#ALL HE CAN SEE ARE JON'S EYES FROM UNDER HIS HAT THE REST IS ALL A BACKLIT SHADOW. | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

go-to-the-mirror · 1 year

Text

WE'RE GETTING NEAR THE END!!!

157, 158, 159, and 160 are just phenomenal episodes, and I have a LOT to say about them. So... let's get on with it, I suppose.

@a-mag-a-day

It was mostly rambling this time around

This tape was left on my desk. I don’t know by who, but to my mind, there are three options. Martin has left it here to let me know that whatever the situation is with Peter Lukas, it is entering its final act, and he needs my help. Alternatively, Peter may have left here to… goad me into action? Or just to gloat, to highlight my helplessness at everything. Or Annabelle Cane is trying to manipulate me into thinking it’s one of the other scenarios.

I think it's the third one, like, this is his final mark. I think Annabelle left it there. I don't think it was Martin or Peter, but it could have been. I'm pretty sure it was Annabelle.

Combined with its extremely disturbing symptoms, which caused the skin and muscles to become loose and malleable until they sloughed completely off the body, leaving only a skeleton and organs… well, she was certain that it was the product of an otherworldly evil, and called me.

Good lord! That's disgusting!!

His heart was exposed. It was beating fast, so fast, despite the awful green decay that seemed to be eating at it.

THAT'S HORRIFYING!! :D < loves body horror

Like that's so disgusting, oooh, I should have drawn for this episode. I might be able to lure my scrunkly into tma again with the promise of body horror.

There were a few: a woman melted into her now crimson bed; an old man whose bright eyes still stared out of his skull, watching the television, though the rest of him lay pooled on the floor. And in all of them, the frantic beating of their decomposing hearts.

Oh god, that's horrifying. How are they still alive?? Are they made to be still alive? Are they conscious as their body decomposes around them and they are helpless to stop it, for without muscles they're immobilised? This is just... horrific. 10/10

The sick were pulling themselves out of their houses, crawling, dragging themselves towards some other place, leaving bits behind on the rough pavement as they did so.

That is a disgusting mental image that has just entered my mind. Rotting people dragging themselves across the pavement, leaving streaks of blood, flesh tearing and ripping off, until they can't move, and they lay there, helpless, on the pavement, as their heart continues to beat.

He was sat upon a most dreadful throne, formed from a dozen, two dozen bodies mixed together like putty. Eyes staring out like horror-stricken stars twinkling in the night, and their hearts beating for all to see. A moaning came from that awful seat: voices trying to scream through things that weren’t their throat. And it is a sound I shall be glad to leave behind me when I go to my rest.

OH MY GOD THATS HORRIFYING UH WOW OH GOD I LOVE THAT IM ALSO JUST WOW OKAY WOW

wow!

i like this a lot!

I have dragged those other afflicted I could find into the parkplatz, laid them at the feet of that appalling throne, and taken the last gift of that generous construction site: a dozen cans of petrol. I will sit upon that seat and release these poor souls from their suffering, and hopefully make things simpler for the ECDC cleanup crews.

That's also an amazing image in my head. Hats off to Adelard Dekker for having a really cool death scene.

For all that, though, I cannot regret at the time I have spent seeking it. I have done my duty, and none may ask more of me. I am proud of the work we have done, and it has been an honor to do it alongside you.

Oh, I'm sad now.

I'm not sure what to say. Just pointing at it.

Goodbye, Gertrude. May you find your rest where no shadows are cast, and no eyes may see you slumber.

This is a great last line of a statement, and a great last line from a character. Goodbye, Adelard Dekker. He was great. He was doing good.

GEORGIE No, Jon, you’ve done enough! ARCHIVIST I just need to talk to her – GEORGIE What don’t you understand? She mutilated herself to get out of that place, and there is absolutely no way I’m letting you involve her again.

Yet another situation where I can understand both sides but have only been on one side! Yayyyy! That side being Jon's side.

I'm not saying Jon shouldn't have gone to Melanie, I mean, Melanie never said that Jon couldn't go to her, but I understand why Georgie wouldn't want him around her. It's not Jon's fault that Melanie was at the institute - like ever - but, I understand where Georgie's coming from. Like it's a whole bloody mess, I understand being in Jon's position, I understand cutting yourself off from people and then wanting to reach out and having no one to reach out to. I haven't been in Georgie's position, but I do understand wanting to protect the people you love.

I don't know. It's difficult. Should he have taken the hint and not gone to them? Sure. But it's a difficult time. I'm just... not going to pass... that much judgement. Because in this specific scenario, I don't think anyone's more wrong than the other. The Admiral is the most right though.

MELANIE Jon… don’t. Please. ARCHIVIST No, you’re right, I’m sorry. You alright?

Not associating with someone... means not associating with someone. If someone tells you to go away or to stop bringing up stuff they want nothing to do with... you should respect that. And I get that Jon's in a difficult situation, but I think the same applies.

He's handling it well. I sure hope nothing in this conversation is going to break my heart or anything.

MELANIE (Laughs) My therapist isn’t happy about it, you know. Unsurprisingly. Tried to have me put away, but they, um… they let me come here. It’s – it’s been good for me though I feel alright. I’m – I’m not scared anymore.

HHhhhhhh!!

I'm happy for her, alright, I love Melanie. I'm glad she's doing better. I really am.

MELANIE It’s – it’s okay. He’s welcome… as a friend. But that’s it. ARCHIVIST Right. MELANIE But you’re not after a friend, are you, Jon? ARCHIVIST I need an ally. MELANIE Then I can’t help you. ARCHIVIST I suppose not.

AND THERE'S THE THING THAT'S GOING TO BREAK MY HEART!

I hate it. I hate it so much. I hate that they could have been friends, that they were so bloody close, but Jon didn't need a friend, and Melanie couldn't go back, and the world ended, and I just hate how they could have been friends, could probably have been good friends, but circumstances were like "fuck you".

This podded cast, I'm telling you.

ARCHIVIST Look after yourself. Both of you. MELANIE You too. Good luck, I guess. ARCHIVIST Thanks.

it's fine it's fine it's fine it's fine i'm soo normal about this

i wish they all could have made it out. but that's not how it works. and honestly, with everyone's knowledge of the whole situation... i'm not sure if there was a way to prevent it.

it being the eyepocalypse.

ARCHIVIST I need to know what’s in there. What’s at the center? I-it’s important, Martin – I need to know. HELEN (Gleeful) That’s a shame, because I’m afraid I’m not going to tell you! ARCHIVIST What? Why not? HELEN Because I have a good enough sense of what’s going on to know that it will be much more fun without my involvement! (The end of her words are almost lost as she laughs.)

HE'S JUST BEEN BETRAYED BY SOMEONE HE BARELY TRUSTED

that's gotta sting. especially, ah, well... especially knowing that she knew what she knew.

ARCHIVIST What? You – you said you were going to help! HELEN I am. ARCHIVIST I don’t have time for this. (Compellingly) What is at the cen– [Something changes. There’s a high, unsettling metallic sound and the sound of a knife (or something like a knife). Helen is threatening The Archivist.] HELEN (Threateningly.) No. We’re not playing your game. Now don’t forget how sharp I can be, Archivist. Perhaps here, now, you’re powerful enough to learn what you want from me, but if you try, I promise you I will resist. And only one of us is going to survive the attempt.

Oh... god. Just, like, he didn't trust her, or he thought he didn't trust her, and she was still able to betray him.

I love this moment, just "don't forget how sharp I can be, Archivist", and it's just like oh god, this is what she is, she's not your friend, she's not going to help you get to where you need to go, and you knew that all along, didn't you? Why are you surprised, it's hardly a betrayal when she threatens you with... whatever it is, when she threatens to kill you, when she lets someone end the world through you. You always knew what she was.

Why did you let her hurt you? You always knew what she was.

Reasons why Helen is my favourite variant of the Distortion part 10789

HELEN Run home, Jon. Find a victim on the way. Chaos is coming and I think you’d best be ready. ARCHIVIST Just tell me what’s going on. Please. HELEN Bad things, Archivist. Really bad things.

Shut up shut up I can't stop thinking about the end of this. Just, knowing something's coming, not knowing what it is, not knowing what's happening, alone in the tunnels, stabbed in the back by a monster who tricked you into believing she was a friend - you knew what she was, why did you let her. I can't stop thinking about him just completely alone and afraid and knowing only that something bad is about to happen.

Hhhhh Jonathan Sims <3

#the magnus archives #tma #a mag a day #jonathan sims #helen distortion #helen #jonathan sims + helen distortion #mag 157 #hhh jon and helen make me want to cry #tma spoilers #landscaping your mind chapter one

17 notes · View notes

late-to-the-magnus-archives · 1 year

Text

I Prefer My Heart To Be Broken, Chapter One: Law and Order

Chapter One: A second chance. True love. A very scary visitor.

AO3 | Playlist | Masterpost

FYI: For the Malevolent lovers: Arthur and John are brought into this mess beginning chapter six.

They very much wish they hadn’t been.

-----

CHAPTER ONE: LAW AND ORDER

“For my part, I prefer my heart to be broken. It is so lovely, dawn-kaleidoscopic within the crack.” - D.H. Lawrence (son of Arthur John Lawrence, which I couldn't have planned if I tried.)

Somewhere Else’s equivalent of Valentine’s Day is in late fall, and is called Saint Bart’s Bloody Day.

This is ridiculous for a number of reasons, the least of which is that there are no saints here.

No one even knows what the word means. Jon knows that because he’s listened, and the loss of that etymological knowledge is just one of many mysteries about this place.

It’s infuriating—but it certainly won’t stop him from participating.

Walking home from his job in Dandridge, a ribbon-wrapped gift hidden in his leather satchel, Jon slows to time his arrival with Martin’s.

