#like raging about something they did everyday might make you feel worse but if instead you just point at them and plainly state what they

[naturenaruto]

o.O so something ive just recently found to be Actually Helpful is that intstead of ranting and raving™️ (which isnt a bad thing or a thing to be ashamed/guilty of but) but like instead of doing it at a specific person or group (like instead of an individual person like a politician or a group like an entire political party) instead of going at the individual Thing,,,,going off about an idea or concept itself is way more helpful and constructive imo and i end up feeling way better in the long run ,,,,,

ie instead of spending massive amounts of time and energy directing hate to a specific person,,,,instead i think abiut like what /thing/ that person did and think/talk about that instead. ita rly helpful bc it seperates that one person from whst im mad about so that i feel like if anyone else ever does the same thing id ont have to rehash it over and over in a perpetual cycle of unending rage like its helped my internal rage alot i think?? bc now i can be like well that thing they did....is Wrong and i KNOW its Wrong and rather than just being like 'o i hate this person etc~' i can be like i hate this thing that they did, and at the same time acknowledge the person did that thing and that i know that thing is wrong and its been helping for me bc rather than feeling weird about it later like ~ohh maybe i was too mean/bad/hateful to them and now iiiiiiiim the one feeling like i did soemthing wrong ,,,,,,now i can be like this thing here....its a badwrong thing and this person did this thing and therfore this person did something badwrong. and i know they did. and they know that i know that what they did is wrong and im saying it. and theres a point to saying it and to knowing, bc alot of bad ppl dont want you to even be aware that what theyre doing is wrong or they wanna act like your reaction was just as bad or worse etc, making you feel guilty/gaslighting all The Usual, but as long as you can be like this thing here, its wrong, and this person, did the wrong thing, so thats why im mad.

its just helpful to point of the...,,,,point of your rage and to seperate it from who youre mad at so that it doesnt seem like youve just got this personal vendetta against someone and thats why ur mad its like no ur mad bc they did this thing, and so thats why.

maybe veryvery helpful for anyone who often feels worse/guilty after getting mad when ppl do bad things to them, put the emphasis on the action and then point out that they did that action, rather than making personal attacks on the indivudal themselves which might end up making you seem like the asshole or taking a cheap shot and could end up distracting from what they did.

put all the focus on the bad thing they did, be clear, concise, avoid verbal attacks on anything not related to the wrong thing they did

keep the focus on their action and not on your reaction

[makeste]

save no matter what.

so this is going to ultimately be a post about Deku. however, if you’ll be so kind as to indulge me, I would like to start things off by making a point about Bakugou. specifically, I’d like to point out that back in the day before this kid got Character Development no Jutsu’d, people weren’t always so inclined to view his attitude towards winning in the best light. which is a nice way of saying that he came off as unhealthily obsessed, not to mention more than a little unhinged.

sorry for the image spam btw, I just think they’re funny. he’s so demented lmao. KILL DIE CRUSH.

anyway so we’re gonna do the rest of this below a cut before it gets long. but I promise it really is a Deku post lol. don’t let the pre-readmore stuff fool you. I PROMISE THERE IS A POINT, AND WE WILL GET TO IT.

anyway! so yeah, we really didn’t have the best impression of Bakugou’s whole winning fixation at the beginning there. and I mean, it’s not like we had the best impression of Bakugou himself at the start of things either. we were already primed from the very first chapter to see this kid as an adversary to Izuku. the story goes out of its way to paint him in pretty much the worst light possible. which is why what happens next is so interesting.

because one might see all this and think, “holy heck, this kid is off the shits, somebody needs to set him straight pronto and get it into his head that winning isn’t everything.” because that’s almost the natural conclusion to draw. “look at this kid, he doesn’t care about helping other people at all, all he cares about is winning, someone needs to come along and show him that he’s got it backwards.”

except that’s not what happens, is it? because this is where, much to my delight, Horikoshi came along and started subverting expectations. because not only is Katsuki not rebuked for being so obsessed with winning -- it’s pretty much the exact opposite.

the one and only time Deku ever straight up hands Katsuki’s ass to him is when he says he doesn’t want to win. Deku is IMMEDIATELY all, “THE FUCK KIND OF BULLSHIT DID I JUST HEAR OUT OF YOUR TRASH MOUTH,” and that’s when he sets him straight.

the important people in Katsuki’s life never tell him, “hey you need to cool it with the whole winning thing.” All Might and Aizawa never scold him for it, or tell him that he shouldn’t try with everything he has to win, or that wanting to win is a bad thing. on the contrary, they both commend him for it. and ultimately, he’s told by All Might that this desire is actually one of the two fundamental qualities that every great hero needs.

he completely turns the whole thing on its head. not only is it not a bad thing, it’s actually crucial. essential. because what the desire to win really is, at its core, is tenacity. it’s the fiercest kind of determination. it’s not something he should be ashamed of; it’s something that sets him apart, something that makes him worthy. he is someone who refuses to back down no matter what. refuses to give up, no matter what. and this quality, which is initially misunderstood by some to the point where even the villains mistakenly take him for one of their own in the making, is eventually validated to the fullest degree by the person that Katsuki looks up to the most. his desire to win goes from being this awkward “son wtf are you doing” thing to being one of the core philosophies of the series. and ever since then, we pretty much don’t question it.

so why do I bring this up now? well, the answer to that can basically be summed up in one word.

“parallels.”

so here’s the thing. there’s been a lot of talk lately about Deku’s ridiculous, reckless, and absurdly self-destructive desire to save others while having little to no regard for himself. currently he’s lying in a hospital bed, having broken approximately 218 out of the 206 bones in his little hero body (yes, somewhere along the way he found an additional dozen bones to break). it is worrying. it is Concerning. and it’s raised a lot of questions, such as “???” and “wtf is this idiot doing.”

and a lot of people have been pretty critical of him! this is, of course, an ongoing thing with this child, and people have been giving him grief over it going as far back as chapter 6.

while others have been bothered by it going even further back than that.

and I’ve seen these sentiments being echoed pretty frequently in the fandom as well. and there are basically two talking points that I want to address here. the first is the idea that Deku’s aggressive brand of selflessness stems from an inherent lack of self-worth. in other words, because he prioritizes other people’s safety and well-being above his own, and is willing to go to such drastic lengths to save them, there’s this feeling that he doesn’t value himself enough, that he must not care about himself.

but I don’t think that’s quite it. let’s go back to those parallels first, though. let’s take another look at Kacchan.

what I mainly want to call attention to is the intensity here. again, it’s something that at first strikes most readers as being absurdly over the top. the truth is, I think a lot of people simply can’t relate to it. Katsuki cares about winning with a ferocity and a fervor that most people, for better or worse, simply don’t have. I certainly don’t, lol.

but he does. to him it’s not a shallow, superficial thing at all. it’s important to him, perhaps the most important thing. I think we often talk about it in terms of it being a desire, but imo a more accurate way to define it is not as a want, but as a need. in other words, it’s the opposite of the question “what is it this character wants” (i.e. “what is it they can’t live without”)? instead, it’s a question of “what is it they don’t want” (i.e. “what is it they can’t live with”)?

and in Katsuki’s case, the thing he can’t live with is feeling like he hasn’t tried his absolute best. he needs to give his all in everything he does. he wants to win, but winning just on its own is not enough.

it has to be earned. he has to prove to himself and to everyone else that he deserves it. anything less than that is unacceptable. anything less than that, and he can’t be at ease. he can’t be settled. he can’t rest. and so he puts everything he has into winning, even if it means going to extremes. because it’s that important to him.

it’s something that’s at times alarming and even disturbing for others to witness. but nonetheless, it’s a part of who he is, and at the end of the day his teachers accept that, and the story acknowledges that it’s his greatest strength.

so now, to finally bring this back around to Deku, this is what I keep seeing in his character as well. only in his case, the thing he can’t live with is knowing that he didn’t do everything he possibly could to save someone. or to put it another way, Deku, at his core, is someone who cannot rest until he knows that everyone is safe. simple as that. it’s not just a desire to protect people; it’s a need. he needs to know that everyone is safe and protected. otherwise he can’t be at ease. it’s no different from how normal, everyday people aren’t able to feel at ease unless they know that they are safe and that their loved ones are safe. it’s just that in Deku’s case, this same fundamental need extends to everyone, not just himself and his friends and family. everyone. he can’t live with himself knowing that someone was in trouble, and he had the ability to do something to help, but didn’t. and so, if you literally can’t live with not doing something, you basically have no choice but to do it.

and this is what in my opinion defines Deku’s character. Kacchan, in trying to understand it, noted that Deku doesn’t seem to take himself into account. but I think OFA Prime summed it up a little more accurately. “he rages for the sake of others. for them, he does his best until he can do no more. this young man is possessed by a drive to save others that eclipses all common understanding.”

so yeah. it’s not that he doesn’t care about himself at all, it’s that he cares about others even more. he has that same intensity and ferocity towards saving people that Katsuki has towards winning. and just as it was difficult at first for fans to understand Katsuki’s feelings, it’s hard to fathom the sheer depth of that “save everyone” feeling that compels Deku to break his own body in that pursuit. it’s scary, not to mention extremely destructive and dangerous. and so really, it was almost inevitable that there would be some backlash.

but just like Katsuki’s desire to win was ultimately validated in the end, I think Deku’s desire to save others will be as well. in fact it already is being validated, for starters by the other denizens of OFA, led by Lil Bro as mentioned above. let’s go back for a moment to that same scene.

here we get a huge hint that “Deku gets taken down a notch and chewed out and scolded for his recklessness” is not, in fact, the direction that the story is going in. because in general, when the main villain starts mocking the hero and saying that they’ve done something wrong, that’s a very good sign that said hero is actually on the exact right track. like, no offense, but as far as character critiques go, AFO is probably the least qualified person in the entire manga to start offering those up lol. so yeah. if AFO is denouncing Deku for something, and OFA Prime is praising him for that exact same thing, I think it’s safe to say that means he is in fact doing something very, very right.

“okay but makeste, he nearly got himself killed and broke all of his arms AND legs and is now lying in a fucking coma,” you say, gesturing emphatically to the last page of chapter 298. “so I mean, that’s all well and good that Wonder Boy has the best of intentions and all that, but at the end of the day he’s only one kid. he literally can’t save everyone, and if he pulls one or two more stunts like this, he’s going to get himself killed.”

and okay, but this here is the other talking point that I wanted to address. because it’s true, Deku does need to learn a specific lesson here. but that lesson is NOT that he can’t save everyone. this is a superhero story, guys -- “you can’t save everyone” is never going to be the underlying message, ever. it’s the OPPOSITE of the message. Deku is the hero because he tries to save everyone. because he doesn’t give up on saving people no matter what. that is literally the core of the story. it has been since the very first chapter.

so then what is it that Deku actually needs to learn here? well, once again, it all comes back to those parallels.

btw, I really just love how he’s carrying Katsuki there lol. he’s just so done with him.

but anyway. so, the final exam arc. Katsuki initially wants to win at all costs -- but there’s a hitch. because even though he wants to win, he refuses to do so while working with Deku. enter Deku’s left hook, and one impromptu Rival Encouragement Speech later, our boy has thankfully come to his senses.

but here’s the point -- the lesson here wasn’t “you can’t always win.” rather, the lesson that Katsuki needed to learn was that you can’t always win alone.

yeah. so now you can see what I’m getting at here.

“...on your own.”

that’s the key. this is the one and only thing that Deku actually needs to get into his head. wanting to save everyone is fine! his will to save others has never been a weakness -- it’s been the most admirable thing about him from day one. it’s what makes him strong. it’s why All Might chose him. it’s why OFA has chosen him. it’s what sets him apart, and I firmly believe it’s what will ultimately help him save the day and defeat AFO as well. because what other character would look at Shigaraki Tomura, the person who just impaled his friend and destroyed an entire city, and instinctively reach out a hand to try and save him? and if you don’t think that’s going to wind up being key to the final battle, you and I have very different ideas about this series’ endgame.

Deku’s determination to save everyone isn’t arrogance or futility. it is and always has been his greatest strength. but what he’s missing now, what he needs to learn, is simply to trust. y’all might have seen that theory about the Fourth’s quirk, and why All Might was so hesitant to tell Deku about it. basically, the theory (which is based on an attempted translation of the crossed-out parts of All Might’s OFA notebook) goes that the Spidey Sense was so overwhelming that the Fourth -- whose cause of death was one of the things crossed out -- eventually couldn’t bear it, and went to live alone in the middle of the woods somewhere. and possibly wound up killing himself?? all of which is just speculation right now of course. but it makes sense. and it would certainly explain why All Might, being all too aware of Deku’s self-destructive tendencies, would keep that from him.

but if this is the case, that means it’s clear that the Fourth’s solution didn’t work. “give up and accept that you can’t save everyone” clearly is NOT the answer to be had here.

the answer is trust. trust that his fellow heroes have his back. trust that they’ll be able to help him reach the people he’s not able to reach on his own. trust that they can work together to save everyone. that he doesn’t have to rest the entire world on his shoulders alone.

it’s the one lesson that All Might, his predecessor and his teacher, never learned himself until it was too late. but of course, All Might never had a prickly and determined rival who was ready to step in and deal out some tough love if need be. a rival who, perhaps, just might soon get a chance to repay an old favor.

“I don’t wanna hear you say you can’t save someone.”

I’m just saying. just as Deku has been watching Katsuki all this time, and admiring his determination to win, and emulating it himself, so has Katsuki recently begun to emulate Deku’s determination to save others. we’ve seen it not just in his recent act of self-sacrifice, but even in little things like his habits and tricks of speech. just like Katsuki is Deku’s image of victory, Deku is becoming Katsuki’s image of saving others.

and so I’ll bet you anything that if Deku ever starts to doubt himself, or starts feeling like his dream and desires are futile, Kacchan will be there to set him straight with a good old fashioned Rival Encouragement Speech of his own. possibly with his own left hook to match, though his left shoulder is currently out of sorts atm so he might need to modify that approach a little bit. but the point is, he’ll be there. and he will not allow Deku to give up on himself. he will be there to remind him that he doesn’t have to face this alone.

so yeah! finally managed to wrap up my giant Deku meta which I’ve been working on for ages and rewritten like fifteen times lmao. just in time for this to be relevant for all of a day, probably, depending on what happens once chapter 279 drops lol. but yeah. tl;dr, local boy tries to do too much, but his heart is in the right place, and hopefully all he really needs is a good pep talk from his tsundere bff to set him to rights again. r.i.p. to the Fourth, but he’s different.

[theusurpersdog]

A Bird in a Cage

Sansa’s arc in A Clash of Kings is all about boxing her in. Not only is she a hostage in King’s Landing, she’s also expected to pretend she’s not; she has to attend Court with a smile on her face, playing the role of Joffrey’s betrothed every day. Showing any honest emotion is punished by verbal and physical beatings. Her entire life becomes a performance she must put on to keep the monsters at bay. Everything about her world is meant to be stifling; from the physical restrictions to the emotional ones, it all makes her retreat deeper and deeper within herself.

But the real magic of this book is the moments where she finds a way to push back or escape her bounds . . . 

Captive

In more ways than one, Sansa is a captive in King’s Landing.

The first kind of abuse she’s subjected to is physical. Beatings are a part of her everyday life. Because Robb was crowned king, or because she was happy Janos Slynt was sent to the Wall, or because Joffrey decided to be especially cruel one day. Sometimes for no reason at all.

She has to take care to dress carefully to hide the bruises:

The gown had long sleeves to hide the bruises on her arms. Those were Joffrey’s gifts as well.

This should go without saying, but domestic abuse is not rational; nothing Sansa does could stop Joffrey from abusing her – no clever words or tricks she could do to keep him happy. Half the time he has her beaten, it’s because of something Robb did.

Because she could be beaten at any moment, Sansa always keeps one eye on Joffrey, terrified that his mood could turn:

So the king had decided to play the gallant today. Sansa was relieved.

. . .

The king was growing bored. It made Sansa anxious. She lowered her eyes and resolved to keep quiet, no matter what. When Joffrey Baratheon’s mood darkened, any chance word might set off one of his rages.

Not only is she afraid of being hit, she’s genuinely afraid he could kill her:

When she doubled over, the knight grabbed her hair and drew his sword, and for one hideous instant she was certain he meant to open her throat.

Sansa knows her life balances on an incredibly delicate string. Jaime being Robb’s prisoner gives the Lannisters a reason to keep her alive, but Joffrey had reasons to keep Ned alive, too. If anything were to set him off, he would kill Sansa without hesitation. That’s why Sansa feels safer with Cersei around to watch her son, because she’s the only thing that remains to keep Joffrey in check. And Sansa knows that if Robb were to do anything to Jaime, her life would be over:

Gods be good, don’t let it be the Kingslayer. If Robb had harmed Jaime Lannister, it would mean her life. She thought of Ser Ilyn, and how those terrible pale eyes staring pitilessly out of that gaunt pockmarked face.

The beating she endures after Robb wins the battle at Oxcross is so bad that she can barely walk afterward; and as I already mention above, she has to be careful to wear dresses to hide her bruises.

And not only does she have to endure the abuse, she also has to carry on the farce for the rest of the court. Everyone knows she’s a prisoner, and everyone knows that Joffrey is having the Kingsguard beat her, but she’s not allowed to show it; all of her pain has to be kept hidden, pushed deep down inside herself.

Which leads me to the other kind of abuse Sansa experiences in King’s Landing. Everything about her time there is meant to emotionally destroy her. Joffrey intentionally tries to taunt her with threats to murder her family:

“It’s almost as good as if some wolf killed your traitor brother. Maybe I’ll feed him to wolves after I’ve caught him.

. . .

“I’d sooner have Robb Stark’s head,” Joff said with a sly glance toward Sansa.

. . .

“I’ll deal with your brother after I’m done with my traitor uncle. I’ll gut him with Hearteater, you’ll see.”

He loves to play mind games with her, like when he promised to show Ned mercy and then cut off his head and said that was mercy. The constant way that he twists reality around messes with her head and leaves her understandably paranoid:

What if it was some cruel jape of Joffrey’s, like the day he had taken her up to the battlements to show her Father’s head? Or perhaps it was some subtle snare to prove she was not loyal. If she went to the godswood, would she find Ser Ilyn Payne waiting for her, sitting silent under the heart tree with Ice in his hand, his pale eyes watching to see if she’d come?

The constant cruelty she suffers, and Joffrey and Cersei’s profound betrayal at the end of A Game of Thrones, make it hard for her to trust anyone, even when they show kindness:

He speaks more gently than Joffrey, she thought, but the queen spoke to me gently too. He’s still a Lannister, her brother and Joff’s uncle, and no friend. Once she had loved Prince Joffrey with all her heart, and admired and trusted his mother, the queen. They had repaid that love and trust with her father’s head. Sansa would never make that mistake again.

How is she supposed to trust anyone, when everything around her is false? When everything is a carefully constructed jape at her expense? Especially because she’s surrounded by enemies; anyone making their home in Joffrey’s court is sworn to kill Sansa’s family.

And Cersei intentionally makes her isolation worse, rotating her bedmaids:

Sansa did not know her. The queen had her servants changed every fortnight, to make certain none of them befriended her.

Sansa truly has no one to talk to, not even friendly servants to keep her company. Her loneliness is so profound that she enjoys being watched over by Arys Oakheart because he’s the only person who will actually talk to her.

She realizes that no one in King’s Landing cares if she lives or dies:

She [Cersei] spared Sansa not so much as a glance. She’s forgotten me. Ser Ilyn will kill me and she won’t even think about it.

And before the Battle of the Blackwater started, Tyrion told her this:

“I ought to have sent you off with Tommen now that I think on it.”

Unlike Joffrey and Cersei, Tyrion doesn’t wish Sansa any harm; he orders Joffrey’s men to stop hitting her, tries to comfort her afterward, and doesn’t want her to be married to Joffrey. But she is not one of his priorities. It didn’t even occur to him to try and get her safely out of the city.

This is dehumanizing. Sansa has no friends or even anyone to talk to, and the people around her treat her life as an afterthought.

Sansa also suffers from the emotional fallout of Joffrey’s abuse. She blames herself when he has men hit her:

She must learn to hide her feelings better, so as not to anger Joffrey.

The fear of being hit by Joffrey is nearly all-consuming for Sansa. It affects everything down to the smallest details of her life, like how she dresses and does her hair:

I have to look pretty, Joff likes me to look pretty, he’s always liked me in this gown, this color.

Instead of getting to live as her own person, doing things to make herself happy, Sansa has to live for Joffrey’s satisfaction. Even when she’s being physically beaten, she thinks of him instead of herself:

Laugh, Joffrey, she prayed as the juice ran down her face and the front of her blue silk gown. Laugh and be satisfied.

Everything about her life is a performance for other people. She wears the gowns and jewels Joffrey likes, dressing to hide the bruises his men leave all over, and says the words they tell her to say:

“My father was a traitor,” Sansa said at once. “And my brother and lady mother are traitors as well.” That reflex she had learned quickly. “I am loyal to my beloved Joffrey.”

Sansa repeats that phrase over and over throughout the book, always at once. Almost like a reflex. An actor on stage repeating their lines, rehearsed and performed a thousand times.

The worst part of the act is that everyone knows it’s exactly that: an act. Sansa is required, every day, to declare that her family are traitors who deserve to die, and for no reason at all. The way Joffrey abuses her is an open secret:

“He’s never been able to forget that day on the Trident when you saw her shame him, so he shames you in turn. You’re stronger than you seem, though. I expect you’ll survive a bit of humiliation.”

There is no way anyone could ever believe Sansa actually loves the boy who killed her father and intentionally humiliates her in front of his court. No matter how well Sansa tells the lie, it will always be see-through; especially because everyone knows that she’s a prisoner, being held until Jaime is freed. Sansa has to repeat the lie of believing her family to be traitors to try and please the Lannisters – if she said anything different she would be beaten or killed – but there’s no way they will ever be happy, because even when Sansa says the lies as convincingly as humanly possible, they know they’re lies because there’s no way they could be anything else. Sansa cannot win.

That’s never clearer than during her conversation with Cersei inside Maegar’s Holdfast, while the Battle of the Blackwater rages on:

“I pray for Joffrey,” she insisted nervously.

“Why, because he treats you so sweetly?” The queen took a flagon of sweet plum wine from a passing serving girl and filled Sansa’s cup. “Drink,” she commanded coldly. “Perhaps it will give you the courage to deal with truth for a change.”

If Sansa told Cersei the truth in this moment, she would be severely punished. And Cersei knows that, because she would be the one doing the punishing. Yet she verbally berates Sansa anyway.

The same dynamic plays out between Sansa and the Hound. At the end of A Game of Thrones, he gives her this bit of advice:

“Save yourself some pain, girl, and give him what he wants.”

And as one of Joffrey’s Kingsguard, he knows first hand of the abuse Sansa suffers if she says anything that could even be construed as out of line. Yet when Sansa tries to follow the advice he gave her, he throws it back in her face:

“ah, you're still a stupid little bird, aren't you? Singing all the songs they taught you”

Everyone in King’s Landing is always threatening to kill Sansa if she tells them the truth, and then calling her stupid when she repeats back the lies they want to hear. They’re forcefully dehumanizing her, demanding she remove all of her own thoughts and emotions and replace them with hollow lines they’ve given her, and then getting mad when her words are empty.

This plays on one of Sansa’s greatest insecurities about herself, which is her intelligence. Because of her low self-esteem, she already thinks of herself as being less-than. That’s very clear whenever she does an act of kindness – she steadfastly refuses to give herself credit for anything:

Sansa could not believe she had spoken. Was she mad? To tell him no in front of half the court?

. . .

Lancel was one of them, yet somehow she still could not bring herself to wish him dead. I am soft and weak and stupid, just as Joffrey says. I should be killing him, not helping him.

She never thinks to herself You are doing this because you are a good person. She always punishes herself internally, calling herself stupid and childish for believing in good things. Joffrey and Cersei have destroyed her so much that she can only see herself through their eyes, cruel and mocking.

The fear that she’s stupid is one of her greatest anxieties:

“My Jonquil’s a clever girl, isn’t she?”

“Joffrey and his mother say I’m stupid.”

And she doesn’t like to be watched by Ser Preston Greenfield because he treated her like a lackwit child.

Everyone around her is comfortable calling her stupid and emotionally abusing her, and it’s easy for Sansa to start internalizing those messages. Joffrey and Cersei’s betrayal at the end of A Game of Thrones forever changed Sansa; the fear that she could ever be so wrong again, and the fear that she was stupid to believe in them, haunts her. Throughout her time in King’s Landing, her self-worth plummets, and she really starts to believe all the things that Joffrey, Cersei, and everyone is always telling her about herself.

Because she has to endure so much abuse and cruelty every day, it starts to become normal to Sansa. Compared to the way Joffrey treats her, anything would be an improvement; she has a soft spot for Arys Oakheart because he hesitated to hit her once:

Arys Oakheart was courteous, and would talk to her cordially. Once he even objected when Joffrey commanded him to hit her. He did hit her in the end, but not hard as Ser Meryn or Ser Boros might have, and at least he had argued.

At least he had argued is one of the saddest lines in a series of books that has a lot of sad lines. Sansa expects so little of the people around her, and is subjected to so much cruelty, that the mere act of hesitating before hitting a defenseless child is enough to stand out in her memory as an act of kindness.

And Sansa thinks this when Tyrion asks her if she’s flowered yet:

Sansa blushed. It was a rude question, but the shame of being stripped before half the castle made it seem like nothing.

This is a perfect moment to show the small ways in which Joffrey is breaking her down emotionally. Tyrion’s question is embarrassing and impolite, but Sansa doesn’t even care because it is so much less embarrassing than the humiliations Joffrey makes her suffer. Joffrey has set the bar for cruelty so high that Sansa is willing to ignore others mistreating her because it isn’t as bad as Joffrey.

The secret friendship she has with Dontos makes this even worse:

“And if I should seem cruel or mocking or indifferent when men are watching, forgive me, child. I have a role to play, and you must do the same. One misstep and our heads will adorn the walls as did your father’s.”

Dontos is not wrong, but it doesn’t make it any less toxic a message for Sansa to hear: I’m cruel and hit you for your own protection. That’s on display when Joffrey is beating Sansa for Robb’s victory at Oxcross:

“Let me beat her!” Ser Dontos shoved forward, tin armor clattering. He was armed with a “Morningstar” whose head was a melon. My Florian. She could have kissed him, blotchy skin and broken veins and all.

Sansa is happy that Dontos is the one hitting her, because at least it’s better than Meryn Trant and Boros Blount. Dontos volunteering to hit her is an act of kindness for Sansa; which further reinforces the idea that someone hitting her is okay.

All of this works to lower Sansa’s standards and warp her perception of what is and isn’t okay; and in the case of Dontos, it is outright grooming on the part of Littlefinger. He intentionally paid an older man to win Sansa’s trust and get her used to the dynamic of secrecy and pushing boundaries, all so he can swoop in during A Storm of Swords. Sansa’s stuck in an endless cycle of her abuse conditioning her to accept more abuse.

All of the abuse and isolation Sansa suffers also leaves her incredibly depressed throughout A Clash of Kings. When she gets the note telling her to go to the Godswood, she thinks she will kill herself before she’s caught:

If it is some trap, better that I die than let them hurt me more, she told herself.

After the bread riot, Sansa has panic attacks; so much so that she feels suffocated in small rooms:

Sansa could go where she would so long as she did not try to leave the castle, but there was nowhere she wanted to go. She crossed over the dry moat with its cruel iron spikes and made her way up the narrow turnpike stair, but when she reached the door of her bedchamber she could not bear to enter. The very walls of the room made her feel trapped; even with the window opened wide it felt as though there was no air to breathe.

She likes to go up to the roof of the tower so she can see the entire city laid before her; it’s the only place where she doesn’t feel so claustrophobic and trapped.

That passage is also so fantastically written to show just how depressed Sansa is. Sansa could go where she would so long as she did not try to leave the castle, but there was nowhere she wanted to go. She's too depressed to go riding around the courtyard; she doesn’t see the point in going around in circles. We know from A Game of Thrones that Sansa has plenty of hobbies: playing the high harp, needlepoint, reading, and sharing gossip with her best friend. In A Clash of Kings, she’s too isolated to have anyone to talk to, but we never see her doing any of her other hobbies either. Nothing brings Sansa happiness in this book.

Especially because she’s constantly surrounded by reminders of her trauma. The way Sansa copes with her grief is by pushing it out of her mind and pretending like it doesn’t exist:

Sansa did not know what had happened to Jeyne, who had disappeared from her rooms afterward, never to be mentioned again. She tried not to think of them too often, yet sometimes the memories came unbidden, and then it was hard to hold back the tears.

Sansa actively tries to forget about the people who mean the most to her because it hurts too much to think of them.

But she can’t forget about Ned when she’s surrounded by reminders of his death. Joffrey and Cersei intentionally throw it in her face, and she has to walk through the same halls his men died in:

Sansa moved as if in a dream. She thought the Imp’s men would take her back to her bedchamber in Maegor’s Holdfast, but instead they conducted her to the Tower of the Hand. She had not set foot inside that place since the day her father fell from grace, and it made her feel faint to climb those steps again.

The reminder that hurts the most is the presence of Ilyn Payne, a recurring figure in all of Sansa’s nightmares. Just his presence makes Sansa’s skin crawl:

She was climbing the dais when she saw the man standing in the shadows by the back wall. He wore a long hauberk of oiled black mail, and held his sword before him: her father's greatsword, Ice, near as tall as he was. Its point rested on the floor, and his hard bony fingers curled around the crossguard on either side of the grip. Sansa's breath caught in her throat.

