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endlesstomorrowstory · 6 years ago

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II. Indecision

Genesis believed that every person should know something about the people who bore them. Especially as Genesis Adams felt like she was on the cusp of being an adult.

At 21, the end of her junior year in college, Genesis only knew very few things about her birth parents. She had two favorite memories: her mother had smelled like dew and fresh cut grass, and her father had once told her ‘every person has a place in the universe, even if you don’t know where it is, it will find you.’

Most of her early memories were in tatters. Which caused a gaping rift in Genesis’ heart, because she knew something was missing.

Not that her life had been bad. Her aunt and uncle had done everything in their power to make sure her childhood had been happy.

They had been more than kind. Especially as Aunt Catherine had not meant to take in her sister's daughter. Genesis had heard the story of her arrival on exactly five occasions. It mostly occurred around the holidays, when her aunt had had a bit too much eggnog.

This had never been an issue until last night, during the last recounting. It had been her cousin’s birthday dinner. Trudy was 18 years old and had just graduated high school that spring. The kid was about to go off to college – now only three weeks away. Her aunt was thrilled to have her two oldest girls going off to college, and that Trudy would be at the same school as Genesis so they could keep an eye on each other. Trudy had always been sister like to Genesis, so it wasn’t like she minded. Though Trudy was in a bit of a rebellious stage and chafed at the idea of having a watcher.

Anyway, at Trudy’s birthday her aunt had had one too many glasses of wine. As Genesis had slung her aunt’s arm over her shoulder and helped her off to bed, her aunt had started recounting that story again. But this time her aunt had let slip a detail that Genesis had never heard before.

Until the moment Genesis had arrived at their door on that fateful winter night, Aunt Catherine hadn't even realized her sister had a daughter. And for a second, when she’d first seen little Genesis in the doorway, Catherine hadn’t quite remembered ever having a sister.

This was world shattering for Genesis. Because how did one forget having a sister?

According to her aunt, the man who’d brought Genesis to her had smiled, and Catherine had shook herself. Her aunt had nodded, because clearly she had a sister. She just couldn't quite place her name, or face, or anything. But then, the man smiled again, and Catherine stopped thinking about it and offered the man who said he was from Child Services a glass of water. The man declined, saying he had to be on his way.

He’d told Catherine her sister, whom she still couldn’t picture in her mind as well as her sister’s husband had died in a tragic accident. As next of kin, the child was brought to Catherine. Catherine, having a daughter who still just a baby, agreed to take her niece in. Her husband, a God-fearing man, would not hear of doing anything different. Especially as the child was quite adorable and sadness seemed to seep off of her in waves.

Somehow Catherine never thought to ask what happened to her sister, beyond it being a tragic accident. She forgot to ask how the child had come to be on her doorstep clothed in odd styled clothing - which looked better suited to a beach. She forgot to ask the man's name. She forgot to ask a lot of things.

But most importantly she's forgotten to ask a child's name. Or anything about her sister or her sister’s husband.

So Catharine had been left with a child, with no background and no information. And finally, when they were alone and the child turned her sad blue eyes up at the Catherine, she was struck speechless. It was her husband that had the wherewithal to ask the child's name. Well, when the child said she needed a new name, her husband laughed. But the child would give no name. Catherine, snapping out of whatever daze she'd been in at her husband’s laugh, decided to call her Genesis. Because this was a new beginning, a new start for the young girl. Catherine had named her Genesis.

It was all very tragic. But Genesis, as an adult, finally understood why her Aunt never spoke about her sister. Why she seemed to avoid the topic completely. In fact, it explained the glazed eyed look her Aunt got at the very mention of Genesis’ prior life.

It was because she had no memory. Because, maybe, there was no sister, and her Aunt wasn’t really her aunt.

But Genesis maybe was reading too much into her Aunt’s drunken tale. Maybe her Aunt was just so saddened by her memories that it was easier making stories up.

And Catherine had been a good parent. Genesis had fond memories of growing up in New Hampshire. She could remember summer days on picnic blankets, her cousin – a toddler – chasing butterflies. Her Aunt, arms around Genesis, sitting out in the sun on a grassy hill reading them stories.

Aunt Catherine, Uncle Mark, cousin Trudy, and later her young cousin Katie had been all the family Genesis had needed. The four of them had been a family to her when she had nowhere else to go. Genesis had lived in the small town of Groveland Falls since she was five with them.

It was where grew up. Where she’d had her first crush. Gone to school. Shared her first kiss. Where she’d broken her leg falling out of a tree chasing Trudy.

It was home.

Today was a beautiful day, and even though Genesis’ thoughts were stuck on her Aunt’s latest recounting, she tried to shake off the weight and enjoy the day.

Autumn had come again to Groveland Falls. It was a small farming community, named for a beautiful waterfall that cascaded down a nearby mountain. A couple miles from the center of town. There was a walking trail and everything. Tourists loved to go there.

Genesis was out and about, heading the opposite way from town. She stood on the dirt road that ran by one of the farmer’s fields on the outskirts of the town. Two years ago a new, shiny paved road had been laid through town, making the dirt one unnecessary. Genesis still found it to be the fasted route back to her Aunt’s house from the Farmer’s Market in town square. The dirt road also ran parallel to Haven Woods, the haunted and much feared forest. The only time the town’s people had ventured in was to look for children that sometimes disappeared.

The local news blamed ghosts in the woods. The national news blamed a serial killer they’d caught four years ago.

Genesis blamed herself. The first girl to go missing had been her best friend. Thus Genesis swore tragedy seemed to follow her, even to the quiet town. It had happened when she was in elementary school. Her best friend, Alexis Gordon, had disappeared from the woods. It still weighed heavy on Genesis’ mind that she had been the last one to see her friend. The town had since given up on finding Alexis; Lexi’s parents had even moved way, not being able to stand the loss of their daughter. Four other little girls had gone missing after Alexis.

Genesis blamed herself in some ways, though the rational part of her brain said she had been too young to do anything to prevent it. Still, the human heart was not the most rational of places.

The smell of autumn drifted through the fresh, crisp air. The soft wind picked up red, orange, and gold leaves flinging them around in a playful dance, it tossed the corn silk in the fields making it fly off and into the evening air. The sun was just setting over the mountains that lay far off in the distance; coloring the open fields with glorious shadows. On a day such as this, most people chose to stay indoors and sip warm cocoa by the fire with a good book or movie.

Yet, the silence of the late afternoon was broken by the melodious clip of Gen’s shoes on the road that ran by the fields. The clip ended shortly as she stopped on the edge of the fields and brushed the corn stalks aside peering into the golden abyss. She shivered slightly, the chill finding its way to her, even though she was snuggled into a soft brown sweater and faded jeans.

Genesis sighed, still on the edge of the field. It would be easier to follow the road back home, but something tugged at her. Even after Alexis had disappeared she couldn’t help but go back to the woods. She had snuck in after school, or before dinner, or whenever she got the chance. When she was in high school her Aunt had finally realized where she was going, but she didn’t complain. Her Aunt was more understanding than anyone else Genesis knew. Plus the killer had been caught and was in prison, several states away.

Debating whether to go straight home, Genesis stood a moment more then headed into the cornfields. Her hair snagged on the stalks of corn until she finally tied the mid-length mass at the nape of her neck. The wind, soft as it was, was still crisp enough to stain her cheeks red with cold. Her blue eyes sparkled with delight at finding no one in the fields. Sometimes the farmer or the seasonal workers were moving through them, but not today.

The play of the wind in the trees, the sound of a babbling brook not far off, these were enough to make one girl happy for just a few moments in eternity. Since no one was around she slipped out of the fields and into the deep serenity of Haven Woods.

As Genesis’ eyes adjusted, they focused on her marker. The woods had gotten more and more overgrown throughout the years, and she had grown tall enough that she could no longer duck under the brush. Instead she had marked the easiest route with light blue ribbons, the color only visible if you were looking for them.

She stood at the first marker watching the blue ribbon flap slightly, as a stronger bit of wind gusted by. Genesis shivered slightly, and hugged herself tighter. Without thinking, her legs moved of their own accord, drawing her onto the overgrown path that hadn’t been well used since the eighteen hundreds. Most people in the town would not step foot in the woods at all, let alone far enough to find any semblance of the path that was left. It was rugged and scary looking on the outside, so most people thought it was haunted. Superstitious fools.

But then, the woods on the other side of town were much better maintained, almost manicured. That set of woods had hiking trails and worn dirt paths – like the one up to the falls. It was much easier to explore those woods. Genesis understood why people preferred Grove Woods.

But Genesis had a taste for wild things. For shadows and dark hidden paths.

If there were ghosts or spirits in Haven Woods, well she wasn’t scared. Genesis figured the only ghosts here must be lonely. Their souls still clinging to earth, wafting through the trees and bushes, sending animals scattering away in surprise. She had been coming through Haven Woods far too long to be scared anymore. To her, the ghosts were welcome. They made better company then her cousins most days. Genesis rolled her eyes heavenwards at the thought of her 14-year-old cousin, Katie. Just young enough to still idolize her, but too old to admit she was. And of course, rebellious Trudy. They were both wonderful girls who Genesis loved, but sometimes she wanted to be left alone.

The thing she loved most about the forest was that it felt alive. It was overflowing with of magic, dancing all around her, stemming from the very heart of the woods. Old magic was here; the kind that brought to mind of faeries or mythical creatures. But if they were here, Genesis had never seen them. And honestly, it was probably her active imagination that thought that.

Genesis finally broke through trees and from the sort-of-path and entered into a clearing. The weathered and worn Cross Creek Graveyard still stood where it always had. Genesis had figured out that it was mostly Civil War heroes and pioneers that had been buried here. Her last year of high school she had etched the words onto paper and found records in the local library. No one alive remembered these people but her. In middle school, during one flight of fancy, she had dubbed herself the guardian of the place and guardian of the lost souls who lived there.

Once a year, around Halloween, as close as she could come, she polished the stones and cleaned them. In the spring she planted new flowers on every grave and raked the leaves that had fallen.

Last year during summer break she had untangled the black picked fence until it was once again straight and good as it was going to get. There still wasn’t a gate though, it had fallen off and rusted to long ago for it to be usable. With a smile she stepped in and over to the stone she’d rolled in so she could sit and rest. Setting her small backpack down, she collapsed on the rock and just sat, enjoying the autumn day.

Dark long lashes veiled her soft blue eyes as she took in the sounds of little animals and birds, the smell of fallen leaves and earth. Genesis at 5’5 folded her frame with pristine grace, the sort that only the young had, until she sat crossed legged and staring at the statue that seemed to guard the graveyard.

Well, it was more of an archway. A small star supported by two angels who stood in silence, stone eyes tilted skyward. It was almost as if they were reaching for the star, and each other.

Genesis had always wondered about the angels, who was the architect? Why an archway in the graveyard?

Alexis had said, upon first hearing of them, that it must lead to someplace wonderful. Genesis, who loved fantasy and prized freedom above all else, was skeptical but loved the idea of a gateway to another world. It was too bad Lex wasn’t still there to help her speculate why it had been built in the first place. Genesis sometimes imaged what it would be like if Alexis was still there, what they would talk about, the things they would do.

The leaves rustled behind her, and Genesis whipped her head around. Her eyes settled on two birds, perched on the limb of a lumbering oak, their eyes watching her. “Hello, pretty things.” Genesis murmured. She thought it odd that a dove and a raven should sit together on one branch, but there they were. The two birds stared as if waiting for something to happen.

The wind picked up so suddenly that Genesis was unsettled from her perch on the rock. It dashed over her, causing her to shutter.

All around her the forest was coming alive. The birds within the forest took the air crying out in dismay. The raven and dove were the only birds not on wing. The woods seemed to be chilling, getting darker. Genesis felt the edge of fear stab at her, like a snake ready to strike. “What’s happening?” She murmured, as the shadows somehow seemed to spread out, becoming more real. The only time the forest had ever felt scary was the day Lexi had disappeared, but it had not been like this. This was spine quivering fear that stole through her. Shakily, Genesis pulled her backpack back on and stood. Maybe it was time she went home. It was getting dark after all. Genesis gave a half laugh, the sound eerie in the sudden silence as the animals and bird sounds seemed to have completely disappeared.

