#this is a draft !

[shiganshinaslut]

18+||MINORS DNI

Cockwarming with Grell :( You sit on her lap with her cock deep inside your cunt, nuzzling your face against her chest in an attempt to hide how flustered you are as she rubs her pretty hands up and down your waist and coos at you, telling you how pretty you look dripping on her cock :(

[comatosebunny09]

you're good at this—playing all coy and social as if you aren't a clump of nerves ready to burst.

like your legs aren't bouncing beneath the table, and you haven't knocked your knees against its underside a few times, almost spilling your wine.

like you haven't bitten your lips to hell, and your teeth aren't stained with the pretty rouge of your lipstick because of it.

no one's the wiser to your plight. to the quiet war waging in your head and the anxiety spilling like lava into your extremities.

you'll never get used to this things, no matter how many you attend—these parties, these galas, these socialites, this acting.

none of it is you.

not the form-fitting gowns, the kohl clumped to your lashes, the facsimile of a smile you've worn all evening until your cheeks ached.

but through the chaos, one thing remains a constant: him.

him and the hand he has clasped around your thigh to tether you. anchor you back to earth. all big and warm and reassuring, and he's angling himself a little closer until your nostrils fill with the scent of cured leather and peeled mandarin. and, fuck all, he’s warm even from this proximity. so hot, you feel the pressure of his body slowly seeping into your own.

his eyes gleam like the sunset in your peripheral. silently, they ask if you're alright beneath a slightly raised brow, above a customary smirk—a mask he dons during these gatherings if only to make the time fly by. not meant to tease you, he promises. he reserves something genuine for you.

he knows you're not alright, which is why he rubs all gently at the notch of your knee—an attempt to bring you back when you feel your mind slowly disconnecting from your body.

- at an event with sylus. you're clearly nervous. you always are. so the pair of you bid an irish goodbye, and he'll murder anyone who has the gall to stop you.

- watching him sneer at the partygoers blocking your exit is low-key a turn on.

- the night concludes with you both settled on your couch in your living room.

- and, of course, kissing ensues. because why wouldn't it?

- and he's a little handsy, so deft fingers creep up the expanse of your thigh because, of course, the slit of your dress would beckon such actions.

- and sure, yeah. you're into it as he gently pushes you back against the sofa. slots himself between your split legs as your fingers rake through the riot of his hair.

- and he hums all nice and low into your mouth, very much enjoying the sticky grind of your lips together.

- this is sylus. he's always gentle. always takes care of you, treating you like aged porcelain preserved in a museum.

- so why the fuck are you so nervous?

- you’ve made out a thousand times before.

- sex, however.

- well, fuck.

[wolfsetfree-if]

[catastrxblues]

another night another dead body everyone say hooray

[ksbbb]

Last Line Challenge

Tagged by @wolfboy88 @arewordsenough

“How many times have you fallen into a hole?” Corey asks, puzzled by Liam’s response .

“Twice technically. The first time doesn’t count though. It’s when I met Theo and he was being his normal self.” Liam shrugs, thoughtfully considering their relationship.

“Liam, I never made you fall into a hole.” Theo argues, as the werewolf frowns harder.

“You certainly didn’t help.” Liam innocently answers.

Tagging @thiamsxbitch @mmoosen @mmoosen @theoceanismyinkwell

[takemebacktowheniwassane]

ROBERTA LET THE BEAUTIFUL MAN SPEAK. 😡

[artpoint420]

A Long Winded Analytic Defense of Nermal Cat from Garfield -DRAFT

I’ve said before, Nermal isn’t that bad, y’all just mean.

Go ahead. Hate me. Send me to Abu Dabi. But I am a Nermal apologist. I think Nermal makes a good addition to the Garfield cast and he's even a bit of an interesting character, the world's cutest kitty cat yet the most overhated.

I can understand why he's hated, certainly. I'll admit he does deserve some hate.

HOWEVER

As a cat crazy individual, I will never hate a cat. That's my main reason for not hating Nermal. In fact, I want to adopt Nermal so bad but he's just a cartoon character at the end of each Monday (and everyday), unfortunately. There are other reasons I defend him too and here (and next parts) I'll give a detailed overview/ analysis of all Garfield media Nermal has been in, the role he plays, his dynamics with the other characters, and his behavior.

PART 1: THE COMIC STRIPS (early era Nermal)

Let's start with the obvious, his first appearance in the comics.