It isn’t the subtlest manipulation of circumstances, but that’s never been his strong suit, anyway.

Jon finds it adorable when he “catches” Martin just home from his work in the community—covered in dirt, slightly sun-reddened, shoulder-freckles brightened by his time outside. Martin is always so flustered by it.

And, as always, as Jon crests the final hill before the cottage comes into view, he looks into the sky.

It’s there. Faint, so distant that it could be chemtrails or could be atmospheric weirdness, but Jon knows it’s not.

The Eye is stuck between, like the rest of them—but it’s too tethered to him to be completely invisible.

It calls to him, still—patient, terrifying, a colossus with the forbearance of distant suns. Calls, as always, because it wants him to start the apocalypse again.

And, as always, he ignores it.

It’s hard to ignore the Eye.

It knows him.

It wants him.

Too bad.

From the top of the hill, Jon can see Martin trudging in from the West Village green, hoe over his shoulder, whistling.

Jon knows there is dirt under his fingernails and sweat down his back. A little too much sun (an effective way to never feel the fog) and the satisfaction of work that means things have made him glow.

It doesn’t hurt that Martin has worked his way into the heart of the community here. Everyone likes him. Everyone trusts him.

Always playing the game, Jon thinks with a tiny smile, but the smile fades.

There are always, always, webs around Martin Blackwood.

Not on him. But close. Too close.

Martin says he does not see them.

Jon does not think he is lying—but refuses to look to see if that’s true.

It’s one of too many things they keep undiscussed, out of sight, like apples stored for winter.

Martin spots him. His whole being lights up, back straightens, grin widens. And he tips his straw hat like some sort of country dandy.

Jon laughs.

He’s timed it right, and they reach the cottage at the same time.

“Hey, you’ll ruin your jumper,” Martin teases as Jon reaches up, presses in, kisses.

“It all needs to be washed, anyway,” says Jon, intentionally rubbing his bearded face against Martin’s clean-shaven one.

Martin laughs, grips his waist. “You’re hopeless.”

“Not so long as I have you,” Jon whispers in his ear, and then it’s all very real, and very big, and they stand still and hold one another for the few bad seconds while memories rocket by.

“Root vegetables tonight,” Martin murmurs against the side of Jon’s head, moving right along.

“Mm,” says Jon. “I picked up some filets in Dandridge.”

“What, steak? Jonathan Sims,” chides Martin.

“We can afford it,” says Jon. “I’ve been saving for just this occasion.”

“The Saint Bloody whatever?” says Martin.

“For us,” says Jon, because it’s not really about the day.

Martin sighs; his breath is warm, and Jon shivers.

“You do need a shower though,” Jon says, and Martin laughs and heads inside.

They don’t lock the door.

They probably should, humanly speaking, but it just seems so… pointless.

The things that stalk their home, that watch him day and night, that wait for a moment of weakness, calling him, do not care about locks.

There isn’t much to steal, anyway. The cottage isn’t even real.

While Martin cleans himself, Jon prepares their special dinner.

The champagne they’d stolen when Jon removed the last of his stitches. It’s been chilling for six months.

The homemade, simple cake mix they’d splurged on as a forward-looking celebration when Jon had snagged the job in Dandridge, the next town over—a town, they were amazed to find, that housed what Somewhere Else possessed instead of schools: small and ancient academic centers called Groves, which were spaced fifty miles apart throughout the isle.

Jon does not know why they are called Groves because no one around him knows why they are called that. It seems no one knows who built them, either, or set them as the only acceptable form of education. So much mystery in a place created for knowledge scares him, and he doesn’t know why.

At any rate, only the smartest of the smart are allowed to attend or, heaven forfend, teach. Which is weird, because everything taught is so… vague.

The library consists of multiple copies of the same six books, covering the last three-hundred odd years of history. Why? No one knows that, either.

The classes consist of studying those six books, spaced over three years, for no reason Jon can see. There doesn’t seem to be an application.

Still, Jon cheated his way into a job. The only qualification needed was his ability to answer obscure questions, covering a range of topics he’d never heard of until his interviewers brought them up. He may not know nearly as much as he had during the apocalypse, but he could still do a pretty decent mind-read.

He cheats his way teaching classes, too, absorbing information from other teachers before regurgitating it to his own dull-eyed, broadly-aged class.

Some of the teachers are shielded from him, though, their minds behind an impenetrable mist. Yet another mystery.

At least it pays well. Very few people could qualify for a job like this, and they all seem to assume he learned in a different Grove.

They anre all very afraid for him, too, but he can’t dig out why.

Jon frowns at the handwritten baking instructions. Knows they did not get eggs.

Jon sighs. “I’m an idiot,” he mutters, and goes to the doorless shower stall, a space like a closet between bedroom and kitchen. “I have to run to the Village. We need eggs for the cake.”

“I can do it,” offers Martin, who is soaking wet and covered in rivulets of dirt and sweat.

“No, it’s fine.” And as casually as he can, Jon leaves the ribboned gift on top of Martin’s clean clothes. “I’ll be right back.”

He won’t be walking to Dandridge for this, of course. His workplace is further, whereas Martin’s little base of operations is only a few minutes away.

And though Jon has seen it often, he still turns twenty feet from his door to see the cottage just… disappearing.

Wavering as it does, like heat rising from a road.

As always, it scares him.

They hadn’t known it did that when they’d found it at first. How could they? Jon had been carried in, bleeding and gasping bubbles of blood, and then… Jon isn’t sure, doesn’t remember, refuses to see Martin’s memories of what occurred.

But somehow, Martin staunched the blood.

And somehow, Martin stitched him up.

And somehow, Jon did not get infected, which seemed a miracle in itself.

The cottage had been abandoned, filled with web and dust. It had broken-down furniture, six forks, one knife, and an ancient sewing kit with the thread gone brown from age.

Martin had used thread from his shirt instead. Somehow.

And they’d made it.

After a week, when Jon no longer sounded like he was trying to breathe through mud, they’d decided to stay until someone kicked them out.

No one had come knocking.

Jon looks at his right hand again. He’d gotten a paper cut this morning while presenting the history of Gaul, across the Channel. It had healed within minutes.

Jon’s not much of a scientist (he really lacks the patience), but he also knows his little experiments have yielded an interesting thing: The Eye is still actively healing him here—except for the stab wound he arrived with.

Assuming it’s the Eye doing it, and he’s just not… inhuman, now.

The Fears aren’t here. They’re stuck—wedged, Jon thinks of it, half-way between here and there, fortunately not so close that they can make domains and remove comfort and turn it all to hell. Jon doubts the Web had this planned out. But then again, She might have.

They’re close enough to call him.

They all know him now—know too well that he’s the one who brought them through before, that he can do it again, should he choose.

He does not choose.

The disappearing cottage worries him. But there just wasn’t anywhere else to go at first, and now, they’re sort of… dug in.

It feels like home. Jon worries about that even more.

Still. They’d been living there for a month and a half before Martin—who’d been sneaking out at night to nip eggs from chicken coops and excess vegetables from overgrown gardens—reported that the cottage went invisible from too far away. It was some kind of protection, maybe.

Maybe. But from what? For whom?

“Hello, Rebecca,” Jon says to the poulterer, who smiles and asks how Martin is and if Martin will be free two weekends hence for a child’s name-day and if Martin thinks the apples will be good this year.

He’s well, probably, and I wouldn’t know seem to satisfy requirements, and she sells him half a dozen eggs.

It’s getting all pink when he heads back, sun going down, warm breeze still carrying hints of grasses and distant farms, but just edged with cool.

He is grateful Somewhere Else never got quite as… industrialized as home.

They never really developed things like radio or mass factories. Vehicles are not a thing. There is no space travel.

If there is war, no one actively thinks about it.

The only major technology Jon is aware of—distantly—is a massive amount of diving bells, devoted to mapping out the sea.

It’s foggy to him, which makes him think it’s being intentionally hidden, and he has no desire to poke around in it and get something’s attention.

It’s bad enough being stared at all the time.

He feels them.

The Fears want him to bring them fully into this place. They wait, calling him, always calling.

No, he thinks at them, at the growing dusk, at the unheard whispers drawing claws along the edges of his mind, and goes back inside.

Martin got his present.

He’s teary as Jon walks in, looking up at him with a nakedness that lurches Jon’s heart in warm, warping ways. “You didn’t,” says Martin.

“Of course I did,” says Jon. “Just because we’re scratching along here doesn’t mean you have to give yourself up, you know.”

Martin clutches the notebook. It’s fine leather, soft and supple; his name (with the K that means nothing) is inscribed in gold on the front.

“Oh,” says Jon, and pulls a fountain pen from his jacket. Then he looks apologetic. “I couldn’t find any ink—the students bought it all up for their upcoming test—but I’ll purchase it as soon as it’s restocked.”

Martin’s kiss is so soft, so gentle and warm, and it peels lingering melancholy from Jon’s soul like the skin off an orange. “Don’t spoil me any more. We can’t afford it, Jon.”

Because they didn’t actually know how long this cottage would last, or if someone would claim it, or if they’d have to flee in the middle of the night.

Because they didn’t know what the world was really like (too foggy, its denizens too vague), and were so damned lucky the language was mostly the same, even if the history varied.

Because they had only the safety net they built themselves.

“It is more important to me,” says Jon, “that you are whole, and able to write your amazing poetry—”

“You hate poetry,” says Martin, but he’s smiling.

“—than we have a few extra guilders in the cookie jar. We’ll manage, Martin. This world… we can manage in it. Just not needing government identification is in itself its own magic.”

Also another mystery. In what reality was no identification required? How could nations function that way? Why would they want to?

Martin sighs. “I suppose I can’t really argue. I got you something, too.”

Jon’s eyes widen.

“You didn’t peek, right?” says Martin, firm, and they both pretend it is a joke.

“I did not.”