Genesis took a step toward the entry. But without warning, Genesis was pulled from her feet. Lurching to her side she looked to see what had caused it and found nothing there. Genesis screamed as she felt a pull on her leg, though the only thing there was shadows. The inky blackness seemed to be wrapped around her ankle, pulling her toward the stone archway.

It must be her imagination right? She had an abundance of imagination. Hell, her creative writing teacher at college even told her she might have too much. Yet, it was as if the shadows were a real tangible substance, like molten ink burning her skin.

Struggling to get up, Genesis made it to her knees when she felt another sharp tug. Soon she was back on the ground and being pulled through the archway.

When she opened her eyes again there was no other side, just empty blackness and the feeling that the world was falling away.

#endlesstomorrow #original #fiction #storytime

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aion-rsa · 4 years ago

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Line of Duty: the Jo Davidson Family Mystery

https://ift.tt/3a37RHS

Warning: contains spoilers for Line of Duty series 6 episode 4

Nothing is standalone in this Line of Duty series six; everything is linked back to what’s gone before. Ryan Pilkington, Terry Boyle, Steph Corbett, Ian Buckells, Jimmy Lakewell, Blackthorn Prison, Lee Banks, even Jackie Laverty… all of them ‘previously on’ characters who’ve made a reappearance and dragged the past back with them.

It should come as no surprise then, that the series six guest lead played by Kelly Macdonald also has a significant link to the past. The end of episode four revealed that Acting Det Supt Jo Davidson is the blood relative of a key character already known to AC-12. The question is: who? When Steve and Chloe present the DNA evidence to Hastings, Steve seems to say “He’s identified over the page”, suggesting a male relative, though it’s impossible to be sure.

“I don’t have a family”

In episode one, when Farida complained that Jo was ashamed of their relationship because she’d never been introduced her Jo’s family, Jo replied “I don’t have a family.” Later, a frustrated Jo threw a glass of wine at a photograph that appeared to show a younger her with her mother. That set fans pondering a possible link between Jo’s estranged family and the mysterious hold the OCG had over her. Had Jo’s mother been kidnapped? Was Jo being blackmailed about something the OCG had over a family member? Were her corrupt actions driven by family loyalty?

When AC-12 expanded the forensic search of Farida Jatri’s home, they were hoping to find evidence of Davidson’s DNA to support the theory that Farida was telling the truth about them having lived together and Davidson having framed her by planting the OCG-linked burner phones. They found that alright, along with a surprise extra. When the DNA deposits discovered at Jatri’s were run through the system of police databases, analysis detected that Davidson shares DNA with a mystery nominal, i.e. she’s the blood relative of somebody with a criminal record, known to AC-12. We don’t know who, but we know that the revelation was enough to elicit a “Mother of God” from Ted Hastings.

Let’s get to work then: who are the potential candidates for Jo’s mystery nominal relative?

Tommy Hunter

There’s been a fan theory linking Jo and Tommy Hunter since the very beginning of series six, on account of their shared Glasgow backgrounds. Many suspect that Jo is secretly Tommy’s daughter, but their relative dates of birth make that questionable. Tommy was born in 1965 and Jo was born in 1979, putting only 14 years between them. It’s possible, of course, that they were siblings. Jo’s next-of-kin is listed on her police record as Samantha Davidson, presumably the mother in episode one’s framed photograph (see above).

If you don’t remember Tommy, he was the former leader of the OCG who blackmailed Tony Gates in series one, and was revealed to have recruited DI Dot Cottan as a teenager and planted him as a corrupt officer on the force. Tommy was a paedophile who abused young boys in an OCG-run child sexual abuse ring in Sands View children’s home. After Tony Gates recorded a confession from Tommy before killing himself, Tommy was arrested and given immunity in exchange for providing information. In witness protection as “Alex Campbell”, the OCG made two attempts on Tommy’s life in series two, the second one successful.

All of which leaves the question: with Tommy dead by the OCG’s hands, what could they want with a relative of his?

DS John Corbett

This is another pre-existing fan theory based on that framed photograph of Jo’s mother. Some fans think that the woman in Jo’s picture is Anne-Marie McGillis, the mother of series five UCO-turned-rogue-bent-copper-hunter John Corbett, which would make Jo his sister. When Anne-Marie was killed by the IRA in 1989 for passing information to the RUC, John was sent to Liverpool and raised by his aunt and uncle. The theory goes that Jo would have been sent to other relatives in Glasgow, hence the ‘siblings’ having such different accents.

Line of Duty Series 6 Episode 4 Review: Mother of God!

By Louisa Mellor

Line of Duty Series 6 Episode 4: Davidson, DNA, Buckells’ Codes & All Our Questions & Theories

By Louisa Mellor

Put simply, it doesn’t really check out. For a start, Ted Hastings was close friends with Anne-Marie McGillis, and knew all about her wee lad John, but never mentioned that she had a daughter. Secondly, Jo Davidson’s date of birth is listed as 22/4/79 and John Corbett’s as 3/6/1979 – the same year. Thirdly, if you really look at those two photographs, despite some similarities, it doesn’t seem to be the same woman, though we’d put money on the fact that the new photo was designed to have a resemblance.

DS Danny Waldron

Like John Corbett, series three guest lead Danny Waldron’s mother died when he was young, so he was forced to move around the country. Danny left the city to move up north with his father and stepmother, but when that didn’t work out, he was placed back locally, in the Sands View children’s home. That’s where he and the other boys were routinely sexually abused by an OCG-paedophile ring including police officers and politicians, prompting Danny’s revenge list murders. There’s no mention of Waldron having had a sister, but there is a link between him and Davidson. Danny Waldron’s home address in series three was 5 Croxford Street. When Chloe is taking the team through the surveillance on Ryan Pilkington (around the 29 minute mark), it’s mentioned that Jo Davidson’s home address is also on Croxford Street. Coincidence? Red herring?

The Scottish connection?

Previous key characters ACC Derek Hilton and DCC Mike Dryden were, like Jo, also from Scotland, which could suggest a link to Jo Davidson. Hilton was a bent copper who apparently committed suicide at the end of series four (but was much more likely killed by the OCG) after he conspired with Jimmy Lakewell to frame Michael Farmer for murder. Dryden left the force at the end of series two after being convicted of perverting the course of justice when he lied about getting a speeding ticket in order to have an alibi for engaging in a sex act with teenager Carly Kirk, who was being exploited by Tommy Hunter. Unlike everybody else on this list, Dryden is still alive.

Who else could it be? DI Matthew Cottain? If it isn’t a man, how about DI Lindsay Denton? DI Roz Huntley? Jackie Laverty? Hit us with your best theories below.

Line of Duty continues next Sunday the 18th of April at 9pm on BBC One.

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toyboy-molloy · 7 years ago

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Sherlolly and number 7

7. fake relationship au

| also on ao3 | the prompt list |

this is one big cheesy, cliché yuckfest but honestly #sherlolly mood

It started with flowers and chocolates, sentanonymously to her workplace; bouquets piled high with her favourite flowersfrom daisies to hibiscus and the finest Belgian chocolate. There may have beenno distinctive indication as to the sender but Molly was no fool. This was why,when Scotland Yard’s finest arrived that morning, she was huddled over a microscope,running all sorts of tests on a halved chocolate truffle.

“Everything alright, Molly?”

The pathologist turned to the Detective Inspector,a wild look in her eyes, “Greg, thank God. Look, I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’timportant. Could you run a check for me?”

Sherlock and John, who’d taken up position atthe consulting detective’s preferred microscope, paused to listen as Greg tookout a notebook.

“Yeah, sure, what’s their name?”

“Pete Truman. He…was arrested six years agoand was serving time for assault in Leicester. I just…I want to know if he’sout yet,” the way she was wringing her hands had Greg biting his lip, pullinghis phone from his pocket.

“I’ll run him through the system,” he saidbefore leaving the lab, his phone pressed to his ear as he spoke to hiscolleagues.

An awkward silence descended on the room.Molly turned back to her results, finding the chocolates clean; she wasn’tsurprised if she was honest. Paranoia. John was the first to address the elephantin the room.

“Er, an ex, Molly?”

After a moment, Molly took a deep breath andfaced her friends – it was for the best that she explained, they’d only worry.That, or Pete’s mangled corpse would end up on her morgue slab if she’d keptthe information to herself. Who knew when it came to them two.

“He was my lab partner in Uni. I thought hewas my friend but…that wasn’t how he saw things. When I told him I was movingto London for work, he was hell bent on following me,” as Molly explained, sherecalled her relationship with Pete – how overly sweet he was, how reluctant hewas to let her out of his sight. Towards the end, he’d virtually become her shadow.She continued, “I told him he’d misunderstood and he turned nasty. He gotdrunk, trashed my flat and got into a pretty vicious bar fight. After he gotsent down, he promised he’d find me and ‘make things right’. I haven’t seen himin years but if he’s the same person…he’d never have forgotten. He was neverviolent to me,” she hastened to add at the look on their faces; the morgue slabending was looking more likely the more she spoke. She ran a hand through her hair,“I can’t go through all that again. What am I going to tell him?”

“Tell him to sod off,” John nearly shouted,gesturing angrily, “you don’t owe him anything.”

Molly shrugged, “I’ve tried. He’s not the sortof man you say no to.”

“Tell him you have a boyfriend.”

Both Molly and John swivelled to stare insurprise at Sherlock; the two of them had almost forgotten he was there. He washuddled over his microscope, working on his latest case – Molly had simplyassumed her tedious problems were beneath him.

Shooting a confused glance at the army doctor,Molly answered, “I’ve tried. He never believes me.”

Silence fell once again, the detectiveapparently delving into his mind palace. John and Molly shared another glance,the former shrugging briefly. Minutes passed until, finally, Sherlock openedhis eyes and rummaged in his pocket, retrieving his phone.

“Angelo’s. Tonight, eight. Can you managethat?”

“Erm…” Molly blinked, taken aback by thesudden change of direction the conversation had taken, “why? What do you mean?”

Suddenly, he was on his feet and at her side,smiling almost triumphantly at her, “well…” in a matter of seconds, Sherlockhad cupped her neck and leaned down to kiss her tenderly, capturing the moment onhis phone with his free hand. Swallowing hard, Molly opened her eyes to findSherlock smirking at her, “you have a boyfriend.”

He swept away, leaving her gobsmacked…not thatshe was complaining. Not at all. John, however, took slightly longer torecover; he quickly closed his mouth and awkwardly shuffled after his friend,wondering what the hell had gotten into him.

Molly couldn’t stop staring at the Twitterpost Sherlock had made after the bizarre snogging incident at Bart’s. The image– on his account under the handle @consulting_detectiveSH – was accompanied withthe simple caption ‘smitten’ followedby an emoji of a heart. He’d even tagged her, @barts_mhooper, and added the affectionatehashtags bestsnog and workbreak. Smiling, Molly placed herphone in her bag and looked around the restaurant – happy diners milled about,chatting and enjoying their meals. Angelo’s staff flitted between tables,filling orders and conversing with customers.

Molly glanced at the door nervously, taking aswig of her glass of wine; she’d arrived early, having rushed home after hershift, changed into a simple red dress and hurried out. Sherlock was yet toarrive, or Pete for that matter, and she just hoped the former would make itbefore the latter. Thankfully, five minutes later, the detective strolledinside, with Rosie Watson balancing on his hip.

“Sorry I’m late,” he was saying, placing Rosieopposite her Aunt; the youngster looked pleased to see her, if a little tired.Molly was about to greet him in return when the coat came off; it wastremendously unfair that Sherlock Holmes managed to look mouth-watering atevery opportunity. He sat close to her, close enough to rumble into her ear, “anysign?”

Molly swallowed, finding it immenselydifficult to concentrate, “n-not yet.”