. . .

She looked for Ser Ilyn, but the King's Justice was not to be seen. I can feel him, though. He's close

When Sansa’s afraid she’s going to die, it’s always his blade she fears:

I'll not escape him, he'll have my head.

. . .

Ser Ilyn will kill me and she won't even think about it.

. . .

If she went to the godswood, would she find Ser Ilyn Payne waiting for her, sitting silent under the heart tree with Ice in his hand, his pale eyes watching to see if she'd come?

. . .

If Robb had harmed Jaime Lannister, it would mean her life. She thought of Ser Ilyn, and how those terrible pale eyes staring pitilessly out of that gaunt pockmarked face.

Watching Ilyn Payne kill her father is the worst thing that ever happened to Sansa, and she lives in constant fear that the same thing could happen to her.

The only thing that keeps her going is the thought of her family. Sansa is insecure in herself enough to start believing the abuse that Joffrey and Cersei inflict on her; but she loves her family too much to ever believe the lies about them. Even though she’s forced to declare them traitors every single day, her internal monologue is always fighting against it:

Rob will kill you all, she thought, exulting

. . .

I pray for Robb’s victory and Joffrey’s death . . . and for home. For Winterfell.

She even finds a way to make Joffrey’s words work in her favor:

“Did I tell you, I intend to challenge him to single combat?"

"I should like to see that, Your Grace." More than you know. Sansa kept her tone cool and polite, yet even so Joffrey's eyes narrowed as he tried to decide whether she was mocking him.

One of the only moments where Sansa is even remotely happy in this book comes when she’s talking to Tommen, because he reminds her of Bran:

Princess Myrcella nodded a shy greeting at the sound of Sansa’s name, but plump little Prince Tommen jumped up eagerly. “Sansa, did you hear? I’m to ride in the tourney today. Mother said I could.” Tommen was all of eight. He reminded her of her own little brother, Bran. They were of an age. Bran was back at Winterfell, a cripple, yet safe.

Sansa would have given anything to be with him. “I fear for the life of your foeman,” she told Tommen solemnly.

That’s a short passage, but it so beautifully captures a small piece of what Sansa is truly like, outside of the abuse and the fearing for her life and the never being able to express her emotions. She loves her family so much and wants nothing more than to be with Bran again. And while Joffrey mocks Tommen for his knightly dreams, Sansa is so nice to him, building up his confidence before he competes. She’s old enough to have grown passed the childishness of Tommen facing the quintain, but because she knows how important it is to Tommen, she gladly plays along with him. We never got to see any scenes in A Game of Thrones of Sansa interacting with Bran and getting to act like a big sister, but this scene does such a good job of showing us that Sansa was a great sister to him.

Sansa also feels a much stronger connection to the Godswood, the ancestral home of her father’s gods:

The air was rich with the smells of earth and leaf. Lady would have liked this place, she thought. There was something wild about a godswood, even here, in the heart of the castle at the heart of the city, you could feel the old gods watching with a thousand unseen eyes.

And even though Lady’s long dead, Sansa still has a strong connection to her wolf. When she believes she’s going to die during the Blackwater, Lady is the first thing she thinks of:

“Lady,” she whimpered softly, wondering if she would meet her wolf again when she was dead.

The more abuse Sansa suffers and the more pressure is put on her to denounce her family as traitors and give up on ever going home, the more Sansa falls back on her family. That’s the only form of comfort she has in King’s Landing; the memory of Winterfell, and the belief that Robb is coming to save her.

The Lannisters have Sansa held captive physically and emotionally in King’s Landing; she has to suffer through beatings and repeat their words to stay alive. But as long as Sansa has her family - has Winterfell - to hold onto, there is a part of her that the Lannisters can never have. Even if it’s only within the walls of her own mind, Sansa has fought herself a small piece of freedom.

Courtesy is a Lady’s Armor

Trapped within the political machinations of King’s Landing, Sansa starts to learn how to play the game in earnest.

Even before she consciously starts to do it, though, Sansa is already in many ways an adept political actor. There’s a reason that all highborn children are taught from a young age how to conduct themselves; Westeros is a society built on the cornerstone of tradition, and knowing how to perform courtly behavior is important. Because Sansa took all of Septa Mordane’s training seriously, she already knows how to walk the dangerous tightrope of courtly speak:

Sansa felt that she ought to say something. What was it that Septa Mordane used to tell her? A lady’s armor is courtesy, that was it. She donned her armor and said, “I’m sorry my lady mother took you captive, my lord.”

This is the same skill we saw in her second chapter of A Game of Thrones, when she was proud of herself for telling the Hound that no one could withstand Gregor during the tourney – she managed to say something courteous without telling a lie. Just as she did then, Sansa manages to say an apology to Tyrion that’s true.

It also shows just how good Sansa is at keeping a level head, because just moments before she was thinking this:

Tyrion turned to Sansa. "My lady, I am sorry for your losses. Truly, the gods are cruel."

Sansa could not think of a word to say to him. How could he be sorry for her losses? Was he mocking her? It wasn’t the gods who’d been cruel, it was Joffrey.

Faced with the men responsible for killing her father, she manages to think on her feet and fulfill the role of a Lady.

She also learns how to use that same skill to benefit herself. Whereas at first she was just trying to perform the functions of a Lady, she starts to use her courtesy to talk the people around her into helping her in such a way that they don’t even realize it’s happening:

“I would sooner return to my own bed.” A lie came to her suddenly, but it seemed so right that she blurted it out at once. “This tower was where my father’s men were slain Their ghosts would give me terrible dreams, and I would see their blood wherever I looked.”

Tyrion Lannister studied her face. “I am no stranger to nightmares, Sansa. Perhaps you are wiser than I knew. Permit me at least to escort you safely back to your own chambers.”

Part of why Sansa’s so naturally gifted at this kind of political double speak is because she understands people so well; she’s an empathetic and emotional character, and is extremely aware of the emotions of everyone around her. To affectively influence others, you need to understand what they want and be able to give it to them. Because Sansa is so aware of the people around her, she intuitively knows what they want; and all she wants to do is give it to them, because she doesn’t want to be hurt again.

The whole conversation she has with Tyrion in the Tower of the Hand does an excellent job showing how intelligent she is:

“I . . .” Sansa did not know what to say. Is it a trick? Will he punish me if I tell the truth? She stared at the dwarf’s brutal bulging brow, the hard black eye and the shrewd green one, the crooked teeth and wiry beard. “I only want to be loyal.”

“Loyal,” the dwarf mused, “and far from any Lannisters. I can scarce blame you for that. When I was your age, I wanted the same thing.” He smiled. “They tell me you visit the godswood every day. What do you pray for, Sansa?”

I pray for Robb’s victory and Joffrey’s death . . . and for home. For Winterfell. “I pray for an end to the fighting.”

Again, she shows an unparalleled ability to lie without actually lying. And she’s clever enough to tell Tyrion what he wants to hear without saying anything that’s actually false, that way it can’t come back to bite her later. She learned her lesson in A Game of Thrones not to trust someone just because they’re kind, and is careful not to show her cards to Tyrion. But in case he’s being honest in trying to help her, Sansa does not reaffirm her love for Joffrey. That’s why her answer of I only want to be loyal is so smart; whether Tyrion is playing her false or no, Sansa has given him the answer he wants to hear. She’s kept all of her doors open without creating additional risk for herself.

Having to survive Joffrey every day also teaches Sansa how to get what she wants without actually having to say it. When she saves Dontos’ life, she plays to Joffrey’s ego:

Unhappy, Joffrey shifted in his seat and flicked his fingers at Ser Dontos. "Take him away. I'll have him killed on the morrow, the fool."

"He is," Sansa said. "A fool. You're so clever, to see it. He's better fitted to be a fool than a knight, isn't he? You ought to dress him in motley and make him clown for you. He doesn't deserve the mercy of a quick death."

All Sansa wants is to save Dontos’ life, and in the moment she comes up with a spectacular lie. Of course Joffrey would think it humiliating to make Dontos into a fool, so Sansa convinces him that would be an even greater punishment than death. She manipulates Joffrey into doing what she wants him to, and he doesn’t even know it’s happened.

Learning how to slyly insult Joffrey is one of the few ways Sansa can actually express herself as a prisoner, and she gets incredibly good at it. She starts by passive-aggressively getting one over on him:

“Did I tell you, I intend to challenge him to single combat?"

"I should like to see that, Your Grace." More than you know. Sansa kept her tone cool and polite, yet even so Joffrey's eyes narrowed as he tried to decide whether she was mocking him.

But as she gets better at politics she goes even further, actively tempting Joffrey into getting himself killed:

“They say my brother Robb always goes where the fighting is thickest,” she said recklessly. “Though he’s older than Your Grace, to be sure. A man grown.”

Joffrey’s biggest insecurity is that he can’t rule in his own right; Cersei won’t let him do certain things, and Tyrion is in charge of him as the Hand of the King because he hasn’t come of age yet. While Joffrey’s anger is normally aimed destructively at Sansa, here she figures out a way to make it work for her; using his own emotions against him to do something reckless.

As well as learning the art of political double-speak, Sansa starts to understand the broader political machinations at work. Because she was a diligent student of Catelyn and Septa Mordane, she has almost every sigil in Westeros memorized; at Joffrey’s name-day tourney, she recognizes every competitor by their House. This may seem unimportant at first glance, but it’s actually very important; twice in Arya’s chapters in A Clash of Kings she wishes she knew Houses and Sigils as well as Sansa, because than she would know who she was dealing with.

Since Sansa knows who everyone is, she has head start in understanding where everyone’s loyalties lie. On top of that, she’s also incredibly observant; she’s constantly taking in everything around her, stopping to pay attention to every little detail and interaction between people. Even though Cersei and Joffrey are trying to keep it hidden, Sansa notices that Joffrey’s tourney is held inside the Keep because he would be mobbed if they went out into the city. And she knows the Redwyne twins are hostages just as much as she is:

The Redwyne twins were the queen’s unwilling guests, even as Sansa was. She wondered whose notion it had been for them to ride in Joffrey’s tourney. Not their own, she thought.

That’s not something anyone would have told Sansa. For one, no one is even allowed to talk to her per Cersei’s orders. For two, Cersei doesn’t let anyone acknowledge that she has hostages – in the same way Sansa has to pretend she is a guest of Joffrey’s court, the Redwynes have to pretend they’re willing guests. That means that Sansa, with no help from anyone, has of her own accord put all the pieces together and realized the Redwynes are political pawns just like her. Very impressive for a twelve-year-old.

Sansa’s attention to detail is clear when she meets Shae, and immediately notices something is not right with her:

Lollys clutched at her maid, a slender, pretty girl with short dark hair who looked as though she wanted nothing so much as to show her mistress into the dry moat, onto those iron spikes.

And when she’s entering Maegar’s Holdfast at the start of the Blackwater, and notices the guards:

The two guards at the door wore the lin-crested helms and crimson cloaks of House Lannister, but Sansa knew they were only dressed-up sellswords. Another sat at the foot of the stair – a real guard would have been standing, not sitting on a step with his halberd across his knees – but he rose when he saw them and opened the door to usher them inside.

Her encyclopedic knowledge of Westerosi Houses and her attention to detail combine to give her a really good head for political machinations. She sees how the Lannisters use empty titles to flatter their lesser servants while saving the best prizes for their family:

Hallyne the Pyromancer and the masters of the Alchemists’ was raised to the style of lord, though Sansa noted that neither lands nor castle accompanied the title, which made the alchemist no more a true lord than Varys was. A more significant lordship by far was granted to Ser Lancel Lannister.

She manages to keep pace with Littlefinger and Tywin’s games:

She did not understand why that should make him so happy; the honors were as empty as the title granted to Hallyne the Pyromancer. Harrenhal was cursed, everyone knew that, and the Lannisters did not even hold it at present. Besides, the lords of the Trident were sworn to Riverrun and House Tully, and to the King in the North; they would never accept Littlefinger as their liege. Unless they are made to. Unless my brother and my uncle and my grandfather are all cast down and killed. The thought made Sansa anxious, but she told herself she was being silly. Robb has beaten them every time. He’ll beat Lord Baelish too, if he must.

I cannot emphasize enough that Sansa, following the tiny thread of Littlefinger looks happy to be Lord of Harrenhal, manages to predict the Red Wedding a whole book before it happens. That’s pretty incredible. Right now, Sansa has no power to start pulling meaningful strings of her own, but it’s clear that she fundamentally understands the complexity of geopolitics and would be well-prepared to make decisions of her own when the time comes.

Another way Sansa continues to learn about the realities of ruling is through people around her trying to teach her lessons. Because Sansa’s a hostage and isn’t allowed to say anything she feels, she basically becomes a blank slate for people to project whatever they want onto. Cersei, Dontos, and the Hound all try to “teach” her something as they project all of their own fears, insecurities, and trauma onto her.

Dontos tells her to play the fool:

“Joffrey and his mother say I’m stupid.”

“Let them. You’re safer that way, sweetling. Queen Cersei and the Imp and Lord Varys and their like, they all watch each other keen as hawks, and pay this one and that one to spy out what the others are doing, but no one ever troubles themselves about Lady Tanda’s daughter, do they?”

Of course, Sansa already knows this. All the way back in her second chapter of A Game of Thrones, Sansa thinks to herself that Moon Boy is smarter than he looks and is only pretending to be a fool so he can go wherever he likes; and Dontos confirms her suspicions when he reveals Moon Boy is a spy for Lord Varys.

It’s a consistent pattern that everyone around Sansa is constantly underestimating her; partly because of their own biases, and partly because Sansa is an almost entirely internal character, rarely letting people hear her honest thoughts. People assume she’s as hollow as the words they force her to say, but in reality she’s an introvert and a hostage.

The Hound also feels the need to impart some “lessons” onto Sansa:

Sandor Clegane snorted. “Pretty thing, and such a bad liar. A dog can smell a lie, you know. Look around you, and take a good whiff. They’re all liars here . . . and every one better than you.”

Again, he’s assuming Sansa’s much dumber than she actually is. Sansa already knows that everyone in King’s Landing is a liar, and has sworn to herself never to trust them again.

The most valuable lessons Sansa gets are from Cersei during the Battle of the Blackwater:

“Certain things are expected of a queen. They will be expected of you should you ever wed Joffrey. Best learn.” The queen studied the wives, daughters, and mothers who filled the benches. “Of themselves the hens are nothing, but their cocks are important for one reason or another, and some may survive this battle. So it behooves me to give their women my protection. If my wretched dwarf of a brother should somehow manage to prevail, they will return to their husbands and fathers full of tales about how brave I was, how my courage inspired them and lifted their spirits, how I never doubted our victory even for a moment.”

In this moment, even though she’s not doing a particularly good job actually doing it, Cersei articulates what’s really important about politics: optics. Her true motives for protecting the Ladies don’t matter as long as the Ladies believe that Cersei is doing it for the right reasons. That’s what monarchies are built upon. They’re a fragile house of cards constructed out of people’s belief.

That’s a lesson Sansa learns again when Joffrey sets her aside and takes Margaery as his bride. Sansa knows it’s going to happen, and is coached by Cersei how to react:

I must not smile, she reminded herself. The queen had warned her, no matter what she felt inside, the face she showed the world must look distraught. “I will not have my son humiliated,” Cersei said. “Do you hear me?”

But in front of the court, Joffrey carries on the charade, pretending Garlan’s offer of his sister’s hand is brand new information. Sansa watches from the sidelines and sees how people react; chanting and cheering to the theatre of it all. She gets to learn in real time how important it is to be performing your duties for the people. Other characters – most notably Jon Snow and Daenerys – can never quite figure that part of ruling out, and it has grave consequences.

I don’t mean performing in the negative sense. Of course, it can be used like that, like when the Tyrell’s intentionally starve King’s Landing so they can swoop in and make a big show of providing food. But it can also be used for good; it is an absolutely necessary aspect of ruling to let your people know what you’re doing for them. Jon in particular gets in trouble at the Wall because he doesn’t explain why he does things; he just does them and hopes people will trust him. Part of the courtly aspect of ruling is doing the work of showing your people how you’re helping them. That way you build trust with them, and they know you care for them. That’s what Sansa’s learning how to do.

Sansa’s also very good at the literal courtly aspect of politics; the time actually spent in court, sitting for hours and hours as the tedious day-to-day of ruling takes place. After the Battle of the Blackwater is over, Sansa has to sit in court for an entire day as soldiers are given their reward. She manages to stay focused the whole time, giving incredibly detailed accounts of each prize that’s awarded and each act of valor that caused it. She handles herself better than the grown men in the hall:

By the time all the new knights had been given their sers the hall was growing restive, and none more so than Joffrey. Some of those in the gallery had begun to slip quietly away, but the notables on the floor were trapped, unable to depart without the king’s leave.

Actual adults can’t even tolerate it, but Sansa manages just fine. This talent of hers is taken for granted by readers, but really stands out when you compare it to other characters. Sansa has the benefit of being raised to be a Lady, unlike a character like Daenerys who never had to sit through the training. Dany can’t make it through one day holding court in Meereen, and calls a lid early because she’s so bored – then stops holding court all together. Actually being a Queen is horribly bureaucratic, and that’s a skill that takes some practice to be able to perform.

Sansa’s ability to hold her own as a leader also really shines during the Battle of the Blackwater, when all hope seems lost and Cersei abandons the women in Maegar’s Holdfast:

“Oh, gods,” an old woman wailed. “We’re lost, the battle’s lost, she’s running.” Several children were crying. They can smell the fear. Sansa found herself alone on the dais. Should she stay here, or run after the queen and plead for her life?

She never knew why she got to her feet, but she did. “Don’t be afraid,” she told them loudly. “The queen has raised the drawbridge. This is the safest place in the city. There’s thick walls, the moat, the spikes . . .”

“What’s happened?” demanded a woman she knew slightly, the wife of a lesser lordling. “What did Osney tell her? Is the king hurt, has the city fallen?”

“Tell us,” someone else shouted. One woman asked about her father, another her son.

Sansa raised her hands for quiet. “Joffrey’s come back to the castle. He’s not hurt. They’re still fighting, that’s all I know, they’re fighting bravely. The queen will be back soon.” The last was a lie, but she had to soothe them. She noticed the fools standing under the galley. “Moon Boy, make us laugh.”

Sansa has no reason to do this. Cersei has given Ser Ilyn orders to kill her if the castle falls, and all the women in the holdfast are older than she is. She’s the last person who should be capable of standing up to take charge, considering her age and her impending death by execution.

She knows she’s faced with a choice: try and save her own life, or stay and comfort the women in the holdfast. And she decides to stay.

True Knights

This book sees Sansa’s worldview start to deepen. She’s only a child when the series starts, and like most kids has a very simple understanding of the world; there’s good and bad people, and good and bad things that happen. Songs were the way Sansa gave that worldview structure. They taught her that the good things happened to the good people, and the bad things happened to the bad people. Westeros is fair, and only the good people could be put in charge to do good things. Kings, queens, and knights were all avatars of the inherent goodness of the world; people put in place specifically to protect others.

This worldview became unsustainable for Sansa after Ned’s death. Every single rule the songs taught her was violated by her father’s execution. In her last chapter of A Game of Thrones, we see Sansa turn to nihilism as a result; her father is dead, her prince is a monster, and the knights sworn to protect her are the ones beating her. She doesn’t believe in anything anymore, so much so that she just wants to die.

In A Clash of Kings, Sansa starts to grapple with the overwhelming cognitive dissonance. Ned’s death and Joffrey’s cruelty taught her how evil people can be; but she also knows how good they can be, because she grew up in Winterfell. For all of their shortcomings, Ned and Catelyn were loving parents who tried their best to do good, and raised their kids the same.

Sansa still believes in goodness, but sees that everyone around her fails to live up to it:

Knights are sworn to defend the weak, protect women, and fight for the right, but none of them did a thing. Only Ser Dontos had tried to help, and he was no longer a knight, no more than the Imp was, nor the Hound . . . the Hound hated knights . . . I hate them too, Sansa thought. They are no true knights, not one of them.

Notice how she thinks They are no true knights. Sansa is surrounded by unimaginable cruelty, but she holds on to an undying sense of optimism. She knows that real knights don’t fight for the right, but that doesn’t stop her from continuing to believe in those ideals. Unlike in A Game of Thrones, when her belief in good was attached to specific people like Joffrey and Cersei, Sansa’s new worldview isn’t dependent on people to live up to. She believes in doing the right thing no matter what, even if the people around her let her down.

Sansa’s conception of beauty is the same way; in the first book, she assumed that beautiful people must also be good. But in A Clash of Kings, she reverses that order; people become either beautiful or ugly to her based on how good or bad they are. We view Joffrey through many POVs, and it is clear that by any standard that he is objectively attractive; yet Sansa now finds him ugly:

His plump pink lips always made him look pouty. Sansa had liked that once, but now it made her sick.

And she thinks this of the Hound:

The scars are not the worst part, not even the way his mouth twitches. It’s his eyes. She had never seen eyes so full of anger.

It’s not his physical appearance that scares her, it’s the anger in his eyes. That’s the part of him that’s ugly to her.

This evolution in Sansa’s understanding is never clearer than in her interactions with Dontos. The parts of his appearance that Sansa finds unattractive are his blotchy skin and broken veins, which are both symptoms of his constant drinking. It’s his drinking that bothers her:

“I prayed and prayed. Why would they send me a drunken old fool?”

. . .

This is madness, to trust myself to this drunkard

But Sansa manages to look beyond that as soon as Dontos invokes Florian the Fool. As much as Sansa understands that the songs aren’t true, the idea still appeal to her. When Dontos says he wants to make amends and become a true knight, in spirit if not name, Sansa treats him as if he actually were a knight:

“Rise, ser.”

. . .

Sansa took a step . . . then spun back, nervous, and softly laid a kiss on his cheek, her eyes closed. “My Florian,” she whispered. “The gods heard my prayer.”

Sansa’s growing understanding of the world around her also changes the way she thinks of class. To some extent in A Song of Ice and Fire, every single character is classist because they’re all rich people in an extremely hierarchical society. The entire structure of kings, lord paramounts, lords, knights, and peasants requires you to be classist; if you believe everyone in Westeros is equal, the entire structure of the society crumbles. While some of the POV characters like Jon and Davos make great strides in understanding how bankrupt the Westerosi class structure is, they’re still generally classist; it’s almost impossible not to be when you grow up in the culture they did. Davos grew up poor, but the indoctrination of classism has given him an almost religious fervor to follow Stannis as the “true” king.

Sansa especially had a very rigid understanding of class in A Game of Thrones; Arya making friends with the butcher’s boy was anathema to her. But the more that Sansa sees the people in power as the monsters they really are, the more sympathy she has for the people below her. In the sept praying before the Battle of the Blackwater, she holds hands with a washerwoman:

The old woman’s hand was bony and hard with callus, the boy’s small and soft, but it was good to have someone to hold on to

The more Cersei and Joffrey try to isolate Sansa, the more they try to snuff out any feeling of goodness or loyalty she had, the more Sansa reaches out to connect with people. Everything bad that happens to her makes her feel more connected to the people of King’s Landing. She’s too young and privileged (class-wise) to have a fully functioning understanding of the true evils of hierarchy, but she fundamentally understands something most of the aristocracy do not: that the common people are people and should be treated with respect.

She knows the common people will suffer the most if Stannis breaches the city walls, and prays for theme:

She sang along with grizzled old serving men and anxious young wives, with serving girls and soldiers, cooks and falconers, knights and knaves, squires and spit boys and nursing mothers. She sang with those inside the castle walls and those without, sang with all the city. She sang for mercy, for the living and the dead alike

Sansa gladly positions herself alongside the working people, not offended to be among them the way the Lannisters certainly are.

Sansa’s deepening worldview also gives her an incredibly complex relationship to the songs and stories she used to love. As I’ve already mentioned, she doesn’t disown them entirely; the high ideals of the songs are still very important to Sansa. The concept of a true knight, who would actually defend the defenseless, is the cornerstone of Sansa’s belief system, and she doesn’t need that person to actually be a knight – as long as they fulfill the moral obligation of being good. (Little does she know that very person is later tasked to find her.)

But now she knows that the stories lie. She understands their role as propaganda; when Arys Oakheart tries to say the peasants believe the comet heralds Joffrey’s reign, she doesn’t believe him:

“Glory to your betrothed,” Ser Arys answered at once. “See how it flames across the sky today on His Grace’s name day, as if the gods themselves had raised a banner in his honor. The smallfolk have named it King Joffrey’s Comet.”

Doubtless that was what they told Joffrey; Sansa was not so sure.

And she can’t even finish a sentence defending knights without realizing it isn’t true:

“Do you have any notion what happens when a city is sacked, Sansa? No, you wouldn’t, would you? All you know of life you learned from singers, and there’s such a dearth of good sacking songs.”

“True knights would never harm women and children.” The words rang hollow in her ears even as she said them.

The words ring hollow in her ears because Sansa does know what happens when a city is sacked; earlier in a previous chapter, she thinks this:

The whole city was afraid. Sansa could see it from the castle walls. The smallfolk were hiding themselves behind closed shutters and barred doors as if that would keep them safe. The last time King’s Landing had fallen, the Lannisters looted and raped as they pleased and put hundreds to the sword, even though the city had opened its gates. This time the Imp meant to fight, and a city that fought could expect no mercy at all.

Cersei underestimates Sansa, assuming everything she knows is from a song, but here we see that Sansa knows that the songs don’t tell the whole story. Unlike in A Game of Thrones, she no longer holds them in complete reverence. The Sept used to represent everything beautiful about the songs to her:

Sansa had favored her mother’s gods over her father’s. She loved the statues, the pictures in leaded glass, the fragrance of burning incense, the septons with their robes and crystals, the magical play of the rainbows over altars inlaid with mother-of-pearl and onyx and lapis lazuli.

It was the song’s come to life. But after Ned’s death, she hates it:

When Sansa had first beheld the Great Sept with its marble walls and seven crystal towers, she’d thought it was the most beautiful building in the world, but that had been before Joffrey beheaded her father on its steps. “I want it burned.”

She literally wants to set fire to the things that used to represent the songs.

But songs and stories are the foundation of Sansa’s world; even though she doesn’t believe in them the way she used to, they still shape her perception. She doesn’t want to let them go:

There are gods, she told herself, and there are true knights too. All the stories can’t be lies.

She still uses the template of songs and stories to interact with the world, but now with the understanding that the world is so much more complicated. Whereas before, the songs represented a sanitized version of war, Sansa begins to understand it in its entirety:

Away off, she could hear the sounds of battle. The singing almost drowned them out, but the sounds were there if you had the ears to hear: the deep moan of warhorns, the creak and thud of catapults flinging stones, the splashes and splinterings, the crackle of burning pitch and thrum of scorpions loosing their yard-long iron-headed shafts . . . and beneath it all, the cries of dying men.

It was another sort of song, a terrible song.

Thinking about something through the lens of a song no longer represents a childish fantasy for Sansa. Her conception of them is no longer permanent; her view of the songs has changed to fit with her new reality, but it’s still a comforting way for her to make sense of the world around her.

She even incorporates her love of the songs into her political manipulations:

"You're lying," Joffrey said. "I ought to drown you with him, if you care for him so much."

"I don't care for him, Your Grace." The words tumbled out desperately. "Drown him or have his head off, only . . . kill him on the morrow, if you like, but please . . . not today, not on your name day. I couldn't bear for you to have ill luck . . . terrible luck, even for kings, the singers all say so . . ."

Her use of the songs nearly saves her life here. Joffrey doesn’t know enough to be sure that she’s lying, so once the Hound corroborates her story, he has to believe it’s true.

Sansa’s attachment to the stories is integral to her character, and GRRM does a tremendous job of making it important to the arc she starts in this book, which is her continued journey from pawn to player in the Game of Thrones. Sansa’s perspective as a political actor is entirely unique from anyone else for many reasons, and one of those is her connection to the ideal version of Westeros that lives in the songs. Even as Sansa realizes the songs are lies and that the world is so much darker than she thought, she never gives up on the hope that it could be good. Her unwavering optimism for the world, in the face of so much trauma, means that she will never stop trying to make the world better.

Flowering

Throughout her time in King’s Landing, Sansa’s experiences with sexuality are inextricably linked to violence. The way Joffrey physically abuses her comes with a nasty undercurrent of sexual violence. The total control he exerts over her means she has to let him do what he wants:

The king settled back in his seat and took Sansa's hand. His touch filled her with revulsion now, but she knew better than to show it. She made herself sit very still.

The subtext of that scene is drawn to the forefront when Joffrey has Sansa beaten after Robb’s victory at Oxcross:

“Leave her face,” Joffrey commanded. “I like her pretty.”

. . .

“Boros, make her naked.”

Boros shoved a meaty hand down the front of Sansa’s bodice and gave a hard yank. The silk came tearing away, baring her to the waist. Sansa covered her breasts with her hands. She could hear sniggers, far off and cruel.

This is one of Sansa’s first experiences with sexuality, and it is nonconsensual and done specifically to humiliate her.

The relationship between sex and violence is never clearer than at the start of the Blackwater:

"Bless my steel with a kiss." He extended the blade down to her. "Go on, kiss it."

He had never sounded more like a stupid little boy. Sansa touched her lips to the metal, thinking that she would kiss any number of swords sooner than Joffrey

Joffrey is asking Sansa to kiss his sword; the metaphor here is not exactly subtle. To Joffrey, sex and violence are one in the same; having power over someone, hurting someone, turns him on as much as physical attraction. And as his betrothed, Sansa is on the receiving end of his sexually charged violence.

