#i started writing this over a year ago

[picassopickle]

watch my lips (1/2)

Summary: Rebecca turns her gaze to Ted, slowly removing the lollipop from her mouth. She notes, with surprise, that Ted is drawn to the movement with darkened eyes.

Rated E

chapter 1/2 ao3 link

It starts with a local school trip visiting Nelson Road, in which Higgins has taken the liberty of looking after for the day. Rebecca had initially been unsure of how capable he’d be at single-handedly looking after thirty school children, but he’d offered and she’d happily accepted. That amount of children would send most sane adults running for the hills, but Higgins had been thrilled at the concept of showing them around AFC Richmond and meeting the team.

During the afternoon, the kids are having a kick-about on the training ground with some of the players while the coaches all watch from the side-lines. At some point, as she watches them from her office, Rebecca decides to introduce herself to the party of children.

It seems only right for the kids to meet the one in charge of the club��who knows what little boy or girl she’ll inspire one of these days. Heading down the stairs, she breathes in the fresh air as she passes through the double doors into the field. As she passes Higgins, he holds out a bowl full to the brim of brightly coloured confectionary, rattling it so that she’d take notice.

“Sweetie?” Higgins offers, “I bought them for the kids, although I’m not sure their parents are going to thank me for filling them with sugar.”

Rebecca almost declines the offer, but she hasn’t had a sweet in a long time and they certainly look tempting. With a tight smile, she reaches into the bowl and pulls out a strawberry flavoured lollipop, unwraps it and pops it in her mouth. She has to resist the groan of pleasure as the sugar hits her tongue, the taste sending her back to her more youthful days.

“Thank you, Higgins,” she says, briefly removing the lollipop to speak before placing it back on her tongue. She swirls her tongue around the sugary treat, almost wishing she’d taken a few more for a snack later.

She walks over to the side of the training ground and stops beside Ted, looking at the kids attempt to kick the ball into the goal on the far side.

“Any potential new recruits?” Rebecca asks and Ted turns to look at her.

“Oh, boss!” There’s a strain to his voice that makes her frown. She turns her gaze to Ted, slowly removing the lollipop from her mouth. She notes, with surprise, that Ted is drawn to the movement with darkened eyes.

“Something the matter?” Rebecca asks.

Ted startles, looking somewhat guilty. He averts his gaze briefly back to Rebecca’s eyes, then jerkily turns out to face the field. Rebecca blinks at him expectantly.

“Um. Yep. I mean, nope, nothing the matter, boss.”

With an arched eyebrow, Rebecca looks down at the lollipop in her hand and then back to Ted.

Oh. Oh.

“If you say so,” Rebecca says, bringing the sweet back to her mouth, hollowing out her cheeks as the lollipop passes by her lips. She notes with mild surprise that Ted’s eyes are drawn to her again, a flush developing on his cheeks. Well, that’s unexpected. What an interesting new development.

Ted seems to catch himself staring as he blinks heavily and returns to watch the kids out on the field. Fascinating. She files away that nugget of information for later, and then nods to Higgins, who blows hard on the whistle around his neck.

The kids all look up.

“Right,” Higgins yells, “who wants to meet the owner of AFC Richmond?”

There’s a chorus of agreeing nine-year-olds as they jog over to form a crowd around her.

After a brief introduction and question and answer session with Rebecca, she pops her lollipop back in her mouth and meets Ted’s uncomfortable gaze, a knowing smile playing on her lips.

“Keep up the great work,” she says, hearing Ted splutter out a few words of agreement, “I’ll see you later, coach.”

With that, she turns and stalks back to the club. As she passes Higgins by, she grabs a handful of lollipops from the bowl, slipping them into her pocket. More research is needed to prove this little theory of hers.

Keep reading on AO3

[pa-pa-plasma]

hey i feel like we're really sleeping on that time Danny possessed Vlad & framed him for assaulting a minor

Editing with the clip because people don't believe me. Episode is 41: Eye for an Eye.

[hazyange1s]

screenie dump of the house cup scene because I love my Gryffindors

[elizabethrobertajones]

gods, I could barely even look at this to make it without feeling so weirdly emotional, so like 5 minute gpose to visualise a snippet of the dream that's haunted me, where Aymeric buys Estinien a dress.

She's not gonna wear it much but this moment from their youth will live with her for a long time, through some of the darkest times :')

[kyouka-supremacy]

I think we should just bring back Wungo Wednesday and start a fandom collective anime rewatch

[zet-sway]

Fanfic: Girasol

Or, Shepard and Thane get frisky over a crowded nightclub

[Read on AO3] - Rated E for SPICEEEY

Pairing: Thane/FShep | Rating: 18+ | Words: ~6400

“Imagine it, Siha,” he says, his chest flat against her back as he nips her jaw. “The dancers below are none the wiser, for a time. And then one looks up,” he gestures out over the dance floor and takes a deep, long breath. “And there you are. Bent over before me, colored lights sweeping across your skin, shaking as I take my fill of you.”

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Thane smiles when he says “I know a place.”

A place for a night out - somewhere he promises will be both free of prying eyes and luxurious in its indulgence. A fancy dinner date that demands the kind of attire Shepard seldom gets to wear. 

So it is that she finds herself leaning too close to her bathroom mirror, eyeliner pen in hand and its cap in her mouth as she draws out a black, knife-edged wing over each eye with practiced ease. Like riding a bike, she thinks, before she steps back to take one last look at her appearance, making last minute adjustments. 

The dress is black, form-fitting, with a high collar hugging her neck to pronounce the defined angles of her jaw. Below, a diamond of exposed skin in the center of her dress reveals the shadow between her breasts. The garment ends a little more than halfway down her thighs, and she stands a few inches taller in her heels. She smirks to herself, heels clicking on the tile floor as she steps over to the sink and tidies her makeup bag.

Thane knocks softly at the bathroom door before sliding it open. She can hear the low purr of appreciation as he moves close. 

“Siha,” he murmurs, low and reverent, subvocals thrumming with excitement and desire. “You look radiant.”

Shepard dips her head, booting up her omni-tool to check their reservation. It’s something she does to deflect his attention from her blushing cheeks. “What,” she says, giving her all to sound nonchalant. “Were you expecting sweatpants and a t-shirt?” The clock in the bottom corner of the mirror ticks up by one minute and turns red - time to leave.

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Thane turns her to face him, cupping her elbow as he slides an arm around her. As his lips ghost over hers, she clamps her hand around his bicep and pushes back. “Come on, we’re gonna be late.”

His dark eyes gleam at her from across the skycar cabin. They’re headed somewhere swanky, but he still hasn't told her exactly where. Shepard tugs the bunched up edge of her dress out from beneath her thigh and bites her tongue. He’s already called her impatient at least three times and she’ll be damned if she’ll give him reason to say it again. Assassins and their secrets. 

Their vehicle whisks past the neon landscape of upper Tayseri Ward, the light of the nearby Widow Nebula casting facades and spires in bright lavenders and deep cobalts. The passing shadows gleam across the broad, deep V of scales at his chest, exposed between an immaculately trimmed double vest and pressed button-up with rolled sleeves. 

He glances, a knowing look in his eye, looking for all the world like he’s about to make a smart remark about the way her foot taps rhythmically against the seat across from her. Whatever he’s thinking, he elects to keep it to himself as the cab finally slows.

They’re just meters from the bleeding edge of the ward, the furthest possible stretch from the Presidium. Before her, a golden glow emanates from the most expensive looking restaurant she’s ever seen in her life. 

The cab VI pings softly and announces, “Now arriving at Girasol Restaurant, Tayseri Ward. Thank you for choosing Citicab.”

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They’re seated beneath an infinite panorama of stars. Ships pass overhead, and far off, they can just barely make out the Widow relay, distant flashes of light reaching their eyes with the steady churn of the relay queue. They’re served what might be the first multi-course meal she’s ever had. 

This far out on the Ward, simulated rotational gravity is more comfortable than she’s used to. Heavier, but far closer to the SR2’s environment than the Presidium has ever been. The station’s rotation is actually perceptible from here, with so many ships flying in and out. 

“So, when were you going to tell me you were close friends with the owner of the most expensive restaurant on the Citadel?”

Thane actually laughs, his face cracking into a wide, amused smile.

“Serana is a known ally for someone of my employ. She’s more of a trusted business partner than a close friend.”

Shepard polishes off the rest of her drink and side-eyes him. “I’m not the jealous type, Thane. You don’t have to blow smoke.”

He pulls both elbows up on the table and loosely cups his hands together. “No smoke, Siha. Only the truth. I’ve only met her on one occasion. She owns multiple establishments on Tayseri ward, and has a reputation for the kind of… discretion that assassins and their clients are looking for.”

“So, a safe meeting place, then?”

“Yes,” he nods. “Ask for the right table, and it’s all taken care of from there.”

A teal-colored asari with golden tattoos collects their empty glasses as she passes by, and a set of refills is immediately behind. There’s one other drell dressed in neutral colored leathers conversing with a salarian at a nearby table, and another two across the restaurant engrossed in deep conversation with two hanar. It strikes her that this is more drell than Shepard has ever seen in one place before. 

“So you brought me to the super secret assassin speakeasy. Very cool, Thane,” she smirks, “I can cross that one off the bucket list.”

He smiles at her, enormous dark eyes gleaming with admiration. “You're quite welcome. There are few perks associated with my profession. I'm glad to share this with you.”

Shepard leans back in her chair, thinking, one wrist resting on the table. “They probably think you’re here to kill for me.”

“Siha,” he says, closing his hand over hers, “The very reason we met is because you asked me to kill for you.”

Quirking a brow, she says, “You make it sound so romantic.”

“As I recall, it was you who initiated the romance.”

She shrugs. “What can I say? I have a weakness for moody, leather-clad aliens with plunging necklines.” Shepard nods in the direction of his buttondown, the first three buttons of which are undone, perhaps more than would be tasteful in polite company. She could say she's used to seeing him like this - it's how he's dressed from the moment they met. But sometimes…

Thane’s smile turns catlike, and he squeezes her hand. “Indeed, I feel the same.”

She gives him a playful nudge with her foot. “Damn, I walked right into that one.” 

“In case I haven’t mentioned it already,” he says, leaning forward, voice low, “You look ravishing in that dress. Please, give Kelly my regards.”

Not unaffected by his lower vocal registers, Shepard offers a nonchalant rebuttal. “I think Kelly’s been chomping at the bit for your ‘regards’ since she first laid eyes on you.”

Thane smiles with a wave of his hand. “I’m spoken for, as you know.” 

He relaxes back then, removing the napkin from his lap and folding it neatly before setting it on the table before him. The golden light above their table gleams off the deep V of exposed scales on his chest, and Shepard feels the not-so-distant rumbling of desire in her blood. She loves him like this - laid back, cocky, with a kind of easy bombast that he only brings out for her. 

“Alright, Sere Spoken For,” She grips his hand, nails touching his palm in silent excitement. "Dinner was great. Why don't we get into some trouble?”

“I'd like that,” he says with a smile.

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Lower Tayseri ward is wreathed in neon and shadow. They make their way to a nearby taxi pavilion and Thane casually slides a credit chit across the volus caretaker’s desk. 

“Right this way,” he breathes heavily, leading them to a parked cab. The doors swing open and the seats slide back as they enter, revealing a wide hatch and ladder beneath. Thane descends first, Shepard close behind him. She's slower than she would like in these shoes, her mobility not improved by the tight confines of her dress.

