware men with cold hearts and blue lips. You had not been gone from Qarth a fortnight when Pyat Pree set out with three of his fellow warlocks, to seek for you in Pentos.”

—A Dance with Dragons - Daenerys III

Beneath her coverlets she tossed and turned, dreaming that Hizdahr was kissing her … but his lips were blue and bruised, and when he thrust himself inside her, his manhood was cold as ice. She sat up with her hair disheveled and the bedclothes atangle. Her captain slept beside her, yet she was alone. She wanted to shake him, wake him, make him hold her, fuck her, help her forget, but she knew that if she did, he would only smile and yawn and say, "It was just a dream, my queen. Go back to sleep."

—A Dance with Dragons - Daenerys VII

That's why this line:

A blue flower grew from a chink in a wall of ice, and filled the air with sweetness…

Doesn't mean some some grand romance, but death and betrayals...

Credits for finding the quotes to @shieldofrohan

More about the bad omens of the color blue here:

STORM IS COMING…

SWEET BLUE FLOWER ON THE WALL = DEATH

[imaginespazzi]

Hey bestie,

How are you? I hope you’re doing good! Me? Not so much after reading part 3 😭

My thoughts:

I wasn’t expecting us to finally get the fight from that night, so I was NOT prepared. This - When Azzi’s 18, Paige says those words, ones that sound a lot like giving up, and teaches Azzi that sometimes in life, even the people you thought would never make you feel this way, are the ones who'll break you the most – this broke me babe, and to think Azzi still held on despite everything. Like I know Paige was just hurting but maybe she does deserve the suffering (a little bit) after all.

The entire summer scene was fucking elite. Poor Katie and Tim, they just wanted a. nice. family. dinner!! And instead they had to sit through their daughter’s gay ass drama lmao, #freeKatieandTim

The bros standing ten toes down for Pazzi ✊ Jon and José not even trying sent me, like no sorry, P is our sister-in-law but we appreciate you dropping by. AND DREW, our MVP - Drew had looked over to Azzi then, his eyes wide and accusing, “you can’t be Azzi’s girlfriend.” – little man was a bit traumatised, like sorry pookie who is this girl and why is she claiming to be something she can’t possibly be? He’s the GOAT fr, I know when he and P got back home, he scolded tf outta her and it went something like- Drew: “Why are you letting Azzi be other people’s girlfriend?? That’s OUR pookie.” P: “I know, I’m trying bro!”. Drew: “Well try harder!!” *stomps away*.

Then the Cayman Islands - UCLA and UConn to each other: 😡😤🔪🤬🖕👿 while Azzi and Paige: 🥰😍🫂🤩💗👩‍❤️‍💋‍👩 and then there’s probably Carol like: 😩 (she’s so over all this)

And then the ending! I’m guessing P left without saying goodbye because she probably saw the text from Zoe and once again was promptly reminded of their reality? 🥺

Speaking of Zoe, oh girl I’m so sorry, you deserve better – like damn, she just wanted to share some fucking pizza!!

Also, jealous Azzi making an appearance! (I’m such a shameful sucker for the jealous Paige and Azzi trope, I’m sorry!)

Oh and one final thing on part 3 – babe I know you said writing **** was taking years off your life, but we really appreciate your sacrifice because it was absolute 🔥🔥

What’s next (potentially)?

Oh man where to from here huh… I feel like Paige is eventually gonna get to the point where she's like "choose me, pick me", only to realise that Azzi just can’t do it cause she can't trust her with her heart, and I know it's gonna hurt bad. And even though Paige needs and wants more, she’ll also take whatever she can get even if it’s slowly killing her, because it’s Azzi and she’d rather have a little bit of her than none at all 😔

Also, a tension-filled game between them in the final 4 coming up maybe??

That part where Katie shoots Azzi a look of disappointment – I wonder if momma Fudd will ever call out Azzi over whatever’s happening between her and Paige and poor Zoe?

Either way, something tells me we’ve still got a lot of angst coming our way, and look as much as I want our babies to finally just get their shit together, I just can’t say no to more angst you know, I’m just a girl. 🤷‍♀️

Oh and this part - she’s even less sure about how she’d survived that one year where they’d practically lived in each other’s skins – is this something (I'm guessing this is their covid era?) we go into a bit more?? I do love all the allusions/references to how long they’ve always been something more and the blurring of the lines but never fully crossing it obviously until that fateful summer of 2022. I guess it does explain somewhat, though, why Paige felt so betrayed about Azzi not choosing her (UConn) because baby girl probably thought “ok once we’re both at UConn, we can finally be together 😌” - like her dream/vision of them playing together and also being together got ripped away from her ❤️‍🩹

As always, bestie, thank you for existing, thank you for your talent and for being so generous in sharing it with us. You outdo yourself every. fucking. time. 💐

Quick non-ucla fic side note: ESPN’s Bracketology having Utah and UConn on opposing sides of the bracket, so basically they’re saying Utah vs UConn championship game where I get to watch AP and PB ball out? Yeah ok, give it to me. 🤪 #APHiveUP (but bleed blue always ofc)

Favourite quote/line:

“You always say the right things,” Paige says quietly, and then even quieter, she whispers under her breath, “you make it so hard Az.”

Big love always 💗,

-🙋‍♀️

Hi bestie,

Omg I'm sorry....again 😭

I was gonna wait a little longer with the fight but it felt right to have it in this chapter and I wanted it to be from Azzi's perspective because it would hit just a little harder

Poor Katie and Tim fr like they should have just gone on a cute date instead of having to deal with this craziness

The brothers are the biggest Pazzi shippers like they're actually tired of their sister's bullshit at this point. Drew with the biggest truth ever really just shut everybody else up. "GET OUR POOKIE BACK BEFORE I HAVE TO DO SOMETHING" - Drew Bueckers at some point probably

I was gonna add a line about Carol and Charisma just frowning at their teammates and being all exasperated and then fully forgot lmao but yeah UCLA and UConn are big mad at each other. Though writing Nika and KK are Muhl and Arnold felt so weird.

