#the way that it was always jaime dancing around them and on the offensive

[ilynpilled]

“They have an ominous beauty … and they make this blade unique. There is no other sword like it in all the world, I should think.”

“There is one.” The armorer bent over the table and unfolded the bundle of oilcloth, to reveal a second longsword. Tyrion put down Joffrey’s sword and took up the other. If not twins, the two were at least close cousins. This one was thicker and heavier, a half-inch wider and three inches longer, but they shared the same fine clean lines and the same distinctive color, the ripples of blood and night.

[anothertimdrakestan]

Sharing Is Caring - Gar Logan x Reader Soulmate AU

Words: 2.3k

Requested? Yes! From a lovely anon!

“Hiya I love your writing and it’s cute that you call us angels hehehe! May I request 18 with beast boy in teen titans where a new titan (fem! reader) joins and they finally touch during a battle or something and the sparks go off? based of the AU you did with familiar green!” (18. I think you might be my soulmate)

LINK TO PROMPTS  -> REQUESTS ARE STILL OPEN!

I’m so happy you like the AU and I love BB so this is perfect! Also yes - I do call y’all angels because you’re always making me so happy and fulfilled so thank you for the amazing request angel I hope you like it <3 Also I there’s lots of Teen Titans universes so I went with the Titans from right after Justice League vs. Teen Titans before D.A. goes and rips my heart up haha. Let me have me moment.

“Welcome to the Titans y/h/n!” Kori greeted you, reaching out a hand. You clasped it, feeling her energy radiate but you closed yourself off from pulling her powers. “TT she doesn’t look all that powerful” a short, domino mask clad, child teen starred at you. “Shush Damian let her get settled in then she can show off her talents” Nightwing chided Damian who crossed his arms staring at you. “I think a new team member is sick! Welcome y/h/n!” a green colored boy grinned ear to ear. “Uh hi, is there somewhere I can put my stuff?” you trusted Nightwing, Dick as he had recently told you. 

Martian Manhunter had found you on an away mission. Some form of test subject you were a confusing mash between human dna and white martian, unable to shift on your own, who ever’s experiment you were had weaponized martian dna turning you into a parasite. You realized this during your training, and learned to control the leeching, even discovering a way to share the powers of others without harming them. Eventually on your next birthday you pretended your powers had disappeared. Seeing as only you could now activate your powers your captor rendered you useless, a weapon with no more bullets. At that he gave you to alien traffickers, who had little use for a human girl. Then, working tirelessly on a planet of some random sector the green martian stormed you, sensing the white martian blood. Fast forward through a terrifying fight and explanation, you had been brought to earth and dropped in the hands of Nightwing. He promised you a team and finally, a family. 

“Yeah I’ll take you to your room” Dick smiled, placing a hand on the small of your back - that’s when you realized he was powerless. Human touch was comforting, you didn’t have to suppress the desire to share, or steal human’s abilities, it was refreshing. As the two of you walked through the tower Dick explained about each person on your team while he gave you a tour. You had learned that Raven was quiet but trustworthy, Blue Beetle was uber powerful but kind of a loose cannon - you wondered if you could test your powers on his, next was Robin who was the newest but was cold yet secretly cared, according to Dick at least, then there was Cyborg who came and went, and finally Beast Boy who was apparently the easiest to get along with, even though he was green. It was a lot to take in while also trying to memorize the floor plan of the seemingly never ending tower. Finally you arrived at your room and began setting it up. You didn’t have much as you were new to earth, but you had a few rocks from the planet you were working on and some new furniture and clothing Dick had bought you before you arrived. 

Putting the finishing touches on you room you heard a knock at the door. As you approached it slid open to reveal a cheery green boy. “Hi! Nightwing told me to give you your new suit! It’s totally cool look!” he pushed a suit into your hands with a smile as he continued talking. “It’s like my suit! Super stretchy and stuff because of your powers. What exactly are your powers cuz this suit kinda has it all? Fireproof, waterproof, light weight, maneuverable, but it doesn’t have any cool gadgets like Robin’s so that means you have to have powers!” he rambled on while you took in his appearance. He looked confident and kind, like was happy to be in his own skin regardless of the color, he had light freckles that peppered across his nose and he had the prettiest eyes, they were a delicate light brown with golden flecks, they were mesmerizing; and they were staring right at you.

“Uh hello? Earth to hero?” you flushed as Beast Boy had caught you staring. “Oh sorry thanks this is great! Uh do I have to wear it all the time or?” you still hadn’t quite picked up on the way life was around the tower. “No, not unless you want to! Also y/h/n is cool but some of us, me included have real names too! So as you already know Beast Boy, Garfield. Please to meet you!” He stuck out a hand but retracted it when he realized you had moved back into your room to put away your suit. “Oh okay! I’ve always wanted a real name!” you called from halfway inside your closet. Pausing to think of the perfect name that really represented who you wanted to be on earth you decided. “Y/n” you called out to Garfield who still stood in your doorway. “Cool name! Y/n - I like it! Well, I think you have to get settled in but catch you later for training y/n!” he bounded down the hall, lucky for you he was quick enough he didn’t catch the blush dancing across your face everytime he said “y/n”. 

Your room looked good as you headed towards the kitchen, excited to try whatever real humans ate. “Y/n! I hope you don’t mind but Gar filled us in on your name and it’s pretty cool!” Blue Beetle waved at you from the kitchen. Sitting down at the kitchen island you peered over to see what he was making. “Hungry? Gar and I are eating grilled cheese. I can make you one?” you nodded, fascinated with the way the bread browned on the pan. As he slid you your plate you saw a green dog running towards the kitchen. Terrified you stood up, ready to take on the creature, hoping Blue Beetle wouldn’t mind sharing a little juice. The dog noticed your alarm as it shifted into Garfield. “Woah y/n sorry, you probably don’t really know all about us yet! Dude thanks for the meal Jaime!” Gar slid into a chair a couple seats over and he began digging in. The grilled cheese was delicious, after giving your compliments to the chef the three of you began talking about your lives. You learned a ton about Jaime and Gar, really happy that they were so welcoming. “So what are your guys powers? Besides turning into a dog and all” you smirked at Gar who stuck his tongue out at you. A familiar voice interrupted you, “actually y/h/n I think it’s better of you come see for yourself! Up for a little training?” you turned to see Dick who stood next to Raven and Robin. 

“So to help y/n understand her new team mates lets do a little one on one!” the others looked bored while you couldn’t help but be excited. Jaime and Robin were chosen first. It blew your mind to watch blue colored metal envelop Jaime’s body. Damian was also shockingly talented, you assumed he was powerless like Dick because of the heritage and the fact that his suit had a tool belt as Gar had said. The two danced around the practice area, bantering about the weakness of the other and what not the entire time. Damian soon had Blue Beetle pinned down and even though you knew he could go further, Jaime pulled out of the fight. 

Next was Raven and Nightwing because apparently Dick demanded a “rematch” from last time. Raven’s powers were by far the most amazing. Your jaw dropped as black light seemed to lift any object at her will, including Dick. What you didn’t expect was that the powerless defeated their opponent again. It was so exciting. All that was left was you and Beast Boy. Before you could begin you realized you needed to explain your powers to the team. “Okay wait! I’m gonna need some help for my battle” the others look surprised but Dick nodded, encouraging you to explain. 

“Okay so basically I’m half human half martian. I know it sounds super scary but technically the experiment with my dna was a failure. I control my own powers even though I really have none. As you probably know martians are shape shifters right? They take the form of creatures along with other mind bending powers. What the scientists did with me was basically taking away the creativity and giving me more control. See, I started with the ability to steal the powers of other creatures, like a parasite. I hated the feeling of snatching the life force of other creatures so I essentially taught myself to share. Because of the martian blood I can set up a link between me and another hero where I mirror their power without draining it, like a sharing is caring kinda thing. I was hoping one of you would let me try it?” You finished sheepishly. Dick and Damian shrugged knowing they couldn’t help and Raven was the first to say no. “Y/n I’d be interested in the future but I don’t think I can trust you right now, the power I possess is difficult and confusing and I don’t want us to get hurt” you agreed, after hearing snippets from Gar and Jaime you completely agreed. “Well I’ll let you!” Starfire grinned and you couldn’t help but get excited to show off. 

Taking her hand you established a link, she blinked a couple of times, explaining how it felt like there was an invisible loop between the two of you, but she was completely fine. You could feel her powers radiating heat and energy. After just a few seconds you tested the powers out, throwing blasts of green energy from your hands. “Oh yes you can fly can’t you!” you grinned as you began levitating. The whole team was amazed. “Alright Gar let’s go. But fair warning if I can get a hand on you I might just use some of those shape shifting abilities” you winked. 

The two of you began, using Starfire’s abilities you went on offense, soaring after Beast Boy as he shifted between creatures. Throwing bolts of energy at him you managed to land a hit on him when he was a hawk, he tumbled to the ground but shifted into a cat, landing on all fours. This went on for a few minutes until you saw the opportunity to grab his shoulder and pull some of his energy. Soaring down you kicked him down, pinning him beneath you, reaching for his shoulder. When you touched him, sparks like you’d never felt before erupted. You bounded backwards, quite literally shocked. Beast Boy shifted. back to his normal form, rubbing his shoulder with confusion. 

“I- that’s never happened before. The electricity was - do you have those powers too?” You couldn’t understand what had happened until Damian walked up to you. “TT - Y/n you’re human are you not?” you nodded. Damian turned to stalk over to Garfield, “and so are you Garfield, even though you are quite green” the rest of the titans let out some form of an “oh my god” or “no way” or “only here” and you stood up, still confused. “I don’t get it. Is he a special human that shocks me? That has never happened before why does it make sense to you?!” you stared at the team as their heads all turned to Beast Boy. He got up, closing the distance between the two of you. “Well you probably didn’t learn this on your planet but here, humans have soulmates and when they touched - ” Gar moved his hand to your cheek and the same sparks danced on your skin, you leaned into the touch, the warmth was perfection, something felt right, you looked up at Gar who continued. “when soulmates touch they feel sparks, that’s how you know it’s them and well, I think you might be my soulmate.” he finished. You looked at the others for confirmation. After a couple nods you looked back at Gar.

“But I’m not all human. Shouldn’t I not have a soulmate? I read about it in magazines since I’ve been here but I wrote it off as a human only kinda deal?” Beast Boy shrugged, “hey I’m not all human either, I thought I’d be missing out as well. Fate works in funny ways I guess” you smiled, you had read that soulmates were perfect for each other in every way, coming to Earth seemed scary but knowing you had a forever friend made it seem a lot better.

“I think we can call it quits on practice” Dick started. “The new soulmates probably have a lot of catching up to do, seeing as they’ll kinda be together forever” Damian groaned, saying something about the disgusting idea of soulmates and how he thought he’d probably never have one, Raven quietly agreed. Jaime told the two of you he’d catch up later as he walked off with Dick and Kori. 

Now just the two of you, you reached up to Gar’s face, letting the unfamiliar feeling crackle and pop with electricity. “This is not how I expected my first day to go” you admitted, still trying to wrap your head around the days events. Gar looked at you, his eyes softening, “trust me y/n I did not think today would be like this either. But I did think you were totally cute even before I found out you’re already mine” you laughed, but couldn’t help the butterflies that were now dancing in your stomach. Craving more of the warmth you closed the distance between the two of you, not ready for anything more than a hug just yet, you wrapped your arms around his torso while his tightened around your waist. The books were right, the feeling of your soulmate’s touch was addicting, perfect in every way, you could definitely get used to the idea of feeling this all the time. Pulling away Gar clasped your hand in his and winked at you, “now that you’re my soulmate you can share my powers anytime mamas” you rolled your eyes, but were pretty excited to know what it felt like to take a real cat nap. “I think I might have to take you up on that Greenie” you grinned, resting your head on his shoulder as Gar led you up towards your rooms for some well deserved rest. Finding your soulmate was definitely a great start to your time with the Titans, you couldn’t help but wonder what would be next. 

[scoundrels-in-love]

While I slip away (with you), There's nothing that I'd rather do

As Brienne settles in her wedded life on Tarth, one of her favorite discoveries is Jaime's new habit of what she deems cat naps. Together, they continue exploring what a life with quiet, warm moments lived just for sake of living and loving can be.

Also on AO3.

Part of Jaime x Brienne Week 2020 (Day 4 - Sloth | Diligence) Part of Tomorrow (with you) series. Gratuitous cat propaganda part 1.

 It had been nine moons since Brienne had bade Lady Sansa one final farewell as her swornsword and almost five since she and her husband had been welcomed back to Tarth, to stay. Now that the initial commotion on the island and inside her heart had died down, she could see the details of her life with clarity and appreciate them for what they truly were.

 For Brienne, one of the most exciting discoveries was Jaime's new habit of what she deemed cat naps. It was not exhilarating in the way facing a new opponent was, it was more like the quiet and content joy of finding what kind of sunset today will exhale in its goodbye.

 (That, too, was a thing she had started to learn, now that the future in which she could watch them seemed both infinite and yet so very contained, compared to how she had seen it as a child.)

 She liked trying to guess where she'll discover him napping next - so far it had been several places in the meadows and the Evenfall's gardens, on the bench by the training yard last week, a few times on the beach after swimming and sun had taken its toll on him, now and then by the lighthouse that he was so fond of (she was, too, more than ever since that bright midday they’d promised themselves to each other and he’d ignited a light in her, making her almost feel like the lighthouse he had compared her to), and once in the library even.

 He had been sitting in the chair by the window, sunlight pouring the gold that years had taken back into his hair, a book on Tarth's  taxations  open in his lap - he must've been reading it to help her make sense of salted salmon import tax after she had complained about it the day before, even though she knew letters often danced for him. It hadn’t surprised her, exactly - back in Winterfell, he had always been restless and in need, eager even to do something, as small as it may be, and she thought he was learning to be at rest just as much as she was.

 Her heart had swelled heavy and warm in her chest at these thoughts and she had stood there, drinking in the sight and the possibility of it like he seemed to drink in the sun every time he found a sunny spot to nap in - or the nap and sunshine found him, she was not sure.

 Eventually, her shifting to lean against the desk had dragged Jaime back to the surface of consciousness, but watching him open his eyes slowly and smile at her instead of straightening with a start had been a special kind of pleasure on its own. "Ser Brienne," he had grinned at her, lazy and sharp like a glimpse of a cat's claws when it stretches, "it seems your island has tamed this lion."

 Brienne had come forward to run hand down his bearded cheek then, biting back a smile. "I see no lion here, only a self  -satisfied   house cat." His eyes had flashed then and oh, she had known in an instant he'd not let this slide. The book had landed on the corner of the desk with a soft thump and a moment later, his arm wound around her waist.

 "I may be old," Jaime had said, making her frown at him. There was less than a decade between them, but after so (too) many wars fought on battlefields and remnants of hearts, she couldn't help but think of men who had faded well before their time in the quiet aftermaths, every time he spoke of his age. He didn't let the thought settle cool between her shoulder blades, though, carrying on. "But not enough to not take offense."

 And then he had pulled her into his lap (and later lifted her on the desk), proving his assertions with notable dedication and energy.

 So, truly, finding Jaime's napping places was all sorts of exciting.

 Today's spot seemed to be her lap. They were sitting in a large oak tree's shade, sunlight dancing dappled light across Jaime's relaxed features as she ran her fingers through his hair again and again. She could tell by his breathing that he wasn't quite asleep yet, but would be soon. He never slept as deeply or as calmly as in these naps - even in their bed, there was often tension in him as if he was ready to wake and grab his sword. (She knew, because she felt it, too.)

 They soothed it away the best they could, with touches that were for comfort or for pleasure, and quiet conversations. There was so much they've never told anyone, because they thought it unneeded or because they had no one to tell it to, but the relief that came as these words melted along with shadows into the sunrise, said otherwise

 Sometimes it was not enough and she rose with tension, wading through the feeling like she still needed to prove something to everyone, the servants and the fishermen and her father, to whom the War of Dawn was far and mythical and more a figment of imagination than something tangible, to whom her knighthood meant far less than her skill to secure enough food and goods to last through a harsh winter. It stung and drove her to pour over books and ledgers, and sit in meetings and ride from village to village, like the spurs of a determined rider chasing a horse onward. But time helped, as did having routine to her days, which was already worn to round corners through the months.

 These gilded, warm days, finding Jaime's nap spots was part of it. It had started by accident, at first seeking him out to have lunch together when she had the mind to have some, only to find him fast asleep, face relaxed in a way that made her breath catch. Now, it was a well-known secret and servants would often tell her which direction Ser Jaime had went in when she passes them in the corridors, and even her father would inquire if it isn't time to see what sunny spot her husband has hunted down today, seemingly glad to have an excuse to give her a break.

 Some quiet days like today, she ended up joining him to let an hour or two slip by buoyant and joyful like a paper boat on a sunlight's river.

 Her Septa would call this laziness, deem her slothful, ungrateful child, just as she had when Brienne had run away to nap beneath this very tree, or clamber over rocks and chase the waves. But she was learning that taking time to be, to rest was a sort of diligence too, a kind of responsibility she held toward herself. If she drove herself to exhaustion beyond sense like she did the first months here, which made her sharp where she needed to listen and dull where she needed to be clever, how could she learn and how could she lead? There would be times for that, too, if a crisis struck. When she became the Evenstar. Brienne misliked to think of it.

 In truth, she recalled her Septa's spiteful words less and less these days, enough that when they did echo with malice it took her by surprise. But her shield, crafted by soft whispers of love and quiet moments like these and the approving smile of her father, held strong and the ghosts of words beat themselves into exhaustion against it, retreating until another time. There were bruises on her hands, from holding onto it so strongly, but it was nothing compared to the wounds she used to bear after these confrontations. Jaime always seemed to sense these days and was quick to soothe them with his kisses and or to tease till her fond annoyance made her forget about the sting.

 "Brienne," he interrupted her thoughts and she made a little, inquiring 'hm?' sound as she brushed a strand of hair away from his forehead. He had cut it some, months ago, but now it was growing long again and she couldn't quite get enough excuses to feel soft strands trickling through her fingers.

 "If I am a cat, then a stray that is finally learning the little pleasures of having a home."

 It still took her by surprise, sometimes, the way he paid attention to her and thought of the things she said, for days. It used to bring unease to her, because she had always felt clumsy with her words and he never hesitated to peel and tear all that she said (and didn't) apart to dig teeth and claw in the exposed flesh beneath. Nowadays, Brienne marveled that he would look still, for no reason other than keeping it safe and gentle in his hands.

 "You had a home before, Jaime," she told him, not chastising, but reminding that she had not been the start and end of him or the good that he's had, or has been.

 He turned his head, nuzzling into her hand that was cupping his cheek: "I had houses and places I lived, before." Jaime looked up at her then and the silence sang the before you softer, yet more all-encompassing than the wind rustling leaves above. There were no words she knew the shape of to say in return, so she leaned down and pressed a soft and lingering kiss to his lips, then forehead.