“I know you’re getting an eyeful down there.”

Thane catches the sole of her foot as she very nearly plants her heel on his face, and he stops his descent, almost certainly to raise his eyes to the clear shot he must have between her thighs. 

“I was not, until you suggested it,” he muses. “I love that color on you.” 

Leaning to peer down the ladder at him, Shepard winks. “I know you do.”

They dismount the ladder one at a time, metal grating beneath their feet. They’ve arrived in some kind of tunnel system. Distantly, Shepard can hear the pounding bass of a nightclub. 

“I’m relieved to hear the club is still operating,” Thane says, as though he were the type of guy to be pressed about a nightclub being closed down. They begin to make their way down the corridor. It’s too narrow to walk comfortably side by side. Shepard settles for admiring his ass as he leads ahead of her. 

“You’re taking me to a nightclub?”

“It’s called Cernunnos. Their DJs are a crowd favorite.”

A keeper crosses their path ahead, and they pause to let it pass. Shepard takes the opportunity to pull herself in close, savoring the feel of his muscled frame beneath her hands. “You have a favorite DJ?”

He doesn't answer, offering that classic little smirk-smile he only shares with her. This man, she thinks. 

“Come, Siha. It isn’t far.”

They traverse the winding network of grated catwalks, narrow corridors, and dusty passageways, lit by dim red wall panels reminiscent of a submarine and lined with a concerning number of locked, unlabeled doors without handles. It would be so easy to get lost down here, spend a few hours well and truly alone - a thought that’s becoming more and more interesting as she wonders what Thane plans on doing to her when he finally has her cornered. 

At last, they come upon one large door with a glowing red lock. Thane presses a panel beside it, revealing a console so well hidden it may as well have not been there at all. Seconds later, the lock turns green, the doors open, and they're swept up in the colossal sound of pounding bass and dancing bodies. 

“Holy shit,” she says under her breath, the sound of her voice lost to the music. 

They arrive at a horizontal catwalk stretching along the curved wall of the club from one end of the dance hall to the other. There’s maybe 12 inches of space between their heads and the ventilation ductwork, and the guardrail is trussed with lights, circling in neon patterns over the dancers far below who frolic over a mirrored floor lined with still more lights that give the space an otherworldly feel. The bass shakes her bones, settles hard over the pounding of her heart. Incredible, what freedom a bit of loud music can bring. 

She takes a step up to the railing, soaking in the energy of the crowd and the beat. Thane’s arms slide around her waist. It never gets old - the way he pulls her back into him, letting his breath wash over her neck. He presses close, giving a thoughtful hum as his lips ghost over her ear. 

“I once chased a target to this very spot,” he says lowly, in a haze of memory. “A human woman. Red of hair.”

Shepard leans back into him, smirking. “You brought me all this way to tell me stories? I love that about you.”

He brushes his nose against her hairline, presses his cheek close. “She was a fierce combatant. Slipped through my fingers more times than I could count as I pursued her across systems, through relays, until at last I cornered her here, on the Citadel.”

Their current arrangement is not lost on her. Leaning against a narrow metal guardrail with the galaxy’s most feared assassin at her back, she can't help the excited jump in her pulse. 

“Next you’re gonna tell me you prayed for her before you dropped her over the edge,” Shepard teases. 

“You mistake me, Siha.” His hands wander to her hips. “My hunt had only just begun when we reached the Citadel. After I infiltrated her ship and earned her trust.”

That gets a genuine laugh out of her. “Mixing business with pleasure, Thane?”

“As all assassins do,” he agrees without a shred of shame or discomfort. “One might argue that by the time I caught her, she openly goaded me to chase her.” His lips touch her neck. “To claim her.”

“So you cornered her here,” Shepard replies, leaning her head back against his shoulder, inviting his wandering hands, his warm mouth on the curve of her neck. 

“As I have cornered you, now,” he says, voice low. Seductive.

“How'd you do it? A quick snap of the neck? A knife? An unfortunate, ‘accidental’ fall?”

“I never said I killed her, Siha,” he says, with a playful lilt to his voice. His hands smooth down over her abdomen, over her thighs, fingertips pressing close to her apex. She knows this touch to be exploratory, communicative, a subtle ask from his body to hers. What a simple thing it is to respond in kind, pressing her backside against him.

He gives a quiet laugh, kissing the spot behind her ear. 

“I see how it is,” she teases, arching her spine, pushing her backside into his hips. The unmistakable warmth of his arousal pushes back, and she feels her own desire begin to smolder. “You know all of my secrets but I can't know yours?" 

His arms tighten around her and he lets out a low rasp. 

"You offer your secrets to me voluntarily. Perhaps you would do well to watch your mouth."

"Oh?" she says, turning to face him, setting her elbows back on the railing and arching her neck in a silent invitation. In the low light, his eyes are hungry. "Say that again, to my face."

"I said, watch your mouth, Siha." He touches her chin. "If you prefer, I will find better use for it."

He kisses her, then. Pulls her body flush with his; the way that makes his mouth and tongue feel like a full-body experience. Heat flares beneath her skin, and she only gives fleeting consideration to their location as she considers all that she wants from him, wants to give him, right here and now. 

"You really think that'll shut me up?"

"An untested theory," he says, nipping her bottom lip, one hand sliding down to cup her ass. “Perhaps if we...”

She gives his belt a quick tug and pulls it free, her eyes never leaving his. The sound he makes is deep and desirous as she pushes him up against a shadow-washed bulkhead. Eyes locked, she descends to her knees before him. 

"I never feel more humbled than when you offer me your mouth," he whispers  as she strokes him. He’s rock hard, pulsing in her hand. In the darkness, she counts the swirling lines that sweep along his length. They flank the coronal ridge of his head, flowing along the shape of him and meeting again just past his sheath. 

"This mouth is famous," she reminds him, peering up to meet his eyes as she teases along the underside. "Some might even say infamous."

"And yet none have known it as I have." He relaxes against the wall and touches the side of her face, sliding his fingers into her hair. The intention in his grip is unmistakable, but he's so pretty when he begs. Gazing up at him, she flutters her lashes, swipes her tongue across his glans and hooks her fingers around his shaft. The colored, moving lights off the club sweep across his face. 

"Please, Siha,” he says sweetly, tilting his hips to nudge his tip against her mouth. 

She smiles, hand tightening around his length. And then he's sliding between her lips, venom burning on her tongue, sinking as far as she can manage into her throat.  

He groans. His hips tense as she pulls off him, hollowing her cheeks as she goes, sucking hard and following with a soft tongue. For all his bluster, Thane is a man like any other - spellbound and lost in the heat of her mouth. He fists his hand in her hair, nails raking along her scalp, guiding her with steady strength. The base of him tingles with his natural lubricant, envenomed and leeching into her blood as she stretches her lips around him and swallows him to the hilt. Christ. She wants him so badly it aches. 

He abruptly tightens his grip on her hair, stalling her. 

“Siha,” he groans. “Siha.”

Shepard releases him with a pop, and he only takes a moment to sag against the wall before hauling her up against him, pressing his tongue against hers. His hands are on her thighs, gathering her short skirt, bunching up atop her hips. He backs her up, step by step, until the railing pushes into her back. 

"Turn around,” he says with a rasp as he spins her, caging her between his arms against the guardrail.

The crowd of dancers below moves like an ocean, swelling and crashing between the mirrored floor and sweeping lights, tangled limbs and bodies lost in one another. She surveys the tables and bars ringing the dance floor, at once both curious and worried to know if they've been spotted. Her search is almost enough to distract her from Thane’s hands sliding beneath her bunched-up dress, scaled palms gliding with unmistakable intent across her skin.

“I want you,” he murmurs in her ear. “Right here, just like this.”

He rocks his hips against her, slow and firm. 

“I thought you'd never ask,” she says breathily.

He nudges her legs apart with a booted foot. "Do we have an audience?"

She shakes her head. “Do you want an audience?”

He kisses her again behind the ear. "Perhaps you will give them due cause. You always make the most delicious sounds when I take you from behind."

Fuck. His voice vibrates between her ears, down her spine, and settles in her throbbing cunt. She aches, her blood pounding with the bass. 

Thane pulls her hips back toward him, pulling her panties to the side. She breathes out a soft moan as traces her seam with just the tips of his fingers, sliding toward the top of her mound and back again before slipping with ease into her channel. 

"Wet," he murmurs. "Does the taste of me arouse you so?"

Shepard bites her lip and whines, and he continues, fingers sliding in and out of her at a slow, dragging pace. There’s no doubt that this insufferable tease is avoiding her clit on purpose, and she reaches between her legs to pleasure herself. Thane intercepts her before she can make it there. 

"Mind your hands, Siha,” he warns, placing and curling her fingers back around the metal. “We wouldn't want our hosts to get the wrong idea.” The low rasp in his voice is driving her mad. The moment he lets go, she reaches back behind his neck, arching herself toward him, intent on capturing his lips. 

“Or what?” She rasps. “Go on, Krios. Threaten me with a good time.”

This time, his grip is firm. Just shy of bruising. He cinches her wrists together with one strong hand, as the other reaches between them to hook a finger around the crotch of her panties. He tugs at them, aggressive, urging them down her thighs until they fall to her knees at an angle, still hooked on his finger. 

Shepard steps out of the garment one leg at a time. Heaven only knows what thoughts are locked in his fathomless mind, but she loves where this is going. Loves to egg him on, deny him just enough to leave him dangling on one, fragile thread of frustration and ever more eager to ravish her. Thane is never one to disappoint. 

He lifts her damp panties to her wrists, and in a series of swift movements, binds her hands to the guardrail. Perfect. An excited chill races down her spine. No one plays dirty quite like he does. 

He nips at her neck, and then her ear. “Shall I pardon myself, Shepard? Leave you here for a time, with nothing but the music and your desire to drive you to madness?” 

“You wouldn't,” she taunts back, testing her makeshift restraint. The fabric isn't made for any sort of strength; it wouldn't take much to tear free, but she'll wait till the right moment for that. 

“No. I am nothing if not generous, as you are aware.” His cock is a hard line against the crack of her ass, his hands returning to her body, feeling the contour of her breasts, her hips. He makes a low sound when he returns to the heat between her legs and effortlessly spears her with his fused fingers. 

“Generous, my ass,” she taunts. “They teach you not to play with your food in the Compact?” Her gut clenches and she moans “Fuck” against gritted teeth as he curls into her walls, hitting her exactly where she likes it.  When he withdraws, he wraps his arm around her shoulders.

"Taste, Siha," he whispers, fused fingers leaving a wet trail along her cheek as he pushes them inside her mouth. Flooded with lust, she accepts without a second thought. The salty flavor of her own arousal hits her tongue and she groans around his hand, sucking his fingers just like she’d sucked his cock. 

At last, he adjusts himself, nestling his velvety tip against her opening. 

Thane's fingers tear free of her lips and settle on her jaw, gripping tight, forcing her head to the side, pressing his face to hers so she can feel his breath coming hot and heavy against her cheek. Bound before him, all she can think about is his cock, his head hovering just inside her folds, thick and heavy and slick, primed to penetrate and fuck her right here and now on this dusty catwalk-

"Goddess preserve me," he breathes.

And then he's sliding home, the wide head of his cock prying her open inch by inch, every one of his ridges like fire licking the ring of her opening as she stretches and pulses around him. 