Martin grins. “Good. Just in case, I just made sure someone else picked it up, so it didn’t linger in my head, and it wouldn’t take up my time or anything else.”

Jon accepts these machinations. He hasn’t peeked, hasn’t looked, but once, he hadn’t kept his word. So. He smiles. “Sneaky, were you? Well, show me, then. I have a cake to bake.”

Martin got Jon a very nice shirt.

It’s silk, which means it was expensive; a deep green, with dark wooden buttons, and it’s perfect for the upcoming matriculation for the higher classes.

Jon worries about matriculation. The whole Grove seems to know what to expect, and assumes Jon does, as well. They also have very specific, very expensive outfits to wear to this event, whatever it involves, which is... unclear.

Jon is allowed to dress differently. In fact, they expect him to—something to do with his status as a “refugee,” whatever that means—which is good, because he has no formal clothes. He has what Martin stole a few months ago off someone’s washing line, miles away.

But now, he has a silk shirt.

“Did… how did you know I needed this?” says Jon, running his fingertips over the material.

“They were talking about it a couple of months ago,” says Martin, taking out some old, battered cooking utensils. “It’s a whole thing, you know? Everyone’s looking forward to see who actually gets to graduate.”

“Matriculate,” Jon corrects automatically, because the meaning is different. “They’re going on to something else afterward, apparently, though I have no idea what. Martin, this is silk.”

“It is indeed,” says Martin smugly.

“Where did you even find this?”

“I think you’re going to look absolutely devastating in it,” says Martin, possibly deflecting.

“Ah,” says Jon, cheeks burning. “I, ah. I mean.”

“I mean, I know it’s not the uniform everybody else will be wearing, but I don’t think they’ll expect more than this.”

“Ah, the joys of refugee status,” Jon says.

“Whatever that’s about. It’s weird. I keep waiting, but nobody’s asked for more information. Not where we came from. Nothing.”

Nor had they asked Jon.

Which was so strange. There were no other refugees around them; everyone here had been here for generations, family all connected and familiar. But refugees did happen in this world— runners, escaping something no one thought about clearly enough for Jon to know, distant and strange nations, where things were apparently bad.

Whatever it is, it is hidden. They’ve both learned not to ask questions. It weirds people out.

This inability to ask makes Jon feel a little crazy. It’s not a good feeling.

He does not talk about it.

“But it’s silk,” he says. “Hardly a local material. This is… Martin, how did we afford this?”

Martin grins. His eyes crinkle; Jon wants to kiss him. “Did an extra favor for old MacDurden at the other end of the Village.”

“Ugh,” says Jon.

“Yeah, he’s pretty nasty,” Martin says with pride. “He just needed help cleaning out some old rooms at the back of ‘The Manor House.’” Martin rolls his eyes.

So does Jon. It’s an earned disdain. “Please don’t tell me he propositioned you again.”

“He just needed me to haul a bunch of junk out the back,” says Martin. “He paid me fifty guilders for it.”

“Fifty!” That’s nearly as much as Jon will make in half a year. “What, were the couches stuffed with bodies?”

“I didn’t ask.” Martin grimaces.

“For the best, I’m sure,” says Jon, staring at the shirt again. “It’s stunning.”

“Your color, too.” Martin pauses. “I mean. I know it… it’s an Eye thing, but it felt right.”

Jon decides not to engage with color theory, and smiles up. “Happy Not-Valentine’s, Martin.”

“Happy Not-Valentine’s, Jon.”

“I’m not done spoiling you tonight, so you know,” says Jon, and waggles his eyebrows.

Martin laughs. Then his eyes go wide. “Oh.”

Jon’s kiss is deep and slow and heavily invitational. “But after dinner.”

The cake is a fallen, gooey mess.

They still eat the whole damn thing.

Jon wakes that night for no reason at all.

He’s still in Martin’s arms, skin to skin, draped on top of him, his cheek on Martin’s chest. He lies still for a moment, listening to Martin’s strong, wonderful heart, to his slow and sleeping breaths.

Knowing it won’t wake him, Jon presses a kiss to Martin’s chest.

They don’t have sex often. Jon doesn’t mind it, but doesn’t crave it, and there are other ways to satisfy Martin’s needs. They make it work. They make everything work, and it is good.

This was one of the rare nights when sex was great. Jon feels loose, warm; languorous. He feels positively worshiped and very deeply loved.

Then he knows the reason he woke, and all the good feelings vanish in a wave of sharp-edged fear.

Something is outside the cottage.

Something not remotely human.

It waits patiently. Knows he’s awake. Isn’t calling or compelling.

Is utterly confident Jon will come to it, and communicates all of that without a word.

It doesn’t feel like a Dread Power, but it’s in the same category. It feels alien, enormous. Huge.

Jon closes his eyes. Wants it to go away.

It does not.

Extricating himself from Martin is easy enough. Martin works so hard for them; he sleeps like the dead, practically, with an ease and depth Jon envies.

If Jon is quiet, Martin should stay asleep. And if that thing out there causes trouble -

Jon hasn’t killed anything since they arrived here. He doubts he still can, but if this thing threatens them in any way—threatens Martin—Jon is going to try, and every ounce of everything he is will go into that attempt.

Quietly—grateful Martin oiled the hinges on the front door—Jon walks outside.

He shivers. Should have thought to put on more than trousers, but he already knows (knows) this thing doesn’t give a fuck what he’s wearing.

It’s big. A tall being, some three meters high, and oddly wide—not quite the right proportions for a humanoid creature.

It wears a yellow cloak, its face hidden behind a weird white mask.

It seems to be studying him back. Jon feels seen in a way he has not since the Panopticon, examined from cell to soul, from ankles to ego. Does that feel good or horrible? He doesn’t know.

He tries to see into this thing, just a little—avoiding any action that might accidentally call the Eye closer to this world—but just that glimpse is enough.

Fear shortens Jon’s breath, shivers up and down his form, because this thing is a god.

There’s no other word for it. Ageless; maybe endless. It certainly doesn’t seem to have a beginning or boundary that Jon can feel.

A strange mind in there, not precisely cruel, since that requires an intention toward another’s suffering—but such disregard that Jon is certain it is very cruel, indeed.

He desperately hopes it is merely curious. He desperately hopes Martin stays asleep.

“So you are the invader,” says the being, and the voice is a deep bass, powerful and resonant, echoing somehow before and after itself, and Jon can feel it in his bones.

“Not an invader,” says Jon, aware how small he sounds next to that voice, though this is hardly his first conversation with an eldritch thing. “Merely a refugee. We don’t want any trouble.”

“That’s a curious statement, given what you brought with you.”

That wasn’t a threat or a warning. The tone sounded… pleased. That can’t be good.

“It wasn’t intentional,” says Jon, carefully, because that’s a lie. Half a lie, anyway. He hadn’t brought them anywhere on purpose—but he had taken them with him, surely enough.

The god laughs.

It’s an even deeper tone, buzzing through the ground under Jon’s feet, and it is, without exception, the most wicked sound he has ever heard.

Jon shudders violently.

“A lie?” says the god. “Not a very good one.”

Fuck, Jon thinks.

The Eye tells him to reach for it, to wrap Beholding around himself as armor, to use its power to keep his loved one safe.

Damned Eyeball. Awfully manipulative for a muscle spasm, aren’t you? he thinks at it, and does not comply.

“I apologize,” says Jon, and decides to try to end this before it goes worse. “I’m afraid of you, and I’m not thinking clearly. Perhaps we can… have this conversation some other time?” Away from Martin. Desperate volley number two launches: “I work tomorrow, and I need my sleep tonight to perform optimally.”

The being laughs again, and it’s no easier the second time. “You, hardly human yourself, telling me how humans work. Rich! I can’t decide if you’re arrogant or stupid.”

Nothing in that sentence is good.

Jon swallows around the lump in his throat. “I’m trying to be honest. I don’t know what you know about me, or my species, or anything else. I have no idea what you are. Can you blame me for hoping to lay some foundation of understanding?”

So, the god has tentacles. Big, thick, scary ones, blacker than the space between stars, and Jon knows because one of them shoots out from under the cloak and grabs him by the face.

Its casual strength almost lifts him off the ground; Jon goes to his toes, trying to relieve pressure on his neck.

“But you are afraid,” the god rumbles, which is a strange sensation under and over the voice, something Jon’s brain translates as sound though he’s fairly sure it’s not remotely related to vibrations in the air.

Jon makes one small, panicked noise.

“A herald,” says the being, as though finally making up its mind.

“No, I‘m not,” says Jon.

“You dare argue with me?” says the being, a click or two louder.

Oh good, it’s got a hair trigger, he thinks. “I know what I am,” says Jon, and decides to go for broke. “If I were a herald, if I were any kind of… servant of the things that arrived here alongside me, they’d all be here in this world now. I’d have done it. Brought them in, ruined everything. I have not because I will not. Ever. I’m no herald, prophet, harbinger, or any other damned thing.”

“Then what are you, Jonathan Sims, Archivist?” says the god, and how it got that out of Jon’s head, Jon does not know, because he’s consciously avoided that title for months.

“A man who would like to go back to bed and forget this ever happened.”

The creature laughs again and finally lets him go.

Jon is shaking badly. He’s still good (he thinks), but the panic is bubbling, rising like dough, and he is not going to be good once he has the space to freak out.

(Though he’s proud of himself. He didn’t reach for the Eye. Not even now, when in genuine danger. That has to count for something.)

“It does,” says the being, confirming access to his head. “It counts for foolishness. They followed your voice. There are those who think I should remove you—cut you out like a tumor, burn you out like reproducing cells before you can kill your host.”

There are ‘those?’ There are more of these things? Jon swallows again. “If you’re going to do it, I… fine. It’s fair. I’m connected to all of them, marked. Just please don’t… touch my lover. He’s not part of this. Let him go.”