Bestie you might be the only person who got my hint which apparently was not as obvious as I thought 😭

Zoe, poor girlie pop, y'all are gonna be absolute wrecked for her soon because girlie's just a sweetheart who does not deserve this but got caught in it anyway

Jealous Azzi might actually be worse than jealous Paige in this universe lmao but the waitress was doing *too much*

Part 4 is honestly a bit of a mystery to me because I've dug myself a bit of a hole but never fear, I will angst myself out of it somehow. 😭

#APHiveUp YES EXACTLY BESTIE!! Utah vs UConn for the national championship because actually AP vs AE would be pretty fun too and listen not to get at my girl AP, but AE would win that and then UConn would win and that's the only valid ending.

As always, thank you for being here bestie. I love your long asks and how much you just get me and the UCLA fic which really wouldn't even be a thing without you.

Love you babes <3

[ladyofasoiaf]

Jon ‘One Eye’ & Sansa Stark

In this meta I will try to point out the clues of Jon’s death- warging into his direwolf- coming back to life process. 

Our main hint is going to be : ONE EYE motifs... 

And interestingly this hint is always close to Sansa... 

[Most of these clues etc have been already examined by many people but I will try to put them all in order to show the pattern..]

A GAME OF THRONES:

Waymar Royce

Waymar Royce appearence and story are very similar with Jon’s. 

They look similar:

Ser Waymar Royce was the youngest son of an ancient house with too many heirs. He was a handsome youth of eighteen, grey-eyed and graceful and slender as a knife.

[AGOT; Prologue]

Jon’s eyes were a grey so dark they seemed almost black, but there was little they did not see. He was of an age with Robb, but they did not look alike. Jon was slender where Robb was muscular, dark where Robb was fair, graceful and quick where his half brother was strong and fast.  

[AGOT; Bran I]

They are both young men of Night’s Watch but they were not very welcomed by their other black brothers:

His cloak was his crowning glory; sable, thick and black and soft as sin. “Bet he killed them all himself, he did,” Gared told the barracks over wine, “twisted their little heads off, our mighty warrior.” They had all shared the laugh. It is hard to take orders from a man you laughed at in your cups, Will reflected as he sat shivering atop his garron. Gared must have felt the same.

[AGOT; Prologue]

“Yes, life,” Noye said. “A long life or a short one, it’s up to you, Snow. The road you’re walking, one of your brothers will slit your throat for you one night.” “They’re not my brothers,” Jon snapped. “They hate me because I’m better than they are.” “No. They hate you because you act like you’re better than they are. They look at you and see a castle-bred bastard who thinks he’s a lordling.” The armorer leaned close. “You’re no lordling. Remember that. You’re a Snow, not a Stark. You’re a bastard and a bully.”

[AGOT; Jon III]

Others are a very important part of Jon’s arc and story and Waymar meets with them in Prologue:

Ser Waymar met him bravely. “Dance with me then.” He lifted his sword high over his head, defiant. His hands trembled from the weight of it, or perhaps from the cold. Yet in that moment, Will thought, he was a boy no longer, but a man of the Night’s Watch.

[AGOT; Prologue]

This phrase also reminds us Jon:

It is more than impatience, Jon realized. They are afraid. Warriors, spearwives, raiders, they are frightened of those woods, of shadows moving through the trees. They want to put the Wall between them before the night descends. 

A snowflake danced upon the air. Then another. Dance with me, Jon Snow, he thought. You’ll dance with me anon.

[ADWD; Jon XII]

In Prologue, Waymar gets killed by Others:

Royce’s body lay facedown in the snow, one arm out-flung. The thick sable cloak had been slashed in a dozen places. Lying dead like that, you saw how young he was. A boy.

[AGOT; Prologue]

And Jon dies in ADWD:

Jon fell to his knees. He found the dagger’s hilt and wrenched it free. In the cold night air the wound was smoking. “Ghost,” he whispered. Pain washed over him. Stick them with the pointy end. When the third dagger took him between the shoulder blades, he gave a grunt and fell face-first into the snow. He never felt the fourth knife. Only the cold …

[ADWD; Jon XIII]

But Waymar comes back to life as a wight with ‘ONE EYE’:

Will rose. Ser Waymar Royce stood over him. His fine clothes were a tatter, his face a ruin. A shard from his sword transfixed the blind white pupil of his left eye. The right eye was open. The pupil burned blue. It saw.

[AGOT; Prologue]

So: A young man of Night’s Watch who looks like Jon dies and comes back to life with ONE EYE. 

Let’s continue with the second book...

A CLASH OF KINGS:

Orell

Orell is Wildling who is also a skinchanger. His animal is an EAGLE. 

Jon kills Orell in ACOK; Jon VI:

Jon nodded toward the one by the fire. It felt queer, picking a man to kill. 

[...]

Jon’s man leapt to his feet, thrusting at his face with a burning brand. He could feel the heat of the flames as he flinched back. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the sleeper stirring, and knew he must finish his man quick. When the brand swung again, he bulled into it, swinging the bastard sword with both hands. The Valyrian steel sheared through leather, fur, wool, and flesh, but when the wildling fell he twisted, ripping the sword from Jon’s grasp. 

[...]

“You ought to burn them you killed,” said Ygritte.

[ACOK; Jon VI]

But due to the magic of skinchanging, a portion of Orell’s consciousness remained in the eagle, which developed a fierce hatred for Jon.

And in ACOK; Jon VII he dreams of an eagle attacking him and people talk about vargs and skinchangers:

Then a sudden gust of cold made his fur stand up, and the air thrilled to the sound of wings. As he lifted his eyes to the ice-white mountain heights above, a shadow plummeted out of the sky. A shrill scream split the air. He glimpsed blue-grey pinions spread wide, shutting out the sun… “Ghost!” Jon shouted, sitting up. He could still feel the talons, the pain. “Ghost, to me!” Ebben appeared, grabbed him, shook him. “Quiet! You mean to bring the wildlings down on us? What’s wrong with you, boy?” “A dream,” said Jon feebly. “I was Ghost, I was on the edge of the mountain looking down on a frozen river, and something attacked me. A bird… an eagle, I think…”

[...]