 After all, what is a home or a lighthouse without its cat, if not a building that doesn't quite know its soul?

 With that thought, Brienne leaned against the bark and let the oak's solidity and Jaime's weight in her lap anchor her deeper in peace and then, into sleep.

[ajoblotofjunk]

Jamie buried his fingers deep in her hair.

Jaime buried his fingers deep in her hair.

“What are you doing?” she whispered.

“Giving them a show,” he whispered back, and he tipped her head back and slid his fingers down to her neck. On the downbeat, Jaime dipped her, holding her long body with one strong hand around the back of her neck. The audience applauded with more enthusiasm than they’d showed all night and Jaime grinned down at Brienne as the music crashed to a stop. She was trembling with the effort of keeping her legs straight and her weight balanced so he could pull off this move, and he imagined how easy it would be to lay her down here on the stage (slide his hand up her already short skirt, bury himself in her--)

Instead he smoothly lifted her back to standing. They turned to the cruise ship audience and bowed before Jaime led her off the stage for the next performers. 

“No more improvising,” she told him crossly, towering over him in her four-inch heels.

“It’s a competition. We’ve got to take chances.”

“It’s a fake competition we put on the same way every week for a new set of tourists.”

He waved his hand. “If we win tonight, you have to let me choreograph our next dance.”

“We’re not going to win,” Brienne said patiently. “You know Baelish is going to pick Sansa.”

“Then you agree to my bet?”

“Yes, Jaime, I agree to your pointless bet. What do I get when you lose?”

“If I lose, then we’ll go back to your boring routine.”

“Such a charmer. I can’t imagine why you no one else will partner with you.”

She couldn’t imagine because she had no idea that he’d threatened everybody else away from her. He just gave her a roguish grin. “You like dancing with me. I’m the only one strong enough to dip you.”

They’d been partners through enough of these seven-day cruises that she no longer took offense. Which was good, because he didn’t mean it in a bad way. He liked the way her weight felt against him.

“Your ego is certainly strong enough,” she said wryly.

It was worth the two hundred dragons he slipped to Baelish right before the winner announcement to see her blue eyes - bluer than the Summer Sea they were currently cruising in - turn to him in shock. He led her back to the stage for an encore performance, as the winner, usually Sansa, always did.

“Enjoy this, Tarth,” Jaime said as he created their waltzing frame with his body. “Next week we’re doing the tango.”

[orangeflavoryawp]

Jonsa - “A Violence Done Most Kindly”, Part 1

Alright, it’s here.  I’m fucking doing it.  This is my Jonsa tour de force, my magnum opus.  My ultimate fix-it fic.

This is going to be a Season 7/8 AU. To summarize the major plot points up until now, this 'verse branches out roughly post Battle of the Bastards in canon, the mass murder of the Freys by Arya still stands, Cersei has been killed but her murderer hasn't been determined yet, Daenerys has only just landed in Westeros, the occupation/battle over Riverrun never happened as the Freys were slaughtered beforehand, and both Edmure and Brynden Tully are still alive, Bran found his way to Winterfell while Jon and Sansa dealt with ruling the North and preparing for a war with the dead, as well as the shifting power dynamics in Westeros now that Cersei has died. This story also assumes established Jonsa. Soft E. Dark. Politics and magic and murder and sex. That's essentially the gist of it.

I HIGHLY recommend that you read 'Bruises' before getting into this. It serves as a prequel of sorts, and it's only a one-shot so it reads pretty quickly. 'Bruises' really helps to set up the tone of where Jonsa is at the start of this fic.

“A Violence Done Most Kindly”

Chapter One: Hunger

"There is an old sort of magic to sacrifice, after all." - Jon and Sansa. Stark is a house of many winters.

Read it on Ao3 here.

Part 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 fin

* * *

It would be a lie to say that Sansa understands Cersei now – here at the end.

           Here where she warms her brother’s bed.

           Sansa imagines Cersei looked at Ser Jamie like this once, watching him in his sleep beside her.  Or perhaps not.  Perhaps theirs was always a quick, furtive fuck.  A blinding instant of lust and need, smothered in dark alcoves and behind garish tapestries, a secret, silent thing – clawing at them from the inside.

           Perhaps they’ve never slept the night through beside each other.

           Perhaps she regretted it – gurgling out his name while she choked on her own blood.

           Sansa reaches up to trace a hand down the side of Jon’s face, trailing past his jaw, along the cords of muscle flexing in his throat beneath her touch, whispering down his chest as he groans to wakefulness.  She slips her hand to his growing hardness with a surety that might have been foreign to the little dove Cersei once knew.

           But then, maybe that is also a lie.

           “Sansa,” he groans, head thrown back along the pillow, voice rough with sleep and desire.

           She braces her lips to his neck, imagines the rush of blood just beneath her mouth – pulls him from slumber with a selfish, desperate yearning she does not regret.  “I need you,” she breathes into his skin, teeth sinking down.

           Jon growls his answer, grabbing her by the hair, yanking her head back and kissing her hungrily.  He turns her easily, bracing her back along the bed as he covers her with his weight, already hard and ready in her hand.

           Some small part of her wishes Cersei had been her kill.  A different, equally intense part of her, is relieved beyond words that she isn’t – that she would never be, now.

           But more than that – more than a vengeful wrath she’s spent too long feeding to ever be free of hunger, to ever be satisfied with a mere raven scroll and the somber, even way Bran announces the news – more than that –

           She just needs Jon.

           “Come back to me,” she whispers against his mouth, moving with him in the dark.

           No, she doesn’t think she’ll ever understand Cersei.

           But as she feels Jon slip inside her, as she cradles his groan in the hollow of her throat, as she catches her lips at his temple – she thinks she doesn’t need to.

           It’s a different hunger she feeds now, after all.

* * *

           Sansa recognizes the sound of Baelish’s footsteps well before he’s made it to her side.  He slinks like shadow easily enough across stone and wood and dirt, but here in the godswood, trudging through snow in the womb of winter, his steps are almost awkward, clunky.

           He does not belong here.  She knows this now with a certainty she hasn’t felt in years.

           “My lady, I had hoped to find you here.”

           Sansa only sighs, glancing away from the red weirwood leaves to meet his gaze over her shoulder.  She offers a silent nod in greeting.

           Baelish makes his way toward her, smoothing his hands over his robe when he settles beside her.  “You have not forgotten what we spoke of when last I found you here, I should hope.”

           Sansa tugs her furs tighter around her shoulders, eyes drifting back to the weirwood branches.  “How could one forget?”

           “Yes,” he murmurs, eyes drifting down her face and trailing the length of her throat.

           She tries not to swallow, not to give notice of her discomfort.  He takes a step closer.  She resolutely does not take one back.

           “This is a very crucial time for us, Sansa, you must know that.”

             “Cersei is dead,” she says in answer, and she thinks maybe it should feel different along her tongue.  Lighter, perhaps.  Sweeter. Instead, it’s nothing but a stringent tartness.

           “Yes, and by whose hand?  None of my people seem to know the answer to that, except for whispers of faceless girls. Dead end gossip.”  He looks at her out of the corner of his eye, appraising.

           Sansa gives him nothing to appraise.  “Is that what matters right now?”

           He stays quiet a moment, and then, “It is, until we can ascertain whose side her murderer is on.”

           Another silence.  Sansa stretches a gloved hand out to catch the faint flecks of snow falling from the branches.

           “We can’t let this opportunity pass us by.  Cersei’s death has lead to infighting amongst the houses.  King’s Landing is in near shambles with no discernible sovereign.  Qyburn has fled without the support of his queen.  The Mountain hasn’t been seen since reports of Cersei’s death. Citizens are fleeing to the other kingdoms as we speak, and even Daenerys Targaryen has seen the uselessness in conquering King’s Landing at this point.”

           She knows this.  She knows this already and she’s tired of hearing it.  It only ever ends one way.

           Baelish reaches for her, grasping her arms and turning her to face him, his gentleness forced and rushed – a falsity.  Sansa blinks up at him.

           “We have to consolidate power.  If we wait too long, this chaos will be of no help to us.”

           “Then go.”

           Baelish furrows his brow at her answer, his fingers flexing along her elbows.

           She swallows tightly, face a blank visage.  “Go to King’s Landing then.  Consolidate.”  She lifts her chin.  “Go.”

           His throat flexes, poison tongue pressing back behind pursed lips.

           “You can’t, can you?” she asks, not unkindly.  “Because your power lies here.  With me.  And with the Vale.  You can’t abandon either of us without giving yourself a disadvantage.”

           “Sansa.”  It’s almost a warning.  As much a warning as Baelish ever gives – all smooth tones and invaded intimacy.  His head inclines toward hers.

           “Jon won’t go South.  Not for that.”  She extracts herself from his hold slowly, gently, without offense.

           Baelish smacks his lips, a minute flicker of irritation crossing his eyes, but it’s all he will allow her to see of his disturbance.  “The King can be persuaded.”

           “Not in this.  The dead occupy him on all sides.  He won’t play the game.”

           “Not even for you?”

           Sansa doesn’t think too long on the way his eyes flick to her lips for a fraction of a second.  “You overestimate my influence.”

           “Oh, I think not,” he says lowly, a curl to his lip that reminds her of purple-faced boy-kings and hound-fed bastards.

           No, he does not belong here.  Not in the white and cold and wind of home.  Not here where her mother used to brush her hair and her father used to beg her hand to dance and her brothers played their knightly parts in her tales dutifully.  Not here where she had wanted to bury Lady those many years ago.

           Wanted, and never could.

           Sansa realizes suddenly, that Winterfell is not yet free.

           And neither is she.

* * *

           In the wake of Cersei’s death, the ensuing vacuum of power nearly cripples the kingdoms, with the remainder of the Lannister forces rallying behind a mourning, vengeful Ser Jaime, intent on securing the Reach and the Stormlands. Dorne wastes no time to declare its independence from the Seven Kingdoms entirely, and shortly after the suspicious slaughter of the Freys by unseen Northern hands both the Riverlands and the Vale swear to the North under the threat of a coming dragon queen.

           Jon has no time for such politics.

           Sansa rails against him openly in the Hall of Lords, demanding his attention to the ensuing fight for the crown, but the dead take precedence in everything he brings to court, and it’s not long before ravens are sent to all corners of Westeros begging aid in the coming fight.

           Bran watches placidly, neither arguing for or against either of them. Sansa would call him not unlike a piece of furniture if she hadn’t better manners, and most days her pleads for his council lands on deaf ears.  She ends most gatherings of the lords rife with frustration and nearly frothing at the mouth.

           She doesn’t need to glance at Baelish to know the look he gives her.

           “You think just because Cersei is dead that we are free from the South? That they will not land their hooks into every inch of the North until we are chained to them once more?” Sansa seethes, shutting her door once Jon is through it.

           Jon heaves an unsteady breath, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. “That’s not what I think, and you know it,” he grits out, sending a dark look her way.  “Stop twisting my words.”

           “Then stop ignoring mine.”

           “I’m not!”  He stalks toward her, stops before he can do anything else.  His hands itch at his sides.  “Sansa, we can’t keep this up – this back-and-forth.  We can’t afford such a divide, not now.”

           Sansa takes a purposeful breath, hands folding before her.  “I’m with you, Jon, I am but – ”

           “Are you?  Sometimes I wonder.”  He can’t help the scoff that leaves him.  He stares at her, keeps her gaze a moment longer, and then he’s turning to the far window, a hand raking over his face.  He’s just so tired, suddenly.

           Sansa is deadly still.  So still he can’t even hear the rustle of her skirts on the cold stone at their feet – can’t pick up the scrape of air she pulls through anger-fused lungs.

           “And how is your show of the dead going with the other kingdoms, hmm?” she bites out.

           Jon snaps his head to her, his eyes narrowing so quickly she might have missed it.

           Sansa takes a step toward him.  “Are they simply jumping to aid us?  Are they gathering the entire might of their forces, marching the sum of their armies North, all on your word?”  Something sharp glints in her gaze and Jon swallows his reply back instantly. She scoffs, head thrown back.  And then her eyes are eerily blue on his – instantly staggering him.  “And have I ever demanded evidence?  Have I ever once denounced your claims of the rising dead before the lords?”

           Jon has no answer.  None that would satisfy, at least.

           Something in her softens at his silence, another step taken toward him. “I’ve never asked you to prove anything to me, Jon.”

           Jon, she calls him – always.

           (There was never anything to prove between them, after all.)

           Jon closes his eyes, takes a long, deep breath, exhales just as evenly. When he opens his eyes, she’s still there.  Still copper-crowned and winter-poised.  Still every inch his sister.

           And every inch not.

           He thinks maybe it’s a sickness – this craving of his.

           Jon steps into her, the stiff silence descending upon them like a cloak. He’s so close.  He’s so unbearably close, and even though he has yet to touch her, the heat suffuses him – a stifled winter, a burrowing need.

           He can see the way her chest heaves at the sudden proximity.

           (She’s always been his, even when she won’t admit to it.)

           Jon thrums a tentative hand along her side, fingers grazing the line of her hip.

           Her tongue darts out to wet her lips.

           It’s a lost cause, he knows.  Since the moment she opened her door to him, this was only ever going to end one way.

           “I know you’re with me,” he tells her on an exhale, roiled in heat.

           She arches a single, fine brow.  “Do you? Sometimes I wonder.”  She almost smacks her lips with self-satisfaction.

           A low snarl eases from his lips, his hand bunching in her dress, dragging her to him.  She lets him, hands alighting on his chest.  He leans into her, nuzzling his temple to hers, breath ragged already.

           She makes it so easy.

           He’s already panting for her.

           (She makes it so hard.)

           “Sansa,” he groans out, fingers trembling as they reach for her laces.

           She takes his face in her hands, pulls him back until his eyes are locked with hers.  He doesn’t still his unlacing of her.  He couldn’t even if he tried.

           So unbearably close.

           (He just needs to touch her.)

           “You lose one war, you lose them all,” she tells him, arching against him.

           She’s right, he knows.  She’s right, and yet –

           She comes undone so easily in his hands – they need to stop ending their arguments this way.

           Because this – the splendid way she hisses beneath his tongue and the subtle way she arches into his hands and the ragged pant of his name (his name) along her bruising lips – is a war they can’t afford to lose.

           (This is a war they haven’t even begun to fight, not truly – not by the light of day.)

           “I’m with you,” she whispers against his mouth, and he knows.

           He knows, he knows, he knows.

           And even still –

           Some wars aren’t about who’s right.  They’re only about who’s left.

* * *

           Arya returns to Winterfell in the dead of night.  Ghost clambers to wakefulness at the foot of Jon’s bed, the sharp rap on his door jolting him from sleep.

           It’s Davos at his door.  “In the hall, Your Grace,” he says, and nothing more.

           Jon rushes from the room, following his Hand and the faint shadows Davos’ torch casts along the walls.  When he turns the next corridor, he sees Sansa emerging from her own chambers, Brienne at her side.  Her sworn shield tugs the fallen slip of Sansa’s robe over her lady’s bared shoulder at Jon’s presence, and the motion does not go unnoticed.

           “What is it?” Sansa hisses in the night.

           He shakes his head, throat parched.

           It happens moments later.

           It happens when they breach the shadowed hall.  It happens when Arya turns from her appraisal of the room, eyes a slate grey that should be comforting, familiar – but are only haunting.  She is perfectly still in the filtering moonlight through the tall windows.  She is perfectly winter-poised (an eerie reflection of the sister beside him, and distantly, he wonders if either of them knew they’d ever grow to be thus).

           It’s a crack, a fissure – a lung-scraping quake that sunders through the silent hall.  

Ghost is the first to break the stillness, trotting up to Arya with an ease that staggers Jon’s heart in his chest.  But Arya smiles – smiles – and it’s a faint curl of her lips, before she’s bending like reeds in the wind, reaching for the direwolf’s great maw and threading her fingers through his thick fur, hands gliding over Ghost’s face and ears and neck.  Something of sorrow and fondness sweeps over her face then. “Hey, boy.  You’ve been keeping watch for me?”

           Jon is breaking toward her then, something splintering inside him he hasn’t a name for, and then she’s in his arms, and he’s lifting her up, up, and up, her feet off the ground, her arms around his neck, his broken gasp of her name smothered in her hair, and he’s trembling, absolutely shaking against her, absolutely shattered – here, to be here – with his little sister in his arms.  He holds her for an immeasurable amount of time, for eons and epochs and yet he’d hold her still, if only he could.  It never seems enough.

           Jon dips her back to the floor, breathless, glancing back at Sansa, and he stills suddenly at the way she stares at them.

           Arya keeps a hand at Jon’s elbow, her smile receding.  A soft, keen quiet overtakes her.  Her eyes shine with tears.  “Hello, Sansa.”

           Sansa takes a step, hand outreaching, and then stops herself.  She takes a sudden breath, and Jon is too overcome to think much of it, so he braces a hand at the small of Sansa’s back, urging her toward their sister.

           He doesn’t catch the way Arya’s eyes trail the intimate motion of his hand.

           “Arya.”  Sansa’s voice catches, and then she’s stumbling into her, arms wide, drawing her little sister to her chest.

           Arya’s eyes shutter closed for a moment, breathing something of relief against Sansa’s breast, her hands fisting in her robe at her back, but then she’s blinking those grey, haunting eyes open to Jon.

           He feels cracked open.  Bloody and bare.  Jon swallows the trepidation back.

           Their sister is returned.

           His hand burns beneath the memory of Sansa’s heat at his fingertips.

* * *

           Arya knows.

           She knows, Sansa thinks when she catches the derision in her little sister’s eyes from across the courtyard.  Somehow, she knows.

           Sansa steps purposely away from Jon as they walk together below the ramparts.

           He furrows his brows at the motion, a hand going to her elbow.  “Sansa,” he begins.

           She huffs her frustration, staying his hand.

           He’s always been terrible at pretenses.

           “Our sister is watching,” she mutters beneath her breath pointedly, and she can see the way his spine straightens, the way his shoulders stiffen.

           She is Sansa Stark.  And he is Jon Snow.  And not for the first time has she lamented this – though perhaps not so much as now.

           Now when he is close enough to touch and yet the chasm widens ever farther.

           This chasm called honor.

           (But there is nothing honorable about the ways in which he touches her in the dark of night.)

           Jon is silent for long moments, before he comes to an abrupt halt at the edge of the courtyard.  Sansa turns to find him staring at his boots, brows furrowed.  He heaves a sigh, a calloused hand wiping down his face, and then he’s turning swiftly, walking back the way they came.  Sansa watches him go, something constricting in her chest not unlike grief.  She looks back across the courtyard to see Arya still watching her.  Her jaw locks, her barred teeth caught behind perfectly poised lips.

           There are some things Arya will never know, she reminds herself.

