#of all your bad decisions jon

[legobiwan]

I'm sorry, but the image of Jonathan Sims hopping a Greyhound bus across the American Midwest is Peak Comedy.

[theoestofocs]

but the thing is, melanie hates jon because he is so very much like her.

they work in adjacent fields, they've got such similar temperaments - they both run straight for whatever supernatural horror they need to understand, they both suck at planning ahead (poisoned coffee, melanie?) and they both lash out as a primary defense mechanism - and jon wasn't qualified for his job, and martin's only "degree" was in paranormal psychology, so clearly the Institute was hiring from a broader pool than "qualified archivists." i can't imagine ghost studies are all that lucrative as a field. if melanie hadn't made it as a youtuber, what would she have done? we don't know a lot about her educational background but - she knows what it's like, to need to know. she walked into the Institute and got a job because Elias saw that he could use her.

If she'd had a legitimate encounter sooner, if she'd started her quest a few years early, if she'd come to the Institute to give her statement and stayed to use their library before Gertrude had died -

Or even if she just couldn't survive on a youtuber's salary, if she'd gone looking for job postings in relevant fields -

It could have been her. She looks at Jon, and she sees exactly who she could have been. It's only luck that it wasn't.

And that's the kicker, isn't it? It's luck, that she's in her shoes instead of Jon's.

And is she supposed to feel lucky? To feel thankful that she's had to suffer through attack after attack, Elias showing her how her father (her dad, who called her his little moth) died screaming, her body torn open by things that don't exist, her sense of self slipping as she ripped into flesh with no recognizable form, her trust violated as she woke up to two of the few remaining people who are supposed to be on her side cutting into her against her will - to feel lucky, because she had to gouge her eyes out just to have her body back in her control -

Is she supposed to be happy that she lived through all that? Is she supposed to be glad, just because she could have been Jon?

Nobody told Melanie she needed to feel sorry for Jon, or give him her sympathy, or any other kind of pity. She just wants to give it, because God, what he'd gone through -

(Thank God it wasn't her -)

- Fuck that, she isn't lucky.

She hates Jon, because she refuses to feel grateful for the horror show her life has been. (Because she's grateful, that it wasn't her; and she's furious, because - yes it was. she paid the price of the apocalypse in blood and scars and trauma, too. She wasn't Jon, and could have been - but fuck it, she was still Melanie. and the hell that she has lived through isn't nothing.)

It's just bad luck, that it was Jon of all people. It's just bad luck, that it was Melanie.

No one here is lucky.

[inklingofadream]

ok it seems. definitive. fics will deanon in the morning unless 3 ppl like this post to feed the no impulse control part of my brain. then you get 1 and 1/15 dead dove, heavy warnings fics tonight and probably 2 less dead dove fics at an indeterminate point in the future

[rad-batson]

Billy Batson and Damian Wayne being weirdly good friends (ft. the occasional Jon Kent)

Billy befriends Damian after the JL learns his real identity. Batman approached him and told him they should meet since they’re the same age.

At first, it’s awkward because Damian isn’t interested in making friends, and Billy’s mad that Batman is essentially sending him to the kids' table. Until… 

Damian: “Why must my father insist that I socialize? I can handle myself!” Billy: “Thank you! I’ve been on my own since I was six. I don’t need an adult to tell me what to do.” Damian: “…I like you.” Billy: “Wanna spy on the Justice League?” Damian: “Yes.”

Batman immediately regrets his decision.

At first, the two don’t really talk outside of meetings or happenstance, but when they do, they’re like twins. They know exactly what the other is thinking at all times. (The adults are terrified.)

Both end up bonding over their upbringing, specifically the fact that they were abused/traumatized/malnourished for several years. That marks the point where they start talking regularly.

Damian nearly jumps out of his skin the first time Billy speaks to him in Arabic (courtesy of the Islamic Prophet, Solomon.) They now speak exclusively in Arabic when they gossip.

They will cut a bitch. Do not get on either’s bad side.

Every time one of them says something out of pocket, the other one high-fives them. Even Jon is concerned (and very jealous.)

Billy is required to attend the same school as the Teen Titans and YJ for a bit as a condition of staying in the JL so he and Damian end up taking a few classes together.

Billy “I have Zeus on speed dial” Batson and Damian “I got a PhD in The Classics at age six” Wayne proceed to roast their history professors in the back of the classroom for all of the misinformation.

Damian: “Okay so I really need a human skull, but you can’t ask why.” Billy: “As long as you also don’t ask why.” *pulls out several pristine human skulls from pocket dimension* “Take your pick.” Damian: “…this one.” Jon: “what the fuck what the fuck what the fuck what the fuck”

They’re both eerily good at schooling their emotions due to countless years of emotional abuse and neglect. If anything goes wrong during a mission, it’s like a switch is flipped. They are suddenly completely level-headed.

Damian gifts Billy a PC that he built himself so they can play games together without so much lag. (It’s literally just Minecraft on creative mode. They design a working amusement park together.)

Both have been permanently banned from all zoos on the eastern seaboard. Damian tried to “liberate” the ostriches, and Billy taught the gorillas swear words in sign language.

Everyone Else: “We need to find civilization on this desert planet we crashed landed on or we’ll starve.” Billy and Damian: “The human body can go ten days without food.” Everyone: “…Are you okay?” Billy and Damian: “Not important.”

Billy, Jon, Colin, and Damian have a group chat where they regularly place bets on dumb mishaps the adults get themselves into. The one rule is they can’t bet with cash. Thus they create a trading system made entirely of local snacks, Pokémon cards, supernatural knick-knacks, and dares.

[branwinged]

what do you think about the argument that the incest and dragons make the targaryens so much worse compared to the other houses that the comparisons between them are basically useless?

i will address the incest first, but i'm not interested in any argument arising from disgust. disgust has no moral value and should not be the basis for any ethical/political positions. incest is often predicated on abuse which is the material reason for why it's bad.

so, the argument is that targaryen incestuous marriage is innately more harmful than your average westerosi non-incestuous marriage. the strongest point in favour of this is: when your in-laws are also your natal family, there is no possible recourse for the bride in the event of abuse. i agree with this, maybe ned and brandon would've aided lyanna against robert, but that's one isolated (hypothetical) example. this is not the reality of many women in the main series. not for cersei and not for lysa. in fact, i don't think there is a single instance where the bride's family moves to interfere with a lawful marriage. the martells couldn't do much when rhaegar humiliated elia at harrenhal and then again when he disappeared with lyanna. hoster did nothing when catelyn's new husband returned from the war with his bastard son and shamed her with his decision to raise jon at winterfell. one can hold up margaery as the exception to this, olenna seemed certain that loras would've been outraged enough on her behalf to immediately kill joffrey and to avoid this eventuality they poisoned him beforehand. which was good for her, but why was margaery in such a position to begin with? because she was used as a commodity by her family in their political maneuvering, first with renly and then again with joffrey/tommen. and understand that the tyrells' chief worry here was loras becoming a kingslayer, any concern for margaery's prospective abuse was still secondary.

and this is why the argument doesn't work for me. because within the culture of westeros all women are a commodity, valued entirely for their reproductive capabilities, exchanged by men to maintain the male line. this is the very basis of patriarchy. which is why the real evil here is the institution of marriage. yes, we've established that targaryen women are trapped within their endogamous marriages, but noblewomen in exogamous marriages also have very little hope for recourse. they don't have anywhere to go but pray for their family's aid (which happens rarely or never, as i've pointed out) or their husband's death. this is not me going to bat for incest, just that there really is no significant material difference between targaryen incestous marriages and other westerosi marriages. but to speak of the former as a unique kind of evil, one has to tacitly go to bat for normal westerosi marriages. and that obscures what the text is communicating. the targaryens are not an abberation. westerosi society as a whole is built on gendered violence perpetuating systems of gendered oppression. rarely is anyone not brutalising their daughters. the targaryens do it by keeping daughters within the family structure for consolidating dragon power and the other houses do it by trading their daughters for political power. both cases involve using young girls to bolster male power. and as i've said before, intergenerational violence is an overarching series theme.

now, the dragons. and inevitably this notion of 'valyrian supremacy'. incendiary take, but i don't think it's a useful concept. the targaryens are obsessed with their bloodline, but it's not a fundamentally different type of obsession than that of the starks, the lannisters, or the baratheons etc. they all believe in the inherent superiority of their bloodlines, it's impossible not to when their inheritance is dependent on a continuous line of ancestry which they can trace back to remote times. yeah, then what of the doctrine. the doctrine of exceptionalism is actually doing something else. the doctrine is in-universe propaganda. (most) these people aren't simply egomaniacs with delusions of grandeur, they're shrewd political actors. this is a conscious play to deify themselves in the eyes of their subjects, as royalty is wont to do. there is historical precedent for this with the ptolemies whose sibling marriages were equated with that of zeus and hera and isis and osiris. grrm is very interested in exploring power structures and how they derive their legitimacy. giving his crown family dragons (and then taking them away) is a fantasy extension of that pursuit. see, "dragons are fire made flesh and fire is power". this is a world where the kings are in possession of terrible magic which they claim is their divine mandate.

grrm is using the targaryens to investigate the realities of kingship in his fantasy world, not to make a didactic point about this one noble house being the enemy. as the crown family they must be narratively distinguished from the rest, this he does by introducing the dragons, and as a result of that the incest. both simply heighten the violence already present within feudal power structures. devastating war campaigns for the benefit of the nobility have always existed, the dragons just make it possible to spread that devastation on a more massive scale. the dragons in itself aren't the problem. if that was true, dany—the last targaryen wouldn't have had her entire arc based around recontextualising them as a means of liberation. the power which previously served the authority of kings, now serving the dispossessed.