... to which Garfield immediately hates him. But hey, it's a great way to immediately establish their dynamic, and show the main reason Garfield dislikes Nermal is his jealously (and annoyance at how he interuppts his naps.) The fact Nermal looks so happy to meet him though <3

The next few strips feature Garfield telling Nermal how he hates cute, his general disappointment in Nermal, and all the little ways Nermal annoys him. Here, Nermal is just the naive baby of the group and doesn't seem to mean to annoy Garfield. It's honestly reminisent to how Garfield and Odie were when Odie was introduced early on as well as a reflection on how cats tend to treat new cats, which is usually not very well until they get used to each other. (I have three cats trust me.)

Nonetheless, it doesn't take long until we get strips showcasing the ways they actually enjoy their time together, finding ways to play that shows their friendly side with each other without completely altering their established dynamic.

These are some of my overall favorite Garfield comics. Jim Davis honestly deserves kudos for being able to draw and write his characters in ways that feel like a natural sibling rivalry with both good and bad moments. But when the moments are good, they're so damn good. Here's more examples:

God this is my favorte Nermal and Garf stirip. I can hear them giggling as they confuse Jon.

I don't blame you for thinking that Nermal.

He's just his little baby brother and I will accept no other answer.

However there's this one:

If nothing proves Garfield's hatred is fueld mainly by jealously, this will. So much for Nermal being the "evil" one. (They both have their evil moments I suppose.)

In this one, Garfield fully admits it.

To move forward because I can analyze each and every comic, truly I can, but I also have so much more I want to talk about, I'll just say there's a few basic formulas for a Garfield and Nermal strip in this era I've observed, and that's one of these few:

-Nermal being snobbish towards Garfield to which Garfield is reasonably annoyed.

-Garfield just being a jerk to Nermal unprovoked or scolding him harshly usually ending with Nermal being tossed out the door.

-Garfield yearning for Jon's attention upon Nermal getting attention.

-Garfield trying to copy Nermal and/or have Nermal teach him to be cute (you are cute though Garfield, you're a cat, of course you're cute, Jon or Nermal just won't admit it.)

-Nermal and Garfield asking each other what seems like genuine questions out of a true interest about each other's lives.

-Something a bit more on the wholesome or brotherly side.

Or something kinda random.

Now, before both our attention spans die out, lets quickly look at modern Nermal comics and how Nermal's character has developed over the years. As we can see, early on, he had his snobbish moments but could also be sweet enough to break through Garfield's walls he puts up. Does that sweetness remain or get replaced?

To be honest, their dynamic hasn't actually changed too awfully much. There's so many modern ones with Nermal that feature Garfield's age and birthday more often than the past one's. Nermal is usually insulting Garfield's age but there's one where he does try to comfort him, proving he's still a cute sweet kitty despite his smart-aleck attitude. But I'll have to continue in part 2 because there's already 29 pictures in this post and I can only add one more which isthis one, which I coudn't leave out:

"Garfield! You're blocking my sunlight!"

Tee-hee, yep, one more cute one for the road. Can't get enough of it? Tune in for my next post because we'll have to do a Part 1 part 2!

[alexdemedium]

Calling all fandoms, I need your big guy ace rep from each of your favorite series, this will become a poll series when I have enough entries, please contribute to this list if possible

[sparkystar26888]

Ok ok lets go we're going to try and make some sense of the rambling in my brain.

First off, time and time again they have been asked who are human, who are monsters, who are cursed. and time and time again they have either denied or accepted one of these things, but always with a caveat. "this is temporary". even this ep they were asked by Baba Yaga "whom of you are monsters". and by the end, many become them. they become monsters to save the innocent.

Emily Axford is one of the best actors ive seen. People have talked about cycles of death/abuse/other, about Ylfa symbolizing the trans experience or puberty. and they are completely right, and i wont talk about what has already been said. but what really gives me the feeling of deep sadness is that Ylfa is a child. she is a young girl, shunned by her family, who has died and seen many die. and now she has, in part, given up that girlhood. but is it really giving it up if you have already lost it

rosamund this episode, for me, really encapsulated my experiences of the grief of being aromatic. because we grow up believing we will find love, that it is in the stars that one day you will settle down and have a lover. but when you find out you cant or likely wont, there is a grief and a hardship in letting that go. and i know rosamund isnt the same; that it is more uncertainty triumphing a forced love, but it still spoke to me.