           She will never know the way Jon’s eyes grow dark by candlelight, or the way his throat flexes beneath the press of her tongue, or the tremble that racks through him when she slips to her knees at the edge of his bed, bracketed by his thighs.

           And perhaps there is something secret and selfish still living in her. Perhaps there is a part of her that revels in the knowledge that while she may not be the favorite sister, she is the only sister who can drag such whines from his throat, who can reduce him to pleading, who can have him panting and desperate as he throws his head back, hand curling in her copper tresses as he pushes her mouth down on his length, hips thrusting shallowing up to meet her.

           No, Sansa reminds herself.  Arya will never know the dark visage of Jon when the last of his control snaps, when he’s pouring filth from his mouth too base even for brothels, when he’s rutting into her mouth like something feral, spilling hot and frenzied down her throat as he growls her name through clenched teeth, over and over and over again.

           No. Arya will never know the way he looks at her in the aftermath, the way he curls a quaking hand along the curve of her jaw, thumb brushing over her mouth in something perhaps too feverish to be called tender, but just as searing.

           She thinks this when she departs from the courtyard.

           She thinks this when she feels Arya’s gaze following along her back.

           She thinks this when she closes the latch behind her to Jon’s door that night.

* * *

           “You’re our brother,” Arya says like a demand.  “You’re her brother.”  It comes out slightly searing this time.

           Jon grips at the mantle over the hearth, his back to her.  “I still am.”

           “How could you be?”  Her scoff is lined with something faintly like disgust.

           Jon closes his eyes at the sound.  He draws a deep breath in, lets it to air.

           Arya shifts somewhere behind him.  “Robb would never have touched her so.”

           “Aye, and Robb isn’t the brother she begs for at night, is he?” he spits just as harshly, whirling on her.  He realizes what he says a moment before he catches the look that passes over her face.

           It’s not a look she’s ever directed at him before.

           Jon swallows thickly, the words dying in his throat.

           Arya looks away, lips pursed tight.  She’s so utterly still.  This whole while, her entire time at Winterfell, she’s been nothing but stillness.

           Jon wants to shake her suddenly, just to know she’s still there.  Just to know he isn’t the only one missing what they used to be.

           He has to tear his gaze from her – has to focus on the lick of flames in the hearth, the flare of copper too familiar to cool this rancid heat in him. “But I’m not Robb, am I?” he whispers, almost like regret, almost like penitence.

           (Almost, but not quite.)

           “No,” Arya answers, so low he might have imagined it.  “No, you’re not.”

           He isn’t sure what it is he hears in her voice, and he doesn’t have the heart to turn to her then, to see for himself, to know the damning censure of her gaze, even when her voice is indiscernible.  

           She leaves him then, the heavy door of his solar sliding shut with a nauseating finality.

           She doesn’t even leave a shadow.

           (But he thinks he should have expected this.  He thinks he should have expected a lot of things.)

* * *

           Jon has known the permanence of betrayal, the way it sinks into your marrow until you are rife with it, until the sharp tang of it has festered long and sour beneath your tongue, until it is behind every look over the shoulder and every false greeting.

           Jon sneaks a glance at Sansa beside him, catches the upturn of her chin while she listens to Lord Glover in the Hall of Lords, the resolute crispness of her blue gaze as she sits regally at the head table.

           His hand strays to the ends of her furs hanging over the arm rest.  He catches the material between his thumb and forefinger, a small comfort.  An anchor in the storm.

           He glances back out across the hall.  All eyes are on Sansa.  All but a lone, accusing pair.

           Jon catches Arya’s glare from across the hall, nearly missing her lithe frame amidst the shrouding shadows of the Stark banners.  The flicker of torchlight is not enough to obscure her frown.

           His hand slips from the edge of Sansa’s furs beneath the table, his throat dry with an apprehension he’s never felt before.

           They sit staring at each other for long moments – everything and nothing passing between them – the lords airing their complaints and their needs like a fog around him.

           “Do you agree, Your Grace?”

           Sansa’s voice comes to him like a gale.

           Jon snaps his gaze to her, blinking rapidly.

           He suddenly remembers.

           He remembers that Sansa has seen the evidence of betrayal marring his skin. She’s seen the gashes along his chest and not withheld her touch.  She’s smothered his sobs of recollection to her breast when he’s recounted the nooses – the way their feet swayed in the wind like a condemnation.

           Sansa has never been party to his betrayal.

           Sansa will never be his betrayal.

           His fingers search for the ends of her furs once more, gripping tightly beneath the cover of the table – no longer an anchor, but the thing that drowns him.

           “Aye,” he agrees, never needing to know what he agrees to.

           Sansa eyes him with something of sharpness.

           Jon looks back across the hall.  Arya is gone.

           He does not relinquish his hold.

* * *

{“Why did you bring her here?”

           Bran looks up at Sansa’s question.  It is a face she used to know once – but not anymore. She holds tight to this image of her brother like sand sifting through her fingers. She wonders if it is not perhaps easier to simply let him fall.

           She looks away finally, her hands gripping at her skirts.

           The hearth spits another log to cinders before them, and she thinks he means to keep this damn silence always, until, “Because she is needed.”}

[takingcourage]

Cold Feet

Pairing: Jaime x MC

Word Count: 2,100

Summary: To cope with a challenging day at work, Arden retreats to the one place she can be alone. The quiet doesn’t last for long, of course... 

Note: I haven’t written anything for Choices in ages, but Wishful Thinking came out of nowhere and finally sucked me back in. While I’m still not sure how I feel about the book overall, I’m a sucker for the friends-to-lovers trope and Jaime is just too sweet for words. 

I hope you enjoy!

Arden’s toes were killing her. If she’d had more confidence going into today’s interview, she might have been able to resist Alec’s insistent charge that she needed something more television-worthy than her trusty ballet flats. It’s not like anyone could see my feet through that coffee table anyway. She rolled her eyes at the thought, slamming the car door shut in belated protest.

Even if people had been able to see her shoes, she couldn’t imagine that they would have held anyone’s attention against what was likely to go down as one of the most uncomfortable television segments in Northbridge history. She didn’t harbor any animosity toward Ellen, but she knew that the other woman’s stress probably read as rivalry on camera. No matter how Arden had forced a smile, the awkwardness on set had been palpable.

It had been all she could do to make it through the interview with Charlie Carmichael, much less the rest of the afternoon. When she’d finally left the studio, she’d been on autopilot. It wasn’t until she’d parked in front of her father’s house that she realized she hadn’t even taken the time to change back into her normal shoes.

Deciding that she’d rather take her chances barefoot than turn her ankle in those ridiculous heels, her walk to the lake was a cautious one. By time her feet reached the dock, they were well covered in grass clippings and dust, but her toes were no longer throbbing from poor circulation. Arden came to the end, dangling her legs over the water as she dropped the offensive shoes beside her. They fell noisily, thick soles smacking against the smooth wood.

“And I’ve probably scared all of the fish away,” she grumbled under her breath. A glance into the water beneath her seemed to support the theory.

As good as it had felt to take her feet out of the shoes, plunging them into the coolness of the lake was so much better. Contented, she propped an arm behind her and lifted her face to soak in the warmth of the sun. The water lapped around her ankles in a steadily uneven tattoo. Aided by the relative quiet of the lake, her mind wandered.

This new power was going to take a lot of getting used to. As fun as it was to pop into various heads in Waffle Hut, that initial charm was wearing off quickly. She wasn’t sure just how much longer she’d be able to bite her tongue through Alec’s insults or her father’s silent criticisms. And then there was Jaime.

Goodness knew very few of his thoughts had ever been secrets to her -- even before the accident. She’d learned to read his expressions long before she could read his mind. But she could no longer deny knowing how he felt. That small detail had the potential to make their relationship tenuous.

It was going to make deflecting nearly impossible.

She’d been dancing around the issue for years, alternating between flirty banter and changing the subject as soon as anything serious came up. It wasn’t that she thought things wouldn’t work out between the two of them -- if she was honest, it was actually the exact opposite. They’d been best friends for so long that she knew they would make an eminently suitable couple. She just wasn’t sure she was ready for it.

Her father had always warned her that her stubborn streak was going to get her hurt one day. Was this another case of her just being too set in her ways? Would there really be any harm in taking things further?

In spite of the breeze, warmth stole over her at the thought of actually moving out of the clearly-defined lines of friendship they’d established over the years. Aside from her late mother, Jaime understood her better than anyone she’d ever known. That depth of familiarity certainly had its appeal.

But her feelings toward him had been extending beyond the familiar, especially lately. For one, Arden wasn’t sure how much longer she’d be able to deny the physical attraction. They hadn’t actually kissed since they were kids, but they’d come close on a handful of occasions. At the time, she’d chalked those moments up to innocent flirtation, but that night on the yacht had made her want to kiss him for real. As had his suggestion that she use her powers to help other people. And his pride in seeing her work at the library fundraiser. Now that she thought about it, a lot of their recent interactions had produced a similar effect.

Maybe she should act on the impulse later that night. They were sure to get at least a few moments alone. She could lean in close and test the waters. Then, if he was receptive, they could have their first real kiss. 

Arden banished the notion almost as quickly as it came. If she made a move now, some part of him might always wonder if her powers had anything to do with it. If she ever did decide to take the plunge, it wasn’t going to be because supernatural forces were at play.

Besides, dating anyone at the moment just didn’t seem fair. Her stomach churned at the thought of what this one-sided transparency could do to a relationship. As many times as she might have wished for the ability to read the minds of the guys she’d dated in college, reason told her that it wouldn’t be a recipe for healthy communication. Until she found some way of controlling this power, it was best not to pursue anything. Or anyone. She needed to sort things out for herself first -- especially when there was any risk of hurting Jaime in the process.

Giant worms! It’s been so long since I’ve had juicy worms…

Arden started at the voice, her eyes instinctively going to the water. At the sight of the large turtle moving toward her, she sprang to her feet, a shriek breaking through the still evening air. The quickness of her motion frightened the creature, who soon swam back to the depths and out of sight.

Pulse thundering, Arden eased back onto the dock, this time sitting cross legged and keeping out of the water entirely. “If these critter conversations keep up,  I’ll have gone full vegan before the week is out. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but…” her soliloquizing came to an end as her eyes fell to a dragonfly resting at the end of a nearby plank. 

She straightened her back and trained her mind on the insect, willing herself to pick up on some train of thought. Closing her eyes, she tuned out the rhythmic course of the water and the sounds of the wind through the leaves.

In return, she heard only the frenzied rustle of wings. With a sigh of relief, she slumped back down. At least I don’t have to worry the next time there’s a cockroach in my apartment. Although it might be nice for defending myself against mosquitoes…

...And there she is.

Arden craned her neck toward the shore to see Jaime emerging from the line of trees. He looked tired, but the smile on his face was unmistakeable. She waved in greeting, struck by just how glad she was to see him. You’re always glad to see him, moron. He’s your best friend. Arden’s cheeks warmed in spite of herself. 

“I thought I’d find you out here,” he called out upon reaching the dock. “Is everything okay?”

His footfalls sent gentle vibrations through the wood and Arden shivered involuntarily. “I’m fine. Just came out to get some quiet.”

Jaime’s brow morphed from concern to uncertainty. “I can leave if you --”

She shook her head decidedly. “Nah, you’re good. Besides, I prefer your thoughts to the snapping turtle that had it out for my toes a few minutes ago.”

He squatted next to her, meeting her eyes easily. Arden’s gaze flicked toward the water, but it made no difference. There was no point even trying to get the sight of those deep brown eyes out of her mind. She liked them best just as they were now, slightly narrowed, but sparkling with laughter  -- brow creased with amusement as it was whenever there was some inside joke that only the two of them could understand.

Damn! She chided herself for allowing her thoughts to run away with her again. When she risked a glance back at Jaime, his lips tugged to the side, entertained by her apparent inner turmoil. Nevertheless, he let the moment pass, sparing her the embarrassment of confession.

“So turtles too, huh? Please tell me you’re not planning to adopt any of them. The ones out here are ferocious.”

“I remember from that fishing expedition back when we were twelve,” she mused, smiling warmly. “Besides, I think Jinx would actually start plotting murder if I brought home any more strays.”

“She has a point, you know. Two animals in less than a week starts to sound like a trend.” Jinx probably thinks I’m a stray too. 

“She’ll come around to you eventually. I’ll just let you handle the catnip next time you’re over.”

“I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to that,” he commented wryly as he rubbed at a stiff spot on his neck. 

The motion caused her to catch a trace of his spicy deodorant. Stifling her groan with a deep breath, she tried to return to the subject at hand. “What? My cat’s alarming drug habit?” Why did he have to smell so good?

The pointed glance he shot her was much deserved. “You being able to hear what I’m thinking.”

“Trust me -- you’re not the only one. But if it helps, I still can’t hear everything. It’s just little fragments.”

“Probably just the little fragments that people don’t want you to hear too.” I definitely shouldn’t think about how kissable she looks right now.

“Probably so.” Arden picked a bit of lint from her skirt to distract from the blush that she knew was rising over her cheeks. She opened her mouth to say more, but all of the witty rejoinders at the tip of her tongue felt flat and stupid. 

Someday he was going to find out exactly how much she knew and their days of pretending would be over. The prospect was a little frightening, but there was something else there too -- some sense of calm that came with the acknowledgement.

Jaime cleared his throat and her fingers halted their exploration at her skirt’s hem. “Anyway, we should probably head back for dinner before your dad starts to worry about us. He saw your car and asked me to find where you’d wandered off to.”

“Of course he did.”

“And I think he said something about making his specialty.”

She rose to her feet with a groan -- this time audible. “You know what that means…”

“It means we should probably hurry back before the sandwiches get cold and he ruins your precious tomato soup.”

“He tries to make it with water! No one deserves that.”

“We’d better get going then.” Jaime laughed, shifting his weight as he waited for her to put on her shoes.

Arden eyed him incredulously. “There is no way I’m putting these things back on. I don’t know what wardrobe was thinking even having them in the building!” She looked with disdain toward the objects dangling from her hooked fingers.

“Very impractical,” Jaime agreed, lagging behind for a moment to allow her to set the pace.

“I’m wearing my flats tomorrow. I don’t care what Alec says.”

“He’s not going to fire you over shoes. C’mon, I’ll give you a piggyback to the house.”

Arden stopped short, the heels swinging wildly at the abrupt cessation of motion. “No thanks, I’m good to walk.” Even if she’d been inclined to presume upon him for the half-mile trudge back to the house, she would have been put off by the idea of touching him -- especially touching so much of him. In her current frame of mind, such contact would probably lead to her abandoning her earlier resolution not to complicate things. 

Gosh, she’s stubborn.

“You wouldn’t have me any other way,” she bantered as they continued walking.

His step faltered. The foible was barely noticeable, but she caught it out of the corner of her eye. “Of course not,” he agreed with a smile. “I wouldn’t change a thing.”

Blessedly, her powers didn’t pick up on any thoughts that may have followed his admission. But even so, they both knew his words weren’t entirely true.

[wackygoofball]

Moodboard: Jaime x Brienne - Lord of the Rings AU

One would think that peace was finally agreed upon after the One Ring was cast into the fires from which it was born. And for a long time, Middle Earth was a place of peace and prosper. And yet, it did not last.

Lines that were believed to last a thousand years failed against the ravages of time, dried in the sand and gave rise to those driven by darker forces, by vanity, ambition, and a thirst for power.

The Targaryens assumed dominion after they discovered a way to tame one of the gravest calamities Middle Earth ever saw: dragons. They took over the city of Gondor quickly and continued their rule for many, many generations. Not all were bad kings and queens. Some were good. Some not so good. Some were worse. Far worse. And then, the Dance of the Dragons came to pass, which marked the ongoing decay of a family that had since grown too obsessed with the purity of its own blood. The dragons died, one by one, but the Targaryen’s power remained intact.

After that, the madness spread much faster, festered like an old wound, only fate deciding over it by no more than the flip of a coin, or so people started to believe.

Then Aerys Targaryen took the throne. Over time, he had his pyromancers develop an even worse weapon than the Fire of Orthanc, which once was used during the Battle of Hornburg, a green liquid soon to be known as wildfire. And Aerys, as fate would have it, used it against the people he was sworn to protect, burned them alive, just to hear them scream for a mercy that never came.

However, the Age of Dragons came to an end when a young member of the Army of Gondor, who was part of the chosen circle Aerys coined his own Kingsguard, a man by the name Jaime Lannister, drove a sword through Aerys’s back.

And where one reign ends another begins.

Robert Baratheon took the throne after him and became the new King of Gondor. Sooner rather than later, the crimes of the Mad King became no more than a whisper in the dark, stories told to children to scare them into slipping under the covers to finally go to sleep.

Though it was never just a story.

It was only the beginning of something that should keep every man, woman, and child, every elf, every dwarf, and every hobbit in all of Middle Earth wide awake.

Because history, or so it seems to be, is always on the verge of repeating itself.

However, our story begins elsewhere, in the small town called Bree, at an establishment known as The Prancing Pony.

Disgraced wizard Tyrion is sipping his second jug of ale, waiting with all patience he can muster. Not that he prides himself being on time. He found that it’s much easier to assume that he is on time for the sole reason that he will appear wherever he sees fit when he sees fit.

That doesn’t mean he likes to be kept waiting, however.

“I suppose I am right to assume that this is not your first?”

Tyrion smiles as he turns around to see the familiar bulky, blond figure stride past him, one hand always resting on the pommel of a sword.

He smiles. “It’s been a long time since we last saw one another, Lady Brienne.”

“You are not supposed to call me that in public, Wizard.”

“My pardon, Captain Galladon,” he laughs. “But rest assured, no one around here cares for who you are. The Prancing Pony is not exactly the place known for offering shelter to the most virtuous of Middle Earth. They would be fools to report to anyone. Even more so because it would be quite a ride all the way to Gondor.”

The mannish woman studies him for a long moment, but then sighs as she unbuckles her sword and sets it down next to her with a thud.

“So. Why did you have me summoned all the way to here, Wizard? You know I don’t like to leave my post for longer than is necessary.”

“Acutely aware, yes. You are very devoted to your service, of that there is no doubt.”

“What do you want?”

“I want to make you an exception offer, in fact.”

“Offer.”

“Yes, to take part in an adventure. You were chosen as one of the members of my company in pursuit of no less than saving Middle-Earth. This mission will involve a great deal of fighting. There is no guarantee of success. And no one must know about it. But of that I assure you, Captain, this is a quest of utmost honorable intentions.”

“And what is that mission supposed to be, may I ask, Wizard? I have a city to defend, and no time to undergo some adventure.”

“I need your help to gather some items across Middle-Earth. My brother over there will join us as well. And some more fellows,” Tyrion informs her. “I know he tries hard to look broody and mysterious, but he is a jolly fellow once you get to know him a bit.”