The god ignores that completely—love and sacrifice, of no consequence. “You vow not to call them.”

It isn’t a question. “I do.”

“I’d suggest you change that plan.”

Jon stares at him. “What?”

“Call them. Call your fear-gods. I want to see what they look like.”

The absolute arrogance in that statement leaves Jon stunned. “Wh… th… they’d destroy the world!”

“They would try. They would fail.” The god seethes under that yellow cloak, moving in some pleased, squid-like way. “Call the Entities.”

Is this thing insane? “I can’t do that. It’s not going to happen.”

“Bold, to disobey me.” Such simple words. Such absolute viciousness in the tone.

For a moment, Jon’s convinced he’s going to be destroyed.

“This stands to be interesting. I’m not the only one curious about you, after all,” says the god.

This thing isn’t a fear entity, Jon ponders, baffled. Death? Mayhem? Chaos?

The tentacle grabs him by the face again, and the intensity of the masked gaze stabs him through the head. “Not. Chaos,” the god says.

Right. Trigger-word. “Noted,” Jon wheezes.

It lets him go. He stumbles, shaking hard now, and he should be quiet, he should mind his tongue, but the need to know is so strong that it rises from inside, gripping him like his own horrible eldritch limb, forcing its way out of his mouth. “Not chaos, so—order? Is that what you are?” Shut up, shut up, he tells himself.

“As things should be. That is what I am,” the god says.

And Jon knows that’s a lie.

The god is saying what it wants things to be—not what they are.

“My proposal is simple. Call the Entities. Do so by choice, at my pleasure, and I will reward you,” says the god in yellow.

Jon clutches his fraying composure. “Thank you, but the answer is no.” He wants this thing to understand. “It has to be no.”

“That is a pity,” rumbles the god, sounding oddly sincere. “Especially when you have so many other ways you could amuse me until you finally give in.”

And the words are simple, but with them comes, like a rush of grit-filled wind, imagery of a place Jon can’t conceive, some place with too many dimensions and faceless dancers (not like Nikola this is something worse) mindlessly cavorting in some kind of worship, and—

The god is picturing Jon there, wearing some weird yellow harem-outfit like the dancers, reciting statements in a flat, vapid drone, his personality wiped, hollowed out, existing only as a repository of interesting knowledge.

That gets a response.

Jon staggers backward, gasping badly, and bangs into the rough wall of the cottage, struggling to get this vision out of his head, to make it less real, less like a memory of what is to come.

The god is watching him, unreadable behind its mask.

This was a poke, a gentle shove, not even a proper attack, just to see what he would do.

Jon thinks of sharks bumping into potential food before chomping down.

He’s gasping, can barely stand; fear has shaken his balance, inside and out. “Th… thank you… for the offer, but on the whole, I think I’d rather not.”

The being in yellow rumbles another laugh. “What a pity,” it says.

Then it’s gone. There’s no transition from there to gone. Just, poof—vanished.

Jon staggers away from the cottage to throw up. He barely remembers to pull his hair back in time.

Why us? he thinks, gasping, braced on his knees. He’s horrified (but not shocked) to find that he is crying. Why? We got away. Why… more attention from horrible things? Why can’t we just…

He’ll never be left alone. Never. It doesn’t matter where he goes. Whatever note his soul sings just brings out the worst in everybody. It isn’t fair.

Or maybe it is. It’s too consistent to not be.

Maybe he deserves this.

Jon feels he can be excused for a few minutes of self-pity out here, alone, under a clear and perfect night sky of unfamiliar stars, but that’s all. He needs to go back in, wash his mouth, and… in the morning, tell Martin what happened.

Martin will be upset Jon didn’t wake him, but this way, at least one of them will have gotten a full night of sleep.

Do we run? he thinks. Try to find this world’s Hill Top Road? See if there’s another hole out of here?

Would there be a point? Would the Dread Powers follow him again?

Would they just find more beings like the yellow-cloaked god?

Jon doesn’t end up getting back to sleep, but he rests on Martin’s chest, listening to him breathe, and for now, that is enough.

(part two)

------

NOTES:

So, fair warning: this is THE most self-indulgent thing I have ever written.

There is CONFLICT. There is HURT/COMFORT. There is CONVERSATION that needed to happen some time ago.

I don't leave many stones unturned.

I can promise an interesting ending, at the very least.

I hope you enjoy the ride. <3

3 notes · View notes

an-aura-about-you · 2 years

Text

September 8th, 1997

Crossing the Bridge

Somewhere Else Under the King

In this entry, Trilby Is Definitely Not Involved In A Robbery, demonstrates the use of his grolly, and gets drafted into cooking dinner:

It all comes back to him in easy calculation and muscle memory.

Trilby can see the point of entry. He can feel the comforting weight of his grolly in gloved hands. He hears the satisfying whiz of the grolly’s line shooting up, the hook secure. The climb up the side of the building. The muffled shatter of the window chosen for the job. The pull up into the ventilation system to find the unseen paths. The infiltration into the compound is complete. Now it’s time for the second part of the game.

Snip the right wire, the security system goes offline. Drop down. Take the lockpick tucked away into the tie. Click, click, click, the case is open. Apron, mask, machete. He can feel the fabric of the mask on a wide smile. The final touch, Trilby’s calling card set in the otherwise empty display.

Up and out. Alarms back online. The glimpse of a figure in a suit and hat before a smoke bomb hides the rest of the retreat.

John DeFoe’s artefacts have been stolen from the Order of the Blessed Agonies.

“I’m out,” Trilby says, holding up his empty hands.

Jon lets his cards drop from his hand. “You were right: this was less infuriating with the pain meds.”

Trilby picks up the cards and shuffles. “Maybe we should wait until you start your new job. That’s this week, right?”

“Technically, I had my first day today,” Jon answers. “Though it was more of a half-day. Speaking of work, Martin mentioned you recently went on a business trip?”

“Yeah, can’t seem to get away from them,” Trilby says. “This one was more of a teamwork building exercise with some coworkers.”

Jon laughs and says, “We couldn’t get away from HR in that line of work, either.”

“Talk about keeping up appearances.” Trilby sets the cards down for Jon to cut. “When does a situation like that get to the point of needing HR?” He pauses a moment when he takes the cards back and asks, “You don’t think the Order of the Blessed Agonies has HR, do you?”

“From everything Martin and I understand about them, sounds like that would defeat their purpose.”

“Speaking of Martin, when does he get off work? I wanted to borrow the book Lovelace loaned him,” Trilby says as he rests his hand on his stack of cards.

“It varies,” Jon answers. “But I told him I’d be at yours today. We can see if he’s home after this hand?”

Trilby nods in agreement. “Ready?”

But before they could start, there’s a knock at the door.

“Did Martin say he’d come by here?” Trilby asks as he gets up and goes to answer.

“I don’t think so,” Jon answers, turning in his chair to watch.

Trilby opens the door to find two police constables. His voice is even and firm as he asks, “Can I help you?”

“Yeah,” the bigger of the two answers. “Got a call about a robbery at a compound owned by the Friends of Jack Frehorn. An eyewitness said the culprit was wearing a three-piece suit, a mask-” The constable takes their baton and uses it to tilt the brim of Trilby’s hat. “-and a trilby. Not to mention a familiar calling card was found at the scene. Wanted to check up on you.”

“I see,” Trilby says. He then tilts his head towards Jon. “And as you can see, I have a guest right now.”

“Right,” the other constable says, following Trilby’s gesture and making eye contact with Jon. “How long have you been here?”

“Since about 12:15,” Jon answers, standing up. “Trilby’s been here as long as I have.”

The two constables pause, working out the timeline in their heads. Judging by their frowns, it’s not adding up the way they want.

“Do you have your grolly with you?” the first constable asks.

“Yes,” Trilby answers, picking his umbrella up from its spot by the door.

“I want to see you use it,” the second constable commands. “I want proof that it’s not just an umbrella while you’ve lent the real thing to an accomplice.”

“An accomplice? Really?” Trilby asks, setting his umbrella on his shoulders. “Even if I thought going back to that kind of work was viable, what makes you think I’d take on an accomplice now when I’ve always worked alone?”

“Still want to see it,” the constable insists.

“Fine, but not inside. I don’t want to break anything.” He looks over his shoulder to Jon and asks, “Care to join us for the demonstration?”

“What exactly will I be seeing?” Jon asks, though he approaches to join the others at the door.

Trilby gives him a half-smirk and goes, “What’s the fun in telling when you’re about to see anyway?”

Jon makes a small huff but follows anyway.

The four make their way outside the building, and Trilby inspects a nearby tree that doesn’t seem to have any animals in it. He nods in satisfaction, steps back, and aims his umbrella towards the branches.

“The grappling brolly,” he says before pulling a trigger near the crook.

The end of the umbrella splits into four prongs and shoots up into the tree, rope trailing behind and wrapping around a branch. He checks that the hook isn’t caught then pulls the trigger again, retracting the rope.

“Satisfied that it’s the real thing?” Trilby asks the constables.

The two constables grumble in response before a call comes in on their radio. One of them picks up to answer with, “Yeah, we’ve actually got Trilby right now, but we’re still working on what happened.”

“What are you talking about?” the voice on the radio asks. “Trilby was just spotted entering a government office with the stolen goods!”

Trilby rests his grolly on his shoulders again. “Considering I’m still right here, it sounds like you’re dealing with a copycat burglar. Why don’t you go see what that’s about?”

The two constables glower at Trilby, the bigger one mutters, “Smartass…” and they end up returning to their car.

Once they’re gone, Jon asks, “What the hell was all that?!”

Trilby sighs, and it’s here Jon notices his breath has gone shaky. “A pain in the ass, that’s what.”

Jon decides not to press that part of it. Instead, he goes, “So. Cat burglar.”

Trilby smiles. “I usually preferred to think of myself as a gentleman thief. But when you see an opening.”