“Skinchanger?” said Ebben grimly, looking at the Halfhand. Does he mean the eagle? Jon wondered. Or me? Skinchangers and wargs belonged in Old Nan’s stories, not in the world he had lived in all his life. Yet here, in this strange bleak wilderness of rock and ice, it was not hard to believe.

[ACOK; Jon VII]

So: There is a skinchanger who dies because of Jon but a part of him keeps living in his animal: eagle. 

The interesting thing is that between these two Jon chapters (Orell and eagle dream) comes a very important Sansa chapter which has many parallels with Jon VI chapter...

An example of parallels:

[…] ‘All I ask is a flower,’ Bael answered, ‘the fairest flower that blooms in the gardens o’ Winterfell.”

“Now as it happened the winter roses had only then come into bloom, and no flower is so rare nor precious…  

[ACOK; Jon VI]

Sansa lowered her head. “The blood frightened me.”

“The blood is the seal of your womanhood. Lady Catelyn might have prepared you. You’ve had your first flowering, no more.”

Sansa had never felt less flowery. “My lady mother told me, but I… I thought it would be different.”  

[ACOK; Sansa IV]

For more, please check: Jonsa Book Hints: B5 

In this chapter Sansa says she wants to be loved and Cersei warns her that “love kills too...” Next chapter is Jon with his eagle dreams and warging abilities:

A half smile flickered across the queen’s face. “[…]Robert wanted to be loved. My brother Tyrion has the same disease. Do you want to be loved, Sansa?”

“Everyone wants to be loved.”

“I see flowering hasn’t made you any brighter,” said Cersei. “Sansa, permit me to share a bit of womanly wisdom with you on this very special day. Love is poison. A sweet poison, yes, but it will kill you all the same.”  

[ACOK; Sansa IV]

Let’s move on to third book...

A STORM OF SWORDS:

Orell and Wargs

In ASOS; Jon I, we learn the name of the Wildling that Jon has killed in ACOK; Jon VI:

“He slew Qhorin Halfhand,” said Longspear Ryk. “Him and that wolf o’ his.”

“And did for Orell too,” said Rattleshirt.

“The lad’s a warg, or close enough,” put in Ragwyle, the big spearwife. “His wolf took a piece o’ Halfhand’s leg.”

[...]

“What’s this?” he said. “A crow?”

“The black bastard what gutted Orell,” said Rattleshirt, “and a bloody warg as well.”

“You were to kill them all.”

“This one come over,” explained Ygritte. “He slew Qhorin Halfhand with his own hand.”

[ASOS; Jon I]

This Jon chapter comes after ASOS; Sansa I. 

And these chapters have many parallels such as:

Sansa knelt at the feet of her future queen. “You do me great honor, Your Grace.” “Won’t you call me Margaery? Please, rise. Loras, help the Lady Sansa to her feet. Might I call you Sansa?”  

[ASOS; Sansa I]  

“I would be pleased to eat, Your Grace. And thank you.”

“Your Grace?” The king smiled. “That’s not a style one often hears from the lips of the free folk. I’m Mance to most, The Mance to some. Will you take a horn of mead?”  

[ASOS; Jon I]

For more, please check: Jonsa Book Hints: C1

We also learn about Sansa’s new betrothed: Willas Tyrell.. 

Willas has a bad leg and so does Jon, in ASOS:

“Willas has a bad leg but a good heart,” said Margaery. “He used to read to me when I was a little girl, and draw me pictures of the stars. You will love him as much as we do, Sansa.”

[ASOS; Sansa I]

If the mare had gone down, he would have been doomed. “A lucky thing my leg got in the way,” he muttered.

He rested for a while to let the horse graze. She did not wander far. That was good. Hobbled with a bad leg, he could never have caught her.

[ASOS; Jon V]

Let’s keep reading...

In ASOS; Jon II chapter Jon’s eagle dream from ACOK comes true and Orell’s eagle attacks Jon’s eye:

He could still hear wings, though the eagle was not in sight. Half his world was black. “My eye,” he said in sudden panic, raising a hand to his face.

“It’s only blood, Jon Snow. He missed the eye, just ripped your skin up some.”

[…]

Can a bird hate? Jon had slain the wilding Orell, but some part of the man remained within the eagle. The golden eyes looked out on him with cold malevolence.

[…]

I will need to get this tended, he thought, but not just now. Let the King-beyond-the-Wall see what his eagle did to me.

[…]

The look Mance gave Jon was grim and cold. “What happened to your face?”

Ygritte said, “Orell tried to take his eye out.”

“It was him I asked. Has he lost his tongue? Perhaps he should, to spare us further lies.”

Styr the Magnar drew a long knife. “The boy might see more clear with one eye, instead of two.”

“Would you like to keep your eye, Jon?” asked the King-beyond-the-Wall. “If so, tell me how many they were. And try and speak the truth this time, Bastard of Winterfell.”

Jon’s throat was dry. “My lord… what…”

[ASOS; Jon II]

Jon almosts loses his ‘one eye’ and becomes Jon ‘One Eye’ Snow because of this attack..

After this eagle attack Jon chapter comes ASOS; Sansa II 

And these chapters have many parallels such as:

Jon wheeled and followed Tormund back toward the head of the column, his new cloak hanging heavy from his shoulders. It was made of unwashed sheepskins, worn fleece side in, as the wildlings suggested.

[…]  

“I wear the cloak you gave me, Your Grace.”  

[ASOS; Jon II]

A new gown?” she said, as wary as she was astonished.

“More lovely than any you have worn, my lady,” the old woman promised. She measured Sansa’s hips with a length of knotted string. “All silk and Myrish lace, with satin linings. You will be very beautiful. The queen herself has commanded it.”

“Which queen?” Margaery was not yet Joff’s queen, but she had been Renly’s. Or did she mean the Queen of Thorns? Or…“The Queen Regent, to be sure.”  