He waves at the cloaked man, who gets up slowly to stride over to the table. Brienne tilts her head as light illuminates the man’s features even under the hood, and she cannot help but gasp, “The Kingslayer?”

Jaime grimaces at the strange fellow he watched from across the room at his brother’s behest. “Is that… is that a woman?”

“Oh, I see you two will get along wonderfully! The fascination, I see, is absolutely mutual.”

“You must be joking, Wizard. Or perhaps you had some mushrooms on your way here, but I can only repeat it: I have better to do than this.”

“In fact, you do not. None of us do. The fate of Middle-Earth, I am afraid, is at stake here. Why else do you think would I bring my brother into this? Even more so since he is actually… dead.”

“For most to know,” Jaime huffs. And inside his heart, he only ever adds to himself.

Brienne remains reluctant to undertake this quest, but the Wizard is the only one, well, now one of two, who knows of her secret identity. And she cannot be revealed as anyone other than Galladon, or else all sacrifices she made to become part of the Army of Gondor will be in vain.

In the safety of Tyrion’s chamber, he reveals the details of his motivation to undertake this adventure.

“Rumors have since become more than rumors. The cast out daughter and only living heir to Aerys Targaryen, Daenerys Stormborn, is out to reclaim what she believes is her birthright.”

“She wants to be Queen of Gondor.”

“Yes. In the dead fire pits of Mordor, a new and perhaps even darker power rose in the shape of the Night King who turned to ice what once was blazing fire. I have seen the Mount Doom, I travelled there and saw that the fires died out.”

“What?”

“The Night King and Daenerys Stormborn made a contract of sort, it appears, wherein he will revive three dragon eggs from stone, her children, as she says, so she may rule in Gondor. In exchange, she is meant to help him free the armies of the fallen in Mordor so they may march westward.”

“And how do you think can that be stopped?”

“I found a scroll, an ancient text that says that there is a way to defeat the eternal ice with the aid of two magical swords made of Valyrian steel, which, combined, will form Lightbringer, a blade that may slay the Night King and thus end his reign of terror before it can even begin.”

“That still leaves one question, though: why do you want me for that quest? I can’t help you with those magical items better than any other knight with my skills could.”

“Because we need to get into Gondor, as part of what is needed to forge Lightbringer. You will well know that I am no longer… wanted there… for a number of reasons. And to make matters worse, as you will know better than anyone, there is the issue of the barricade no one without your consent will move past. And if I may add, you have proven more capable than most knights I ever came across. You have a particular set of skills I believe vital to the success of our mission, Lady Brienne.”

At last, Brienne agrees, under the pretense that they will speak the truth to one another and that the Kingslayer, a man of questionable morals to say the least, remains as far away from her as is possible.

“I am doing this for the greater good, not for either one of you.”

To disguise her identity as Galladon, she has to travel as herself, cutting short the hair she used to wear longer as Captain of the Army of Gondor, a sensation that since grew unfamiliar to Brienne, who barely recalls the girl who liked wooden swords as much as she liked to twirl in a dress around her father’s halls, unaware and childishly uncaring of how ridiculous she looked to the rest of the world.

Jaime, for his part, has to come to terms with travelling with a man, pardon, woman, of the Army of Gondor, a responsibility and honor he had to abandon in favor of his own life when he became the Kingslayer. Though no one, safe for Tyrion, would even begin to comprehend why he did it, why he slew the Mad King.

It was his finest act, but history, more often than not, will forget its heroes until its concluding chapters.

And so, the small company begins its quest in search for Lightbringer, a journey that soon proves dangerous as the undead Dothraki riders of Daenerys Targaryen start to chase them as well as the items they are so desperate to obtain.

Along the way, they meet a great many interesting characters, some friendly, others not so much, sharing, in fact, in a great adventure. Yet, the impending threat of the Dragon Queen as well as the Night King may not be the only danger ahead of them, as secrets and lies may put them apart when they must stand together.

As their success hangs by a single thread, so does the fate of the world, just about to flip the coin another time.

And one can only hope that history, for once, does not forget itself and learns from its errors, so there may be a tomorrow, so there may be light.

Note: my knowledge of the franchise is mostly limited to the movies, not the books, alongside some good old google search. No offense to LOTR fans intended in case I mess up timelines and such! Also... sorry for weird edits, I could not resist. :)

Additional Image Sources: The Lord of the Rings trilogy & The Hobbit trilogy.

[midnighters-texas]

Transcript below the cut!

Kim Roots (KR): I’m here with the cast of Midnight, Texas at TV Line’s Comic Con interview suite. Welcome! Yay! *cast cheers* Um, season 2 was not an easy get. It-we had to wait a long time. Were any of you guys sweating, like-like “What’s gonna happen?”

Arielle Kebbel (AK): All good things... come to those who wait? *cast laughs*

François Arnaud (FA): We knew, we knew it was gonna happen. Didn’t we? *cast laughs*

AK: Sure, yeah.

KR: You’re a little bit into season 2, right, a couple of episodes under your belt, here? You have some very exciting news, you have new people coming in. Um, I love that first season was- that Colconnar the demon was the big bad, and now it’s tourists are coming in and (inaudible)

AK: The worst! I’m someone from Florida, we know.

KR: Talk to me a little bit about, um, Kai and... Patience? Is that her name? Um... Nestor Carbonell and Jaime Ray Newman coming in- *cast cheers* Yeah, so exciting! And taking over the hotel. What is that gonna mean for-for the Midnighters? What’s that gonna mean for our group?

Parisa Fitz-Henley (PFH): Well they’re encroaching on Fiji’s territory. 

AK: For sure.

PFH: I mean, with their crystals and stuff and, yeah, they’re getting in my way.

KR: Is she gonna be a little less tranquil than normal because of that?

PFH: Maybe... I feel like...

AK: That’s a good way of putting it!

PFH: *nods* Fiji is really sweet but she’s also got a little bit of a petty streak, I think that we might see a little of that.

AK: But per François, they won’t last long ‘cause of the ghosts, so we’ll see what happens.

KR: Oh, right!

FA: The ghosts might just help us get rid of them.

KR: That’s cool, um, if only the resident medium weren’t bleeding from the ears all the time. *cast laughs*

FA: I mean... they were bleeding blood, and not black goo.

KR: Oh yeah, yeah that’s true. So-

Jason Lewis (JL): How does that stuff taste?

FA: Uh, it’s really sweet and minty, actually, I quite like that.

KR: It’s minty?

FA: It’s minty, yeah. 

Nicole Snyder (NS): We’re gonna gargle with it.

KR: How’s he doing as we come back into season 2?

FA: He’s, y’know, slightly more troubled than usual. Um, I mean, not great. He has, uh, demonic cancer, to put it lightly.

KR: Okay. 

AK: (to Nicole Snyder) Are we allowed to say that? *Nicole shrugs*

FA: No? What are we allowed to say then? *cast laughs*

KR: Okay, so let’s table that for a second. Um, he and Creek had just kind of gotten together at the end of last season and cemented it. Um, Sarah Ramos is not a series rgular this season, but I know she’s going to be around. 

FA: She’s around.

KR: So what does that relationship look like?

FA: Manfred’s coming to terms with the fact that maybe Creek deserves better than Midnight, I-I mean as a- *cast scoffs* no, no, no, different. I mean sh-she has more um... 

JL: Are you deflecting off of your own character, like maybe deserves better than Manfred? *cast laughs*

FA: I think she has higher hopes for herself than just being a waitress in a small town and I think she wants to pursue, um, studies, and uh, literature studies, because then she has to become Charlaine Harris and write Midnight, Texas. 

KR: Oh, that’s true! 

JL: Well maybe possibly a place where she’s not constantly in threat for her mortal life.

PFH: Eh, I mean...

KR: Setting the bar really high. *cast laughs* There was kind of a band-aid stuck on all the cracks in the town, right? Like they stuffed the demons back and sealed it up, but that’s not gonna last forever. Can you guys tell me a little bit about how soon into the new season are we in mortal danger again? 

AK: I mean, like, 30 seconds?

NS: I mean, yeah, pretty much ten seconds in.

Eric Charmelo (EC): Yeah, I-I mean, last season we played with the conceit that the threat to Midnight was lurking under the streets and this season the threat is amongst the Midnighters, so it’s kind of ferreting out, uh, who that threat it, and what the endgame is.

FA: It’s me. *cast laughs*

KR: Alright, so Josh Kelly’s character, Walker Chisum, who is... and there’s no way to say this in- he’s a gay demon hunter, but he does not hunt gay demons, he is gay-

EC: Correct, he is a gay cowboy demon hunter, he is. 

JL: And he doesn’t necessarily hunt cowboys either.

AK: And he’s from Unreal, which we both worked on. *points to Joe Lewis*

KR: Yes, yes.

AK: So it’s all in the family, we had Breeda last season, from Unreal, so it’s a fun crossover.

KR: I need some webisodes of like, some like, bachelor-type (inaudible) Midnight show. 

PFH: Oh my god, please.

AK: That would be funny.

KR: Walker has some attraction to Joe, I’m hearing. How is Chuy feeling about that? 

JL: Chuy doesn’t know a damn thing. *cast laughs*

EC: That’s the way he likes it. *points to Joe Lewis*

KR: Wow. I mean, is this a thing, is it kind of, like, does Joe pick up on that, like, right away?

JL: No, I think, you know, Joe’s going through his own thing. He was hiding in Midnight for forever and hiding from Breeda’s character, uh, forever, and I think it’s kind of indicative of any of us that suppress a fundamental part of ourselves. It’s gonna come bubbling out and so, I’m bubbling.

KR: Are there any lasting effects from the vampire blood that Lem gave Olivia at the end of last season?

AK: I don’t wanna be a vampire, if that’s what you’re asking. *laughs* Love Lexi, I did it, no offense *motions toward Peter Mensah*, love Lem. *cast laughs* To be honest, I think that there’s a lot more that Olivia and Lem are going through than just the... are the effects on the vamp-sucking his blood. So season 2, uh, Olivia and Lem have a psychic connection, literally, so it quickly goes from, like, every woman’s dream to like, “Back the F off!” *cast laughs* So there’s a lot of that, you know? Like we had-there-there’s a nice little song and dance we have to work out. 

FA: And maybe they’re thinking of, uh, expanding the family, aren’t they?

AK: *nods* A threesome. *cast laughs*

KR: How is Lem dealing with the psychic connection?

Peter Mensah (PM): Lem is busy shaking his head and wondering what the hell he got himself into (inaudible)

AK: Like every married man!

KR: Exactly, I love that. So it’s like not just like, “Oh honey, you’re, like, leaving wet towels on the floor” it’s like “You’re literally encroaching on my psyche”.

AK: It’s lit-I mean you wanna take this one since you know my thoughts? *motions to Peter Mensah* *cast laughs*

PM: Well I’m aware-I can’t say everything you’re thinking. *cast laughs*

AK: True!

PM: But yeah, it’s like y-you know, um, what do you do if you can literally hear someone’s thoughts, and feel their feelings.

KR: Oh, and feel their feelings too.

PM: And so, it’s a little bit more complicated than just, sort of, connected because emotionally, you’re going to react to the things they react to.

KR: My, like, not so smooth segue was “So like, speaking of connecting, over on the end here” that was like hot, sensual that just built to insanity at the end of last season between Fiji and Bobo. I mean, I watch TV, I know that when couples are that good, there’s always stuff that’s coming up for them. I’m very worried for you two, please put my mind at ease if you can.

Dylan Bruce (DB): Well at the beginning of season 2, they’re kind of like 21-year-olds again, when you first fall in love. Uh, very amorous, uh, they’re-

PFH: What do you mean 21 again? *cast laughs*

DB: They’re doing things-they’re doing things that Sting the singer would look at and go “Hm, haven’t tried that one before.” So, I’ll leave it at that, um, but yeah.

AK: Wow, he threw Sting in the mix.

DB: How could you not throw Sting in the mix?

FA: Is Sting famously adventurous? *cast nods*

DB: Yeah, but of course couples that are happy on TV can’t stay happy for too long so they’ll definitely- something could be happening to them down the road. It’s kinda scary, and uh, lovely, and-

PFH: Heart-wrenching, it’s heart-wrenching.

BD: Yeah. Sweet, cute, sad. Yeah.

PFH: Yeah, and surprising. I mean, that was the thing, you know. I thought “Okay, well this-this can’t possibily work out, like something’s gonna happen”. Nothing that is happening is anything I would’ve expected. Like I was like “Wh-What?! *gasps* Oh my god!”

DB: I’m always like “When’s Bobo gonna get to fight?” and Jason’s like “He’s a lover this season.” (inaudible) *cast laughs* I’m like “I wanna fight, man!”

AK: He’s gotta conserve energy.

NS: (inaudible) there’s nothing left in him to fight. It’s all love. *cast laughs* Oh! Oh! I didn’t mean it like that!

AK: Welcome to season 2! 

JL: Bravo. *pats Nicole Snyder’s shoulders* Yes, you did.

KR: I hate to end this on a down note but where’s Mr. Snuggly, why does he not come to Comic Con?

AK: We hired my cat instead. *cast laughs* I’m just kidding, but I’m still fighting for her.

PFH: Why would you want him here?

KR: I feel like he’s like-he may be like, the outlier. Does he like, does he have his own trailer and he like, slams the door and smokes cigarettes in there between (inaudible).

PFH: He’s mean. If he shows up at all! He’s the biggest diva, he’s so rude, do you see him on Twitter? He-he won’t leave me alone, he’s-he trolls me constantly. *cast laughs* What is the cat version of bitch? Like I know that’s like a f-dog thing, but like he’s-

KR: I think it’s just cat. *cast laughs* I’m a dog person. Um, there’s no way I can wrap this up in a concise way, so thank you guys so much for coming.

[him-e]

Different anon. What do you mean about the marriage symbols in Brienne's chapters? I didn't see any?

In the mêlée at Bitterbridge she had sought out her suitors and battered them one by one, Farrow and Ambrose and Bushy, Mark Mullendore and Raymond Nayland and Will the Stork. She had ridden over Harry Sawyer and broken Robin Potter’s helm, giving him a nasty scar. And when the last of them had fallen, the Mother had delivered Connington to her. This time Ser Ronnet held a sword and not a rose. Every blow she dealt him was sweeter than a kiss.Loras Tyrell had been the last to face her wroth that day. He’d never courted her, had hardly looked at her at all, but he bore three golden roses on his shield that day, and Brienne hated roses. The sight of them had given her a furious strength. She went to sleep dreaming of the fight they’d had, and of Ser Jaime fastening a rainbow cloak about her shoulders.

She was dressed in silk brocade, a quartered gown of blue and red decorated with golden suns and silver crescent moons. On another girl it might have been a pretty gown, but not on her. She was twelve, ungainly and uncomfortable, waiting to meet the young knight her father had arranged for her to marry, a boy six years her senior, sure to be a famous champion one day. She dreaded his arrival. Her bosom was too small, her hands and feet too big. Her hair kept sticking up, and there was a pimple nestled in the fold beside her nose. “He will bring a rose for you,” her father promised her, but a rose was no good, a rose could not keep her safe. It was a sword she wanted. Oathkeeper. I have to find the girl. I have to find his honor.Finally the doors opened, and her betrothed strode into her father’s hall. She tried to greet him as she had been instructed, only to have blood come pouring from her mouth. She had bitten her tongue off as she waited. She spat it at the young knight’s feet, and saw the disgust on his face. “Brienne the Beauty,” he said in a mocking tone. “I have seen sows more beautiful than you.” He tossed the rose in her face. As he walked away, the griffins on his cloak rippled and blurred and changed to lions. Jaime! she wanted to cry. Jaime, come back for me! But her tongue lay on the floor by the rose, drowned in blood.Brienne woke suddenly, gasping.

Let’s unpack this.

Brienne was betrothed three times. 

The first time she was a child, but the boy she was betrothed to died of fever.

The second time she was thirteen and Ronnet Connington was six years her senior. When he came to see her, he insulted her looks, tossed a rose at her and told her it was the only thing she would have gotten from him.

Her third and last suitor, a ser Humphrey Wagstaff, told her she would have to learn how to behave as a proper lady. So Brienne challenged him to duel, telling him she would only accept such demands from a man who could beat her in combat. He couldn’t. And the betrothal was broken.

When Brienne was in Renly’s camp, Hyle Hunt and some other guys made a wager to get her maidenhead, and started wooing her (aka lowkey harassing her). Though Brienne knew it was all a game, a mockery, it still hurt. (because deep down Brienne wants to experience this romance stuff for real, from a man who really means it, and who is not gross to her.)

later on, in the melee at Bitterbridge where she won her rainbow cloak, she beat them all. She also beat Loras, who didn’t take part to the wager (but had three roses on his shield and Brienne hates roses because Red Ronnet but also because obviously Loras had Renly’s love, which Brienne would never have).

this establishes a pattern in which we have Brienne beat in combat potential lovers (husbands) who don’t deserve her (reflected in their inability to keep up with her superior strength and martial skills) and keep her maidenhead intact over and over again. This is (in large part) because of the trauma Red Ronnet inflicted on her when she was thirteen, that made her decide she will not be humiliated again and fight anyone who dares to ask for her hand.

the rose Red Ronnet tosses at her is an OBVIOUS homage to beauty and the beast, but wonderfully subverted: Brienne’s “offense” is being too ugly and witch!Ronnet “curses” her by making her forever insecure about her appearance and completely destroying her trust in men to the point that she won’t accept to be betrothed OR courted by anyone EVER AGAIN. Like the Beast is forced to hide in his castle, in sadness and isolation, Brienne is forced to build “a fortress inside herself” and hide behind it. 

   … until someone unexpected comes and breaks the curse. 

Remember the part about Brienne beating her suitors? Fast forward to ASOS:

Steel met steel with a ringing, bone-jarring clang. Somehow Brienne had gotten her own blade out in time. Jaime laughed. “Very good, wench.” “Give me the sword, Kingslayer.” “Oh, I will.” He sprang to his feet and drove at her, the longsword alive in his hands. Brienne jumped back, parrying, but he followed, pressing the attack. No sooner did she turn one cut than the next was upon her. The swords kissed and sprang apart and kissed again. Jaime’s blood was singing. This was what he was meant for; he never felt so alive as when he was fighting, with death balanced on every stroke. And with my wrists chained together, the wench may even give me a contest for a time. His chains forced him to use a two-handed grip, though of course the weight and reach were less than if the blade had been a true two-handed greatsword, but what did it matter? His cousin’s sword was long enough to write an end to this Brienne of Tarth. High, low, overhand, he rained down steel upon her. Left, right, backslash, swinging so hard that sparks flew when the swords came together, upswing, sideslash, overhand, always attacking, moving into her, step and slide, strike and step, step and strike, hacking, slashing, faster, faster, faster… until, breathless, he stepped back and let the point of the sword fall to the ground, giving her a moment of respite. “Not half bad,” he acknowledged. “For a wench.”She took a slow deep breath, her eyes watching him warily. “I would not hurt you, Kingslayer.” “As if you could.” He whirled the blade back up above his head and flew at her again, chains rattling.   