Unlike Joffrey, Sansa’s not turned on by violence, seeing it and sexuality as two separates things. And she would rather suffer through the violence, thinking to herself she would rather kiss the sword than kiss Joffrey. Her experiences with being found attractive to someone have all been so traumatic that actual violence scares her less.

Arguably the most traumatic experience she has is during the bread riot:

Sansa dug her nails into her hand. She could feel the fear in her tummy, twisting and pinching, worse every day. Nightmares of the day Princess Myrcella had sailed still troubled her sleep; dark suffocating dreams that woke her in the black of night, struggling for breath. She could hear the people screaming at her, screaming without words, like animals. They had hemmed her in and thrown filth at her and tried to pull her off her horse, and would have done worse if the Hound had not cut his way to her side. They had torn the High Septon to pieces and smashed in Ser Aron's head with a rock. Try not to be afraid! he said.

In the nightmares she has of that day, she dreams of being murdered; a knife cutting through her stomach until she’s left in bloody ribbons. It’s not hard to see the violent sexual imagery in that description. Sansa knows what those men planned on doing to her, and the memory haunts her. It’s no coincidence that she wakes from those nightmares to her first period:

“No, please,” Sansa whimpered, “please, no.” She didn’t want this happening to her, not now, not here, not now, not now, not now, not now.

The way GRRM writes her reaction is so visceral. As tears streams down her cheeks, she tries to wash herself, cuts apart her sheets, burns them, and tries to drag her entire bed into the flames as well. And the whole time she does this, she keeps thinking They’ll know or What will I tell them? or I have to burn them. She’s so completely and utterly terrified that anyone could ever know, she’s hardly even thinking. It’s just sheer, overwhelming panic.

This line in particular stands out:

The bedclothes were burnt, but by the time they carried her off her thighs were bloody again. It was as if her own body had betrayed her to Joffrey, unfurling a banner of Lannister crimson for all the world to see.

Down to jewelry she wears and the way she styles her hair, Sansa’s body belongs to Joffrey. Her job in King’s Landing is to look pretty for him in the hopes that it will save her from his wrath. Her body exists solely to please him. She’s literally stripped of her own agency and control.

Flowering is the last straw for Sansa because it means she can be tied forever to Joffrey through marriage, and he’ll be free to rape her and force her to have his children. And there’s nothing Sansa can do to stop it. Her own body has betrayed her by merely existing.

Sansa’s period is again equated to physical violence during the Battle of the Blackwater:

“You look pale, Sansa,” Cersei observed. “Is your red flower still blooming?”

“Yes.”

“How apt. The men will bleed out there, and you in here.”

Then a second time, Cersei compares sex to violence:

“You little fool. Tears are not a woman’s only weapon. You’ve got another one between your legs, and you’d best learn to use it.”

Through Cersei’s eyes, we get the clearest summary of the point GRRM is trying to make. Existing as a woman in Westeros is inherently oppressive to the point of smothering the life out of her. Where the men are given swords, women are given marriage and childbirth; but the latter is no less violent than the former. In Cersei’s words:

“We were so much alike, I could never understand why they treated us so differently. Jaime learned to fight with sword and lance and mace, while I was taught to smile and sing and please. He was heir to Casterly Rock, while I was to be sold to some stranger like a horse, to be ridden whenever my new owner liked, beaten whenever he liked, and cast aside in time for a younger filly. Jaime’s lot was to be glory and power, while mine was birth and moonblood.”

“But you were queen of all the Seven Kingdoms,” Sansa said.

“When it comes to swords, a queen is only a woman after all.”

In many ways, Sansa’s arc in A Clash of Kings is centered around this idea; the violence of femininity in Westeros. Being a child isn’t enough to spare Sansa the horrors. The whole reason she’s trapped in King’s Landing to begin with is because of her body; the Lannisters want to use her like property – a broodmare to sire them sons to inherit Winterfell.

It’s no surprise the climax of Sansa’s chapters in A Clash of Kings pushes this concept to its furthest bounds . . .

Ser Dontos and The Hound

Throughout Sansa’s chapters in King’s Landing, GRRM is deconstructing the trope of the Princess in the Tower. Sansa more than any other character is aware that her life takes place within a story, and she prays to the gods to send her a hero to save from the Red Keep. GRRM had already subverted the idea of a charming Prince with Joffrey in the first book, so A Clash of Kings subverts the trope of a knight coming to save her. That’s why her two protectors in King’s Landing are Dontos and Sandor Clegane – two men who aren’t quite knights.

For most of the book, the narrative treats Dontos and Sandor as foils. The story of why either one is not a knight puts them on two opposite ends of a spectrum. Dontos has his knighthood taken away from him because he’s too soft. He would rather drink and let people laugh at him than fight with a sword, which is why Joffrey makes him a fool. On the other hand, the Hound likes killing too much to be a knight:

“Let them have their lands and their gods and their gold. Let them have their sers.” Sandor Clegane spat at her feet to show what he thought of that. “So long as I have this,” he said, lifting the sword from her throat, “there’s no man on earth I need fear.”

This dichotomy between them is made clearer in the way Sansa has to escape their advances. Around Dontos, she’s dodging kisses:

"Give your Florian a little kiss now. A kiss for luck." He swayed toward her.

Sansa dodged the wet groping lips, kissed him lightly on an unshaven cheek, and bid him good night. It took all her strength not to weep.

But it’s a steel kiss she has to dodge from the Hound:

He laid the edge of his longsword against her neck, just under her ear. Sansa could feel the sharpness of the steel.

The idea of Dontos and Sandor as opposites is driven home further by their different approaches to Sansa’s love of stories; Dontos uses it to win Sansa’s trust:

“I think I may find it in me to be a knight again, sweet lady. And all because of you . . . your grace, your courage. You saved me, not only from Joffrey, but from myself." His voice dropped. "The singers say there was another fool once who was the greatest knight of all . . ."

"Florian," Sansa whispered. A shiver went through her.

"Sweet lady, I would be your Florian," Dontos said humbly, falling to his knees before her.

The Hound uses it to berate and belittle her:

“There are no true knights, no more than there are gods. If you can’t protect yourself, die and get out of the way of those who can. Sharp steel and strong arms rule this world, don’t ever believe any different.”

Sansa backed away from him. “You’re awful.”

“I’m honest. It’s the world that’s awful. Now fly away, little bird, I’m sick of you peeping at me.”

But underneath the superficial differences, Dontos and the Hound have the exact same relationship to Sansa. When Joffrey is having her beat after Robb’s victory at Oxcross, both make efforts to help her – Dontos volunteering to hit her with a melon instead of a sword, and the Hound telling Joffrey “enough” – but stop short of doing anything that would put themselves in danger. They both make advances on Sansa against her will – Dontos with kisses and the Hound with knives, but the overt sexual nature of both cannot be denied. They both position themselves to Sansa as a sort of mentor figure, telling her how to act and what to believe, with the implicit (and often explicit) message that she’s not smart enough to think for herself and it would really be in her best interest if she just trusted them instead. Both men position themselves as Sansa’s “protector”, but they never protect her from much of anything; in the few moments they’re actually given the opportunity, like during the Battle of the Blackwater, they both panic and leave her to fend for herself.

What really connects the two men is how they use Sansa. To them, she’s the paragon of youth and innocence; the way she believes in the stories reminds them both of what they used to be like before the world beat them down. Sandor was a boy who played with toy knights before Gregor burned his face, and Dontos was saved as a child by the knight of knights Barristan Selmy.  While they’ve both grown jaded, Sansa brings out the parts of them that still believe in the stories. That’s clear from the way Dontos reacts to the Lannisters winning the Battle of the Blackwater:

“Oh! the banners, darling Sansa! Oh! to be a knight!”

And even though the Hound claims to hate the stories, it’s a song he wants from Sansa:

“Go on. Sing to me. Some song about knights and fair maids.”

Sansa as the princess in a tower appeals to the fantasy of both men to be her hero.

But this is a subversion of that trope, not a straight retelling. Particularly in regards to Sandor, GRRM really deconstructs the destructive nature of this male fantasy. Before Sandor asks Sansa to sing him a song, he comments on her body:

“You look almost a woman . . . face, teats, and you’re taller too, almost . . .”

Sandor wanting to play the knight with Sansa is always tied to his sexual attraction to her; in every single instance, GRRM always ties them together. There is never one without the other. It should go without saying that this is not good; Sansa is barely twelve, and hasn’t even had her first period when Sandor’s sexual advances start. She is a child. In Maegar’s Holdfast, she’s shocked that men would view her sexually:

“Enough drink will make blind washerwomen and reeking pig girls seem as comely as you, sweetling.”

“Me?”

“Try not to sound so like a mouse, Sansa. You’re a woman now, remember?”

This passage also very clearly draws the connection between Sandor’s relationship to Sansa and violence. Cersei explains to Sansa the way battle makes men into monsters around women, and then the next chapter Sandor appears in Sansa’s bedroom with a knife. This is not meant to be a romantic scene, or else GRRM would not have framed it with threats of rape and violence.

This is further re-enforced by the song Sansa sings to Sandor. When he holds the knife to her neck, he demands she sing the song of Florian and Jonquil:

He gave her arm a hard wrench, pulling her around and shoving her down onto the bed. “I’ll have that song, Florian and Jonquil, you said.” His dagger was poised at her throat. “Sing, little bird. Sing for your little life.”

But Sansa can’t remember the words, and instead sings the Mother’s Mercy hymn:

Gentle Mother, font of mercy, save our sons from war, we pray, stay the swords and stay the arrows, let them know a better day.

Gentle Mother, strength of women, help our daughters through this fray, sooth the wrath and tame the fury, teach us all a kinder way.

It is incredibly symbolic that the Hound demands Sansa sing him a song of romance, but she physically can’t; the only song she can remember the words to is one of forgiveness.

So much of Sansa’s narrative in A Clash of Kings is people demanding things that she can’t give them. Joffrey wants her loyalty, Cersei wants her words, Tyrion wants her trust, and Dontos and Sandor want her love. Everyone is pulling her in different directions, and her entire personality starts to crumble under the pressure; there’s no way she can give all of these people everything they want. Something has to give.

And when Sansa can no longer play her role, when the fear of dying is too visceral for her to wear her courtesy like an armor, the one thing Sansa can still give Sandor is her mercy. . .

Radical Empathy

The running thread that connects all of the themes in Sansa’s chapters is her being trapped. Physically through Joffrey’s abuse, emotionally through Joffrey, Cersei, Dontos, and Sandor, and even by herself mentally as she begins to internalize the abuse. Everything about the Red Keep is meant to turn Sansa cruel and self-interested, just like everybody else; even if they aren’t intentionally cruel like Joffrey, they’re okay with Sansa being hurt because that’s just how life is, like Cersei. Or Dontos and the Hound, who don’t intend to hurt Sansa but do because they’re too caught up in their own narrative to acknowledge her humanity. Even Arys Oakheart, who really doesn’t want to hurt her, but is too afraid to say no and defy the class structure of Westeros.

That makes Sansa’s defiance through empathy stand out in such radical contrast. The kindness Sansa shows everyone, even those who hurt her, is how GRRM brings the songs to life. Sansa doesn’t love those stories because she’s silly and naïve; she loves them because they justify her belief in the inherent goodness of being kind.

Empathy and kindness are Sansa’s defining character traits, and that’s why her arc in A Clash of Kings opens with her saving Dontos’ life:

Sansa heard herself gasp. “No, you can’t.”

Joffrey turned his head. “What did you say?”

Sansa could not believe she had spoken. Was she mad? To tell him no in front of half the court? She hadn’t meant to say anything, only . . . Ser Dontos was drunk and silly and useless, but he meant no harm.

Even though just moments earlier she had noted Joffrey’s mood was turning dark:

The king was growing bored. It made Sansa anxious. She lowered her eyes and resolved to keep quiet, no matter what. When Joffrey Baratheon’s mood darkened, any chance word might set off one of his rages.

The way Sansa stands up for Dontos is particularly notable because he had the chance to do the same for her in A Game of Thrones, but chose not to:

Sickly Lord Gyles covered his face at her approach and feigned a fit of coughing, and when funny drunken Ser Dontos started to hail her, Ser Balon Swann whispered in his ear and he turned away.

- Sansa V

Dontos wouldn’t even risk treating Sansa with basic courtesy, yet she risked her live to save his.

And that’s not the only time Sansa stands up to Joffrey to save someone:

Halfway along the route, a wailing woman forced her way between two watchmen and ran out into the street in front of the king and his companions, holding the corpse of her dead baby above her head. It was blue and swollen, grotesque, but the real horror was the mother's eyes. Joffrey looked for a moment as if he meant to ride her down, but Sansa Stark leaned over and said something to him. The king fumbled in his purse, and flung the woman a silver stag.

- Tyrion IX

The only other character we ever see move to actually stand up to Joffrey is Tyrion, who is also the only person in court who doesn’t have to be afraid of Joffrey’s retaliation. Everyone else sits by day after day and watches as Joffrey abuses Sansa and says nothing; or worse, they actively participate. But whenever Sansa sees Joffrey hurting someone, she risks herself to make him stop.

Sansa also uses her kindness to give herself courage:

Sansa found herself possessed of a queer giddy courage. “You should go with her,” she told the king. “Your brother might be hurt.”

Joffrey shrugged. “What if he is?”

“You should help him up and tell him how well he rode.” Sansa could not seem to stop herself.

She’s too afraid to speak back at Joffrey when he’s abusing her, but as soon as she sees him mistreat Tommen, she finds the courage to stand up for others.

Kindness is almost an involuntary reflex for Sansa:

Lancel was one of them, yet somehow she still could not bring herself to wish him dead. I am soft and weak and stupid, just as Joffrey says. I should be killing him, not helping him.

Lancel Lannister, who stood by and egged the crowd on as Sansa was stripped and beaten after the Battle at Oxcross. She has every reason not to help him; she knows if she stays in that room, with the battle all but lost, Ser Ilyn is going to kill her solely because of the Lannisters’ spite. She has no reason to stay and help Lancel. But she can’t stop herself.

The moment where Sansa’s kindness stands out the most, though, is when the Hound comes to her room during Blackwater:

Some instinct made her lift her hand and cup his cheek with her fingers. The room was too dark for her to see him, but she could feel the stickiness of the blood, and a wetness that was not blood. “Little bird,” he said once more, his voice raw and harsh as steel on stone. Then he rose from the bed. Sansa heard cloth ripping, followed by the softer sound of retreating footsteps.

I think reading this passage out of context is what allows certain fans to paint this scene in a romantic light. The softness of Sansa reaching out to touch Sandor is an indelible moment. But it does the moment a disservice to read it that way. This scene is so well written because of what comes before it:

“I could keep you safe,” he rasped. “They’re all afraid of me. No one would hurt you again, or I’d kill them.” He yanked her closer, and for a moment she thought he meant to kiss her. He was too strong to fight. She closed her eyes, wanting it to be over, but nothing happened. “Still can’t bear to look, can you?” he heard him say. He gave her arm a hard wrench, pulling her around and shoving her down onto the bed. “I’ll have that song, Florian and Jonquil, you said.” His dagger was poised at her throat. “Sing, little bird. Sing for your little life.”

Afraid for her life, Sansa closes her eyes. But Sandor is too bitter, jaded, and wrapped up in his own self to realize that’s why she closes her eyes; he thinks it’s because she still can’t look at the burned ruin of his face. He came to her room with kindness the furthest thing from his mind; the flames dancing on the Blackwater Rush made him scared like a wild animal, and he’s come here to get something from Sansa – whether she wants to give it or no.

(And while certain people are interested in carrying a lot of water to redeem this character, GRRM has really left no ambiguity in Sandor’s intentions. The passage He gave her arm a hard wrench, pulling her around and shoving her down onto the bed, taken in tandem with his confession to Arya, I took the bloody song, she never gave it. I meant to take her too. I should have. I should have fucked her bloody and ripped her heart out before leaving her for that dwarf, make it very clear that Sandor intended to rape Sansa. That is not up for debate.)

Sansa singing the Mother’s Mercy hymn is the last thing Sandor expected. The idea that in this moment, as Sandor becomes all of the worst things he’s ever believed about himself, about to do one of the most monstrous acts a person can do – that in that moment, Sansa could still show him mercy, is enough to stop him. He can no longer pretend that all the songs are lies and that everyone is only pretending to be good, because in this moment Sansa is still somehow capable of showing him kindness. 

Sansa’s ability to have empathy for seemingly irredeemable characters is not limited to Sandor (though certain shippers would like to pretend that’s some unique characteristic of their relationship, it most certainly is not). The dynamic between Sansa and Cersei is so rich because of Sansa’s inability to hate her, even though Cersei is responsible for pretty much every bad thing in Sansa’s life.

The Sansa and Cersei dynamic is one of the narrative’s most dynamic and complex, as Cersei represents a dark mirror of Sansa. Both were in love with the idea of becoming Queen as children, but arrived in King’s Landing to find their Prince is not who they thought he would be – Cersei both literally and figuratively, as she realizes she’s not to marry Rhaegar Targaryen but instead Robert Baratheon. They’re both subjected to emotional and physical abuse by the King for things that aren’t their fault – Robert hates Cersei because she isn’t Lyanna, and Joffrey hates Sansa because of his fight with Arya on the Trident.

But Cersei’s Lannister upbringing and life have made her cruel in all the ways Sansa is kind. She can see the parallels between herself and Sansa, but instead of reacting with empathy, she uses it to justify her cruelty:

“You’re stronger than you seem, though. I expect you’ll survive a bit of humiliation. I did.”

Being afraid of the men in her life has taught Cersei that’s the correct way to wield power:

“Another lesson you should learn, if you hope to sit beside my son. Be gentle on a night like this and you’ll have treasons popping up all about you like mushrooms after a hard rain. The only way to keep your people loyal is to make certain they fear you more than they do the enemy.”

But Sansa reacts the opposite way:

“I will remember, Your Grace,” said Sansa, though she had always heard that love was a surer route to the people’s loyalty than fear. If I am ever a queen, I’ll make them love me.

This line has become the definitive statement of Sansa’s character because it so wholly embodies her ethos. Cruelty is not in her nature, and her instinct is always to show kindness. It also ties a direct connection to her own personal experiences shaping how she wants to be as Queen:

“Fear is better than love, Mother says.” Joffrey pointed at Sansa. “She fears me.”

Sansa knows what it feels like to be afraid, and she never wants anyone else to ever feel like that. Where the cruelty Cersei suffered taught her it was normal and good to rule that way, Sansa learns what it feels like to be at someone else’s mercy. If she ever has control over someone, which she will in books to come, she’s learned to always be kind because she knows what it feels like when someone isn’t.

All of her chapters in A Clash of Kings are full of moments that show how much Sansa values kindness. While I’ve already highlighted the life or death examples, she also shines in the small moments, like when she encourages Tommen before he faces the quintain at Joffrey’s name day tourney. And she comforts him when Myrcella leaves for Dorne:

Prince Tommen sobbed. "You mew like a suckling babe," his brother hissed at him. "Princes aren't supposed to cry."

"Prince Aemon the Dragonknight cried the day Princess Naerys wed his brother Aegon," Sansa Stark said, "and the twins Ser Arryk and Ser Erryk died with tears on their cheeks after each had given the other a mortal wound."

- Tyrion IX

She tries to comfort Lollys Stokeworth across the bridge to Maegar’s Holdfast:

She greeted them courteously. “May I be of help?”

Lady Tanda flushed with shame. “No, my lady, but we thank you kindly. You must forgive my daughter, she has not been well.”

“I don’t want to.” Lollys clutched at her maid, a slender, pretty girl with short dark hair who looked as though she wanted nothing so much as to shove her mistress into the dry moat, onto those iron spikes. “Please, please, I don’t want to.”

Sansa spoke to her gently. “We’ll all be thrice protected inside, and there’s to be food and drink and song as well.”

Her prayer in the Sept before the battle starts shows just how much she cares for everyone:

She sang for mercy, for the living and the dead alike, for Bran and Rickon and Robb, for her sister Arya and her bastard brother Jon Snow, away off on the Wall. She sang for her mother and her father, for her grandfather Lord Hoster and her uncle Edmure Tully, for her friend Jeyne Poole, for old drunken King Robert, for Septa Mordane and Ser Dontos and Jory Cassel and Maester Luwin, for all the brave knights and soldiers who would die today, and for the children and the wives who would mourn them, and finally, toward the end, she even sang for Tyrion the Imp and for the Hound. He is no true knight but he saved me all the same, she told the Mother. Save him if you can, and gentle the rage inside him.

There’s only one person in the whole of Westeros Sansa won’t extend her empathy to:

But when the septon climbed on high and called upon the gods to protect and defend their true and noble king, Sansa got to her feet. The aisles were jammed with people. She had to shoulder through while the septon called upon the Smith to lend strength to Joffrey’s sword and shield, the Warrior to give him courage, the Father to defend him in his need. Let his sword break and his shield shatter, Sansa thought coldly as she shoved out through the doors, let his courage fail him and every man desert him.

This line feels especially important. A lesson that’s drilled into Sansa time and time again by Cersei and Sandor is that her kindness makes her weak. It was used against her in A Game of Thrones, where her trust in Cersei and Joffrey left her completely vulnerable to Ned’s death. But this passage shows that it is not weakness that makes Sansa kind - it’s strength. For a character as kind as she is, and subjected to so much abuse, it would be easy to see her narrative as someone repeatedly letting herself be run over. By including this line, showing that Sansa’s empathy is a choice she makes – and making it clear that she chooses not to have it for Joffrey – it shows that Sansa still has control over herself, and will set boundaries. 

Instead of using her experiences in a negative way like Cersei, Sansa learns to carefully apply the lessons of her life; she won’t let abuse stop her from being kind, but she knows when to stop herself from trusting someone again.

Because Sansa’s kindness and optimism are the most important aspects of her character, her arc in A Clash of Kings ends there. Joffrey setting her aside in favor of Margaery is an emotional rollercoaster for Sansa:

Dontos waited in the leafy moonlight. “Why so sadface?” Sansa asked him gaily. “You were there, you heard. Joff put me aside, he’s done with me, he’s . . .”

He took her hand. “Oh, Jonquil, my poor Jonquil, you do not understand. Done with you? They’ve scarcely begun.”

Her heart sank. “What do you mean?”

“The queen will never let you go, never. You are too valuable a hostage. And Joffrey . . . sweetling, he is still king. If he wants you in his bed, he will have you, only now it will be bastards he plants in your womb instead of trueborn sons.”

Throughout A Song of Ice and Fire, the narrative is constantly testing Sansa’s commitment to her ideals. Everything she knows is constantly turned on its head, going from a dream to a nightmare. The momentary joy she feels knowing she doesn’t have to marry Joffrey is only allowed for a second, until it collides with Dontos’ harsh reality.

But instead of ending there, the narrative takes a page out of Sansa’s book and leaves on a vision of hope for the future:

It was a hair net of fine spun silver, the strands so thin and delicate the net seemed to weigh no more than a breath of air when Sansa took it in her fingers. Small gems were set wherever two strands crossed, so dark they drank the moonlight. “What stones are these?”

“Black amethysts from Asshai. The rarest kind, a deep true purple by daylight.”

“It’s very lovely,” Sansa said, thinking, It is a ship I need, not a net for my hair.

“Lovelier than you know, sweet child. It’s magic, you see. It’s justice you hold. It’s vengeance for your father.” Dontos leaned close and kissed her again. “It’s home.”

[tobiosmilktea]

the love club — miya atsumu

twenty six: the spectacular now

masterlist | prev. | next

a/n: thank you all so much for sticking around and watching tlc grow! this smau turned out to be more popular than i thought and i’m so glad for all the support! there were times where i was stuck on the plot and genuinely thought of putting this smau on hiatus,, but i’m glad i pushed through and didn’t. reading each and every one of your comments and reblogs made making this smau really fun. tysm 🥰

also the ‘read more’ link is making this post super glitchy and repeating paragraphs for no reason 😔😔

(continuation of the convos last chap cause i couldn’t fit it in lmao)

atsumu’s chest heavy feeling upon arriving at the last and final train station in tokyo filled him with unnecessary unease. an abundance of worry had crashed upon him in a blasting flurry that even the early onset heat of japan in the spring was the last thing on his mind to complain about.

there were many things that could go wrong with such a flawed plan birthed from suna’s spontaneity. for one, you could very well reject atsumu the moment he finally came into your reach (this was the worse case scenario for him) and it could honestly evolve into something worse knowing his parents would beat his ass if they were to find out he took this trip with nothing but his phone, wallet, his brother, and a friend.

yet at this point, he had nothing to lose.

he was already in tokyo and wasted half his day coming all this way, there was definitely no point in going back and have all his efforts go to waste. if anything, you were atsumu’s pushing force, the strong current that pulled him along with the tides just to see you. he only needed one reason and that one reason was you.

a weary sigh emitted from his lips as osamu’s patted his brother’s shoulder with his free hand whilst the other was carrying a picnic basket. call it twin telepathy or just being plain observant, but the cacophony of atsumu’s erratic thoughts were evident upon his expression for osamu to notice. hell, even a random stranger with half a brain cell would know that the setter was going through some internalized anxiety.

this was osamu’s only way of comforting him as the only thing that would completely wash away atsumu’s fear was for you to take him back.

the feeling of dread didn’t cease for atsumu as it continued in a raging downpour on the way to the convention center in shibuya. the event had already started hours ago and the boys had no idea where to find you—not even kita who was great at taking the lead—he was captain after all.

by the time the four volleyball players entered the largely crowded convention center, they had no other choice but to breathe out their hopes in finding you in the midst of chaos.

by the time the four volleyball players entered the largely crowded convention center, they had no other choice but to breathe out their hopes in finding you in the midst of chaos.

“alright, the plan is...” kita huffs as his eyes scanned the bustling crowds that messily serpentined through booths. his gaze met back to the boys who surrounded him with intent written to their faces. a bittersweet smile melted upon his lips as it reminded him of giving pep talks right before games... no doubt he was going to miss it.

“i suggest we split up and find her,” osamu adds in first.

kita shakes his head, “this place is gigantic, it’ll take ages for us to even call and find each other if we do.”

“or i could steal a mic from somewhere and pretend y/n’s a lost child or something...”

“we’re not doing that, suna.”

“damn,” he sighs as he looked down in faux defeat.

a shaky sigh left atsumu’s lips again, “let’s just stick together and try and find her.”

with that the four of them delved into the crowd.

the convention center was certainly bigger than atsumu thought, and he certainly didn't remember the walk from the entrance of the event up towards the dense middle area where he was right now. perhaps it was the simmering and leftover fervor upon entering that his mind was too clouded to even know where he was going. at this point, he wasn't even trying to find you anymore, instead, he wandered the labyrinthine array of booths in self-indulgence until each turn appeared the same and he was back to the same spot he started.

where were you?

atsumu was at the cusp of giving up. even osamu who was supporting him the entire time was starting to complain. with the aching in his arm from carrying a heavy picnic basket of all the foods he made for you and his brother was weighing him back. even suna who was carrying the picnic blanket was sweating just by holding it.

“guys,” the setter sighs in defeat. “i think we should call it a day and—”

suddenly a hand wrapped around his bicep, pulling him aback and capturing his attention. atsumu whips his head around only to look down upon a familiar face. a face that filled him with constant warmth and caused his heart to immediately quicken by the millisecond.

it was sudden. too sudden for you to even comprehend that the moment you spotted atsumu’s familiar figure looming over in the crowd, it was game over for you. your legs started walking by themselves as if they were being controlled by your heart rather than your head.

it wasn’t like you to do this, anyway—this confrontation. if anything, you were the type to pretend you didn’t see atsumu’s face, to turn back around into the crowd and act as if nothing had happened. but there was this aching in your chest, an abundance of tightness until it squeezed every last bi of unspoken truths out of your lungs.

was it guilt, sadnass, or anger? love?

you weren’t entirely sure, yet its dissonance couldn’t be ignored. even if you did try and avoid atsumu, you’d end up right in front of him either way.

“what are you doing here?” you asked, the tone in your voice and even to your expression was unreadable to atsumu.

he had no idea if you were excited to see him or if you were completely shocked and wanted him to leave immediately.

atsumu hoped it was the former.

“i–um...” he tried forming the words upon his tongue, but his thoughts were moving too fast for him to even comprehend what he was going to say to you.

hell, he even rehearsed what to say for this exact moment the entire train ride here to tokyo, yet he was completely slipping up.

his usual confidence and somewhat cocky attitude was nowhere to be seen. and it’s even crazy to think that you’re the only one who can make him act this way.

your grip on his upper arm tightened by the slightest bit when atsumu didn’t answer, “i’m about to present, tsumu, i don’t have enough time...”

tsumu?

you still call him that? even after all that happened?

if only he could just melt into your arms right then and there. he was so close to finally alleviating that yearn, but your comforting warmth left his body the moment you let him go.

“i’m here to apologize.” he swiftly answers as you were about to turn your heel, “...even though i’m three weeks late.”

your eyebrows furrow slightly as you teetered your weight back in forth, your nerves building up. atsumu hadn’t seen you do that since your project presentation together. “i should be apologizing too,” you sighed with instantaneous releif coursing through atsumu’s body, “but now’s honestly not a good time.”

“i know, but matsui told me that you might be moving away this summer and i wanted to see you.”

you swallowed the lump in your throat, cursing to yourself as you felt the sudden influx of crimson blush swearing from your cheeks to the edges of your ears. “so you came all this way?” your voice was a bit shakey.

could he tell you were nervous?

“only because i like you... still”

yup... he could definitely tell.

maybe that slight pinch awkwardness between the two of you was more beneficial that you thought. from the sheepish smiles and stolen glances, it eased you to your surprise. “i can’t believe i have feelings for an idiot.”

atsumu hums in amusement, eyes lighting up when he saw that familiar smirk on your face. “are they good feelings?”