[ASOS; Sansa II]

For more, please check: Jonsa Book Hints: C2

And after the chapter of an eagle attacks Jon’s eye we learn in next chapter that Sansa’s betrothed Willas Tyrell flies EAGLES:

“Willas has the best birds in the Seven Kingdoms,” Margaery said when the two of them were briefly alone. “He flies an eagle sometimes. You will see, Sansa.” 

[ASOS; Sansa II]

Why is Almost One Eye Jon and Sansa Stark being near to each other important?

Because the first Sansa Stark in Stark family tree was married with her half-uncle Jonnel ‘One Eye’ Stark:

So another Sansa being close to another Stark family member who almost had lost his one eye sounds interesting. 

Well, Jon didn’t lose his eye but his face got scarred:

He had almost forgotten about his face. “A skinchanger tried to rip out my eye.”

Noye frowned. “Scarred or smooth, it’s a face I thought I’d seen the last of. We heard you’d gone over to Mance Rayder.”

[ASOS; Jon VI]

Who else has a scarred face? Sansa’s husband- Tyrion Lannister:

“I like your scar.” She traced it with her finger. “It makes you look very fierce and strong.”

He laughed. “Very ugly, you mean.”

“M’lord will never be ugly in my eyes.” She kissed the scab that covered the ragged stub of his nose.

[ASOS; Tyrion II]

Varamyr 

What happens to this eagle later?

Skinchanger, Varamyr Sixskins, takes control of Orell’s eagle. Varamyr uses the eagle to scout Castle Black and spots Stannis Baratheon’s arrival at the Wall.

The eagle bursts into flames during the attack on Castle Black with Melisandre claiming she was responsible. 

The skinchanger was grey-faced, round-shouldered, and bald, a mouse of a man with a wolfling’s eyes. “Once a horse is broken to the saddle, any man can mount him,” he said in a soft voice. “Once a beast’s been joined to a man, any skinchanger can slip inside and ride him. Orell was withering inside his feathers, so I took the eagle for my own. But the joining works both ways, warg. Orell lives inside me now, whispering how much he hates you. And I can soar above the Wall, and see with eagle eyes.”

[...]

“Banners,” he heard Varamyr murmur, “I see golden banners, oh . . .” A mammoth lumbered by, trumpeting, a half-dozen bowmen in the wooden tower on its back. “The king . . . no . . .”

Then the skinchanger threw back his head and screamed.The sound was shocking, ear-piercing, thick with agony. Varamyr fell, writhing, and the ’cat was screaming too.... and high, high in the eastern sky, against the wall of cloud, Jon saw the eagle burning. For a heartbeat it flamed brighter than a star, wreathed in red and gold and orange, its wings beating wildly at the air as if it could fly from the pain. Higher it flew, and higher, and higher still.

[ASOS; Jon X]

Melisandre burns the eagle. Who else got burned in the books? 

Jon Snow in AGOT:

He had burned himself more badly than he knew throwing the flaming drapes, and his right hand was swathed in silk halfway to the elbow. At the time he’d felt nothing; the agony had come after.

[AGOT; Jon VIII]

And Jon burns himself in AGOT; Jon VII:

Jon tried to shout, but his voice was gone. Staggering to his feet, he kicked the arm away and snatched the lamp from the Old Bear’s fingers. The flame flickered and almost died. “Burn!” the raven cawed. “Burn, burn, burn!”

Spinning, Jon saw the drapes he’d ripped from the window. He flung the lamp into the puddled cloth with both hands. Metal crunched, glass shattered, oil spewed, and the hangings went up in a great whoosh of flame. The heat of it on his face was sweeter than any kiss Jon had ever known. “Ghost!” he shouted.

The direwolf wrenched free and came to him as the wight struggled to rise, dark snakes spilling from the great wound in its belly. Jon plunged his hand into the flames, grabbed a fistful of the burning drapes, and whipped them at the dead man. Let it burn, he prayed as the cloth smothered the corpse, gods, please, please, let it burn.

[AGOT; Jon VII]

This Jon chapter comes after AGOT; Sansa IV:

And these two chapters have many parallels such as:

So she went to the queen instead, and poured out her heart, and Cersei had listened and thanked her sweetly … only then Ser Arys had escorted her to the high room in Maegor’s Holdfast and posted guards, and a few hours later, the fighting had begun outside.

[AGOT; Sansa IV]

They took his knife and his sword and told him he was not to leave his cell until the high officers met to decide what was to be done with him. And then they placed a guard outside his door to make certain he obeyed. His friends were not allowed to see him, but the Old Bear did relent and permit him Ghost, so he was not utterly alone.

[AGOT; Jon VII]

*

Yet somehow it seemed colder with Jeyne gone, even after she’d built a fire. She pulled a chair close to the hearth, took down one of her favorite books, and lost herself in the stories of Florian and Jonquil, of Lady Shella and the Rainbow Knight, of valiant Prince Aemon and his doomed love for his brother’s queen.

[AGOT; Sansa IV]

Yet he was trembling, violently. When had it gotten so cold?

[…]


Metal crunched, glass shattered, oil spewed, and the hangings went up in a great whoosh of flame. The heat of it on his face was sweeter than any kiss Jon had ever known. “Ghost!” he shouted.

[AGOT; Jon VII]

For more, please check: Jonsa Book Hints: A10

What happens to skinchanger Orell and warg Varamyr after the eagle burst into flames?

The incident greatly affects Varamyr and supposedly kills the remnants of Orell inside the eagle. 

After the defeat of the wildlings at the battle beneath the Wall, Varamyr has lost all his possessions in his madness from experiencing the eagle’s death; he has also lost control of his snow bear and shadowcat, but his wolves remain.

[Orell dying completely and Varamyr gets mad also reminds me another resurrected character Beric Dondarrion who also has ONE EYE and him dying for good to bring Catelyn Stark back to life... And like Varamyr, Lady Stoneheart loses her mind too... ]

Let’s move on to fourth book...