Jaime could not have said how long he pressed the attack. It might have been minutes or it might have been hours; time slept when swords woke. He drove her away from his cousin’s corpse, drove her across the road, drove her into the trees. She stumbled once on a root she never saw, and for a moment he thought she was done, but she went to one knee instead of falling, and never lost a beat. Her sword leapt up to block a downcut that would have opened her from shoulder to groin, and then she cut at him, again and again, fighting her way back to her feet stroke by stroke. The dance went on. He pinned her against an oak, cursed as she slipped away, followed her through a shallow brook half-choked with fallen leaves. Steel rang, steel sang, steel screamed and sparked and scraped, and the woman started grunting like a sow at every crash, yet somehow he could not reach her. It was as if she had an iron cage around her that stopped every blow. “Not bad at all,” he said when he paused for a second to catch his breath, circling to her right. “For a wench?” “For a squire, say. A green one.” He laughed a ragged, breathless laugh. “Come on, come on, my sweetling, the music’s still playing. Might I have this dance, my lady?”

(look at all the sexual innuendos and strangely flirtatious language here and all the chasing around and slipping away and tell me if it doesn’t sound like sexual foreplay.)

JAIME IS BRIENNE’S MATCH. Jaime is the worthy adversary that could (and probably would) beat her (thus, unknowingly earning his right to claim her as his bride) if he hadn’t spent the last months in captivity and if his hands weren’t chained together:

You’re a virgin, I take it? Childhood must have been awful for you. Were you a foot taller than all the boys? They laughed at you, called you names? Some boys like a challenge. One or two must have tried to get inside big Brienne. But you fought them off. Maybe you wished one of them could overpower you, fling you down, tear off your clothes. But none of them were strong enough. I’m strong enough. 

(show!Jaime, making this concept REALLY EXPLICIT in 2x10)  

But Brienne is Jaime’s match, too:

Grunting, she came at him, blade whirling, and suddenly it was Jaime struggling to keep steel from skin. One of her slashes raked across his brow, and blood ran down into his right eye. The Others take her, and Riverrun as well! His skills had gone to rust and rot in that bloody dungeon, and the chains were no great help either. His eye closed, his shoulders were going numb from the jarring they’d taken, and his wrists ached from the weight of chains, manacles, and sword. His longsword grew heavier with every blow, and Jaime knew he was not swinging it as quickly as he’d done earlier, nor raising it as high. She is stronger than I am. The realization chilled him. Robert had been stronger than him, to be sure. The White Bull Gerold Hightower as well, in his heyday, and Ser Arthur Dayne. Amongst the living, Greatjon Umber was stronger, Strongboar of Crakehall most likely, both Cleganes for a certainty. The Mountain’s strength was like nothing human. It did not matter. With speed and skill, Jaime could beat them all. But this was a woman. A huge cow of a woman, to be sure, but even so… by rights, she should be the one wearing down. Instead she forced him back into the brook again, shouting, “Yield! Throw down the sword!”

Then Jaime does something:

A slick stone turned under Jaime’s foot. As he felt himself falling, he twisted the mischance into a ping lunge. His point scraped past her parry and bit into her upper thigh. A red flower blossomed, and Jaime had an instant to savor the sight of her blood before his knee slammed into a rock. 

Jaime wounds Brienne (in her upper thigh, with “his point”, lmao) and “a red flower blossomed” which is a shameless allusion to deflowering (combined with “savor the sight of her blood”… see also Barbrey Dustin’s “I still remember the look of my maiden’s blood on his cock the night he claimed me. I think Brandon liked the sight as well. A bloody sword is a beautiful thing, yes”).

Then they keep rolling and “kicking and punching until finally she was sitting astride him” (WHAT) and it gets really violent from here and Brienne slams Jaime hard underwater and yells him to yield or she’ll drown him, but it doesn’t matter because Jaime has already metaphorically claimed Brienne’s maidenhead: he made her bleed.

And, important, the fight doesn’t end with a clear-cut winner, because they’re interrupted by the Bloody Mummers. And that’s when the sexual / wedding night metaphors stop being subtext and become TEXT:

Brienne lurched to her feet. She was all mud and blood below the waist, her clothing askew, her face red. She looks as if they caught us fucking instead of fighting. Jaime crawled over the rocks to shallow water, wiping the blood from his eye with his chained hands. Armed men lined both sides of the brook. Small wonder, we were making enough noise to wake a dragon. “Well met, friends,” he called to them amiably. “My pardons if I disturbed you. You caught me chastising my wife.”

(thanks, Jaime)

Now consider:

Brienne nursing and cleaning Jaime after he is maimed (the kind of intimacy you would expect from a married couple)

Brienne and Jaime being naked together in the bathtub scene (and Jaime popping a boner after stealing a glimpse of Brienne’s pubic hair)

the Oathkeeper scene, in which they act all awkward and compliment each other like a newly wed couple in honeymoon (“Blue is a good color on you, my lady. It goes well with your eyes” and “You look…” “…Different?”) and then Jaime gives Brienne his invaluable sword

aside from the obvious sexual metaphor, the sword is a symbolically charged object: it represents the very heart and soul of a warrior, so giving your sword to someone is like giving a piece of you. And sharing the same sword (like Jaime and Brienne share Oathkeeper) is like sharing one soul. From this meta (which I recommend reading because it explains a lot of the stuff I’m trying to get at and much more): 

“the ‘soul trapped in a sword’ idea is a frequent trope in myth and fiction for this very reason. Swords are never given away lightly. Think of the reverence of a knighting ceremony or why we kneel whenever a ceremonial blade is presented to someone or why Samurai’s are dishonored should they be parted from their swords. Think of why oaths sworn on a blade are considered very serious. You are swearing on your own soul.Swords are often present during wedding ceremonies among the nobility whereupon the wife sometimes kisses her husband’s blade and her husband swears his loyalty to his wife on his sword. There is also the custom of the sword and bride ceremony to consider, wherein the bridegroom’s sword takes his place in his absence. Or why a man’s sword is always brought back to his widow should he die. Or why a knight like a member of the Kings Guard or a knight of the Faith pledging service to his lord on his blade is seen as a kind of marriage ceremony. Because swords represent UNIONS. You pledge to take no other duty beyond your lord’s wishes, much like a husband and wife pledge their duty to no other. You are bound, body and spirit, in your oath to one another—on the sword shared between you.” [desidangerous]

remember how the cloaking ceremony in the westerosi wedding ritual symbolizes the man taking the bride under his protection?

in the show, Jaime gave Brienne a full body armor

so Brienne is now walking around literally cloaked in Jaime’s steel and with his sword at her side. 

All of the above is merged together in the two dreams I quoted at the beginning of this post. 

in the first quote she dreams of Jaime in Renly’s place, “fastening a rainbow cloak about her shoulders”. The rainbow cloak is obviously Renly’s kingsguard cloak, but this sounds a lot like a wedding ceremony, too. Especially considering Brienne’s romantic feelings for Renly.

in the second quote she dreams of Red Ronnet, the suitor who rejected her so cruelly, which proves how that failed betrothal still haunts her—not because she cared for Ronnet in particular but because Brienne is a romantic and was even more so at 13 and Ronnet destroyed her hope of having, eventually, a happily ever after with someone who loves her. 

Then suddenly Ronnet changes into Jaime as he walks away from her and she’s starts to desperately scream for him and wakes up.

This shows how Brienne already subconsciously associates Jaime with marriage, but has internalized so much insecurity that even in her dreams Jaime rejects her.

Which is why “a rose was no good, a rose could not keep her safe. It was a sword she wanted. Oathkeeper. I have to find the girl. I have to find his honor”: Brienne thinks the only way she can make Jaime “come back for her” is to be a good knight for him. Keep her promise and find his honor. Since romance (the rose) was tossed in her face and used to hurt and humiliate her, she will only care for swords, because swords she can handle; she’s good at it. I think this quote wonderfully depicts Brienne’s complex vulnerability and how she still longs for something she claims she doesn’t care for, while also being completely and sincerely committed to the True Knight persona she chose to embody.

oh, and of course, “the Kingslayer’s whore”.

and Hyle Hunt, who represents Brienne’s chance for… I guess normalcy, in the form of a married life with someone who isn’t her One True Love, but is somewhat decent enough to form a family with. Something that she’s probably going to consider for a while and reject, but whose lesson is “yes, marriage can be an option for you if you want it to be”.

This could be just foreshadowing of Brienne’s romantic feelings for Jaime, but the recurring theme of Brienne’s suitors / broken betrothals, her virginity, her absolute certainty that she will never get married, and her being house Tarth’s only heir makes me think marriage is a central theme in her arc that will come to a resolution one way or another.

To conclude this long ass meta (and I didn’t even discuss Jaime’s weirwood dream, lol), there’s also the fact that Brienne spends some time in the Quiet Isle, which significantly doesn’t allow men and women to sleep under the same roof unless they’re married. Seems a pretty random piece of information to give away in a Brienne chapter… unless it will become relevant again in some future (post Lady Stoneheart) scenario, either in a “pretend to be married to avoid being separated for the night” or in a “let’s actually get married because we might not survive the night” way.

[junker-town]

Elite Eight teams in the men’s NCAA tournament, ranked by their title chances

Photo by Sarah Stier/Getty Images

Let’s rank Elite Eight teams in the men’s NCAA tournament.

There’s always the concern that an upset-laden opening weekend makes for a boring conclusion to the NCAA tournament. So far, that hasn’t been the case in the men’s bracket even after a barrage of upsets through the first four days. The Sweet 16 still produced captivating basketball, and most importantly kept the top teams rolling right into the Elite Eight.

All three No. 1 seeds that advanced out of the first weekend are still alive as we head to the regional finals. We still have elite NBA talent playing in the tournament, with projected top-three picks Evan Mobley (USC) and Jalen Suggs (Gonzaga) about to face-off in a showcase game on Tuesday. Even the teams we can’t believe are here — UCLA and Oregon State, namely — have the size and the perimeter play to pull one more upset.

This tournament has already been so much fun, and it feels like the best is yet to come. We ranked the remaining eight teams in the men’s tournament by who has the best shot at winning it all.

8. Oregon State Beavers (No. 12 seed)

It would be an extreme understatement to say Oregon State wasn’t supposed to be here. The Beavers were picked to finish dead last in the Pac-12 before the season. They hovered around .500 for most the year, and had no chance of getting an at-large bid to the NCAA tournament. Oregon State entered the Pac-12 tournament on March 11 knowing every game it would play from here on out was a must win. After six games, the Beavers are still rolling.

Oregon State knocked out No. 8 seed Loyola-Chicago, 65-58, in the first game of the Sweet 16 on Saturday by flummoxing the Ramblers with a zone defense. After Loyola looked so good in knocking out No. 1 seed Illinois in their last game, the Beavers’ combination of size and athleticism finally made them look like a mid-major team. Ethan Thompson (22 points) is turning into a star shooting guard, Jerod Lucas can hit shots, Warith Alatishe is a long-and-bouncy wing who excels defensively, and Roman Silva is a 7’1 senior center who can bother shots at the rim. The Beavers milk the shot clock on every possession, and have the length to close out hard on shooters. It isn’t always pretty, but there’s no denying the results at this point.

This Beavers run is real. Houston shouldn’t be too comfortable.

7. UCLA Bruins (No. 11 seed)

The winningest program in the history of college basketball should probably not count as a Cinderella, but there’s no other way to explain how unlikely this UCLA run has been. The Bruins entered the year ranked No. 22 in the preseason polls, but lost arguably their best player, 6’10 forward Chris Smith, to a torn ACL eight games into the campaign. UCLA bounced back to dominate a large portion of its Pac-12 slate, but then lost its last three games of the regular season and before getting knocked out in its first game of the conference tournament. The Bruins just slid in to the big dance, earning a First Four matchup against Michigan State, which it trailed for most of the night before forcing overtime and pulling away in the extra frame.

The Bruins beat BYU and Abilene Christian easily to bust into the Sweet 16, but a date with Nate Oats and Alabama was always going to be a significantly more difficult test. UCLA was not supposed to win that game, not even when it took a double-digit lead into halftime, not when star wing Johnny Juzang fouled out, and especially not when the Tide forced overtime with a deep buzzer-beating three from Alex Reese. But somehow, UCLA responded in ultra-impressive fashion in the extra five minutes to keep this run going.

UCLA will be an underdog against Michigan in the Elite Eight, but the shot-making of their two 6’6 wings — Juzang and Jaime Jaquez — gives them a puncher’s chance. It’s bizarre that the Bruins ever made it this far. Why stop now?

6. Arkansas Razorbacks (No. 3 seed)

There’s an entire generation of college basketball fans who have never seen Arkansas enjoy this level of success in March Madness. The Razorbacks entered the second weekend of the NCAA tournament for the first time since 1996, back when head coach Nolan Richardson helmed one of the best programs in the country. Eric Musselman isn’t on that level yet in his second season on the bench for the Hogs, but he’s already taking the team to heights it hasn’t seen since Richardson’s heyday.

Oral Roberts gave the Razorbacks everything they could handle in its bid to be the first No. 15 seed to ever reach the Elite Eight, but Max Abmas’ game-winning shot bounced off the rim and the Hogs advanced with a 72-70 victory. It’s the second straight two-point win for Arkansas in the tournament, and once again it was not pretty. The Hogs shot only 1-of-9 from three-point range, and mostly won the game by dominating the offensive glass. Northern Kentucky transfer Jalen Tate led the way with 22 points, while star freshman Moses Moody shot just 4-of-20.

Arkansas plays fast and attacks you defensively with a good mix of high-pedigree youngsters and battle-tested vets who don’t get overwhelmed by the moment. There are no style points to be had here, but the formula works, and Arkansas just keeps winning. If they beat Baylor, we’ll really start to believe.

5. USC Trojans (No. 6 seed)

USC was a frustrating team to watch for most of the season. Evan Mobley made it immediately apparent that he was a special talent, but it often felt like the Trojans didn’t know how to fully tap into his awesome ability. USC had tons of size inside but not many shot creators on the perimeter. It only took threes on 31.7 percent of its possessions (which ranked No. 307 in DI) despite having good shooters. It felt like Mobley should have been an even greater focal point offensively. Either those concerns were always overblown, or the Trojans just took some time to figure things out. Either way, they’re rolling at the right time straight into the Elite Eight.

USC blew out its third straight opponent in this tournament by disposing of Oregon in the Sweet 16 on Sunday night. This suddenly looks like a legit powerhouse, with a top-15 offense, a top-five defense, and a future NBA star tying it all together. The Trojans have tremendous length on the inside with Mobley and his older brother Isaiah protecting the paint. The perimeter players are knocking down shots. All of this might be surprising if you watched USC all season, but none of it seems like a fluke right now.

USC vs. Gonzaga might be the most anticipated game of the tournament so far. The Zags haven’t seen anything like Mobley yet. USC’s defense is about to face the ultimate test against one of the best offenses college basketball has ever seen in the modern era. USC’s tournament run has been full of special performances so far. Let’s see if they have one more left in them.

4. Houston Cougars (No. 2 seed)

Kelvin Sampson has quietly been building a sustainable winner in the American Athletic Conference over the last six years. His Houston Cougars have won at least 21 games in each of those seasons, and would be making their fourth straight tournament appearance if last year’s postseason wasn’t canceled. This is Sampson’s best team yet thanks to a roster that has both continuity and star-power. As the big boys in the Midwest region have fallen, Houston just keeps going.

The Cougars blitzed Syracuse’s vaunted zone with speed and shooting in a 62-46 victory in the Sweet 16. Houston finished with three times as many assists as the Orange even as they shot just 7-of-26 from three. Star guard Quentin Grimes, a former Kansas transfer, led the way with 14 points, while former UMass transfer DeJon Jarreau added nine points, eight assists, and eight rebounds. Houston is top-8 in the country in both offensive and defensive efficiency, and typically plays at an ultra slow pace with an emphasis on hitting the offensive glass. It isn’t the most glamorous style, but the Cougs haven’t been stopped yet.

Going against Syracuse’s zone should prepare Houston for an Oregon State team that used a zone to beat Loyola in the last round. With one more win, Sampson will finally get his due for what he’s been building for years.

3. Michigan Wolverines (No. 1 seed)

Michigan men’s basketball was one of the most successful programs in the country over the last decade under John Beilein, but there was no guarantee it was going to continue when Juwan Howard took over the program two years ago. Plenty of other former NBA stars had gone back to coach their alma maters and flamed out, but Howard was always too sharp for that. Despite starting the season as the final team ranked in the AP Poll, the Wolverines quickly made it apparent that they were one of the best teams in the country. Not even an injury to star senior forward Isaiah Livers just before the tournament has changed that so far during this postseason.

Florida State was a trendy pick to upset Michigan in the Sweet 16, but the Wolverines owned all 40 minutes on their way to a 76-58 win. This game showed why Howard’s team is ranked in the top-10 in efficiency on both both sides of the ball. Franz Wagner, a 6’9 combo forward, played like the NBA lottery pick he’s projected to be with 13 points, 10 rebounds, and five assists. Star freshman Hunter Dickinson (14 points) looked great in the middle, while Chaundee Brown (12 points) again proved he’s one of the country’s best reserves. Mike Smith and Eli Brooks are an undersized backcourt, but both are so good in their roles. Brandon Johns filled in admirably for Livers, and will need to keep that up for this run to continue.

The Wolverines still have an incredibly talented front court even without Livers, and the guards are able to get a bucket in a pinch. This looks like an extremely deserving No. 1 seed even if we can’t quite put them ahead of the two other top seeds still standing in the bracket.

2. Baylor Bears (No. 1 seed)

Baylor has been one of the best teams in college basketball for two straight seasons now with a core led by the guard trio of Jared Butler, Davion Mitchell, and MaCio Teague. The Bears never got to show what they were made of last season before the pandemic canceled the tournament, but they would have been a No. 1 seed and a favorite to reach the Final Four for the first time in Scott Drew’s career. Drew’s team has picked up right where it left off this season, only with even more weapons and another year of built-in chemistry this time around.

After a shaky first half, Baylor looked every bit like a powerhouse in closing out No. 5 seed Villanova, 62-51, in the Sweet 16 on Saturday. Mitchell was electric with his pesky on-ball defense and quick-strike driving ability. Butler had a cold shooting night but still a found a way to get to the basket for a couple key second half buckets. Adam Flagler, a newcomer this season as a transfer from Presbyterian, added 16 points off the bench. The Bears have so many different guards who can cut you up on offense while still being able to get after you on the defensive end (No. 27 in efficiency).

This is an elite team in every way, one that is absolutely good enough to win the whole tournament. It’s going to take a Herculean effort for any team to knock them out.