There's no substitute for this - the deep throbbing heat, the pressure, the incredible stretch as her body conforms around his beautiful alien cock. She wishes she could bottle this feeling, inhale and relive it during her many sleepless nights aboard her ship - fuck, she’d never want for anyone ever again. It steals her breath. White knuckles on the railing, her head pitches forward with a long moan as their hips go flush. 

His voice is shaky as he mutters her name like a prayer into her skin. Hard, unyielding, and sheathed to the hilt inside her, he kisses with unfocused, desperate lust against her mouth and cheek. It feels like he could swallow her whole, pulled flush against his chest with hands trembling.

Stars - she could grind herself to oblivion on him. It’s killing her that she can’t touch him.

"You will be the death of me, Siha. The things you let me do to you-” his hips abruptly snap into hers, followed by a few short, shaky thrusts before he settles into a heavy rhythm that makes her cunt throb.

“This turn you on, Krios?” She laughs, the sound ragged. “Fucking me over the dance floor of a crowded club?”

It's a struggle to keep her voice level, but it's worth it. His forehead briefly comes to rest between her shoulder blades and he tightens his fingers on her hips, pace unfaltering. These little tells, she knows, speak volumes of his control, his desire.

“If I didn't know better, I'd say you want them to watch.” She thrusts back against him, leveraging her hands on the guardrail.

His pace stutters. He gives a sudden, sharp thrust, swallowing before he manages, “If I wanted them to watch, I’d have stripped you bare.” 

Shepard lets out a breathless chuckle. “I think I struck a nerve.”

Thane makes a low, desperate sound. “You are my savior and my tormentor,” he rasps. 

He rocks back slowly, stroking her walls with every ridge until he comes free. Shepard chases him with her hips, empty and aching, until his hands close over hers and he begins to thrust wetly against her seam. She can feel every single contour of his cock dragging over her sensitive, swollen pearl, bringing her closer to the brink as he backs down from his.

“Imagine it, Siha,” he says, his chest flat against her back as he nips her jaw. “The dancers below are none the wiser, for a time. And then one looks up,” he gestures out over the dance floor and takes a deep, long breath. Two steps backward. Drags her hips with him until she's almost at chin level with the guardrail. 

“And there you are. Bent over before me, colored lights sweeping across your skin, shaking as I take my fill of you.” His hands drag over her curves, lingering at her breasts, squeezing, flirting with roughness. “Whether they wish to be you or be inside you, they can only watch and wonder - what must it feel like to put one's hands on such a beautiful creature?"

Her cheeks are on fire. Yeah, she's struck a nerve alright. His fingers massage her nipple through the fabric of her dress, and she can tell by his uncharacteristically clumsy grip that he’s at least thinking about tearing holes in her dress. 

A hand comes to rest on her belly, holding her tight against him as he eases the tip of his cock inside her again, pushing, seeking. He’s still maddeningly restrained. All he allows her is what remains of his patience: long, slow, deep thrusts. Her skin itches, body aching for the full, unleashed strength of him. He squeezes her breast again, pushing deeper into her cunt now, and all at once, the realization hits her. 

"Are you-" she chokes, "Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

She can imagine it - the hands of a stranger freeing her from this damned dress, sliding over her skin, kneading her breasts - tongue drawing circles around the taut bud of her nipple - Thane fucking her all the while - 

As though he can hear her thoughts, he pulls her hips sharply back into his, and she gasps. The fantasy takes her by surprise and her eyes squeeze shut, arousal boiling beneath her skin.  

"Maybe we could try that sometime," she heaves, and she can tell by the way his body shudders that she’s under his skin now, too.  

He pauses, slipping out of her, and for a moment she thinks he's actually going to make good on her suggestion. Instead he adjusts his stance, pushes her hips forward until they're flush against the railing bars and thrusts back inside her at an angle that leaves her gasping. 

"Siha," he groans into her neck, "The mere thought of sharing your pleasure with another…" His voice is ragged as he begins to fuck her in earnest. "To imagine them… on their knees before you… tongue devoted to your pleasure as I move inside you. Merciful gods."

He grips her waist, pounding into her at an angle that makes heat flash along her spine like lightning. Shepard struggles to keep her eyes open, as though by watching the dance floor, she could somehow keep them from watching her. They’re in too deep now - but there’s something intensely arousing about being had in this state. About knowing any wandering eyes might catch the sight of Thane taking his pleasure from her. Knowing how, despite her (frankly excessive) state of dress, it would be immediately obvious what was happening. 

His hands moves between her legs, sliding against wet, warm flesh, focused where she’s spread wide around his girth. He circles her clit in frantic, jerky circles that give away just how much his control is fraying at the seams. Shepard is on the edge before she even knows what’s happening, spellbound, vividly imagining Thane fucking her into oblivion beneath a stranger's hands and mouth. 

"Thane-" she chokes, a lip between her teeth. Hands lock around the cold steel railing and she struggles to breathe, lurching forward, spine bowing, until she's truly hanging on for dear life while her climax shreds her nerves from the inside out. And he doesn't stop - 

It feels like heaven. Glowing, white hot, and savage jabs of ecstacy ripping through her as he braces himself against her hips and fucks her for all he's worth. The force of him makes her stumble, the binds at her wrist tearing thread by thread until they unravel, torn elastic whipping away from her hands and falling uselessly into the crowd below. Whoever they land on is the furthest thing from her mind. He's deep, so impossibly, brilliantly, earth-shatteringly deep inside her, every thrust rocketing through her on forked flashes of lightning until her eyes roll back and she chokes out half-formed words in the vague shape of his name.

Swallowing a moan, she manages only a few clear words: "Fuck me, Thane." 

He makes a low noise, something between a moan and a growl. Teeth drag against the curve of her shoulder, driving spike after spike of incandescent pleasure through her body. And then he shudders, gasps, and grips her hips to the point of pain as his cock pulses hard between her legs, and fuck - 

She can feel it - the wet, warming gush of his release painting her deepest reaches. The feeling conjures new, unbidden fantasies in her mind - a body on its knees before her, mouthing at the wet heat of their joining, perhaps even daring to meet her eyes as they dragged their tongue between the swollen, blushing lips of her cunt to collect their mingled essence. 

Her cheeks burn. 

Yeah, she admits to herself. She wants that. A third partner.

Would they fuck her through the dregs of Thane's venom? Sliding between her legs to occupy the space he vacates as he finally separates from her with their hot mouth, their fingers, their cock, anything - pushing up into her channel with barely concealed lust, drinking from her; saliva and fingers and come dragging hot against oversensitive flesh. Her whole body feels heavy - drugged with a deep, buttery heat that’s slowly cooking her from within.

Who could they…? 

She's running through the possibilities in her mind. Hiring someone feels too risky because her name is so well known. Someone closer to home, maybe? Someone they trust. And all at once, it's clear. There's one person on her ship that she trusts enough to either be discreet, or let her down easy. 

Shepard turns to Thane and pushes her hands into the open collar of his shirt, dragging her nails against his chest and her tongue against his throat.

Fuck-drunk and breathless, she asks, “You’d go for a threeway with me?” She squeezes her thighs together, his release threatening to flow from her at any moment.

He blinks, and she’s sure he’s having some kind of post-climax revelation about what the hell they’ve just done - but fuck it. She’s unbuttoning his shirt, his sculpted chest rising and falling rapidly in the aftermath of his exertion.

“Yes,” he says, pulling her flush against him. She bites her lip, feeling the wet drip of him between her legs.  “Provided we agree on the partner.”

“Garrus,” she breathes. “What about Garrus?” and she can feel Thane’s sharp intake of breath beneath her wandering hands. 

"You have bold tastes, Siha. Are you certain?"

Thane grips her ass, every mottled inch of his body pressed up against her, and raises her thigh with a guiding hand so he can slide his fingertips along her leaking seam. 

"He wants me,” she says between fevered kisses. "He doesn't know how to say it, but he does."

“You've built a career on uniting the galaxy's various species,” he replies. “It's only fitting that you should do the same in your bed.”

Thane pushes his fingers up inside her and her lips rip from his as she gasps, feeling the bulk of his spend fall from her only for him to press it back into her mound, grinding his palm up against her clit. She releases a pathetic moan, buries her head in his shoulder, rolling her hips against his hand. His come feels so good, some bizarre quirk of biology giving it a warming quality when it comes in contact with her own wetness.

Blindly, she reaches for him, dragging her tongue along his neck when she finds him hard and ready. 

“Is that a yes, then?”

He seems to consider her with a thoughtful hum, working his hand between her legs, infuriating in his unending patience. She tightens her palm around his cock, and his lips trace the shell of her ear. 

“I'd like that, Siha.” 

She moans, muffled against his neck, and sinks her teeth into the sensitive ruby flesh beneath her mouth. He growls in turn, winds his free hand into her hair to force her lips back onto his. 

“We should return to the Normandy,” he murmurs, breath ragged. 

He's right, of course. But she can taste the potent citric salt of his venom and she knows she's too far gone, by miles. She can't get enough of him, mind swimming in fantasies of him and Garrus taking turns with her, converging on her, filling her mouth, her cunt, her everything with brain-melting pleasure. She's sure of only one thing - they're not making it back to her ship. 

“Negative, soldier,” she breathes. “How well traveled are these maintenance corridors?”

Suddenly she's in the air, legs clamping around his waist as he physically lifts her and carries her down the catwalk. 

“Storage loft, on your left,” he manages. She reaches a hand blindly to the wall, releases an overloading charge from her omni-tool that singes both her palm and the lock’s control panel. There's a rush of cool air as the doors whiff open. 

No sooner are they inside than she's wriggling free of his hold, pushing him down onto the nearest moderately flat surface, peeling her dress off, and mounting him. It's quieter here. She can hear the low catch of his breath as she takes him to the hilt. 

He feels positively divine. Warmed from within by sex and venom, she begins to ride him. She rises until his tip rests at her entrance and plunges back down, the whole of his length rocketing through her like a thick, ridged bullet, over and over again, endless, perpetual, and fucking perfect. 

Thane's eyes are fixated on her, reflecting the dim fluorescent lines that flicker above them in time with the bass of the club just outside the door. One hand splays itself over her belly as though to steady her, and then he licks his lips, fingertips sliding down, down, warm and rasping scales sliding over her slick pearl. 

Wherever she's supposed to be right now, she only knows she's here, right on the edge of nonsense and drunken need, Thane rolling her again and again up the precipice of climax like Sisyphus and his stone. She falls over him, tongue wrapping around his, impaled on the burning tower of his desire, his hand curling around her breast, thumb flicking over her nipple, rutting up into her with equal vigor - 

The first shock of her climax flashes like a spark between her hips. She clenches, involuntary, gasps against his mouth - tries in vain to hold back the tsunami that's already racing toward her, but it's too late. She shudders and gasps into him, and he's only seconds behind. He closes his teeth around her lower lip as he floods her, tip to root, warmth blooming along her spine. 

She lays atop him, panting in the aftermath. Her forehead rests against his. His arms are trembling as they wind around her shoulders. 

“Wow,” she breathes, after a long moment. Now that they're both still, she can feel how the floor - the crate - below them shakes with the club's bass. 

He offers a sated “Mmm” in response, nuzzling her head, breathing hard.

“Have I ever told you that you're the best sex I've ever had?”

“You haven't, Siha,” he says, voice low. “But I inferred.”

She pushes a playful, weak palm against his arm. “Smartass.”