speaking of forced love - gerard giving his humanity and name up for elody, a woman circumstance made him love. weve established that he was a child when he was cursed; that he did not have the ability to mature with the rest. but while he does truly love elody, there is a great possibility that this would not be true if he had been allowed to learn to be better like a normal child does. cursed by your own mortality and mistakes. UGH

[rangersgirl73]

thinking about this picture specifically

[neuroticboyfriend]

the 4:30pm train to [LIFE] is now arriving on track A. please activate e-tickets now. step over the gap when boarding.

the late-autumn sun looks down at you as you trip over the gap. you right yourself and fall down in the nearest open seat. you right yourself again. it's one of those comfy new trains. you relax, a little.

this is the train to [LIFE]. next stop is [SURVIVAL].

you gaze out the window. there are not enough trees, but the sunset is pretty. it would be prettier without all the power lines.

your hands won't stop shaking.

this station is [SURVIVAL]. please step over the gap when exiting the train.

the train doors open with that sliding sound you hate. you look up, and for a moment, begin to stand up. you want to leave, still. but you don't. there's a new fire burning in you. you still want to see what happens next.

the train doors close. you don't mind the sound so much this time.

this is the train to [LIFE]. next stop is [RECOVERY].

turning back to the window, you look out in awe. the suburban village lights glow against that comforting twilight sky. your hands find their way to your phone, and you snap a photo of one of the most beautiful buildings in town. you snap another. and another.

they're all blurry. you feel a sad frustration well up in your chest, but just as quickly, something dawns in you.

life doesn't have to be perfect.

[keyh0use]

completely forgot about this fic i started to write where topper tries to get rafe and barry together so he can spend more alone time with sarah 😭😭 (she's in on it)

[vriska-martell]

— ADWD - Reek I

i realized that i haven’t made a theonsa edit yet

[heartz4shauna]

yes i talk about werewolf!shauna and vampire whoever because like yay monsters but at the same time i think if if i was in the wilderness and i saw shauna eating some animal that ravenously id probably throw up

[murdrdocs]

still thinking abt corey 😞 tw for accidental but consensual voyeurism and exhibitionism

you dont hear the crunch of leaves under boots just outside your window. the whistle of the wind disguises it, instead of carrying it. that, along with your high pitched moans, prevents you from hearing the break of twigs under bodyweight and the creak of a hand pressing against your windowsill.

how could you hear it when your fingers are stuffed deep into your cunt, dragging against your spongy walls, and your baby blue vibrator is gently sitting on the bundle of nerves that leads to your clit.

you hadnt found yourself in this position in a long time, not since you started sleeping with corey. there wasnt a need for you to please yourself when he was there. but he was busy tonight, and you had so much pent up from the last few days, so you had to release it yourself.

you felt that fire build up from a simmer to a blaze, nearing an inferno, when you do hear it.

a soft gasp, one that has not come from you, and a snap of a twig.

a moment of panic washes over you, but it leaves as soon as it comes. this is what you’d hoped for. somewhere, deep down inside of your mind, you hoped to be caught like this.

it's why you wore a little cami, allowing the straps to fall down until your tits were practically out. its why you clicked your bedside lamp on. its why you peeled back your curtains and turned away from the cracked window.

you did all of that because you hoped corey would find you like this. when he eventually slipped into your room at the end of the night, like he’d been doing for the past couple of days.

with a turn of your head, your eyes find his. hes shrouded in darkness, and you think you see a bruise or two along his face, but those big brown eyes stare at you with wonder. they widen when they trace from your spread legs to your own eyes, when he notices that you’re staring at him too.

you dont say anything, neither does he.

you just spread your legs a little bit more, arch your back, and let every single sound fall from your mouth.

[buttertheflame]

Open Call for Feedback 🔎

Hi Jonerys lovers, I’m a fic writer who’s been on hiatus for a few years and I’m back. Check out the prose. Does it drone on? I’m in the editing phase…

A Normal Family

4k words, Jon x Dany, Dany POV, post-ADWD, TWOW-speculation

(excerpt from chapter 1 of a 5-part au fic, sequel to A Long Way Home)

Castle Black

Present: 302 AC

Winter

She knew it was a dream when she felt the heat, for in Volantis, the air was hot and dewey—the evening almost as sweltering as the day. At first, Daenerys thought she was breathing fire—it was such a beautiful thing—as the oily Black Walls of eastern Volantis’s old blood gained a vermilion glow in the night. Within, a labyrinth of palaces, cloisters and temples burst into flame. Then out of the ashes came waves of slaves of every designation, crying, The Princess Who Was Promised! There were dozens. The dark eye has begun to lift from her! There were hundreds. The minions of the night will lose their temples of deceit! Then there were thousands. She will bring an endless Summer, and those who die fighting her cause shall be reborn! And tens of thousands. She is Azor Ahai reborn! Wait! Wait for the return of the blazing comet! Lord of Light, herald her coming! 