1. Gonzaga Bulldogs (No. 1 seed)

Gonzaga has looked like the best team in the country from the very first game of the season, when they dropped 102 points in a breezy win over Kansas. The Zags ran the table through the rest of the non-conference slate — including wins over West Virginia, Iowa, and Virginia, all of whom were top-4 seeds in March Madness — and then stayed undefeated by blitzing West Coast Conference opponents. This has looked like one of the best college basketball teams in recent memory by the eye test, and the numbers back it up: Gonzaga’s adjusted efficiency margin of +37.82 is the highest since KenPom started tracking the stat in 2002.

Creighton played well in the Sweet 16 and still lost by 18 points in a win that showed off Gonzaga’s embarrassment of riches. The Zags have an All-American-caliber player at guard (Jalen Suggs), on the wing (Corey Kispert), and in the front court (Drew Timme). Their three-guard, four-out offense is a blur of cutting, spacing, and ball movement with knockdown shooters dotting the arc. Joel Ayayi and Andrew Nembhard would be stars elsewhere but are significantly overqualified as fourth and fifth options with the Zags. Good luck stopping this attack.

The Zags are good enough to be men’s college basketball’s first undefeated national champion since Indiana in 1976. They’re the favorites until someone proves they can knock them off.

[ilynpilled]

I think most people started liking jb as a couple after the bear pit scene, but when I read the books back in freshman year I think it was the sword fight. Maybe it is the fucked up dynamics enjoyer in me, even though jb ends up being relatively wholesome (at least for this series’s standards lmao). The chemistry in that thing was tangible. It is so funny too bc I always viewed it as proof of Jaime’s attraction/admiration/complex feelings for Brienne already being a serious problem in his subconscious from very early on. Ofc once he actually clashes swords with her, his respect grows noticeably because he also realizes her skill and strength, and Jaime is dudebro powerscaler coded like that. Nonetheless, Jaime at that point being a character that just wants to “cut through” his problems puts that entire scene into a very interesting perspective. Brienne is literally a problem that he wants to cut through. “His brother never untied a knot when he could slash it in two with his sword.” He is in such a dark place as a character that his instinct is to kill his problems, even if said problem is a living person.

“Jaime had told him of it often enough. How time seemed to blur and slow and even stop, how the past and the future vanished until there was nothing but the instant, how fear fled, and thought fled, and even your body. "You don't feel your wounds then, or the ache in your back from the weight of the armor, or the sweat running down into your eyes. You stop feeling, you stop thinking, you stop being you, there is only the fight, the foe, this man and then the next and the next and the next, and you know they are afraid and tired but you're not, you're alive, and death is all around you but their swords move so slowly, you can dance through them laughing." 

He uses violence as a means of depersonalization, as by killing he transforms into some beast who operates on impulse. If he is so powerful physically then he is untouchable and does not have to face complex paradoxes that he cannot seem to overcome inside of his mind and heart. This is also why when this ability is robbed of him he is forced to confront himself.

This parallels Brienne pretty nicely bc she too views fighting as an effective coping mechanism, though it is considerably less dark for her. It is less about enacting violence upon your problems and destroying them and more about protecting yourself from them.

"Fighting is better than this waiting," Brienne said. "You don't feel so helpless when you fight. You have a sword and a horse, sometimes an axe. When you're armored it's hard for anyone to hurt you."

This is also present in the fight itself: “yet somehow he could not reach her. It was as if she had an iron cage around her that stopped every blow.”

Fighting is like a different language these two share. It means more to them than it does to most people. It is a means of survival, not just physically but mentally. No wonder their dreams are often them fighting a manifestation of their trauma with swords. Already there will be a level of intimacy at play during their clash. It is also interesting that this established dynamic of Jaime on the offense, and Brienne on the defense, changes as the fight goes on.

Back to Jaime and how he views her though: She is his captor, sure, but she is also someone that is challenging his entire world view that he constructed for himself to enable his behavior and not get crushed by the weight of his self-concept. She is someone whose judgement of him is so thoroughly founded in genuine care about his victims. She faces him with it head on, not behind his back. The way she dehumanizes him bothers him so much, because she already proves herself to be someone whose opinion of him has weight. She stops to bury innocents that fell victim to her supposed “allies”. He stops to imagine her in Cersei’s gowns, and looks at her muscular calves and arms as she rows, even though the only woman he ever wanted was Cersei. She is his other half, after all. She is a woman that is very competent in a role that was not meant for her by the rules of the realm. So much of his animosity towards her is rooted in all of this, especially considering that she judges him so harshly, with her absolutist morality and naivety pissing off Jaime even more. There is a big part of him that desperately seeks her approval.

THEN THE WAY IT IS WRITTEN. I know George gets shit for his sex scenes but this shit is so good idc. That old man went off here.

“Give me the sword, Kingslayer.” “Oh, I will.” He sprang to his feet and drove at her, the longsword alive in his hands.

The swords kissed and sprang apart and kissed again. Jaime’s blood was singing.

“swinging so hard that sparks flew when the swords came together, upswing, sideslash, overhand, always attacking, moving into her, step and slide, strike and step, step and strike, hacking, slashing, faster, faster, faster… …until, breathless, he stepped back and let the point of the sword fall to the ground, giving her a moment of respite.”

The dance went on. He pinned her against an oak, cursed as she slipped away, followed her through a shallow brook half-choked with fallen leaves. Steel rang, steel sang, steel screamed and sparked and scraped, and the woman started grunting like a sow at every crash”

“Come on, come on, my sweetling, the music’s still playing. Might I have this dance, my lady?”

She is stronger than I am. The realization chilled him.

“His point scraped past her parry and bit into her upper thigh. A red flower blossomed, and Jaime had an instant to savor the sight of her blood before his knee slammed into a rock. The pain was blinding. Brienne splashed into him and kicked away his sword. “YIELD!”

Jaime drove his shoulder into her legs, bringing her down on top of him. They rolled, kicking and punching until finally she was sitting astride him. He managed to jerk her dagger from its sheath, but before he could plunge it into her belly she caught his wrist and slammed his hands back on a rock so hard he thought she’d wrenched an arm from its socket. Her other hand spread across his face. “Yield!” She shoved his head down, held it under, pulled it up.

Brienne lurched to her feet. She was all mud and blood below the waist, her clothing askew, her face red. She looks as if they caught us fucking instead of fighting…Small wonder, we were making enough noise to wake a dragon.”

“Well met, friends,” he called to them amiably. “My pardons if I disturbed you. You caught me chastising my wife.” “Seemed to me she was doing the chastising.”

Swords being used as phallic symbolism is nothing new in literature. Also so funny to me that people think jb being “sexual” would ruin the “purity” and “depth” of the relationship. lmao we are way past the point of it being the “the platonic comrades with mutual respect” thing some of you see it as. I am hesitant to believe that was ever really the case with this relationship.

[openmouthwideeye]

For the fic prompt - ✨ Jaime/Brienne. Thank you!!

This is probably not quite what you were expecting. Thanks for the opportunity to get this Stardust AU out of my head!

unedited, unbeta’d - you know the drill

✨✨✨

Jaime put a hand on the fallen tree trunk, hoisting himself up and over to land on the precarious edge of the crater. Through wisps of smoke and ash, stars illuminated the treasure at the bottom: a heap of molten rock that glistened silver in the moonlight. Victory coursed through him, sweeping away the ache in his feet and the weariness in his shoulders. He tilted his boots forward, skidding down the steep, uneven dirt into the crater. Visions of his cousin danced across his eyes as he approached her fallen star, Cersei all in white, sweetly smiling as she hadn’t in years. For him, and him alone.

The broken sky rock shifted, and Jaime froze. In none of Tyrion’s endlessly boring astronomy lectures had he mentioned the dangers of unstable space debris. But then, denied by the Citadel, Tyrion had never glimpsed a shooting star except through the telescope in their grandfather’s observatory. And he’d certainly never scaled the Wall into the icy, mythical world beyond.

Jaime eased forward as the rock moved again, glimmering and oddly graceful. It shifted in the dirt, rolling over with an almost pained groan to reveal the ugliest woman Jaime had ever seen. Her face might have been carved from slag, kicked aside while more precious celestial bodies were carted away. If blood had framed that wide, crooked nose, he might have suspected she’d been caught in the blast. But she was pale all over, from her freckled skin and stardust hair to the satin of her silver gown.

Wincing, the woman touched her side.

Jaime blinked away his surprise. Rooting through his pockets for a handkerchief, he picked his way across the broken earth.

“Did you fall in face first?” he called.

Her head shot up, fingers clutching her ribs. Fear flickered across her face, as fast and bright as a shooting star. He paused, listening to her boots scrabble for purchase as she hoisted herself to her feet in one lumbering motion.

“Who are you?” she demanded.

“Someone who can bind those ribs, once you stop dancing around like a skittish cow.”

She seemed not to realize that she’d been probing her side as she spoke, each wince souring her already dour face. She stopped abruptly, forcing her hand away.

“Why would you help me?” she asked suspiciously.

“Do you see another soldier in shining waistcoat lollygagging about?”

She said nothing, so he drew closer. Silently, he assessed the crater, piles of dirt and molten rock that dipped inexplicably toward the place where she’d lain, curled in an indentation that seemed to fit the curve of her hip, faint though it was.

Some other fool must have run off with Cersei’s rock. Someone from the Citadel, he supposed. Who else could have moved a molten boulder in the time since he’d crossed the Wall? But if the woman had seen …

Jaime put on a charming expression, smiling up at her as he squatted at her feet. “Tell me, my lady, did you see a fallen star pick itself up and walk out of this crater?”

Drawing his knife, he reached for her hem. Only quick reflexes saved him from a broken jaw. He evaded the knee she’d aimed at his chin, catching the back of her leg before she could draw back for another attack. With a sharp yank, she was back on the ground, groaning in pain. That didn’t stop her from landing a boot in his back as she scrambled away, glowering at him as she regained her feet.

He matched her glare for glare. “Bloody ungrateful wench,” he said, pushing to his feet. Did she expect him to bind her ribs with a handkerchief the size of a tea cozy? Or perhaps she imagined him the sort of monster to terrorize ladies in the wilds beyond the Wall.

“What do you want of me?” she demanded. Her fingers flexed around the hilt of a knife. His knife.

Cursing himself, Jaime circled her, looking for an opening. “Manners?” he suggested. “The ladies of my acquaintance know better than to attack a man who’s only trying to help.” Well, he amended, remembering his cousin’s more forceful caresses, most of them do.

“Men don’t help,” she spat, matching his steps.

“Ah, one of those, are you? As you please. Toss me my knife and point me in the direction of that star, and I’ll leave you to your lick your wounds in peace.”

His knife glinted with the light from her silvery gown, but the brightness of her eyes seemed all her own. “My heart will never be yours,” she said fiercely.

Jaime’s laughter burst free like a bird startled from the brush. “Have no fear, my lady. I would not expect you to offer it.”

No lightness broke her stony visage. Calm and fierce, she spoke as a soldier facing a foe. “I assure you I will not die easily.”

Anger sliced through his mirth. “Whatever tales your septa might have spun, I have no intention of killing you either.”

“Then what do you want?” she asked, desperation bleeding into her calm. “I want to go home.” Her head lifted skyward, to the place where the moonmaid hid her face. She’d been more bashful than usual these past two nights; one of her stars seemed to have winked out of existence entirely. The motion aggravated the wench’s tender ribs; she grit her teeth and hissed.

Jaime sighed. Taking a large step back, he lowered himself onto a pile of scorched earth, resting his arms across his knees. “I want you to take that knife and cut a strip from your hem,” he told her. “I’m sick of watching your face contort into such hideous shapes.”

It took four long minutes for her to oblige. Jaime counted, pointedly fishing out his pocket watch to speed her on her way. At last she hunched over and cut a ragged strip from her gown.

“You can leave that there,” he called, nodding to the knife. “I’ll retrieve it when you’re gone.”

The woman eyed him suspiciously, but there was no way to bind her ribs while holding the knife. Her teeth clacked as if she meant to bite it, but at last she dropped the blade to the ground, kicking it behind her.

Now, ordered the soldier in his head, while she’s occupied. He ground his boots into the dust and thought of his cousin instead, the way her laughter had fizzed in his brain like summerwine as she said, ‘Yes, Jaime. Catch a falling star and put it in my pocket, and I’ll marry you instead.’

“I meant no offense,” he called to his unwitting companion. Idly, he watched the muscles of her abdomen shift beneath her satin dress as she pulled the bandage taut. Catching his line of sight, she stiffened and went red, the first hint of color he’d glimpsed in this bleak, white world. She ducked her head, fingers tangling in their attempt to escape his presence faster.

“If you must know,” Jaime found himself saying, “it is a heart I’m after.”

She froze, eyes flicking to the knife out of reach.

Jaime snorted. “Never fear, wench. I have no desire for yours.”

She frowned, tying off the bandage and looking up at him. He expected her to flee, but she merely said, “My name is Brienne.”

A halo of stars seemed to sparkle as she said it, and for half a heartbeat, she looked almost lovely, cradled by the loving night sky. When he shook his head, she was painfully plain again.

“Jaime,” he said softly. Clearing his throat, he made his tone glib. “It was for love that I crossed the Wall to seek a fallen star.”

She flinched.

“Have you been beyond the Wall?” he asked. “Do you fear the same strange tales we do, of men a hundred feet tall and creatures made of ice?” Snorting, he went on. “I would fight a thousand dark creatures for my cousin’s hand, but she wanted a star, so that is what I swore to find.”

“If you found this star,” she said at last, “what would you do with it?” From the steel underlying her voice, his response might earn him his knife back, stuck squarely between the ribs.

Jaime shrugged, pushing to his feet. “Whatever Cersei wishes. I imagine she’ll tuck it on a shelf somewhere and forget its existence.” He smiled wryly. Some dim understanding fell into place as the words found his tongue. “It’s not the star she wants. It’s knowing how far I’ll go to get it.”

Brienne’s mouth worked soundlessly, now timid now angry now sad. “And how many impossible tasks does love cost?”

His expression darkened. “You’re never likely to know.”

A twig snapped in the distance, echoed by the shuffle of boots on the forest floor. A low murmur of voices caught his ear and quickly resolved into a conversation. “—over that ridge.”

“There weren’t no bleeding star,” said a reedy voice. “T’aint the first time your drunken eyes have mistaken torches for magic.”

Brienne’s eyes went wide, so bright and so blue.

Jaime darted across the crater and snatched his knife from the ground. His arm was around her waist before he’d thought to move it, curled low on her hip to avoid her ribs. He shivered at the heat radiating from her skin, a stark contrast to the cold world beyond the Wall. She dug in her heels until a third voice hooted a laugh, then Brienne grit her teeth and started to climb. Weak as she was, he half hauled her up the craggy crater wall. Together they hunkered behind a thicket, as a handful of men in pale, travel-stained furs emerged from the trees.

“I told you I seen a falling star!” said the first man, nearly tripping in his haste to descend into the crater. “Look ‘ere,” he called, toeing the spot where Brienne had lain. “Made a dent and everything.”

His companions joined him in the crater. One dropped to his knees and tugged off a glove to press a hand to the scorched earth. “Still warm,” he announced.

“She couldn’t have gotten far,” said the little one excitedly. “They always get hurt in the fall.”

She. They.

Brienne crouched beside him, tensed to flee or fight. Struggling to make sense of the men’s words, Jaime turned his head and found himself caught in her gaze, so clear and blue her eyes almost glowed, framed by moondust lashes and a constellation of freckles. Heat seemed to build between them, emanating from the fire that flamed to life under her skin. The fear in her eyes gave way to a determination so strong it could’ve lit the skies, and for a moment, Jaime believed.

Abruptly he dropped his hand from her waist, edging back until he hit a tangle of branches. Excited voices drew his attention, and he watched the men follow his bootprints over a fallen tree and into the forest, well across the crater from where he and Brienne crouched.

His heart pounded in the silence, searching for something familiar to hold onto. Cersei, he thought, but her name was oddly hard to hold onto. The star. That was easier.

“Well, wench,” he said at last, “it looks like you owe me a debt.” Brienne met his gaze, wary, but oddly free of suspicion. Something twisted in Jaime’s gut, victory or guilt or some familiar feeling he couldn’t quite put a name to. He put on a bright smile. “How would you fancy a little journey beyond the Wall?”

[defunctblogtobedeleted]

11/15/19 3:33am - goin home, trying new things

So the trip home to see the family was wonderful. Actually I spent a little too long watching TV before leaving and waiting for the gas guy to turn on the heat, so I left a little late and was damn near passing out on the drive over. Had to stop a few times to nap, but made it. Got caught up on The Adventure Zone again. I’m really excited for this new story they’re gonna do, it’s like Harry Potter meets My Hero Academia. Pretty fuckin neato.

But yeah I got there had a beer with my mom and went to the game and froze my fucking BALLS off watching taven play football. ugh jesus. And the poor guys were against a team like 4 times bigger than them, I swear they didn’t get double digit offensive yardage. They’d get an offsides call and start first and 5, hand off the ball to taven three times in a row and he’d pick up 1 yard, 1 yard, -2 yards, and they’d punt it away again. I don’t think I saw a single first down lol. Taven got hurt so we left in the fourth, they were down 77-0 with 10 minutes left -_-

But still, good to see him play lol. It wasn’t about watching a win, it was about being there for him on his birthday. Fuck that sucks though lol. I always hated playing in the cold. 

Most of the weekend I hung out with wes at his and jenny’s place. We did hang out with mom and the fam for a bonfire on saturday, I ate as much guac as I could fit in my face, we had a couple beers, made some fires. It was sweet. Then we played some super metroid before I started passing out.

Sunday wes and I beat the game and went to breakfast. My dad wasn’t around so I drove out to visit JMell in NoVa instead. His place is pretty nice, and we mostly watched some funny youtube videos. Good ol Rack Em Willie and other crackhead vids and this guy Super Sus and general nonsense. Couldn’t go crazy because I needed to make it back for work.

So I drove back. Made it to Jill’s at 2 and she helped keep me awake until I needed to get ready for work because I picked up a daytime shift from 7 to 5. And I slogged through that just fine. Got a raise at work, but like the bare minimum, but I’llll fucking take it. It’s been the exact same as every other time I got a raise I think lmfao. A little extra pocket cash to throw at new toys is nothing to scoff at, though, I need another butt plug and stuff lmfao. 

I was supposed to roll from there to durham to watch the new rick and morty, but I passed out and overslept by an hour instead. fucking hate when my bodily needs get in the way of me trying to hang out with people for 48 hours straight, yknow? Sucks.

But I went to slosh still, had a lovely chill time. Made plans to go home to Jill but ended up bouncing to another bar with a bunch of people there and drank for another hour. Got me in a little hot water, but whatever. Worth it I think lol. I just can’t help myself from hanging out with as many people as long as possible. 