“of course they are,” you scoffed, “why? would you rather have me back to hating you?”

the boy before you shakes his head. “no, i like it this way,” he mutters before pulling you into his chest without a second thought.

it was overwhelming. from how his much broader and taller body embraced you in such familiar warmth to even his scent of honey and mocha. despite being miles away from hyogo, it was atsumu who reminded you of home.

this was nice considering you weren’t exactly planning on forgiving him so easily. perhaps it was the way the moment you spotted his familiar blond undercut in the crowd he towered over caused a switch in your brain to flip. perhaps you miss the way he was right beside you almost everyday.

perhaps you couldn’t keep your distance from him anymore.

pulling yourself out of the hug, your eyes flicker over to a trio of volleyball players standing a good six feet away away from you two. their shoulders basically touched as they all gave you a smile and a wave.

eventually, your eyes dropped to picnic basket in osamu’s hands and the blanket draped over suna’s shoulders.

a slight chuckle emits from you lips, “what’s up with them?” you asked atsumu.

his head turns over his shoulder before looking back down at you. his arms still lingered around your waist as he hesitated to even let you go again. “remember back when we had our date during nationals, we visited the park?”

“so it was a date?” you almost explained.

“it thought it was,” atsumu shrugs, “we saw a couple on a picnic date and you thought it was cute so i figured we could go on one.”

“and you remembered that?” you questioned as you arched a brow towards him.

“every single detail.”

atsumu didn’t have to ask you to go on this date with him. at least at this point, he’d know you would’ve said yes. like what kind of person would reject a date from the love of their life who traveled five hours just for them?

only a idiot would and you were certainly not an idiot... not right now at least.

a saccharine-sweet smile appeared upon your lips as you looked back towards atsumu, “i’m free after six o’clock. you think you guys could stick around for a few more hours?”

“if that’s a chance to meet chef suzuno and eat dessert, then yes.” cut in osamu the moment you asked.

you and atsumu weren’t exactly in the most private of places, so but it wasn’t like you two cared at this point.

suna clears his throat, “um, my parents don’t even know im in tokyo right now, so if i get murdered tonight that’s on you guys.”

“either way, i gotta get home. i have to pack before the weekend ends.” kita adds as he pats suna’s shoulders, “which means you’re coming back to hyogo with me. (y/n) and the twins can take care of themselves.”

“but—!” suna tried to retaliate but was pushed back into the crowd and disappeared to go home.

you sighed in amusement before turning your attention back to atsumu.

“i have to go, now.”

atsumu nods, “samu and i will walk around then before watching your presentation.” he explains but as he was turning over his shoulder, you captured his arm again.

you planted a kiss on his lips. it was much softer than it looked and for a second the commotion around you two seemed to slow.

it felt like it took ages for atsumu to feel your lips against his, but the wait was worth it. his entire plan that ended up failing was worth it. the five hours of his ass hurting from sitting on the train seats was worth it. finding you within this impossible crowd was worth it. you were worth it—more than anything.

osamu fake gagged as he looked at you and atsumu in disgust, “can you two not make out in front of the cupcake display?”

fun facts! —

after the event ended, atsumu and y/n went on that picnic date just in time for sunset while osamu waited awkwardly by the swings

in the end, y/n moved to tokyo after being well liked by chef suzuno

the twins helped y/n pack and osamu even had to pull atsumu off of her cause he wouldn’t let her go 🥺👉🏻👈🏻

because of the long distance, atsumu and y/n go on minecraft dates cause theyre quirky

[cluelessgurl]

Hey! Here is the request from prompt list! Hope you like it! <3 @luminara123

Agony

Pairing: Anakin Skywalker x Reader

Warnings: Angst

Words; 1.5K

Writing prompt #1- ‘I can’t live without you’

#6- ‘Let’s get married’

#68- ‘Go away’

‘I - I.. we cannot do this Anakin. This is wrong, what we did, what we’re doing is wrong.’ you sighed, closing your eyes tightly, to hide from him ‘How could something that feel so beautiful, so blissful be wrong Y/N? I can’t, I don’t believe it’ Anakin countered, his face was sprayed with crimson blush as his eyes scrunched, turmoil obvious within them. ‘Our whole lives we have been told this is wrong, attachment. The Jedi Order is our whole life, we vowed ourselves to it’ you spoke quietly, as your nose burnt and eyes stung, tears threatening to trickle down your face. All this time, he had been the solution to your problems. The voices that screamed in your head, telling you that you would always fail were hushed by him, his laughter filled it instead. The scars that once dirtied your body, now adorned on your skin as his hands smoothed over them. The pain your heart once endured eased as the joy and elation you felt every time his presence was around now filled it instead. It was all him, Anakin.

Tears were quick to flow down his face, as Anakin turned his head to look away, he felt angry but above all, he felt emptiness. The person he loved so dearly, closely and intimately, was refusing to reciprocate. He knew how you felt, he could feel everything you felt as you sat crouched beside him, as you started into your hands. He had to tell you how he felt though, desperately had to. ‘I'm in agony. The closer I get to you, the worse it gets. The thought of not being with you—I can't breathe.You are in my very soul, tormenting me...what can I do? Believe me, I wish I could just wish away my feelings, but I can't. I can’t live without you. You let out a short, shocked breath as you looked up to meet his deep blue eyes, swimming with tears. You couldn’t lie anymore, you couldn’t deny it, living a life with him absent would be eternal pain, it would be.. Agony. You both felt each others’ emotions, the strongest urge to give in. And as your lips touched his, you both did.

‘Absolutely not Anakin! I’m not pleading Obi-Wan to make suggestions about our legions being sent together on every mission!’ you replied as a stream of laughter left your lips he started to whine ‘Why not? We both work great together, we always get the missions completed far quicker than any other pair and.. We could spend all our time together’ Anakin replied through a smirk as he pulled you closer , you did what you usually do what he smirks like that, you rolled your eyes ‘No, that such an unrealistic notion, and he’s your master’ you huffed smiling brightly, ‘Yes but we both know he likes you more, he’s always going on about how mature you are and how your a great strategist unlike my ‘reckless’ ways..’ he spoke out as he placed tender kisses on your forehead,‘you gave him side eyes as you shook your head ‘..anyway, it’s not like i’m your wife you’d get sick of seeing me everyday’ you chuckled, he paused as he stared at you, his face remained emotionless, until his eyes brightened and he gave you a crooked smile ‘Marry me’ you blinked a few times, trying to process what you thought had been said ‘I’m sorry what-wha’ he laughed, thoroughly enjoying your reaction ‘Let’s get married’ he spoke so casually that you assumed he must be joking ‘Your really funny Anakin, come on we have to leave for Ryloth rather soon’ you quipped as you turned to walk. But you were stopped as a strong, but gentle grip hooked around your wrist making you face him. ‘I’m serious darling, let’s get married’ now he spoke with a seriousness you hadn’t seen in years.'Be my wife and spend the rest of your life with me’ the brightest smile appeared on your face as your mind flashed with endless possibilities of how a marriage between the both of you might be like, and it all ended in happiness. Which is why you agreed.

Your heart dropped to the bottom of the hot soil, your body felt rigid, tight, restricted as amber eyes started into your own, it was as if they were burning you. The flames of betrayal, loss and …. Agony burnt you from your fingertips to your toes, cascading down. You hadn’t dared let yourself believe Obi-Wan’s words about your husband, but his actions and words became apparent as you saw him, heard him.

‘Love can’t save us Y/N, only my new powers can do that.’ he spoke out with strain, he could sense your apprehension but he wanted,needed you to understand, he refused, utterly refused to live without you. The Jedi will tear us two apart now that they knew the truth about our love, our vow.. Or our ‘attachment’. The way they so ruthlessly simplify love, passion and commitment, they are wrong. They are evil. These thoughts relentlessly whirled in Vader. ‘I will not lose you the same way I lost my mother, I am becoming more powerful than any Jedi, I’m doing this to save you, to save us’

Anakin’s voice boomed in your head, his face looked pained, like he was fighting within himself. He looked drunk with power, your husband. Your husband looked like a man you didn’t recognise, this only amplified as he boasted. Not in the way he oh so cockily used to in the thousands of missions and battles you both had fought together. No, his usual smirk was replaced by a scowl, his gentle nature had thickened ‘I am more powerful than the Jedi, I will ensure our future. With you, with these powers, we can rule the galaxy, make things the way we want them to be! Destroy the Jedi, they oppose love, they oppose us. They are our enemies!’ he shouted, as his features curved into a deranged smile. You felt fear seep into your heart, something you never imagined Anakin would make you feel.

‘You’re breaking my heart Anakin, this.. this isn’t you Ani. You have good within you, you are selfless, you're brave. You're pure. You're a Jedi, come back! I beg you my love.’ you helplessly yelled, desperation drenched in your words, you couldn’t fathom a life without Anakin, you needed him back, the real him.

Vader saw red flash in his eyes, his rage boiling within him, it filled every inch, every crevice in his body, and he allowed it to. Hands clenched, face contorted in fury he bellowed ‘I am no Jedi! They are evil, they hide behind principles and stupidity. I am no Jedi!’ he inched slower towards you as your eyes froze in shock, you flinched at the sheer harshness of his voice.

‘Then you are lost. The Jedi raised you! They gave you a home, they gave you knowledge! They gave you everything you just threw away-’ suddenly the force around shrouded in darkness, the pit of your stomach ached, your throat tightened slowly, like a snake coiling around you.You were under his grasp, your lungs releasing precious air. Slowly and painfully you felt yourself losing. You looked up to look upon his face one last time, as painful memories poisoned your already broken heart. Your Anakin, your husband, your love was going to be your demise, he was not Anakin, you had truly lost him. You shut your eyes forcefully as tears flooded your sockets, you didn’t care about how your head was blaring and ringing, all you cared about was the agony of losing him.Blood now dripped down your neck from your ears.

STOP, let her go! A voice within Vader’s mind screamed at him, it was so loud that it shook him from his core, his eyes now flickering, from fire to ocean. The force was brimming inside of him, it wanted to be liberated, it wanted to let out. It fought and fought relentlessly,until his eyes opened abruptly.

His blue eyes now felt blurry as tears filled in. What had he done? Crimson now painted your beautiful face, his wife’s face. He was supposed to protect you! He was supposed to save you! But he was weak. He was now forever caged in Vader, this was the cruel trap of the dark side, whilst in search of salvation, he found temptation. This was his fate, this was Vader’s fate. But he would not let it be yours.

Suddenly, air once again seeped into your body as you fell to your knees ‘Go, Go now’ he mumbled until it bellowed ‘GO AWAY!’ you huffed as exhaustion took over you, your breaths became shallow as his voice became deeper and louder.Until you eyes finally shut.

And finally when they did open, the familiar hum of the ship and the bright flashes of lightspeed flickered upon your face.

It didn’t end in happiness, it ended in agony.

[mydisasteracademia]

SFW Alphabet: Enji Todoroki

Before you start, I know, I know. For this one, I’m pretending that he and Rei are divorced (which is frankly what they need and deserve), and he’s the Number One. Please don’t yell at me about how much he doesn’t deserve anything nice.

A = Affection (How affectionate are they? How do they show affection?)

Enji is very awkward with his affection, especially to you. Quick little hugs, head pats, maybe even a pat on the shoulder. He’s trying not to be overbearing, but he hasn’t even dated before (his engagement to Rei doesn’t count), and he hasn’t shown romantic affection since his first two children were born.

B = Best friend (What would they be like as a best friend? How would the friendship start?)

More willing to be around you, less likely to get annoyed at your antics. You likely became friends after you recognized him on the street and asked for an autograph for a family member, he accidentally broke your only pen, and you just met for coffee to start over.

C = Cuddles (Do they like to cuddle? How would they cuddle?)

When you’re alone together and you sidle up to him, he enjoys cuddling. You’re so small in comparison that he just enjoys curling up to you, but only if you initiate. He doesn’t want to overstep in his first relationship as a single man again.

D = Domestic (Do they want to settle down? How are they at cooking and cleaning?)

He can cook and clean well enough. Even though I imagine him with hired help up until he’s divorced, he knows how to function by himself, especially now that the kids are gone. He’s afraid of settling down again, just because his past still haunts him too much.

E = Ending (If they had to break up with their partner, how would they do it?)

Oh, it would kill him to do it. But maybe he’d get too paranoid if you being targeted just to get to him, and he’d sit you down and discuss breaking up for now. He’s not out to break your heart; he wants his loved ones safe. He spends a lot of time avoiding his feelings in the days and weeks following.

F = Fiancé(e) (How do they feel about commitment? How quick would they want to get married?)

Very afraid of commitment again. After the disaster that was his first marriage, even the thought of having children is enough to have him run for the hills. It takes a lot of time and healing for him to even consider marrying someone.

G = Gentle (How gentle are they, both physically and emotionally?)

He tried to be gentle with you, but sometimes his brash personality can seep out. He feels awful every time it happens and tries to make it up to you, but for the most part, he’s been successful at being careful. His touches are light, as if you were made of glass.

H = Hugs (Do they like hugs? How often do they do it? What are their hugs like?)

He appreciates hugs from certain people. He enjoys when his daughter hugs him, and it makes his day when Shouto hugs him. He doesn’t initiate them with you, waiting for you to make a move. As soon as you hug him, though, his arms are wrapping around you like a big, warm, muscley blanket.

I = I love you (How fast do they say the L-word?)

It happens during a villain attack in your first year of friendship, when he realizes he’s both in love with and terrified of losing you. As soon as you’re safe he’s hugging you tight, saying “Don’t scare me like that, I love you”.

J = Jealousy (How jealous do they get? What do they do when they’re jealous?)

He can get jealous easily, especially when you’re around people like Toshinori. He knows you can do so much better than him, and some part of him wants to let you go free, but then he realizes he doesn’t want you to leave.

K = Kisses (What are their kisses like? Where do they like to kiss you? Where do they like to be kissed?)

His kisses are shy, yet passionate, and he often goes for your forehead. He likes it when you kiss his face, especially when you tenderly kiss his scar.

L = Little ones (How are they around children?)

He’s, admittedly, not as good around children. Not unless it involves training in some way. He just doesn’t have the patience or endurance to keep up with them these days.

M = Morning (How are mornings spent with them?)

He gets up earlier than you do, due to his work as a pro. He might wake you up to eat breakfast with him, but otherwise he leaves you a note and a plate of food, detailing when he thinks he’ll be back.

N = Night (How are nights spent with them?)

Usually tries to make it for dinner, but always ends up collapsing into bed with you, just holding you close.

O = Open (When would they start revealing things about themselves? Do they say everything all at once or wait a while to reveal things slowly?)

He’s hesitant at first, given that he doesn’t want you to run off the minute you learn of his past as an abuser. It takes a lot of mutual trust before he can really open up to you, and even then he worries you’ll leave him. He starts off by peppering little things about his kids here and there, maybe some things he likes.

P = Patience (How easily angered are they?)

This is Enji we’re discussing. Of course he’s got a temper. He tries to keep his cool these days (trust me, he was way worse before as his family can attest to), but now he’s got a better handle on his temper. He still gets irritated easily, but he doesn’t rage like he used to. Not unless he’s facing a villain.

Q = Quizzes (How much would they remember about you? Do they remember every little detail you mention in passing, or do they kind of forget everything?)

He remembers what he can. As we’ve seen, he has a pretty good memory about little things (think Rei’s flower), so if you tell him you like or dislike something, he’s going to remember it.

R = Remember (What is their favorite moment in your relationship?)

Honestly, his favorite moment was when he first discussed his past with you. You’d cried as he told you of the horrible things he did and what he was doing to atone for it, and when you said you’d support him in his path to redemption, it really touched his heart.

S = Security (How protective are they? How would they protect you? How would they like to be protected?)

Extremely protective, to the point where he would voluntarily end the relationship if it meant you were safe (though that’s largely rooted in his own insecurities). But sometimes he just wants someone to hold him and reassure him too.

T = Try (How much effort would they put into dates, anniversaries, gifts, everyday tasks?)

He puts everything he has into your relationship. Tries to make time for dates, gives you breakfast in bed on your birthday, every once in a while giving you little trinkets... he’s also used to doing chores on his own, so don’t be surprised if he does most of the work around the house now that it’s just him.

U = Ugly (What would be some bad habits of theirs?)

Oh geez, where to start? He’s still got a temper that tends to flare up on bad days. If he gets too deep into his own self-loathing he’ll go a few days without even seeing you, instead sleeping at the agency and doing work from there. Real touchy about the subject of kids/marriage/his past and will stubbornly refuse to talk about it, sometimes to the point of fighting. Too prideful to admit his misdeeds sometimes. Drinks in the evenings to numb some of the pain. Spends way too much time in the gym and often neglects his own health.

V = Vanity (How concerned are they with their looks?)

He does what needs to be done. Trims stubble, makes sure his hair is combed, takes extra care with his clothing... he wants to keep up the facade that he’s got everything together in public. When he’s alone, shirtless and sweatpants for days babey.

W = Whole (Would they feel incomplete without you?)

Depends on how far in the relationship you are. In the beginning, he’d be sad, but he would learn to push the pain down. Later on, though, he wouldn’t want you to leave. He likely wouldn’t get into another relationship after you, focusing instead on his work.

X = Xtra (A random headcanon for them.)

I mean, I know this is already kinda canon, but he is a very Proud Dad. In order to make up for all that he missed, he likes to keep track of his kids’ accomplishments and if you get him drunk enough he melts into this puddle of pride as he boasts about how great they’ve become. Has about dozen framed pictures of his family (and two of just Rei, one when she was discharged from the hospital and one on the day the divorce was finalized) in his bedroom and office that he looks at whenever he’s lonely.

Y = Yuck (What are some things they wouldn’t like, either in general or in a partner?)

Anyone not willing to keep him in check. That would be the big one. Anyone too judgmental and/or just plain mean. Anyone who likes to poke at his insecurities just to watch him explode. Especially not anyone who gushes about other heroes all the time (especially not Toshinori).

Z = Zzz (What is a sleep habits of theirs?)

He tries to keep a fairly-regular sleep schedule. He usually ends up going to bed fairly late and waking up early. Sometimes if he gets a chance to take a break during the day he’ll nap depending on how exhausting it’s been.

[itstittycitybaby]

From the Ashes we are Born (Part 9)

 A/N: First things first if you read this through you are now a sinner sorry I don’t make the rules. Secondly, thank you @lazy-potato-author​ for this request! I hope you enjoy it! I have another request that will be out either this weekend or in the beginning of next weekend, so make sure to keep an eye out for that. After I get these requests out I might take some more it just depends on my schedule. This is a smut fic but V is not railing you in this one, because with a bullet wound it’s just not gonna happen lmao. Also, V is a switch and no you cannot tell me otherwise. Anyways I hope you guys enjoy reading this!

Warnings: smut, nsfw 18+. Fingering, bit of dirty talk and praise. Enjoy my fellow sinners.

V grunted; one of chancellor’s men had managed to pelt him with a bullet. Thankfully, it didn’t hit anything important but it hurt like hell. V winced when he tried to laugh. The trouble he would be in once he got home to his darling was something he admittedly was looking forward to. Not the scolding, or the lecturing, but being able to see your face again. V’s right hand held tightly over the wound as he hobbled back to the shadow gallery. He couldn’t tell if he was bleeding badly thanks to his attire, but the sharp pain did not ease. It felt hot, like it was burning him. V laughed bitterly which caused him to wheeze. He knew too much about fire and how its unforgiving flames swept over your skin. V cursed himself; he promised he would be more careful from now on. Just a bit of a ways farther, he told himself.

“V!” He jumped at the voice of his love. Your eyes shifted to the hand holding his side as he leaned on the dining table. “Hello there darling,” V wheezed out, wincing. There was a simmer of anger in your eyes as you watched your boyfriend lean on the table for support. Godammit, you thought. He just got home! “V, what happened?” He didn’t say anything as he removed his daggers and hat and placed them on the table. You worried over him like a mother hen which made his heart swell at the thought. Though, he couldn’t help but feel guilty. V grunted, “I think I got shot.” “You think?!” You sighed turning away from your masked boyfriend. “Stay right there I’m getting the first aid kit,” you shouted over you, dashing towards the bathroom. Cursing, you grabbed it from under the sink and hurried to V. His breathing sounded irregular and he was gripping onto the table. The leather gloves were gone and his scarred hands turned white from the pressure he was putting on the edge of the table. The pads of your feet burned from running so fast but you didn’t care. “V I’m gonna need you to sit down.” “I-I can take care of it my darling, y-you...need some rest.” With a heated glare you repeated, “Sit.” V shrunk, which caused another grunt. Gently, you slung your arm around the good part of his torso and led him to a kitchen chair. You set the first aid kit on the table beside the belt of daggers and V’s hat. One layer down. “V..you’re not gonna like this but we’re gonna have to take off your tunic.” Silence. “V,” you said softly. “I need to look at the wound before it gets worse.” He sighed, causing him to curse softly in pain. “Alright, my darling,” he replied. There was a hint of sadness in his tone.

 Giving him a reassuring smile and a kiss on his head, you helped your boyfriend shimmie out of the top. V let out a hiss as the tunic sank onto his wound. “Sorry,” you said sheepishly, being more careful to get him out of the damn thing. The blood made the tunic stick to the wound and really it was just a sticky gross mess in general. A gasp threatened to claw its way out of your throat once you got the tunic off. V’s chest was burned, heavily burned. There were scars littered across it with an angry reddish colour. You swallowed your surprise, though. V was already ashamed and insecure. V’s head was low, refusing to look at you in the eye. Even with his scars, he was still beautiful. “V,” you whispered. “You’re beautiful.” His head shot up out of surprise. A groan left his lips as a flare of pain flashed him.“Right sorry,” you exclaimed, remembering why the both of you were here in the first place. Grabbing your supplies you knelt down in front of him. “Stay still as best as you can, if you need something to hold onto you can squeeze my shoulder,” you muttered.

You’re beautiful. The pain was sharp but dulled once he kept replaying your words in his head. V was anything but beautiful; he has blood on his hands. His skin was far from beauty. Disgusting. Mortifying. Every time he saw himself in the mirror he couldn’t help but sneer. His angel had to be lying to him. V’s head perked up at the sound of gauze being unwrapped. “After this you should be done,” you said. “Just be careful; we don’t want the stitches to bust, so no moving around without me,”  you softly chided. “You have to be more careful V. I don’t want something bad to happen to you.” He didn’t say anything, just kept trying to focus on the feeling of being patched up. The wound just throbbed now and to his right the bloody bullet lay on the table. “Why do you lie to me, my darling?” The tips of your brows furrowed in confusion as you bandaged him. “What?” “You said I was beautiful, love,” V said softly , “I am many things but I do not have beauty in me.” “Yes, you do. I haven’t been this happy in years, V. You’ve shown me patience and compassion. You look at me like I’m the most perfect thing in the world. Your voice is deep and rich. I love your scars V. They tell a story. Whatever happened was awful and you shouldn’t have gone through that, but,” you said, double checking the gauze you put over his wound. “It shows that you survived something and you’re still here to tell the tale.”  There was a mischievous glint in your eye. Leaning up, you placed a kiss to his chest. V froze; his blood felt cold and underneath the mask his cheeks flushed (thank god you couldn’t see it or you’d tease him relentlessly). V’s breath hitched at the feeling of your soft lips greeting his chest with a kiss.

 You sent him a wink before getting up and putting the supplies away. “After I get back, wanna watch something,” you asked, gesturing your head to the living room. V nodded. He didn’t trust his voice right now. You sent him one last smile before heading into the living room. V was alone with his thoughts again. The only thing he could think about was your soft lips on his horrid skin.

The hot mug of tea warmed his bare hands. The Princess Bride played on the old television. The lights were off, the T.V. gave off a soft glow but other than that the both of you were surrounded in darkness. V’s darling sat comfortably next to him, her eyes glued to the screen. He couldn’t concentrate on the film playing even though he enjoyed it. He felt vulnerable and bare without his tunic. The scarred burns and roughness of his skin was a hard reminder of the torture he endured. Everyday he was reminded of the need for vengeance and the underlying anger beneath his heart. V knew you deserved better; you deserve someone who wasn’t horrid looking or angry. You were kind and loving (albeit a mischievous minx at times), who saw the good in people. Even then, you understood V’d need to restore balance and peace. England needed a new era, it’s people have suffered for too long. Whoever took up that spot was not in his hands but hopefully, he’d be able to rid London of the monsters lurking in the shadows.

V was not paying attention to the movie. Sure, it was your favorite and not his, but he was more attentive. His posture seemed tense and uncomfortable. It made you sad knowing that V thought of himself unworthy and felt insecure. Though, you could hardly blame him. The scars that covered his torso were great in numbers and his skin was angry and raw. It reminded you of the silent rage and danger hidden underneath your boyfriend’s persona. V had never hurt you and he was an amazing lover, but you could feel the hatred. The thought excited you. The anger was quiet but whenever it came out of the shadows, it was violent. Witnessing V in battle was something you always watched in awe. Slowly, you tested the waters. You shifted closer to your masked lover. Very slowly you put your head on V’s bare shoulder. He became rigid and stiff as a board but eventually he sunk into you. V’s head rested on yours; the guy fawkes mask kissing you with its lips. He seemed more relaxed but still alert to your movements as Buttercup tumbled down after Wesley. “They’re so dumb,” you giggled, the bright orange dress Buttercup wore flying behind her as she rolled down the hill. “Sure they may not be the brightest but they’re in love, darling,” V replied smoothly. You snorted, “Of course you’d be seeing the romance of it.” 

He just hummed in reply, holding you closer to him.The end of the movie was nearing. V couldn't stand it any longer. You had snuggled into his side and every so often placed small kisses over his chest. He thanked the heavens for loose fitting breeches because he started feeling a bit warm. V could see the idea formulating in your brain. It made him smirk beneath his mask. A faux innocence you had put on but V knew his darling better than anyone else. You were clever and cunning but V was faster. Gently, V placed his hand on your left thigh. V smiled in victory when he heard your breath hitch. In his peripheral vision he could see your cheeks start to get flustered as you squirmed underneath his grip. V paid no mind though; if you wanted something you would have to ask. It amused him that one little touch seemed to make you compliant. Heavens, the things he wanted to do to you. Patience, he told himself. You weren’t going to give up that easily. After a few minutes with no new tactics, you relaxed once more focusing on the movie. V’s hand didn’t stray further up. Instead it stayed there stubbornly. Once V knew for sure you were focused on the movie, he carefully brought his left hand to his face. With deft fingers he carefully untied the mask and placed it beside him.

 Oddly enough you seemed too transfixed with the movie that you didn’t notice what your scheming boyfriend was up too. The soft glow didn’t show off his features too much, so he wasn’t too worried about you suddenly turning and seeing his face.V waited patiently for a few moments and then he struck. You didn’t really think too much of him shifting around until you felt rough lips kissing your jaw. “V-V,” you asked a bit breathlessly, leaning into his chest to give him better access. V  seemed to know exactly what spots on your neck and jaw were sensitive. How he knew where to softly kiss and nibble was beyond you. Again, V proved to be perfect at doing anything. “Yes, love,” he replied, his lips kissing at the spot where your jaw met your neck. “W-what are you doing?” Your back was pressed up against him and your head laid on his shoulder. You couldn’t see his face; his head was littering your jaw with soft kisses. “Should I stop?” “N-no,” you squeaked out in reply, cheeks turning red. V’s hands trailed down your stomach towards the hem of your shirt. He chuckled at your shyness. His hair tickled your neck lightly.  Slowly, he hiked up your shirt over your breasts. Your nipples hardened as the cool air hit them. The sight made him groan. They were soft and plump. “You’re an angel my darling,” he said huskily. “Look how gorgeous you are.” V’s lips returned to your neck. A whimper escaped your lips as his clever fingers gently circled around your areola on both of your breasts. Your nipples tingled, begging to be touched. Even though your thinking started to stop and everything felt hazy you were careful not to brush up against V’s wound. A madman, you thought. You mewled as his fingers finally started rubbing and pinching your nipples. V’s teeth nipped and sucked at your neck, leaving small red bruises in his wake. 

Your cunt started to throb with need and you fought the urge to grind on his thigh for some sort of release. Suddenly, it stopped. “H-hey!” “Ah ah ah,” V tutted. “Pay attention to the film.” “B-but..” you trailed off helplessly. “Do I need to repeat myself,” V asked, voice growing lower. “If you don’t pay attention I’ll stop.” Grumbling, you turned back to the movie. V chuckled; it sounded more sinister than his usual laugh. The noise alone made you feel tingly with excitement.“Good girl,” V purred, kissing the top of your head. You shivered. V maneuvered you in front of the T.V with his chest behind your back. Immediately, his fingers found your nipples again. You whimpered as they pinched your nipples lightly and rolled them between the pads of his fingers. His lips found your ear and V gently suckled on your lobe. You tried so hard to focus on Buttercup getting married to Prince Humphry. You didn’t want your boyfriend to stop. You wanted to be good. The fogginess in your brain threatened to take over. Heat pooled in your belly and you throbbed with need. V had barely started and you were already putty in his hands. “I love these,” he rumbled, kneading your tits with his hands. “They’re soft and warm just like my darling.” You shivered at his words much to his amusement. “Please V,” you whined. “Please what angel? Use your words.” Your face heated up. “Y-you know w-what I mean.” “I’m afraid not my darling,” he replied. V was grinning behind you as he watched you trip over your words. “Hm,” V said, mockingly pretending to think. His right hand crept down to the waistband of your skirt. Your eyes widened. V’s hand sunk under the waistband of your skirt. His hand hovered over your panties and you held in your breath waiting patiently. Finally, V’s fingers rubbed small circles over your clit over the fabric. “F-fuck,” you breathed out as his index finger added a bit more pressure. 