“Yes!” she cried in ecstasy, carried by their fervor. “Yes!” 

Daenerys could not even search for her sense of shame, for her Lord would not allow it. Not even when the great river westward then rushed to meet her, and took her through valleys at the feet of countless mountains. Far ahead, the Rhoyne broke into three different tributaries, causing the air to cool with them. Below, a field of poppies dotted the earth. It is the Trident, she realized, and settled herself further in the saddle upon Drogon’s back. She remembered. Her foes would appear, armored in ice, and she would burn them all. 

Instead, a lone rider came upon a hill. The red helm of a two-headed dragon took shape, dotted with four rubies for eyes. The black visor was lifted. Daenerys did not wish to see her beautiful brother die again, so she opened her mouth to warn him, but she would not be heeded. Rhaegar turned to face the antlered yellow and black rider who had trailed behind him, thus revealing an infant in his free arm. She startled as the babe, held tight to his black gleaming breastplate, gazed at him in wonder. His buoyant laughter mingled with Rhaegar’s soothing voice. The father’s lips pressed to the soft infant crown, from which sad and sweet notes rose. 

“He fixed himself wholly

And laid in the earth. 

Then fashioned his crown

From a field of dirks.” 

Daenerys mustered up a sob so strong it caused her to wake. 

After a choked beat, she found Jon Snow next to her, his back also flat to the feather bed of their private room, his face turned to train dark eyes upon her, in the gloom of the very late night or very early morning. She had not wanted to look too closely at the red priests of Essos who had called her this promised prince. It was a legacy she did not want. When his fine hands reached her face, Daenerys’s mind grew desperate. I must pursue the Iron Throne. Jon wiped away her fresh tears then drew her into his arms. 

“I’m here,” he whispered. “I’m here.” 

She nodded against his chest, but failed to shake the tension from her belly and limbs. Her heart quivered with guilt for keeping this from Jon, and fear, over what he had revealed to her last night. I could have become one of them, he had told her, a week ago back in Winterfell. As she wondered why hadn’t he become one of those vicious wights when his body had lain cold for two days, the guilt that followed and her grief for Viserion stayed her tongue. Then he’d promised to give her the realm and afterward settle them on Dragonstone, once the wars were won. She couldn’t help but hold onto his promise. 

A family and the realm. Surely, they could have both? But given the fresh news, she wondered…could hers and Jon’s children be safe with him? Could their line be safe with him? Could she and her royal consort truly achieve this goal? A family and the realm. 

She thought of the cautious, wise and bold Ser Barristan Selmy, the Commander of her Queensguard who had lost his life half a world away fighting the reignited war against the Essosi slave cities. No more than a hundred days prior, it had been in a moment of relative peace, while the killings and slayings of her people were still going on: as she considered marrying the snake zo Loraq to broker peace, Ser Barristan had cautioned against marrying for political gain only, but to also consider love. He said that her grandsire Jaeherys had commanded his children to wed, for a woodswitch long favored by her grandmother had visited the Red Keep to prophesy that the prince was promised would be born of their line. 

Daenerys jerked, then pulled away from Jon. 

If this prince is what Jon said it meant…perhaps he had been born to die. The thought incensed her. Did Rhaegar really do this? Could he and Lyanna Stark have been so cruel? 

Moreover, if the followers of R'hllor thought Daenerys was this promised prince…had she, too, been born to die? 

Another sob rose…and the contents of her half-digested dinner followed. It stunk the frigid air, but her disgust wasn’t great enough to cause her to stop; her muscles took command, demanding that she retch until there was nothing left. It took her to the edge of the bed, where she groped blindly until she found a metal sheet and brought it forth. She was dimly aware of Jon moving to stand on the stone floor. He ran a soothing hand along her back and stopped to catch her hair, as she retched into the bedpan.

“Leave me!” she gasped, mortified. “Jon, please.” 

He hushed her. “Daenerys, please do not be ashamed! I’m here. Do not ask me to leave. I’m here.”