A FEAST FOR CROWS:

Jon is not even in this book? 

But Sansa is and we learn few things about her crushes:

Waymar Royce:

She had fallen wildly in love with Ser Waymar, she remembered dimly, but that was a lifetime ago, when she was a stupid little girl.

[AFFC; Alayne I]

Grrm reminds us Waymar Royce aka the biggest foreshadowing for Jon in AFFC book via Sansa’s chapter... 

Loras Tyrell:

Loras was another crush of Sansa and we learn that he got burned really bad in AFFC. 

Like the eagle and Jon. 

“Tell me,” said Margaery. “I command it.” Command it? Cersei paused a moment, then decided she would let that pass. “The defenders fell back to an inner keep once the curtain wall was taken. Loras led the attack there as well. He was doused with boiling oil.” Lady Alla turned white as chalk, and ran from the room. “The maesters are doing all they can, Lord Waters assures me, but I fear your brother is too badly burned.”

[AFFC; Cersei VIII]

More about Loras // Jon, please check: Jonsa Book Hints: A8

Let’s keep reading the fifth book...

A DANCE WITH DRAGONS:

In ADWD; Prologue Varamyr encounters with Others (just like AGOT; Prologue) and Varamyr’s body dies, but his mind lives on in his wolf One Eye. 

And Varamyr also thinks about Jon and his direwolf.. 

So we have dead warg who kept living in his animal: A WOLF whose name is ONE EYE. 

Varamyr could feel the snowflakes melting on his brow. This is not so bad as burning. Let me sleep and never wake, let me begin my second life. His wolves were close now. He could feel them. He would leave this feeble flesh behind, become one with them, hunting the night and howling at the moon. The warg would become a true wolf. Which, though?

[...]

“They say you forget,” Haggon had told him, a few weeks before his own death. “When the man’s flesh dies, his spirit lives on inside the beast, but every day his memory fades, and the beast becomes a little less a warg, a little more a wolf, until nothing of the man is left and only the beast remains.”

Varamyr knew the truth of that. When he claimed the eagle that had been Orell’s, he could feel the other skinchanger raging at his presence. Orell had been slain by the turncloak crow Jon Snow, and his hate for his killer had been so strong that Varamyr found himself hating the beastling boy as well. He had known what Snow was the moment he saw that great white direwolf stalking silent at his side. One skinchanger can always sense another. Mance should have let me take the direwolf. There would be a second life worthy of a king. He could have done it, he did not doubt. The gift was strong in Snow, but the youth was untaught, still fighting his nature when he should have gloried in it.

[...]

A sleeping direwolf raised his head to snarl at empty air. Before their hearts could beat again he had passed on, searching for his own, for One Eye, Sly, and Stalker, for his pack. His wolves would save him, he told himself. That was his last thought as a man. True death came suddenly; he felt a shock of cold, as if he had been plunged into the icy waters of a frozen lake. Then he found himself rushing over moonlit snows with his packmates close behind him. Half the world was dark. One Eye, he knew. He bayed, and Sly and Stalker gave echo. When they reached the crest the wolves paused. 

[...]

The things below moved, but did not live. One by one, they raised their heads toward the three wolves on the hill. The last to look was the thing that had been Thistle. She wore wool and fur and leather, and over that she wore a coat of hoarfrost that crackled when she moved and glistened in the moonlight. Pale pink icicles hung from her fingertips, ten long knives of frozen blood. And in the pits where her eyes had been, a pale blue light was flickering, lending her coarse features an eerie beauty they had never known in life. She sees me.

[ADWD; Prologue]

Jon dies in his last ADWD chapter and his last word was his direwolf’s name: GHOST... 

Jon fell to his knees. He found the dagger’s hilt and wrenched it free. In the cold night air the wound was smoking. “Ghost,” he whispered. Pain washed over him. Stick them with the pointy end. When the third dagger took him between the shoulder blades, he gave a grunt and fell face-first into the snow. He never felt the fourth knife. Only the cold …

[ADWD; Jon XIII]

So we have a full circle: 

It started with Agot; Prologue 

and ended with ADWD; Jon XIII

Let’s not forget that Jon’s death was foreshadowed in ASOS; Sansa VI chapter. 

Lord Petyr dismissed him with a wave, and returned to the pomegranate again as Oswell shuffled down the steps. “Tell me, Alayne—which is more dangerous, the dagger brandished by an enemy, or the hidden one pressed to your back by someone you never even see?”  

“The hidden dagger.”  

“There’s a clever girl.” He smiled, his thin lips bright red from the pomegranate seeds.  

[ASOS; Sansa VI]

Next chapter was Jon:

Fore more about Jon’s death and Sansa; please check: 

Jonsa Book Hints: C12 & E7 

“Do not be so certain.” The ruby at Melisandre’s throat gleamed red. “It is not the foes who curse you to your face that you must fear, but those who smile when you are looking and sharpen their knives when you turn your back. You would do well to keep your wolf close beside you. Ice, I see, and daggers in the dark. Blood frozen red and hard, and naked steel. It was very cold.”

“It is always cold on the Wall.”

“You think so?”

“I know so, my lady.”

“Then you know nothing, Jon Snow,” she whispered.  

[ADWD; Jon I]

In conclusion:

Jon’s death, him warging into his direwolf during his death and him coming back to life arc has been foreshadowed since AGOT; Prologue and its most obvious hints were given in ADWD; Prologue by echoing AGOT; Prologue. 

The ‘ONE EYE’ motif seems like a key hint for his resurrection. 

And Sansa is always close to this motif or she has some connections with this motif via other characters or her chapters. 

A Sansa Stark being close to another ‘ONE EYE’ Stark is interesting because of the historical couple: Jonnel ‘One Eye’ & Sansa Stark in Stark family tree.. 

Even the hints of Jon’s death can be found in Sansa chapters. 

All of these tell us that Sansa will be important in Jon’s past resurrection story. 

Thanks for reading. 

Some sources:

Waymar // Jon 

Disfigurements 

Jonnel / Sansa

Jon’s fate and losing an eye

[amymel86]

Wishes

A little time travel... for a treat...