Rosie, who’d been contentedly sucking herthumb, pulled a menu closer and perused the options; it didn’t matter that she couldn’tunderstand the writings, Angelo had her usual order of bitesize spaghetti bolognesememorised. Molly was busy watching the windows, studying passing taxis for thefamiliar blond hair and- and…

“Sherlock…” Molly sighed breathlessly, her visiongoing blurry as Sherlock continued to suck at her neck in the most heavenly way,only humming his acknowledgement into her skin. She forced herself to focus, “w-whatare you doing?”

He mumbled something about keeping upappearances or having to make things look genuine, Molly didn’t really care.She just didn’t want him to stop. Somewhere at the back of her mind, she knewit might help if their intended target was on the receiving end of thespectacle. It didn’t take much for that thought to disappear for good, Sherlocknipping at the spot below her ear to be exact. It took all of Molly’s willpowernot to moan, or slide her hand up any higher from wear it was resting on hisknee.

Not even the clearing throat of Angelo’s headwaiter was enough to stop the detective’s actions, “would you like to…orderanything Mr. Holmes?”

“S’getti!” Rosie exclaimed delightedly,giggling as the waiter winked and made a gesture of disgust at the nauseatingdisplay of her aunt and uncle.

“I-I think you’ve made your point,” Mollyreplied in a voice that definitely didn’t sound like her own. Rosie waswatching them curiously, sipping from her glass of orange juice the waiter haddelivered. Sherlock finally removed his lips from her skin, raising an eyebrow.

“Do you want me to stop?”

NO!

“I have work tomorrow,” she said lamely, herhand still firmly in place on his knee; Sherlock merely chuckled and resumedhis previous ministrations as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

They were interrupted yet again not tenminutes later by the arrival of Pete, a tall, skinny, balding ex-con, a far cryfrom the long-haired blond student Molly knew in Uni. The woman on his arm wasshorter with should-length red hair, her eyebrows raised as she viewed the performanceSherlock was reluctant to cease. He had no choice when Molly stood to hug heruncomfortable looking former friend.

“It’s good to see you, Molly,” Pete smiledgenuinely, holding her hands gently between his own. He looked well and not atall what Molly had been expecting at all. He glanced at the neck-sucker and thebored child, smiling, “…looks like we’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”

They took their seats opposite, forcing Rosieto shuffle round and hide shyly behind the elbow of her uncle. Pete introducedthe woman as his fiancée, Martha Kirk; they’d met through the prison’s pen palsystem and struck up a relationship almost immediately. Relieved didn’t beginto describe how Molly felt.

“I’m so happy for you, Pete.”

The man smiled at his lady, intertwining theirhands before looking back at his former crush, “so, come on, what about you andyour…” he briefly glanced at the neck-sucker, who appeared in deep thought, “husband?Newlyweds if I ever saw it.”

Molly bit her lip, preparing to come clean, “well,not exactly…”

“Three years strong, actually,” Sherlock pipedup, linking fingers with Molly, meeting her gaze and brushing away a strand ofhair for good measure. He kissed her knuckles, adding softly, “everyday feelslike the first with Molly.”

Molly was sure her eyes were as wide assaucers when Sherlock had pressed his lips to her hand, but his final words hadrendered her completely speechless. There was something about him that told herhe meant it. Before she could properly function and tell him she felt the same,Martha reached over patting their still joined hands.

“Never lose that, love. It’s so rare.”

Sherlock caught Rosie’s eye and noticed theyoungster smirking at him as if she’d just won a bet; knowing her father, sheprobably had. At that moment, holding Molly’s hand as the waiter took theirorders, he couldn’t find it within himself to care.

“We didn’t have to lie to them,” Molly wassaying as they strolled down the street, clutching Sherlock’s coat tighteraround her shoulders. Sherlock said nothing, balancing his sleeping nieceagainst his chest. Molly breathed in his scent, smiling to herself, “he’sgetting married, right? It’s pretty clear he’s not interested in me in theslightest.”

“Mmm,” was the only thing he said and Mollyvowed to drop the subject until they’d reached Baker Street.

She was determined not to leave withoutanswers. They’d had a surprisingly pleasant evening, swapping stories with Peteand Martha, laughing and drinking like old friends. The thought and effortSherlock had put into each little detail of their supposedly fake relationshipwas far too detailed for her to simply forget about. He’d covered everythingfrom his crime scene proposal, private wedding and even the birth of theirnot-daughter, Rosie, who was thankfully fast asleep against her uncle’s arm bythen. When they’d reached Baker Street and handed Rosie back to her long-sufferingfather, Molly accepted Sherlock’s offer of a nightcap. Once safely inside, shedecided to have it out with him.

“Are you going to tell me what all that wasreally about?”

He stepped closer, removing the glass of winefrom her grasp, replacing them on the coffee table, “I think you know perfectlywell, don’t you?”

“Every day feels like the first…” she repeatedbreathlessly as he tugged her close, resting his forehead against hers.

“Always.”

#sherlolly #mollock #thejonderettegirl #I liked this until I hit post. isn't that always the way XD #my writing #answered asks

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wendynerdwrites · 7 years ago

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The Queen’s Favorite

A fic that I’ve gotten requests for, including from @jandsstark and @what-would-ww-do! The theme being: post season 8, Jon realizes he doesn’t deserve Sansa.

Oh, and fan cast Charlie Cox as Ser Patrek (not Stardust Charlie Cox, Daredevil Charlie Cox. But, you know, in a doublet... So... if Netflix did an adaptation of Marvel 1602?).

Jon:

Perhaps he should expect the way his former brother turns expectantly towards him, blue eyes mild. Jon barely recognizes the sweet, adventurous boy he knew in this stoic youth.

Bran used to smile easily and purely. But now, while the corners of his lips may turn upwards, there’s something missing. This person who calls himself Bran and the three-eyed raven does not feel joy. Or anything, really.

“Hello, Jon,” Bran says in that frustratingly mild tone, “What may I help you with? If it’s about your parents, I’m afraid I’ve told you all that I can.”

Jon purses his lips. This isn’t about that at all. But the mention of it summons some embarrassment. In perspective, his purpose here now is stupid, superfluous, shallow. He’s not even sure why he’s asking.

Sansa, on a personal level, is no longer his responsibility. He relinquished his right to interfere with her life when he swore himself to Daenerys. It’s a decision he made out of fear and panic, a desperation to keep the dragon queen from withdrawing support from their cause. But it proved futile. Daenerys is still the North’s ally for now, but Jon has not managed to give her what she wants. Between the Ice Dragon and Daenerys’s refusal to keep her remaining dragons at least ten miles from every densely populated landmark, the North made its decision. Their former king could call Daenerys his queen if they wished, but they shall not.

Thus, Sansa is crowned, and not just to rule the North. The Vale enthusiastically joined the call in swearing themselves. And it didn’t end there. As it turned out, Sansa sent a couple thousand men to take back the Trident as well in order to restore her uncle to Riverrun, secure the lordless Harrenhal (left without one upon Littlefinger’s execution), swell their numbers, and increase the buffer zone between the North and the Lannisters.

A delegation, led by Lord Jason Mallister’s heir, declared for Hoster Tully’s granddaughter. Jon’s cousin, his former half-sister Sansa, is no longer mere lady of Winterfell. She is Her Grace Sansa of House Stark, First of her Name, Queen of the Three Realms of the North, the Vale, and the Trident.

When Daenerys threatened to burn the castle alive for the “treason”, one of the castle tower ballistas, fired at Rhaegal and clipped. his wing. The response suddenly became more diplomatic, with both young queens coming together to end the threat of the Dead.

The Stark forces and influences have been swollen by the enthusiastic support of the Riverland army. Sansa ended up bringing a Riverlord’s delegation to decide who they preferred.

As it turned out, the Trident has as much interest in dragonfire as the rest. Daenerys watches, aghast as Patrek Mallister, heir to Seaguard, came before the whole court to announce that it was Stark forces that freed him from the Frey camp. Him and numerous other heirs owe their freedom to the Queen in the North. Many, many we quite insistent on this, from Lord Blackwood to Lord Piper. But the charismatic head of the delegation seemed most passionate about the issue.

Amidst throngs of cheering people, Daenerys watched, lemons in her mouth, as over half the continent swore themselves to their new queen. The girl who had been a fugitive just a year ago and since managed to restore her home and bring order to the North and protect and feed people during Ice dragon attacks. A true queen.

Daenerys could not do much to stop it, either, except threaten fire and death upon countless innocents for simply not choosing her. It was then that Jon chose to reveal his identity to her and threaten her out of that idea. It was a positive move on his part all around. He was especially sure of that when he was thrown out of her chambers. But hours later, she was reluctantly swearing an oath of friendship with the new Queen of three realms.

It was perhaps stupid of Jon to think that at this point, he might have a chance. After months and months of self-loathing over his feelings for his “sister”, he’s learned that isn’t the case while stuck in a liaison with his aunt. Perfection. But after Daenerys rejected him, this was finally his opportunity.

He’d have to take his time, of course. The two of them were raised as siblings. She’d need time to get used to the idea. And he’d give her as much of that time as he could, considering.

So, the evening after Daenerys swore her vow---- Sansa looked beautiful, her head held high and her eyes shining, triumphant, Jon snuck up to her door with a bottle of Arbor Gold. When she comes to the door, she looks shocked and keeps it partially closed.

Jon holds up the bottle. “I thought we might celebrate, Your Grace.”

“Oh!” She glances behind her briefly, then looks back. “That’s very sweet of you, Jon, it is, but I’m not feeling particularly well right now. Perhaps another night?”

He frowns and reaches up to feel her brow, “You don’t feel feverish.”

“It’s… a headache. It’s nothing. Nothing that a bit of rest can’t cure, I’m sure.”

There’s a thump in the background. The hair on the back of Jon’s neck stands on end and, ignoring her protests, he pushes past her.

To find a man in her chambers crouching over a fallen bronze pitcher. Jon immediately unsheathes Longclaw, ready to skewer the intruder.

The man stands and holds up his hands. It’s then that Jon notices that he’s not wearing his boots and that his upper body is clothed solely by a purple tunic.

Jon recognizes him now: average height, reddish-brown hair and beard, brown eyes, muscular build, perfect jawline, and an easy smile. That easy smile appears, albeit sheepishly as he rises. Jon’s blood burns when he sees that bush. He’d like to slice that look right off his face.

“I am a guest in this house, My Lord,” Ser Patrek Mallister reminds him with an arched brow.

“Put that away, Jon, honestly!” Sansa snaps, annoyed. Jon looks at her, utterly aghast. Mallister is easily ten years her senior.

He does sheathe his blade, but quickly asks, “Where is your chaperone?”

Sansa scoffs. “Chaperone? Jon, honestly, I’m a widow and, in case you missed it, Queen, now. I am not some blushing maid who requires a beady-eyed Septa to look over my shoulder.”

Jon scowls. She’s not even denying what this is? But, for the purposes of confirmation, he asks, “What are you doing with him?”

“None of your business, Jon. Now, thank you for the wine, but this is none of your concern. Please leave!”

“I’m not going to let you---”

She practically pushed him out, breaking his heart in the process.

First place he goes, of course, are Bran’s rooms. But now that he’s here, he’s second-guessing himself. How does he ask this without betraying himself?

Jon hesitates and goes, “I’m worried about our sister. Her and Mallister---”

“---Are happy right now,” Bran says significantly, “There is no cause for alarm.”

Jon steps forward, “Can you at least just look? Make sure she’s not---”

“Jon, doing you honestly think Sansa, after everything she’s been through, would open herself up to a man without checking with me first? I’ve looked into his past, present, and future. He used to drink and whore too much up until he was taken prisoner during the Red Wedding. All things he told Sansa about when he began pursuing her. Now he spends less time carousing and more time serving his father’s people and lands. He’s a fine man. He’s not lied to or hurt her, or done anything dishonorable.”