[batman-dc-imagines]

Incorrect quotes with the J Squad + (Name)

(Name): Yo is Jerome sleeping or dead?

Jon: Hopefully dead, I hated his guts.

Jervis: Yeah, so did I.

Jerome: Okay first of all, fuck you-

——————————————————————

(Name): *Screams*

Jerome: *Screams louder to establish dominance*

Jon: Should we do something?

Jervis: No, I want to see who wins

——————————————————————

(Name): Everyone, synchronize your watches.

Jerome: I don’t know how to do that.

Jon: I don’t wear a watch.

Jervis: Time is a construct.

——————————————————————

(Name): Can I be frank with you guys?

Jerome: Sure, but I don’t see how changing your name is gonna help.

Jon: Can I still be Jon?

Jervis: Shh, let Frank speak.

(Name): I hate y’all.

Jervis: You don’t mean that, Frank.

——————————————————————

(Name), about Jerome: Apparently we’re getting someone new in the group.

Jon: Are we stealing them?

Jervis: New or used?

(Name): Wonderful responses, both of you.

——————————————————————

(Name): How did none of you hear what I just said?

Jervis: I’ve been zoned out for the past two and a half hours.

Jerome: I got distracted about halfway through.

Jon: Ignoring you was a conscious decision.

——————————————————————

(Name): Dammit, Jerome!

Jerome: What?! It wasn’t me!

(Name): Sorry, force of habit. Dammit, Jon!

Jon: Not me either.

(Name): Oh...Then who set the house on fire?

Jervis: *whistles*

(Name): JERVIS-

——————————————————————

*(Name) is cooking*

Jerome: Any chance that’s for me?

(Name): It’s for Jervis. I’m planning on making some bad choices tonight, and I need him on my side.

Jon: I never realized the forethought that went into being a disappointment.

——————————————————————

Jervis: I think (Name) was right.

Jon: I'm surprised they haven't marched in here to say 'I told you so.'

Jerome: They wouldn't do that.

(Name): You're right, Jerome. For once in your life, you're 100% right. I would never say that.

(Name): *turns around, the shirt they're wearing saying 'I told you so' on the back*

——————————————————————

Jerome, banging on the door: Baghead! Open up!

Jon: Well, it all started when I was a kid...

Jervis: No, he meant-

(Name): Let him finish.

——————————————————————

(Name): Have you seen Jerome around here?

Jon: Ugh, yes. He made a horrible mess of the blood fountain.

Jervis: It looks fine to me?

Jon: IT USED TO BE WATER!!!

——————————————————————

Jon: Why are (Name) and Jerome sitting with their backs to each other?

Jervis: They had a fight.

Jon: Then why are they holding hands?

Jervis: They get sad when they fight.

[thefabulous-mostgroovy]

Beautiful Boy

"You're sure you want to do this?" he asks, softening his voice. Jon nods.

"I... I think it'll be good for me."

That's all Martin needs to hear.

(art included!)

Jon/Martin, 1.7k words, rated Gen, read on AO3. this is for day 3 of @jonmartinweek for the prompt Hair Care!!

Martin truly thinks he's an absolute genius for using one of Jon's hair clips to keep the towel in place. Jon snickers a little at his chuffed face in the mirror, holding the other end of the towel up with his hands in front of him.

"Don't laugh," Martin tuts. "Or I'll give you a bad haircut.

"I don't know if a buzz cut is possible to mess up," Jon says. Even joking, he sounds a little nervous. His eyes dart from his own reflection to the scissors in Martin's hands, and back again. Martin plants a kiss in his hair.

"You're sure you want to do this?" he asks, softening his voice. Jon nods.

"I... I think it'll be good for me."

That's all Martin needs to hear.

They've gone over his decision a few times. First of all, the long hair has gotten a bit annoying. It blows in his face, especially in the Highland winds. It's a pain to maintain. But, mostly, it has too many negative memories attached. The only reason it's as long as it is, is he's been too tired and stressed and scared to go outside to get a proper haircut. He didn't grow it out, it got out of control. Just another thing he couldn't fix, couldn't get a handle on. Not to mention the fairly recent fear of strangers welding blade near his throat. Chopping it all off is about as good of a fresh start as Jon is going to get right now.

He remembers Jon's hair when they first met. It had been a bit long, even for how short he used to keep it. He kept it loosely pushed out of his face, but it fell in loose waves over his face whenever he was concentrating on anything else. Martin was never able to pay attention to the day's to-do's because he was always too busy watching Jon's hands run through his own hair, flipping it out of his face, the grey strands at his temples revealing themselves when he combed it back.

Despite his scruffy, ill-fitting suit jackets and trousers, his hair always fell perfectly with seemingly very little effort. Martin has curly hair himself, and he's never been one to get jealous over someone else's hair, but he really thought that's what he felt about Jon in the early days.

(It was not jealousy. He was just completely arse over kettle for his boss. But, can you blame him? Jon might be the prettiest man Martin has ever met.)

After Prentiss, Jon let his hair grow out a bit more. Well, let is a strong word. More like, he neglected in getting a haircut as his paranoia grew and grew. It reached his shoulders in just a few months, and Jon had taken up keeping it tied back in these large clips that's currently holding up the towel that will catch all that hair when Martin shears it off.

Martin remembers being quite surprised at how long his hair had gotten when he returned from his brief stint of running from the police. It was hanging in loose strings over his shoulders, like it hadn't been very well taken care of. Part of him had wanted to sit Jon down and detangle the nest residing on his head. Maybe give it a good wash.

The next time he saw Jon, it was with his hair in a braid. Or, an attempt at a braid. It was a bit more like a series of knots, a bit lopsided and kind of falling out. In his week-long shock at the fact that his boss was not, in fact, just a creepy middle aged man who was way too into administrative work, but an evil eldritch monster who is still way too into administrative work, he told Jon this. While he waited for Jon's tea to steep, he turned around and told him, 'Hey, your braid's a mess. Want me to fix it?'

To his everlasting surprise, Jon said yes.

With shaking hands and a beet red face, Martin had sat behind Jon on the couch, and carefully brushed Jon's hair through with his fingers. His hair looked healthy, like it had been recently washed, and smelled of coconut and bergamot. There was a lot more grey in it than when he first met Jon (but not as much as there is now).

Jon had sighed and closed his eyes, tilting his head back as Martin had brushed his hair back. He had wanted so badly to run his nails over his scalp, and he just barely restrained himself from doing so. His hair was soft under his hands, and it bounced back into shape when his fingers ran through the ends.

Actually putting the plait in was easy. Martin fell victim to being a girl's Gay Best Friend while he was still in high school, which is never all that great, but he did actually enjoy styling her hair. It came to him as muscle memory, twisting the three sections around each other, careful not to pull or tug by accident. He kept it fairly loose to not give Jon a tension headache, and the shape of his curls were still visible as they flowed into the braid.

After tying it off, Jon had gotten a bit stuttery and smiley, tucking the shorter strands that fell over his face behind his ears, and Martin had practically short circuited and fled the room.

Jon never got around to properly cutting his hair, even as it reached further and further down his back. After Daisy, he could never let anyone near him with a blade without falling into panic. So, he simply put up with the choppy cuts from cutting the dead ends off with a pair of kitchen scissors. It was good enough for him, apparently. And he never had to let any strangers near his neck.