Jon doesn’t believe in fate, or signs, or serendipity or any of that bullshit. But, he will admit that something is telling him that the time is right ‘to do the thing’ now. ‘The thing’ in question being telling Sansa how he feels.

For years he’d stamp down those admirations – the desire she’d spark or the warm, glow-y feeling she’d ignite low in his belly – because she was his best friend’s sister, and Robb was (understandably) ridiculously protective of Sansa after she’d had a couple of bad experiences with guys in her teens and early twenties. When they’d all been younger, Jon had felt like if he had actually done anything about the way his best friend’s sister makes him feel, then he’d be compromising his friendship with Robb or some shit. He can sneer at his younger self now, but that possible betrayal had felt real at the time.

The current problem Jon faced was boyfriend-shaped – specifically, Sansa’s boyfriend, Harry. What kind of a douche would he be if he confessed to always having feeling for her while she’s involved with someone else?

So instead he sulked and admired from afar... or not so ‘afar’ as it were, since he and Sansa had gotten even closer in terms of friendship since Robb married Rhaenys and moved south to Dorne.

Anyway, tonight is THE night. He can feel it. She’d recently broken up with Harry but even Sansa has admitted to him that it was a long time coming AND he’d just gotten off the phone to her asking him to come over because she has something she wants to show him.

What it actually is that she wants to show him, he does not know. Oh, he can imagine. But then he’s been imagining a hell of a lot when it comes to Sansa Stark.

It’s probably a new craft she’s learnt. She is forever finding things to try through YouTube tutorials. Just last month she taught herself to crochet and made him a blanket. It still kind of has that Sansa smell to it which Jon totally doesn’t hold to his nose like some sort of lovesick dork. (He does.)

With nerves all a-jumble as he pulls up to her little ground-floor flat, Jon prays to the Gods that he doesn’t believe in that he’s not about to a) make an absolute fool of himself and b) completely ruin the friendship that means the most to him right now. Maybe he would completely chicken out of this if it hadn’t been the little glimmers of hope he’s seen over the years; the way she’d look at him sometimes, an invitation in her eyes, the way she’s so tactile with him... the way she’s never called him out when she’s caught him staring at her ass.

God-damn, she has a nice ass.

Alright, Seven Hells, Jon. Get a grip!

The motion detector light Sansa has above her front door turns on as he approaches and her door swings open before he has a chance to even reach for the doorbell. Jon’s kind of abashed that he startles a little. His head’s not in the game yet and there she stands in all her glory – holding the power to make him elated or miserable.

“Sorry,” Sansa winces, noticing how her quick-to-answer actions had made him jump. “It’s just that he doesn’t like a lot of the noises of the house... or outside. The doorbell would’ve really freaked him out so-”

“He?” Jon asks, stepping over her threshold and ridding himself of his coat to hang on her hooks. “You get a dog or something?”

She looks nervous. Why is she nervous? “Err... no, not a dog.”

She’s twiddling with her fingers as she glances behind herself towards the lounge and back to Jon.

“Sansa?” Jon scoops up her hands and holds them gently. He gives them a squeeze and hopes that she knows what that squeeze means – that whatever that’s got her nervous, he’ll be there, he’ll help her through whatever it is. He’d do anything for her. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?”

Her earnest eyes glaze over a little as she blinks at him. She does that sometimes – Jon thinks it’s a reaction to the endearment and he’s ashamed to admit that he calls her ‘sweetheart’ at any opportunity he gets just to see her shiver or bite down on her lip.

She’s moving close now. Her mouth parts, drawing him in like a moth to the flame. He leans closer still, about to close his eyes and just – go for it. Maybe he doesn’t need words right now? Maybe he should just show her? Lay all the years of yearning out in one searing kiss.

What will she taste like?

Will it make her moan into his mouth?

Will she grasp at his hair? Tug a little? Pull him ever closer until there couldn’t possibly be any space left between them?

“I tossed a coin,” she whispers, eyes glued to his lips.

Jon’s brain switches tracks – slowly, and confusingly. Where is this current track going? “What?”

Jon watches Sansa shake herself out from under whatever spell they’d both cast here in her little entrance hallway.

Way to go, dumbass. She’s barely broken up from her boyfriend and you can’t step one foot over threshold without wanting to shove your tongue down her throat?

“I tossed a coin in the water,” Sansa repeats, making some space between them both. “At the hotsprings up at the old castle ruin.”

Jon was lost. “Okay?”

“And I made a wish and.... I think it came true?” Jon nods but Sansa is back to glancing behind herself, back toward her lounge.

Jon doesn’t believe in fate and wishes and all that gubbins. But Sansa does, so he’ll humour her. “What did you wish?”

Sansa’s twiddling with her fingers again. “I wished to fall in love,” she states quietly. “I wished for a good man who definitely, without question loves me back... in a romantic way, not like a friend.”

Ok, that last part was definitely aimed at him. Jon stutters, his foot jutting forward and his hand reaching out. He needs to tell her – he needs to tell her NOW. “Sansa, I-“

There’s an almighty crash in the lounge making Sansa spin and leave to go and see to the commotion. What on earth is it? Did she adopt a wild animal or something? That sounds exactly like something Sansa Stark would do. Jon follows, curious.

What he sees when he rounds the corner is not a wild animal... but a man; a man dressed very oddly and wielding a big-ass sword. “What the fuck?” Suddenly, the sword is aimed at him. Jon grabs for Sansa and yanks her behind himself. “Take what you want, man, but you can think fucking twice if you think you’re touching her.” His heart was racing.

“Unhand her!” The man orders. He’s dressed in some kind of medieval-renaissance-fayre-cosplay-get-up with leather and furs and riding boots and shit and-... apart from the scars on his face... looks... exactly like Jon?

Sansa steps out from behind him with her hands raised but Jon doesn’t really notice – he’s too busy having some sort of mental breakdown as he stares at his doppelganger, mouth agape.