This angers Jon far more than if Bran told him that Mallister was Aegon the Unworthy born again. But he has to hold back his frustration, or betray himself. He marches out of Bran’s rooms to his own and paces furiously.

What did you expect? For her to remain alone forever? She’s young and beautiful and you’ve been gone for nearly a year! Perhaps if you’d done as Sansa suggested and sent an emissary to Dragonstone we wouldn’t be in this mess!

I was trying to get away from her at the time, I thought she was my sister!

You’d have found out the truth much sooner had you been less of a coward. She’s an adult woman, more than capable of taking care of herself. She took care of an entire country while you were off nearly getting yourself killed beyond the Wall. This is her decision. You must respect it.

Maybe he must, but he can’t simply accept it.

You were her brother and you almost made her kneel to a foreign invader after taking a crown that should have been hers and throwing it away on a woman who brought an Ice Dragon to Westeros because of a useless pact Sansa warned you not to pursue. Did you think she would want to throw herself into your arms? Why? Because of that battle she won for you? That you nearly ruined because you fell into a trap she warned you about? Or because you’ve embraced her a few times?

They were excellent embraces. At least, he thought so.

~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~

Sansa:

By his own admission, Sansa wouldn’t have liked Patrek if she’d met him a few years prior, when he was squandering his time drinking and whoring and actually hoping for a war to achieve some “glory”, which, Patrek also admits, he wouldn’t have been able to define.

“Two years in a Frey dungeon has an effect on a person,” he tells her wearily, pulling her into his lap, “I realized that I was no hero, no great personage. That I was stuck in a cell, waiting for someone to rescue me, a pawn in everything, boosted by nothing I’d created myself, just a name.”

Sansa rests a hand upon Patrek’s cheek, feeling the contrast of clear skin and stubble. It’s hard to imagine him as a lout or a prisoner, with such a kind, honest face. Faces can be deceptive, though. Her own courtier’s smile proves that.

Patrek isn’t young. Or, at least, he’s not as young as Sansa. He is a good friend of her Uncle Edmure, though he’s well younger than him. He’s one-and-thirty. But there’s something sweet and incurably boyish about his expression that only ever makes him looks mischievous at worst. He has a trickster’s smile sometimes, but unlike Petyr’s, there is no cruelty to it. Sansa has no doubt that Patrek has had his years of being thoughtless, petty, irresponsible, and callous, but even at his worst, she has a hard time imagining any true malice behind it. People who are deliberately malicious rarely have this level of self-awareness without practically flagellating themselves over it.

Patrek accepts what he was, and tries to be better now with a stalwart and somehow hopeful practicality. He’s a child of summer, perhaps, but he is ready to meet the winter. He knows how awful he was to break some milkmaid’s heart in his youth, but he’s insightful enough to know that there are more pressing matters than his own guilt and that everyone, including that milkmaid, is better off if he puts his mind to contributing as much as he can to the danger facing them now.

“We were all idiots when we were young,” she tells him, “I thought I was a lady from a song. I expected to be loved, and thought pretty, refined people were good.”

His face falls a bit. “The difference, though, Love, is that when you mention your youthful stupidity, you’re referring to your thirteenth year. When I refer to mine, I refer to my thirteenth year up until well into my twenty-seventh. I wasn’t even half-finished creating regrets when I was your age. I was stumbling out of barns with my hose about my knees. You are the unanimously chosen queen of three realms whose governance has been admired and praised by experienced and accomplished lords and ladies old enough to be your grandparents.”

Sansa blushes. When Patrek says things like this, it has an effect almost unlike anything she’s ever known. The closest anyone has gotten to making her feel truly proud, recognized, and flattered is when Jon quietly informed her after her ascension that she deserved it. Others have praised her, of course. Though Sansa has noticed that she’s gotten far less praise for feeding the populace and clearing the roads than her deposed cousin got for his supposed military victory (that was actually hers). But that is the way of things: war is glorified, feats of martial prowess are the ideal, the things that get preserved by songs and stories. No one ever writes a ditty about resource allocation, even if said resource allocation is what enables those armies to fight in the first place. No one wanted to sing of edicts and budgets. Battles were more lyrical.

When she is praised for her unglamorous contributions, she usually looks for a motive behind it. Cynicism is not a habit easily broken, so when one of her courtiers move to praise her wisdom, she either wonders what they want from her, or bitterly notes the surprise in their voice, as if it is inconceivable, even after months and months of her deftly ruling this disaster-prone country, that a young woman can handle such responsibility. Even when people like Lord Royce, who she likes and trusts, tells her she’s made a wise decision, there’s an underlying message of, “What? How? You’re supposed to be stupid and dependent!”

Logically, she knows she should be suspicious of Patrek. By his own admission, he has a history of deceiving and flattering women. Part of her does suspect him, wondering what will happen the morning after she’s finally let him into her bed. She searches his face for a lie constantly. She even asked Bran to investigate him.

The worst her brother could come up with is, “The only reason he doesn’t have a gaggle of bastards is because his father was fastidious about delivering Moon Tea to his conquests’ doorsteps.”

She asked Arya to tail him for a day. “He went to the Wintertown tavern with some of his men, had a pint or two, but didn’t so much as pull one of the wenches into his lap.”

Abandoned loutishness aside, there could still be ulterior motives to Patrek’s pursuit. He may be saving his focus for the ultimate conquest --- a queen, for example.

She is queen, and she cannot forget that. She has no shortage of suitors, really. Many of whom undoubtedly seek to rule the Three Realms via marriage to her. Patrek is the heir to his own lands, to Seagard. He will be one of the most powerful lords of the Trident some day, and should logically be seeking a wife from a noble house who can be his lady. But it’s possible he expects that Sansa will defer to him and cede control of her domains to her Lord Husband should they marry, and that House Stark shall become House Mallister.

Sansa’s afraid to ask. If that’s true, it will be a bitter disappointment. If it isn’t, he might be offended that she’d suspect such a thing, or feel repelled that she’s thinking of marriage at all.

So her policy thus far has been to just try to enjoy him while she can, and try not to fuss too much. With the war, it’s not as if there’s much pressure on her to marry immediately. Especially since she isn’t going to be fighting on the front lines. She has yet to share her bed with Patrek, who has shown nothing but patience, and if she does, she has a supply of Moon Tea to prevent any inconvenient pregnancies. As long as she is careful, stays devoted to her duty, and doesn’t let her heart get in the way of her head, she should be fine.

“True enough,” she agrees, pleased, “Not many would admit that, though.”

She’s promised herself that the moment Patrek asks for a favor, she shall end things. She’s even told Arya as much. “If I should tell you of some underhanded request, or begin giving him undeserved perks, you are to stop me.”

If Patrek is here for a crown, she will let him announce it, and end things there. It’s not about power, but about duty. She was trusted by her people to take on the responsibility of leading them, to protect their rights, their independence,and protect their faith in her, the monarch they chose. She cannot hand that honor off to some power-hungry potential lover. She is not Jon.

Sansa has to marry, of course. One of her duties is providing an heir. But her husband shall have to take the Stark name, play the role of consort, and accept her regency. Her vassals shouted “Queen in the North”, not “Queen-until-she-finds-a-king-to-marry in the North.”

She’s even debated giving her husband the courtesy title of “King.” “King” in practically every legal and social context is synonymous with “regnant.” It doesn’t have the flexibility of the “queen” title. If she names whomever she marries “King”, it might create some legal loopholes that threaten her status and authority. After all the North has suffered, stability is key to its survival. Part of that stability is having an unquestioned, strong, solid monarch. That was half the reason Jon bending the knee was so unacceptable. If Sansa takes a king, she will no longer be unquestioned.

The issue is that there’s no precedent for this sort of thing. At least, not one on the books.

But even if she marries someone content to treat king as purely a courtesy title, that doesn’t mean others can’t twist it, or that their families will see it that way. And even those suitors who wouldn’t usurp her authority may still want to be called “king”, regardless.

She doesn’t know. When she looks into Patrek’s warm brown eyes, though, she doesn’t see a man searching for a crown.

“I’ve noticed, with all due respect, that the men of this realm aren’t fond of using many words, whether it’s to admit a personal failing or otherwise,” remarks Patrek, “They’re very loud, but not very verbose.”

Perhaps it’s stupid of her, carrying on like this with a man at this time, but… Everything is so hard and confusing and terrifying. And so very, very lonely. Nearly every waking minute is spent going over ledgers, receiving petitions, signing documents, conducting council meetings, making sure that roads are cleared, refugees are housed, troops are deployed, enemies are watched, ballistas are maintained, supplies are sent and received, battles are planned. All while hoping that the Dragon Queen will change her mind all of a sudden about accepting the North’s independence and burn them all. It’s all on her. Everyone is depending on her.

It’s not as if she has calm periods, either. That her moments come during attacks and battles. No, Sansa feels like she’s constantly engaged in battle. On the surface, people might scoff at this, claiming there are no enemies charging towards her to kill her. But starvation, disease, subterfuge, and revolt are every bit as deadly and far, far more subtle. They’re invisible enemies. She has to fight them off, while also providing the actual armies the means to fight at all. It doesn’t matter how great your numbers are or how skilled your commander is, if your soldiers are too weak to move from hunger, illness, or untreated injury, or don’t have weapons or armor to defend themselves, or can’t walk because a lack of adequate footwear have rendered their feet bloody and broken, defeat is inevitable. In addition to providing the supplies, she must keep the roads clear enough to deliver them, make sure they are handled by trustworthy and qualified people, keep track of the needs and positions of their forces across vast distances, and coordinate defenses back home. She has to do all this while ensuring that there are no traitors in her court trying to sabotage or murder her, while keeping her vassals happy so that they continue to provide their vital support. And she must get all of this done while observing, respecting, and adhering to the codes that protect her peoples’ rights. And making sure her home is always ready to defend itself from a dragon attack, Ice or otherwise.

Meanwhile, Cersei Lannister is gathering up an army to finish off the weakened victor of the War for the Dawn. Which, of course, is just one part of the vast issue that is planning for the future after the war and the winter, which Sansa also needs to do if her country is going to recover from everything, stay united once the common enemy is gone, and thrive.

And she just… She wants something. Something in her life right now that grants her some relief, some joy. Something that briefly lets her forget that the world is on her shoulders. Something that satisfies some manner of yearning within her.

This is winter, there are no lemons growing anymore.

Furs can only do so much to keep her warm. Sansa leans against Patrek’s chest, listening to his heartbeat, and sighs. “Some people talk at length and end up saying nothing at all.”

“Nothing of substance anyway.”

It’s probably stupid, wrong, and selfish for her to still, on some level, want a handsome, charming man to kiss and comfort and praise her. But she has to be wise, right, and selfless all the time. She barely even feels like a person anymore. More like the pedestal for a crown.

Sansa doesn’t resent or hate her power… far from it. As queen, she is more secure than she’s ever been. She doesn’t have to answer to any lord, no one can force her to do anything she doesn’t wish to do. Instead, she can order others to do things like donate grain or take in smallfolk. She’s restored House Stark and their home and there’s less risk of having it taken from her than ever before. And, while her efforts are less likely to be recognized than those of generals and commanders, it makes them no less rewarding. Every day she watches people stand in line for food, people who would be starving if not for her organization and leadership, having healthy rations of bread, turnips, meat, and stringed beans placed in the hands instead of trying to eat leather and sawdust. People who are living in the camps she set up, who would have been killed by Ice Dragon attacks had she not used Bran’s abilities to warn her and evacuated areas beforehand. When she watches men march off to battle, she has the comfort that, at the very least, they have adequate armor and weapons because she made sure of it. That there are lords and ladies who are feeding and housing smallfolk who would have left them in the cold had Sansa not interceded.

Maybe there will never be songs of this, and maybe Lord Royce and the others still seem surprised by her competence, but Sansa knows she isn’t unnoticed. She’s hailed and followed whenever she walks through the camps or rides through town. People look at her not just with the deference of her rank, but with hope and love. Many are not afraid to personally approach her in the streets about some issue or another. She’s received many tearful thanks from mothers and fathers whose children have had their first full meal in many moons. Or whose daughter was the target of one of Ramsay’s “hunts.” A crown of the most precious metals and gems couldn’t make her feel as good.