Martin can't help but feel a little pride at the fact that Jon is allowing him to do this. Sure, he's screwing his eyes shut and bordering on holding his breath, but Jon is letting him do this in the first place.

"I'm gonna start now," Martin warns him. Jon hums and nods minutely, and Martin gathers some hair in his hands. He gives him another moment to change his mind, then makes the first cut.

He starts near his nape, moving along in as straight a line as he can manage. He cringes a little at the slope he creates—he somehow manages to cut a bar graph into Jon's ends—but it doesn't matter. He drops the cut strands into the bin below him, not bothering with the bits that stick to the towel. His hair goes from ending at his mid-back, to... whatever Martin has managed to make. It sits in an odd, blunt bob, just above his shoulders. When Martin sets the scissors down for a moment, stretching his hands, Jon's shoulder slump and relax, and reveals that Martin has actually cut much further than he thought.

"You look like Lord Farquaad," Martin snickers as Jon opens his eyes. They glow green for just a second, and Jon gasps in offence, then laughs.

"So mean to me," he bemoans. "Why must I face such treatment? Go to jail."

"If I go to jail, I can't do the rest of your hair, m'Lord." Martin picks the scissors back up, ready to cut more off before going with the razor. Jon closes his eyes again.

"I'll just visit you in jail," Jon says, seeming much more relaxed now that the first shock is over. "Give you a spoon to dig your way out."

"I'll Shawshank Redemption my way out of there," Martin promises as he cuts shorter and shorter. "Come back with scissors and a vengeance."

Jon laughs quietly. After another few minutes, Martin has gotten his hair into a rather shaggy short cut. It looks awful.

"Okay, I'm gonna plug in the razor, don't look at your hair."

"Why not?" Jon immediately opens his eyes and starts to laugh at the sight.

"Don't look!" Martin splutters, scandalised.

"I look like I got attacked by Edward Scissorhands!" Jon cackles, running a hand through the choppy sections.

"I'll fix it, just hold bloody still," Martin grumbles, face red. Even through the buzzing of the razor, he can hear and see Jon humming with giggles. He never could have guessed that Jon's favourite hobby, should they ever have actually started dating, would be winding Martin up at every opportunity.

He starts, again, at the neck and works his way up. His grey hair sits in patches through the black, buzzed hair. Martin wouldn't tell him, but it makes him look like a spotted cat. The hair falls into the towel above Jon's lap, onto the floor. Once Martin is done, and it looks a relatively even length, he turns the clippers off, and kisses the top of Jon's head.

"All finished," he says softly.

Jon opens his eyes and stares at the mirror. He runs a hand over his head, tilting it to the side a little. Martin, to busy his nervous hands, removes the hair clip from the towels and gathers it up with the pile of hair in it.

"Do..." Martin tries to act and sound casual. He does not. "Do you like it?"

"Yeah," Jon says, and finally smiles. There are pinprick tears in his eyes. "I do. I really do."

Martin kisses the top of his head again, running his hand over his hair. The short strands are still soft, but sliding his hand up the opposite direction leaves his palm a little scratchy. Jon doesn't stand, but he reaches up and pulls Martin down into a proper kiss.

"I love you," he whispers on Martin's lips.

"I love you, too," Martin whispers back. He brushes some of the stray hairs that somehow found their way onto Jon's jumper before he kisses him again.

That night, in bed, Martin strokes his hand back and forth over Jon's hair while he sleeps, tucked under Martin's chin. It feels nice. Different.

And Jon is still the prettiest man that Martin has ever met.

[weirwoodsugar]

lil jon things i am obsessed with/think are hilarious in the order they occurred to me at 3 am

-spends the first book telling anyone who will listen that he’s Not Afraid To Die and then a wight shoves its whole hand down his throat and he’s like wow that was actually extremely scary and never says that shit again

-always got little Things he says to himself but they’re all awful. very bad affirmation game no wonder morale is low

-“did lord eddard father you on a fish wife”

-the doubts that plague me can’t catch me if i just keep making Decisions!!! let’s hear it for Decisions!!!!

-arguably contender for top woman respecter but batting absolute zero at successfully comforting crying women. unless you consider “making her mad at you instead of upset” a success

-i’m not a wolf! i’m not a wolf!! i’m not a wolf!!! while warging like almost constantly with zero control. babe i don’t think your affirmations are working you’re experiencing non consensual smells at an alarming rate

-i wish mormont was my dad wait no i wish benjen was my dad wait no i wish qhorin was my dad wait no i wish donal noye was my dad. will someone be my dad please i just keep making decisions

-constantly having Agonies over ethical decision making while the rest of the continent hasn’t even really invented the concept of ethics yet? on the verge of a nervous breakdown due to his constant Agonies

-related: love is the death of duty but having strong ethical convictions/clear moral vision is also kind of the death of duty oops! aemon didn’t warn you about that one!

-stannis wants to davosify this kid mega bad

-“jon felt like he was fifteen again” (said when he’s literally sixteen)

-has a terrible violence in his heart but it’s kind of the least of his problems tbh. like yeah my fire and blood levels are a little elevated but i’ve got paperwork i need to take care of

-RUNNING DOWN THE TABLE AT YOU WITH A KNIFE!!!!!

-last of the giants fixation. god he’s gonna be so mad when he comes back and wun wun is dead. this one isn’t hilarious it’s deeply moving and endearing

-an eagle almost rips his eye out and he’s like well i guess i have no choice but to have sex with ygritte at least one dozen times. it’s a tough job but someone’s gotta do it

-just a crazy amount of anime main character pre-loaded swag (bastard of winterfell skin changer with an albino direwolf and a cool sword which he can really SWANG and cool facial scars etc etc) and is actively working against it. rolled super high on charisma and is trying to balance it out by being as much of a boring fuddy duddy as he possibly can. the devil works hard (at making me cool) but i work harder (at being very uncool). it is an honorable thing to be swagless by choice…….

-pretty sure he actively enjoys saying no to people. just for love of the game (the game is being disagreeable). very capricorn coded. likely brushes his teeth in the shower.

-REMEMBER WE KNOW WHERE YOU SLEEP 😈

[annabelle--cane]

yknow I've said before that georgie's apology in mag 190 is the last beat that wraps up her and jon's arc about culpability and support and addiction, and I would like to say that past me is a little dumb idiot, because that scene isn't the last beat of their arc, this one is:

cigarettes and the web lighter, the show's ultimate symbols of subtle manipulation and loss of control. it's a tangible representation that not only has georgie changed her mind about how jon handled his situation, but she's also accepted that she's not immune to having her own strings pulled, making a dodgy decision, and being sucked inexorably into the fray. in a bit of a reversal from their earlier roles, in this conversation jon tries to take all the blame for the apocalypse and georgie's the one telling him "obviously it's not your fault that you didn't outsmart the embodiment of schemes. everyone makes bad choices, it's just rotten luck that yours turned out to be tied to all this." she's left behind all judgment for "bad" habits and choices, she directly understands that none of this can be dodged forever.

[0bticeo]

jonathan sims | get some rest (tomorrow is already here)

summary:

“what do you propose?”

you take in a sharp inhale. you should leave. drag him away from his desk. but jonathan sims is a stubborn man, so he must be coaxed into doing so. 

“a massage.”

"a what?"

wc: 2.5k

tw: massage, making out, reader being a horny mess, jon being exhausted and a cranky bastard, hinted at elias' voyeuristic tendencies, usual tma ominous feelings, fluff (shocking, i know)

the analog clock reads 3:27, stark red embedded upon your retina. you sigh, fingers rubbing at the back of your neck as you step into the archives, weary bones aching.

it’s not your fault if you fell asleep in a secluded corner of the archives departement, squeezed between two shelves and piles upon piles of unlabeled statements. scratch that: they’re labeled. chronologically.

they do not make sense, however, because jonathan sims’ predecessor - whose name you curse with every breath and sleepless night you spend organizing her damn mess - left the whole department in such a state of disarray you might spend the rest of your life making sense of it. damn her. and damn your boss for being so uptight about it all.

you feel the weight of the institute, a looming force of knowledge pressed at the back of your neck, sweet pinprick of pain. you’re watched. oh, orwell, how right you were.

you make your way towards your desk, stepping over sasha’s pink slippers and picking up an empty mug. grab your keys, get out, and walk home. you’re not too far away from the institute. no trouble.

as you lean forward, palm pressed flat against a manila file, something catches your eye.

light. 

thin rays of it crawl, seep out from under the wooden door of the head archivist’s office, stark golden in dull gray penumbra.

he’s there, jonathan sims, head archivist of the magnus institute. holed up in his office, recording a statement, voice poised and measured and controlled in every way he isn’t upon being confronted with his poor sleeping schedule. 

you should leave.

you hear the soft click of a tape recorder being stopped. a long, deep-suffering sigh. a drawer opening, more muttering, some shuffling, rustling papers - oh no he won’t.

in three decisive steps, you’re before his door, your sharp knocking rinnging like gunfire in the quiet of the office. 