He moved the hand on her back faster and focused on the span between her shoulders, trying to coax the tension out of her muscles. Chagrined, she took his other hand, which he squeezed. It was bone dry and warm, a solid comfort she was distantly aware of, and no more.

Jon passed a hand through her hair one last time, pulling her from her haunted musings. She huffed, licked the acidic grit from her teeth, and then pulled herself back up to lay down on her side. When Jon pushed the bedpan aside to kneel on the floor, a realization came. Words are wind, she had thought, for so long, especially the prophecies among them. Yet so much had happened since the maegi tricked her in the Plains of the Lhazarene. Now that she was here beside her lover, pondering all they meant to the greater world, it was so clear to her now. There was something to Ser Barristan’s words that he and I could not have foreseen. Does everything happen the way it must? Some called it fate. Her wheezes were the only sounds as the sickness left her in a slow drip. They eventually slowed to a halt and her breaths returned to normal.  

The outlines of Jon’s handsome face came into view, his dark brows pulled and lips pouting with worry as he seemed to search her eyes. She cupped his cheek weakly, and smoothed her thumb along his stubbled jaw. Weary though she was, she would not be able to return to sleep. 

Leaning forward to press his lips to her forehead, Jon whispered, “That’s good. You’re alright. It’s alright, now, Dany.” 

He swept the hair from her face, stroked her neck, brushed her shoulders then eventually palmed her waist. She shivered, delighting in his much needed closeness. Then he kissed her forehead again. He climbed into bed again and gently drew her into his arms, encouraging her to tilt her head back to rest on his shoulder. He rubbed light, soothing circles on her belly for many long, peaceful moments. She felt like a rock tumbling in the flow of a river’s current—unable to see yet unable to distrust its strength. What was this? Undeserved peace? 

When she followed its source, she found herself musing once more. 

Many ran to and fro to search for the one who was promised. Somehow, in all the Known World, the two bearing the designation had met and were in this bed, at this Wall. The Lord of Light had called upon Jon to continue his fight and gave him renewed life. Of course, of the stories she’d heard, none who had been given the kiss had been half as worthy as Jon…but perhaps His grace covered all of mankind. For, when asking R'hllor to give them a glimpse of His chosen, the red priests had seen her and him—their deeds and the shadows they cast—in the flames. 

What, then? Was He faithful? Had he held her life in His hands the way a hen huddles chicks beneath her wings? Had he watched her all this time, patiently waiting for her to acknowledge Him? Was He as good as His word?

Her soul had quieted some, enough for her to sense an answer…

A whisper upon the wind.

____________________

Jon had sent for the maester. Once he returned, he helped her to finish building a fire in the hearth, with good humor and quips that no queen should ever tend to such a task. Much needed light and warmth filled the air and brought her once more into his arms. In a quiet voice, he suggested they speak as little of Samwell Tarly as possible, for it was likely that he would send word back to the Citadel about him, the novice who had fled with stolen items of knowledge. Though Archmaester Theobold had no proof, he certainly suspected Samwell. Daenerys was certain that the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch would be furious with the ordeal. He did not strike her as one who enjoyed dealing with the unexpected. In some moments, neither did she. Especially today, it would seem.

“Your assessment of Dolorous Edd is correct,” Jon chuckled. “But why should he enjoy it?” 

“He seems quite good at it, to have lasted longer at his post than you,” she teased. “We should all enjoy what we are good at.” 

“We should. But we don’t.” He did not jest as she thought he might; instead, a frown had taken his features. “Our Sworn Brothers once called him Sam the Slayer. He was training under Maester Aemon as a steward; I sent him to the Citadel to forge a link or three, not to become a stealer. But I suppose Euron Greyjoy’s threat to Oldtown convinced him to return quickly. This matter…it is something the Lord Commander will have to deal with.” 

“With your help, I am sure. Those letters of yours must be invaluable to him.” 

His frown deepened, brought on by some aggravation unknown to her. Did he still feel guilty for giving counsel on the Night’s Watch operations? Perhaps his discomfort was prudent. He allowed her to part from him with some reluctance. She could feel his gaze upon her back as she moved to the small table near the lone glass window, musing. In Winterfell, Samwell had told her that her great uncle Aemon Targaryen had loved her, that he had wanted to help her, but he died once their party had docked at Braavos. With her chin in hand, tears blurred her view of the dark courtyard far, far below. Would this great uncle of mine have known Rhaegar? Did they somehow discover his prophecy together? Did he approve of his designs on the realm? What even were they? It was still early enough that dawn light was still hours away.  At its appearance, their task to march their army of two-thousand men to fortify their designated castles on the Wall, would come too soon. 