Sansa watches the flames dance within the hearth.

It even makes her fear the Dragon Queen less. Daenerys sees how Sansa is regarded. She notices. The woman has come to Westeros promising to “break the wheel” of tyranny by the powerful families (except her own, of course), has built her reputation on being the “chosen” queen. The “Breaker of Chains”. A benevolent, yet powerful liberator. Burning a castle filled with innocent men, women, and children in it because they didn’t want to kneel to her is the antithesis of that. She’s already threatened to withhold support and let the White Walkers destroy the North if Jon didn’t bend the knee. She’s already burnt Randyll Tarly and his young son, Dickon, alive, for denying her. She lost the Martells, the Greyjoys, and the Tyrells. The status of the Reach and the Dorne are shaky, to say the least. She’s brought Dothraki, famous for their brutality, for raping and pillaging innocents, to these shores. And one of her dragons became the mount of the Night’s King in an effort to secure a futile alliance with Cersei Lannister. Then she ignored the request of the North (the place that has suffered all the Ice Dragon attacks thus far) to keep her own dragons at least ten miles from highly populated areas.

Daenerys was told by Jon that even if he bent the knee, his people would not accept a Southern leader. She refused to believe it, insisting they would if their king said so. Then, when they arrived in the North and Jon announced it, the people unanimously rejected her and crowned Sansa instead. Not out of fear, not because they were deceived. This was their choice, based on merit.

Given her current track record in Westeros, Daenerys is already having trouble convincing the people that she’s any different from Cersei. The Reach reacted with horror to Dickon Tarly’s death in particular, and currently maintain steadfast neutrality. As for Dorne, it already had divisions since Ellaria Sand’s takeover was based on nothing more than kinslaying, and most of the lords there, while harboring no love for the Tarly’s, are similarly disturbed by the deaths, and are suspicious of any queen who would ally with someone who based their power on murdering children and relatives.

The Starks have pledged their friendship, and Sansa has even promised to deploy her remaining forces after the war to help Daenerys defeat Cersei and take the Iron Throne, even if the North, Vale, and Riverlands were no longer part of her domains. Daenerys’s long-lost Stark nephew has promised not to challenge her for the throne despite a superior claim. The Starks are well-known to be honorable, good, and to have suffered horribly, and to be the first a sole responders to the threat the continent faces. Winterfell is not only home to a household of decent people, but is filled with and surrounded by innocent refugees. Displaced, defenseless men, women, and children. And it hosts many respectable and important lords and ladies. All of whom adore, trust, and respect their young queen, the long-suffering, dutiful Sansa Stark, who has known so much cruelty and tragedy and has emerged from it wise and kind.

If Daenerys destroys Winterfell, she destroy any chance of being anything more than a “Mad Queen.” She destroys herself.

It wouldn’t be Aegon the Conqueror burning Harren the Black alive within Harrenhal. That’s already controversial, but at the very least, Harren was a known monster, a vicious, brutal warlord who tortured, enslaved, and killed countless innocents to create his monster of a castle. Winterfell is a centuries-old bastion of defense and leadership in the North, the most famous solace against the harshest winds of winter, ruled by the oldest and most honorable and arguably respected House in Westeros. And it is filled not with raping pirates but refugees.

By burning Winterfell, the Mother of Dragons will have committed an unprecedented, unforgivable, and vicious war crime out of pettiness. She’ll be a mass-murderer, liar, hypocrite, and lunatic. She’ll have not only slaughtered countless innocents, but destroyed her only remaining ally in Westeros and the North’s primary defenses, leaving her own armies vulnerable. The Night’s King has already taken one of her dragons, and a second was wounded by a ballista. Both incidents happened because of Daenerys’s own stupidity. She lost a dragon and dragged a wight to King’s Landing to have a tea party with Cersei Lannister, but burned the last of honorable Ned Stark’s children and all their people alive. Over a title. Not the Iron Throne, which Cersei Lannister sits upon, but one that the people of the North, Trident, and Riverlands begged their leader to take.

She’ll have destroyed the oldest House of Westeros, and numerous important lords and ladies as well, with absolutely no respect to their status, their families, their names, their people. That does not bode well for ANY noble family. None of them will be willing to accept Daenerys. Between Viserion’s death and Rhaegal being wounded, her dragons are not invincible. And with Winterfell gone, Daenerys will have left herself right in the open path of the army of the Dead. Even if she does manage to win that, her armies will be severely depleted, and will have Cersei and the Golden Company waiting for them. And they will be without a shred of support from anyone in Westeros.

Such a thing is not just a matter of soldiers, either. There are also issues of transportation and accommodation, not to mention supplies. Between the Red Keep and Daenerys’s current location is the entire North, the Riverlands, and the Vale. Daenerys’s ability to cross rivers, stay at castles, set camp in fields will all have to be attained under threat of Dragonfire. She’ll be a pillager in every sense of the word. And if the citizens (possibly headed by the noble families whose parents and siblings died when Daenerys burned Winterfell) decide to organize a resistance, she’s even worse off. Some kingdoms may even decide that Cersei is preferable, since Cersei has no dragons. She also immolated many innocent people, including a Great House, but she had to lure them all into one building to do it. Far less dangerous. And even she was still forced to do things like repay her debts to the Iron Bank and betroth herself to a pirate. She’d be much easier to control and stand against.

Overseas powers might also get involved. The Iron Bank was already backing Cersei over the collapse of the slave trade in Dragon’s Bay. But the destruction of Winterfell might make several other kingdoms and cities nervous about the rising power of this mad, dragon-riding conqueror. It’s not as if her conquests in Essos were exactly peaceful. Even those governments with no interest in the slave trade might fear that the Mad King’s Daughter will decide to outdo her forebears and expand her empire beyond Westeros, and reign fire down upon them. After all, if she was willing to murder the famously benevolent Starks for being independent, what would stop her from burning Pentos? Braavos? Yi-Ti? The Summer Isles?

Burning Winterfell would make enemies of everyone, diminish her defenses against an army that has already claimed one of her dragons, and paint her forever as a bloodthirsty lunatic. No one would trust her, want her, respect her. Just fear and revile her.

Daenerys, despite her prior actions, likes to think herself a force for good, wants to believe everything she says of herself, despite her “Submit or burn” policy. On some level, she knows this. So she’s yet to burn them all alive. If it’s out of basic decency or self-preservation, Sansa cannot be sure. But she feels more secure as a queen of the people than one of ashes, fire, or blood.

Still, people are fickle, she knows this. And that doesn’t make her life anything less of a constant struggle. And she just… she just…

She feels a protrusion rising from between Patrek’s legs, pushing into her thigh, and her lip curls.

Patrek doesn’t pretend to be a model of virtue, or a perfect repentant. He doesn’t act like his improved character is a burden, or something deserving of praise. And Sansa believes that even if he’s not in love with her, even if motives aren’t pure altruism, that he does possess some genuine affection for her, and that it isn't just about her looks. They have long conversations well into the night, and when he responds to her, he always has an engaged and insightful comment or query, and he always recalls prior conversations, so she knows he’s not merely pretending to listen.

Sometimes, he does get distracted, but he always admits it. Then there are other times, when they’re sitting by the fire and it’s gotten truly late, and he drifts off to sleep, his fingers in her hair, halted where he’s been stroking it.

There are also his impressions of the members of the court, wicked, accurate, and hilarious. Sometimes she laughs so hard she can’t breathe. And it just feels so, so good to laugh, especially at something irreverent, inconsequential, and immature. Most of her laughter over the past several years has come from observations and sarcastic remarks so morbid that she has to laugh to keep from crying. So something like this is a wonderful respite.

And he is very handsome. And he truly looks like a man, not a boy. There’s definitely a boyishness in his looks, but it’s notable because he is so clearly an adult male. It’s not prettiness, like with Loras or Joffrey, though Patrek is gorgeous. But it’s the sort of beauty that can only be called handsomeness, not prettiness. And it’s not as if he’s some dirty, burly creature, either. He dresses very well. He is not shy about the fact that he prefers wine to ale. His manners are Southern and genteel. He doesn’t spend every other minute challenging other men to wrestling matches, arm wrestling, or drinking contests.

“What do I have to prove?” He’s said. “I survived nearly four years in a Frey dungeon while this lot were retreating to their castles. You rode off to war while they sat huddled by their hearths. I don’t need to prove myself to men who were outmatched in courage by a nineteen-year-old fugitive and a ten-year-old orphan.”

Sansa adjusts her position slightly, turning to look into her paramour’s eyes. They’re eyes that have seen terrible things, that have watched as their body, mind, and soul have endured cruelties. Patrek doesn’t go into much detail about his captivity. Sansa doesn’t mind, she doesn’t go into much detail about hers. Maybe someday, they will.

But these eyes still manage to be so warm. They’re the brown of burnt caramel. Fitting for him. Burnt, yes, but still full of sweetness and somehow richer for it. Sansa wonders if he sees any warmth in her own eyes, or if they’re just icy cold to him.

She only wishes he had a bit more affection for the North and its people. But Sansa consistently gets the impression from him that he considers her vassals to be a bunch of pompous, ignorant, tasteless louts and her to be too good for them. There is still a touch of snobbery to Patrek. And even when she tries to explain reasons her lords had for staying out of the war against Ramsay, his response is usually just to stroke her hair and declare her a far more understanding person than himself. He judges himself, yes, and he’s happy to judge others.

“So,” he says, wetting his lips, “Will I have to Duel your brother tomorrow?”

“You’d have to get my permission to draw steel towards one another under my roof, and I shall not grant it.”

This does give her pause, though. She may not allow a duel, but there was nothing stopping Jon from requesting one. It is the sort of thing he might do, too. And if he does, people will wonder why, rumors will arise, and…

She neither wants or needs gossip. Sansa treasures what privacy she has, and she doesn’t have much.

“That being said…” she slips off of his lap, “Perhaps I should speak to him.”

“Now?”

“Well, if I wait until tomorrow, it could be too late. I don’t want to give him too much time to fly off the handle.”

Patrek clears his threat and folds his hands. “Are you sure that visiting him now would be prudent. He might have a… guest.”

Sansa flinches. He means the Dragon Queen, and he is right. Everyone knows about them. Some of her angrier vassals believe Jon betrayed the North and bent the knee so Daenerys would marry him and make him King of Westeros. Sansa doesn’t believe that part, but she also isn’t stupid. They do share a bed. And for some reason, every mention or reference to this fact always hits her like the blow of a lance.

She wanders over to her desk and pulls out some parchment. “I’ll go to his room and if it sounds like he is… entertaining… I will just pin this note to Ghost’s collar.”

Patrek rises from the sofa and goes to open the hall door. Ghost pads in casually, tail wagging, moving to greet Sansa. Her lover has been here enough times to know that the direwolf guards Sansa’s door faithfully all through the night, every night. Another thing which assures Sansa about Patrek is that the beast has yet to show any hostility towards him. Ghost always snarled at Petyr.

Sansa finishes scrawling her note.p, but doesn’t pin it. Folds the paper in her hands, she says bashfully, “I think I should at least try to speak to him about it in person, first. I mean, if it were your sister, wouldn’t you---?”

“You’re not his sister,” Patrek reminds her. And she nods.

“But he is still family. He’s still a wolf, and a pack sticks together if they wish to survive.”

Patrek purses his lips and says nothing. Sansa’s shoulders sag.

“What?”

“I just don’t think it’s fair that you’re so forthcoming with him and I’ve yet to see him return the favor.”

“I wasn’t always so open with him,” Sansa answers, thinking of the Knights of the Vale, “And I regretted it.”

“I think he’s entitled to a fair number more regrets than you at this point.”

Sansa sighs and walks to him. She kisses his cheek. “I won’t be long.”