“What was that,” V asked, movements ceasing. Irritation bubbled in your chest. “Stop teasing me V it’s not fair,” you whined, trying to buck into his hand. V laughed, giving your neck a kiss. “Tell me what you want then, my songbird.” “Can you...use your fingers and…” you trailed off, squirming from his gaze. “Oh my darling, but I am using my fingers, but apparently that’s not enough.” “V!” “Alright alright my love, I just enjoy seeing you flustered.” V’s fingers shifted your panties aside. Gently, he spread apart your cunt. You moaned as his finger rubbed gentle circles around your clit. He knows what he’s doing. It didn’t surprise you, V was spectacular in everything he did. All thoughts ceased when V’s middle finger entered you. It stung a bit but he carefully searched for that spot. And when he found it, that’s when you lurched backward into him. V grunted in pain. “Oh my god I’m so sorry! Did I accidentally-” “Darling,” he interrupted, “I’m fine, relax.” The fingers on your left hand held the arm of the couch tightly to steady yourself more. You eyes rolled in the back of your head as V’s clever fingers curled into you, the pads of his fingers hitting that spot perfectly. The pressure on your clit didn’t cease either;you weren’t focusing on the damn movie anymore but V didn’t seem to care. He littered your neck with more kisses and bites. “Fuck,” you cried out as he added another finger. “My angel is taking my fingers so well,” V cooed. 

His thumb on your clit rubbed a bit more harshly, but it felt so good. “I wonder how you’ll react to my cock. But that’s for another time.” His left hand snuck up to your left nipple again and started messing with it. Your moans filled the room and you thanked god for being so underground. V’s lips found yours, but with the pressure on your clit and his fingers rolling over your nipples you struggled kissing him back. V chuckled at this, snaking his tongue around yours and exploring your mouth with it. V’s fingers brushed against your clit and that delicious spot one more time, causing you to cum. V’s left arm curled around your stomach, making sure you wouldn’t fall. You trembled in his hold as your orgasm started to take over. V whispered praises and supported you on his lap. V’s hand left your cunt and fixed your underwear and skirt again. “You did wonderfully my darling,” V praised. Your bones felt heavy and so did your eyes. “Are you well enough to get up,” he asked gently after a few minutes. Nodding your head, you carefully slid off. To his surprise, however, you knelt in front of him, parting his thighs. “Love-” “Shh,” you cooed, eyes twinkling with mischief. “It’s your turn, my darling.”

[thegryffindorprincess]

Twin Size Mattress//Draco Malfoy x Reader

She hopes I'm cursed forever to Sleep on a twin-sized mattress In somebody's attic or basement my whole life Never graduating up in size to add another And my nightmares will have nightmares every night Oh, every night, every night

A/N: Based off of ‘Twin Size Mattress’ by The Front Bottoms. So this song is one of my absolute favourites and I think it’s so sad dude. However I thought this would make such a beautifully sad draco x reader. Just to let you know: requests are open, I have a new Draco series coming & a Lucius imagine out super soon! Anyway enjoy!

Set: Golden Trio era into Post War

Word Count:1,989

Warnings: honestly so much sadness bro 

This is for the lions living in the wiry broke down frames Of my friends bodies When the flood water comes, it ain't gonna be clear It's gonna look like mud

But I will help you swim I will help you swim I'm gonna help you swim

To Draco, she was a roaring lion with a mane of perfect hair and a will stronger than anybody else’s. He’d noticed her long before she’d noticed him. He watched her as she got weaker throughout the years, the darker the wizarding world got. She was a muggle born, so he guessed this was a hell worse than she’d ever expected to experience. Y/N’s body became weaker over time and the lion like prowess stopped as Draco looked after her from afar. She stayed too close to Hermione for him to ever speak to her. But he wanted to. He got to one night, when he was taking a late night stroll around the grounds to clear his mind in his fifth year. Dumbledores army had just arrived back to the castle, Harry had met Voldermort again, this time at the Ministry and everyone was scared. That’s when he saw her standing on the edge of the Black Lake, swaying on her heels. He’d approached quietly, playing with his hair as he came closer. When she saw him she flashed him a gentle smile. Draco finally plucked up the courage to stand next to her. He flicked his wand so that a gentle, silver glow lit the river bank. Y/N looked up at him through her thick eyelashes.

“Are you scared Draco?” She asked gently. They’d never spoken, but she laid her head on his shoulder then as if they’d been friends for years. He raised his hand to her head and gently played with Y/N’s hair, thinking of an answer.

“I’ll protect you.” Was all he said as they stood there together in peace. “I will protect you with everything I have.” She shuffled closer to him then.

“The floodwaters coming Draco...” She huffed as she looked at the water in front of them. He took her further into his arms and kissed her forehead.

“I will help you swim.” 

This is for the snakes and the people they bite For the friends I've made, for the sleepless nights For the warning signs I've completely ignored There's an amount to take, reasons to take more

They’d decided to be together after that night, in a secretive way, but still devoted. He’d snuck out of the manor at least three times a week so she could show him muggle London in the summer holidays. Draco adored the time he spent with her, but in the back of his mind he knew it was coming to an end. You see, unlike Y/N, a beautiful lioness, Draco was a snake. In the recent months, things were becoming darker. Instead of running away though, he was losing any shred of bravery he had left. He was friends with all the wrong people. Back at Hogwarts, he sat at the Slytherin house table, the dark mark he’d acquired burning under neath his robes, he looked over to her. Drowning out the conversations of his friends about mud bloods, he watched Y/N laugh with Harry, Ron and Hermione as they sat huddled together and it stung. Why couldn’t he be like them? 

Draco cuddled her to him as they lay in bed, thoughts of what he had to do swirling through his head. Y/N was peacefully asleep, while he lay wide awake. He was wearing long sleeved pyjamas even in the heat as he couldn’t let her see what he’d done. As he lay looking down at the girl, he thought about all the warning signs at home he’d ignored, he should’ve prepared for this war, got away, joined the order, moved as far away as possible. That was all just dreams now. His mistakes were piling up on top of each other and he couldn’t take anymore. Draco kissed her head as he jumped out of bed, sliding out of the room silently, praising merlin that his girl was a heavy sleeper. He made his way out into the corridor towards the room of requirement. 

It's no big surprise you turned out this way When they close their eyes and prayed you would change And they cut your hair, and sent you away You stopped by my house the night you escaped With tears in my eyes, I begged you to stay You said, "Hey man, I love you, but no fucking way!"

Y/N awoke to screaming in the halls. She slipped unnoticeably out of the Slytherin common room, getting lost in the crowds. Hermione appeared then next to her, concern spread across her features. She pulled Y/N with her as they jogged out into the courtyard. Hermione and her pushed to the front. There lay Dumbledore, dead. Harry was bent over his body sobbing, his shoulders heaving as he held his hand. The school raised their wands to the sky, Draco was no where to be seen. People began to leave then, one by one going back to their common rooms, until the four of them were left.

“This was Draco.” Harry spat. Y/N looked at him in slight shock, struggling to regain composure. “He let them in. He’s one of them. He has the mark. Snape had to kill Dumbledore to save Draco. This is his fault.” Rage began to sore through Y/N’s body. She briefly dropped to the ground to give Harry a hug, before getting up and leaving the three be. She ran, as fast as her legs would carry her, up to the Owlery tower. She stood on the edge for ages, bent over in agony. She never thought she could hate him, but he’d proved her wrong. Y/N was knocked out of her thoughts by a familiar hand on her shoulder. Draco smiled down at her, tears brimming in his eyes. She simply shrugged him off.

“Show me it.” She demanded, crossing her arms and standing opposite. He looked at her wide eyed. “Show me it, now.” Draco took a deep breathe and began to roll up his sleeve, showing her the mark that adorned his pale flesh. She scowled at it. “It’s no big surprise you turned out this way, really.” She whispered at nobody in particular. Draco stayed silent, pulling down his sleeve again, hiding the mark once more. “I just prayed you would change sides.” Y/N looked at him now. He guiltily stared at his feet. “Did you escape?” She asked gently, watching how he nodded so slowly it felt like it might of not happened. “Are you going to fight against the school?” She asked, her tone emotionless. He nodded again, looking up at her with big, sensitive eyes. Y/N glared at him, and turned on her heal to walk away. Draco, with tears in his eyes went to chase her. 

“Stay?” He begged, droplets of water rolling down his cheeks. Y/N turned to him, placed a gentle kiss on his cheek and shook her head.

“Hey man, I love you.” Draco looked up a little eagerly, but was met with her pained face walking away from him once more. “But no fucking way.” She spat. 

This is for the lake that me and my friends swim in Naked and dumb on a drunken night But it should've felt good, but I can hear the Jaws theme song On repeat in the back of my mind

The war was over. The right side had won. Draco’s family had all charges against them dropped. He should be happy, he thought to himself as he stood by the side of the large river in front of him, Blaise and Pansy splashing eachother already swimming. Draco stripped from his clothes and dived into the cold water. He felt alive for the first time in a few years. The group swam together, laughing, all of them naked. The water felt so relaxing over his skin as he sunk deeper into the river. But still, in the back of his mind he knew something was still wrong. It was on repeat, the sense of loneliness, which he tried to push away. That was the moment he decided to start to drink. Everyday. To feel alive again. 

Make sure you kiss your knuckles before you punch me in the face There are lessons to be learned Consequences for all the stupid things I say And it is no big surprise you turned out this way The spark in your eyes, The look on your face I will not be late

He’d passed out again. It was only three pm, but he was laid on his sofa in his flat, eyes closed. They fluttered open at the sound of ringing. Draco flung his arm to reach for his phone. The number was unknown. He groaned, before swiping and answering.

“Who is this?” He snapped down the line.

“Jesus Draco,” A familiar voice spoke, “kiss your knuckles before you punch me in the face.” The sentenced ended with a slight tone of amusement. Draco’s heart began to flutter as he realised it was Y/N. 

“Lesson learnt.” He groaned. “I’ll take the consequences for all the stupid things I say.” She laughed gently.

“Are you drunk?” She asked quietly. Draco nervously paused. 

“Yeah...” Draco whispered. Y/N sighed.

“It’s no big surprise you turned out this way.” The words stung as Draco remembered the last time she’d used them. “Anyway, do you want to see me? It would be nice to see you. I’ve missed the sparks in your eyes and the look on your face when you see me.” Draco swallowed loudly. 

“Please,” He sighed, “I will not be late.” 

I wanna contribute to the chaos I don't wanna watch and then complain 'Cause I am through finding blame That is the decision that I have made

Draco staggered into the bar. He knew he’d fucked up before he’d seen the disappointment painted on her face. His breath stank of fire whiskey, his clothes were dirty and he could barely walk. He sat down opposite her, and she simply blankly stared back. He’d gotten nervous. He’d contributed to the chaos in his brain by poisoning himself. He didn’t want to watch himself be lonely just to complain. 

“Am I to blame for this then?” Y/N spat at him as he swayed in his seat. She looked beautiful Draco thought, absolutely radiant. Draco simply shrugged as she asked. They sat in silence for a while, taking eachother in. 

“I’m about to be made homeless.” Draco said, with a slight laugh to his tone. He decided to laugh so he didn’t cry. She just stared back at him.

“I’m going.” She announced breaking the silence. “I’m not letting you ruin my life again, i’ve decided.” And Y/N left Draco sitting alone. 

She hopes I'm cursed forever to Sleep on a twin-sized mattress In somebody's attic or basement my whole life Never graduating up in size to add another And my nightmares will have nightmares every night Oh, every night, every night

Draco laid on the mattress on Blaise’s floor. He stared at the ceiling as his girlfriend Astoria laid next to him asleep. He wondered what Y/N was thinking about. Probably the fact he deserved this. To not have a permanent home. He clung to himself. He didn’t want to sleep. Draco knew when he did his nightmares would get worse. His nightmares had become so violent, he thought his own nightmares were having nightmares. And that’s where he’d stay. On his twin sized mattress he used to share with her, just now without her warmth. And that was how it would be. Every night of his life. 

[justablobfish]

Holding out in a snowstorm together/Getting snowed in together

Day 15 of my Advent Calender. A new drabble or oneshot everyday until Christmas, following the Continent’s favourite found family and what they’re up to in the winter season. Based on this prompt list

Read on AO3

Day 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14

______

What a prick, Lambert thinks as he urges his horse to go faster. 

He has to hurry if he still wants to make it to Kaer Morhen before the mountain pass snows over. 

Who the fuck takes on a contract this close to the beginning of winter? You're supposed to find a safe place to hibernate, just like the monsters do. What point is there in tracking into the mountains and slaying a beast, that won't do anything but sleep for the next three months anyway? It'll still be there in spring, so why bother with it now? 

"It's good coin, Lambert," he can hear Aiden's voice echo in his head. 

What a moron. It's not his problem if Aiden wants to be stranded for the winter. Just because they did a few jobs together in the past couple of months Lambert doesn't owe him anything. 

Soon enough he's going to enjoy the hot springs and the crazy Cat can lie dead in a ditch for all he cares. 

It's not like Aiden had asked him to stay. Instead he'd given Lambert a choice; stay to help with the contract or head to Kaer Morhen. And Lambert had chosen the sensible option, thank you very much. 

Aiden had only shrugged and let him get on his way. 

That's the worst part of it. 

Why had he just accepted it? Why hadn't he asked Lambert to stay?

What an asshole. Lambert doesn't need him. 

Only when his horse whinnies in protest, does he realise that he's spurred her on to a gallop. He sighs and allows her to slow down and pick the pace herself. No point in taking his sour mood out on her, when Aiden is the target of his ire. 

He looks up to the sky to determine how much time he still has to make it to the place he can't quite call his home. And freezes. He’d been too busy being stuck in his own head and hadn’t noticed the weather changing. The wind has picked up and so has the soft snowfall, to the point that Lambert can’t actually see the sky anymore. If this keeps up, he’ll have a full blown blizzard on his hands soon.

There’s still enough time for Lambert to make it to the next town and find shelter. Aiden on the other hand is trailing the monster on the far side of the mountain range and won't even notice the storm until it's immediately upon him. 

But that's not his problem. Aiden hadn’t cared when Lambert left. Why should he care about Aiden's fate, then? 

"Fucking bastard," Lambert mumbles under his breath and turns his horse around. 

He still remembers what the Alderman said about the creature. It's not like he had paid attention or anything, but he was in the same room when Aiden had taken the contract. From the description it sounds a lot like a Yeti. Which means it must have a lair somewhere up in the mountains, a natural cave or cavern probably. 

The track up is risky and treacherous, Lambert remembers as much from when he hunted here in the height of summer. With the snow, it's going to be even worse, so he decides to leave his horse at the local inn's stables. It'll only hinder him in his search for the crazy Cat. 

Then he heads up the steep mountain path. 

The bad news is, the storm hits before he can find Aiden. 

The good news don't exist. Just like with every other goddamn thing in his life. 

Everything around him is white. He can barely see his own hand when he holds it in front of his face. The wind pulls on his clothes and pushes against him. More than once does he stumble over a loose rock and nearly falls down the steep cliff going down right next to the narrow path. 

There's no fucking way he'll be able to find anyone in these conditions. He might very well walk right past Aiden without seeing him. 

The smart thing to do would be to turn around and save his own hide. Aiden's a lost cause and it's his own fucking fault, anyway. 

Lambert presses on. 

The cold seems to seep into his bones and every step forward becomes a conscious effort. 

"Aiden!" he screams, but the wind tears the words from his lips and drowns them in the howling of the storm. 

Just one step in front of the other. Just a little further. Just a little bit more before he'll give up and turn back around. Just one more step. 

He barely notices when the path becomes wider. Nothing changes, except that he isn't in constant danger of falling over the edge anymore, even though the wind has become stronger still, and he barely manages to walk in a straight line. 

He almost doesn’t notice the flash of light somewhere diagonally in front of him, like a flash of fire that flares up and immediately extinguishes again. He thinks it's just a trick of his mind, at first. 

Then a large, looming shadow appears, seemingly out of nowhere, nothing but a dark outline against the contrast of the white snow swirling around him. 

Before Lambert's frozen brain can process that information, let alone attack, the shadow raises a giant paw and swipes down on something right in front of it. Lambert draws his sword and charges. 

Hidden by the storm he almost doesn't see the creature's other paw coming down on him. He throws himself into the snow at the last moment, rolls over the icy ground and comes back up standing in front of the creature's broad chest. 

Slowly, he looks up at the face hovering above him. This close he can make out more details than just a vague outline. Small beady eyes glare down at him. 

The creature draws the blackened flesh of its lip back into a snarl, revealing a giant maw full of razor sharp teeth. Foul, rotten breath washes over Lambert despite the storm's best efforts. 

One of the horns protruding from the thing's ugly visage is broken off at the base, but the other still looks sturdy and, judging by the discoloration of dried blood at the top half it, pointy enough to gore right through a person. 

He takes a swipe at the creature's chest but his sword barely scrapes through the thick fur that covers its body. 

Black goo flows out of the shallow wound and closes it up immediately. 

Several more clumps of black ichor are matted into the thing's yellowed fur here and there and as the creature raises its thick paw once again, Lambert can see a severely cinched area on its elbow. 

Aiden has gotten a few hits in, then. It must've been him, who else would have created the Igni sign Lambert saw flaring up earlier? 

So where is the bastard? 

Lambert purposefully doesn't think too much about the bright red color that’s covering the dagger-like claws of the monster and dyeing its fur a crimson hue. 

He dodges again and hacks at the burnt elbow, but other than making the creature angry, it doesn't seem to have much of an effect. 

He'll have to find a weak spot on that damn thing, and fast. He can already feel his limbs growing heavy with the cold.

"Hey, ugly!" he taunts, but the wind tears his words away once again. He can only hear the raging of the storm around him. Or maybe that's just the sound of his pounding heartbeat. 

He'll have to attack somewhere that isn't covered in fur, which means he'll have to get up close and personal with the bastard. 

Lambert draws a sigil into the snow with the tip of his sword. This time when the creature paws at him, he doesn't roll out the way, simply jumps backwards a bit. The claws get caught in his Yrden sign and the creature furiously tries to pull free. 

Lambert can feel his magic weaken already from the sheer force of the monster, but it should hold long enough for his purposes. He jumps on top of the creature's wrist and runs up the arm as fast as he can while dodging below a swipe from the other claw. 

As he reaches the shoulder, the monster swats at him like he's a bothersome mosquito. Lambert jumps before he can be flattened under the giant limb. 

He grabs onto the first thing that comes into reach and a moment later he's dangling from the intact horn. 

Not quite according to plan. And he lost his sword in an effort not to fall to his death. But he can work with this. He's been in worse situations. 

The creature opens its maw in an angry roar and throws its head to the side to shake Lambert off. 

Perfect. As he loses his grip on the horn, Lambert forms both his hands into the sign for Igni and aims at the exposed inside of the creature's throat. 

There's no time to check if he hit his mark. His next sign, Quen, flickers to life a split-second before he hits the ground hard. 

His groan as he scrambles to his feet is swallowed by the raging storm. As are his calls for Aiden. Where is the fucking Cat? The only thing he can see is the giant heap of monster fur a few feet away. It's not moving. At least that. 

Lambert stumbles to what he thinks is the spot where he saw the monster attacking Aiden earlier. He drops to his knees and frantically rifles through the snow. 

Finally, his hand brushes against something solid. He pushes more snow aside until Aiden's face comes into view. Thick snowflakes hang on his lashes and his lips have taken on a blue tint, but his chest still rises in irregular intervals. 

Aiden doesn't react when Lambert shakes him. The snow underneath him is soaked red, but with the snow constantly blowing into his face Lambert can't make out where Aiden is wounded. They'll have to find shelter. 

He drapes Aiden's arm over his shoulder and grabs him around the waist. Aiden hangs by his side like a sack of potatoes, still not stirring in the slightest. 

Lambert looks around and realizes that he has no idea anymore which way he came from. Everywhere around him is the same unforgiving white. 

He picks a direction at random and drags Aiden along with him. With his luck he'll most likely just fall over the edge of the mountain path and kill them both, but staying put isn't an option either. 

Just one step after the other. Just keep pushing forward. 

His grip on Aiden becomes slippery after a while. He rearranges the weight and tries not to think about how much blood he must have already lost. 

One more step. And another. He can do this. Just one more step. No matter how much his knees want to buckle underneath him. No matter how much he wants to give up and just become part of the ever-present snow. Just one more step. 

The storm cuts off abruptly and Lambert's ears ring from the sudden lack of deafening noise. It takes an insane effort to look up. Around him is grey stone, the inside of a cave. The color of the rock seems to be the most vibrant thing he's ever seen compared to all the snow outside. 

Tufts of white-ish fur stick to the walls here and there and there's a small pile of bones stacked in the far corner. He must have stumbled upon the monster's lair by accident. 

He drags Aiden's lifeless body a little further inside before he drops him carelessly to the ground and falls to his knees next to him. 

It's still bitterly cold in the cave but at least they're mostly protected from the biting winds here. 

He leans down next to Aiden and finally manages to make out the wound. The monster's claws have cut deeply into his shoulder and scratched over his chest. Blood oozes out of it sluggishly. The cold has probably kept him from dying of blood loss so far, but that won't help him survive if he freezes to death instead. 

Lambert drops his bag to the floor and takes out his medical equipment, then goes about stitching the wound up and wrapping it in bandages. 

A red spot immediately forms on the wound dressings around the deepest part of the gash. He's not certain that Aiden will heal fast enough, even with his enhanced Witcher abilities. Despite Lambert's best efforts, Aiden might not make it through the night. 

"If you die on me, after all this trouble I went through," he threatens, "I will drag you out of hell and kick your ass right back to oblivion." 

The only response Lambert gets is that his own teeth start to chatter. 

He'll have to do something against the cold. Good thing he still has some Summer's Kiss potions with him. That'll warm them until the stupid storm is over and they can head back to the village. 

He rifles through his bag once more and pulls out one of the flasks with the bright orange liquid inside. 

Then he goes searching for the other. His fist closes around the neck of the bottle and his hand shoots upwards. 

Something's wrong. The potion is too light. 

He examines what he produced from his bag. Below his fist the bottle neck ends in sharp edges. 

Broken. The second bottle broke and leaked the potion into his bag. 

It must have happened when he dodged the monster's attacks and rolled over the frozen ground to regain his balance. 

Lambert stares at the sad piece in his hand for a full minute, as if the concoction would magically reappear if he only waited long enough. 

Finally, he curses and throws the shard away before carefully turning his bag inside out. A few more bottles are broken and he's left with two Cats and some Black Blood. Nothing that will even remotely help him in this situation. Then again, he already knew that he only had two Summer's Kiss left. 

He grabs the intact potion and turns back to Aiden. His face is sickly pale and his lips are more purple than blue now. He's close to freezing to death. 

Lambert kneels down and pulls Aiden's head into his lap. Then he feeds him the potion, bit by bit. 

That's all he can do for now, though. There's no fire wood or anything else to maintain a flame and going back out into the storm is definitely out of the question. It's a miracle he found the cave in the first place, he'll never make it back in the blizzard. 

So he sits down with crossed legs and watches the slow rise and fall of Aiden's chest. 

Lambert usually struggles with meditation, but today, for some reason, his mind drifts away momentarily. It's just so much easier not to move anymore. To just let his aching limbs rest… 

"… bert…" 

"...leave me…"

"Lambert, wake up!" 

"Woah!" 

Lambert tears his eyes open, breaking the thin layer of frost that has formed on them. The first thing he sees once his eyes adjust to the dim light is Aiden staring back at him. 

He's still lying on the ground where Lambert left him, arm reached out in his direction, and his face is still far too pale for Lambert's liking, but he's awake. That's more than Lambert could have hoped for. 

"N-n-n-no need to yell at me," he snaps back, his chattering teeth taking away the edge of his annoyance. "W-w-what do you want? Go back to s-sleep". 

The storm is still raging outside but now there's even less sunlight coming through. It must be getting close to dusk. How long was he out for? 

He should definitely check on Aiden's bandages, see if he needs to redo them. But the idea of moving seems like such an enormous effort. He'll just rest for another five minutes. Yeah, that's a good plan. His eyes slowly drop closed again. 

"Lambert! Stay with me you idiot!" Aiden snarls. 

"What?" Lambert shouts back. "L-leave me alone!" 

He opens his eyes once more and watches a number of different emotions pass over Aiden's face, too quick to follow. He'd almost say there's concern in the mix, but that would be silly. He's not the one who almost bled out today. 

"Lambert," Aiden repeats, now in a whiny tone. He still manages to sound teasing, though. 

"What d-do you want, Cat?" Lambert grunts, annoyed. 

"I'm cold," he replies with a pout. 

"You have got to be k-kidding me," Lambert deadpans. "I gave you a p-potion!" 

"Must be some weak ass shit you brewed together if I'm already freezing again," Aiden grins. 

"W-weak?" he huffs in indignation and jumps to his feet. "Ungrateful piece of shit! And what do you want m-me to do about it?" 

"Come cuddle with me!" Aiden demands and bats his eyelashes. 

"H-hell no!" Lambert returns and crosses his arms over his chest. "I don't cuddle." 

"But I'm oh so c-c-cold," Aiden taunts, his smirk growing wider. "Don't you want to keep me from freezing?" 

"Urgh," Lambert groans as he drops down next to Aiden, who wraps his uninjured arm around his waist and pulls him closer. 

"How can you be cold?" Lambert complains. "You're like a furnace! My potion is working fine!" 

"Stop wiggling!" Aiden orders. "You're such a baby!" 

"My legs are tingling," he snaps back. "You try to hold still after your legs fall asleep!" 

"Thank the gods," Aiden mumbles under his breath. 

"What?" Lambert huffs. 

"Nothing," Aiden sighs. "Just stay close, alright?" 

"This never happened," Lambert bites back. "He's cold, he says. Needy bastard." 

Soon enough, sleep overcomes him. There's little to do but wait, after all, and the warm weight at his back is far more comforting than he'd ever admit. 

When he wakes up next there's bright, unfiltered light shining in from the entrance of the cave. The storm has passed over night. 

The weight of an arm draped over his waist is gone, though. Alarmed, Lambert sits up. 

Aiden is kneeling in the far corner of the room, re-bandaging his wound. 

"Morning, sunshine," he greets with his ever-present smirk. "Missing my sweet embrace already?" 

"Fuck off," Lambert growls and gets up to stretch his aching limbs. 

"What happened to the monster, by the way?" Aiden prompts conversationally. "The Alderman wants proof of death or he won't pay." 

"Are you insane?" Lambert yells, his patience finally gone for good. "Why are you so obsessed with this? You nearly died and for what? You could've just waited till spring! Nobody takes a contract that late in the year!" 

"Nobody survives the winter with an empty purse," Aiden returns, suddenly serious and without looking up from where he's packing Lambert's medical kit back together. "There's no place to stay for a Cat. Not like you have." 

Lambert just gapes at him, open mouth and all. 

"You risked your life because you're broke?" he manages finally. "Why didn't you say something?" 

Aiden is still not looking at him. He's done packing the little medical bag, but he's fidgeting with the buttons. 

"Careful now, Wolf," Aiden teases. "One could almost get the idea that you care about me." 

"Certainly not," Lambert huffs. "Anyway, next year you're coming with me to Kaer Morhen. I'm not running after your sorry ass again!"

[j-morgan-fly]

Chapter ?

She and Ned had been married for five years and in those five years she had not been able to give her husband a single living son only three healthy daughters. Her womb seemed to reject any male heir. Her first miscarriage had been before the birth of their first daughter, Sansa. It happened very early in the pregnancy, not even a maester would have been able to tell if it was male. Her child had been nothing more than a sexless clot of blood that had slipped out of her in the night.

After Sansa the second was further along, her son no bigger than the size of her hand when the gods sought to bring him into the world far, far too soon. Her fourth pregnancy had gone to full term, but it was a girl she gave birth too, not a son.

“Would it be in poor taste to name her Branda, for your brother?” Shaena had asked Ned as she held her baby at her breast. The newborn girl had the most darling brown curls atop her head, a contrast to the pale golden hair Sansa had inherited from her. “If she had been a boy, I would have asked to name her Brandon,”

“Truly?” Ned’s voice was thick with emotion and surprise.

She nodded, giving him a smile. “It would mean so much if I could do at least this much to honor his memory,”

Ned silently nodded his approval then, lifting his chair and drawing it closer to her bedside. He stayed with her the rest of the night and into the morning, staring lovingly and adoringly at her and their daughter.

Branda was a lively but quiet babe, and she loved so very much to be in her fathers arms. Sansa was mesmerized by her little sister, at only two years old. She could tell the two would get along well when they were older.

Despite their efforts it was not for some years until she fell with child again. Not all were so fertile as Catelyn Lannister, who had already birthed three children without incident and was said to soon welcome a fifth to her pack of lions. Shaena could not help but feel envy at the ease in which Lady Catelyn had given her own husband three sons already. It made her question if their was some cosmic reason for her weaker womb, if the gods were testing her. If this was a further punishment for Rhaegar’s crimes, for her families sins. Or had she done something to offend the gods that she was not aware of that had earned their scorn. It haunted her thoughts over the years and she knew her good-father and the Northern lords were displeased with her inability to provide House Stark and the North with an adequate heir. But Shaena was a princess, she has traversed the capitals court since she was a child, she could withstand the looks and grumbles of some gruff, old men.