“My love…I have never seen you so ill! Did last night’s turnip stew somehow disagree with you? I know you prefer simple dishes.” 

Jon knew she desired some space. He had moved to the desk on the other side of the room and leaned against it. Despite the brief respite of earlier, her mood had soured with the taste of bile in her mouth. She raised one shoulder in answer. “It was simple enough.” 

“Your dream. Do you want to tell me about it?” Growing irritable, she sighed again.“What I said last night, of my mother’s line…it upset you, didn’t it?” She startled at his accuracy, and his voice rose again, now tremulous. “Was it a dragon dream you had?” 

“I…” The babe in Rhaegar’s arm flashed before her eyes. Her heart quickened. “I don’t know.” 

The silence that followed was just as painful. 

“I am so sorry, Daenerys. I will be more careful.” 

“No,” she said quickly. “No, Jon. Don’t be sorry for anything. I need you. Don’t hold anything back from me.” 

Not again, she thought. Never again. 

“Sweet Daenerys, don’t be afraid. You have me. I’m yours.” He tracked slowly toward her. “I just…I cannot hurt you again. I will not do that again. I would rather die.” 

The sudden knock at the great door announced the arrival of Buford of House Belmore. Jon reached her, and passed a soothing hand down her back, then casted pained looks at her even once they turned to scour through their chests to make certain their clothing was decent enough for company: Daenerys in an ankle-length undersilk below a wrapped woolen shift which she tied at the waist, Jon in an undertunic and leather breeches. Once their boots were on, she soothed his pain with a kiss on his cheek and enjoyed his small smile. Then he opened the door and allowed the maester of Castle Black to enter. The other man was overly tall and not yet aged, with light brown hair turning gray at his temples, thin locks cut neatly across his forehead and around his large ears. Eight chains formed a rather tight link around his neck and brown rough spun robes, but they did not weigh him down. Carrying his medicines in a hide, he tucked it under his shoulder then bowed to the Dragon Queen and her royal consort, the King in the North. A steward training under the maester came behind him with a contraption that folded out into a table. As the maester rested his hide and rolled it out on the table, the steward asked for the location of the bedpan. Once he had it in hand, he exited the room and closed the door. Maester Buford thanked King Jon for sending for him so quickly, then sat down to work. 

It was a stilted conversation—not much was said, for which she was pleased. Daenerys wanted to get through his examination without any more shame than she was already feeling. He felt below her jaws to test her glands, then asked her to open her mouth of which he looked inside with a small candle, finishing with a check to her pulse at the wrists, then testing the tension of her belly. The maester did not know them, so after concluding that all was well initially, he spent the next few minutes choosing an herbal potion for her to drink over the next fortnight. Once the small vial of purple liquid was in her palm and she was chewing a piece of sourleaf to cleanse her mouth, he looked between the young rulers and folded his palms in his lap. 

“If I may ask, your grace…when did your moon blood last come?”

She could not answer the question directly. “It comes in fits and starts.” But he merely blinked at her. “My cycle is not regular.” 

“Has it always been this way?” When she would not respond, he said, “Forgive me, Queen Daenerys, but I have heard the story of your previous pregnancy, some years ago, in Essos.”

“My son is not here with us, is he?” she snapped. “Forget those stories—I tell you now, he was not viable. That is what the healers said. He could not be carried to term.” 

“I…see.” He trembled, as if afraid. “I am truly sorry, Queen Daenerys.” 

Jon shifted on his feet, but said nothing. He squeezed Daenerys’s fingers. 

“Forgive me, Maester Buford.” She swallowed the remains of the bitter leaf. “Already, it has been a long morning. And the blood of the dragon runs hot. You see, I often wish my son could have come into this world to experience it for himself.” 

Jon sucked in a wet breath and snuck a hand into the nape of her hair; something far too intimate for their guest to see.

But his touch was grounding, and preceded a memory that followed on the heels of her shaky gratitude. It was like standing on the shifting grains of Dragonstone’s cold beach. There, many weeks before they had discovered the island’s northern caves, she had shared with Jon the tale of her dragons’ births upon Drogo’s funeral pyre, as the red comet had passed from west to east. His quizzical requests for more details made her overcome with grief, and so with sympathetic lines around his eyes, he had beseeched her. Say anything about your past, and I will not turn away. Tell me everything, and I will not turn away. The salty Autumn air had filled her tongue, as Rhaego’s name lingered among the virulent waves. She could almost see Jon’s stunned features, sense the comforting strength of his arms around her, and catch the scent of his borrowed furs. It was the first time she had cried in front of him. 