~_~_~_~_~

Jon:

Eventually, his feet ached too much from pacing. Now he is slumped by the chair, staring at the fire, downing ale, and stewing.

He’s so alone.

Even as a bastard, he’s always been one of the court, a man of the North. Now, though? He’s a guest in his own home. He’s sworn himself to Daenerys, he’s her subject, of her court and kingdom. He’s not even Ned Stark’s son. He’s a Targaryen.

He and Daenerys haven’t formally said it yet, but they’re done. They haven’t shared a bed since Bran revealed everything. He’s been caught up in the horror that he’s bedded his aunt.

With Daenerys, he suspects, the horror is more at this greater claim to the Iron Throne than their blood relation. She was raised as a Targaryen, after all. Such things are typical for them. Him as her nephew was one thing, but as her rival? Not after all the work she’s done.

Perhaps she also sensed his lack of interest. That was another possibility.

Jon suspects, though it has not been confirmed, that there’s some sort of unspoken agreement between Daenerys and Sansa that Jon will live here should they survive the war in order to keep him and his claim out of the way. Jon doesn’t mind too much; he doesn’t want the throne and he loves Winterfell. But he doesn’t like being arranged for, and he doesn’t like the idea of living his life here as Daenerys’s nephew, not a true member of Sansa’s court.

What is left of his identity? His name, his birthplace, his father, his legitimacy, his title, his position… All changed. Jon isn’t even sure what his official title, style, and name are even more. Have all the legal relevant legal documents had ‘Jon Snow’ scratched out, with ‘Aegon Targaryen’ written in smaller letters above? Daenerys named him Warden of the North, but he’s pretty sure that is null with Sansa’s ascension. He’s Rhaegar’s trueborn son, so is he a prince now? Or just ‘Lord’? The servants address him as “My Lord”, but that’s more a formality.

Twenty-three years of age and he still has no idea who he is, what he’s doing, or what he should do.

Perhaps he should tell Sansa how he feels. She can send that Mallister brat packing. They could formalize their alliance with Daenerys through marriage and he could be a Stark again as her consort.

Maybe he should just ask to be sent out as soon as possible. Given a command and just get away. He’s good at fighting, even if he doesn’t enjoy it.

Jon nearly falls out of his seat when there’s a knock on the door. At this hour. His stomach lurches when he considers Daenerys. Oh, gods, please no.

Reluctantly, he goes to the door. His heart rises at the sight of Sansa. Oh, gods, yes.

Perhaps having him see her with Mallister made her realize something. Maybe she’s here to apologize and confess her true feelings. Maybe he’s had more than just a couple of cups of ale.

Sansa’s eyes narrow. “I need to speak to you about what you came upon this evening. I don’t want you to act like a fool and make a fuss.”

Jon stares at her blankly. Yes, more than two cups. He feels a bit indignant. “You run over to my chambers in the middle of the night and you’re worried I’ll make a fuss?”

Sansa does blush, but she also persists. “Yes. I don’t want you… punching him at the breakfast table or challenging him to a duel for my honor or something. People will talk, and I can’t afford that. I know how you get.”

“Chivalrous?” He asks, half-teasing, half-hopeful.

“Over-protective.”

“I think I’m just the right level of protective, actually.” Without thinking, Jon raises his hand and clutches her cheek gently, “Why shouldn’t I want to protect you?”

“You’re free to want whatever you wish, Jon. Just don’t act on it. I’m a grown woman, and I am more than capable of taking care of myself now that I have the means.” She pulls his hand away.

He likes it when she gets annoyed. And her boldness is thrilling. He smiles. “Come in and have a drink with me, let’s discuss this.”

Sansa hesitates, but enters. “I don’t have time for a drink, but I prefer to speak behind closed doors,” she says, standing to face him, her arms crossed.

Jon sighs, his thoughts suddenly turning melancholy. “...It isn’t hard?”

“What isn’t hard?” She asks wearily.

Jon frowns. “After what happened to you. After what Ramsay did. I’d think after that, you’d need years and years before you could share a man’s bed again.”

Sansa’s eyes grow wide and her mouth opens. “I… I… Not that it’s any of your business, but Patrek and I haven’t coupled.”

A wave of relief washes over Jon. “Really?!”

“Really. He’s a perfect gentleman.”

“Then why was he barefoot and down to his tunic?”

“We were in private, and he was getting comfortable. Sometimes he sleeps on my sofa, so he likes to shed a few layers just in case. We talk through the night sometimes.”

“And you like him?” Why?!

“Yes. He’s very genuine.”

“You’re sure of that?”

She bristles. “I know the difference, Jon!”

“Of course. Pardon me. I just want to be sure. I worry.”

She holds her head high then. “Well, I believe that’s it then.”

“That’s not it!” He sputters, “It’s entirely unsuitable! You’re a queen! Do you want people to think your morals have fled?!”

“I have proven my generosity, work ethic, loyalty, and devotion to the extent that they have named me queen. I have done too much good for my people to brand me completely dissolute based on what occurs in my bedchamber. Besides, Patrek and I are discreet. All I ask is that you follow suit.”

“Why should I?!” He demands. “Why should I be discreet about you making yourself into some lordling’s whore?”

Her face goes white again, and Jon loathes himself. He tries to speak up, to take it back, but his voice gets caught in his throat.

Sansa’s voice is like acid. “Because if you didn’t, it would make you the most traitorous, insensitive, despicable shit I know. Goodnight.”

She moves toward the door, but Jon grabs her wrist. “Wait!”

Sansa scowls. “What?”

I love you. I love you. I love you.

“I love you.”

He says it out loud. It takes him several seconds to realize this. Sansa’s face goes slack and colorless. She knows what he means by that. There are several seconds of silence, where the world seems to stand still. Then the color returns to her face. And returns some more. And some more.

“Did you love me when you ignored my warnings about Ramsay and Cersei? When you suggested that I admired the woman who ruined my life? When you told me that even though I’d been raped and tortured within our home for months that you’d rather flee to somewhere warm than do anything about it? When you left me behind and didn’t write? When you accepted the crown instead of pointing out that it was I, not you, who won the Battle of the Bastards and was heir to the North? When you bedded Daenerys and offered her the country I risked my life for?”

It’s like a slap in the face. Jon releases her wrist and steps back. “Yes,” he whispers.

“Whenever I spoke to you, Jon, I felt like I was being ignored. You once outright mocked the idea of listening to me. Even though I’d been proven right before and ignoring me nearly got you killed. Even though I saved your life. The one time you seemed to consult me, you changed your opinion afterwards and announced it to the whole court without asking me. And you never once asked me anything else, either. Like what happened to me in King’s Landing. Why I kept Littlefinger near. I asked you plenty and you treated it as if I were undermining you. After years and years of being treated like a fool, a pawn, and useless, I got it from you as well. Even though we thought ourselves siblings at the time, that was your chance to prove the value of your ‘love.’ If you cannot appreciate my counsel, then you are unworthy of my heart.”

“I… I---”

“---And, you know, Jon, I’m not so sure that you do love me. I think that when you look at me, you don’t see me. You see all the things that were denied you. You see all the things you were told that a bastard like you wasn’t worthy of. I’m not a key, Jon. I’m not Key to the North, or to Winterfell, or to your legitimacy, or the key to proving all those nay-sayers wrong.”

It’s as if all his insides have disappeared. It hurts worse than Olly’s blade.

“Sansa, you have to---”

“---I don’t have to do anything you say, you’re not my king, and I don’t belong to you,” she snaps, “I belong to my subjects, and as per your choices, that doesn’t include you. I am Queen of the Three Realms, Regnant of over half of Westeros, Lady of Winterfell and Harrenhal! I don’t have to do anything that doesn’t involve keeping my people safe and fed. As long as I do that --- and, let me remind you, I am, very, very effectively --- I can do what I wish. I may bed Ser Patrek tonight. I may marry him tomorrow, or not. I may give him a child. A child I’ll declare a legitimate Stark and heir to my kingdom regardless of whether or not I wed. But I can’t do what I like with you. You belong to your aunt. The one you fucked. You’re her whore. And unlike me, that’s the only thing you can lay claim to anymore. Goodnight, My Lord.”

She slams the door behind her, leaving him speechless.

He crumbles to the floor once he’s too tired to stand anymore. He blacks out at some point, and is woken by another knock on his door. Joints in agony, Jon reluctantly rises and goes to open it…

...To find Patrek Mallister glaring at him.

He barely has time to react when the heir to Seagard has him by the collar and pushes him up against a wall.

“She told me everything, you Bastard Lizard-Fucker,” Mallister sneers, “I never thought you’d have the stones to tell her---”

“---You… You…” Jon chokes out.

“Me and everyone else at court,” Mallister says through clenched teeth, “You may not have inherited the Targaryen looks, but you sure as shit inherited their flair for subtlety. I’ve ignored it because I overestimated your sense of decency and thought you’d never say a word. But last night you proved me wrong and you called her a whore. Now, listen, I’m going to be around for as long as she wants me here, Snow, and you’re not going to get in the way, got it? And even if there’s a point where she’s not my lover, she will always be my queen and if you ever insult her again, I don’t care if I have to march all the way from Seagard. I’ll rip your tongue out.”

He releases him, backs up, and straightens his collar. “Good day.”

#jonsa #actually jonsa #jon x sansa #rejection fic #ft. Patrek Mallister

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spideycents · 8 years ago

Note

29, 49 and 59!!!

lol Thank you again Ginelle! I’m really truly glad that you like these! It’s a really cool feeling when people actually like my writing. :)

“Come over here and make me.”

“Quit touching me. Your feet are cold.”

“How do I even put up with you?”

You just want all the fluffy sexual tension, huh??? ;)

WARNING: swearing (the usual) and…possibly nsfw stuffs???…idk man, I haven’t decided yet. (Note: I’m halfway through writing this and I can confirm that yes, I did decide and this is now definitely smut. You can’t make a character say “make me” and not have it escalate! You just can’t! It’s not possible!)

I wanna put a gif with this so I’m gonna!

*nigahiga voice* teehee XD

It’s 10pm. I’ve been waiting on the Parker couch with May for four hours. Peter invited me to dinner, but never showed so I ate with his aunt. She had wine for dinner. I ate the stir fry she’d prepared. She broke out the bottle of wine three and a half hours ago, once she realized Peter wasn’t coming back, then spent the next three hours complaining about work. She let me have one small glass and finished the rest of the bottle in under an hour. She’s been passed out for about 30 minutes now. Peter still hasn’t come back.

I wander around the room and stop to look at the photos on the shelves. Peter hasn’t told me much about his family, but I can recognize his parents and there are a few photos of May and a guy who I think is Peter’s Uncle Ben, but I don’t know much about him. Peter mentioned him once, but then he barely spoke for the next few hours, so I haven’t brought it up again.

I grab my plate and take it over to the stove to get more food since I left the burner on low.

I’m a few steps from the stove when there’s a loud crash from Peter’s room.

I groan and set my plate in the sink then walk over to his room and open the door.

I’m not surprised when I find him in the skin tight red and blue suit with his back to me revealing the large red emblem on his back.

“Hi Spider-Man.”

He spins around and throws his right arm out ahead of him. I’m thrown backward and pinned against the wall by what looks like long strands of chewed white gum, but feels like hot glue with the strength of tightly bound metal chains.

“Oh god!”

I roll my eyes. “I knew it. I-”

“No you didn’t!” Peter cuts me off.

I scoff. “Yes, I did. I knew you were Spider-Man!”

“No. I’m not. I’m not.” He says quickly and clicks the black spider emblem on his chest. “This is just a costume,” he stammers as the suit slides off his shoulders and cascades to the floor, leaving him in only his boxers.

“Really?! I’m not dumb, Parker!” I laugh. “And you’re not exactly the best at being a ninja OR keeping secrets.”

Peter groans and slams his palms against his face and drags them down his cheeks in frustration.

“Plus,” I add with a smirk. “I helped with your laundry and you left some webbing in your jeans.”