She and Ned were happy. They loved their daughters, they loved each other and were proving themselves each and every day to be capable leaders and providers for their people. Shaena had been the one to suggest the expansion of the glass gardens and had insisted on offering funding for it from her own personal allowance.

In 288 AC Shaena, Ned and their daughters attended her brother, Aegon’s, wedding to Celia Whent at Harrenhall. When they arrived back North, only then was it confirmed that Shaena was with child again. She thought for certain that this time she would have a boy.

But at seven months, she started to feel terrible cramping one morning, followed by some bleeding that only got worse. She was laid up in her bed, her skirts pushed up and the Maester was telling her to push. It wasn’t right, this wasn’t supposed to happen. Shaena screamed at him it was too soon, that he had to do something to stop it, to make sure her baby stayed in her womb because it was too soon. It was agony, pushing when all she wanted was to clench up, to keep her child in her belly. When her babe was taken from between her legs he was soundless and their was something around his neck. She caught a glimpse of his deathly pale body and she shrieked and struggled in her bed, demanding they give him to her. Eventually they conceded after the babe was cleaned and wrapped in a soft, woolen blanket that she immediately pulled apart so she could see the genitals. She heaved a breath, sounding like a dying animal as she clutched her baby to her.

“What happened!” she demanded after the maester came from the chamber door where her husband had been waiting on the otherside. His face was fallen as he watched Ned slowly enter the room, staring. He looked sick.

“Sometimes, the umbilical chord, the tubing inside you that gives the babe nutrients can become wrapped around the childs neck while in the womb. It’s nothing that you could have caused, princess, it just happens sometimes. It’s possible he’s been dead in your womb for days, perhaps weeks. Your body finally noticed and triggered contractions to purge your womb of the child,” his voice was white noise, a buzzing in her ears as she struggled to breath. Ned had a hand over his mouth, his face near as pale as their dead sons.

It was too much, it hurt too much. It was so much worse than the other times and she found herself letting out a wail. She sounded like a hysterical banshee, unable to temper her grief, but she could not bring herself to care. Her friend, Marilda, had been with her through the entire ordeal and when Ned made no sudden move to approach and comfort her it was Marilda who crawled into the bed beside her and held her as she cried over the body of her son.

The loss was unbearable to endure. It was as if a string had been cut and she was left free falling through what seemed like never ending feelings of regret, self-blame and failure.She could not remember when the Maester took her son from her, though she did remember clawing at him, refusing to give her cold bodied child up without a fight. That was when Ned must have stepped in to hold her back in the bed. Nothing around her mattered as she raged and mourned.

When her exhaustion caught up to her the room was empty but her and Ned. He laid in the bed behind her, holding her close and she could feel something wet on her neck. She didn’t even consider at the time that Ned was crying with her. Of course he would be mourning the loss of their son as much as she but at the time she was just so completely absorbed in her own pain.

After the premature birth of their son Shaena locked herself in her rooms, refusing to eat with her husband and his father in the Great Hall, breaking her fast and having her super brought to her room where she would pick at her food. She didn’t see her daughters, even when little Sansa had somehow toddled herself to her chamber door, little fists knocking and asking for her to come out and play with her and Branda. Her ladies tried to coax her back into her daily activities once the Maester gave his approval for her to start moving around again, but she could not find the will to go about them. Her Good Father loudly reprimanded her behavior after she had surpassed the appropriate amount of time women were apparently allowed in the face of such a loss. It fell on deaf ears. Ned tried to comfort her but she was inconsolable, wasting away, hiding out from the judgment of the North. She knew they must be blaming her, cursing her Targaryen blood maybe.

She wished her good mother was still alive. Lyarra had always been surprisingly welcoming toward Shaena when she first came North. But the Stranger had sought to take Lady Stark when she caught pestilence of the throat two years prior. She might have understood better, would have had some womanly empathy to offer her. But instead she had been surrounded by only resentful and judgmental men who did not understand the pressures and pain of conception and birth. Men who only saw her as a means to breed heirs. Otherwise what point was there to her marriage if she could not give her husband and his family what they needed to continue on? It filled her with doubt and it ate at her everyday.

After a fortnight, her dear friend Prudence traveled from her home of Karhold where she lived with her husband to visit her and comfort her beside Marilda as only a fellow woman could. Though it did not make everything better, Prudence too had her share of miscarriages and knew the loss of a child. She gave Shaena the courage to compose herself and move forward. She could not avoid her husband much longer and with her good mother having passed she was the acting Lady of Winterfell.

She had to try again, she had a duty. So she forced herself to smile, she left her rooms, visited her daughters, tended to the keep and people and visited her husbands chambers again. It wasn’t the same as before though. Her heart wasn't in their coupling anymore. There was a distance between them that neither knew how to bridge. It wasn’t Ned, it was her, she knew it. She just could not shake off her fears that she would never be able to give her husband, the husband she loved very much, the son he deserved and desired.

Her Ned, her wonderful, gentle, loving, quiet Ned who had from the moment of their marriage had never judged her for what her brother had done, never looked at her with any regrets, any resentment. He loved her, he trully loved her and it almost made it worst that he wasn’t angry with her.

The year of the Greyjoy rebellion, she gave birth to their third daughter, Arya. Even as a baby Arya was always causing a fuss, always moving, and was the quickest of her sisters to stand and walk. She loved it when Shaena would hold her by the window and let her look out the glass or take her out into the courtyard.She took up so much energy that it sometimes helped Shaena to peek out of the dark mass of clouds that had seemed to constantly suffocate Shaena since the end of her pregnancy before Arya.

Even as a baby it was clear that Arya took after her father completely in looks. Her face longer, hair darker and her eyes gray just like Neds. Sansa had her own indigo blue and Branda had a more blue grey, but Arya’s eyes were so grey they were almost black. When Ned returned from the war, and she saw his face light up when he saw the babe in her arms that looked so much like him she could only imagine that he thought Arya was someone else, the son they both wanted so terribly but were constantly denied.

The apology was written all across her face when he came close enough to see it, his own eyes only briefly glinting with regret before he smiled for her and took her in his arms. “It’s alright, my love. Thank you for such a wonderful homecoming gift,”

He then kissed the top of his new daughters head before asking for her name.

“Arya, yes, I think that fits her very well.” he said, tapping his daughters nose before leaning down to greet his two oldest. Sansa managed to curtsy already for him, her Septa grinning proud behind him. Branda was hiding behind her sister, nervously looking at him. It had been a year since she last saw her father and she was still very young that after so long he might seem like a stranger to her. But the war was over now, Ned was home and his daughters could get to know him again. They would be a family and she and Ned could try again for a son once more.

[aikatxt]

Letters Recovered From The Stydalous House Ruins

My dear Almira,

    I miss you terribly now that you’re left Sobourn, but I am happy to know that your new home is just what Jackie and Luis needed to start feeling better. Though I must express my concerns: will you not be lonely out there? It is ever so far from the rest of us. A whole day’s trip away, in fact! But it is a trip I will make gladly and constantly if only you wish for it. 

    Tell me about the house. I’ve heard the stories, you know. Was it in such a state of disrepair that the slightest touch might send the whole thing tumbling down? Or was it exaggerated, as Henry’s mother tends to do? Such a grand house sold for so little, will you three really be alright fixing it up yourself? If only I could be there with you, in that house, that I might do the weary work that would toughen your hands so that you may rest and look after your siblings. 

    Things are largely the same around here. The street is still buzzing with the news, of course, no matter the time that passes. What your parents had done… Such horrible things done by such kind looking people. I am glad you trusted me with the truth, so that I may help you escape them. It is not without its consequences: no one will speak to me in anything louder than a whisper, and no friend stays by my side as the dreadful attention sweeps over me.

    Promise me that you’ll write to me everyday. I know I made you promise before you left, but promise me one more time. You have always been my reason for carrying on despite the pain of things, and I need you more than ever. Your words, if I cannot have you in my arms. Take care and hope that we meet again soon.

Ever yours,

Elizabeth

Darling Almira,

    Oh, the things I heard of Stydalous House! Surely there is no place on Earth more dreadful, I had thought, but your words have swayed my opinion. The lovely gardens, with flowers as far as the eye can see, the high walls and arches of the largest rooms, the chandeliers draped in silver; what I would give to see it all with you. I do hope you’re not catching a cold, however. It is still humid outside, and the cold winds won’t be upon us for another few months. I’ve sent over a shawl to keep you warm, do let me know when you get it. And make sure to drink plenty of tea, you and Jackie and Luis, it will do none of you good to be pale and weak after you’ve just moved into a new house. Let me know if there is anything I can do. You know you can ask me for anything.

    In regards to your concerns: I will be fine. You know me, Almira. Small as I am, there is much I can hold on my shoulders. Don’t worry over me when you’re still settling in to the house. All I have to do is wait out the storm, and though I may be alone in it, I keep your letters close to my heart. 

    I’ll look into the old Stydalous couple as well. Surely some of the older women around here remember what happened to them. I doubt it will be anything bad, though, so don’t fret. They were old, and their son was a gambler; worse things have happened around here. 

    Send Jackie and Luis my love. Know that you hold most of it.

Love, always,

Elizabeth

Almira, my sweetest,

    I apologize for the brief absence of my letters. I have done as you asked, searched for answers to your questions, and the story I’ve pieced together is a strange one. Most people who remember what happened have conflicting recollections. Newspaper archives repeat the same thing over and over again. And no one will speak to me for a few days after I ask them about the Stydalous family.

    Here is what I know: 15 or so years ago, there was a large fire that destroyed the gardens farthest away from the house. Donny, their son, had been accused of stealing winnings and cheating people out of their money. Two men whom he gambled with often confronted him at the edge of their estate, and a mistaken toss of a match set the place up in flames. Donny had tried to put out the fire to save his mother’s gladiolus flowers, but it was an exceptionally dry summer, and so the fire spread and burned him badly. 

    Mrs. Stydalous had to break up a fight between Mr. Stydalous and Donny. Mr. Stydalous had knocked her back and she had hit her head on the corner of a table. She passed away in the hospital two days later. Donny had blamed his father for the death, publicly accusing him of murder many times as his father drank himself into a stupor. This is where things get confusing: many people speculate that they fought again in the house, tearing it apart. Some people say Donny killed his father in a fit of rage and then hung himself in parlour. Others say Mr. Stydalous killed Donny with a broken bottle of liquor, then drowned himself in grief. Yet others say that one had survived the fight and disposed of the body before disappearing. 

    The papers cover this story for a few months. First, with the death of Mrs. Stydalous, which was described as a “tragic accident”. Then, with the trouble the drunk Mr. Stydalous would get into, as well as the fights Donny found himself in when the people he gambled with came after him for money. The last few papers covering the Stydalous family say nothing of what happened to the two. Just that the house had been cleared out following the suspected deaths or disappearances of Mr. Stydalous and Donny. And thus the story ends.

    It’s a rather disastrous family, and the tragedy was in everyone’s mind back then. No one has lived in the Stydalous house since, fearing any ghosts they might find there. There are no ghosts, of course. I know you worry about the strangest things, but do not worry about ghosts. The dead have nothing more to do to the living, and so they move on. There are no ghosts for afterlife is much too alluring for the dead to resist.

    Try not to mention any of this to Jackie and Luis. I saw how terrible Jackie’s nightmares got at the height of it all. I do hope she’s sleeping better now that neither of your parents can get to you. I’ve sent some tea that Grandmother Ylvia made for you; it’s meant to be calming and soothe any pains in the body. Let me know if you need anything, and I’ll send it over right away. And if you need me there with you, just tell me and I’ll go.

    In regards to you last letter: the house is old. It hasn’t been in a good condition for nearly two decades. I’m not surprised to hear that there have been strange noises and drafty rooms; I doubt anyone did a good job fixing up enough of the rooms to make it habitable for you. Keep Luis close, he’s always been a curious one, wandering away just to get a closer look at something we wo[...]

[The end of this letter has been too damaged to read. There was likely a page or two left of Elizabeth’s reply.]

Beloved Almira,

    I must admit, your last letter caused me a great deal of concern. If it is affecting your sleep so much, I am more than willing to go to you so that you do not have to sleep alone. You and the kids could even come to stay with me, I have more than enough room here. How desperately I wish to hold you in my arms and soothe your fears; though we are apart, never forget that you carry a piece of me with you.

    Jackie is young enough to be easily frightened, and old enough to understand what happened to her. Now that she is in a place where she can be safe, it’s likely that she is finally allowing herself to feel everything she shut away while with your parents. Her cryptic remarks are strange, but children have vivid imaginations we can’t keep up with. Jackie is still your little sister. She loves you dearly and looks up to you. She would never hurt you.

    Luis is an explorer, you know that. I’m not surprised to hear that he’s been getting himself stuck in places he has no business being. How did he end up with his arm stuck in a vent? Never a boring day with that one, I see. 

    From what you’ve told me, you’ve been working too hard to take care of them, and are not taking care of yourself. Take a few days to rest. Walk the gardens and tell me about it. Curl up by the fire and read the books you treasure so dearly. You’ve only just found your footing after your parents ran away, let yourself heal from that first. I’m sure the dreams will stop once you let go of some of that stress.

Take care darling,

Elizabeth

Almira,

    Love, please write to me. I’ve been so worried since your last letter (from two months ago). Stydalous House is not a good place for any of you. For anyone. Please, love, come back to me. I will keep you safe in my home. I will look after your siblings with you. I will protect you all from the pity of the others. 

    Had I heard this from any other, I would not have believed them. But it is from you, and so I trust in your words. Whatever is there with you three wants to cause you harm. It is already causing you harm. No child says that “the weeping wi[...]

                   [...] she has never been anything but bright, but whatever resides in Stydalous house with you has sunken into her. I can only pray that it doesn’t get you as well. Living shadows that walk the walls a[...]

    [...]that is not the kind of things a child says. And if you cannot find Luis soon, I fear that we may never find him at all. Almira, keep with the light, the fire, and don’t listen to what the house tells you. 

    Please, my dear, write to me. Let me know you are still here. Please.

Elizabeth.

[Sections of this letter have been damaged, most likely by water, though some of the coloring around the edges suggest that it was blood, instead. Any letters that may have existed between this one and the one before it are lost.]

Alimra,

    I will be with you soon. I love you.

Elizabeth.

[This is the shortest letter of the bunch. The rest of the paper has been torn away and some of the ink has been smudged, as though touched by tears. These are the only letters found in the ruins, from one Elizabeth addressing the last owner of Stydalous house, Almira.]

[dxrksong]

Chapter 3 part 2

Things get real

-------

You all ran inside, heading to the kitchen. Things were all fine when the Jims froze at the kitchen door

Y/N: "Something wrong Jim?"

CameraJim: "Uh-well…"

Cherry pushed passed the twins

Red: "I suggest you stop beating around the bush and-"

Cherry froze as well and the moment you heard HIS voice, you knew why. 

Mark: "Now now, let's not all stare at me and hold up dinner!"

Slowly Cherry and the Jims walked into the room and taking their respective seats. Eventually you had to walk in to, looking around and realizing unhappily that the only chairs that were left were either right next to him or still within arms reach. 

Mark: "ah! Y/N! Just the elusive-"

You started walking away. You're not eating with him anywhere NEAR you. 

Actually you might throw up if you tried. The sheer anger and disgust he makes you feel, makes you feel uneasy and anxious and just flat out nauseous sometimes. 

Almost as if you had just downed a whole gallon of alcohol among other things. 

Mark: "Y/N! Oh come on, don't be like that! Why won't you talk to me??"

Dark tried to say something but you drowned him out as Something snapped in your head, nothing but anger so hot it nearly broiled in your mind as You stopped, turning around on your feet sharply as you glared daggers at him

Y/N: "Oh you want to know why I won't speak to a man that's notorious for the partial blame of me being in the mirror? A man that has this downright CREEPY obsession with me when I bearly remember you? Yes, I remember SOME but that's about it. Most of the time you're just a fuzzy little memory in the back of my head that refuses to surface. And with everything I DO remember of you is nothing short of TOXIC!! So You know what?! No! No I won't speak to you!! And do you wanna know why?!"

Your voice started to crack, A ringing in your ears as you didn't bother holding back, feeling you hair stand on end and the ego's seeming to flinch at your outburst 

Y/N: "You killed my friends, forced them against each other, ruined my marriage, forced everyone to go INSANE AND IT'S ALL BECAUSE YOU COULDN'T HANDLE YOUR GIRL LEAVING YOU AND DIDN'T BOTHER TO GET HELP OR DROWN IN ICECREAM LIKE A NORMAL PERSON DOES AND INSTEADS GOES FOR MURDER!!! So No! No, I won't speak to you! You're just a whiney little baby that no one wants to deal with that cries all the time and doesn't bother trying to anything yourself or shuts the fuck up and DEALS WITH IT *BECAUSE YOU'RE OVER A CENTURY OLD!!!!*"

You were panting once you finished your little rant, the entire room speechless. Slowly you realized what you had done and said, Mark's face twisted in shock, surprise, and maybe just a dash of fear, Dark's surprisingly no different 

Even after all this time….

Oh how you'd love to see it more. But you have important matters to attend to. You straightened yourself upright before walking away towards your room, hands behind your back to keep your posture positive even as you slowly broke down in the halls, picking up the pace once you were out of sight from them. 

You can't believe you just did that! You can't believe what you just said!! A ruined marriage…? On top of all THAT?! 

The poor DA…...no wonder they turned to dreaming….it's much better than out here!!

You busted into your room, slamming and locking it shut behind you. You collapsed onto the edge of your bed, burying your head into your arms as you sobbed and bawled. You just wanted this day to end already, maybe turn back time and pick a different route. 

You just need more time. 

"Oh child…"

"We all do…."

You looked up and you saw two very familiar shapes. 

Unus and Annus

"Y-you guys..?"

They smiled warmly at you. 

"Now, you may not really remember us"

"And though our time may be up"

"We got you a little something."

Unus and annus took out an hourglass, setting it in front of you, on your bed. It was black and white, the lids/roofs being in a black and white spiral with the walls being black and the skulls being white. The sand was also black too.

"To always remember us by"

"And just remember."

"Never. Forget the ticking of the clock"

You could hear it in your head, you watching the sand go down in the hourglass as the clock ticked over and over again, progressively getting slower with each second until…..

The sand stopped all together, frozen in time. 

"You have a wonderful gift Y/N! Don't be afraid, to use it!"

"And remember. Don't let ANYONE tell you what you can and can't do" 

You paused before smiling and nodding

"Y-yeah!.....thank you I-"

They were gone. Were they even here to begin with? You looked over to your bed, seeing the hourglass still there. You smiled once more and picked it up, setting it on your dresser.  

You looked up, peering into your reflection. An empty eyed version of you looked back at you and strangely. 

You didn't feel afraid

Your smile turned into a grin as you stared right into your reflection before opening your mouth and uttering your command

"Play!"

------------

The ego's watched tensly as Mark sat at the table. Mark wasn't really welcome here, that fight from earlier being more than enough proof of that. As the last members of the table arrived, they had given a shocked pause like the rest of them. 

Mark: "Now now, let's not all stare at me and hold up dinner!"

The Jims had nodded slowly and unsurely as the Red Googleplier took it's seat. However when Y/N walked into the room, the room suddenly got more intense than before. 

Y/N wanted nowhere near Mark, that much was obvious as they started to walk away from the dining room all together. The Jims were originally going to get up and join them but what happened next practically glued them to their seats. 

They had seen this before, back at the manor before Y/N had woken up from their coma. A kind of feralistic energy made by sheer RAGE that cracked their body from the inside out.

Just like the broken mirror. 

Except it was worse this time somehow, like a predator that had just found it's prey cornered and helpless. 

Y/N screeched at the top of their lungs, the terrible ringing sound they emitted completely drowning out Dark's aura, leaving the man stunned. 

But that wasn't all. Y/N's eyes…...they were dilated like a cat's, a loud growling being heard in the background of their screaming. 

It hurt to hear and see all that at once as Y/N continued on. until finally….they left...leaving the room even more tense than it was before. 

Wil: w-well now…..that was certainly….something. 

Host: the host would like to remind Mark, Dark, and Wil about the warning the host had given the trio earlier that morning. That is no longer the same gentle Y/N from a century ago. And if you three keep pushing them they might do something you won't like. 

CameraJim: wh-what about us BookJim?

Host: The host feels it IS a little nessasary to say the warning only correlates to these three as they had known Y/N longer than the rest of the manor egos. 

The Jims sighed before looking at each other and nodding

MicJim: whelp, we're gonna go to bed!

Dark: Jims, what are you hiding?

The jims froze, looking at each other before looking to Dark

CameraJim: why-what ever do you mean StaticJim?

Wilford squinted his eyes

Wil: are you two hiding something from us?

Bim: mind sharing?

Blue Google: not everyday the JIMS of all people hide things. Suspicious behavior indeed.

CameraJim: wh-what???? No!! Jims would NEVER-

Dark: Jims. Where DID you find Y/N in the first place? 

The Jims once again shared a glance before the one holding the camera sighed and gave up

CameraJim: we call MirrorJim 'MirrorJim' for a reason, Static-i mean *sighs* 

MicJim: Jims….MAY have ignored StaticJim's advice and had gone to the spooky manor-HEAR JIM OUT!!! 

Dark looked to be three seconds away from yelling. 

MicJim: Jim didn't touch anything like StaticJim said but something happened with Jim's ouija board and next thing Jim knew MirrorJim had suddenly appeared!

CameraJim nodded his head vigorously 

CameraJim: But something was wrong with MirrorJim! MirrorJim didn't respond to anything Jim was saying, their eyes were completely empty, and when Jim tried to get too close, MirrorJim would chase us around the house before returning to the area Jim found MirrorJim in!

MicJim: Jims stayed when Jim realized that the story was huge so Jims stayed behind despite Jim instinct and next thing Jims knew, MirrorJim had suddenly woke up! 

Dark: so you knew about this the ENTIRE TIME?

CameraJim: J-Jims didn't think it was important….

Dark's aura began to ring louder and louder, the Jims flinching before running away from Dark's wrath. 

Part 2

[novannna]

You Were the Hands That Held Me

Danissa soulmate au.  everyone has a soul mate, and any marking that appears on their skin, appears on yours.  narcissa’s pov.  Kinda angsty, but also fluffy.  

tw: self harm, and mentions of abuse kinda

wc: 2363

Narcissa stared at her arm in awe.  This was the first time her soulmate had ever drawn something on her skin.  She had felt the same cuts and bruises her soulmate had received, just like everyone else, but this was the first time her soulmate had deliberately marked her own skin.

Messy butterflies with uneven wings, and twisted antennas marched down Narcissa’s forearm.  

“Oh,” she whispered.  “Cool.”  She grabbed the nearest marked, and held it poised above the other arm, ready to reply, but thought better of it.  

She shouldn’t force her soulmate to stop their art for Narcissa.  She dropped the marker, and kept watching the thick lines as they covered her entire arm.  

That night she washed it all away in scalding hot water before her grandfather noticed.  He wouldn’t approve of Narcissa communicating with her soulmate.  

He hated the idea of How there was one person in the world, waiting just for you.  

His soulmate had died years ago, leaving him heartbroken and angry, bitter to the world.   

If Narcissa wasn’t careful, he might take the anger out on her.    

Narcissa could take it, but she didn’t want to hurt her soulmate too.  Narcissa would feel awful.  

So she tried to ignore the small flowers and butterflies her soulmate drew constantly.  Narcissa tried her very best.  

---

Years later, Narcissa wrote to her soulmate for the first time.  It was in the middle of the night, when Narcissa had felt a searing pain across her arm that looked like a red slit across her pale skin.  

Her soulmate was in trouble.  She couldn’t just stand by now. Narcissa had to do something.  

Grabbing a tissue to staunch the bleeding, Narcissa scrawled across her hand in thick ink. 

STOP

I can’t , her soulmate replied. 

Please, just hear me out, Narcissa wrote, hoping she could do enough.  Hoping she could convince the person who had drawn butterflies everywhere on their body, that maybe the world really did want them. 

please, just stay out of this

I can’t. This is my body too.  And even though I’ve never met you, you're my soulmate and I care about you. 

Fine. I’ll listen. Her soulmate's handwriting was a little shaky, but very neat, with tall, loopy letters.  

I’m guessing you’ve been having a hard time with life recently, Narcissa started. 

I guess

Do you want to be here?  Narcissa asked bluntly

There was a long pause.  I don’t know, her soulmate finally responded.  I love Earth, but the people…. I can’t stand the people. All they do is bring hate and hurt to me

I get that.  But the people don’t matter. You do.  Danna wrote desperately. 

No I don’t. I’ve never done a single good thing in my life

You have!  You’ve made me smile!  You’ve made me laugh!  

Her soulmate replied, When?  This is the first time I’ve ever talked to you

When we were younger, you used to constantly doodle little flowers and butterflies all across our bodies. I loved to watch you draw them, watch the blocky little lines appear across my body.   Danna smiled as she recalled the delicate insects she wore across her body daily. 

I thought you hated those. That’s why I stopped

No, of course not!

Then why did you erase them?

Narcissa sighed. She thought for a second, then wrote, my grandfather. He hates soulmates. If he knew I was communicating with mine, I’m afraid he would hurt me.  And doing that would hurt you. 

But… that means you could get in trouble right now!

No. I won’t, I’m fine. You are more important.  Tell me, what made you want to hurt yourself today?

I guess I’m just tired of being ignored. I’m tired of being treated like a child. I want to leave my house, but I can’t. I can’t live on my own. 

Thats okay, you shouldn’t be ignored.  You should be your own person, and if your parents cant see that, they’re idiots!!

Narcissa capped the pen, and tried to wrap her blanket around her arm, the blood slowly soaked through the fabric, staining the blanket a bright red.  How would she explain that to her grandfather?  It didn’t matter right now though.  Right now, she had to make sure her soulmate was okay.  That was her one and only goal.  Nothing else mattered.  Narcissa had the opportunity to maybe save a life right now.  That’s what she had to do.  

They aren’t.  I’m the one who’s screwing up, her soulmate replied.  I cant ever get anything right.  Im just a big mistake that shouldn't even exist.  The worlds probably better without me

THATS NOT FUCKING TRUE!  Narcissa scrawled as quickly as she could.  I dont believe it.  Not for a second.  Just by being here, you’ve made the world a better place.  Everyday, I wake up and check my body for some indicator that you’re here.  I can’t help but think about the fact that there is someone out there meant for me.  And I’m meant for someone.  

I guess…

Narcissa sighed heavily.  She had to go to bed before her grandfather woke and saw her light on.  

Are you okay?  She wrote.  Are you in any danger?  If you are, im here.  For both of us

A minute passed before the reply came.  I dont think so.  I think im better.  But… if i feel bad again, can i talk to u?  This actually really helped me.  Thank you

Narcissa smiled.  Of course!!!  Just, could u write somewhere less obvious?

Sure.  I understand.

Narcissa smiled gratefully.  How ‘bout our ankles?  That’s less obvious and easy for me to hide

She felt pressure on her right foot, and slid it out from beneath her blanket.  A smile, and little butterfly doodle greeted her eyes.  

Good night, soulmate, Narcissa wrote

Good night.  Sleep tight.  And… thank you.

Narcissa smiled.  She slid out of bed, and held her arm close to her chest while creeping to the bathroom.  Once inside, she scrubbed all of the ink off her skin, and bandaged the red slit shut.  

Narcissa and her soulmate were okay.  That was all that mattered.  Everything was alright.  At least for now.  But now was the only thing Narcissa could bear to think about.  

---

After that one night, Narcissa’s soulmate never hurt themselves like that again.  But that didn’t mean they weren’t hurting.   Narcissa could tell they were hurting themselves in other ways.  

She tried to help.  She wrote reminders every few hours, telling her soulmate to eat, and drink water.  She wrote encouraging messages, and doodled across their skin.  

But still, Narcissa would feel her stomach growl with hunger, and her tongue beg for more water.  She felt her eyes grow heavy even though she had slept almost 10 hours the night before.  Her soulmate just didn’t care, and there was nothing Narcissa could do. 

They would talk to each other constantly, ranting about their day, or commenting about something they saw.  Narcissa grew much closer to the person she had never even seen the face of. Closer to them then anyone else she had ever known.  

Even her grandfather. 

Narcissa had a very strained relationship with her grandfather.  She knew deep down he loved her, but he had a hard time showing it.  He was caught in a life of crime, and there was no way out.  

He had been an arms dealer for years, selling guns and other weapons on the black market.  He made a lot of money, but not a lot of friends.  He was a bitter old man, who took all of his anger out on Narcissa.  He had never hit her, but his words were hard enough. 

Narcissa knew she was being abused, and belittled, and manipulated, but she always ended up excusing his actions. Or even worse, sometimes she would place the blame on herself.  She knew she was in a bad situation, but it was one she was stuck in. 

Narcissa talked about him lots with her soulmate.  It turned out, they had a similar situation with their parents.  

Mistreated, abused, bullied, shamed. 

The two escaped into their skin, engrossed with each other.  They held each other right through the pain and the tears.  Though at times, both of them desperately wanted to, they held strong and never hurried themselves for fear of hurting the other. 

---

One day, the straw finally snapped for Narcissa. She was 17 now, and old enough to live her own life. Old enough to understand what her grandfather gave her wasn’t love, it was trauma.  

After he yelled at her for an hour straight because she put a book in the wrong bookshelf, Narcissa decided she had taken enough. 

Can we go?  She desperately scrawled across her ankle. Can we escape these sorry excuses for lives?

Her soulmate wrote back a few minutes later. What do you mean?

We’re old enough to live on our own. Why are we forcing ourselves to live with these people who treat us so terribly. Why don’t we just run away together?