“It’s ok, Jon, it’s alright,” she says, cooing at the Lord-of-the-Rings-cosplayer version of himself like he was the wounded wild animal that Jon had previously envisioned Sansa adopting. “Lower your sword,” she urges gently. “This is my friend, Jon – like I told you. The one that looks exactly like you! Do you remember?”

The medieval imposter’s shoulders seem to release their tension under that big-ass dead badger or whatever the fuck it is he’s wearing. “Aye,” he says with a chuckle. “It is good to meet you, Jon.” He sheathes his sword and steps forward, offering his hand. “I am Jon, Jon Snow.”

In part daze, part confusion and a whole heap of what the fuckity-fuck?!?!, Jon finds himself shaking the weirdo’s hand before pulling himself out of it. “Wait, what? No you’re not. I’m Jon Snow. Sansa,” he says, turning to her, “what is this? What’s going on?”

Am I tripping on something I don’t even remember taking?

“It’s like I told you, Jon. I tossed a coin into the hotspings and made a wish. I wished for someone to love me and then Jon appeared from behind the weirwood tree. At first I thought it was you pulling some weird prank,” she says, kneeling to pick up the broken pieces of her vase that medieval-boy here clearly knocked off with his admittedly cool sword. The doppelganger knelt too to help her, a bashful sort of smile on his face when their eyes met. Jon did not like it. “But then I called you,” she says, wrenching her eyes away from the other Jon to look up at him. “Do you remember? Earlier today? I called and when you’d answered, I distractedly said I’d forgotten why I’d called?”

Yeah – he remembers. He’d thought –hoped- that she had wanted to confess some deep, burning love for him only for her courage to dry up when she’d squeaked at hearing his voice. It hadn’t occurred to him that she was just verifying that there were indeed two of him now. How silly of him.

“My apologies for the breakage,” the other Jon murmurs to Sansa, “your magic tablet came alive with sound and light and began moving across the surface in a rhythmic dance. I was unsure of the entity it would conjure and so drew my sword. I hope you can forgive me?”

“My phone,” Sansa mutters to herself in realisation. She reaches for it as it laid there on her coffee table. “I’d better put this on silent and turn off the vibration alerts,” she says with a smile aimed at middle-ages-moron next to her.

Jon purses his lips and pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Okay, what is this?” If this is some kind of prank, he was over it yesterday.

Fur-boy stands and sighs. “I don’t claim to be knowledgeable in things such as these,” he starts in an admittedly gruff voice that Jon kind of hates. “All I know is that in my second lifetime, I didn’t get the chance to love Sansa as I’d wanted. We thought each other to be siblings and when I died again, I thought it was to be my last time...” he turns, giving Sansa a moon-struck look. “And I died wishing I could have loved you the way my heart wanted to.” Sansa’s answering expression looks as though her insides have gone all gooey.

“Wait – wait – wait!” Jon – the real Jon – says, stepping in between the two now. “First of all, you had the hots for your sister?”

Cosplay-Jon’s eyes don’t leave Sansa’s as he nods solemnly.

“Ok... just sayin’... kinda gross.” That earns him a playful slap on the shoulder from Sansa. “What?! It is! Secondly... what’s this about a ‘second life’ and ‘died again’?”

“I have danced death’s steps twice,” the other Jon says. “The first time I was brought back I knew my purpose was to protect her,” the damn man is looking Sansa again. “And this being the second, I fully believe that it is to love her properly this time.”

This guy has really lost his fucking mind. “Hold on there, buddy,” Jon says, squaring his shoulders. “Sansa isn’t yours to love, she’s-“ He glances at her, his heart thudding painfully against his ribs at her expectant expression. “Well.... she’s – can I talk to you in private a minute?” he says, ushering Sansa out of the room and back into the hallway. “You have to get rid of him, he’s a few slices short of a pizza.”

Sansa chuckles. “What?”

“Sansa, he’s an absolute nutter!”

“No, he’s not! He’s telling the truth, Jon!”

They both turn to peer back into Sansa’s lounge to see medieval-land boy picking up her TV remote with two tentative fingers and studying it like it had just landed from outer space.

Jon shoves his fingers up under his glasses and rubs at his eyes in exasperation. “Sansa, this dude went LARPing and bumped his head or something, shit – I don’t know, but this is all insane!”

She’s not even looking at him as he talks. She’s practically drooling at his doppelganger with hearts in her eyes as the lunatic in leather armour settles on her couch with his big-ass cloak, his hands curled around one of Sansa’s mugs (black with gold writing that says ‘Boss Bitch’ and little pink hearts). He takes a tentative sip of whatever it is that Sansa had made for him while he continues to study the room he finds himself in.

This is ridiculous. He thought this was his time! He never envisioned that he’d lose her to... himself?... himself but with a big-ass-sword?

Seven-fucking-hells!

[river-bottom-nightmare]

Happy Birthday Whelm!

@detectivedamian  your birthday gift is a damijon ficlet. enjoy.

For the life of him, Jon couldn’t really understand why Damian liked football. Jon himself had grown up with the game, playing with Clark and Kon. Clark had laughed loud and bright as he tossed the ball around in the farm. Kon had challenged Jon to a high-stakes game that combined four different games using the football in the air. (Jon suspected Kon’s game was secretly a training exercise. The guy had been spending too much time around Tim.) He was on the team in middle school, and he’d been the captain of the high school team for the past three years. The training, the drills, the thrill of the game, the feeling of team: these were things that Jon lived for. Other than fighting, nothing else quite made his blood sing. 

But Damian? Jon had never expected Damian to take to it the way he did. Damian had scoffed at most American traditions and values, insulted people to their face, and complained about the school system enough times that Jon had the lecture memorized. (He was ahead in almost every class due to Damian’s passive-aggressive tutoring, though, so he’s not exactly complaining.) 