Jon huffs a small laugh. “Thought you didn’t like puns.”

“Everyone’s immune to their own,” Trilby says. He turns to enter the building again and goes, “So, what do you think Jim will write up for this one?”

Jon laughs louder this time as he moves to follow. “God, I have no idea. Secret twin? Doppelgänger? Mad scientist cloning plot?”

Trilby takes his turn to laugh. “Considering the story he wrote up for Martin, that sounds about right.”

Jon takes the lead and asks, “Should we go see if Martin’s home?”

Trilby nods and goes, “In a moment. I’ll put the grolly away. Won’t need any of its functions at your flat.”

Jon stops in his tracks a second before picking back up and going, “Wait, functions? Plural?”

“I mean, I didn’t want to demonstrate the taser in front of the cops if they weren’t going to ask about it,” Trilby says. “And I trust you already know what a working umbrella looks like.”

“It’s actually an umbrella, too?” Jon asks over his mind tucking the taser information in with the times he’s seen Trilby carry the grolly to work rain or shine.

“Yes. Wouldn’t it be more ridiculous at this point if it wasn’t?”

Martin gets two cups out as soon as he hears Jon at the door. What perfect timing, as the kettle’s about to whistle.

“Welcome home, love,” he calls when he hears the door open.

“Hello, love,” Jon calls back from the door. “I’ve brought Trilby.”

“Hello, Martin,” Trilby calls, his voice moving towards the sofa.

Martin automatically gets another cup and waits for Jon to join him in the kitchen. He instinctively leans down to meet Jon, who leans up for a quick greeting kiss.

“Is Trilby here on business?” Martin quietly asks.

“No,” Jon whispers back. “I mean, he’d like to borrow the book from Jackson, but that’s not it. The police were just at his flat.”

Martin frowns. “Are you two all right?” he asks, still whispering.

Jon shrugs and goes, “Mostly? It’s not the worst I’ve seen Trilby. They didn’t seem to care about me, so there’s that.”

Martin fully turns to face Jon and opens his arms to him. Jon immediately accepts the offered embrace, and Martin pulls him close. He feels Jon shiver, and he rubs his back a little with a soothing, “Hey, it’s all right. That’s over now.” He gives Jon a kiss on the top of his head. “Why don’t you go sit? I’ll bring your tea in a moment.”

“I can get the book,” Jon tells him.

“Do you want to think about that now?” Martin asks.

“No, but actually fetching the book is something to do.”

Martin nods at this as Jon pulls out of the hug. “It’s in the bedroom,” he says.

They haven’t got much yet, but Jon still takes his time looking for it. The tea is done, and Martin brings a cup to Trilby.

Trilby starts at Martin setting the cup down before going, “Sorry.”

Martin says, “Nah, I’m sorry for startling you. Um, didn’t know how you take your tea, so I left some space for you to fix it up in the kitchen if you’d like.”

“You didn’t have to,” Trilby says. “Make me tea, I mean.”

Martin quietly huffs. Like Trilby’s not sitting on the sofa after Jon let him in. He then goes, “Yeah. I did.”

“Oh.” Trilby picks up the cup. And then, as an afterthought, “Thank you.” He takes a sip, opens his mouth to say something, then stops and takes another sip. He hums and goes, “Been a while since I had some good tea.”

Martin gives him a wry smile. “How’d that happen?”

“Been busy,” Trilby answers.

Martin returns to the kitchen and retrieves his and Jon’s tea. “That sounds familiar.”

Trilby frowns and furrows his brows just as Jon comes back with the book.

“Ah, I haven’t actually checked if I could loan that out,” Martin says as he hands Jon his cup. “Do you want me to call my boss about it now? Or just ask forgiveness later?”

“He’s already loaned me one book,” Trilby says. “I don’t see why he’d object to me borrowing this one, especially if he expects me to understand any of it. Unless you two would like to help fill in some gaps?”

“You can take the book,” Martin says. “Really rather not talk too much about it, if it’s alright with you.”

“Can’t blame you on that. I wouldn’t either, only...” Trilby trails off.

“Work?” Jon finishes, holding the book out to him.

Trilby takes it and says, “Work.”

There’s an ache in the silence that follows, an unusual empathy. It’s too still, too confining, and too much like being back in the archives. And Martin is sick of it, not just for Jon and himself but now Trilby, too. Maybe he hadn’t seen it on Trilby before, couldn’t see it because technically every time they met before this was in the context of Trilby’s job, but he can feel that inability to get away from his work now.

Martin cuts through the silence with, “So, what are we making for dinner?”

Jon asks, “Dinner?” at the same time Trilby asks, “We’re all making it?”

“It’s a good time to start thinking about it if we’re cooking,” Martin tells them. “Pretty sure I saw some vegetables in the fridge. Soup agreeable to everyone?”

Jon brightens up just a bit and goes, “Ah, yes. I get it.” Then he turns directly to Trilby and goes, “Come on, we’re being drafted.”

“Drafted? Into cooking?” Trilby asks.

“Was there something else you wanted to do?” Jon asks in return as he goes to join Martin in the kitchen. “I won’t really object if you just want to crash on the sofa, but are you going to end up reading Jackson’s book now if you do?”

Trilby takes his point and gets up. “Okay, what am I doing, then?”

“Looks like it’ll mostly be chopping vegetables,” Martin says as he pulls ingredients out of the fridge. He looks to Jon with a small, knowing smile and asks, “Hey Jon, do you think you could make that same pan fried bread that you did when we were staying at Daisy’s?”

“Ha!” Jon claps a hand over his mouth and bends over a moment. “Yeah, I can do that.”

Martin smiles a bit wider, both at Jon’s reaction and how it flies over Trilby’s head. And as the three work and get into a rhythm, he lets himself remember the peace of the safehouse. How Jon had made that bread the morning he told Martin he loved him. How this feels so permanent in comparison, different layers of permanent. And how the permanence that was once frightening right now feels freeing, even exciting, because this could be their lives now. The two of them together, a friend over- Is Trilby a friend? Maybe a sort-of friend, but it’s a start.- a friend over to help them make dinner.

#tma #chzo mythos #aura's fanfiction #on this day in aura's tma/chzo mythos fanfiction

2 notes · View notes

une-nuit-pour-se-souvenir · 3 years

Text

random thoughts about aegon vi and septa lemore

Apparently, it’s Aegon’s week. i don’t think i ever paticipated in these events for any character or pairing, but @agentrouka-blog’s theory that septa Lemore is Ashara Dayne and that the baby switch was between Aegon and her rumoured child (instead of random kid) showed up on my dash today.

Lemore being Ashara Dayne and there having been baby switch like theorised would be fantastic, because she’d know a lot of stuff that is otherwise impossible to know. She knows who dishonoured her at Harrenhal (we all know Brandon, not Ned). She knows about Wylla, a wetnurse from the Dayne Household, who Eddard Stark and Edric Dayne both say is Jon’s mother (we all know Jon is Lyanna’s, so this apparent lie version being told by two different people who have nothing to do with one another seems to suggest a combined lie between Ned and the Daynes). She knows about Jon because Ned went to Starfall with him and (if baby switch theory is true), she can confirm Aegon VI is real.

There’s also the suspicious narrative choice of a “Targ” (not even, she has dark hair, not silver hair, even if she has purple eyes) getting with an impetuous Stark at Harrenhal and a secret child never really going anywhere. What’s the point of that besides shading Rhaegar plus Lyanna equals Jon? This I always thought was suspicious, but this theory would *poof* make it make sense.

TYRION III ~ ADWD

This is the chapter where Aegon VI Targaryen is first introduced. The whole chapter is like a “perigrination” to find him. I am of the opinion that Aegon VI is the real thing for a long time now and there’s evidence that might be the case in this very chapter where he’s introduced.

"How fares our lad?" asked Illyrio as the chests were being secured. Tyrion counted six, oaken chests with iron hasps. Duck shifted them easily enough, hoisting them on one shoulder.

This is shortly after the chapter starts. Not only Illyrio asks about Aegon, there’s also the imagery of six chests about. If Aegon is crowned king of Westeros, he’ll be Aegon VI Targaryen.

By imagery, Aegon is real.++

"There is a gift for the boy in one of the chests. Some candied ginger. He was always fond of it." Illyrio sounded oddly sad.

This is often used as a clue that Aegon VI is fake. Illyrio is expressing some sentimental attachment, so there are theories that he could be the father and the mother would be some Valyrian looking wife he has. it has its merits.

On the other hand, Aegon VI is on the run from the crown, hiding under a false identity and dyes his hair another colour, but most importantly in this passage, is Aegon’s fond of a specific sweet that what we would at first mistake for a father for the reasons pointed above gifts him with.

This is 1:1 what’s going on with Sansa, she’s on the run from the crown, hiding under a false identity and dyes her hair another colour, she’s fond of a specific sweet (lemoncakes) and Littlefinger, who’s pretending to be her father and is very... emotionally invested... in her, gifts her with some (well, in parternship with her cousin, but the cousin is another matter).

By parallel, Aegon is real.++

Tyrion craned his head to one side, and saw a boy standing on the roof of a low wooden building, waving a wide-brimmed straw hat. He was a lithe and well-made youth, with a lanky build and a shock of dark blue hair.

Aegon is inrroduced standing above the rest, literally high-standing.

By imagery, Aegon is real.++

An older couple with a Rhoynish cast to their features stood close beside the tiller, whilst a handsome septa in a soft white robe stepped through the cabin door and pushed a lock of dark brown hair from her eyes.

This is actually what I came for, Lemore.

Why a septa would be described as “handsome” when that should have no relevance since she’s supposed to be chaste (I know, it’s Tyrion, but still)? Ashara Dayne is described by many as being beautiful, arrestingly so. If Lemore is Ashara, “handsome” is a good way to describe her beauty still.