Ok. The reply shocked Narcissa. She had been expecting them to try and convince her otherwise, make her see the absurdity. Not agree.  But Narcissa was glad they agreed. They both deserved a chance to start over. To make a life for themselves, and do it right. 

You will?

With you?  Of course I will silly. I’ve been waiting years for me to ask

When?   When can we leave?

Whenever your ready

A week, Narcissa declared, I’ll meet you in a week at Gatlon City, at the train station

Ok.   I’ll be there, I promise, her soulmate wrote. 

Me too. Narcissa grinned. She was finally escaping. Finally starting fresh. Finally leaving her grandfather to be with someone who truly cared.  Narcissa couldn’t wait.

---

Narcissa creaked the door open, cringing as the hinges squealed loudly. 

“Just where do you think you’re going?”  Her grandfather slurred from the couch. 

Shitshitshitshit, Narcissa though. She was caught.  She was never going to escape her life.

“I told you earlier this week I’m going to a friends house tonight,” Narcissa said lightly, trying to mask her terror. 

“Stop lying!”  He screamed.  “I know that’s not true, you don’t have any friends.”

Narcissa cringed.  

She breathed in deeply.  She was already leaving forever, there was no point in lying anymore.  

“Fine  I’m leaving.  For good.”  She braced herself for the rage. 

Instead, he laughed.  “You?  You're leaving?”  He scoffed.  “You would never.  You’re too scared and dependent on me.”

Narcissa drew herself up.  “No.  You’re wrong.  I’m leaving, to find my soulmate.  We’re making our own life.  Together.”

He gaped at her.  “You can’t!  You can’t go to your soulmate,” he spat.  “You’ll live a terrible life.  You’ll be tied down forever.”

Narcissa shook her head.  “No.  I won’t.  I’ll live the best life I can.  Because I’ll be happy.  I won’t live in fear anymore.  I’m sorry you weren’t meant for your soulmate, but it’s different for me.  I know them.  We are meant for each other.  I wouldn’t expect you to understand.  All you know is hate.”

“So you’re really going?”  Her grandfather’s lip curled up.  

Narrcissa nodded.  “I am.  I’m making my own life, as far away from here as possible.”

“Then go!”  He snarled.  “I don’t want you in my house if you won’t see a reason.  Go.”  He picked a book sitting next to him, and hurled it at Narcissa’s head.  

She ducked, her hair ruffling by the wind.  

She turned to him, tears in her eyes.  “Goodbye grandfather.  I’m sorry.”  She threw open the door, and fled into the night.

---

Narcissa’s heart thudded in her ears.  This was it.  This was the day she was going to meet her soulmate.  She knew she should be realistic, but Narcissa couldn’t help imagining the meeting like something out of the sappy romance novels she liked to read.  

She expected the dreary clouds to disappear, and the sun to shine out on top of them.  

She expected to know exactly who was her other half

She expected to run up, into their arms, and kiss them like she had wanted to be kissed her entire life.  

But Narcissa knew how unlikely it was.  But, a girl could hope, couldn’t she?  

She inhaled deeply.  Uncapping the pen with her teeth, she scrawled on her palm, I’m here  

Me too, her soulmate wrote back.  The familiar loopy red marks eased Narcissa.  She knew this person.  This was her soulmate.  Everything was going to be okay.  It would all be okay.  

Her eyes locked onto a girl standing near a bench, her head bent over her hand, a pen tucked behind her ear.  

Somehow, Narcissa knew.  She knew this was the person she had been searching for her whole life.  She knew that the girl was her soulmate.  

Summoning every miniscule scrap of courage Narcissa could find, she approached the girl.  

She tapped her shoulder.  “Hi,” Narcissa breathed, heart pounding.  “I’m Narcissa.  I think I’m your-”

She was interrupted by the girl throwing her arms around her tightly.  

“I’ve waited so long to meet you,” Narcissa’s soulmate said roughly, her voice thick with tears.  “I’m Danna.”  

Narcissa laughed.  She realized she was crying.  “Me too.”

“I feel like I already know everything about you,” Danna laughed.  She swiped her eyes.  

Narcissa nodded.  “I know we’re soulmates, but I want you to know I understand if you don’t want me,” she said.  “I get it- not all soulmates are really soulmates.”

She was cut off by Danna pressing her lips to hers.  “I want you,” Danna breathed.  “You're the one who I’ve trusted with every secret I’ve ever held.  You’re the one who helped me when no one else could.  You’re the one who took care of me.”  Danna held their hands up, exposing the thick identical scars that spread across their wrists.  “You are the only other person in the world who understood, and actually helped me.  You were the hands that held me.”  Danna reached her hand to Narcissa’s face, wiping away her tears.  “I want you, and no one else.”

“Me too,” Narcissa whispered.  “Me too.”

Tag list: @novissa @thepurpledragon4444  @phobidawg @janisarkisian  @rvbell @lavenderbloo @redassassin  (let me know if you want to be added/taken off!!!)

[thoughtfullyyoungduck]

Too much said

A/N: This was requested by an anon, I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think! If anyone has any requests please let me now! 

Summary; After a long and terrible day for Richie, he gets into a fight with Eddie, worsening his day. 

Warnings: a lot of curse words. 

The fight happened so fast and unexpected that Richie was left blindsided. Sure, Eddie and him have their arguments from time to time, but never have they been so cruel and vile before.

It’s honestly Richie’s fault, both for starting the fight and pursuing it, and there’s no excuse that he can give obtaining why he did that.

See, Eddie has this gift where he sees straight through Richie, past all the layers of defense and deflection until he comes across the real, raw Richie, and most of the time Richie loves that about him. But at times, it unnerves him too. The amount of layers he manages to surpass baffles Richie, no number of walls stopping him from getting to the truth.  He scratches and tears to uncover everything about him, leaving him torn open for the world to witness. That’s how it feels at least, and Richie can’t help but want to scurry away from it sometimes.

No one has ever cared about him enough to do something like that, most noticed his overload of jokes and his overly outgoing personality and walked, no ran, away as fast they could. Richie was fine with that, as he was only able to see his negatives anyway and figured they were all right for doing so, but Eddie proves to him everyday that he is worth it. The anxiety in his mind and Eddie fight each other every day, thankfully with Eddie victorious, but the days Richie does succumb to his fears, give way to bad moods and even worse decisions.

The fight started with a simple question on Eddie’s part, an innocent inquiry that had no business leading up to the brawl it did.  

‘Hey Richie, you okay? I haven’t heard you spout a joke all day.’ He says with a teasing smile, yet the corners of his lips a tad too low to genuine, a strong indicator that he’s faking the chaff, and worry is hidden behind it.

And that’s the loaded question isn’t it? A question that so many answers can be given too, either truth or lie, and a query that no is able to verify anyway. Today sucked for Richie, from waking up late to blowing his interview with the board directors and spilling water over his computer causing it to crash and delete all the documents on which he wrote his new material.

During the day Eddie texted to ask if he wanted to go out shopping for new suits that are required for Ben and Bev’s wedding. ‘You can’t wear a Hawaiian shirt to my wedding Richie. I’m a fashion designer.’

Richie agreed, not that he was jumping on the opportunity to go in and out of stores, but solely for spending time with Eddie, but then he got the text message. That god-for-saken text message highlighted the terrible day. He refused to mull over that now though, so while he adjust his smile to appear naturally, he nodded to Eddie.

‘I’m fine Eds, why wouldn’t I be?’

Eddie’s brow twitches, then stills and smooths out again. He’s suppressing his telltale of wary that Richie points out time and time again to taunt him.

‘Are you sure? Cause I have never heard you in my life say no to fast-food,’ he pushes.

Richie sighs inaudible, and walks over their liquor cabinet in the living room, pulling out a bottle of red wine, the only kind of alcoholic drink Eddie likes.

‘Like I said Spaghetti, I’m fine, tired but good.’

Grabbing two wine glasses by the stem, per Eddie’s requests, he uncorks the bottle and pours plenty of the drink into it and offers one to Eddie.

Eddie takes it with a small ‘thank you’, and shuffles over to their couch, patting the seat next to him to invite Richie over.

Too obvious, Richie’s mind hisses at him, use a joke, do anything to distract him from your mood so he doesn’t asks questions.

‘We’re not eating McDonalds’ right now because I wanted to cook you spaghetti, Spaghetti’, Richie explains with a grin, watching as Eddie works himself up again. During a party where he was highly intoxicated, Eddie entrusted Richie that he cherishes the nickname ‘Eds’, but he still absolutely despises the nickname Spaghetti.

‘Fuck you’, he responds with so much conviction that Richie blanches for a second, a stab of sadness straight to the heart, until he sees Eddie’s own teasing smile.

‘And anyway, you’re going to cook? I would love to be able to have a kitchen. Remember how you burned an oven pizza when we were kids?’ He adds dryly.

‘Oh Eds, you wound me. I was ten.’

‘Old enough to read a clock then.’ While chuckling, they both take a sip of their drink.

They fall back into their old pattern of ribbing and mocking, and Richie believes for a moment that he got away with his behavior. He’s not that lucky.

When the chuckling subsides, Eddie fixes Richie with a stern look, his hand falling on top of Richie’s knee.

‘Rich, you hate cooking. Tell me what’s going on so I can help you.’

He knock the glass of wine back completely to the last drop, gulping it down in an effort to get drunk. ‘Will you get off my back already?’

That was a mistake, Richie never talks to Eddie that way, especially not for something so insignificant.

Eddie’s face hardens, not angry or upset, but determined, and that tells Richie that he’s not backing down now, it’s not in his nature.

‘Now I’m sure somethings wrong. Was it Steve, did he push you again to go on tour? You declined that once before, he needs to accept it.’

Richie slams the glass on the coffee table a little too harshly, while knocking Eddie’s hand of his knee and scrambling up from the sofa to pace up and down.

‘It’s not Steve, drop it Eddie I mean it. I don’t wanna talk about it.’

The lack of jabs is disturbing, so Eddie is not giving up, following Richie and attempting to hug him. Richie rejects the hug, and huffs as he storm through the backdoor into the yard to cool himself off.  

The last thing he wants is to upset Eddie, but he has to be alone to get his mind in order, and maybe to wallow in self-pity.

Eddie trudges on the patio behind him, not allowing him to gain a second of peace. All traces of teasing disappeared and any underlying worry is now visible on the surface. Richie lights a cigarette, something he distanced himself from as soon as Eddie returned in his life, his fingers trembling harshly making it hard to light it.

A scowl is omnipresent on Eddie’s face, his lips tilted in distain, waving away the smoke with his hand despite Richie not having even lit it yet. Tears tingle to escape but Richie stubbornly fights then, but even he can tell that Eddie notices them. He loathes crying in front of others, Eddie not being an exception, and now it’s even worse because he’s striving to pretend that he’s good.

‘Come on Rich. What’s wrong with you today?’ Eddie questions, itching to grab the cigarette from Richie and disposing of it.

‘There’s nothing wrong with me. What’s wrong with you?’ Richie begins hysterically. He wishes Eddie would let him be, so that he’s blind to all of the bad things that make Richie Richie. His mind is firing solutions to the situation, and way that he can change the subject.

‘Jesus fucking Christ, you’re acting like your mother, following me around all the time, demanding to know what’s wrong with me, I can have some free time of my own you know?’

The moment the words fly out of his mouth, Richie aches to swallow them back in. He hankers to beat them to dust, set them on fire and then bury them so deep that no one ever lays eyes on them again.

Eddie’s face turns, the scowl evaporating and leaving a defeated face in it’s wake. The tears that were building a minute ago dry up too, and the cigarette falls uselessly to the ground. ‘Eds, I’m so so sorry’, Richie tries, his nails digging in his palm at his self-hatred, his trash-mouth once again getting him in trouble.  

Not looking at him, Eddie stares at a far away spot near the back of their garden, silent and still. Richie briefly considers begging on his knees for forgiveness, and spout out a one-liner, or explaining what got him so bothered, but none of that comes close to the apology Eddie deserves.

‘Fine, fuck off then’, Eddie mutters, turning on his heels and disappearing in the house, banging the patio door shut in rage.

Richie sniffles, feeling stupider than he has ever felt in his life. He inhales deeply to stop the tears, having no right to cry himself now, and scurry’s to catch up to his boyfriend.

The house is silent, no Eddie anywhere in sight, and his shoes are missing too. When Richie checks the cabinet where all their keys reside, he observes that the front-, and car-keys are missing. Eddie left, and Richie is clueless as to where he is.

‘Shit’, he says, the panic building and building until every pore of his being is filled with a negative energy.

The urge to hit himself over the head is astounding, but he resists it in favor of grabbing his phone and calling Eddie.

Ironic, considering the reason Richie got pissed off was because Eddie gave him no space. The phone rings three times before Richie realizes that the ringing is coming from inside the house, placed on the kitchen counter top, odd since Eddie never travels without it.

Most likely Eddie put it there to show Richie there’s no point in calling him, and Richie nearly screams in frustration. He’s so fucking stupid.

He decides to try Bill instead, scrolling trough every contact until he finds it, and then stops. Bill might be Eddie’s best friend, but there’s no way Eddie would pay him a visit or discus this with him. He’s an a grade idiot about relationship, and anyway, Eddie only has conversations about his mom with one person.

Richie clicks out of Bill’s contact and seeks out Bev’s, the picture of her smiling face with sunglasses on greeting him. He’s in for an earful with Bev he knows, but if it helps him find Eddie, Richie is willing to endure it.

She answers the phone after the second dial, her breathing heavy yet she’s laughing too.

‘Ben hold on one second, it’s Richie.’

‘Hey Bev’, Richie maffles, leaning his back against the wall and tilting his head upwards. If only the day would start over.

‘No Nicknames? Okay what did you do?’ Bev asks him straight to the point, no beating around the bush.  

‘I messed up.’ Richie confesses, holding his breath to wait for Bev’s answer. She halts for a second, then says; ‘Honey, you’re kind of an idiot, I’m going to need more information than that.’

‘Badly. I told Eddie that he was acting just like his mother.’ Repeating the words only hammer in Richie’s head how much he fucked up, how asshole of him it was to say such a thing.

‘Oh Richie. Why did you do that?’

‘I was upset, and I don’t know. There’s no excuse. But he ran off and took the car and I don’t know where he is, has he called you?’, he begs, a mantra in his sounding ‘please, please.’ He will never forgive himself if something happened to Eddie and it was his fault.

‘No he hasn’t’, Bev groans. ‘Make this right Richie, you know how sensitive a subject this is.’

‘Yeah I know, thanks Bev. I’ll talk to you later.’

‘Oh hey Richie, maybe you can check out the lake? I think he jogs there.’ Without thanking her, Richie abruptly ends the call, rushing for their other car. Of course the lake, how did he not think of that?

Barely bothering to close the car door, Richie is already speeding away, until he drives on the main road. Traffic is jammed in L.A, moving an inch in 15 minutes, as it often it, unconcerning about the hurry Richie is under.

He bangs his hands against the steering wheel, and allows himself one yell in the confinements of his car, to let all the frustrated energy out, the scream galloping in the vehicle. A woman’s head whirls his way from the car beside him,  a perfectly trimmed eyebrow raising.

Richie laughs awkwardly, gesturing his hands in front of him. ‘Traffic, what can you do huh?’ He mouths, The woman merely breathes through her nose and returns her attention to the cars in front of her, ignoring his antics as best she can.

It remains embarrassing between them up to the intersection where they split up, Richie taking a U-turn. The five minute drive from there to home took him twenty minutes today.  

The lake-park in question is one that Richie only tagged along for once, back when he promised Eddie to jog along side him every so often, but after that first time and Richie not being able to move for a day, he gave up that idea.

Still, he locates it fairly easy, a small lake surrounded by trees and walking trails with a huge parking lot attached to it. Seriously, Richie bets that the parking lot is bigger than the actual park.

Richie misses the car Eddie occupied, but since it’s such a large space, that means nothing, and so he parks, and sets out to find him.

A cold breeze washes over, causing him to shiver and clench his jacket tighter over himself. He hopes Eddie took a jacket as well.

After an intensive search, Richie finally descries Eddie, sitting on the park bench that he covered in his overalls. Forgetting the situation for an instant, Richie chuckles, the whole thing so Eddie that his heart soars and sings.

The grass crunches under his feet as he approaches, loud enough apparently that Eddie is alerted and glances Richie’s way. He doesn’t smile or states anything, he just monitors Richie and what he does.

On the way here, Richie’s mind was so occupied that he forgot to think of what to say when he saw Eddie again, and now he’s coming up blank, the only words that mull in his head are related to an apology, and proving to Eddie that he knows he fucked up.

‘Eds, I’m so, so sorry.’ Richie tries, still two steps away from where Eddie is seated, unsure if he’s allowed to come any closer. He balances himself from the tip of his toes to the ball of his foot, rocking back and forth. He would love to humor Eddie, but that might not go down well, and another fight, no matter how mundane, is the last thing they need right now.

‘It’s not enough of an apology and I know that I’m just so sorry and I wish I would have never said it.’

‘She didn’t care about me you know?’ Eddie interrupts him, starting a whole new conversation that Richie did not expect they we’re going to have.

‘Sure, she loomed over my shoulder at every turn and asked how I felt every fucking day, but she didn’t care. What she cared about was being portrayed as this godsend and a way to do that was by making me ill, but if I died she would have been fine with that, that’s another to way to gain attention.’

Richie inches closer, dropping down next to Eddie but refraining himself from touching him, because he uncertainty loomed in the back of his mind.

‘I love you Richie, even when you’re a fucking asshole, and I’d rather you didn’t die, even though right now I’d really like to yell at you. I’m not her.’

With a startle chortle, Richie nods his head in agreement. ‘I’d let you, I deserve it. ’ Eddie rolled his eyes, pushing Richie lightly, not enough to hurt or push him off the bench, no more like a friend type of punch.

‘No you don’t. You’re a dumb ass sometimes and can be absolutely infuriating, but I shouldn’t have pushed you so much in the first place.’

‘I cherish that you care so much about me Eds, I wasn’t ready to talk, but that gave me no right to say such a thing You’re nothing like her, you don’t even resemble her at all, not even if you tried. I was bottling shit up again and I avoided the subject, but really I needed to be honest with you. I hope you can forgive me.’ Eddie merely shrugs, the small smile playing on his features when he looks up at Richie again giving him away.  

Tentatively, Richie adds; ‘I guess I’m usually that pushes I you know what I mean, both in our relationship and me and your mother’s.’

The joke strikes the jackpot, Eddie snorting a hearty laugh, shaking his head in disbelieve. ‘And I assumed your jokes couldn’t get any worse than those you performed when you started.’

‘Rude.’

‘You know what’s rude? Your boyfriend turning you into a laughing stock at Saturday night live, I know your moves bitch, and I’m onto you.’ Eddie jabs back, his bite and fiery spirit back on board.

Their lips connect, Richie pouring all his feelings and emotions into, conveying the many apologies he hadn’t spoken out loud. Eddie reciprocates enthusiastically, his hands sliding up in Richie’s hair, winding around a curl and tugging until they separate.

‘You ever say something like that again and you won’t get away with it that easily okay dumb ass?’ Eddie baits, waiting for Richie’s agreement.

‘Oh, and also, I get tv privileges, I want to decide what we’re going to watch, when we’re going to watch it.’

‘Agreed’, Richie relents, so happy that they’re well on their way to making up, that he would say yes to anything.  

‘Now lets go home, my ass has been sitting here for way to long and it’s freezing off.’ Eddie states, standing up and seizing a hold of his cardigan.

‘Oh no, not my Spaghetti’s ass, what ever would I do without it?’

Entering the house again when they make it home, Eddie clasps his phone in his hands, frowning at the missed calls Bev left him.

‘Hey, why is Beverly calling me?’

‘Yeah, I don’t think we’ll be able to go visit for a while, I may or may not have ended the call without saying goodbye.’

[dreamcatcherfication]

Skin Deep - Round Three

I have no idea why this part was so hard for me to write, I just couldn’t sit down and get it out. Somehow, I managed, and here’s part three! Only one more part and an epilogue guys, we’re almost done with this one! Please don’t get mad at me if the court scenes are unrealistic, I really have no accurate basis of what a trial would look like. Sorry for any spelling/grammatical errors, my brother is blasting the doomsday alarm on an endless loop.

Writing Masterpost

If you want to send a request or a prompt, my inbox is always open! I publish a story at 8:00 AM PST everyday, so I’m always in need of new ideas. If you want to be tagged in my works, just let me know and I’ll be sure to tag you!

Prompts | More Prompts | The Trifecta of Prompts | Original Prompts

Trigger Warnings: Heavy talk about rape and sexual assault, victim blaming, slut shaming

Part 1 | Part 2

It was trial day. The courtroom was a lot smaller than Law and Order had led Cathy to believe, and it wasn’t doing well to soothe anyone’s nerves. Kit was sitting with her back straight at one of the desks in front of the judge and the jury, attempting to keep any emotion off her face. Beside Kit were Aragon’s lawyers, Maria and Joan, two highly educated women in pristine suits. While their presence didn’t do anything to quell Kit’s nerves, they weren’t doing anything to agitate her, which was honestly all she could ask for.

Sitting off to the side were Cathy and Anne, waiting for court to officially start. They were supposed to be witnesses for the case, along with Jane, Anna, and Aragon who were sitting with them. Maggie and Bessie were in the back of the room, watching and waiting. At the other table sat Thomas Culpeper in a dapper suit, his hair gelled back and his eyes stony. He had some dime a dozen lawyer next to him, ready to argue every possible point he could get his hands on. Off on the other side of the room was Francis Dereham, the main witness for Culpeper’s defense. 

The judge sat up on a podium with a fancy chair, the bags under his eyes visible to everyone in the courtroom. “I am Judge Cranmer. Today we are here to see the case of Culpeper vs Howard. We shall start with the accused.”

Culpeper’s lawyer stood up and made his way to the center of the courtroom floor. “Thank you Judge Cranmer. Now, as you all know, my client has been accused of sexually assaulting and attempting to rape Miss Howard,” he explained, “But these charges are all false! Miss Howard,” he pointed his hand at Kit, “is lying about what happened. She was the one to come onto Mr. Culpeper. He was not at fault and is being falsely accused of a crime he did not commit.”

“Objection your honor!” Maria stood up, her face growing red.

“Overruled,” Cranmer shushed Maria. He seemed very interested in what Culpeper’s lawyer had to say.

Silently thanking the judge, Culpeper’s lawyer continued. Cathy had to hold back the sick feeling in her stomach as he started preaching falsities to the judge and jury. “Miss Howard is playing innocent, when really she is a vixen. In fact, we can prove it. Mr. Dereham!” he spun around, pointing at the man in question. “I’m calling you to the stand.”

Disguising a smirk on his face, Dereham made his way to the witness stand, winking at Cathy and the others as he passed. Jane gasped in disgust, turning her head away from him. Once Dereham was up and situated on the stand, they got straight into questioning. “Mr. Dereham, you told me that you have had sexual relations with Miss Howard before.”

“Indeed I have,” he answered.

This time it was Joan who stood up. “Objection your honor!”

“Overruled,” Cranmer dismissed her. Watching the absolute horror that descended onto Anne’s face hurt Cathy more than she would’ve thought. Her girlfriend looked devastated at Kit’s reaction to Dereham, and it only further proved that things were far worse than they initially thought. 

Pacing back and forth, the lawyer started asking questions. “How do you and Miss Howard know each other?”

The charismatic smile on Dereham’s face was disgusting and unnatural with the way it never changed. “Last year I was the judge at one of Katherine’s beauty pageants. To make sure she won, Katherine came to me as the results were being deliberated. She forced herself onto me, hoping she could bribe me with sexual acts. She had her way with me, and said that if I didn’t make sure she won, she would accuse me of raping her.”

If any of the jury had an ounce of common sense, they would see the tears in Kit’s eyes and know immediately Dereham was lying. That’s what Cathy hoped, at least. Kit seemed so terrified for the usually confident beauty queen. Or maybe she was never confident and had just learned to hide it really well. 

The questioning dragged on as tensions rose. Cathy could feel the anger and fear radiating throughout the room from every person. Finally, Culpeper’s lawyer was done and it was Kit’s turn. Maria and Joan stood up together and nodded before addressing Cranmer. “Your honor, we would like to call up the victim,” Maria stressed the word, “Katherine Howard, to the stand.” Cranmer agreed and Kit was led up to the box for questioning.

Both the lawyers gave Kit kind smiles to ease her anxiety. The three of them knew this was going to get messy. “Seeing as we were unprepared for Mr. Dereham’s accusations, would you like to tell us your version of the events Miss Howard?”

Swallowing and giving the tiniest nod, Kit began to speak. “I was at the beauty pageant my father had signed me up for,” she started, her eyes darting out in the benches before landing on her father. “Mr. Dereham was one of the judges, but I never tried to seduce him,” Kit hardened her face. “My father encouraged that I talk to him, so I did. It was Mr. Dereham who started to put his hands on me. At first I didn’t say anything, because I thought he was admiring my costume. He was charming, and I thought it was alright,” Kit admitted, glancing down at her hands. “But then he started to touch me more in places I didn’t like, and I didn’t know what to do so I stopped and,” her breath hitched as she froze. “I let it happen,” Kit choked out.

All the rage Cathy never thought she had was coming out. She wanted to get up and punch Dereham in the face, she wanted to wring Culpeper by his neck until his face turned blue. Instead of doing any of that, Cathy put a hand on Anne’s knee in order to keep her calm. Glancing to the side, Cathy and Aragon made eye contact. This is wrong, Aragon mouthed to her, abhorrence written across her face. 

I know, Cathy mouthed back before turning her attention back to the stand. She could only imagine the fury Anna must have been feeling as she watched her best friend admit to being sexually abused. “And with Mr. Culpeper?” Joan asked, her fingers drumming on the side of her blazer.

“This time I did say no,” Kit mumbled into the microphone. “He asked me to come see him in the judging room because something was off with the votes. I thought maybe they had spelled my name wrong, that happens a lot, so I followed him. But he locked the door and started undressing and I panicked.” Taking a moment to breath, Kit stilled her face. “I told him to stop,” her voice was a thick monotone, “And he didn’t. He ripped my clothing open and almost had his way with me before my cousin Anne Boleyn and her girlfriend, Catherine Parr came into the room and saw what was happening. Parr went and got my friend Anna while two of the student judges, Catherine de Aragon and Jane Seymour called the police.”

Anne was in awe of her cousin’s ability to tell the story. Cathy knew Anne didn’t think of her cousin as weak, but Kit was known for having anxiety problems that made her freeze up or spiral. Anna was smiling proudly off to the side, her heart swelling at the sight of Kitty. “Thank you Miss Howard,” Joan helped her out of the box and led her back to the defense’s table. 

Maria addressed Cranmer, “Now we would like to call up the other witnesses. Anne Boleyn, please come before the court.” 

That was how the trial progressed, with every witness being called up to provide a first account of the events they were a part of. When Cathy stepped into the box, she couldn’t help but feel the anxiety of all her friends fall onto her shoulders. It was terrifying, having everyone’s attention on her, knowing that her account of the events could make or break the case.

After what felt like hours, Judge Cranmer called a recess. Anne went to talk to Aragon, Jane and Anna approached Cathy, and Kit left the room to use the bathroom. “She’s handling this well,” Anna commented, nervously casting a glance towards the hallway where Kit had disappeared down. “Especially being around them,” she refused to say the men’s names. 

Jane rubbed her wrist as if it was in pain. “I didn’t think I’d be able to handle sitting in that box, and I didn’t have much to share. I can’t imagine what it’s like for her.”

Cathy didn’t respond, her eyes watching Anne and Aragon in the corner. She couldn’t hear their conversation, but both of them looked frustrated. Aragon was holding her composure, but Anne seemed to be venting all her rage at the other girl. Before Cathy could make her way over and break up the argument, Aragon said something that made Anne stop cold. For a moment, Cathy was afraid Aragon had said something inappropriate that would cause Anne to snap, but then Anne threw her arms around Aragon in a hug. It was awkward, and neither girl seemed to particularly like it, but it was a gesture of goodwill they both needed.

A feeling of pride welled up in Cathy’s chest at her girlfriend. She and Aragon had been at odds since the day of the incident, and even the smallest step toward forgiving each other for whatever happened in their past was a good thing. “I’m going to the bathroom,” Cathy told Anna and Jane without taking her gaze off of Aragon and Anne. “I think this might be my only opportunity to slip away from Anne before -”

“Before she becomes clingy girlfriend bot 2000, I know what she’s like,” Anna shoved Cathy’s shoulder lightly. “Go on, we’ll cover for you.”

Quietly thanking Anna, Cathy bolting out of the courtroom and into the hall. If Aragon was distracting Anne, it gave Cathy the perfect opportunity to sneak out and empty her bladder. The bathrooms were down the hall and around the corner, pretty secluded from the rest of the court. Making her way to the bathroom, Cathy was about to turn the corner when she heard voices. Stopping, she leaned against the wall and peered around the corner.

Edmund Howard was leering over his daughter, his face red with anger as he scolded her. “How dare, how dare you!”

“I’m sorry,” Kit whispered, her eyes trained on the floor.

“Don’t apologize you stupid slut!” Cathy wanted to barge in, but she knew that wouldn’t do any good. Edmund would pretend like nothing had happened and Cathy wouldn’t have any way to help Kit. So Cathy pulled out her phone and started recording the scene. “You say this was my fault, and then accuse two perfectly dignified men of your crime? You’re a disgrace Katherine.”

Still unable to look in her father’s eyes, Kit mumbled, “It’s not my crime, it’s their fault. I didn’t consent. That’s illegal.”