Jill and I woke up at like 2 and hung out most of the day just fucking around watching tv. I bailed to go run some errands and do karaoke. Had to get some epoxy so I could put together my butt plug tail. I finally knocked that out this evening before work, I think it turned out great. Gotta try it out soon :3

But karaoke was quiet. Not a lot of people came out because it was like bitter cold and windy and had been raining all day. So on the plus side I got to sing like five songs. On the downside, I didn’t get to flirt with any new people lolol. An old stripper friend I had made there, Kellene, showed up and we talked about how I was in her dream the night before and chit chatted a bit. Got to sing a little together, I love her fucking voice. But at the end of the night she asked me for some money to help pay for her tab. I was like sure and gave her $8, she said I was sweet asked if I wanted to do anything with her I was like huwhaaa I guess? maybe we make out somewhere? Idk. Then she roams the room around and comes back and asks me for money again and I was like dude I gave you everything in my wallet, you have my $8 right there in your hand. And she says “no this is my $8 I got it from my purse,” while she opens her purse and pulls the rest of the money she needs out of it. I was like... pretty flabbergasted. Like not like floored, more still amused than anything. Drunk people are funny.

Also after I sang some Drake my beautiful bartender Jaime said I should sing Frank Ocean. Killed it singing self control, and she like held my hands and said I love you like she has the past couple weeks. I made a slight mistake and let my curiosity get the better of me. It’s definitely a rule of mine to not ask girls who are working out, but I was just like “look I know this is a little inapprop, but would you want to go out sometime?” and she says “yeah, as friends, definitely.” and I’m like oooooof. She had to take care of another customer so I just walked away from that one. Glad I cleared that up though I really thought she was being flirty and cutesy but I’m just a knucklehead. Could’ve been worse lmfao. 

Anyway, went home with Jill, we hung out all day again watching this mediocre 911 show. Kinda fun at points though. It was mostly nice just chilling with her early since I’d blown her off til really late a couple times in a row. 

Then spice was last night and ho. my. god. It was the normal confection of watching people get beat, not meeting as people this time around because I knew a whole bunch of people that were there already. But I did meet a few. Hung out with the cute boy from the fashion show for a while. We have these like really awkward pauses in conversation though where he doesn’t like ask me anything and I run out of things to say but he’s just staring at me and grinning so intently. Idk, man.  Lol. I was supposed to do a scene that I had talked out with someone, but they unfortunately called in sick. So I thought I wasn’t gonna do anything, but then I ended up chit chatting with Neko and he offered to beat on me that night.

Wowowoww bottoming a REAL impact scene was intense. Like IN. TENSE. like I was thinking about tapping out a few times from the pain of it, but then he’d take a break and scratch me or rub my back and it would just feel so gooooood. By the end I was taking these hits in the back and like shivering with excitement/adrenaline/idk what. He like threw his thigh between my legs while I was up on the cross to support me and started rubbing my back and bit my shoulder and hnnnnng. god I just started lightly scratching and chewing on his arm. I was literally in uncontrollable shivers and giggles afterward, it was actually probably too much lol but I lovvvved it. I feel like I really Get it now. Especially as I sit on my ass covered in bruises today lol. Then my friend Bun squish cuddled me until I came back down to normalcy. Maya and Jill came to watch, actually, they got to see it happen so that was kinda rad. Jill wanted to go dancing at alchemy afterward but I was like no fucking way could I dance after taking that lol. So I drug them out to boxcar with me and we played some galaga and skee ball and foosball and tekken. Me and Jill almost got a shutout on Maya+some rando, and then the randos were like nahhhh so I beat Jill+Maya 2v1. We played again later and I lost the set though. But I was dressed up as a kitty all through boxcar lol, kinda neat. We stayed up til 6am just watching Daria and ranodm youtube shit. 

Slept a long time, almost had a weird fight with Jill, smoothed that over, took a bath for a few hours and I’ve been working. Excited to get off though, but not for any reason in particular. Just fuck work I guess? lol.

I really felt like I needed to write about that impact scene while it was fresh. It’s kinda stuck in my head. :3 

I’ve got emo karaoke in a few days, should be a lot of fun. <3 nothing too exciting coming up though. Having to schedule a bunch of extra work days to appease my boss kinda suckkssss but whatever I’ll take the money lol.

[fuckyeahwonderbeetle]

At least we can have cute headcanons of Cassie reaching up to kiss Jaime now

Damn, you got me there! I’m sure Jaime likes that she has to do that - makes him feel a little more “in charge,” haha. 

Though, I’m sure at times Cassie just goes: “this is stupid, I wanna be taller,” and floats so she’s just an inch above his forehead. Then she swoops in for the kiss and Jaime is like A+++ I’m so thankful for this beautiful, resilient, independent woman. 

Actually you know let me drabble that real quick:

Jaime’s growth spurt surprised the both of them. 

Jaime noticed it through his clothes: how, suddenly, his favorite t-shirt since freshman year just grazed the end of his navel, exposing the black waistband of his boxer briefs. His shorts were hiked above his knees, his jeans above his ankles. His shoes were abruptly too small, his toes cramped against their fronts. He especially noticed it with his jacket: his favorite grey hoodie, the jacket that often enveloped him like a security blanket, began to suffocate his forearms and shoulders, and rested at the top of his hips. It was almost embarrassing how he let it get to that point, how he hadn’t noticed that he was now an inch (or two) taller than his father, how his sister didn’t even touch the tops of his shoulders. 

Perhaps, however, it was more baffling that Cassie had let such a thing pass her notice. 

When she had met Jaime, he’d only been (maybe) a half-inch taller. She had found it adorable, liked how easy it was to catch his gaze and offer up a warm smile. Sure, she guessed she was supposed to want a boy who towered over her, who lifted her against his chest and swooped down for a long, searing kiss. But Cassie prided herself on being abnormal, on being strong and loud and enthusiastically in love with a quiet, gentle boy. Height didn’t matter.

Until it did. 

Cassie was startled the first time she noticed, really took in how she had to crane her neck to meet Jaime’s lips. How, the next time he hugged her, his chin hit her forehead and her shoulders were buried in his chest. It startled and frustrated her - the physical dynamics of their relationship had changed, and she wasn’t too sure how she, the Wonder Girl, was supposed to take it. 

“You’re taller than me now,” Cassie blurted out as they walked around her neighborhood. “Like. By a lot.”

“Oh…yeah, I guess - I guess I am,” Jaime ducked his head a little, rubbing his neck. He had swapped his old grey hoodie with a navy blue one, the shade complimenting his skin and hair well. “I, uh, didn’t really notice until a few weeks ago.”

Cassie sighed and pursed her lips, forcing herself to stop and look up at her boyfriend. She caught his gaze, his eyes nervous  and hesitant. She knew it was dumb to be so annoyed by this - most girls wanted their boyfriends to stare down at them, to make them feel small and petite and safe. But Cassie had never wanted to feel any of that. She wanted to be large, to fill an entire room with her presence. And safe? With her power, Wonder Girl was always safe. 

But maybe…maybe that was the point. Maybe like this, Wonder Girl could shed her armor. And finally, in front of the boy she loved so dearly, Cassie could appear vulnerable.

“It’s okay, Jaime,” Cassie smiled, and watched as Jaime’s worry dissolved, a tender smile lighting up the whole of his face. “It’s a good change.”

“Okay. Good,” Jaime glanced away for a moment, and took a deep breath before he continued. “I just wanted to tell you that - that you look really pretty from this angle. Not that you didn’t look pretty before, but…”

Cassie giggled, alerting Jaime that she didn’t take offense, “I know what you mean. But, if it’s okay with you…”

She lifted her feet off the ground, floating until she was a few inches above Jaime’s face. He lifted his head up, and the lights in his eyes danced, as if he had never seen her float above him before. Now it was his turn to feel small and safe - and Cassie understood, knew - he didn’t mind the shift one bit. 

It was then, as Cassie leaned in and curled her hands around Jaime’s shoulders, that she knew no other boy could ever compare. That no other boy could feel like such a partner, like such an equal. 

“I like this angle too,” she whispered as she pressed her lips against his, relishing the way his hands rested on her hips, never once beckoning her back to the ground. 

[nailtravels]

The gypsy girl said it herself, the cards looked good. But what did that really mean? And good for whom? There was lots going on here. Were we now putting our faith entirely in the hands of the unknown, like buffalo teeth and painted chicken’s feet? When you believe in things you don’t understand, then you suffer superstition. Methinks this does not bode well.

Mercury was supposedly in retrograde, whatever the great Gravy Crockett that meant. And this was somehow supposed to translate into everything coming up wine and roses? With hindsight being twenty-twenty, the lens of wisdom would surely suggest nades. F’sho, no. Who could know that the red haired gypsy girl’s words would herald both delicious ecstasy and unimaginable peril? Such is the way here in the proverbial pocket of things. Welcome to the Mother Land. This is the briar patch and you, little mister, have enlisted in the Army of Northern Virginia. Don’t worry. We won’t have you hiking through the brambles. This is Thomas Jackson country and The Low-Brow Summer Tour 2018 has come to a close with the nailtravels team mounting a guerrilla offensive on Lockn’ Festival. Mission accomplished, it’s Lockn’ 2018: The Lowest Brow.

Ambassadors extraordinaire, Lockn’ 2018

Lockn’ Festival, formerly known as Interlocken Music Festival, is an annual four-day music festival held at Oak Ridge Farm in Arrington, Virginia. It is a headier-than-thou, jam-band, wavy gravy, funk heavy camping/music experience in the gentle hills of southern Virginia. It gets it’s name from the rotating stage that showcases performers as the end of one act overlaps the beginning of the next. Bands like Lettuce and Umphrie’s Magee played to and with each other as the musical transition took place to the seamless delight of thousands.

Past artists include Gov’y Mule, String Cheese, moe, John Fogerty, Greensky Bluegrass, The Avett Brothers, Ween, Phish, Twiddle, My Morning Jacket, John Butler, Chris Robinson Brotherhood, Little Feat, Robert Plant, Jefferson Airplane, Carlos Santana, Tom Petty, The Wood Brothers, Willie Nelson, Hot Tuna, Zac Brown, Jimmy Cliff, Col. Bruce Hampton and who cares? That’s plenty.

Main stage, LOCKN’ Sat. night: photo by Jessica Brightsen.

For once, Baitbucket felt reasonably healthy. The yellow foam had stopped seeping from the corner of his right eye and his back felt strangely quiet. The knees and ankles were holding together and, barring an unforeseen incident, he might be able to run the gauntlet. A gauntlet to be sure. infinity Downs Farm is a gigantic property littered with rvs, tents and ez-ups. Laid out over miles of hippies and clay trails, every exploratory adventure covers several square miles of travel. And that doesn’t include the multiple unexpected detours that seem to be popping up all the time. Jubba jubba.

Bobby

New friends.

Dead & Co. LOCKN’ 2018: photo by Kevin Crowley

Johnny and Bobby, LOCKN” 2018

The fam. LOCKN’ 2018

Dead & Co. with Branford Marsalis, LOCKN’ 2018: photo by Neal Hart

Sugarplum and Huckleberry get hitched at Church, LOCKN’ 2018.

Argentina, John and Sugarplum, LOCKN” 2018: photo by Liz Riddick

Scott and Joe solving the mysteries of the universe, LOCKN’ 2018.

And another thing, LOCKN’ 2018

Jaime and Argentina, LOCKN’ 2018

So pretty, LOCKN’ 2018

  Lockn’ 2018 Breakdown:

Wednesday: Welcome to the Leaning Tower of the Yoga Machine. Broken beads, broken backs, cool nights and warm days are the order. For festival fun, it doesn’t get any better. It’s way too early to be having this much fun and besides, the cards wouldn’t lie. Please be sure to check your gluten at the flap. The yurt was set up in High Field RV with three recreational vehicles, three tents, three awnings, two ez-ups. It’s true, the Huckleberries and the Baitbuckets of the world can come together and let PBR and Natty Light fans play together as one single neck of color. It’s a fact, some people should not be in charge of putting up the yurt. Namaste.

Thursday:  By Thursday evening, cat head mushroom chocolates had turned many of the festivarians into silly puddles of unraveled string. There were even reports of dead people. Go figure. Imagine live Lettuce into Umphrey’s into Lettuce with the funk and back into Umphrey’s. Some of the Umphrey’s show was, as usual, hard to wrap the head around. Kind of like Chinese math. In the words of Lord Buckley, “They stomped on the terra.” Joe Russo’s Almost Dead closed out the night with a set that included an Easy Wind and Row Jimmy. Thank you Sarah and Steve for the late night fellowship at the Jerry Garcia Forest. It’s better when we camp together.

  Late night on the mountain, the light fog blurred the edges of the rising moon. By Sunday Funday, it would be full and the patients would surely be running the asylum.

Friday:  Umphrey’s Mcgee did what they do again, and along with Jason Bonham and Derek Trucks, they shredded the Zeppelin cover, “Whole Lotta Love”.  After a complete afternoon of funk it would be up to WSMFP and the Spreadnecks to deliver the big punch Friday night and, as always, they were up for the challenge. Clayopheus III the Destroyer showed up toward the end of their set and things would never be the same. Late night on the way to the Jerry Garcia Forest heralded the arrival of a new, bright green planet in our own solar system. Imagine the surprise.

JRAD Friday Midnight Setlist

Tell Me, Momma Viola Lee Blues St. Stephen The Eleven St. Stephen reprise Ophelia Atlantic City Viola Lee Blues jam China Cat Sunflower I Know You Rider Feel Like a Stranger Shakedown Street

The Friday night party ended up at the Jerry Garcia Forest for a night of Jerry bluegrass and dancing in the street. Baitbucket couldn’t yet locate the Michiganders, so he found his way back to J’s Dablature Experiment for late night cordials and low-temperature silliness. He was last seen, walking around in small circles looking for his campsite until the wee hours of the early morning. Worm hole Watusi of the first order, to be sure.

Saturday (SNUCKN’): The Lowest Brow–Stonewall’s festival experience had found the perfect rhythm. He’d ingested a virtual cornucopia of unknown chemicalia into his blood stream and his head was all right. He’d lined himself with such a bouquet of uppers and downers, just to let them fight it out, leaving him somewhere close to level. The Mafioso had come bearing enough gifts, like Shawsville strawberry moonshine and recreational bath salts, to weaken a large pack animal, and throughout the tents and shade canopies that lined the festival fields,  candy was being tossed around like Mardi Gras Tuesday. It was around four in the afternoon and the day had left him careless and fancy free. He was heading in to see Pigeons Playing PIng Pong thinking about E A Sy. For a gangster, he loved that band and never missed a chance to see them. It would be cooler if he was here packing a vat of his crotch whiskey. Not a single care in the world. Walking through the security checkpoint, he broke the fourth rule of adult caution and forgot about the container of contraband in the lower pocket of his cargo shorts. Oopsie…Upon detection, Stonewall made a confused mumbling sound and turned to walk away in a reserved and patient manner. In retrospect, he might should have hauled some serious ass, but he liked to think that the days of barefootly climbing chain link fences were behind him. For some reason that can’t be explained here, the security volunteer alerted the legitimate gestapo and they lit out in pursuit of the unsuspecting perp, faster than a West Texas jackrabbit. What was happening? In one nanosecond, he was back in the clutches of the pigs and they were already predictably obstinate. Things had turned due south and this was certainly not one of those “good choices” that Sunshine had suggested, in some other place and some other time. As he strode away from the security guard he removed the small vial from his pocket and began dumping out it’s contents into the Virginia brush, until a police officer donned in a black golf shirt, rudely snatched it from his hands. He pushed into Stonewall’s face and shouted, “Why did you try and dump it out?” “I figured if I dropped the whole thing it would be conspicuous,” forgetting, yet again, that honesty is never the best policy when dealing with law dogs of any kind.` With the click of the handcuffs, he accepted the fact that this was definitely on and he had finally managed to reach the lowest brow. Having penned the term, Darth Waffle would be pleased. Things were finally getting colorful. He was tossed into a cop golf cart and taken to a cop single wide modular home where his fate lay in the hands of cops on computer monitors. Visions of Spring Reunion began flashing in his mind’s eye. Never tie a pit bull to a wheel barrow.

Seated in the well-lit room next to a gaggle of child cops, the next immediate goal was to hold it together and not appear too faded. Apparently, it can be a crime. Who can imagine how his outward appearance physically looked under a careful and prolonged examination by these trained Nazis? In a well-lit room, it seemed like a real long shot. If these Virginia puerco even suspected what drugs he’d ingested, he’d be on his way to the hospital for a good old fashioned stomach pumpin’. Hell, he couldn’t even remember what he’d taken during the first half of this day, which seemed so far away. The walkabout had lasted most of the morning, visiting the headiest folk around the site and ingesting God only knows what. Here in the mid-afternoon, his innards could only be characterized as a chemical toilet. Mission accomplished yo.

As the interrogation lingered, his mouth began to fill up with what he imagined creosote would taste like and the sweat, once again, began to foam and burble. There was still the business card of acid in his wallet and a couple ten strips already cut. Hopefully he wasn’t sweating so much as to render it useless. When the pigs looked closer, and they surely would, they’d find it and ship him off to Red Onion State Prison for the rest of his days. Finally, the silly dream of freedom would be, once and for all, put down like a rabid cur. As he spoke with the local magistrate via skype, things continued to get increasingly foggy. There were so many questions. The whole thing seemed to be going to hell as he began to turn into warm mush right in front of the magistrate. “Did you get a DUI in Colorado?” “Nope. Detained but no charges.” Complete lies. “Are you sick?,  Do you have any needles in your pocket?” Stonewall replied, “Not sick and no idea what’s in my pocket.” The next few minutes blurred into each other and accurate reporting was impossible. The magistrate switched off and he asked the young cop a questions. “Can you please let me know when this process has moved upstairs, past your influence, so I’ll know when to stop worrying?” “We’re going to need to go to your campsite and go through your tent to check it for contraband,” they mused. Stonewall’s face hardened as he considered the idea of sheriffs loaded up in golf carts assaulting the camp site of his new friends. “That’s gonna have to be a no,” he finally said. “It would not be classy to pull up, in front of the campsite, with a bunch of unshaven gestapo. Besides, I don’t even know what’s in the tent.”

“Why are you saying that you don’t know what’s in the tent?” “It’s not my tent. Those thugs are from North Carolina. Who knows what kind of contraband they’re hauling around. Just leave me out of it.” For some reason, this seemed to placate the law dogs and they forgot about raiding the campsite.  All good news, but they weren’t handing over the keys to the city just yet. A cop sat next to him, while they waited for the magistrate’s decision and struck up a little small talk. “Thanks for being cool about everything. We appreciate your cooperation. We had another guy come through here and shit everywhere. The walls. The chair you’re sitting in. Everything. He sprayed his filth all over the place before we got him out of here.” Stonewall considered the raw nature of man and the unfiltered savagery that might reveal itself as the cold gates of the underground begin to seal itself. The possibilities were endless. Stonewall looked over at the cop, “I have to admit, I considered it. If you knew you were going to jail, it might be a pretty funny way to go out.” The cop smiled, “Plenty of people think that. It’s not funny.”