Maybe it was the strategy behind it, the different plays and plans Coach had lined up. Tim was the best at that kind of stuff, Jon knew that firsthand, but most people seemed to forget Damian had been trained in strategy and war games in the league. And “war games” was exactly how Damian seem to take this. Ever since Jon had let Damian watch one of his football practices and Damian had stopped the team in the middle of a play to plot out three different holes in their offense, Damian had practically become an honorary team member. Unless it was calculated, the team hadn’t lost a single game. And Damian was determined to keep it that way.

Tonight, just before the final game of the season, Jon’s team was facing off against Central City. (Which? How did they even get to finals in the first place? Central was known for their all-star track team, spanning generations of Allens and Wests, but football? That was a new one.) Damian had given the coach a particularly loathesome glare, and the other team looked terrified without even starting the game. Sometimes Jon forgot how scary Damian was, but it situations like this, it was useful. They had their game plan mapped out, Damian had given each one of them a talking to, Johansson don’t you dare leave your place, Zizka we’ve been running drills so don’t lose your speed, Williamson stop hesitating, you’re on offense for a reason. 

Jon had come up to him cheekily and asked what he needed to do. Damian had raised an eyebrow and said “Don’t suck as much as you usually do, Kent.” His lips were in a half smirk, though, and his tongue curled viciously around Jon’s last name and Jon had to swallow and take a step back.

Regardless, here they were. The big game. Either they won this, and Jon left senior year a happy man, or Damian would never ever let him live it down. There was really only one option here. Jon made eye contact with Damian, who nodded, once. Then, the whistle blew and the game was on.

Things were going good. No, that’s an understatement, things were going great. They ripped apart the opposing team’s strategy like paper, leaving the shredded pieces on the ground as they went through play after successful play. Jon could practically feel the other team’s hopelessness, could taste the sweet, sweet victory in the air. Halftime came and Jon’s team was soaring high. Don’t get overconfident, Damian warned them, but a proud grin was tugging at the edge of his lips. 

The third quarter is when it all went wrong. Williamson went down, hard. Jon heard the crack from across the field, and hoped the injury wasn’t too bad as he chased after the ball, desperate to keep it out of enemy hands. It was too late, though, the other team was in possession. He could feel Damian’s furious scowl, see his dad’s worried eyes fixed on the game even as his mom shouted in Central’s general direction. The third quarter ticked by, losing most of the ground they had gained.

The fourth and final quarter came, the team abiding by Damian’s quickly thought out plan, hesitantly regaining their footing. But it was too little, too late. They weren’t going to make it. The clock swallowed up seconds, and Central gained the lead, though Jon’s team clawed and fought their way to make sure it was only by a little. There were thirteen seconds left on the clock, and Central was 5 points ahead. The play was at the far end of the field.

The only way for them to win was for someone to run across most of the length of the field and score a touchdown. And as the ball came hurtling towards Jon, time slowed down, and he contemplated doing just that.

He could make it, he knew he could make it. A touch of superspeed, a hint of strength when pushing the other players out of the way, and they’d win the game. And Jon was only using his own talents, right? But that felt wrong, it felt so wrong. It felt like cheating. Abruptly, Jon remembered all the drills Damian had put him through, for both football and hero-ing, how he had told Jon you can’t always rely on your powers. He remembered the determination in every line of Damian’s body, whether it was in the sidelines of one of Jon’s games or standing back-to-back with Superboy as Robin, facing down impossible odds yet again. Damian had trained him for this. He had trained for this. He could do this.

Jon dropped his invulnerability, tapped out of his strength, tapped out of his superspeed. Time returned to normal. This was it.

The ball flew into Jon’s outstretched hands like it was meant to be there, and the minute it made contact, Jon took off running. Feet pounding the grass, heartbeat thumping in his ears, the bright lights overlooking the fields. Jon ducked and weaved through the other players, pushing himself to go faster, faster. The people in the stands were building up a roar. The clock was ticking down. He just ran and ran and ran until-

Jon crossed the end zone line and slammed the football on the ground with every bit of normal strength he had. The buzzer went off: time was up, the scores were in.

They won the game.

The crowd was bursting up and cheering. Jon could hear his mom’s screams, his dad’s wolf whistles. The team crowded around Jon, yelling and jumping, their faces overflowing with joy as they clustered around him. Coach had the trophy, and he held it above his head, pumping it up and down, whooping his pleasure. He handed it over to Jon, and wow. It felt solid, heavy, almost unreal. Jon held it up so everyone on the team could put their hand around it. 

Then, for some reason the crowd around Jon parted. Jon was confused, because there was practically nothing that could separate the team at a time like this. Then he looked up, and understood. Damian stood there, a wild and reckless grin on his face, and Jon’s breath caught. He was wearing Jon’s football jacket, the fabric clinging to his shoulders over his tight black turtleneck and proclaiming a statement as bold as night. He walked over to Jon, confident and sure, and looked up at Jon, pride in his eyes.

“You won.”

“Yeah, we did.” Jon’s voice was breathless.

Damian’s grin widened. “Congratulations.”

And then he was pulling Jon in for a kiss, hard and fierce and unforgiving. Startling for just a second, Jon drew Damian in, surprised but pleased when he came willingly. He kissed back with the same passion that had his feet pounding the ground, the same fervor that had his blood singing all throughout the game, reveling in the feeling of Damian pulling him to the ground, biting his lips, claiming him.

He drew back and gasped in air, wide-eyed and lighter than air, as the whoops and catcalls of the team around him filtered into Jon’s brain.

“I-you, you kissed me.”

“You deserved it.” Something in Damian’s tone let Jon knew that Damian knew. He knew what Jon was thinking on the field, knew he was about to use his powers, and knew that he ultimately decided against it. He knew that Jon put every ounce of his determination to win this game by himself, and Damian was proud.

Yeah, football brought out the best in Jon. And maybe that was why Damian enjoyed it so much.

This was cheesy as FUCK oh my GOD. I have no knowledge of how football works, don’t hold it against me. Once again, happy birthday Whelm! tag list: @birdy-bat-writes @anothertimdrakestan @comicsandhoney @yesboopityboop @dangerduckjpeg @thebatsandbirdsofgotham @astroherogirl @subtleappreciation