Lemore has dark brown hair. Ashara is described as having long dark hair tumbling about her shoulders. More importantly, Lemore's first actions is push her hair from her eyes. Like, pay attention to this woman’s eyes, even though they’re not described ever (not even their colour).

TYRION IV ~ ADWD

Tyrion had drunk himself blind his first night on the Shy Maid. The next day he awoke with dragons fighting in his skull.

So yes, the night after Tyrion meets Aegon and his party for the first time, he dreams of dragons fighting. Take note these are dragons, not a fake dragon in whatever way and a dragon.

By imagery, Aegon is real.++.

The clouds in the sky were aglow: pink and purple, maroon and gold, pearl and saffron. One looked like a dragon. Once a man has seen a dragon in flight, let him stay at home and tend his garden in content, someone had written once, for this wide world has no greater wonder. Tyrion scratched at his scar and tried to recall the author's name. Dragons had been much in his thoughts of late.

One of those clouds looks like a dragon. There’s no dragons with these colours BUT Targs have purple eyes and Viseryion, a dragon I believe is a narrative stand-in for Aegon VI, is described as cream and gold, so one colour here. Honestly, the important here is that Tyrion is associating dragons around Aegon.

By imagery, Aegon is real.++.

"Good morrow, Hugor." Septa Lemore had emerged in her white robes, cinched at the waist with a woven belt of seven colors. Her hair flowed loose about her shoulders. "How did you sleep?"

Holy shit.

“Even after all these years, Ser Barristan could still recall Ashara's smile, the sound of her laughter. He had only to close his eyes to see her, with her long dark hair tumbling about her shoulders and those haunting purple eyes.

"Fitfully, good lady. I dreamed of you again." A waking dream. He could not sleep, so he had eased a hand between his legs and imagined the septa atop him, breasts bouncing.

"A wicked dream, no doubt. You are a wicked man. Will you pray with me and ask forgiveness for your sins?"

Only if we pray in the fashion of the Summer Isles. "No, but do give the Maiden a long, sweet kiss for me."

Laughing, the septa walked to the prow of the boat. It was her custom to bathe in the river every morning.

"Plainly, this boat was not named for you," Tyrion called as she disrobed.

"The Mother and the Father made us in their image, Hugor. We should glory in our bodies, for they are the work of gods."

Yeah, it’s Tyrion, who’d sexualise a rock, but this is a septa who deserves respect. Yet, this is how the writer “paints” the reader’s first interaction with this new character. These are always the most striking moments when establishing a character and sex imagery is what the writer decided to do.

Also Lemore not only knows that Tyrion’s fantasising about having sex with her and doesn’t give a shit, she laughs instead, gets naked to bathe, and doesn’t give a shit if others look at her naked body. This doesn’t feel like a septa. I mean, I remember Mordane and the zealots at King’s Landing who screwed with Cersei. They have nothing on this.

The way she puts why she has no problems with naked bodies and the like also suggest some kind of “free spirit” which goes well with the (disgusting, but there) dornish wanton woman trope and being dishonoured by Brandon at Harrenhal.

Another thing to note, is that Tyrion also clearly says the “Shy Maid” wasn’t named after Lemore, which suggests she’s neither shy nor a maid. This is confirmed by her actions and by...

The dwarf watched Lemore slip into the water. The sight always made him hard. There was something wonderfully wicked about the thought of peeling the septa out of those chaste white robes and spreading her legs. Innocence despoiled, he thought … though Lemore was not near as innocent as she appeared. She had stretch marks on her belly that could only have come from childbirth.

Lemore was pregnant at one point!

When Lemore climbed back onto the deck, Tyrion savored the sight of water trickling between her breasts, her smooth skin glowing golden in the morning light. She was past forty, more handsome than pretty, but still easy on the eye. Being randy is the next best thing to being drunk, he decided. It made him feel as if he was still alive. "Did you see the turtle, Hugor?" the septa asked him, wringing water from her hair. "The big ridgeback?"

This disparity of behaviour between septa Lemore and any other septa in ASOIAF is VERY suspicious. Note how Lemore has two mysteries about her already, she’s characterised nothing like any septa in ASOIAF (more like the tasteless “dornish wanton woman” sterotype instead) and a mystery child. What’s the point of that, if she’s irrelevant.

Compare how he Yandry and Ysilla couple is treated, where there are no bizarre things taking place that I noticed. Also Yandry and Ysilla are specifically said to be a pair of Dornish orphans. Why is the image of Dornish people here, along with Lemore? Suspicious, suspicious.

Lemore is “past fourty”. The asoiaf wiki lists Ashara Dayne as being born between 260AC and 269AC, which means that she’d be around this age if she had lived.

The imagery of a (false, but still) maidtaking a bath while men watch is the same as Florian and Jonquil song, an event that legend says happened at Maidenpool (close to... yes, that’s right, Harrenhal, where Ashara met Brandon).

"The turtles have their charms, I will allow. Nothing delights me so much as the sight of a nice pair of shapely … shells.

"Septa Lemore laughed. Like everyone else aboard the Shy Maid, she had her secrets. She was welcome to them. I do not want to know her, I only want to fuck her. She knew it too. As she hung her septa's crystal about her neck, to nestle in the cleft between her breasts, she teased him with a smile.

That’s not the behaviour of a septa and note the narrative acknowledgement that Lemore has secrets. She’s also called Lady instead of septa at some point in the narrative.

If this is Ashara, then Brandon met his match at Harrenhal. The waste, I can’t. What a sexy couple.

This chapter also contains Targ history as well as some Dorne (mother Rhoyne and whatnot). It goes well with Aegon is the real deal. But what really cinches it is the ending...

"It was him," cried Yandry. "The Old Man of the River."And why not?

Tyrion grinned. Gods and wonders always appear, to attend the birth of kings.

The Old Man of the River is a lesser god, the son of Mother Rhoyne. These gods are all associated with Dorne.

Aegon is real.++.

Tyrion VI ~ ADWD

"Even the bravest of your forebears kept his Kingsguard close about him in times of peril." Lemore had changed out of her septa's robes into garb more befitting the wife or daughter of a prosperous merchant. Tyrion watched her closely. He had sniffed out the truth beneath the dyed blue hair of Griff and Young Griff easily enough, and Yandry and Ysilla seemed to be no more than they claimed to be, whilst Duck was somewhat less. Lemore, though … Who is she, really? Why is she here? Not for gold, I'd judge. What is this prince to her? Was she ever a true septa?

Who is she, really... indeed... Lemore’s identity clearly is important.

She turned back to Prince Aegon. "You are not the only one who must needs hide."

Why does Lemore need to hide? :)

#asoiaf speculaion #i'm not going to tag these characters because the original theory isn't mine #i'm also not going to tag these characters because this isn't enough to warrant an entry on aegon vi targaryen week

174 notes · View notes

batfamscreaming · 3 years

Text

Winter Break in Kansas [80s AU] 1/2

Bruce bade goodbye to Tommy and Harvey without telling them anything of his own plans for the holiday break.

(....both of them looked gaunt. Holidays hadn’t even begun. They didn’t muster much enthusiasm for the goodbye, and Bruce didn’t make them.)

He didn’t put on the hat or scarf until they were a good distance out of the building, where the other two wouldn’t see, and bundled himself up unrecognizably as best he could.

Nodded.

“Let’s go.”

Clark slung his backpack over his shoulder and started down the stairs where they could get a cab to the bus stop.

“Have you ever been to Kansas before?”

Bruce shook his head.

“No,” he said, tugging out a few dollars from his pocket and shoving them towards Clark.

He’d pay.

Clark took them without argument after seeing how that worked during Halloween.

Into the cab they went.

“Don’t blame you. Nothin’ there.” He joked, and away they went.

A cab to the bus station.

Then the bus to Kansas.

It would be a day’s ride.

Bruce had packed books.

...they had agreed, even if silently and grudgingly, that they would just have to give up on their research for the duration of the break.

...on the up side, they would finally have a little time to read what they wanted to, at least.

He tugged out two crime thrillers, passing one to Clark, along with one of the lunches-to-go he’d bought at the cafeteria for the trip.

For the first hour or so, he sat up primly, despite his disguise.

And then, as the bus ride kept going…

He tugged his legs up under himself and curled up in the seat with his book, letting himself lean a little into Clark’s shoulder when the seat was cramped, finally looking content.

Clark let him lean into him as much as he wanted, especially considering the crampedness of the seats.

He read a little and ate some of their packed lunch, and then for a lot of the ride he dozed. Riding in a bus or car had that constant hum that drowned a lot out that was easy to focus on and sleep to. It was better than the erratic noise of the city, that was for sure.

As they went on, the bus taking occasional breaks at rest stops, the hills died down and things became increasingly flat.

And then, early the next morning, they pulled in to their stop.

“Here we are.” Clark mumbled, grabbing their bags from overhead and passing Bruce his as they climbed off.

...it was surreal.

Absolutely surreal.

For someone like Bruce who had grown up with always something blocking the horizon, the sheer flatness of the world around him left him feeling a little… disoriented.

Vulnerable, even.

But he kept the hat and scarf on, holding his bags and exhausted from the bumpy ride, and followed Clark closely as he climbed off the bus.

Clark barely had to even look around before he motioned for Bruce to follow, ducking around the other people climbing off the bus. He went right to an old station wagon with a man stood leaning on the hood, arms crossed to keep in the warmth and an old truckers cap on his head. When he saw them he stood and waved.

“Hey Pa.” Clark smiled, and hugged him as a woman with dirty blonde hair opened the door and stepped out of the passenger side.

“There’s my baby boy.” She cooed, already grabbing Clark and kissing his cheeks while he groaned and protested.

“You must be Bruce?” Jon said, extending a rough hand towards him. “You can call me Jon. Clark’s father.”