She moves to stand, but he seems loathe to release her. His hands trail down her shoulders and arms as she sets one shaky foot on the ground at a time, heels clanging on the dusty metal floor. Shakes the dust off her dress before sliding it back on with a wince. 

“Were you serious, about Mr. Vakarian?”

Shepard wrinkles her nose. “He's going to say no if you call him that.”

Thane sits up on the edge of the crate, tucking himself back into his pants. 

“You were serious, then?”

Shepard states at him, still moderately high, doing her best to seem coherent, as though his spend isn't rolling down her thigh. 

“Yes,” she says, matter-of-factly. 

He extends a hand, then, and pulls her by the arm to stand between his knees. With a deep inhale, he kisses her, sweet and tender. “I will approach him then, when the time is right.”

Shepard sighs with contentment, leaning against him for a moment, inhaling the clean, dry scent of him as she rests her head on his shoulder.

“Pretty sure my underwear fell onto some guy's head.”

“You'd have kept them if you had not challenged me, my Siha.”

“As though you wouldn't have torn them off me at some point,” she retorts. 

“As though you wouldn't have begged me to do so,” he says with a smile.

Then he stands, removing his vest. 

“A concession,” he offers, holding it out for her. “And, if you'll permit me, I will replace your lost garment. Perhaps a deep blue, if our turian friend should accept our invitation.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” Shepard says as she bends gracelessly and uses the fabric to wipe the mess from between her thighs. He takes it back from her when she's finished, folding the soiled side of the material into itself and tucking it into his back pocket.

They step back onto the catwalk, the air heavy with sweat and sex and smoke. As Shepard twines her fingers with his, Thane takes a moment just to gaze at her, his enormous dark eyes catching the light of the club below. He places a soft kiss to the back of her hand. 

“Come, Siha,” he smiles. “The night awaits.”

[atopvisenyashill]

Bran The Time Traveling Toddler

Yes that IS a reference to the Tyrion the time traveling fetus theory. The thing about MY insane theories is that they actually make sense and I’m right. Follow me please down the worm hole!!

There’s very clearly Someone Influencing things when it comes to the Starklings and even the overreaching plot in general - there’s enough weird magic surrounding them, whispering in the wind, that it’s a no brainer they’re being watched over. The question is WHO and WHEN. For me, personally, I think it’s Bran, and I think it’s an older Bran from the future (whether it be Bran In TWOW and ADOS or Bran post canon) trying to lead his siblings to safety.

Now, like my Harrenhal meta, I don’t think I’m saying anything new so much as compiling what people have said scattered across the interwebs. There’s a lot of theories about whether Bran can time travel, time travel in general in the series, how george has dealt with time travel before, and about the three eyed crow’s identity and I agree with bits and pieces of what other people have said - preston jacobs is a more famous example of this theory for example. But I don't want to get caught up on things like time travel paradoxes because, like, i don’t care about that, and george has talked about how time travel is more fantasy than scifi bc it’s just not really scientifically possible. do you know what that means? it means there’s no weird physical paradoxes because it’s ✨magic✨ and Bran isn't literally going through space and time. It's as Jojen says-

With two eyes you see my face. With three you could see my heart. With two you can see that oak tree there. With three you could see the acorn the oak grew from and the stump that it will one day become. With two you see no farther than your walls. With three you would gaze south to the Summer Sea and north beyond the Wall

Through his greenseeing abilities, Bran can see the whole of a lifespan, from conception to burial, and can pop out at any point in that lifespan, because a span of 100, 1000, or 1,000,000 years is all the same to the weirwood. So I don't think it's in the realm of Crazy Ass Theories to say that Bran is capable of a more magic based form of time travel. That he can whisper in people's dreams, on the wind, taking on the voice of the old gods themselves and doing his best to nudge things the way he needs them to be in order to keep the people he loves safe.

I also don't think Bloodraven is Three Eyed Crow (though I do think he also uses this metaphor of "flying" wrt magic, and that's why Euron also has a comment about flying in his dreams - I just don't believe that metaphor originates with Brynden himself. Rather, I think he picked it up from somewhere else), but instead, it's Bran, using the weirwood network to get all the pieces on the board he needs where he needs them to be for the endgame. Notice that Brynden doesn't seem to know what Bran is talking about when he mentions the Three Eyed Crow-

"Are you the three-eyed crow?" Bran heard himself say. A three-eyed crow should have three eyes. He has only one, and that one red. Bran could feel the eye staring at him, shining like a pool of blood in the torchlight. Where his other eye should have been, a thin white root grew from an empty socket, down his cheek, and into his neck. "A … crow?" The pale lord's voice was dry. His lips moved slowly, as if they had forgotten how to form words. "Once, aye. Black of garb and black of blood." 

Brynden mentions the watch, but doesn't mention the three eyed crow. Everyone simply refers to Brynden as the greenseer, not the three eyed crow, except for Bran himself, who simply assumes Brynden is the three eyed crow (and we know magical assumptions in this series are generally wrong!).

What’s double interesting to me about this “bloodraven is the three eyed crow” assumption is brynden himself makes his “a thousand eyes and one” comment - but doesn’t mention a third eye. Meanwhile, Bran’s narrative is obviously filled with bird references and the opening of his third eye from Bran feeding the crows on the towers before he falls then longing to go back to the crows afterwards, of a crow sending Jojen to “the winged wolf,” of his dreams of living as a bird in maester luwin’s rookery with his siblings - Jon Snow even compares him to a bird in their final scene face to face when he thinks bran has “fingers like the bones of birds.”

And notable that though both Rickon and Bran have a greendream where they talk to Ned in the crypts of Winterfell just before Ned is executed, Rickon makes no mention of a three eyed crow, but Bran explicitly sees him-

The mention of dreams reminded him. "I dreamed about the crow again last night. The one with three eyes. He flew into my bedchamber and told me to come with him, so I did. We went down to the crypts. Father was there, and we talked. He was sad."

"Shaggy," a small voice called. When Bran looked up, his little brother was standing in the mouth of Father's tomb. With one final snap at Summer's face, Shaggydog broke off and bounded to Rickon's side. "You let my father be," Rickon warned Luwin. "You let him be." "Rickon," Bran said softly. "Father's not here." "Yes he is. I saw him." Tears glistened on Rickon's face. "I saw him last night."

What that says to me is that the Three Eyed Crow has the ability to speak directly to only Bran and can only otherwise appear in a more ephemeral way to others. With the established rules about not being able to communicate properly with the past, I think this makes sense - being able to use the weirwood hivemind/greenseeing powers to appear in a different form to yourself but unable to appear in a concrete form to anyone else.

I think it's even likely we'll see Bran doing some of this nudging and whispering on page in ADOS or maybe as early as TWOW, but it won't be the exact same sort of "Bran can literally reach out and touch someone in a weirwood dream" that they had in the show with the later scenes. It'll be more like that very first scene in the show where we see Bran influence the past slightly - you know, when he calls out "father!" and young Ned turns around, having heard a voice on the wind-

And there's a direct parallel to ADWD here, where Bran is certain Ned heard him speaking in the godswood but Brynden says it's not possible (not possible for Brynden perhaps!)-

Lord Eddard Stark sat upon a rock beside the deep black pool in the godswood, the pale roots of the heart tree twisting around him like an old man's gnarled arms. The greatsword Ice lay across Lord Eddard's lap, and he was cleaning the blade with an oilcloth. "Winterfell," Bran whispered. His father looked up. "Who's there?" he asked, turning … … and Bran, frightened, pulled away. His father and the black pool and the godswood faded and were gone and he was back in the cavern, the pale thick roots of his weirwood throne cradling his limbs as a mother does a child.

It's not quite time travel. It's like the acorn and stump metaphor - Bran can't appear in his physical body in the past but he can make a bit of noise, perhaps even be mistaken for one of the old gods.

As TWOW and ADOS go on, I think we'll see Bran's powers grow (likely in ways that frighten him and horrify the reader), and we'll see the very beginnings of him influencing the plot that happens during the previous books, showing up in scenes we've already experienced, similar to the Ned scene above. I think this because, well...he's already done it!

Now, as for What Time Traveling Bran Has Already Done - it’s tricky because we have a LOT of magic users waking and shaking. I’m not including every single instance of weird whispering or funny birds here, just the moments I think are more likely to be Bran than anyone else because I think Bran mostly deals with his siblings. I imagine they're easiest to reach out to magically because they already have the ability to access magic, and they're also the people he cares most about. The most obvious to me is in A Clash of Kings, when Jon hears a voice on the wind, very similar to the young Ned scene in the show-

Jon VII in A Clash of Kings

The call came from behind him, softer than a whisper, but strong too. Can a shout be silent? He turned his head, searching for his brother, for a glimpse of a lean grey shape moving beneath the trees, but there was nothing, only … A weirwood. It seemed to sprout from solid rock, its pale roots twisting up from a myriad of fissures and hairline cracks. The tree was slender compared to other weirwoods he had seen, no more than a sapling, yet it was growing as he watched, its limbs thickening as they reached for the sky. Wary, he circled the smooth white trunk until he came to the face. Red eyes looked at him. Fierce eyes they were, yet glad to see him. The weirwood had his brother’s face. Had his brother always had three eyes?

Not always, came the silent shout. Not before the crow. He sniffed at the bark, smelled wolf and tree and boy, but behind that there were other scents, the rich brown smell of warm earth and the hard grey smell of stone and something else, something terrible. Death, he knew. He was smelling death. He cringed back, his hair bristling, and bared his fangs.

Don’t be afraid, I like it in the dark. No one can see you, but you can see them. But first you have to open your eyes. See? Like this. And the tree reached down and touched him.

This moment was when I really started paying attention to Weird Shit Bran Might Be Doing because of that line "not before the crow." Now, we know Bran mentions talking with Jon later on, in the very last chapter of the book, here-

 He could reach Summer whenever he wanted, and once he had even touched Ghost and talked to Jon. Though maybe he had only dreamed that.

But I think it's both Bran in the present and Bran in ADOS speaking here - brothers reaching out to each other in their fear, and future Bran piggybacking off that connection to send a warning (this is back in Jon VII, during the shared Jon-Bran dream as before)-

Then he realized he was looking at a river of ice several thousand feet high. Under that glittering cold cliff was a great lake, its deep cobalt waters reflecting the snowcapped peaks that ringed it. There were men down in the valley, he saw now; many men, thousands, a huge host. Some were tearing great holes in the half-frozen ground, while others trained for war...This is no army, no more than it is a town. This is a whole people come together.

Bran warns Jon of the wildling army headed their way because he needs the Night’s Watch to stop fighting the wildlings, get them safely out of the True North (so they can’t be reanimated as wights), and focus on the Long Night. When you read the passage, it seems as if Bran is trying to awaken Jon’s third eye - something present baby Bran isn’t concerned with, because he barely understands his own third eye awakening. But a Bran in ADOS or beyond would know exactly what to say and do to get Jon and himself to wake up! Not just because of the paradox, but because of his connection to his brother and his vast understanding of his own magic. Similar to the idea that “who would know how to motivate Bran better than Bran himself” who would know how to motivate Jon better than one of his beloved siblings?

Arya X in A Clash of Kings

In the godswood she found her broomstick sword where she had left it, and carried it to the heart tree. There she knelt. Red leaves rustled. Red eyes peered inside her. The eyes of the gods. "Tell me what to do, you gods," she prayed.