“who-who’s there?”

unease. suspicion.

you’re quick to answer with a long suffering sigh of your own, forehead pressed against the door.

“it’s me, jon.”

a pause. an exasperated sigh.

“what do you want?"

you take it as your cue to step inside his office, dimly lit by a lone desk lamp, dust particles turning midas-gold under its rays. your foot catches on a discarded paper - another statement, this one regarding a gambling fool of a soldier. 

(he who tries to cheat death gets the fruit of his labor and weeps upon tasting it.)

you pick it up, and let your gaze roam about the place.

a cork board takes up the majority of a wall, red strings twisting and turning in a web of confusion.

bookshelves align themselves in neat rows, cramped against one another, overflowing with statements, indigestions of facts made up and real.

a cluttered desk - a switched off tape recorder, manila folders, an open computer casting its blue glow upon the sharp edge of jon’s face.

he’s glaring at you.

“have you grown deaf since the last time i saw you?”

you let out an amused breath and make a move to put the statement on his desk. finding an uncluttered space is harder than it proves to be.

jon all but snatches the damn paper from your grip. if looks could kill, you’d be in bad shape. you lean back, arms crossed over your chest, hip pressed against the edge of his desk.

“no, merely mute with shock upon your wretched appearance.” you smile, teasing edges fading into concern. “seriously, when was the last time you slept?”

“that does not concern you-”

“it does, actually. you’re my boss. i can’t let you waste away, who would pay me otherwise?”

“elias pays all of us-”

“and he probably would have me promoted as a glorified secretary if you were to overwork yourself to death. i hate accountance, jon.”

he pinches his nose with long, deft fingers, glasses riding up ever so slightly. they reveal the deep circles under his eyes, embedded in his olive skin. you can practically see the tension oozing from him, the knots in his shoulders.

“if you’re determined to waste my time-”

“i came to help, actually.”

he raises a quizzical eyebrow, the living embodiment of judgment.

you feel his gaze rake your form, the own dark circles under your eyes, the crumpled shirt, the dust that clings to your skirt, what he’s sure is the imprint of the shelf you fell asleep against on your cheek.

you raise your hands in mock surrender. (you miss the way his gaze softens a little.)

“you’re exhausted. hell, i can feel your nervous energy from here.”

he opens his mouth, frowning, protest ready on his tongue. you cut him, merciless.

“when was the last time you’ve gotten more than three hours of sleep?”

that shuts him up. his frown deepens. you want to smooth out the wrinkles on his forehead.

“that - look, if you have nothing better to do than pester me-”

“it’s three in the morning and we’re the only living souls in this institute.”

maybe. you don’t really want to know what lies in the tunnels. or in the artifact storage. or what’s watching you.

“you’re not going to sleep at all at this rate - no, i know you’re not, because i know you. kinda.”

he sighs, exhaustion crawling out of his very marrow, and leans back in his chair. you take in the wrinkles in his shirt, now exposed because lo and behold, jonathan sims’ jacket is not sewn to his body and - 

and he’s loosening his tie, two fingers digging in his windsor knot, smooth silk gliding away under skilled fingers. you wonder what they might feel like slipping under your shirt.

“what do you propose?”

you take in a sharp inhale. you should leave. drag him away from his desk and into bed. but jonathan sims is the living embodiment of stubborness, so he must be coaxed into doing so.

“a massage.”

“a- a what?”

you laugh a little.

“don’t pretend your neck isn’t stiffer than the stick up your ass.”

“i do not have-”

“jon, please let me help.”

silence. again, he pinches the bridge of his nose. at least, he’s considering it.

you eye the piles of statements on his desk, half-discarded, half-classified. there’s a pattern in the way jon operates, even if he’s not conscious of it.

he only ever calls for your help when he’s sure the statements at hand are lelgitimate. this means he rules out those he deems written by lunatics and madmen. this means he does most of the work. this means-

“all right. but under one condition."

you tilt your head to the side, curious.

“one last statement.”

“only if i massage you while you record it.”

a glare.

“we’re wasting time, jon.”

“fine. get over here.”

you smile, palms smoothing out the pleats of your skirt as you make your way behind his desk.

he pays you no mind, long fingers selecting a manila file from a pile, opening it with care. there’s a certain stiff grace with which he carries himself, you muse as you step behind him. 

you watch the ripples of tension in the back of his neck, the fine strands of auburn hair tainted penumbra-dark brushing against his nape, and gently run your knuckle against his skin. he’s warm.

“whenever you’re ready,” you breathe, fingers resting on the back of his chair.

he coughs a little. composes himself. hits record.

“continued statement of trevor herbert regarding their latter years as a vampire hunter. original statement given july 10th 2010, audio recording by jonathan sims, head archivist of the magnus institute.”

you watch with fascination as the calm, composed, formal voice slips into something… else. something between jonathan sims and trevor herbert, and it’s fascinating, because for a brief second, split second instant of Knowing, you can See him, the tramp and his collapsing lungs, writing away his youth and hunts on bland institute paper.

you blink and it’s gone. 

there’s only you, the “lofi charm” of the tape recorder, and jon. his nape is bare. intimate knowledge settles in your mind, the fragility of mortality. bury a sharp needle there and his body collapses. 

you frown. push it back. roll up your sleeves and rub your hands together, warming them up because they’re always cold, and the least you can do is give him a modicum of comfort.

slowly, carefully, you put your hands over his shoulders. he tenses at that, briefly, until you start rubbing away the years of tension gnawing at him.

slowly, surely, you knead poor, exhausted muscles. slowly, surely, he relaxes under your touch, head leaning back ever so slightly.

from this close, you can smell him, you realize. cold coffee, dusty paper, cedarwood aftershave and something like a hint of sweat. 

“good?” you whisper, almost silent, voice lost in the quiet static of the tape recorder, in the dust-soft penumbra.

he nods, cheek brushing your wrist. your heart hammers in your chest. a strand of hair brushes the back of your hand - they’re graying a little. you wonder why he exhausts himself so. why he spends nights buried in his office, burrowing himself in piles and piles of files. 

hypocrite.

the only reason as to why you’re here, massaging your fucking boss and growing desperately wet at his deep sighs of content, is because you, too, spend much more time than reasonable trying to make sense of it all. 

the only reason as to why you’re here, taking in the gentle mess that is jonathan sims, is because you both leave at ungodly hours. because he can keep his eyes on you and so he knows that you cannot be responsible for gertrude’s murder.

you think he might trust you.

his hand settles over yours, and you startle.

he’s warm, palm large enough to cover the entirety of your hand, from wrist to fingertips. you don’t know what to do with this knowledge.

you don’t want to think of what you might do in the quiet death of the night, your hand slipping under your covers, down the apex of your thigh-

he slides your hand lower. oh. oh. 

you lean forward, until your cheek brushes his, skin on skin, and unbutton the first two buttons of his shirt. you think he might be leaning into your touch. you think you might cut yourself on the edge of his jaw, on the sharpness of his words. 

your hands meet his bare skin and you feel like you’ve caught fire, breath stolen away as you feel him in a way the cotton of his shirt didn’t allow. there is a sharpness to him. you can feel his jutting clavicles under your fingertips, sharp angel wings of bone, and your heart tightens. 

he works too much.

it’s quiet, for a while.

you don’t know what sets it off. one moment, you’re massaging him, relishing in the feeling of his skin under your hands. the next, your fingers catch a particularly tight spot in his shoulders and he groans , and fuck, you should not feel familiar heat curling in your lower belly but you do. 

you should stop. bid him good night and leave him with his precious recording. 

you don’t. 

instead, you rub at that spot, tentatively, and watch as he bites his lip mid-sentence, voice catching on a word. he’s a little breathless.

you are, too, heart hammering in your ribcage, hummingbird trying to flee its bones.

his hand wraps around your wrist and tugs you forward, free hand settling on your lower back, guiding you until you’re in his lap, looking up at him.

you think you might be dying of a heart attack with the way he looks at you, with eyes so dark you can barely make out the beautiful green of them.