His face was sun scorned and wrinkled less from age and more from working outside every day of his life, his hair cut short and dark brown.

He had that feeling again. Like he was floating, somewhere else entirely, only partly aware of what was happening in front of him. Only sort-of involved.

It was a familiar one, even if school sometimes lessened it. Sometimes.

He was hoping it would leave if he left Gotham. But here it was. Right away. Watching Clark run to his mother or her run to him, and his dad, and hugging--

He took the father’s hand, shook it, and said, “Bruce Wayne,” in the voice that was bigger than he felt in his head.

“So Clark tells me. Quite the name back out East.” He said, giving Bruce a firm handshake.

When Martha was finished embarrassing her son she walked over to Bruce. “I'm Martha, now let's get you boys where it's warm.” She put an arm around Bruce and gestured for him to get into the back where Clark was already piling in.

Oh.

He felt dizzy. And tight. His jaw tightened the smile onto his face to keep it there, even as his heartbeat rocketed up, until it was pounding in his ears.

(Waking nightmare)

He stumbled forward over his own feet, but followed where the arm took him, same as he did when Alfred started trying to guide him away from paparazzi anytime they glimpsed him. Anytime they got an excuse.

He held his bag tight and piled in beside Clark, regretting every step that took him to this conclusion.

While his parents got back in Clark looked over at Bruce with concern. His heart was like a drum suddenly.

“You okay?” he whispered.

Bruce’s face had fallen into a brutal neutrality once the eyes weren’t on him anymore. Blank and stiff.

But he nodded faintly, lying.

“... Okay.” Clark said, not believing it at all, but not prying further.

“So is it just as cold out there as it is here?” His dad asked.

Typical banter.

Him. It was him. He was being talked to.

Talk.

“Haven’t been here long enough to say,” Bruce said, lost somewhere over the horizon with no buildings to stop him.

“It’s colder in Gotham.” Clark added as they started to move once everyone was buckled up.

“We’re pretty tired from the trip though. Is the guest room ready?”

“Oh yeah it’s all waiting for you. Will you two want breakfast or you gonna collapse into bed?” Martha asked.

“Bed,” Bruce managed, even though he knew he should’ve said more than that.

But in his head he was already at a family breakfast. Staring at them over a meal. Having to talk more before he could think or control his heart or breathe and actually feel it filling his lungs, not just faintly keeping him conscious by a thread.

“Yeah we’re beat.” Clark said, although he wasn’t very tired. This was mostly for Bruce’s sake.

“We’ll just get some rest and then we can have lunch and stuff, okay?”

“Okay, that sounds good. I still need to run out and grab a few things anyway.” Martha said, and with that the conversation would taper off and away from the boys.

Clark did pass a look over to Bruce though, just to check on him.

...gradually, Bruce’s heartbeat started to slow again as the conversation moved away, and he didn’t have to drag himself to pay attention to it. Didn’t live scared of the response he missed. He could just stare blankly forwards and hover for a while.

But that was it, too.

He just… hovered.

The usual awareness wasn’t in his eyes. And he knew it wasn’t there.

And the part of him that wasn’t in front, that wasn’t keeping them in society, breathing, not being kicked out of the car of the only people he knew for miles and miles--

That part of him was screaming. A sound not even Clark could hear.

Wake up. Pay attention. It’ll happen while you’re not paying attention. It’s going to go wrong. If you don’t pay attention everything will go wrong.

But he couldn’t drag himself to the front yet.

He couldn’t do it that fast.

They drive for awhile before turning into a tiny little town that was just starting to wake up, and then they even drove away from that and down long barren roads onto a long dirt driveway, the farmhouse soon coming into view.

“Home sweet home.” Jon said as he pulled up to a stop.

“We’re here, Bruce.” Clark said quietly, trying to get his attention so they could climb out of the car.

It helped. His name. Instruction.

He shuffled out of the car, pulling his backpack back on, and at the very least managed to glance at the small farmhouse and and and

(he counted exits)

Before following Clark inside, looking dazed.

Like he did definitely need the bed.

“I’ll show Bruce to his room, he’s pretty wiped.” Clark said, leading his friend up the steps and… maybe putting an arm around his shoulders to guide him a little better.

“It’s up the steps. C’mon.”

He made a small confirming sound at his name, and

Arm.

Followed the arm. Pressed into it.

(Tommy guided him like this, sometimes. Alfred did. Away from the worst of things. Back to the manor, or their room, or--)

He was lost in three places at once. The farmhouse here, and the manor, and the academy and coming out of the alleyway under a policeman’s coat.

But he could make it up the stairs, and be guided to the guest room, at the very least.

Clark got him up the steps, paused only for a moment to point at the bathroom. “Bathroom is here. And this is the guest room.”

He opened it up to reveal a very old, dated looking bed with an empty dresser and bedside table with a lamp. Floral comforter and frilled pillow cover.

“Sorry it’s… very grandma.” He huffed. “But, uh, you get comfortable. You want something to drink?”

Looked fine. Normal, even.

He shook his head.

“...how long?” he asked.

“... How long what?”

...fuck. The word. Didn’t she say lunch?

“Til lunch,” he said.

How long to recover.

“Oh, like, uh… you still got awhile. It’s only eight right now so four hours? Ish? And if you need to chill in here longer you can.” Clark said, looking at an old clock over the door.

Four hours sounded like both an eternity and no time at all.

Bruce set down his bag and nodded, not sure what to say.

Not sure how to ask to start.

Alone.

Rest.

Privacy.

Please.

“I'm gonna bring you something to drink and then you can sleep or whatever.” Clark said, turning away and heading downstairs.

He came back a moment later with a cup of warm tea.

“Here. Just yell if you need anything.”

And then he would leave Bruce to recover.

“Okay. Thanks,” he said, letting the hot tea sit.

...he held it in his hands.

….the heat helped.

He could smell it.

...once he was alone, he closed his eyes and sat on the floor, holding the cup between his hands and just… breathing it in deeply.

He took a drink. Followed the heat as it traveled down his throat.

….

It was sort of like Alfred’s tea.

Two places, now. Only lost in two. That was manageable.

A little more color came back to him. He finished the tea. The cup cooled and it didn’t help anymore. But he was a little better.

...he didn’t have the energy to do much, though.

So he kicked off his shoes and climbed onto the unfamiliar bed, biting down on his hand as hard as he could, and once all he could think about was his hand, he closed his eyes on the pillow and let go.

And he would go to sleep.

And in four hours, he would be fine again.

In four hours or so, Clark would knock on his door.

“Bruce? You awake? We're gonna have some lunch now.”

There was a jump in heartrate as Bruce jerked awake, but he still understood well enough what had been said to him.

“Y-yeah-- just let me get to the bathroom.”

“Okay, just come down to the kitchen when you're ready.” Clark said, leaving him be. His footsteps could be heard going down the stairs.

...Bruce waited until the footsteps were down the stairs and a little fainter before crawling out of bed.

His clothing was wrinkled from sleeping in it.

He grabbed a new shirt and set of pants, and folded the two he’d been wearing on the bus. Grabbed his comb.

Bathroom.

He washed his face and combed his hair back, the way he always wore it, unless he ended up shoved under a John Deere hat. Made sure his shirt was flat and his clothing straight. Tied his shoes back on.

He hurried down the stairs.

This time, he was Braced for It.

Now that he was more aware of his surroundings he could take in the details.

Worn furniture. Warm. Lived in. Family pictures on the mantle over the TV that was playing The Price Is Right. Noises from the kitchen.

Clark and Martha were there, Clark over a bowl of soup and Martha watching the TV from her position in front of the stove.

“Well don't you look nice.” she grinned. “You hungry?”

Maybe ironically, Bruce wasn’t used to being complimented on his appearance.

Maybe because he grew up with Alfred, and he was wearing the bare minimum to please Alfred.

“Thanks,” he said, voice a little steadier than it had been that morning. “Yes, ma’am.”

“You like chicken corn soup?” She asked.

Clark was eating the same thing that was on the stove in a large pot; a homemade soup with bits of chicken, corn, and other things to make a hearty, white soup.

Without being asked Clark got up and started to get Bruce something to drink.

“I don’t think I’ve ever had it before,” he said honestly, watching Clark out of the corner of his eye.

“Well if you don't like it you don't have to eat it, okay?” Martha said, getting out a bowl and filling it with soup. She set it down in front of him with a spoon.

“We got tea, milk, or OJ.” Clark said, looking over at Bruce.

“Thank you,” he said again, sitting where she set it, and glanced back at Clark. “Tea?”

“...oh. I forgot the cup upstairs--”

“That's okay, just bring it down later.” Martha said.

“This is iced tea, but if you want more hot tea I can make that too.” Clark said, pulling out the jug to show Bruce.

Bruce blinked blankly at him, as if just confronted with something he had no idea about.

“Iced tea?”

The two looked at each other like Bruce was the alien.

Clark poured him a glass of iced tea and set it in front of him.

“Wondered why I didn't see it anywhere at school.”

Bruce looked down at the cup like it was a challenge.

“...”

He kept eye contact with Clark as he sipped it.

It didn't taste anything like hot tea. It was sweet with a tiny hint of lemon.

Clark stared him right back.

“... Well?”

…

Bruce stared down at it.

“...I think I felt one of Alfred’s ancestors disown me just now,” he said, and took another sip.

Clark laughed, “But do you like it?”

Bruce nodded.

“It’s good.”

It was a little like a flat soda, almost?

“Good.” Clark grinned and sat back down to finish eating. Martha looked to be scooping the soup that was left over into freezing containers and labeling them.

“You gonna give Bruce a tour of the farm when you're done?”

Clark looked over at him, “You want one?”

“Sure?” Bruce said, “Whatever the plan is.”

He had no idea if there even was a plan. He’d focused so hard on getting here he wasn’t really sure what to do otherwise.