For a long moment there was no sound but the wind and the water and the creak of leaf and limb. And then, far far off, beyond the godswood and the haunted towers and the immense stone walls of Harrenhal, from somewhere out in the world, came the long lonely howl of a wolf. Gooseprickles rose on Arya's skin, and for an instant she felt dizzy. Then, so faintly, it seemed as if she heard her father's voice. "When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives," he said.

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

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

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

Once again, we have a voice - it seemed as if it was her father's voice - telling a Starkling to do something specific, reminding that Starkling of their ties to Winterfell, the north, and home. The voice she hears, speaking her true name, is the kick in the pants Arya needs to grab Gendry and Hot Pie and get out of Harrenhal. There's something interesting, engaging, heartbreaking, that when Arya is at one of her lowest points, lamenting the loss of her pack, and out comes the voice of one of her pack urging her to keep faith, and helping to inspire one of her best moments - I am a direwolf, and done with wooden teeth. Again, we have a voice trying to get the Starklings to wake up and face their reality!

Sansa in A Storm of Swords

That night Sansa scarcely slept at all, but tossed and turned just as she had aboard the Merling King. She dreamt of Joffrey dying, but as he clawed at his throat and the blood ran down across his fingers she saw with horror that it was her brother Robb. And she dreamed of her wedding night too, of Tyrion's eyes devouring her as she undressed. Only then he was bigger than Tyrion had any right to be, and when he climbed into the bed his face was scarred only on one side. "I'll have a song from you," he rasped, and Sansa woke and found the old blind dog beside her once again. "I wish that you were Lady," she said.

To be clear I think there’s a large change this is nothing. BUT. Considering Bran seems to be reaching out to his siblings, I like the idea that Bran, and magic in general, is trying to talk to Sansa but she can’t quite hear it. Winterfell and it’s magic and it’s family is calling it’s daughter home, even torn from her magical guide as she is, still trying to reach out through her dreams and through the animals around her. I’m desperately hoping that at some point in Sansa’s early TWOW chapters, we’ll start to see birds acting and speaking funny around her as Bran tries harder to reach his lost sister.

Theon Greyjoy in A Dance With Dragons

BUT. I don't think it's just the Starklings that get these messages from Bran - it's everyone he cares about, everyone he loves or will love. One of the other more obvious examples of this is Theon Greyjoy, himself clearly capable of some degree of magic, just like the Starklings-

The night was windless, the snow drifting straight down out of a cold black sky, yet the leaves of the heart tree were rustling his name. “Theon,” they seemed to whisper, “Theon.” The old gods, he thought. They know me. They know my name. I was Theon of House Greyjoy. I was a ward of Eddard Stark, a friend and brother to his children. “Please.” He fell to his knees. “A sword, that’s all I ask. Let me die as Theon, not as Reek.” Tears trickled down his cheeks, impossibly warm. “I was ironborn. A son … a son of Pyke, of the islands.” A leaf drifted down from above, brushed his brow, and landed in the pool. It floated on the water, red, five-fingered, like a bloody hand. “… Bran,” the tree murmured. They know. The gods know. They saw what I did. And for one strange moment it seemed as if it were Bran’s face carved into the pale trunk of the weirwood, staring down at him with eyes red and wise and sad. Bran’s ghost, he thought, but that was madness. Why should Bran want to haunt him? He had been fond of the boy, had never done him any harm. It was not Bran we killed. It was not Rickon. They were only miller’s sons, from the mill by the Acorn Water.

“he had been fond of the boy” please allow me this moment to contemplate killing myself thanks.

okay back on track but this is very self explanatory - we know Theon has some sort of capacity for magic because he had a vision of the Red Wedding in ACOK and unlike Jaime who just fell asleep on a weirweed tree, Theon was just up in bed. We see it again here, where Theon can hear a voice on the wind and then seems to see Bran’s own face in the face of the weirwood tree. Once again, the voice on the wind is trying to help a loved one of Bran’s find their way back to themselves, back to home. And Theon, for all the harm he has done, is still so so loved by Bran, and loves Bran in return.

Samwell Tarly III in A Storm of Swords

Sam made a whimpery sound. “It’s not fair …” “Fair.” The raven landed on his shoulder. “Fair, far, fear.” It flapped its wings, and screamed along with Gilly. The wights were almost on her. He heard the dark red leaves of the weirwood rustling, whispering to one another in a tongue he did not know. The starlight itself seemed to stir, and all around them the trees groaned and creaked. Sam Tarly turned the color of curdled milk, and his eyes went wide as plates. Ravens! They were in the weirwood, hundreds of them, thousands, perched on the bone-white branches, peering between the leaves. He saw their beaks open as they screamed, saw them spread their black wings. Shrieking, flapping, they descended on the wights in angry clouds. They swarmed round Chett’s face and pecked at his blue eyes, they covered the Sisterman like flies, they plucked gobbets from inside Hake’s shattered head. There were so many that when Sam looked up, he could not see the moon. “Go,” said the bird on his shoulder. “Go, go, go.”

Whoever this is - it's Bran!!!! - helps to save Sam and Gilly's lives, actively tells them to run for it, and just a little bit later, Sam is around to help save Bran in turn. I think there's also something to be said for the brotherhood connection here. They refer to each other as brothers in the book because of their connection to Jon; that connection to Jon, and therefore each other, means a lot to both Sam and Bran. There's a practical reason for saving Sam here in that he can help Bran in the "present" timeline, will likely help in the future, but more than that there's an emotional bond here and it seems to me that magic runs off emotions just as assuredly as it runs off of other important stuff like blood and and sacrifice and weirwoods.

Jon Snow XII in A Storm of Swords

With a raucous scream and a clap of wings, a huge raven burst out of the kettle. It flapped upward, seeking the rafters perhaps, or a window to make its escape, but there were no rafters in the vault, nor windows either. The raven was trapped. Cawing loudly, it circled the hall, once, twice, three times. And Jon heard Samwell Tarly shout, “I know that bird! That’s Lord Mormont’s raven!” The raven landed on the table nearest Jon. “Snow,” it cawed. It was an old bird, dirty and bedraggled. “Snow,” it said again, “Snow, snow, snow.” It walked to the end of the table, spread its wings again, and flew to Jon’s shoulder. Lord Janos Slynt sat down so heavily he made a thump, but Ser Alliser filled the vault with mocking laughter. “Ser Piggy thinks we’re all fools, brothers,” he said. “He’s taught the bird this little trick. They all say snow, go up to the rookery and hear for yourselves. Mormont’s bird had more words than that.” The raven cocked its head and looked at Jon. “Corn?” it said hopefully. When it got neither corn nor answer, it quorked and muttered, “Kettle? Kettle? Kettle?” The rest was arrowheads, a torrent of arrowheads, a flood of arrowheads, arrowheads enough to drown the last few stones and shells, and all the copper pennies too.

The Night's Watch seem to take this as some sort of divine sign, and Jon's friends take it as an excellent ploy from Samwell Tarly. But when Pyp confronts Sam over it a page later, Sam completely denies it -

“I had nothing to do with the bird,” Sam insisted. “When it flew out of the kettle I almost wet myself.”

Everyone has their theories about people warging Mormont's crow of course. I think what's interesting to me here is that Jon is really wrestling with the idea of leaving the Watch for Winterfell, in which case Janos Slynt was likely to take over command. Someone like Slynt being in charge when the Long Night is coming is a bad idea, and here, Mormont's bird directly contributes to Jon staying where he needs to be - watching over the wildlings and making sure they aren't turning into Wights.

(And this is getting into my other theories here, but IF Sansa as the Girl In Grey is true, I think this is a neat sort of timeline fixing - almost as if Bran is saying “no, not yet, the pieces aren’t aligned, Jon can’t leave yet, Brienne isn’t at the Vale to get Sansa, I haven’t trained enough, Jon still keeps slapping his hands over his third eye so he can’t see, I need to give myself more time here.”)

Bran II in A Game of Thrones

But...it's not just his family and friends that I think Bran is trying to help here, and of course, if he IS the Three-Eyed Crow, he isn’t YET. What I think is going to be a big climactic part of Bran's story is self sacrifice, giving up some of his own power, his own happiness, to save others. Yes, part of this is my absolute refusal to accept Borg Hivemind Fantasy Police State King Bran in that he will say NO to the hivemind, but I think there's something magical here as well!

I think in order to access great power you need to be willing to put your own body on the line.

Jojen mentions having gotten sick with "greywater fever" shortly before his greendreams started

Dany experiences a miscarriage then literally walks into fire in order to hatch her dragons

both Beric and Catelyn have to quite literally be gruesomely murdered in order for Thoros' fire magic to work to bring them back to life

Melisandre has to physically give birth in order for her shadow assassination to work

on and on it goes. In order to be capable of great power, you can’t just have a willingness to throw someone ELSE onto the pyre but yourself as well. But Bran is pushed out of the window instead of willingly jumping. Or...

The wolfling was smarter than any of the hounds in his father’s kennel and Bran would have sworn he understood every word that was said to him, but he showed very little interest in chasing sticks…Finally he got tired of the stick game and decided to go climbing….

The wolf did as he was told. Bran scratched him behind the ears, then turned away, jumped, grabbed a low branch, and pulled himself up. He was halfway up the tree, moving easily from limb to limb, when the wolf got to his feet and began to howl.

Bran looked back down. His wolf fell silent, staring up at him through slitted yellow eyes. A strange chill went through him. He began to climb again. Once more the wolf howled. “Quiet,” he yelled. “Sit down. Stay. You’re worse than Mother.” The howling chased him all the way up the tree, until finally he jumped off onto the armory roof and out of sight.

I think this is future Bran, finally becoming the Three Eyed Crow, inside Summer. Summer shows no interest in the game and it’s only then that Bran decides to go climbing. Future Bran is sacrificing himself for the greater good - but can’t stop his mournful cry of the fate that awaits his own young self.