“just what do you think you’re doing?” he growls.

you feel like you're on fire with how close you are. how his hand still encases your wrist in an iron hold. how you can feel warmth of him. how you can see the fluttering pulse of his throat, adam apple bobbing up and down as he swallows and fuck you want to take a bite.

your mouth feels dry.

“i- i don’t-” 

his grip tightens on your wrist. 

“answer me.”

somehow you’re closer. close enough to feel his breath on your lips, to find yourself staring up at him through hooded eyes, to find him staring back with parted lips. 

whatever’s left of your resolve dissolves into a puddle of desire. 

“jon, please, let me kiss you.”

a pause. the faintest glint of disbelief in his eyes.

then his lips crash on yours. 

you startle, hand shooting forward to grasp the nearest thing for purchase and find only him, him and the crisp cotton of his shirt, all exhaustion and boiling frustration.

he puts his mouth to you like one would to a lover’s and kisses you slowly, deeply, unraveling you like a beloved mystery. 

your body sings for him, and it’s so right you dismiss the ever-present pinprick pressure at the back of your neck. 

his palm cups it, your nape, warmth consuming that pinprick pain, until the only thing you can do is sigh in his mouth and press yourself closer.

his lips part from yours, briefly, a breath away, and it’s too damn far, so you tug at his cravat and pull him down. your fingers dig in his shirt, his hair, and he groans at the way your nails rake his scalp.

your lips part for him in a soft, whisper-quiet moan of his name, and he swallows it down almost greedily. you feel his tongue brush against yours and let out a low, needy sound, molten desire coursing through your veins.

his hand slips under your shirt, reaches for the soft skin of your side and presses up, up, up until it meets your breast and his thumb presses against your nipple in tight circles and you’re almost sobbing against his lips. 

you’re not aware that your hips are grinding against the hardness of him until his hand settles on your hip, slowing you down to a stop, and you part from him, breathless, and so, so needy.

there’s a thread of saliva between you, thin little spider-web intertwining your fates.

he looks at you, disheveled, glasses slightly askew, their lenses foggy, shirt half-opened for your gaze to meet tantalizing skin. a feast for the sore eyes.

“you might want to make me breakfast instead.”

“not like this,” he mumbles, thumb swiping against your bottom lip. “not- at least, let me treat you to dinner first.”

he chuckles at that, a little breathless, a little exasperated, definitely fond.

“cheeky.”

you peck his lip, sweetly. his hand tightens over your hip.

“look at the time, jon.” 

he rides up his sleeve ever so slightly to reveal his watch and with it, the tantalizing softness of his pulse, beating wildly against the tender skin of his inner wrist. almost four in the morning. you press your lips there, feel the yearning of his beating heart. 

he doesn’t think he’s seen you this beautiful. you, disheveled, on his lap, almost chest to chest with him, bringing his palm to your cheek and pressing fluttering kisses to his fingers. you, smiling up at him, exhausted, worn to the bone, but happy, and -

“oh.”

“what is it?”

your gaze lands on the tape recorder. oh.

“still recording. i should -”

“go home, get some sleep and finish what you started - me included - later.”

he sighs. there’s still a smile on his lips, exhaustion melting down to affection. 

"fine. end recording.”

[spxllcxstxr]

Goodbyes • J.S

(Gif not mine)

Request: Would you mind writing a little something for Jon? I would also really appreciate it if there weren't any spoilers for the later seasons in it :D Thank youuuuuuu ♡♡♡♡♡♡♡ — anon

Summary: Jon sets off for the Wall, leaving you behind

Warnings: reader wears a dress but no pronouns used, you get called a whore but not like maliciously?, very very slight canon divergence in the form of the weather lmao, angstyyyyy

Word Count: 735

A.N: I’m back! This is my first piece in like what, almost two years??? Yeah…I’m sorry about that lmao. Hopefully I’m not too rusty. Also this is only second Jon fic so hopefully its not too bad! I’m excited to get back to writing for you guys again!! Hope you all enjoy! :)

•

“What do you mean you’re heading to the Wall, Jon?”

The man in front of you bows his head even lower, dark curls obscuring the guilty look on his face. His furs drape over his form, making him look bigger than he actually is.

You glare at him, fists curled at your sides, jaw tightened with frustration.

“Jon.”

Silently, he looks up at you, deep brown eyes boring into yours. The walls of Winterfell shudder under the harsh Northern wind. You glare at him, tears threatening to spill as your throat tightens.

“Please…” You whimper, begging him for an explanation as to why he would condemn himself to such a place.

The walls of the stable creak, the hay filled air suddenly too overwhelming.

Jon shifts from one foot to the other. He picks at the stray strings still attached to his shirt.

“(Y/N)…you must understand…I cannot stay here,” He mutters, eyes flicking away from yours.

He is only arms length away from you but he feels so far away. The fabric of your dress underneath your own fur cloak make your skin itch as it starts to feel constricting.

“But—“

“I am a bastard, (Y/N), do you not understand that?” Jon spits out, eyebrows furrowed in anger. “I do not belong in Winterfell! I serve no purpose here, I would be more honorable in the Night’s Watch.”

Your anger suddenly dissipates, and instead sadness claws its way through. Hands shaking ever so slightly you reach out to grab Jon’s gloved hands. You try to capture his gaze once again. The howling wind seems to have calmed down along with his outburst.

You know he’s made his decision.

“But I love you, Jon Snow,” You whisper, clinging onto his hands even tighter than before. “And if you truly wish to punish yourself by going to the Wall then I will never see you again.” The hope in your voice is mixed with desperation.

You feel your lip quiver as his eyes soften.

“You cannot love me, (Y/N). You cannot love a bastard,” He says softly. “I do not hold a title nor any land. I have no future other than being Lord Stark’s bastard son.”

“That means nothing to me, Jon, all I want is you—“

“But it matters to me!” He interrupts, frown etched into his face, tinged red from the cold. “Aye, I could eventually obtain some plot of land but no matter where I go, I will always be Lord Stark’s bastard. And with me, (Y/N)…You would always be plagued with being the bastard’s whore,”

You sigh, bringing one of your hands up to graze his cold cheek. Tears fall slowly down your face.

“There is no escape for me,” Jon relaxes somewhat under your fingertips, obviously unsure of whether or not succumbing to your gentleness and confession would be wise. “Except for the Wall.”

The silence is suffocating as the two of you stand face to face, eyes upholding their connection. You wonder if you should kiss him. Would kissing him like your life depended on it make him stay? You’ve loved him for years and this was your chance. Biting your lip in thought with your tears almost frozen to your face, you wonder if Jon is thinking the same.

He doesn’t make a single move and you know it’s really and truly decided. There was no stopping him, he has made up his mind. No amount of love would convince a heart that thought it didn’t deserve any. You roughly swallow, a new wave of fresh tears blurring your vision and obscuring the face of the man you love.

“I must be off, (Y/N),” He rasps, backing away from you, bowing his head. Your hand slowly lowers back to your side. “Uncle Benjen wishes to keep an eye on me until we leave.”

“Goodbye, Jon Snow,” Your voice wavers as you shiver, pulling your furs closer to you. “I do wish things could have been different.”

“Aye,” He responds, his own voice not completely unchanged. “I do as well.”

He bows his head once more before swiftly walking away from you. You watch after him, how his dark furs trail after him and how his own silhouette fades into the falling snow.

You sniff as you compose yourself, smoothing out your dress and straightening your back. The snow crunches underneath your feet as you walk in the opposite direction.

•

[hauntingkiki]

HIII!!! can i request venture wedding hcs? how would their wedding be like with reader? How would they feel while getting ready?

IM CRYINGGG OMGG

SOMEONE PLEASE REQUEST A WEDDING ONESHOT SO I HAVE AN EXCUSE TO WRITE IT🙏🏻

Venture x Reader Wedding Headcanons

OverWatch

2nd POV

•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•

- let’s just start this off by saying; BABY IS STRESSING OUTTT!!

- they’re about to marry their best friend. YOU! the most BEAUTIFUL GIRL/PERSON IN THE WHOLE WORLD

- when they’re changing into their suit/with their groomsmen (a few guy colleagues and some of their guy family members) sloan is getting pep talks and words of encouragement from everyone in that room. not a single bad vibe is in the room!

- wedding theme!: whatever you want it to be. a classic, white wedding? you got it! gothic/vampire? hell yeah!