Now, she covered her hand with his, when it found rest on her shoulder. 

“I understand, your grace,” the maester replied. “It is a great shame. But from what I can see, you have done well to carry on, for which we who aim to fight the dead are grateful. Perhaps the Gods will grace you once more.” He passed a glance over to Jon, and then gave her a small smile that almost reached his eyes. For all intents and purposes, the examination of this maester was not as cold as she had feared. 

Curiously she asked, “Do you have any gods, Maester Buford?” 

“I follow the Old Gods, your grace. Like my father before me, and his father before him.” 

“The Vale is your home,” Jon said, speaking for the first time. “Your brother Lord Benedar holds Strongsong…and has stayed in Winterfell to support my sister Sansa for many moons, now.” 

“Aye. But I must correct you, King Jon. I have no brothers but those in black.” 

Jon paused, and then he chuckled. 

The maester continued. “Perhaps Benedar would have left me as castellan instead of our cousin, but I am already a maester, and I am quite comfortable here at Castle Black. It is the lot that life has cast for second sons and such. But you, King Jon, have risen above all odds.” 

Daenerys understood why this maester thought such a notion would be appreciated by Jon, but she knew it was another matter he must worry about. She gestured for him to make himself comfortable, but he gently refused and continued standing at her side. 

“All odds.” Jon seemed to weigh the words. “I didn’t do it on my own, ser. Neither did I seek it. If any of our—your brothers ask, please relay that message to them.” 

A wrinkled brow relayed the question, Why should it matter? But the maester was wise not to speak so insolently. Ponderously, he shifted his hands on the makeshift table. He could sense that he was being dismissed. 

“Very well, your grace. Queen Daenerys, you should eat smaller meals with greater frequency, if the sickness returns on the morrow.” 

She eyed him warily. Did he, too, think she was with child? Could he sense that she wasn’t yet certain if she wanted to be? 

He moved to his feet, then inclined his head to her. “Only if. In any matter, the vial should be consumed once daily for a fortnight, as I have said. It was a pleasure to have your private audience. I look forward to serving you both in this Great War.” 

Somehow, Daenerys doubted that. He did not seem as single-minded as Jon and Samwell’s stories of Maester Aemon. If anything, he seemed to be all talk with little bite. Perhaps it was the least one could hope for, to make one a good maester. As she mused with an absent frown, Buford Belmore rolled the hide holding his vials and instruments closed, then bowed to them both. Daenerys thanked him with as much sincerity as she presently could, as fear slowly snaked around her heart. 

Once he neared the door, Jon called after him. “Maester Buford, as you are aware, Queen Daenerys and I are not here to take a tour of the Wall. I hope that when our army has finished its task, we will meet with you again, and discuss other matters with Lord Commander Tollett. Until then, I wish you good fortune in the wars to come.” 

Though Buford Belmore’s brows rose to his neat fringe, he obeyed at once, bowing again to them. At the opened door, the steward fetched the table, folded it up and then followed him out. Once the door shut, the crackling fire in the hearth resumed its prominence. 

“Why did you say that?” Daenerys asked, craning to meet Jon’s eyes. 

“He should know that I will be thinking of him. I do not want him to be the cause of Samwell’s downfall. What will we do if the Citadel found it within them to track Sam down and try him?” He shook his head. It was growing light outside; light enough that his black curls looked less like one mass, and revealed their individual beauty. “I am always thinking of you, as well. Do you really think you could be with child, Daenerys?” 

Her gaze turned even softer, eyes tracking the hope and fear lining his face. She had once bared her shame to him and watched with tearful awe as it fell into his hands. What would he say now, that he was called to share this burden once more? She pulled him close by the waist, then tilted her head back until he kissed her. Relief loosened her tongue. 

“I hope,” she whispered against his mouth. “And yet I do not hope. I do not think I would deserve something so beautiful.” 

“Deserve?” He pulled away, with gentle fingers at her chin. “You are the most deserving! You are the most patient, the most kind. You have never tried to stop understanding me.” 

“It is easier than you think, Jon Snow.” 

“So you say.” Ignoring her evasion, he  gave her a tremulous smile. “My brother and sisters say I am a pain. But you…are a rare, unearthly thing.” 