[yujeong]

Time was at a standstill. Vegas was holding his breath without noticing, and continued to hold it when he did - he was afraid of what would happen if he exhaled loudly enough to draw attention to himself. His gaze was shifting between Pete and the man who was standing before them in the doorway, blocking their entrance. Vegas had never seen him before, but even so, he recognized Pete in him enough to know who he was. A dangerous aura surrounded him. There was an edge to his presence that Vegas would only come across people of certain circles. He was a fighter. A muay khao. Pete's father. Shame coursed through Vegas' body, smearing his skin, settling in his lungs, rendering him speechless. I thought he was dead, he wanted to tell Pete if he could. He wanted to scream at him, I thought you killed him. Pete was the one who broke the stillness. As if awakened by something, he took a half-step back and made a motion with his arms, almost raising them to his chest, but not quite. In an instant, Pete reverted into the pet Vegas had been keeping at the safehouse, bound by handcuffs and afraid of his belt hitting flesh and drawing blood. A lump formed in Vegas' throat. "Have you stopped practicing? Your form is off." The uncanny similarities between Pete and his father appearance-wise didn't mean a thing when it came to their voices. Vegas shivered. Was this what Pete would sound like in a few decades? (Were these the condescending words he'd choose to spew? Was Pete going to embody his father? Was Vegas embodying his?) "What are you doing here?" Pete whispered. "They let me out for a few days, so I came here to collect some money. Imagine my surprise when I found out my offspring left the job someone found him worthy enough of doing to... do what exactly? Yaai didn't want to tell me." He crossed his arms, waiting for an answer. Vegas didn't know what he was allowed to say. If he was allowed to say anything at all. "It's none of your business." "I'd say it very much is my business, as well as yaai's business who was dependent on the money you were making being some rich asshole's human shield." A choked sound scratched Vegas' throat. He didn't like getting reminded of Pete being the main family's bodyguard, even though he stopped being one mere months ago. Especially like this. That was the first time Pete's father stopped looking at his son and turned his head to look at Vegas. For a moment, there seemed to be recognition in his eyes. Did he know who Vegas was? Did he care? A snort came out of his mouth. He leaned on the door. "Oh, I see how it is." He laughed, scratched his neck. "I never expected you to whore yourself out for money. Tell me, is it preferable to the path I carved out for you?" Vegas could sense the disgust in his voice. He could also see it on Pete's face. He was too astonished to share it, but not enough to be unable to speak. "Khun, there has been some misunderstanding-" "Don't bother. I can recognize a faggot when I see one." Pete's movements were too fast for Vegas to stop him. A direct jab to the nose; his father fell like a pack of cards, groaning like a wounded animal. Surprisingly, no blood - Pete held back. Vegas didn't know what to think about that. "That was a pathetic attack, even for you." "Get up." "We're not in the ring, son." Pete growled. Vegas could see his hands trembling as he was keeping them in the air, maintaining an offensive stance. "That never stopped you before." "You were too young to understand what I was doing back then. What I was preparing you for." Pete was silent. "The world isn't kind. It'll fuck you over one way or another." He got up, spat on the ground. "You still haven't learned a thing. You're too old to afford being naive." He turned around, and without sparing a look at Pete again, said: "Now get the fuck out of my house." (For @musictooth, whose posts about Pete's father have reignited my passion for this specific concept and for @wretchedamaranth, whose comments on my writing are always lovely and precious ❤️)

[coollyinterferes]

The unmistakable sound of footsteps approaching begins to fill the air. Whoever is coming seems to have brought some company along…

They are getting closer… and closer… and closer…

…and closer…

……until..................

"Goooooood evenin'!!" Comes the loud greeting from a certain blond man. A big smile on his face and all.

"We beg your pardon for our prolonged absence. It was completely beyond our control..." Then adds the gentleman standing by his side, apologizing on behalf of both, offering a genuine smile along with the apology.

"...BUT! We're back!" And hopefully for good this time…

[grimmweepers]

life comes at you so fast

[thefirstknife]

Hi Bel,

I keep seeing comments about people complaining about the quality of destiny’s writing and story in the last few weeks. I haven’t really engaged with destiny since season of defiance, what’s currently gotten everyone so riled up? I thought that people were enjoying Season of the Deep/Witch in terms of narrative, why is Season of the Wish causing people to deride the destiny writing staff again?

I don't know!

Deep and Witch have been absolute bangers in every aspect to me. I've been enjoying all interactions and lore tabs we've received. A lot of them are stuff that we've never had before, a lot of reunions and closures, a lot of development and interactions between characters who you wouldn't really think would have much in common.

Sloane's return and healing from what she's been through has been fantastic, Drifter opening up with her to help her because he also got help from others was fantastic, Sloane reuniting with Aisha and Shayura brought me to tears (Shayura's descent into madness was triggered by immense trauma of Sloane staying on Titan and Titan disappearing), everything with Sloane and Zavala...

Witch was just incredible in every single way; the focus on Eris, the amount of Eris and Ikora content!!!!! Everything about Xivu and Savathun and their interactions together!! Eris finally fulfilling her goal she promised Savathun YEARS ago, getting that closure.

Wish so far has been equally great to me. All the new stuff about Ahamkara is amazing, finally giving us proof for long-standing speculation about Ahamkara and how they aren't universally evil creatures and expanding on them as a species. I love all interactions we've had so far; finally we have Petra back, Mara's singleminded focus on figuring out how to defeat the Witness and her continuous work to improve as a person, ALL SJUR MENTIONS!!!!! I won't talk about the "leak" because we have no context for it so I will wait for the full story to be revealed before I can pass judgment; something that I think should be a lesson to learn from this entire year. Maybe wait for the story to finish before judging the story.

Literally everything this past year that involves Osiris, but especially this season now that he's back in his element with the Vex. And of course every little detail we get of him and Saint. Osiris honestly shaped this year for me with everything that he's done to uncover the biggest mysteries. I think a big reason is that a lot of people just don't like Osiris, which I consider a massive skill issue.

Other than that, I don't know what are the issues people have besides just not being interested in any of these storylines and attributing it to a nebulous "bad writing" claim. I also genuinely believe that way too many people get wrapped up too much in fandom, imagine storylines they want to see and then get disappointed when the actual story doesn't go there. Almost like people forget that this isn't their story and these aren't their characters. A lot of it is also fandom completely warping characters into not what they actually are and then feeling like the canon story is the one that's wrong.

Whatever is the reason, I guess everyone is entitled to their perspective of the story and everyone is free to explore the story in different ways through fanfics and AUs and whatever. I do that too!

But I would definitely ask people to be normal with how they engage in criticism, especially in the current state of affairs. Writers are developers; they experience a ton of harassment and negativity from the community and also from inside the company. And they are online: they can see what we're saying. It's been documented that community commentary has been used to harass writers:

Imprint this into your brain and never forget what these people had to go through. Let's not forget also the way people treated Seth Dickinson on social media when he was active with Destiny fans. "Fans" were actively arguing with him about his own work (telling him that HE is wrong) and were utterly disgusting towards him when he tried explaining what he wrote. His works are now hailed as the best writing in Destiny and people want him back. If I were him, I wouldn't want to come back ngl, not with how he was treated and not with how fans are still treating writers (and hey, Seth wrote LF Collector's Edition! So he was back, technically, this year!). Let's not forget that a lot of writers are members of various marginalised groups. And I'd definitely not want to go back with zero support from leadership.

Which is also an important aspect for all developers, including writers: sometimes they have orders they may not like, but can't argue against. They do the best they can with what they're given, the time they have and directions they receive. And with that in mind, I am enjoying everything we've gotten this year, obviously with some specific complaints about things I didn't particularly enjoy (like the universally mid reception of Defiance; I've spoken about my gripes with it before, a big one being the shafting of Suraya who should've at least been mentioned in a lore tab).

I can tell that there is passion in their work, even if maybe they would prefer to do more with it, but can't. Maybe even if they want to take different routes, but can't. But from what we got, I can feel that they care about this world and these characters. I can tell that someone lovingly wrote about Sloane and her friendships with two grieving women. I can tell that they deeply cared about Sloane's friendship with Zavala and that they loved showing us Saint and Drifter caring about a fellow trauma survivor.

I can tell that the writers are immensely careful and loving towards Eris; everything she went through was crafted with love and passion from both writers and her VA. Eris' story is such a fundamental aspect of Destiny and I can tell that this was important to the writing team and that they gave her everything they could to do justice to her character and her arc and her healing and her release from the cycle she was trapped in for so long.

I can tell that there are writers who care a lot about Osiris and Saint and their relationship. I can tell that someone cared a lot about expanding on Ahamkara and giving them more personalities. I can tell that someone cared DEEPLY about Sjur and Mara and that her repeated mentions are the passionate work of writers who want us to remember her.

I could go on. And I know that not everyone sees it this way, which is fine; we all have different ways of perceiving stories. I enjoy discussing things we in the fandom disagree on and I enjoy hearing different perspectives! Unfortunately, this has recently become rarer and rarer. And for the love of god, please try and treat writers with some respect, especially now, especially those who are still working and doing their best with the shitty situation they're in. None of the cries of "poor devs" ring true to me unless the same is given to writers, instead of treating them like punching bags.

[dioles-writes]

"NEW YEAR, NEW SCHOOL"

Masterlist | Credits go to @jiphenn | Characters: Felix (he/him), Reagan (she/her), Bliss (she/her), Akali (he/him)

Felix was awoken to the ear-rupturing sound of his alarm blaring and the bright sun glaring into his eyes. 

He groaned, burying his face deeper into his pillow and trying to drown out the noise. Ugh, he thought, shrinking down even further under the welcoming warmth of his blanket, the softness of his mattress and the fortress of pillows snuggling his body making the action of merely opening his eyes impossible. Not today. 

It was at that moment that his phone started to blow up, piercing notifications going off one after the other after the other. Felix sighed loudly, scrambling to shut off his alarm and pick up his phone. He rolled over onto his back, met by a bunch of texts from his group chat: 

Inside Felix’s Bowl Cut 🥣 • 2 active 

Felix wake up 

Are you awake Felix? We’re coming to pick you up!

Wake up

Felix sent a quick text back, carelessly tossing his phone across his pillows and stumbling out of the cozy comfort of his bed. 

He padded across his room and headed into his closet, eyes scanning over his wide array of clothes. Today was September 1st, and to his dismay, meant it was also his first day at Diantha Rose High School. A brand new school for the start of eleventh grade — a brand new start. No one that suspected him, no one that hated him, no one to mock or judge him. No one that knew about what he really was. A new year…. to make things right. He’d been in more schools than he could count over the past eleven years, the names and faces that were nothing more than a blur, fading from his memory the minute he had to pack up his things and disappear to another town. 

Only this time, Felix was determined. He wasnt going to mess anything up. He wasn’t going to cause more problems. He going to stay. They wouldn’t have to move, there would be no accidental blow-ups on his part, no fights or almost getting caught, and no one was going to find out his secret. 

This year, things would be different. 

But to make that happen first he needed to make a good impression. What other way to do that than with a stunning fashion statement? He peered into his closet, flipping through the many different articles of clothing. Neon colours, stripes and patterns, gems and sparkles, and complex knit designs all greeted him, bright and blinding like always, but for once, he wasn’t satisfied. No, he needed something better. Something eye-catching, but not too outrageous. Something that would turn heads, make him stand out. Something that really screamed Felix Rodriguez. 

“A-ha!” He grinned, eyes landing on a vibrant shirt and pants combo peeking out of the evermost corner, stuffed in there haphazardly — almost forgotten. He shoved the mountain of clothes to the side, pulling out the two very special articles of clothing that had caught his eye: a low cut, tight-fitting turtleneck, which was a blinding neon green in colour; paired with tight, shiny mauve bell bottoms that could not have matched better. This was perfect. 

He shed off his oversized basketball shorts and jersey, tugging on the clothes and adding the final finishing touches to his outfit. With neon green high socks patterned by magenta kisses, a black belt with an intricate rose-shaped buckle, and several silver necklaces, the look was complete. Felix stood in front of his mirror, admiring himself. Besides the bed-head and his empty face — he’d get to that next — he had to admit, he looked incredible (as per usual). He’d really outdone himself this time. 

With this outfit, he was sure to make a lasting impression. 

“Are you awake in there Felix?” A knock came to his door, pulling him from his thoughts. Reagan’s voice, soft and laced with worry, filtered in from the hall. “You can’t be late on your first day.” 

“Yeah, yeah, I’m up!” He called back, plopping down in front of his vanity and starting on fixing his hair and make-up, arguably the most important parts of the look itself. If he wanted to make a good first impression, then he had to get these unruly curls into check. His hair looked like an absolute nightmare right now. 

“Okay, good.” Reagan let out a sigh of relief. “What do you want for breakfast?” 

“Akali and Bliss are picking me up. I’ll just grab something on my way out.” 

Fifteen minutes later, finally content with his appearance, Felix swung out of his room, bag in tow, his phone tucked into his back pocket. 