“Thomas and Francis were doing as I told them,” Edmund growled, bending down so Kit had to look in his eyes. “The only way you would ever win is if I do all the hard work for you.” Cathy had to restrain herself from attacking the man then and there. He was admitting to a crime, and her video could be the one thing that helped Kit put Dereham and Culpeper in prison. 

The look of pure betrayal behind Kit’s eyes made Cathy want to scream. “You what?” she asked, the syllables broken apart.

Edmund spit like fire, uncaring about how he hurt his daughter. “We needed that prize money, and the only way you were going to win it was if the judges had a reason to pick you. It’s surprisingly easy to whore you out to these men.”

“It’s my body!” Kit exploded, stepping away from her father. “You can’t sell me to them for money.”

“I can, I will, and you won’t say anything about it,” Edmund towered over his daughter. And with that, he spun around and stalked back to the courtroom. Panicking, Cathy nearly dropped her phone as she hurled herself into a nearby storage closet. When the shadow of Edmund had passed, Cathy released the breath she had been holding. She had video evidence of Edmund admitting what he had done. If this didn’t help Kit win, she didn’t know what would.

The small shuffling of feet outside the door signaled that Kit was passing by. Once the girl was gone, Cathy moved to open the door. She tried turning the knob in different directions, but it wouldn’t budge. Starting to freak out, Cathy pulled on the door harder and harder. It didn’t budge. Cathy was trapped.

“Anne’s hairpin,” Cathy murmured, praying that she had her girlfriend’s hairpin from earlier that day. She had picked it up off the ground when it fell out of Anne’s hair, and Cathy prayed it hadn’t fallen from her pocket or gotten lost. Shoving her hands in her pockets, Cathy rifled through lint and lost belongings in search of the pin. 

Luck was on her side, and she pulled out the pin. Straightening it out, Cathy got to work picking the lock. This was the second time her lockpicking skills had come in handy recently, and it gave her a strange sense of deja vu to be back in this position. Except this time she was trying to get out instead of in. 

Nearly falling into the hallway as the door swung open, Cathy gasped. She had done it, and now she could present her evidence to the court. Sprinting back up the hallway, Cathy saw the closed doors and realized that court was back in session. Ignoring proper etiquette, Cathy burst through the doors with her phone held up for everyone to see.

“Katherine Howard did nothing wrong. And I can prove it.”

-----------------------------------------

Tag List:

@radcowboyalmondtree@boleynhowards@annabanana2401@babeebobo@dont-lose-your-queerhead@everything-insanity@mindless-pidgeon

[vikingpoteto]

we don’t have to dance (to the beat of their songs)

Chapter 5 on AO3

______________________

Relationships:  (Gen) Tim Drake & Jason Todd

Tags: Battle for the Cowl, Alternate Canon, Adopted Sibling Relationship, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Canon-Typical Violence, Mental Health Issues, Past Child Neglect, Domestic Fluff, Canon is not valid I am, and I want them to be friends goddamnit

Summary: In the middle of their battle, Jason asks Tim to leave the nest and be his Robin. Tim decides it's not a bad idea, after all.

________________________

Jason Todd is many things. A street rat. A literature nerd. A former hero. A crime-lord. Dealing with anger issues. Ignoring a whole lot of other issues. But he isn’t an idiot. And, while he’s been bamboozled more times he can count, he realizes Tim Drake is a bigger conundrum than he anticipated. He isn’t about to be fooled again.

He thought he had Tim figured out. Rich kid. Too smart for his own good. Smug beyond repair. No regard for his own well-being. Incapable of holding grudges. He thought the kid couldn’t surprise him, not in a way that mattered, until that first night.

That’s when he starts taking note of the small things.

Saturday is uneventful. Jason wishes he could say he forgets he isn’t living alone anymore, but, even though Tim makes little to no noise as he sleeps the morning away, Jason is painfully aware that he has a roommate. He can’t focus on his book, he can’t focus on the absurdly detailed report Tim made him. He definitely can’t focus on anything else after Tim flies down the stairs like a speedster, blurts out something that could’ve been good morning and disappears in the kitchen. Jason heads to his room, assuming the kid is getting himself breakfast, and he tries to take a nap. He fails.

After giving up and heading downstairs to make dinner, he finds the kitchen as clean as he left — did Tim do the dishes? Did he eat at all? — and he can barely hear faint noises downstairs. He makes a mental note to fix the sound proofness of his walls as he climbs down.

In his Office, like Jason calls it, he finds Tim wearing headphones. The music is loud enough that Jason can clearly hear muffled heavy metal. The computer is half dismantled, half loading something somehow, and Tim is carefully tinkering with the suit Jason gave him.

Instead of throwing something at him like he wants to, Jason walks into his field of view and waves at his face. Tim takes off the headphones.

“The fuck you doing?” Jason asks.

“Fixing stuff. I know you love Jane Austen, but do you have to use the same software she used to write?”

Jason punches him in the shoulder. He regrets it instantly and curses at himself inwardly. Tim, however, doesn’t even flinch. He snickers as though that was the reaction he expected.

Huh. Jason files that away for later analysis.

He gets Tim to suit up and they head out for the night.

They don’t go together per se, as Red Hood is still laying low, planting the seeds subtly so no one notices until he’s ready to make an entrance. He gets intel. Ruins the plan of a very misguided small dealer. And finally saves a pair of prostitutes from a harasser. He wears nothing but a domino mask all night, because there are only a few key players that must know Red Hood is back. He smiles at the girls after he’s done and they get excited asking him if he’s the Red Hood. He takes off without answering.

Red Hood has always been popular with prostitutes, as weird as that sounds. What can Jason say? The girls that worked near the street he grew up in were the nicest people he knew; he has a soft spot for them.

He meets up with Tim near the end of the night and he finds that Tim’s spoken reports are a lot briefer than his written ones: he stopped some muggings. Probably broke the kneecaps of some creep near the park. Confirmed intel he got from his research. He actually saved a cat stuck on a tree too, which makes Jason roll his eyes. They go back to Jason’s place without further ado.

Sunday is more of the same, except Jason manages to actually sleep. That is, until the sound of a hammer wakes him up.

He finds Tim in his living room dismantling an old television he got from God knows where. The shouting match that follows should make things more awkward, but instead it makes them easier.

Turns out Tim doesn’t mind exchanging insults or having dusty pillows thrown at him, and Jason feels more at ease by the time they swallow cold sandwiches and head out.

He has this unreasonable pang of anxiety when Tim vanishes into the shadows, but he shakes it off. The Red Robin suit is getting better everyday and, thanks to the cowl, Tim looks older and more menacing than he actually is, meaning no one is going to fuck with him.

It’s fine. They have a plan. It’s working. There are rumors that Hood is back, though nothing but whispers. Enough to stir his territory without getting unwanted attention from the better neighborhoods.

It isn’t until Monday at around 1pm that the other shoe drops. Jason wakes up scratching his belly and walks past Tim on the way to the kitchen.

“Morning, sleeping beauty,” Tim mumbles.

“Fuck off, Replacement,” he says back.

The kid is fucking with something that smells like oil on the kitchen table. Jason thinks to himself he should have words with him about it… after his morning tea. Morning tea at 1pm, but still.

He’s boiling water and staring blankly at Tim when he realizes: it’s Monday.

“Wait, what the fuck are you doing here?”

Tim stares at him. Back at the myriad of circuits spread around the table. Then back at Jason

“Wrist computer,” he says.

“No, here !”

“The kitchen?”

“Home! You’re, like, 17, right? Shouldn’t you be at school?”

Tim stares at him as though he’s grown a second head. “Jason. I don’t know how to tell you this, but I stopped going to school after my father died again and I traveled abroad to work with an organization of murderers.”

“That was a fucking month ago. You get a month of skipped classes, your dad died. Now that you’re here, you can go back.”

His chin actually drops and Jason is greeted by the sight of a nearly white chewed gum threatening to fall from Tim’s open mouth.

“I’m not going back to high school. Are you insane?”

“Are you insane? Of course you’re going back to school. Don’t you have, I don’t know, friends or a girlfriend or… whatever!”

“No, I don’t?” Tim scowls. “You want me to go to school so I can date? Why don’t you go to school?”

“Everyone thinks I’m dead.”

“Oh, heck off, you don’t get to pull the death card with me,” Tim rolls his eyes. “It works with Dick and Bruce, but I’m immune.”

“The fact that you still say heck off means you definitely should be at school around people your age. Get some bullies. It builds character.”

Tim’s pale cheeks go crimson and Jason has to bite back a grin. Knowing that Tim blushes like that opens so many teasing opportunities.

“Shut up, I got used to it because Alfred got mad at us for cursing! And I don’t need school to get bullied, I have you right here.”

Jason decides to test a theory. It’s a wicked idea, but Jason isn’t known for fighting fair.

“Tim. I ain’t raising an uneducated goblin.”

“I’m seventeen ! You’re not fucking raising me! You’re like a muscular child sharing a place with a slightly smaller child!”

“If you don’t go back to school, the deal is off. I’m not keeping you around.”

And, just like that, Tim closes his mouth and all the color drains from his face. Jason expected this. He doesn’t feel great about it.

“Y-you… Dick will notice if I start going back to school,” he tries. “This is against the plan. Batman will know we’re working together.”

“No. He’ll know you’re back in town. Make an excuse. I know you’re great at it.”

“This will affect my productivity. I won’t be able to upgrade your gear as fast and I’ll have to sleep more. This is-”

“Non-negotiable. School or no partnership.”

Jason knows it’s too late for him. It might be too late for Tim, too. But not late enough that Jason will let him give up. Tim may never have a normal life - the fact that he’s working with his almost murderer more than proves it. Jason selfishly wants to make sure he has at least a little normality.

This is about Jason, not Tim. Jason doesn’t think he can live with another deadman walking.

“Fine,” Tim says, like he’s agreeing to a death sentence. “I’m going back to school tomorrow. You happy?”

“Hella,” Jason says.  He turns back to his tea. “And Tim? I’ll know if you’re skipping and I’ll kill you if you do.”

Tim starts listing a colorful collection of insults a lot worse than heck off. Jason grins at him and Tim, in his teenage rage, doesn’t seem to notice that the smile doesn’t reach Jason’s eyes.

So Jason's theory is confirmed. Tim Drake doesn’t care about attempts on his life. He isn’t afraid to fight an armed man. He isn’t afraid of having a familiar person taking a swing at him, so Jason doesn’t think that he has issues with physical abuse.

Nothing freaks him out as much as someone critiquing his work, though. And not in the asshole way, that would be way too easy. As cocky as he is, Tim doesn’t look like the type to think he can do no wrong. He wouldn’t get irrationally angry over someone pointing out he can do better. He does, however, flip out at the mere possibility that he’s done something wrong and didn’t own up to it already.

Jason thought he knew Tim until he jokingly complained about him sleeping on the job and saw genuine horror in his eyes. Horror like never before, not even when Jason beat him and tried to leave him for dead. Hell, at that point the kid said he was a better Robin right before passing out.

Who did this to him, Jason wonders? Who convinced Tim that the worst he can be isn’t a high school dropout or even a dead boy, but a person who messes up?  His biological parents? Bruce? Is Tim even aware of it?

Jason doesn’t know, and he isn't sure what to do about it. Can he do something about it? He remembers far too well, thinking Bruce brought him in because he wanted another Robin. How every time he made Bruce laugh, or solved a case, it felt like a victory. How every time he got scolded, he expected Bruce to send him back to where he came from. He remembers having that fear confirmed when he heard from Talia that he’d been replaced.

Is there really something to be done?

Despite a good deal of complaining about work hours, Tim starts going to school. Jason hounds him to make sure he isn’t lying and he’s pretty sure he’ll have to keep checking regularly, because, if he learned anything about Tim, is that the kid is scarily patient and spiteful.

He stalks him all the way to school on the first day, making it painfully obvious that he’s there even if Tim puts a lot of effort into pretending he can’t see him. He pops at Tim’s classroom window and waves cheerfully as Tim flips the bird at him. Waking up early was hell, but Jason finds it ridiculously fun to make Tim annoyed.

On Friday, Jason decides to pick Tim up after class just to keep him on his toes… then he almost crashes his motorcycle into a lamppost when he sees a fancy car and a familiar man leaning against it.

Dick Grayson.

Despite the fun distractions Jason came up with, his whole damn body still remembers the beating he took. He wonders if Dick took as long to recover after that night.

His fake second death would be really short-lived but, lucky for him, Dick is preoccupied with something else. Jason parks around the corner. His height wouldn’t allow him to hide among the flux of rich kids walking out of school looking for their chauffeurs, but he has to come closer.

Well, time to get those stealthy muscles to work.

Ironically, it was Dick who taught him that the best hiding spot was in plain sight, and that’s how he casually walks behind the sports car and heads towards a beaten phone booth.

Dick doesn’t notice him.

Whether it was thanks to Jason’s skills or the fact that the older man looks like he’s having an internal anxiety attack, Jason may never find out. He does, however, hear it when Tim’s voice lets out a long word that definitely isn’t heck . He risks taking a peek at the duo and sees Dick smiling. He looks tired.

“Timbo,” he greets.

“Don’t call me that,” Tim groans. He would’ve sounded like your everyday grumpy teenager, but there’s too much tension in his jaw.

“Welcome back,” Dick says. “Were you planning on telling anyone you’re around?”

“I’m assuming you don’t mind, since you kept paying for my school. I was also checking to see how long it’d take you to find out.”

Jason almost snorts. Who knew the kid had it in him? Furthermore, it’s impressive how Tim methodically and deliberately hid all signs of displeasure. He looks earnestly happy to see Dick and he almost makes his barb sound like friendly banter.

“Timmy, you were gone for almost two months. Where were you?”

“I was pursuing a lead. It didn’t pan out. So I’m back.”

Dick is quiet after that. Jason assumes he knows damn well Tim isn’t one to give up just like that. At the same time, Jason can see Dick assessing the differences between the kid in front of him and the kid he last saw.

“Let’s go home. We need to talk,” he says finally.

“Sorry, I can’t. I’m heading to a friend’s house so we can do homework together. I have a lot to catch up.”

“Tim…”

“You were right, Dick.” Tim smiles softly. “Damian needs you now. I don’t.”

Dick flinches. “I didn’t mean…”

“I know,” he chuckles. “Let me rephrase that: I’m fine. You know, when you first asked me to help Bruce, I planned on staying for a few months. A year, tops. I was always supposed to go back to my normal life.”

“Timmy, you’re family,” Dick pleads. “Your normal life doesn’t include going home?”

Tim’s expression is empty of emotion when he replies: “I need space now. I’m not going back, Dick. I’m sorry. I have a place to stay. You don’t have to worry about me.”

“ Where are you staying? Do you need help setting up anything or…”

“I’ll text you the address later. Right now I really need to go, though.”

Dick presses his lips into a tight line. He hesitates before reaching out to hug him. Surprisingly to Jason, Tim allows it and even hugs him back, even if not as tightly as Dick does.

Jason didn’t realize that. The whole time, he thought Tim needed his older brother and Dick was painfully blind to it. It never occurred to him how Dick also needed Tim. He wonders if Dick felt lost when Tim went away, or if he realized how messed up it was to rely on a teenager.

And Jason’s file on Wayne drama keeps growing thicker.

“Come over for dinner tomorrow?” Dick tries again. “Alfie misses you.”

“And annoy Damian in the process? I’d love to.” Tim deadpans.

Dick finally pulls away from the hug. “He’s made a lot of progress. You’d be surprised.”

“I’m sure he doesn’t remember I punched him before I left.”

“Tim. Dinner?”

“Why would I say no to free food?” Tim gives him a crooked smile.

Dick moves as though it’s painful to let Tim go. He retreats to his car as slowly as it’s humanly possible, like he expects Tim to change his mind and join him. Tim smiles and waves until Dick vanishes around the corner. His look turns hollow, but none of the kids walking past him seems to notice it. Not even when Tim calls out:

“You can come out now. He’s really gone.”

Jason pretends not to hear two girls letting out startled little squeals when he leaves his hiding spot.

“That was cold blooded, Replacement,” Jason says, stretching his hand to Tim. “I knew you were a liar, but that was impressive.”

Without blinking, Tim takes out a tracker from the collar of his shirt and another from his hair. He hands both to Jason. “I didn’t lie, mostly,” he says. “I did plan on leaving after Bruce got better. Or at least when we found a better replacement. That didn’t work like I expected.”

Jason doesn’t say anything as he casually crushes one of the trackers under his boot and places the other on a random kid passing by. He knows how magical it feels to be Robin. He doesn’t think he could quit out of free will. He still remembers the addicting adrenaline that makes you feel like you’re really a bird soaring across the sky.

Until you’re not.

He notices it when Tim looks down at his own feet. Without thinking, he reaches for Tim’s head and messes up his hair.

“C’mon. I got the parts you asked. You can finish tinkering your suit tonight.”

They take the night off. It’s too risky going patrolling the night Dick found out about Tim’s return. Instead, they sit in the living room and Jason turns on the TV while Tim finishes adjusting the suit. The documentary about fish only keeps Jason’s attention for about five minutes before he notices Tim is butchering his cowl. Of course they start bickering.

The new mask isn’t quite a domino. It still has a nose guard similar to a bird’s beak that creates the illusion that Tim’s nose is more aquiline rather than a small snub, which is good to hide one’s identity. Still, Jason thinks going out without head protection is fucking stupid and Tim goes on a rant about looking like he’s wearing a condom on his head. Jason didn’t say anything when Tim replaced the old bandoliers with yellow ones with more compartments. The condom head thing hurts, though, and he ends up beating the shit out of Tim with a couch pillow.

A good deal of screaming and kicking each other later, they return to the task of redesigning. Tim replaces the RR in the middle of his chest with a bird-like symbol that hides a panic button. He switches the black gloves for sleeker red ones, although the middle finger and indicator are black. Jason thinks Tim is trying to make it more dramatic when he flips the bird (heh. Robin flipping bird) but Tim punches Jason’s shoulder and says the new gloves allow him to use his wrist pad more easily.

Jason hits him when he notices he weakened some of the defenses, and they bicker some more before Tim gives in and puts the shin guards and knee protectors back.

The cowl and the cape are gone, much to Jason’s annoyance, and he says Tim’ll look stupid. Tim calls him a knock-off Iron Man. Jason tries to smother him to death with a pillow when Tim doesn’t stop laughing.

It’s the most fun Jason had in… God, how long? He doesn’t remember the last time he could just joke back and forth like this. It doesn’t do good to your reputation as a crime lord if you give the drug dealers a noogie. Tim, on the other hand? Tim gets at least five noogies a day because he’s a dumbass.

It isn’t until they head to their rooms, later that night, that Jason realizes he hasn’t thought about his fight with Dick at all since they started working on the suit. He would've never guessed Tim’s presence wouldn’t be a bitter reminder of everything Jason lost, but rather than a good distraction.

Another week goes by before the suit is finished.

Jason swallows his pride and admits (to himself, at least) that getting rid of the cape was a smart move when he and Tim stand next to each other in full uniform. Tim’s new outfit doesn’t look out of place near Jason’s bulletproof vest and leather jacket. They’re a lot less dramatic than the Bats, and Jason likes that. They’re their own team, not one of them .

“Comms?” Jason asks.

“Tested and protected. Even Oracle would have to manually tinker with them to get into our frequency.”

“And you decided your field name yet?”

Tim hesitates. “I… Red Robin is fine.”

Jason nods. “Plan?”

“Break into Black Mask’s warehouse through the vent, plant…”

“Red Robin,” he cuts off. “Plan.”

Tim sighs. “Make Roman our bitch.”

“Atta boy. Let’s go.”

It’s an operation as simple as it is petty: Black Mask thought he could take over one of Hood’s warehouses. Jason was going to prove him wrong. It wasn’t a key hideout, but it was a relatively safe place if you were in the business of laundering money — discreet, easy to access without being noticed by the pigs, with most of the sewers around it hadn’t been blown up, which was always a plus. Hood was almost sure Roman took it just to show that he could and turned it into a drug warehouse to spite Hood. The fact that he disliked drugs wasn’t exactly a secret, after all. Szazs probably was involved in the process, Jason was sure.

In the end, Tim convinced him the stealthy approach was better. Just get in, ruin the whole operation and, by the time Black Mask realized it, he had lost a ton of money. Poetic justice and all that.

Jason complained about the plan being boring, but, as they get on their bikes to head out, he feels almost jittery. He doesn’t know if it’s just the thrill of being on the field again after so long — sue him, he’s an adrenaline junkie — or the prospect of the petty revenge. Either way, Red Hood grins under the helmet and, almost as though he can see his expression — or as though he’s feeling the same — Red Robin smirks back.

Just like that, they take off into the night. The wind howls past them as Hood leads the race, fast enough that it seems like he’s riding aimlessly. It doesn’t mean he isn’t choosing the way methodically. He knows he’s picking the right streets, the dark ones in which the dark red leather merges perfectly with the shadows. They rush past buildings with closed windows, sure that no one is stupid enough to glance at the two suspiscious riders.

Red Hood makes a sharp turn that would’ve made a less experienced driver fall into the asphalt. He hears Red Robin whooping excitedly behind him and he can’t help but laugh.

When they’re just a few blocks from the warehouse, they stop. At this point, Hood almost considers throwing the plan away — crashing the motorcycle into the place would make for an excellent entrance — but, as though reading his thoughts, Red Robin gives him a pointed look before getting off his bike.

“You’re such a wet blanket,” Hood says, even though no words were truly exchanged before that.

“And you’re a drama queen,” Red Robin retorts. And he grapples up to the nearest rooftop before Hood can give him a noogie for that.

Lighter and more agile, Red leads the way now and Hood is happy to be his shadow until they reach the strategic spot they picked — the two story building next door.

“Thank god this place didn’t crumble,” Hood comments absently. “The other buildings are too far for a clear view.”

Red gives him a strange look. “I checked whether it was still standing while we were planning the attack. Do you not verify the surroundings when you’re making strategies?”

“I like to leave room for improvisation; I’m not a stick in the mud like you.”

Red rolls his eyes under the mask as he reaches for the binoculars in his belt. Hood does the same. There shouldn’t be a lot of activity tonight if their intel is correct, and it looks like it is. They can’t see the inside of the warehouse — which is why Red Hood liked the place so much, damn it  — but they can still see the roof as clearly as they can see the vent they chose to… Hood freezes.

“Hey Hood?” Red Robin calls.

Jason pulls a face under the hood. “Yes?”

“Remember our plan to lay low so Batman doesn’t notice us?”

“Hmm.”

“Remember how I wanted to check on the rogues and you told me to stop being a stick in the mud?” He hisses.

“No one likes a bitching vigilante, Red.”

“Freaking Poison Ivy is here.” Red Robin gestures widely at the roof of the warehouse, as though Red Hood can’t see the green lady trying to get in through the very same vent they planned on using.

“See, that’s the beauty of crime fighting. You make a plan. The plan goes wrong. You throw the plan away.”

“Oh my freaking God,” he groans, “this is Young Justice all over again, but worse.”

Despite the complaining, they seem to be in agreement about what to do next: they take their grapple guns and shoot at Ivy’s blindspot. Red Robin is already getting his rebreather to filter whatever toxins they’re about to face.

The boys land almost silently all things considered. Without thinking, Hood points at  the other side of the roof and crosses an X in front of his lips, before closing a fist. Red Robin nods and sprints without a question.

For the second time, Jason freezes. The instructions were clear — take the other side, we’re going for a surprise attack after cornering her — but they shouldn’t have been. He didn’t realize he kept using those gestures to give orders, because he hadn’t had anyone working this close to him in literal years. He didn’t realize he still remembered the whole language — ASL, but also specific gestures that only made sense among Bats — until he had Red Robin following his orders. Something in his stomach feels heavy.

“... Hood ? Do you copy? ” Says a hushed voice in his ear.

Shit. Get it together, Jason.

He presses the comm button. “Listening.”

On the other side of the line, Red Robin sighs. “ Oh thank god, I thought the comms were suddenly fried. I’m in position. ”

Shit . “Hang on,” he says. He finally starts moving, extra careful not to make any noise.

“ You good, man?” Red asks, and Hood can practically see the confused furrow of his brow.

“Yeah, yeah, be quiet before Ivy hears us.”

He finally gets close enough to see her — she’s unscrewing the air vent cover to get in, even though she could probably just get a giant peach to roll over the place or something. It looks like Red Hood and Red Robin weren’t the only ones trying to be stealthy tonight.

He takes one step closer, and many things happen at the same time: the metal roof creaks under his boot. Ivy goes stiff for half a second. Then Jason is doing a backflip to avoid being bombarded with freaking thorns? When the hell did Ivy add a machine gun of thorns to her arsenal?

“Red Hood?” She stands, frowning. “Huh. I heard you were dead.”

“I get that a lot,” he says.

He reaches for his guns as Ivy waves her hand gracefully. Red Hood watches, with mild disgust, as what he thought was a weird belt snakes its way up Ivy’s torso until she has two venus flytraps settle on her shoulders.

“Fucking gross,” he says.

“I get that a lot,” she quips.

When he shoots at her, she’s ready. A branch grows fast enough to take the bullet for her and, before he realizes, she’s already inside his personal space. Hood dodges a punch in the throat but she keeps advancing. She knows better than letting him keep her at shooting range.

Welp, brute force it is then.

Hood puts his gun away at the same time he dodges a kick to the face. He takes a swing. One of Ivy’s pet plants almost bites his fist and he barely has time to retreat before the pesky thing takes a piece out of his glove.

“Huh. My sixth grade teacher told me those things are only lethal to flies,” he huffs.

Ivy grins. “My children are special.”

She presses and attacks again, and this time Hood lets her. When her knee hits his stomach, he grabs her by the calf and uses her own momentum against her. She barely weighs anything when he throws her hard at the ground, her back hitting metal and her pained groan muffled by the loud clang. He cringes. So much for stealth.

He makes to kick her before she recovers her wits, but apparently plants are more resistant than they seem. Hood feels his foot stuck to something and he curses when he looks down and sees thick vines holding him back. Shit, why didn’t he consider she had traps prepared around her?

“That was kinda rude, Hood,” she grins, slowly sitting up. “But I’m not mad. I might even give you a little kiss.”

By then, his resistance is futile and he wishes he hadn’t put his guns away so fast, because the vines quickly wrap around his whole damn body and he can’t even shoot the b —

A flying staff hits her on the side of the head.

“ACK!” Ivy shrieks, falling to the side.

“What are you doing, Hood?” Red Robin hisses, pressing a batarang into Red Hood’s hands.

“The hell?” Ivy groans, now looking dizzy. “I thought you worked alone.”

“I’m the intern. They call me Red Robin.”

And he stands over her, looking all heroic and ready to fight. Ivy, however, stays where she is, gaping at him.

“Bullshit. You’re regular Robin,” she says. “I thought you died. We all did when we saw the smaller Robin.”

Hood snorts.

The kid deflates a bit.  “How the hell do you know who I am?”

“You’re Harley’s favorite Robin,” she says simply. “She got really grumpy when we heard there’s a new Robin again.”

“I’m Harley’s — Wait, you guys have favorite Robins?”

“Of course we do. Mine’s the girl one. She didn’t die, did she?”

That’s one of the most surreal conversations Red Hood ever witnessed and he’s leading an unusual second life. Fortunately, Ivy is distracted enough — or at least hurt enough — that she doesn’t intervene while he cuts himself free.

“What are you doing here, Dr. Isley?” Red Robin asks. “Are you aware that this place is Black Mask’s?”

She scowls at him. “Are you aware that Sionis is a misogynistic jerk and he’s doing a lot of damage to the environment in this stupid warehouse? I’m going to take this thing down.”

“Hey, fuck off, this place was mine before Sionis stepped in,” Hood protests.

“I don’t care if you’re his landlord.” She gives him a scathing look. “I want him out.”

“This is great then!” Red Robin smiles. “We also want him out. And we have eco friendly plans for the place after Black Mask is out of the equation.”

Ivy gapes at Red Robin as though he started speaking a foreign language out of the blue. Red Hood is thankful for his helmet because he’s sure his expression isn’t much better.

“Are you suggesting we team up with Poison Ivy?”

“Why not?” Red Robin smiles as if he’s suggesting they should have burgers later. “The enemy of my enemy, right? Plus, I used to give her a free pass here and there because sometimes she’s right, you know?”

“Huh. So that’s why you’re Harls’ favorite.”

Red Robin shrugs again and stretches his hand to her. “Friends for the night?”

To Red Hood’s utter shock, she hesitates for less than a second before taking the kid’s hand and letting him pull her back to her feet.

“Just tonight, though,” she says.

If anyone told Jason tonight he’d be working with no one other than the Poison Ivy to take down one of Black Mask’s drug labs, he’d call them insane.

Nonetheless, he watches as Ivy throws caution to the wind — there’s no way the people inside didn’t hear their little scuffle — and uses one of their sentient plants to rip off an entrance on the metal roof. Right before jumping in, however, Red Robin squeezes his shoulder.

“What was that?” he whispers low enough that Ivy won’t hear them. “You were off. That wasn’t like you.”

Hood shrugs his hand away. “We’ll talk about this later. Come on, we can’t let Ivy have all the fun.”

They can already hear the screaming inside, so Red has no option other than compliance. Time to crash the party, he was looking forward to this.

And it’s fun. Having Tim around is fun. Watching a bunch of crooks run terrified of a plant lady is fun. Rounding up his former employees — those traitors — and watching their comically horrified faces upon realizing he isn’t dead is fun.

So much fun he completely misses the fact that there was someone else tailing Ivy. No one sees it when a young boy clad in bright colors rushes away from the place. Robin doesn’t know what to make out of what he witnessed tonight.