O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!” Good news from the magistrate. This was just one spun hippy and these nice folks had bigger fish to fry. There would be free air to breathe for one more day. Park employees, however, were waiting with scissors in hand. “If you are found on the property you will be arrested” the supervisor grumbled. He was given one more free golf cart ride, past the cars and tents, by the front gate and all the way to the Thomas Nelson Highway. It was a dark time but it was better than jail. This whole trip was had cost a pretty penny and now he was going to spend Saturday night in a local saloon. Weak.

Heading west on  highway 29, he walked against the traffic on the gravel shoulder and considered his options. He could continue this way until he found a gas station. That would supply him with enough cigarettes and beer to make it to a hotel or a bar. He still had his phone and wallet, even if the rest of his paltry possessions were still at the yoga machine. It would all be fine. He would find a hole in the wall bar and drink scotch until he felt better. Then, he would take his first shower in days and sleep in a freezing hotel room. Not too bad for a plan B.

The whole idea made him absolutely sick.

He knew the people he was leaving behind and the fun they were going to be having together. He was reminding of Thatcher at Spring Reunion and how the family suffered after Live Oak law dogs took him away in chains. The party goes on, but profoundly suffers for the lost soldier. He would also be spending somewhere in the neighborhood of two-thousand dollars before this exercise was finally concluded, and that was worthy of a most serious effort.

Maybe there was another idea.

As he walked toward the interstate, he surveyed the layout of the surrounding fields and thicket. It was dense forest patches separated by farm fields and a few houses. For about a mile, he studied the lay of the land and began to consider the possibility of sneaking back into the festival without a bracelet. It would be straight out of Vinny’s  book. Or Scotteesha. Or even Thatcher. Heckfire, this was out of Thomas Jackson’s book. Just down the street from Danville and Apomattox, welcome to the Army of Norther Virginia. Wearing flip flops, he was going to hump four square miles through country forest and sneak back in like a damn hippy. Cheyenne was right. He was the wook his parents had always warned him about. He turned off the road into the treeline, ate a five strip of acid and headed south. He would stay in the shade until he was off the main road, then all he had to do was follow the music, all the way home. For the moment, things were looking up,

As he hiked through the Virginia underbrush, sunset brought out the woodland critters. Deer and owls joined him in his hunt for the back door. Day turned to night and he took his time through the brush. He figured being impatient would lead to injury or cause him to be discovered traipsing through the brambles. Flip flops seemed like a silly way to navigate the streams and fields, but at least he wasn’t barefoot. The briars and thorny vines clung to his arms and legs as he lumbered through the dense thicket. The moon was going to be a waxing gibbous, which would surely assist with navigation and each time he drifted too far south, the sing-song voice of Susan Tedeschi guiding him back through the Virginia woods. The distant rumble of such tunes as Statesboro Blues, Alabama, by Neil Young and Mahjoun with Brandford Marsalis, kept him on the right trail. Behind Tye River Elementary School, back into the brush and then to cross Diggs Mountain Road. He was guided by the Aretha Franklin cover, “I Never Loved a Man (The Way I Loved You)”, “Bound For Glory” with Ivan Neville, “A Song For You” by Leon Russell. into “Little Martha” and “Whipping Post”. Thanks for the breadcrumbs, lady. After walking for a couple of hours, he came across some tents in the woods. This would be Forest Tent Camping, which happened to be directly across the street from High Field RV and his campsite. Things were beginning to look up. It was time to change the shirt and hat and sit down for a cold brew. The party would just be getting started.

He wasn’t entirely ready to give up on the music. He came to this festival to see Dead & Co. and that still needed to happen. Stonewall poked around the VIP area and behind the stage, looking for a chink in the armor, some place he could slip in. He spied an opening in the fence and started up a conversation with the nearby security guard. The guard lamented over the piece of broken wooden fence. “These hippies try to sneak in here, legs all slashed up and with no bracelet. They even broke my fence.”

Stonewall’s brain lit up with a new idea. “It’s real interesting that you should say that, because that’s exactly what I’m trying to do. I need you to let me get through that opening in the fence.”

He asked, “Do you have a bracelet?”

“Nope. They cut it off when they threw me out. But it would be real cool to get back in and rejoin my people before Dead & Co. kick off.”

The security guard began looking over his shoulder at the other gates and leaned in. “There’s folks working inside that fence and if they see you, they’re going to say something, so here’s what we’re gonna do. I’ll take you by the shirt like you’re in trouble. We’ll walk right by everyone and when we get out of sight, I”ll lose you.”

“That sounds perfect.”

Dead & Co.: Back into venue just in time for Oteil’s birthday. Both the rail and field were thick with the best vibe ever. Something about the good ol’ Grateful Dead. They just make everything so much fun. It was a night for adventurous lurking. The first set brought out a Ramble On Rose-Alabama Getaway-Cassidy. The second set blew up an, Oteil-led Fire On the Mountain into a celebratory China Cat Sunflower. Two hours earlier he’d been alone, hiking through the back field of Ol’ Virginny, now he was sitting on a blanket, surrounded by the most beautiful people ever.                                              Colorful.

Highlight of the festival: Saturday night’s midnight set included Lettuce with Eric Krasno Celebrating JGB, joined by Bob Weir, John Mayer and Oteil Burbridge in a set that tore up the mountain and set the beat for the rest of the night.

Finders Keepers I Second That Emotion Stop That Train (Oteil Sings) After Midnight ( John in for the jj cale spectacular) Sugaree (let Bobby sing) Tangled Up In Blue (that makes sense) That’s What Love Will Make You Do (it’s too serious to be funny) How Sweet It Is to Be Loved by You (the alpha and the omega) Cats Under the Stars (second one of the weekend) They Love Each Other (holy moly)

Lettuce called it a celebration of the Jerry Garcia Band after it was all said and done, a celebration is exactly what it felt like.

Dead & Co. Another Saturday Night, LOCKN’ 2018: photo by Karley Bear

Sunday Spunday: All hail a festival that uses it’s Sunday for a good cause. Bloody Mary brunch was served at Chris’ Opium Den near the Jerry Garcia Forest. Thank you SolarWolf and LunarWolf for the most seriously fun time ever. Thank you El Capitano for physically removing all the love governors. You’re headier than thy? The party got riled up when Cheyenne began lopping off her dreadlocks to trade for hugs. Fortunately, she was sedated before she could do too much damage. God willin’ and the Creek don’t rise. Check out the new Google map application that allows you to easily search for “tweakers near me”. Congratulations to Sugarplum and Huckleberry for getting hitched at Keller Williams and Grateful Gospel during Eyes of the World. These folks met at the same show, at the same spot three years earlier. It certainly is the dismal tides when Cook County trash can come down south and pilfer our own belles. It has been a proven formula for the ages, church is a great place to meet girls. Go Cubs.

Dead & Co.: And things were going so well for Stonewall. Left by Clayopheus, his recently acquired Staff bracelet was no more than a tattered chicken bone of a thing, held on by other bracelets and falling off every few steps. It was so frayed and torn, it looked as if he’d eaten if off of his wrist. Even the beer girl noticed when he wasn’t wearing one, and beyond the recognition, said nothing. All in all, he was back into the venue, this time enjoying the entire Tedesci-Trucks show into the night’s Dead. Then it happened… “I take a little powder, take a little salt, put it in my shotgun, I go walkin’ out…” Oh lordy, not this. The first set smattering Grateful ettoufee spun into a Mr. Charlie→Tennessee Jed→Althea that tripped every breaker on the mountain. The second set showed an Eyes of the World and Morning Dew with Branford Marsalis that left tears staining the front of tie dyes everywhere. Wolly bully. Mr. Charlie told me so.

Sugarplum and Huckleberry, Sunday at Tedesci-Trucks Band, LOCKN’ 2018.

  Bob, John and Oteil join Lettuce and Eric Krasno for the JGB tribute Sat. night, LOCKN’ 2018.

Be sure to check out Roadtripmojo for more LOCKN’ gibberish and follow their social media channels on Facebook and Instagram.

Headed back to South Florida, for days the toenails would still be dyed with Virginia red clay. Charlotte storms postponed our flight and the guitar was destroyed by baggage carriers. That’s three guitars since Hulaween. This lifestyle is getting expensive.

“Does this mean I can use your ticket for Floydfest?”

Visit the Lockn’ website and follow their social media channels on Facebook and Instagram.

For our first Lockn’, it really had a little of everything you look for in a festival. Deer, dead people, research-grade narcotics, moonshine and spilled wine. Everyone brought their best effort and after it was all said and done, very little was left on the vine. Old friends came together with new ones and alliances were formed that would last a lifetime. We are on the lookout for Brian at Live Oak and his Mr. Clinkies. October is one of the best times for festivals at the Spirit of Suwannee Music Park in North Florida. Get ready for Suwannee Roots Revival and Hulaween coming up fast. See you under the Thunder Chicken.

LOCKN’ 2018: The Lowest Brow The gypsy girl said it herself, the cards looked good. But what did that really mean? And good for whom?

[mysteriouslydarktale-blog]

HOW TO KILL A GUY AT HIS BIRTHDAY PARTY IN CAMDEN...

HOW TO KILL A GUY AT HIS BIRTHDAY PARTY IN CAMDEN…

By: VNASTY

To say that Jessica was "crazy," was the greatest understatement of the century. She was borderline insane, highly impulsive and absolutely dangerous.

 And she was definitely planning on murdering someone tonight.

 She was going to bury someone deep, deep below the ground –underneath the hard, icy cement, engulfed miles and miles within the earth. Nothing but maggots, bones, blood and fucking tears. Her own fucking tears – of joy, that is.  She may have looked like the friendliest girl ever with her with her massive green eyes and winning smile. BUT NO.

 She was a violent and callous killer.

 She had purchased a gun the week before and had it tucked beneath the mess of her gold, sparkly clutch.

 Jessica was going for the kill. But not before putting on some fire ass red lipstick.

 First rule to killing a guy at his birthday party in Camden: put on some fire ass red lipstick.

 There was a huge, blow-out party that night in Camden, New Jersey held at a venue called, "Sloppy Joes and Hoes." It was a notorious strip club located in the heart of Camden and the celebration was for him, so of course she wasn't invited.

 This was a very special occasion for him. He was turning 27 on the 27th of March.

 Oh, how lovely.

 He was going to get lodged in the throat with a golden bullet on his golden birthday.

 Jessica absolutely lived for all these little treasures life had to offer.

 This murder was judiciously planned out for several weeks. Although the objective was simple: pull the trigger and kill him, Jessica wanted this to be a moment for the books. He was going to fall sorrowfully, emotionless and covered in cold blood. And Jessica she was going to be captured, dragged and locked into metal handcuffs.  The police would seize her - dead or alive – but she would be victorious. She was going to strut into the club – no disguise, no cover, dressed in a remarkable, low-cut dress and extremely high heels.

 Second rule to killing a guy at his birthday party in Camden: Be dramatic as hell. Curl your hair, whiten your teeth, forget the bra at home, find a black body-clinging dress, pull out the highest, sharpest heels in your closet, ride out in a yellow Maserati and hide the gun in your clutch ladies. Hide the gun in your clutch.

 Although Jessica wasn't invited to the celebration, the bouncer was most definitely going to let her in. Stephan, the huge Bernie Mac looking bouncer at the door, had an immense crush on her. She would undeniably get in for free, no security check needed, with a few leers and whistles from a couple of onlookers.

Pulling up cleanly outside of the club in her yellow Maserati, Jessica stepped out, and briskly threw her keys at the valet, who eyed her hungrily. She strutted towards the entrance and grinned seductively at Stephan, the huge Bernie Mac looking bouncer at the door. It was 11 pm and through her peripheral vision, she could tell that the club was already buzzing with activity and naked bodies.

 "Hey Stephan," she purred. "How you doin' tonight baby?"

 "Damn," He said biting his lip, taking a step back to examine her. "The beautiful Jessica Meyers. I'm straight but not as good as you, babe. You here for Jamie's shit, right? I thought ya'll broke up."

 It took literally every nerve in her body to keep from cringing at that horrendous name. Jamie.

Him.

 "Well, you know," Jessica started, rubbing her manicured nails along his chest. "We're still cool. He's still my friend at the end of the day. I'm sure he's just dying to see me."

 "Word up," Stephan grabbed her hand and kissed it. "You need a real man - like me. I'm here when you're ready to stop playing games, baby." He then kissed her cheek. "You're in for free but make sure to tip my strippers."

 "Thank you baby," She blew a kiss before strutting inside the booming lounge.

 Third rule to killing a guy at his birthday party in Camden: Get acquainted with the bouncer, make sure he knows you on a first and last name basis, blow a few kisses here and there, let him kiss your hand, flirt shamelessly, make sure you get in for free ladies. NEVER PAY. PAYING IS FOR PEASANTS.

 Sloppy Joes and Hoes was full of people of all ages and ethnicities. The main center of the club held the area where the strippers twirled and twerked around and a huge crowd of people gathered excitedly around the them. Dollars bills were being thrown fervently and ass and breasts were being shaken in the same manner.  Jessica grimaced under the flashing lights as some unintelligible mix of music blasted in the background.

 She could feel the room vibrate and then suddenly, the music eased out.  Someone tall made their way toward the glass balcony on the top floor.

 The VIP section. A spot light was placed on the man.  

 Jessica immediately recognized him as Malcolm, Jaime's best friend.

 The entire room focused their attention on him.

 He tapped on the mic before proceeding and leaned against the barrier. "Yo what's good, everyone?" He earned a few claps and cheers from the crowd.

 Jessica decided to take this opportunity to walk up the spiral stairs leading the the VIP section. She proceeded to remove her heels and seized the golden clutch from under her arms.

 "Thank you all so much for coming out tonight to celebrate my man's 27th birthday…. damn, the homie's getting old!" There was a loud murmur of laughter throughout the crowd. "What can I say about my boy Jamie? He's a little preoccupied right now, ya'll," he said, momentarily glancing over this shoulder. "He's getting a lap dance from this bad Persian chick in the back."

 Jessica rolled her eyes as she continued her way gradually up the spiral staircase.

 "I knew this guy since middle school and Jamie was always the life of the party. He was the class clown, the flyest guy on the basketball team, after me of course, and just a really dope person to be around. I really mean that sincerely. My man's is A1 and he's been with me through my hardest times…I would die for him…"

Fourth rule to killing a guy at this birthday party in Camden: Timing is essential. Be sure to make your move at the absolute, most perfect time. Also, make sure to throw a few clichés into the mix for a corny yet dramatic affect.

For example, when your exes' best friend is in the midst of making a speech for him at his birthday party in Camden and he ends the speech with, "I would die for him," take note and kill said best friend.

 That's right, go right ahead and kill him.

 See what I mean ladies? Timing is essential.

 Jessica pulled the trigger and watched in awe as Malcolm flipped over the glass railing and into the panicking and scattering crowd. There was blood smudged on the glass and she jumped slightly as the microphone slammed nosily on the ground beside him.

 She watched for half-a-second before shooting and killing the two guards that charged towards her. Everyone in the VIP section ran brashly and on top of each other as a desperate attempt to escape. Many of them, Jessica saw, faltered and stumbled down the staircase.  

 Jessica smiled wickedly as the room entire room emptied out. She flipped her hair and made her way towards the back, where Jaime would be with his whore.

 She moved slowly and dramatically, curling her bare feet against the red, plush carpeting. She grappled the Beretta Stampede pistol from inside her clutch and wrapped her fingers around the grip.

 She finally reached a door draped in deep burgundy curtains. Pulling aside the thick fabric, she grabbed the doorknob and untwisted the door. There was soft music was playing in the background.

 Jessica stood at the threshold, gaping at the scene before her. There he was…with that whore still bouncing on his lap. Apparently the room was soundproof… or maybe he was deafened by the hideous sound of a large silicon ass clapping against his thighs.

 The stripper was topless…. that whore.

 Fifth rule to killing a guy at this birthday party in Camden: You must use very sensational and offensive phrases such as, "whore," and "slut" and "hoe," and "sloppy hoe," and so on and so forth. After screaming these overly sensational and offensive phrases at the very top of your lungs, make sure to pull the trigger and shoot the lady in her back. An epic story is never complete if the antagonist doesn't kill a stripper or two.

 "You dirty whore, you slut, you hoe, you sloppy hoe, DIE!" Jessica screamed at the top of her lungs and pulled the trigger, consequently shooting the lady in her back. She watched antagonistically as the stripper fell forward, on top of Jaime, and then to the side and onto the red, plush carpet.

 Jaime made a futile attempt to wipe the blood off of his shirt. He barely glanced at the dead stripper at his feet.

 He seemed unperturbed when he looked up at Jessica. "Hey Jess, you look good." He said calmly. "Wow…You’re bold. I mean, I knew you were absolutely batshit crazy but to try and kill me on my birthday?"

 "I'm going to kill you on your birthday, you ruthless son of a bitch!" She said, walking towards him, enticingly. "I should've killed you a long time ago. How dare you, Jaime? How dare you sleep with my twin sister Bethica? I loved you. I was rooting for you; we were all rooting for you!"

 Sixth rule to killing a guy at this birthday party in Camden: Have an evil twin sister because duh…

 He rolled his eyes melodramatically. "Oh c'mon," He drawled out. "Are you on drugs or something? Who's your plug because I need some of what he's giving you. I thought she was YOU for the last time. You guys are identical for god's sake. And where is she anyways? You should be out killing her not me."

 Jessica threw her head back and laughed maniacally. "She's gone," she said, raising up her pistol. "And you'll be gone too. Any last words?"

 "You are one crazy ass bitch."

 Jessica pulled the trigger and watched frantically as the golden bullet made its way, in very slow motion, towards his throat. He died instantaneously, eyes rolling to the back of his skull, blooding spewing out of his esophagus. He slid off the chair and fell on top of the stripper.

 It was over…Jessica had killed Jamie at his birthday party in Camden and boy, did it feel astonishing.

 Taking one last glance at the gory corpses on the floor, Jessica turned around slowly, just as Angela Basset did in Waiting to Exhale after setting fire to a car. She walked away as the room lit into flames in a fiery explosion behind her.

 Final rule to killing a guy at his birthday party in Camden: After successfully murdering your ex, please will the room to burst into flames and erupt into a fiery explosion behind you. Make sure you do it just like Angela Basset did in Waiting to Exhale.

 ….and then Jessica woke up from her dream and poured herself a hot, delicious cup of tea. She sipped on that tea loudly and proudly.  

 The END.