Reagan was waiting for him in the kitchen. She walked over, watching him with a concerned look as he shoved a croissant into his mouth, before handing him a small goodie bag stuffed to the brim with little hand-made snacks and sweets. “Take these in case you get hungry. And don’t get lost. And make new friends. And if someone messes with you, tell me.” She said, fussing with his hair and smoothing out his shirt. 

Felix sighed, worming out of her grasp and tucking the snacks into his bag. “Yes, mom.” He said with a smirk, rolling his eyes. 

“I’m being serious. You never know what’ll happen.” Reagan let out another stressed and sleep-deprived sigh. 

“Relax. It’ll be fine. Nothing’s going to happen.” He assured her, slinging his bag across his shoulders. And he meant it. Nothing was going to happen this time. He was going to make sure of it. He was just a completely normal human guy, going to a normal human school, with his normal human best friends. Nothing else. No accidents, no mess-ups, and no mishaps. No explosions or losing control. Everything was going to be completely and one hundred percent normal. 

Reagan gripped him by the shoulders, turning so he was fully facing her. Her hands were tight around him, like she was trying to keep the both of them steady. “Felix, you have to be careful. Nobody can find out!” She said, voice tight with anxiety, almost hushed. He could just feel her stress, radiating off of her in waves. But when he met her worried gaze, her eyes softened, just slightly. “I don’t want anything to happen to you.” 

Felix huffed, a mix of guilt and nervousness lingering in his chest as he shrugged her off again, quickly making his escape out of the kitchen and all of Reagan’s smothering. “Yes, yes, I know.” He paused at the doorway, waving off her concerns with a reassuring grin as he called over his shoulder. “You worry too much. I’ll see you tonight, alright?” 

Reagan let out a huff of amused exasperation, smiling despite herself. “What am I going to do with you…” She murmured under her breath, watching her little brother disappear down the hall with a wave. 

Felix burst out of their apartment, skipping down the steps leading to the bakery and giving Paisley a quick wave as he ran past her in the kitchen. As much as he loved Reagan, her nerves definitely weren’t helping him feel calm and prepared for whatever this new school might have in store for him. He knew there were over a million different possibilities for what could go wrong, he knew that his past track record wasn’t helping him in any way, and that even one step out of line could get him taken away…. Or—

No. Felix quickly shook that thought off, doing his best to forget about the possible horror scenarios and push them all out of his mind. It was going to be fine. Reagan was always worried — he was pretty sure she didn’t know how to function at this point without stressing about him just a little bit. So it was fine. He wasn’t going to get caught. Nobody was going to find out. He’d…. He’d make sure of it. 

“Felix!” A familiar chipper voice called out to him the second he stepped foot outside, a welcome distraction from his spiralling thoughts. 

Standing in front of the bakery were his two best friends, Bliss and Akali, one looking much more excited than the other. Bliss’ wispy black bob had been pinned up today with an assortment of cute little barrettes, her hair tucked behind her ears which were adorned with dangly little frog earrings that suited her perfectly. Her soft, pastel aesthetic and comfy clothes greatly contrasted to Akali, who was in all-black, wearing a baggy overcoat that looked far too large and bulky in Felix’s opinion, his dark blue hair neatly parted in the middle, giving a whole “dark and mysterious” look to his appearance. 

“Felix! I missed you!” Bliss said, greeting him with a bright smile, her eyes crinkling around the corners. Unlike Bliss’ wide grin and wave, Akali’s expression was harder to read behind his black mask, his eyes dull and tired. Instead of shouting out Felix’s name, he opted to raise up a gloved hand from inside his pocket in a small wave. “Hi.” 

Felix grinned at the two of them. One thing he knew for certain: With both his best friends at his side, he could tackle anything this new school threw at him, no matter how difficult or stressful it may be. 

“We met up last week, Bliss.” He told her with a small laugh. 

“Last week was so long ago.” Bliss retorted with a roll of her eyes, and Akali let out a huff of laughter. Together, the three turned onto the sidewalk, making their way to the direction of the school. 

“Are you excited for your first day?” Bliss asked, skipping alongside Felix. 

“Ugh.” Felix puffed out his cheeks, letting out a loud and exaggerated groan. “I guess. But it’s school, so….” 

“Maybe you’ll get a boyfriend!” Bliss said in a sing-song, making kissy faces at him. He laughed. “Ew, gross.” 

“Just kidding, just kidding!” Bliss said, shooting him another smile. “There are a lot of nice people here though!” 

Akali turned to Felix with a deadpan look: She’s lying. 

The three continued on their way, the silence of the early morning filled by Felix and Bliss’ nonstop chatting, but eventually, they found themselves in front of the school. 

Over summer break Felix had avoided stepping anywhere near this building — he would have rathered dying than checking out school while on vacation — but seeing Diantha Rose in its full glory now, it was…. Unimpressive, to say the least. Although it was much larger than his last school, it was old and ancient-looking, and kind of more rundown than he had been expecting. Having been to over twenty schools in the past eleven years, he guessed they all just ended up looking more or less the same at one point. Either way, Diantha Rose was definitely nothing to be scared of. Just like he thought, everything here was completely normal. He would fit in just fine. 

“Here we are.” Akali murmured, looking like he wanted to slip away into the shadows and never be seen again. 

“What classes do you guys have first?” Bliss asked. 

Felix pulled out his phone, squinting and the screen and skimming through his schedule. Math 20-2… no, that was third period. English 20-2… or wait, that was next semester. Where was it….?

“You have gym.” Akali said, interrupting Felix’s fumbling. He pointed down at the section that clearly read: 

PHYSICAL EDUCATION 10_5

Wildhorse Prader 

Period: 01 Room: Main Gym 

Felix grinned. So this day could get better. School with his best friends for the first time since probably kindergarten and Gym for first period. Maybe Reagan really was stressed over nothing. This school was a actually starting to seem like it wasn’t going to be so bad, even with its lackluster appearance. 

“I got Social, so I have to leave now.” Bliss said with a sigh. 

“I have Astronomy but it’s by the Gym, so I’ll walk you to class Felix.” Akali offered. With a wave goodbye to Bliss, the two of them set out in direction of the Gym, while she skipped off to wherever her Social class was. 

Akali walked beside Felix, completely silent as they navigated through the busy halls, which were slowly filling up the nearer the clock ticked to nine. But eventually, they stopped in front of two large double doors. “We’re here.” 

“Catch you later!” Felix said with a slight grin, giving him a wave before disappearing inside. 

“Bye.” Akali waved, continuing on the way to his Astronomy class. 

If only Felix had made a run for it while he still had the chance.

Bliss and Akali belong to @jiphenn!!

Taglist (let me know if you want on!!): @seastarblue @vesanal @steh-lar-uh-nuhs @bioniclechronicles @lostcryptidinthewoods @lancedoncrimsonwings @blackboxwarrior-mkultra @whump-till-ya-jump @sharkblizzardblogs

[faaun]

procrastination is starting to have its consequences finally

[courfee]

hey so. ritardando is now actually longer than operation wanker. which feels vaguely weird even though that was the plan all along. but now it is real and there are more words and the story is still very much not over and i gotta write more

[thetomorrowshow]

a stuffed deer

empires superpowers au masterlist (currently out of date)

this story takes place about one year after the end of ‘poisoned rats’.

cw: past abuse, religious trauma, referenced past death, deadnaming/misgendering of a character (but the person isn’t really doing it out of mailce, and said character is dead)

~

The closer they get, the more anxious Scott becomes. His hands grip tighter on the steering wheel, he checks his mirrors more often, he glances over at Jimmy every couple of seconds.

This is fine. This is normal, even. He knows what he’s doing. He’s done far more terrifying things than this. He’s nearly died several times, he’s graduated college, he’s been a superhero for years.

He can face his birth parents.

He’s been talking to Nora about it for several months, and he’s come to the conclusion that he needs closure. Not about himself—he fully understands their feelings for him, and made peace with them long ago. No, he’s here for closure on Xornoth.

In the last minutes before their death, Xornoth had declared themself to be Scott’s sibling. As far as he knows, he’d been an only child. If what Xornoth said was true, that puts Scott in charge of any and all of their possessions currently being held by the city. Not that he wants them, but the mayor had asked him to pursue any leads he found on Xornoth’s next of kin and, even though it had taken him an entire year and a half, he finally feels ready to pursue the only one he’s ever had.

Jimmy’s fiddling with the radio next to him, switching between gospel and country. There’s not much else that comes through out here, and they’re going through a dead zone for their data plan, so Jimmy eventually just turns it off and sits back, not-so-subtly watching Scott. Scott resolutely keeps his eyes on the road.

They pass the exit for Milford. If Jimmy’s feeling all right after the visit, maybe they can stop by there, visit the library and community college and homeless shelter.

Half an hour until Briarsville. Scott shifts in his seat, taps the steering wheel lightly.

“What did you think of that motel breakfast?” Jimmy breaks the silence. “I thought it was decent—waffles are always good, at least. But I wouldn’t have touched those sausages with a ten foot pole.”

Scott had only eaten a slice of toast with some watery coffee, too nervous already to have any faith in his stomach. “Not the worst I’ve ever had,” he offers. Jimmy’s just trying to help him relax. He can humor his attempts.

“Well, yeah. I can remember a time when I would’ve killed for a motel breakfast—literally.” Jimmy chuckles nervously, tugs on his seatbelt. “Um—how much longer?”

“Half an hour,” says Scott too quickly. He checks the radio clock, then his rearview mirror. They’re almost there. His heart is really beginning to jump now.

The car is quiet again until they reach exit 42. Briarsville.

Jimmy straightens up, looks between Scott and the town that they’re pulling into. It looks like any run-of-the-mill midwest town, Scott knows. Even the Order of Heaven private school isn’t much of an indicator of anything abnormal.

“We can turn around, you know,” Jimmy says softly. Of course he’d noticed the nerves. Scott’s knuckles have turned white around the wheel, his back is ramrod straight, he’s barely spoken all morning. Jimmy’s not an idiot, and he’s more observant than most people know.

Scott forces himself to relax. “No. I need to do this.”

Jimmy nods and doesn’t argue him any further. That’s something that Scott will always love about Jimmy: he understands. He sees that this is important for Scott and would never try to keep him from it.

And then he’s turning onto Bloomfield Avenue, and he thinks that maybe Jimmy’s right. Maybe he ought to turn back now and cut his losses.

It’s still his last name printed above the door of the house three houses down. The welcome mat is that ugly, waterlogged brown thing that it had been before he’d left. His parents still live here.

Scott pulls into the driveway, then freezes.

“What if we just went home?” he says, voice pitched an octave higher than normal. “We can stop by the country music museum. Or the Appalachian one, I heard it’s—”

“Scott,” interrupts Jimmy. “Normally I would be fine with that, but you just told me you have to do this.” He takes one of Scott’s hands, runs his thumb over his knuckles. “This is important to you. I don’t want you to be kicking yourself for the rest of your life because you got all the way here only to turn back.”

Scott takes in a deep breath, holds it, and lets it out. Then again. Jimmy’s right. Jimmy’s absolutely right. “Yeah,” he whispers.

“And,” Jimmy continues, “if they try to hurt you in any way, I will kill them.”

“You’ve got to stop saying that about everyone we talk to.”

“Hey, I’m just really good at making things look like an accident. Some might even say it’s a superpower.”

“Jimmy.”