“Shit!” he mutters. He raises his head slowly and looks at me, his expression softer. “You can’t tell anyone, okay? Promise me you won’t tell anyone.”

I curl my lips in and look up at the ceiling.

“I’m not kidding,” he says kind of sternly. “You have to promise. Swear to me that you won’t tell a soul about this. Please!”

I look back at him. He really is worried that he can’t trust me and that’s a bit of a punch to the gut, but then I remember I actually did just get webbed to the gut so I’m not really that sorry.

“Come over here and make me.” I smirk playfully. “If you don’t trust me, then come over here…and make me promise. I’m basically your prisoner, Spider-Man,” I gesture at the webbing I’m still covered in. “As long as I’m stuck, your secret is safe.”

Peter knits his eyebrows together, unsure of what I’m getting at, and steps out of his suit, slowly closing the gap between us.

“So what you’re saying,” he says playfully, “is that I could basically, I don’t know…torture you until you vow that you’ll never spill my secret to anyone?”

I nod and bite my bottom lip.

Peter walks over and closes the door then moves so he’s standing right in front of me, barely an inch away. I can feel the heat radiating off his body and his breath as it hits my skin.

“Your move, Spiderman,” I whisper. I try to swallow, but it catches in my throat. The anticipation is torture enough. “What are you gonna do?”

Peter leans closer to me and my eyes are locked on his. His gaze keeps falling to my lips, but he won’t close the gap between us. He won’t give me the release I so desperately want. But, he does give me the one that I need. I don’t notice what he has in his hand until the webs on me start to fall apart and drop to the ground.

I don’t move until they’re all gone. The wait is long and agonizing, but the second the last bit of webbing disappears, I jump forward.

My lips collide with his as I throw my arms around his neck. He wraps his arms around my waist and pulls my closer. The kisses grow deeper and sloppier and my hands get tangled in his hair and his hands make their way into my back pockets.

He breaks for only a moment and quickly says: “Jump.”

I do and his hands grip the back of my thighs as I wrap my legs around his waist. He pushes me back against the wall and I use as a bit of leverage to help hold myself up. My hands are pressed against his cheeks, holding him close, and he pulls my legs tighter around him.

“Peter,” I gasp, out of breath. “The bed.”

He turns around and carries me over to it. My weight doesn’t affect him, his strength keeps me up and his hands move to my back as he lowers me down onto his bed. My legs leave his waist as he crawls between them. My hands slide down his chest as his lips leave mine and start traveling down my neck. I feel his hands tugging on my sweater and I push him off so I can pull it up and over my head. I leave my bra on and I lay back down. Peter leaves a trails of kisses down my almost bare chest to my stomach, stopping at my jeans. His fingers fumble with the button and zipper, but he gets them undone and I lift my hips up as he tugs my jeans off.

As he crawls back on top of me, his bare feet brush my now bare legs and I shiver.

“Quit touching me,” I whine and he lets me go and sits back on his calves. I roll my eyes. “Your feet are cold, Stupid.” I grab his hands and pull him back down on top of me.

Peter’s palms slam onto the bed and he stops before his body collides with mine. His looks at me closely, like he’s studying something, examining me.

“What?” I ask shyly, my cheeks burning under his gaze.

He takes a deep breath and smiles. “Did you leave the stove on,” he whispers.

“Shit!” I gasp and jump out of the bed and run to turn it off then run back quickly before May has a chance to wake up and see me in my underwear.

“How do I even put up with you?” Peter laughs as I scamper back into the room.

“Shut up,” I laugh and crawl on top of him. My knees on either side of his hips, this time it’s my turn to stop and study him. He takes my hands in his and plays with my fingers.

He smiles at me. “Whatcha thinkin about?”

I sigh and lie down beside him and rest my head on his chest. I close my eyes and listen to his breathing and his heartbeat as it tries to slow down.

“I promise I’ll keep your secret,” I whisper.

I look up at him and he smiles brighter.

“I love you,” he whispers then takes my right cheek in his left hand and pulls me toward him as he leans closer. I stop before his lips meet mine and I look at him and smile.

“I love you too.”

Oh boy. Is it hot in here?? My cheeks are burning! Are yours burning?

I think this should be it for tonight, but feel free to send me more messages and I write more tomorrow!

Send me numbers for drabbles with Peter/Spidey!

Also, shirtless Tom does things to me… God, he’s so hot!

Night! ;)

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backtomylakearearootsstory · 6 years ago

Text

S1E15

The kids are still in Santa Monica with Faye and Clarissa. Ian, Malachi, QJ, and Darius were laughing at a movie while the Aundrea and Alexis went to a nearby sports store to look at tennis shorts.

“You play tennis” Alexis asked Aundrea as she picked up a tank top.

“Oh yea, dads side of the family were all athletes, it’s in my blood. I’m actually trying out for the bball team at school”

“My mom played basketball, I’m more of a volleyball and tennis kind of chick. Darius plays soccer, he’s in a little league team back in Long Beach”

While they were chatting away, Deja was at home cooking dinner. She was preparing a pasta with shredded chicken and shrimp, a salad, rolls, and a cake. She also threw in a caramel pie for extra dessert. Quincy grilled some wings. She should be grading essays however there was no time for it today. Yvonne was helping her with by making homemeade beverages. One for the adults which had alcohol in it and the other one centered around sherbet and sprite.

“This is been a busy weekend for you, hasn’t it?”

“Yes, exhausting, can you start mixing the ingredients in the pie for me after you finish with that?”

“Sure, where’d you get this recipe for this caramel pie?”

“Pinterest”

“I figured” Yvonne said laughing, “It sounds like a dessert that’ll have me running to the gym, or at least it should”

“So what you think about Faye so far?”

“I like her, wish my Zach would have met her Friday evening, but he will be here tonight, I’ll make sure of it. Phil’s bringing him”

“Mom coming tonight?”

“Yeah, she said she is”

The conversation continued and including discussion about jobs and family, when Azalea called.

“Put her on speaker”

“Hey”

“Hey, you slaving away in the kitchen?”

“I guess you could say that”

“I’m at the pool with the Dominic”

“How’s Gabriel?”

“Alot better, I know I didn’t get to spend much time with our cousin but he keeps me busy. Well both of the boys do. My daughter is the only one who didn’t inherit any issues of blood”

“Y’all have fun out there”

After hanging up, Azalea grabbed a wine cooler out of her purse that she had hidden in her purse when someone next to her asked “long day?”

Hours later when they returned to the house it was dinner time. Helen was there when Faye walked in. The sisters and their husbands as well as their children were all in attendence when Helen walked in. Zach reached his hand out to Ian for a handshake prior to Faye introducing her daughters”

“Hi” Faye said to Helen who stood for a moment speechless. She stared for a while before they embraced.

“Mom, wants me to tell you that she’s sorry about what happened”

Helen stated that she never blamed Clarisse while holding back tears.

While eating dinner Deja asked if Faye had ever got to experience aunt Anna’s peach cobbler?

“Yeah, she usually made it on Sunday. She smothered alot of food growing up. She didn’t really fry things, but that cobbler always came in handy after eating smothered steak”

“Yeah, it was normally aunt Bessie that fried chicken, she did that until her health started to decline. Uncle Pete was a hell of a cook too, he started to cook more often to keep the tradition going afterwards. He made a good gumbo too”

“I haven’t had gumbo in a while, It’s probably been three years since I’ve been down there. Gumbo is hard to find out here that doesn’t include tomato paste!”

[Faye was not immune to Louisiana, she spent the first ten years of her life down there and she would go down every other year to visit her Aunt Lorraine and her Uncles. They normally went late June to early July. Her kids were also aware of the family that they have back in Louisiana.]

“You ever watch the cooking channel and you see a cook making a roux so thick that it looks like a paste?” Yvonne laughed as she poured a cup of the alcoholic concoction.

“What’s a roux” Darius asked

Faye explained that it was the base that makes up a gumbo and that it was the result flour and grease heated at a high temperature until it was dark brown.

After getting up to meet the other youth in another room, Helen began to ask Faye how Clarisse was doing. She said it had been years since she had seen her and that their relationship had been kind of strained every sense.

“She’s good, thank you”

The conversation was paused when the doorbell rang, Clarissa two daughters walked in. “Hey, you made it!”

“Those are your two?”

“Yes ma’am, that’s my oldest Brandi, she just started driving and my youngest Amina”

“This is your cousin”

After a hug, they went to the kitchen to fix their food and met the rest of the kids on the porch.

[conversation continues]

“I never blamed her for what happened, Lucinda was out of control. I think she favored her sons over us anyway. They got away with far more than we did. Of course, once your uncle Mark was born she decided to get the help should desperately needed. We spend the bulk of our lives dodging her temper and frankly the only reason you mother was spared is because she was smart enough to run off. I was simply collateral damage.”[doorbell rings Brandi and Amina arrive]

“What do you think was the cause of her drinking?”

“She never wanted to be in the marriage that she was in. The marriage was forced upon her young, and I think she always resented us.”

As the night progressed and the gathering came to a closure and company left, bedtime came around. QJ, Malachi, and Aundrea slept in their own rooms while Faye’s children slept on the air mattress in the den. After the adults had gone off to bed, Aundrea being unable to sleep started to read “Alias Grace” and begin writing the draft to her book report. “At least now I’m getting somewhere” she said as she began brain storming and answering questions on the handout. It wasn’t that she didn’t care about school. She wasn’t so much as nonchalant, she just was not in love with it like her brother. While she was writing Malachi and Ian were exchanging Skype information and email to keep contact. They talked about the movie they had seen for a bit before wrapping it up.

It was about midnight before they went to bed, hence the difficulty waking up for school.

Faye and her children were already up.

“Thank you so much for the visit, we enjoyed it”

“We were glad to have you”

“We’ll have to get together in a couple of weeks, maybe have you all come out to Long Beach”

“I’d like that”

After the kids all shook hands and embraced, they hugged the adults and headed out the door. After watching Faye and the kids leave they headed out for school.

At school Aundrea signed up for Basketball tryouts prior to heading to social studies class. On the way she ran into Brianna who asked her how her weekend was.

“I wanted an extra day. We had cousins from Long Beach come in for the weekend. Last night I finally started writing my draft for the report. I’m gonna have my mom proofread it. She’s a high school English teacher”

In class, the teacher announced that they would be watching a video and taking notes. “Pay close attention, there will be a quiz next class”

Concurrently, Quincy was watching TV when he got a phone call from a school. He signed up with the school system to be a sub for some time until he got his full time job. The call was from a middle school saying that they would need a sub Friday.

“Yes, I can make it. 7:50 am? I’ll see you there.”

While this was not Quincy’s long term goal, he was glad to be out of the house and feeling like he would be of use somewhere to someone.

At approximately 10:00 am, he got a phone call from QJs school saying he had been in a fight during recess, upon arriving to the school, he asked what was going on?

[Quincy(Orange) QJ (sky blue) school administrator (Pink) school bully mother (green) Ezra (light blue)]

After Quincy left and QJ had to hear a mouthful from the principal regarding his fathers “bigoted” ways he returned to class. He asked if Ezra was alright and said, he’d see him in detention.

In detention while scrubbing the cafeteria floor QJ mumbles “two days of this shit!”

“Thanks” Ezra said in a soft spoken manner.

“Don’t mention it. Kind of sucks that we’re punished for it while his fat ass is sitting in a classroom somewhere. Anyway man, you’re my friend, we may have our fights but I hate that you have to face this every time you walk up here. You don’t deserve that.”

around 5:00 pm when detention was over Quincy arrived to pick up his son.

“Well that’s my ride, are you gonna be okay?”

“yeah”

“Okay I’ll see you at school tomorrow”

after a brief pause he said.

“get in the truck, my dad can drop you off”

On the ride home Quincy said “son, you did the right thing. I’ve always instilled it in you to fight for yourself and for others you see are being wronged. You went about the situation correctly. Spitting in someone’s face is one of the most vile and disrespectful things one can do.”