- ^ but! with your choice of theme; sloan also has some huge crystals (that match the theme ofc) that they’ve gotten from expeditions for table decoration!

- the location was kinda on sloan, they picked where they wanted to have the wedding BUT! they made sure YOU were okay with it before making it the finalized decision. if you didn’t like the location, don’t worry! they have like A MILLION MORE

- everyone in both of your families helped pay for the wedding (if needed), like your parents paid for your dress/suit and sloan’s parents paid for their suit

- when they were at the alter, they were sooo nervous, their hands playing with the rings on their fingers and the bracelets that were around their wrists to calm their nerves

- but when you walked down the isle with your father/father figure, all their nerves just melted away.

- you looked so GOOD in their eyes! their heart was racing, their eyes got watery, their face got hot (they cried) (you did too)

- your vows were pretty standard (if there’s spanish vows then yall did that too!)

- but when yall had your first kiss; you know this sucker dipped you into the kiss, twirling you like in those cheesy romance movies (LIKE IN TANGLED AT THE END)

- and now the reception.

- for the food a verity of sloan’s family meals and your family meals, most of them being hand made to avoid a lot of cost

- alcohol/champagne obviously. all the adults are either drunk asf or tipsy (if you have family who smokes/does drugs, it’s totally up to you if you want that in your environment!! i will not be saying anything about that because it’s very different for everyone)

- the younger kids who can’t drink get something fizzy! like apple cider or something!

- father daughter/mother son dance to whatever song you’d like:)

- sloan did a mother-child(son) dance to songbird by fleetwood mac OR mi cariñito by pepe aguilar

- first dance! sloan could not stop smiling like a fucking idiot, they were SO IN LOVEEE

- you both shed a few tears during the dance (and through the night)

- you two slow danced to (options because i can’t pick)

i only have i eyes for by the flamingos

unchained melody by elvis presley

here, there and everywhere by the beatles

bring it on home to me by sam cooke

amor eterno by rocío dúrcal

- everyone was BAWLING THEIR EYES OUT

- then the music played for the dance floor and it was some great songs! like;

september, earth wind and fire

i wanna dance with somebody, whitney houston

how sweet it is, james taylor

something stupid, frank n nancy sinatra

crazy in love, beyoncé

uptown girl, billy joel

rude, magic!

every little thing she does is magic, the police

and obviously some other songs!

- (FOR THE GIRLS/PEOPLE WEARING DRESSES) yall know the garter toss? where the groom goes under the brides dress to get it off all ‘sexy’ with the most embarrassing song on the planet while your family watched?

- yeah. yall did that.

- obviously with no littles present (14 and younger went somewhere else while this was happening)

- the song? pick your poison

get low, lil jon & the east side boyz

yeah!, usher

earned it, the weekend

let’s get it on, marvin gaye

grind with me, pretty ricky



- ^ COMPLETELY RANDOM, I WAS LOOKING FOR SONGS FOR THE GARTER TOSS AND THE PINK PANTHER THEME STARTED PLAYING…AND WE ARE THE CHAMPIONS BY QUEEN I CANT

- sloan definitely used their teeth to take it off, probably also got a little carried away too; kissing your legs and running their hands up and down before snapping back to reality when their mother literally SCREAMED at them for being under your dress for almost 5 minutes

- after the wedding, the two of you got to your hotel/air bnb and just relaxed, got out of your fancy outfits, took makeup off, showered (together LMAO) and just got comfy!

- you both just kind of talked about the night and what you wanted in the future and other things:)

- let’s just say you two didn’t get a lot of sleep afterwards😳

•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•

did i just write this all in one sitting? yes. yes i did.

I HOPE YOU ENJOYED!! THIS WAS SO MUCH FUN TO WRITE I LOVED IT!!

would you guys be interested if i made a wedding playlist for the (hypothetical) oneshot?😳

[dragonseeds]

what are your thoughts on rhaegar and lyanna?

oh i love them! there’s all this talk of them haunting the narrative and they do, but i’d take it further and say they are the black hole at the center of the story. the choices that they made, starting with lyanna’s decision to defend howland reed and what that meant to both him and rhaegar, who was very likely at his lowest point at harrenhal after the ruination of his careful plans, touched or changed the lives of every character and plot line in the series. the story itself is such a fun mashup of tristan and iseult, lancelot and guinevere, helen and paris, the fall of camelot and all of arthuriana really, the classic trope of the princess in the tower and the dragon and the knight: all of that in one couple and we don’t get to experience any of it with them. we can guess and speculate, but we can never truly know them. we experience their story only through the memories the people who survived the war they ostensibly kicked off, and those memories are all heavily colored by trauma, guilt, nostalgia—alternately faded and sharpened by time. it’s this incredibly fun and brilliant reconstruction of some of the most enduring tragedies in folklore and mythology and i adore it.

hate beyond articulation the way asoiaf.tumblr.edu approaches their relationship and the individual characterizations of both of them, though. just absolutely some of the most insufferably sanctimonious disingenuous decontextualized analysis i’ve ever experienced—much of that coming from people viewing this through a historical lense instead of a thematic one. like, imagine approaching the battle of the trident as “rhaegar is a bad person for fighting for his father who was evil! he lost the moral high ground with that one” as opposed to “rhaegar as a character exists to fail and die; he was the last dragon, carrying the unbearable weight of his family’s legacy and the burden of the prophecy for which they conquered westeros: the end of his life is the end of the targaryen dynasty. he must fail and he must die, so that dany and jon can grow up free of that weight and that power. daenerys gets to redefine what it means to be targaryen on her own terms. she and jon separately and unknowingly do the things that he thought he had to do—the things he was conceived and born to do—but never knew how: they do it because of their circumstances, because of the people that they have grown into, because they believe it is their duty, because they have the power to do it.” also, like, re: interpretations of battle of the trident, is there maybe another battle that occurs later in the series that is exactly the same thematically and contextually? where perhaps a character who was missing for a while shows up on the eve of battle, knowing that the opposition is right and their cause is just but that his family will die if he doesn’t fight with them? anything that adds an extra layer of meaning to what happens, aside from dany’s own connection—which is not as thematically similar but is still incredibly meaningful. like i certainly don’t think there’s any one interpretation of a character or story, but the worst ones are consistently applied to rhaegar.

and then with lyanna in particular, it’s like people cannot stomach her or find her sympathetic as a character unless they’re wallowing in her eternal victimhood. the constant dismissal of the importance of lyanna’s actions and what they meant to rhaegar is pure misogyny, by the way. her choices and her agency, the inherent meaningfulness of the struggle for both of those things in a system that seeks to reduce her to her body and the use men can make of it—all of that is important. the person she was and what that meant to people was important, but from the way i most often see her discussed, it’s like her gendered death is the only thing that matters. it’s okay to lament her because she got crushed by the wheel. if she hadn’t, if she wasn���t a victim to write flagellatory meta about, she would be a hypocrite, someone who needed to learn a lesson—as difficult for some of these people to relate to as dany or rhaenyra apparently are.

like, it’s just wild to me because her kindness to howland reed and her choice to defend him, to disguise herself as the knight of the laughing tree and risk her life and reputation to fight for him—is the answer to and the embodiment of one of the most thematically significant questions in the series. we see it most prominently in dany’s chapters because she asks it directly: why do the gods make kings and queens if not to protect the ones who can’t protect themselves? that’s what lyanna did, when no one else was doing it: she had more honor than any knight at that tourney or any man sitting on the small council, and it meant something to rhaegar. like what about this is hard to understand? i think he must have idealized her immediately: she must have seemed like something out of a song or a story to him, and rhaegar was a singer, a songwriter, a bard: he knows how stories are supposed to go—how to finish a song, or at least he thought he did.

bran, who also loves stories, says it himself: “and the mystery knight should win the tourney, defeating every challenger, and name the wolf maid the queen of love and beauty.” like obviously bran has some critiques i cut out, but he has the ending right—only the wolf maid was the knight, and she couldn’t have won. in the feudal gender prison, women are rewarded for being beautiful and their worth is derived from that and from what their bodies provide. she should’ve won the whole thing, but the system doesn’t allow that, so rhaegar—in a fit of single-minded capital r romantic hero idiocy—dedicates himself to winning the tourney to honor her in the only way he can: the only way the system allows him to recognize her. it was the worst possible move he could make at that time because of the romantic connotations, but i love him for doing it, as stupid as it was and even though there is no way it didn’t hurt and humiliate elia, or make him look terrible when he desperately needed to make a good impression on the lords of the realm—it’s just such a Moment. being reminded that there’s good in the world—feeling hope in the face of endless abject overwhelming despair—how do you express gratitude for that? the idea that he could only doing it by hurting someone who didn’t deserve it and making himself look like an ass is fucking awesome. i’m genuinely so sorry for people are incapable of enjoying that. could not be me!