“Just saying.”

Scott laughs, kisses his boyfriend on the cheek. He’s ready now. He can go in.

He pulls the key out of the ignition and hops out, then circles round to offer his hand to Jimmy and help him up. Jimmy stops to grab his cane out of the backseat, then gestures encouragingly for Scott to lead the way.

Right. He has to actually go up to the door.

It’s the longest walk of his life, Scott thinks. Even the walk across the stage at graduation hadn’t been this long. But seconds yet seemingly hours later, he’s in front of the door, hand poised to knock.

He swallows, then bites the bullet.

Rat-tat-tat-tat.

It’s only a couple of moments before the door swings open, and his mother is standing before him.

She looks much the same, but changed. Her hair, once grey at the temples, is nearly completely grey with only a few streaks of its former blond. There are a few new lines in her face, only serving to add to the sallowness, the laugh lines he’d once known long-faded. Her hairstyle is the same as ever, her classic Christian mom fashion sense not any different. He takes in all of this, then properly meets her eyes.

“Hello, Mother,” he says, a shiver running up his spine.

She doesn’t say anything at first, eyes passing over Scott to examine Jimmy briefly, sizing him up like a bird of prey. Then she steps aside, pulling the door open wider.

“You’d better come in, hadn’t you,” she says, and the resignation lacing her tone is somehow so much better than the anger he’d expected yet so much worse.

The living room is different. There’s a new couch, pushed up against the wall opposite where it used to be. The easy chair is the same, but also tilted weird and there’s a coffee table for some reason when all it does is take up space. But Scott keeps his complaints to himself and steadies Jimmy as he lowers himself onto the couch, propping his cane up against the coffee table, then sits beside him.

His mother looks at the two of them with something unreadable in her expression, before leaving the room. She returns moments later with two glasses of water.

It’s a test, and Scott doesn’t know if she’s set it up like this or if he set it up for himself, but he takes the water from her hand and sends a little burst of freezing air to chill it, eyes trained on hers the entire time. She doesn’t react.

Jimmy takes his water with a muttered thank you, then she sits down in the easy chair across from them, crossing one leg over the other as she waits for Scott to break the silence.

He takes a sip of his now-cool water (Jimmy passes his own over and Scott forms some of the water into an ice cube before handing it back), takes a deep breath, and speaks.

“Is Dad home? Because—”

“He’s dead,” his mother interrupts. Scott blinks.

Two for two, his mind unhelpfully supplies. 

Is he supposed to mourn an unloved parent? Is he supposed to mourn someone he used to care very deeply about, but proved that they didn’t care for him?

He’s not sure how to feel.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Jimmy says beside him. “That must be terrible.”

“How long?” is all Scott can manage.

“Nearly two years, now,” she replies. “Heart attack while at work.” She clicks her tongue. “I was always telling him to lay off the salt, stop working so hard. Guess he suffered the consequences.”

Scott’s really not sure how to feel. The last memory of his birth father he has is of his face closing off, declaring himself to have no son, and banishing Scott from the house. Would he have liked to reconcile? Is parting easier with his last words being unforgivable?

“I’m so sorry, Mrs—”

“Heidi,” his mother corrects Jimmy, and Jimmy amends his words.

“I’m so sorry, Heidi. I can only imagine the pain.”

That’s the first thing to incite emotion in Scott, because Jimmy can’t only imagine that sort of pain. Jimmy’s lived through the death of loved ones without a house to live in afterwards or a community to support him. Jimmy’s had it worse off. Jimmy shouldn’t have to be placating his terrible excuse for a mother.

He must be getting tense, because Jimmy’s hand runs comfortingly along his knee, and Scott can almost feel the love and support that Jimmy imbues the touch with.

Heidi’s eyes follow the movement, and after a moment, she says gruffly, “Are you going to introduce me to your friend?”

Right. This could go very badly.

“Mother, this is Jimmy, my boyfriend,” Scott says stiffly, before adding, “as in, romantic partner. We kiss. Each other.”

Her nose wrinkles in disgust. “Are you a gay now, then?”

Scott stares her down. “And if I am?” he challenges. “What are you going to do, kick me out again?”

She stares back for a long moment, a moment during which Scott’s certain she is going to kick them out—then she chuckles, shakes her head.

“You always were a bit sassy,” she says. “I ought to have known, really. But that can be said for a lot of things.”

“Speaking of things that ought to have been known. . . .” Jimmy hints, nudging at Scott. Scott nods, takes a deep breath, and forces out the question that’s been on his mind for so long.

“Did I . . . did you have any children before me?”

Heidi looks away suddenly, toward the TV. Her expression gives away absolutely nothing. “I thought that was Noah,” she says eventually. “His voice was already starting to change when he left.”

“Sorry—Noah?”

She looks back at him. “Your brother. He was fourteen when we noticed he was one of them. You were so young, I’m not surprised you don’t remember.”

Right, because it’s such a normal thing to destroy every trace of your child’s existence and raise the other to believe he never had a sibling.

But that means—

“I’ve seen the two of you on the news,” his mother continues. “Your father, too. He regretted what he did, Scott, after he saw how good your heart was.”

“So he just wanted to send me to conversion therapy instead, huh,” Scott mutters. “And that’s so much better.”

Heidi sighs. “We did what we thought we had to do, for both of you. We always hoped you would repent and come back.”

Scott wants to scream. He wants to scream and yell and freeze the entire house, because that may be the most insensitive thing he’s ever heard and his own mother is supposed to love him unconditionally, not act like this!

His hands are shaking. He doesn’t even notice until Jimmy eases the glass from his grip and rubs his arm. He needs to calm down.

But he can’t bear to look at the woman’s face for a moment longer.

“I think we’ll be going,” Scott says icily, moving to stand. Heidi stands as well, taking their glasses, then pauses on her way back to the kitchen.

“We donated your things,” she says, “but not all of it. Do you want any of what’s left?”

And as much as Scott wants to get out of here, he knows he needs to see whatever it is his mother decided to keep. So, after an encouraging squeeze from Jimmy, Scott follows her into the attic.

There’s only two things in the attic—two small trash bags, leaning against a wall to the side. With a nod from Heidi, Scott opens one of them up.

His monogrammed bible is on top. He has no interest in that. His Boy Scout pins and kerchief are here as well, more stuff he doesn’t care about. His birth certificate, which he does set aside (he already has a copy of it that he’d requested from the government, but it can never hurt to have the original), and a small photo album, which he sets aside as well. At the very bottom of the bag is his plush turtle, scruffy and old.

That he pulls to his chest, burying his nose into it. It smells pretty musty, which makes sense. It probably hasn’t been out of this attic in a decade.

It brings back feelings, looking at it. Not memories, not exactly, but feelings of a simpler time. Feelings from some vague past, where he had no troubles and his only concern was getting to school on time.

And more feelings. Feelings of deception, of hate, of guilt. The feeling of his world being flipped upside down and this plushie not being near enough to anchor it.

He wants to set it with his birth certificate and the photos, but it holds so much of this place that he’s not so sure.

He sets the turtle to the side and looks in the other bag.

Much the same stuff, and at first he inexplicably thinks this is an exact replica for some odd reason—but the name monogrammed onto this bible is not his.

Scott weighs it in his hands for a moment, then sets that aside.

There’s no photo album, but the same boy scout items and a birth certificate. There’s a plushie here too, though, a floppy deer, one of the antlers torn off and the hole it left carefully sewn shut. The fur is wearing thin in places, the beads for eyes have lost their shine.

It’s well-loved, as loved as Scott’s turtle, and for some reason, that makes him want to cry.

He’s not sure what to do with it. He still hasn’t really processed what his mother confirmed downstairs.

This stuffed deer belonged to the sibling he never met.

This stuffed deer belonged to Xornoth.

Can he take it?

Does he want to take it?

He sets it aside next to his turtle. At the bottom of the bag, there’s one last thing—a photograph, bent at the corner.

It’s older than any in the photo album, and Scott knows instantly that the child in the photo isn’t him. It’s a small child with a mop of dark blond hair, maybe three years old, wearing little red overalls and a white sweater, sitting on a push-bike and smiling up at the camera.

He can’t quite force his brain to make the connection. This child, so happy and young, grew up to be Xornoth. This toddler tried to take over the world.

He can process it later, he supposes, and he upends one of the bags to make sure there’s nothing else (there isn’t, so few of what once were his possessions leftover), then stuffs both his turtle and the deer in it, along with his birth certificate. He hikes the bag over his shoulder and picks up the photo of—of the child—and the photo album, before holding both out to his mother.

“Do you want any of these?” he asks brusquely. She takes the loose photo, then waves off the album.

“I’ve kept some of yours downstairs,” she says dismissively. “This is my only picture of Noah, though.”

Scott leaves the attic without another word, photo album chucked into the bag over his shoulder. He meets back up with Jimmy in the living room, who looks up from his phone with a questioning glance.

Scott sets down the bag, pulls out the turtle plushie. “This was mine growing up,” he says. Jimmy’s face immediately softens and he coos, reaching out for it. Scott hands it over, then removes the second stuffed animal.

This one he holds farther from Jimmy, because he’s still not sure if he wants to take it with him, despite the strange sense that he owes it to his lost sibling. “This,” he says carefully, “belonged to Xornoth.”

Jimmy’s face goes carefully neutral, and his hands still. “Oh,” he manages, and Scott can hear the change in his exhales as he immediately kicks into breathing exercises.

“We don’t have to take it if you aren’t okay with that,” Scott is quick to reassure. “We can leave it here, that’s fine. I’m sure my mother would appreciate it.”

“Why—why do you want it?”

That’s harder to answer, because Scott hasn’t figured out why yet. He’ll know when he comes across the answer, he’s certain, but it hasn’t made itself known to him in the five minutes that he’s known of his sibling’s existence.

“I don’t know,” he says eventually. He stares at the deer, at the faded pattern of its coat. “There’s some reason I want it, but I’m not sure what that is, yet.”

A little color has already returned to Jimmy’s face, and he doesn’t stutter when he speaks. “Is it part of your closure?”

He doesn’t know how, but Jimmy’s right. He nods. This is, in some way and fashion, a very important part of making peace with his sibling’s identity in his head.

“Then take it,” says Jimmy, handing back the turtle. He stands, slowly, supporting himself with his cane.

But it’ll hurt you, Scott wants to say. It’s clear that Jimmy doesn’t like the idea of taking this deer plushie home, doesn’t like the idea of it being in their house.

“Don’t worry about me, yeah?” Jimmy says, as if he can hear Scott’s thoughts. He smiles weakly, squeezes Scott’s arm. “I’ll be fine. This is about you.”

They leave with a quick goodbye, no attempts on either side to set up further contact. Scott just throws his things into the backseat with Jimmy’s cane, then drives away.

-

It’s just a week later when Scott drives out of the city to a park.

It’s a quiet park, just some trails and benches through the trees, and Scott stops at one of these trees and digs with the shovel he’d brought from home.

He digs alone, in the quiet shade of the trees, a light breeze rustling through them. And when he’s finished the job, a small pile of dirt beside him, he lays a shoebox containing a small stuffed deer in the little hole he’s dug.

He scrapes the dirt back over it with his shovel, pats it down a bit, and stands there. Just . . . stares.

Then, silently, Scott turns away and heads home.

[baeshijima]

after much deliberation (it was procrastination), reca is officially on the hsr celeb au fic....

stares forlornly out into the sea...