She turned her profile toward him, yet he followed on shifting feet; beautifully quiet, always quiet and thinking. She tried to brace for what would come next, but when he spoke softly, as if to avoid spooking her, she was caught away again. 

“Daenerys, what do you think Rhaego would have wanted from you? He would have not wanted you to be ashamed. You were tricked into losing him.” A sob came up her throat, just as wet as the one that had preceded her episode. Unperturbed, Jon drew his arms around her. “I know it is hard, and you have been so brave to have come so far. But I believe you will have to become braver, to bring a child into this world.” 

“Bravery has nothing to do with it.” She hesitated once the words were out, although she couldn’t quite call it a snap, weary as she was. Jon did not take offense, nor did he judge. In fact, the preserverant brightness in his eyes carried her gently down that river.

“Forgiveness, then. Rhaego would have wanted you to forgive yourself.” 

“He…” Daenerys hiccuped.

“He would have wanted you to be happy. Isn’t that so, my love?” 

After a beat, she nodded against his chest, for the second time that morning. It was absurd. Despite being so unceasingly vulnerable on the morning of a march, this was too important to dismiss, delay or bury. Jon knew it well. Now, it was he who hesitated.  

“I should have told you this long ago. If you would like…he could be as much mine as he is yours. My sweet Daenerys…” He brushed her silver-pale hair behind her shoulders, trailing the fingertips there as he went. He whispered in her ear, stirring her aching heart further up and up. “He should not be mourned alone, nor remembered alone. I can bear this pain with you. Please, let me.” 

It was madness. Although there had been the recent loss of her dearest child Viserion, Daenerys had all she wanted. Across Essos, hundreds of thousands, perhaps millions, of people whose chains had been broken; their cries of freedom reached the ears of each and every god, as they worked with each other to keep it so. A place to vie for in the hearts of the men, women and children of Westeros; and in that place was a war to fight and people to bring peace to. In Jon Snow, a friend, family, a lover—and at his side, home. She had leaned on the certainty of these things for so long…had made herself content with them for so long…that the slim possibility of bearing a living child for him—while Mirri Maz Durr’s impossible prophecy echoed in her ears—caused Daenerys to snap shut upon herself like a timid creature in a shell. It was a misguided try at protection. It was not her nature, for she was blood of the dragon. In fact, she knew she was hurting herself, hurting them. But he was wrong. Her cursed womb was still barren, and was not his burden. Nothing had happened to not make it so. 

“Jon, what if…what if there is nothing but pain in store for us? Nothing but grief and blood and smoke?”

He surprised her again, and immediately calmed the tempest. 

“Then I will ask you now, of myself.” His sudden smile was brilliant. “Who could love a dragon?” Her wide eyes gave answer enough. He understood her, then. Of the two of them, it was hard to say who had doomed their line more. “Daenerys, even if there is only you and me…then every moment with you is one I will cherish.” 

“Even now?” she asked quickly, greedy. That too, she would need to hear again.

“Especially now.” 

It was a vow. Even if her bout of illness was a fluke, or if she couldn’t bear a living child, or if they failed to ensure Winter gave way to Spring… They could still be happy. At her stunned silence, he squeezed her once more, then gently pulled away, to trail his hands down her waist and land at her hips. Her softly trembling arms came around his shoulders and she felt utterly safe. Through the lone window, dawn light cut across the floor and landed at their feet. Time slipped away more quickly, as they shuffled to their feet. The fullness of their dancing hearts could not be contained, and so they touched foreheads, swaying in the incandescent beam. 

“It is something to think on, while we are separated. I will wait for your answer,” he murmured, then smiled again when she kissed his cheek as a prelude, lips lingering on his stubble, hands finding purchase on his arms. “This, you should also know before we march. After we left the outlaws in the Ice Cells yesterday, I spoke with Edd. I am not yet certain our men will be safe with the Watch.” 

She swallowed thickly. Indeed, his long-standing discomfort was prudent. 

“What is this about, Jon?” 

His face grew long and sullen, and he worked his mouth - as if holding back a scream brought on by a haunting specter. Peace, her lover had found, yet rest, he had not. 

“Me.”

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to be continued

If you’ve read this far, thank you. You don’t have to have read the first fic, A Long Way Home, to give an opinion on the prose. The prose in that fic was more succinct. Now my muse is calling me to meander through Dany’s introspection, since there’s extremely personal stuff going on…on the morning of a military march. I worry that the inner monologues drone on for too long. Thoughts?