but that’s just my interpretation of what happened at harrenhal. like i said, part of why i like them so much is that we truly don’t know. while i love darker relationships in general, the idea that he crowned her at harrenhal because he wanted to impregnate her then does not work for me. it’s a popular theory, but it renders some of the very few contextual clues we are given about what happened meaningless. for one, he didn’t know that elia wouldn’t be able to have more children at that time. this was discovered after she gave birth to aegon, and that is the point at which the question of the third child appears to have become a motivating factor for him. i personally think he left for the riverlands to consult with the ghost of high heart—the one whose prophecy is the reason he was born, the reason is parents were forced to marry, the reason his family burned alive the night he came into the world—and ran into lyanna somewhere near harrenhal. it’s possible he had been in contact with her prior to this (how? without her family knowing? what are the logistics of that?) but i think it’s just as likely it was pure chance. i really like the idea that his crowning her queen of love and beauty caused lyanna’s father to set a date for her wedding to robert or talk of moving it up, maybe even suggest a double wedding at riverrun, which would have almost certainly caused her to balk. either way, high heart is located between harrenhal and riverrun. arya also stops there while she’s kidnapped by the brotherhood without banners on the way to ransom her to her family at riverrun, and they trade songs to the ghost for her dreams and prophecies. i think it’s worth noting because arya’s journey in the riverlands mirrors lyanna’s right down to her “death” as arya stark when she leaves for braavos, paying the ferryman’s fee with the coin jaqen h’ghar gave her—just as jon’s journey at the wall mirrors rhaegar’s in many ways right up until his own death.

i also don’t think rhaegar and lyanna eloped because they were in love—this is implied by lyanna’s famous quote—but that they did come to love each other deeply, which is suggested by the way they died: her roses and him saying her name. notably, rhaegar did not leave the tower of his own volition—someone had to come and get him with news of war, which is hilarious because i think the tower of joy is right in the middle of like three major battles of the rebellion? like quite frankly, if he didn’t love her or care for anything beyond the prophecy and if she didn’t love him despite how badly things went wrong, then where in their story is the heart in conflict with itself?

i do want to clarify that i love the tower entrapment and the power imbalance aspects of their relationship as much as i love (what i interpret as) the genuine respect for each other that grew into love: it’s really the tension of those disparate elements that interests me. a dragon can love the maiden, but he’s only ever a dragon—still liable to hoard her like treasure or burn her up and rip her open trying to be gentle, to protect. that FUCKS, sorry! love is sweet and hopeful, but it’s also at exactly the same time horror, consumption, destruction.

idk it’s myopic to act like the beginning or the ending of their relationship—of their lives—is the summation of it. i think people want their story to be easy when it’s not: a clear case of a villain and his victims where everyone knows who to root for and no one has to think too much about things that are difficult or uncomfortable, questions where there probably isn’t an answer that doesn’t hurt someone. what a sad, tedious way to approach any text, but specifically this one. i’ve sometimes seen it suggested that if their story is romantic then it’s an endorsement or justification of all the “bad” things that happened because of it, and that’s also stupid. grrm as an author is never going to be someone who tells us how to feel about anything: he presents these characters and situations, often as a means of exploring certain facets of the human condition, and each of us has to come up with our own answers and find our own meaning. i don’t think he always knows what he means, or what those answers are, you know? but for me rhaegar and lyanna are one of the most fascinating parts of story, and whatever the truth is—if we ever find out—i can’t imagine a scenario where i don’t love them or find them really interesting and wonderfully sad.

[bullet-clubs-bitch]

Eat The Acid II

Summary: It had been 14 months since the fight, the worst 14 months of her life and finally she thought now was the right time to share her side of the story but all she can think about is the return of CM Punk at survivor series not even 48 hrs ago. What happens when she reminds him of the fact he's going back to a promotion that fired him on their wedding day?

Word count: 2,538

Warnings include: Swearing, violence, toxic relationships, manipulation and those kinds of things 

Part 1 Part 3 Main Masterlist CM Punk Masterlist

Inspired by "Eat The Acid" by Kesha

Survivor series 

I knew I would keep quiet when all of the news of what happened at All Out went public. I knew I would say something stupid or let my emotions get the best of me. I can’t believe I stayed out of it for over a year, this was me breaking my silence. Phill and I had filed for divorce months ago, only now getting the paperwork started. I felt anxious as I sat in the chair, it reminded me of the one that got thrown during the fight. Renee Paquette invited me on her podcast to talk about my career and how things were going. She knew about the divorce before Phill got served so with my permission we would talk about the situation. Figuring it had been the right time to finally hear my side of the story. At this point everyone knew, in fact they couldn't stop talking about it. Dying to know my thoughts, feeling bad for me after what happened. We both knew what could happen, how this would backfire, but I told myself I would never speak bad about Phill, sure he was my ex-husband but I could never say the things he said about me, about him. 

“So Y/n, I know you have some things you would like to get off your chest” Renee said “The floor is yours” 

I felt my heart rate increase, I grew anxious. It wasn’t like this was a live recording, this was me and Renee in the comfort of her and Jon’s home. Sitting with two microphones, creating a recording we could do multiple takes of or even cut things out. I looked at Renee and she gave me a comforting smile, assuring me things would be ok. 

“So, I’m sure by now you must have heard that CM Punk and I are getting a divorce” I knew we were getting divorced, but every time I said it outloud my mind couldn't comprehend that it was real. “This was a really hard decision but I really didn’t know what else to do Renee. I tried, I tried so hard…I..I just can’t do it anymore. It’s unfortunate because I really loved Phill and a part of me will always still love him. The whole situation ruined my family, I can’t even look at him the same after what happened. I really didn’t want to get a divorce but it was the best option.” 

I looked to Renee who said nothing, offering a warm smile encouraging me to continue but I couldn't focus. All I could think about was the event that took place less than 48 hours ago.

I woke up feeling like I got hit by a bus then rolled over by a train. My body was sore, I wrestled Full Gear a few days prior and felt fine despite having one of the most grueling fights of my career. It wasn’t until I woke up Thursday morning after I wrestled on Dynamite the night before that I felt it. It was weird walking up in Chicago alone, I spent many years here with Phill, it just felt wrong without him. I knew survivor series would be happening in a few days, finding it funny how AEW and WWE were both in Chicago less than 3 days apart. I decided to stay the week in Chicago wanting to catch up with old friends I haven’t seen in years.

Half asleep and in pain I heard my phone ring. After struggling to find it, lost in the mess that was my hotel room I answered the call half asleep, not even bothering to see who it was before I picked it up. 

“Hello?” 

“Hi” the voice on the other line was soft, so quiet that I almost didn’t hear the response 

“Who is this?” I responded, climbing back into the warm sheets 

“It’s me” the voice said a bit louder this time 

“Oh hi, Phill. What’s up?” I asked him, oddly calm, almost like nothing happened between us

“I need to talk to you, It’s important” He said quietly 

I didn’t know what was going on but I knew it must have been important. “Is everything alright?” I asked 

“Can you stop by sometime today, this is an in person type of conversation” I agreed to his offer, deciding to go to our once shared Chicago home to figure out what was going on. 

***

I stood on the steps of our once shared home, debating whether or not to ring the doorbell. It felt weird, like this was a foreign space despite all of the memories I’ve had here. When I entered the home I noticed it looked the same as it did the last time I was here. The only thing different was my missing items. I sat down on the couch agreeing to a coffee as I watched a very anxious Phill Brooks make two coffees. “So, tell me what’s bothering you” I told him honestly as I grabbed the mug from his hands, placing it on a handmade coaster I made years ago. A smile on my face noticing he kept it. “I’m coming back” was all he said and I knew exactly what he meant.

I didn’t know what to say, my throat was dry, my brain unable to form a thought. “No one knows, only Hunter and I know. I thought you should know about it and in person” He said softly trying to read the non existing expression on my face. He didn’t say anything waiting for me to speak knowing how I can struggle with expressing my emotions. 

“I don’t know what to say. How is this even possible?” I asked unable to comprehend how after everything he would return to a promotion that made him want to kill himself. “I remember when they fired you on our wedding day. Do you remember that, how that made you feel? How you swore to never wrestle again, never mind return to the enemy? You shit on WWE for years, not even six months ago you were talking about how horrible that place is and now you're coming back?” 