“Dad, my principal was not happy with you after you left. He said you were setting and I quote “a terrible example” for me with your bigoted manners way of thinking and he said that it was no wonder that I was so aggressive”

Quincy responded by saying that he stood by everything that he said and would say nothing different if confronted again. He knew that Ezra was one of the nicest kids one would encounter.

“Ezra, you don’t have a mean bone in your body”. “Look, I am from the south where we whip ass or got our asses whipped. Y’all didn’t grow up in that. When I was in school, they didn’t suspend kids over this. I grew up, kids handled it themselves and were friends by the end of the week. Let them hash it out! But because they’ve taken that right away, now you have kids bringing weapons because they are being told that they can’t use their hands. It’s okay for a boy to go piss in the girls bathroom because he feels more like a girl than a boy but it’s not okay for two boys to settle their dispute the old fashioned way. This is a part of the pipeline to prison system. This is just an attempt to begin it early. The main target being young black boys, condemn them early, then their in juvenile hall by the age 11. Don’t let them get you to that manner, but don’t ever feel bad about using self defense when you need to.”

TO BE CONTINUED WITH EPISODE 16

#tumblr-fiction #cousins #family

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abenteuerinwestberlin · 8 years ago

Text

PREQUEL. BERTRAM & DIANA. 3/8

Setting: 1955. West-Berlin.

He was lucky, really, that he’d managed the restaurant he had - although in truth, he hadn’t done much; he’d called in a favor to his uncle, whom Bertram knew to be a completely hopeless romantic, and the actor had called in some favors and pulled some strings, and now Bertram was taking Diana to a really top class restaurant, settled in the French occupation zone.

He picked her up at her parents’ house, as promised, at eight in the evening. Of course, he was invited inside so that her parents could ensure that he was an upstanding gentleman - which he was, by all standards. They hadn’t asked as many questions as he’d anticipated, and Bertram and Diana were free to leave by a quarter after the hour. He showed her to his car, opened the door for her, and let her inside. He hoped that she couldn’t tell how sweaty his palms were through her gloves, and he told himself that there was no way for her to hear his heart thumping out of his chest, especially once he started the car.

“So,” Diana began once Bertram started driving. “What are we going to do tonight?”

“I got us reservations for a French restaurant in the north,” he said. “And… then, if that goes well… I thought we might go dancing? That is, if you’d like to do that.”

He saw Diana smile out of the corner of his eye, and he reminded himself to pay attention to the road. A car crash would certainly ruin the night. Fortunately, though, Diana didn’t seem to need him to look at her, at least while he was driving. She answered, “That sounds wonderful.”

He really was on cloud nine.

They made light small talk as he drove to the restaurant, and Diana insisted upon using first names, if still “Sie”, which was, really, more than Bertram could have hoped for.(1) He swore his heart skipped a bear when she said, “Bertram… that’s a very nice name.”

They arrived at the restaurant in one piece, and he made sure to open her door for her, like a proper gentleman. She thanked him and held onto his arm as he escorted her into the restaurant. The maitre d’ hôtel asked for their name, so Bertram gave them his, and - Bertam could scarcely believe it - the maître d’hôtel showed them to their table. Of course, he’d known his uncle loved him and wanted to help, and he didn’t doubt that his uncle was sure there was a reservation, but Bertram had been a bit anxious that the reservation would have been under his uncle’s name, and then he’d have to explain the whole thing to Diana right there rather than as some charming anecdote months down the line. But they were seated, and of course Bertram pulled her chair out for her, and they received their menus.

“Order anything you’d like,” Bertram said. He hoped he was being charming, and for what it was worth, she smiled at him. He ordered a bottle of merlot for the two of them to share, and let her place her own order (at least, that’s what he thought he ought to do; he hoped she hadn’t anticipated him ordering for her).

“It’s hard to imagine we can sit here and order merlot now when just a few years ago, all the food had to be airlifted into the city.”

“I was still in Munich at the time,” he said. “My parents were very reluctant to let me go to university here; they were afraid it’d happen again.”

“Oh, I moved to Berlin afterward, as well. During my summer holidays.”

She didn’t seem to have an accent atypical to the region - or any accent at all, really, so he saw no harm in asking, “Where did you move from?”

“Nowawes,” she said. “But it was annexed into Potsdam when I was a child.”(2)

“My uncle spent the war in Babelsberg,” Bertram said, grateful to have some common ground. “He shot some films there; his sister was a director, although she, uh, ended up fleeing to America in thirty-five. She came back to the Federal Republic a couple years after the war, but she hasn’t, to my knowledge, directed any films since then.”

“What was her name? Maybe I’ve seen some of her work.”

“Juliana Muhlfeld. She’s my father’s sister’s husband’s sister.”

“And her brother was an actor?”

“Yes,” Bertram said, “Rolf Muhlfeld. He still is an actor, actually. Their father was a stage actor in the Republic, Wernher. Also… somehow, my grandfather’s best friend.”

Diana smiled, but raised an eyebrow quizzically. “You seem to have some close contacts with artists for a lawyer. Are you the black sheep in your family?”

Bertram shook his head. “Not at all. All the men in my family, at least my father’s side, have been lawyers. My family really emphasised education, and made my aunt go to a girls’ gymnasium rather than a lyceum. They tried to get her to go to university, too, but she just wanted to be a housewife. Her mother - my grandmother - never understood it. She was practically in the first class of women admitted to university in Munich - studied law and history.”

“...A woman lawyer?”

“Oh, she never practised,” Bertram said. “It would have been impossible; could you imagine, a woman lawyer in the last days of the Empire? But she used it and her status to get my father out of the First World War.”

“She did?”

“Good thing she did, too, or else I wouldn’t be here. My father was granted permission to work at an army hospital, and that’s where he met my mother. She was from East Prussia, so it’s not as if they’d have met otherwise.” He took a sip of his merlot, vaguely aware that he was rambling. “A-anyway, what about your family?”

“Oh,” Diana said. “That’s not very interesting. My father was born a count, my mother’s father was born a count, and despite all the Reich’s efforts, my parents only ever had my sister and I. I’d love to claim my father was in the resistance or something exciting, but, well, you’ve just met him, so that’s clearly not true. He did what everyone else did, and my mother tried to teach my sister and I compassion for all people. My sister used to wander around Neu-Babelsberg after school to see if she could find any film stars - but that was before the war. We had a bombing campaign in forty and that was enough for my mother to take us to a family estate in Mecklenburg. We moved back home after the war, and our house was still standing, but my father chafed under Soviet control, so we moved to Wannsee in forty-nine. My sister’s married to a man in Schleswig-Holstein, so we still see her on holidays.”

“I have a brother,” Bertram volunteered. “Maxi. Max. Maximilian. He’s five years my elder, and he tried to get out of the draft - it didn’t work. He was in the East. The only one of my family to be; half of them were stationed in France, and my father - he was drafted, and he had military training - he was in the West, too, most of the war. My mother took me to my father’s family estate in Bavaria. My brother… was a prisoner for a while, and he never talks about it, but now he’s married to a woman named Hanne and they have a son called Erich.”

“Does your family look like you?”

“Well,” Bertram said, “we all have blue eyes. My mother’s hair’s brown, and so’s my brother, but my dad’s hair’s red. My aunt, though, has blonde hair and brown eyes, so I guess we don’t all have blue eyes. Her son, actually, Nicklaus, started studying here last year, on condition that he lived with me - which I wouldn’t have objected to, anyway. We feel like we have to stay close, besides - we’re Bavarians in a foreign land.”

“Well,” Diana said with a light laugh. “I’m Prussian, so I wouldn’t know anything about that. Wannsee is terribly like Babelsberg, only the occupying soldiers are kinder.” She took a sip of her wine. “Is your brother a lawyer, too?”

Bertram nodded. “Constitutional law. Which is… a bit tricky now, but he’s doing well. All my family except for two cousins live in Munich, and… honestly, I don’t think it’ll be long at all before my aunt and uncle leave. They’re already beside themselves letting their only son study in Berlin alone - despite the fact that he’s not alone. But they have a daughter who’ll enter Gymnasium in a few years, and I feel like they’ll move up here then if it doesn’t disturb her too much.”

“They have a daughter in primary school and a son in university?”

“Oh, their eldest, my cousin Aleida, is older than I am. Meike, their youngest, was… a special case, I think.” At least that’s how he thought he should refer to his cousin being an unplanned (but very much wanted) pregnancy. “Aleida lives in Hamburg,” he added.

“Do you have any family in the East?”

“No one that I’ve met,” Bertram said. “But my paternal great-grandfather came from Prussia, as did my mother, so I’m sure I’ve some extended family in the East or even in Poland. But I’ve never met them in that case. I suppose that’s what happens when your entire family settles in Bavaria. What about you?”

“No immediate family,” she said, “but I do have some cousins who can’t make up their minds whether to stay or go. Most of them after the revolt(3), but I think some of them… some of them find the idea of socialism appealing.”

“Well,” Bertram said slowly. “It is appealing. My family were largely monarchists and centrists, but it’s easy to see, living in a city, how working hard doesn’t always give you the result you deserve, and a system where everyone has their basic needs provided for by the state can be seductive. But for me… I’m a Christian Democrat.”(4)

“Oh, I’m not political,” Diana said. “Neither are my parents. But I am a Christian.”

He saw his opening, and he knew he had to. “Protestant or Catholic, out of curiosity?”

“Protestant. Lutheran. I hope that’s not an issue.”

Of course she was. His parents were sure to be thrilled about that, but Bertram wasn’t about to let that ruin a potentially fruitful relationship. “Not if it’s one that I’m Catholic,” he said.

“Oh, my father doesn’t care. He just wants me to marry a man who treats me well and who can support me financially.” She took a sip of her wine. “Although, we’ll have to have a family discussion later on about our children.”

“Our children?” he repeated. He’d thought this was going okay, but he hadn’t dared hope that she was thinking that far ahead.

Diana nodded. “Of course. I want to have children.”

“W-with me?”

“Unless you’re opposed…”

“I’m not opposed!” he insisted in what was probably, honestly, a bit too manic a tone. “I just… I had no earthly idea that you were thinking this far ahead…! But that’s great!” He took a sip of his wine, trying to stall and to gather his thoughts into something coherent. “I… had no idea you were as interested in me as I am in you, that’s all!”

Diana looked slightly put off, and Bertram hoped desperately that he hadn’t let everything go to hell. “You didn’t notice?”

“Notice what?”

“Well, I’ve always greeted you in the mornings. I greet Herr Strohmann, of course, but I don’t greet any of the other lawyers… just you. I must admit… my first impression of you was that you were very handsome, and that you seemed very kind.”

Bertram temporarily found himself unable to form coherent words. “You… you thought that I was handsome?” he managed.

Diana smiled. “Of course.”

He went to reply, but was interrupted by the server bringing them their meals. The rest of the night went, at least in Bertram’s eyes, surprisingly well, although Diana didn’t make any more comments about their future children together. They went dancing after dinner, and he managed to get her back home before her curfew. She kissed his cheek before they got out of his car, making it clear that she didn’t want her parents to know. He walked her to the door, and said goodbye, and promised to take her out again the following weekend. She smiled and thanked him for a lovely evening, and then went inside.

He went home feeling like he was on cloud nine.

--------

NOTES:

“Sie” is the formal form of address; being young people in the 1950s they probably could switch to the informal form on a first date, but they’re both born and bred nobility, so I had them keep this last layer of formality

Nowawes / Potsdam / Babelsberg is right on the southwestern border of Berlin, next to Wannsee. From 1945-49 it was part of the Soviet occupation zone, and from 1949-90 it was part of East Germany.

She is referring to the 1953 East German civilian revolt, which was brutally suppressed with help from Soviet tanks

Christian Democrat: German centre-right party, focused on “family values” and Christian faith. Generally like pre-Reagan Republicans. This party was favored by the American occupiers due to their “christian” traditionalism, and so supported by the actual occupying forces because America loves propping up specific political parties in other countries.

#Bertram & Diana #Bertram von Brandt #Diana von Brandt #prequel

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