“I can’t believe it either love, if Hunter and I can make up I have hope that we might be able to make things right. I promise I will explain everything but I don’t even know what’s going on.  I know you don’t love me and that’s fine but I just thought you should know about it”

I could feel the tears fall from my face, I didn’t know why I was crying but I was. I felt betrayed, I felt like this was personal even though I knew it wasn’t. I had been by his side for the past 10 years. I remember when he told me he was miserable at work, I remember when he called me in the middle of the night when I was in Japan to tell me about the pipe bomb he dropped. I remember how they fired him moments after we said I do, I remember being by his side when he told me he wanted to start UFC, I remember being so proud of him despite his loss, I remember the tears we shared as I mended his wounds. I remember when he told me he wanted to start wrestling again, I was by his side through his whole stint in AEW. So hearing he was going back to a company that almost killed him, killed me, feeling like I had been living a lie. 

All I wanted to do was cry, over what I’m not sure exactly. Maybe it was the return, maybe it was about the fight, maybe it was the fact that he didn’t fight for us. I felt like a small child, I just wanted to cry and have Phill hold me like how he used to but that was wrong. That was then and this is now, when I looked at the man who sat across from me I saw the old Phill. Something inside him had changed, his hair starting to grow out, the gray in his beard returning, the love in his eyes. This was the man I fell in love with. 

I could tell that he wanted to hug me, he still knew me and he knew what I needed, he always did. He didn’t know what to do so I did it for him. “Can I have a hug?” I asked him softly ashamed of how vulnerable I was. “Of course love”

We stayed like that for a while, holding each other in a loving embrace, in a comfortable silence, neither one of us wanting to let go but knowing it was wrong. There was something so comforting about it, being back in the place I called home, with the man I onced loved, lying on an old couch that was falling apart but neither of us wanted to replace. It was like old times, I felt at peace, I was scared, terrified but this told me that things would be okay. 

Phill was the first to break the silence “You have no idea how much I missed this” he said softly as he began to draw shapes on my back, something that never failed to calm me. If anything it made things worse, it was too much. Everything felt too normal. He must have noticed that I had gotten more upset as he let go. “I’m sorry, this is too much isn’t it?” he asked. I didn’t respond. 

“What’s wrong Y/n?” He knew I was thinking about something. “What if I made a mistake?” I told him truthfully. To be quite honest up until this very moment I was still mad at him. 

“This doesn’t feel real Phill. Up until half an hr ago I still hated you but us sitting here in a home we used to share, this old couch, fuck you even kept all of my artwork. This feels too normal. You know that things can never go back to the way they were, I’m sorry but I can’t forget that fight. Do you even realize the long lasting effects that has left on me and everyone involved. You know I don’t care about that Perry one, you know that I thought he deserved it but for god sakes Phillip I watched you beat the shit out of my own brothers. There is something about this that feels too good to be true. It feels wrong, I miss you, I miss you so much, but I also hate you so much that I fucken love you. You just had to fight The Elite, why not The Dark Order or JAS, why me? Why after 10 years of loving it is all being thrown away after a silly little fight you started?” 

With every word I said I could see the guilt in his eyes, it was almost like he wanted to cry but didn’t want to show the vulnerability. “My love, I have tried everything to make things right, I know neither of us truly want this divorce but like you said it’s what's best. I’m sorry I didn’t fight hard enough for us, I thought it would have made things worse but by me doing nothing created damage I can never repair. If it means anything I will personally apologize to both Matt, Nick and Kenny, fuck I’ll even apologize to your dad. I know he always hated me”

“What about Adam?” I cut him off “This whole thing started over your hatred for him. You never once apologized to him.  Did you see his match with Swerve? That’s what he has to do to get the fans back behind him after you destroyed that cowboys career for no reason” 

“Y/n?......Y/n?.... You alright?” Renee called out, breaking me from my trance 

“Oh yeah I’m fine. Just thinking” I responded 

“We can wait, we don’t have to do this now. I know there’s alot going on” She told me reassuringly 

“I’m just still trying to process everything that has happened Renee” I told her as I looked at the grandfather clock that sat across from me reading 7:40 pm. “Raw’s on soon, do you think I should watch it, see what he has to say?” I asked Renee as I began nervously twisting my hair. 

“It’s up to you. I don’t want to be rude when I say this or anything but we both know he will probably talk shit about everyone during whatever it is that he has to say” Renee was right, Punk had a thing for shitting on his former employers and friends, I know this time would be no different. Knowing that The CM Punk would be on Raw tonight just felt weird, it was almost 10 years since he was fired. Even though I knew about his return it was way different hearing him say it then seeing it with my own two eyes. 

Since I  knew about the return, why was I in such shock once I heard his theme play. It was indeed real, the fans going crazy as the impossible was made possible. Chicago's son was home, home in the WWE almost 10 years later. My emotions were all over the place, on one hand I was excited, so proud of him like I always would be. The other part was scared, scared of the impact this would have on AEW, sure ratings were down but how could you compete with the return of Randy Orton and CM Punk in the same night. Part of me felt betrayed, after everything I did for him for what All Elite Wrestling did just to get stabbed in the back and join the other place. Another  part of me wished I was there, hidden within the crowd, in some disguise being able to immerse myself within the crowd, getting to experience one of his returns in person once more. Looking into his eyes you could tell that this is what he needed, he was truly home. He was happy, still in shock himself that he was back in a company that not even six months ago still had him banned.

I thought about what Phill told me earlier, ‘If Hunter and I can make up I have hope that we might be able to make things right.’ After that talk I couldn't get him off my mind. I knew if  he wanted he could just use that Chick Magnet charm and I would come running back but I needed to remind myself of the pain he caused me. How the past 14 months of my life had been an absolute hell. Everyday I look in the mirror and am shocked that I made it out alive, how somehow I was strong enough to tell that little voice in my head to shut up. I knew that chasing the feelings that were coming back was a suicide mission. I knew I shouldn't watch Raw but here I am getting home just in time to find my ex lover on the screen. I mean how bad could it be? 

[thesiltverses]

Hey, amazing people - hope you're well!

A quick heads-up: we've made the decision to factor an additional week-long quarter-season break into our release schedule (so this week's intended episode won't launch until next Thursday 19th with the early release coming next Wednesday 18th, and we'll insert a corresponding break into the second half of the season as well).

As you've probably already gathered from the first four episodes, Season 3 of TSV is big, and ambitious at around 50-60 minutes per episode, and our next four episodes are particularly chunky and action-filled - we've also had some bad luck over the past few weeks (our own fault, tbh) with missing/corrupted audio, so we've been playing catch-up to recover since then.

That extra week will give us the time we need to get back on top of production and take a much-needed breath.

As ever, thank you so much for your patience - really hope you've all been enjoying the season so far and can't wait for you to hear everything that's coming next.

Keep safe and have a great week,

Jon

17th August: Episode 1

31st August: Episode 2

14th September: Episode 3

28th September: Episode 4

19th October: Episode 5

2nd November: Episode 6

16th November: Episode 7

30th November: Episode 8

December 2023: Mid-season break. (Terror, exhaustion, panic. But maybe a little less of it?)

11th January 2024: Episode 9

25th January: Episode 10

8th February: Episode 11

22nd February: Episode 12

14th March: Episode 13

28th March: Episode 14

11th April: Episode 15

25th April: Episode 16. Season Finale

[syndrossi]

You said that in Reverberate AU Jon is called Jon because Rhea has priority in choosing her heir's name. And if she agreed to the name Baelon, would Daemon name Rhaegar Aemon to match? After all, he knows how similar they would be to his father and uncle. Or would respect (and habit) for the first name choice override?

And now I want an argument between Rhae and Daemon about the boys' names. There will be arguments of "Jon Targaryen sounds weird," "You can name your son after your father, but I can't?" and "A variety of names in your family wouldn't hurt."

I think Daemon would have been extremely tempted to go with Aemon for Rhaegar if she'd agreed on Baelon. The symmetry! But Rhaegar chose that name originally, he'd feel bad taking it from him. So it's a toss-up, really.

What isn't a toss-up is the Daemon vs Rhea screaming match over their names lol. Rhea won that decisively. After all, Jon is set to be heir to Runestone, he should have a Vale name! (Daemon, wailing: "The most common of Vale names!" Rhea: "Your family rotates and scrambles four different names! If anything, Aegon is common!" Daemon: *silent outrage*)