Even Clark had admitted there wasn’t much to do besides bowling.

So his only plan right now was to run with manners and hope it got him somewhere.

He ate the soup and drank the tea, not finding it quite his taste, but eating and finishing it all the same.

Clark didn't really have a plan either. He had just heard his friend had what sounded like a really lonely holiday and invited him along.

So they finished their soup and set the dishes in the sink before bundling up to take the tour.

“You ever been on a farm?” He asked while walking down the front steps. The third one creaked.

He followed Clark’s lead. Ran upstairs to bring down the cup and wrap his own scarf (thick and dark) around his neck as they headed out.

“Gardens don’t count?” he asked rhetorically. “Then no.”

Clark chuckled, “No. Gardens don’t count.”

A man was pulled up in their driveway in a tractor with a plow hooked to the front talking to his dad, and Clark waved but didn’t go over. Instead he lead Bruce towards the barn.

“All the corn is down now since it’s winter, but we still got the cows I can show ya.”

Bruce nodded, following along behind him.

“Okay?”

He’d never seen a cow before.

...the sight and smell of them stopped him dead.

“...that’s huge.”

“How big did you think cows were, Bruce?” Clark laughed, closing the barn door behind them.

The cows were in their stalls for the winter, some laying down to sleep while others had their heads stuck through the bars to feed from their trough.

It did smell pretty bad, but Clark didn’t seem to mind. He walked over to one and pet between its eyes.

Bruce honestly didn’t know how the cows stood the smell.

...he followed up behind Clark, watching him pet the cow, though his curiosity was focused a bit more on the petter than the pet-ee.

“They’re nice once you know how to act around them.” Clark said, looking at Bruce. “Just, y’know, gotta be aware they can break your foot. Here-” He reached out to take the other boy’s hand and place it gently on the cow’s head where he had been petting it.

The fur was course almost. Rough. Not really soft but not really wiry either.

Bruce was honestly not even really thinking about petting the cows--

...but Clark’s hand was warm, and it startled him into complacency, hand being pulled out of his pocket like that and held, even just for a moment.

…

The fur was coarse. But she was warm. The cow. And even though the fur was coarse, the skin under it was soft as Clark’s hand on top of his.

… “Wow,” he said, knowing he had to say something.

“See? They’re nice.” Clark said, oblivious to what was going on in Bruce’s head right now.

“C’mon.” He said, leading him out of the barn and towards the backyard.

“That’s our own little garden even though it’s just a patch of frozen mud right now. We grow tomatoes, zucchini, strawberries, tons of stuff. Mom makes jam. I’ll have her give you a jar to take back if you want. It’s really good.”

He lead him into a smaller barn after that. It had a four-wheeler and a few tractors inside.

“This is where we keep some of the equipment.”

Bruce followed Clark around the farm, feeling a little dumb and dumbfounded, and not sure what to feel the rest of the time. The farm life was… very different from the world he knew. And he respected it, he was pretty sure--but he didn’t really know much about it.

So he followed politely, looking around.

He pretty readily agreed to the jam.

“Alfred will like it,” he said.

“Cool. Y’know you gotta show me around your mansion or whatever sometime.”

A dog barked and soon a dog with black and white splotches was running up to them.

“Oh, and that’s Daisy.”

She tried to jump up at Bruce in excitement, tag wagging.

“Woah--” Bruce took a step back as Daisy jumped up at him, but--

...it was a dog.

Bruce bent down a moment later and was scratching her behind the ears.

Daisy put on that ‘thats the spot’ face and leaned into it, grumbling happily.

“I don’t think I’ve ever asked, do you have any pets?”

Bruce… made a bit of a face. And shook his head.

“No. Not anymore.”

...he was content to keep scratching the dog behind the ear as long as she’d lean in.

Clark stood and just sort’ve… watched him for a moment.

It was nice to see him content like this. Away from pressure.

“You feeling better than you were earlier?” He asked, as though he somehow knew.

…

“Yeah. ...sorry about that. It won’t happen again.”

He’d bite it back as often as he had to.

“It’s okay, dude.” Clark shrugged. “You don’t have to pretend you’re okay when you’re around me. It happens.”

Bruce just… focused on the dog.

Clicked his fingers at her.

“I am fine, though,” he said, not even fooling himself. “...you didn’t tell me that’s what your mom’s name was.”

… It took him a moment. He looked confused, then his eyes went big.

“Oh. Oh, damn. I’m sorry. I didn’t even think about it.” He looked ashamed and ran a hand through the curls in his hair.

Bruce shook his head, not… looking at him, for that. “It’s fine. You shouldn’t have to.”

He should’ve been able to handle this on his own. It had been years. (six years.) He should be fine.

But his throat was dry, even after draining the whole glass of ice tea, and his fingers were getting cold, even in the warmth of Daisy’s fur.

Why was he still talking?

“Dad didn’t die first,” he said. “He kept calling her name.”

Daisy tried to lick his face, tail wagging.

“... I’m sorry, Bruce.” Clark said quietly. “Must be hard.”

He had never lost someone before.

He didn’t know how it felt.

He’d said it wouldn’t happen again, but he felt that creeping chill on the edge of his consciousness, threatening to drag him out of Smallville again. It wasn’t there yet. It hadn’t yanked him in violently like back at the bus station. But he could feel the prickle of it; the threat.

He sat down crosslegged in the field, and let the dog lick him.

When she stopped he just… shook his head.

“It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.” ‘it must be hard’ wasn’t… something he was used to hearing. “I’ve got money and Alfred to take care of me. I’m fine.”

Clark sat down with him on the cold, frozen dirt.

“Yeah but that’s just money and Alfred ain’t your dad. You might have what you need but not what you want. ‘N money can’t buy that.”

“So, like… are you fine?”

He looked over at him and tried to meet his eyes with his own bright blue gaze that somehow stood out even more than Bruce’s. The sun was high in the sky and there weren’t as many clouds to hide him like their were in Gotham, and you could see how much his skin almost glowed in the sunlight.

That wasn’t what people were supposed to say, and the urge to argue Kent down made a thousand things meant to be kept secret bubble up on his tongue.

But he swallowed them down.

...he seemed much smaller out here, under the big, clear sky. In Gotham, in its narrow streets and foggy skies, he stretched up and could fill a room. Here he was just a small, lost shadow: dark clothes, pale skin.

And when Clark tried to meet his eyes, they were glazed wet, and in the process of being blinked away, even as Bruce’s voice said, steadily, “Yeah. I’m fine.”

…

“When I’m eighteen,” he said, guiding Daisy down to lie in his lap for a belly rub, “I inherit everything they left behind. And I’m going to take it and run away, until not even you’d be able to find me.”

Daisy rolled into him and was very happy for the belly rub.

“... Why?” Clark asked, sounding sad. “Just to get away?”

...at least someone understood.

Bruce nodded.

Clark nodded too.

…

“Where you gonna go?”

Bruce shrugged.

He didn't know. He didn't care much.

“Okay.”

…

“Well-” Clark nudged him a little. “-I’d like it if ya kept in touch at least a little.”

He gave him an award-winning smile.

...Bruce found himself looking at that smile, and… it was hard not to feel some guilt.

“We’ll see,” he compromised.

Clark went quiet and just sat with him then.

…

After a few minutes though he blinked and stood up, looking down at his driveway.

Bruce looked up.

Glanced down the driveway. Saw nothing.

But he looked back up at Clark without any doubt. “What do you see?”

“It’s Pete ‘n Kenny.” Clark said just as you could start to hear the car. He offered a hand down to help Bruce to his feet.

“Friends of mine. Guess mom told ‘em I was coming home.”

Bruce didn't need the help, but he took the hand anyway, pushing Daisy off his lap carefully as he went.

“Yeah…?”

He was a little anxious about meeting Clark’s friends.

He was bad with people. And caring about Clark made things suddenly infinitely more complicated if he failed to make a good impression.

“Yeah. Don’t worry about ‘em, they’re good people.”

Clark lead him over to the car as it slid to a stop, two boys sat in the front.

“You’re back!” The passenger shouted.

“Yeah, for winter break.” Clark said, then gestured to them. “Kenny, Pete. Pete, Kenny, this is Bruce. Friend of mine from school.”

“Yo.” Kenny waved from the driver’s seat, Pete from the passenger’s side.

Bruce waved back with a “nice to meet you,” and hung back, not willing to overstep. He was already looking at Pete and Kenny’s haircuts and their clothes, and starting to get an idea how Clark must've felt, standing out in school.

They dressed a lot like Clark did. Layers. Worn clothes. Mud around the ankles and hand-me-down jackets.

“Get in, both of ya, we’re heading down to the tracks.” Kenny said, pointing to the back seat.

“Uh.” Clark looked at Bruce. “You cool with tagging along?”

He looked hopeful.

Bruce shrugged and--well. He had no reason not to?

“Sure.”

He climbed into the back with Clark.

“Nice.” Pete grinned, and once they were in, Kenny started to back up and turn around to head out.

…

At first they didn’t really talk to Bruce. They just filled Clark in on all the town gossip. Who was boning who, who was getting knocked up, who had fallen out or gotten in trouble.

But soon that did come around as they pulled into a gravel spot by some train tracks. Pete leaned back and looked at Bruce. “He tell ya why he ran off to Gotham?”

Clark might’ve gone a little pale. “Pete.”

“Said he was layin’ low,” Bruce said, picking up Pete’s accent a little bit from being surrounded by it for a little. He crossed his arms on the seat in front of him and leaned forward, asking for more without saying anything.

“I’ll kill you, Pete.” Clark warned.

“Yeah. Layin’ low after blastin’ a guys arms off with his eyes.” Pete grinned.

Clark threatened to climb over the seat and smack him, and Pete just kept laughing.

“Pete you fuckin’ dumbass, you know he can actually kill you, right?” Kenny huffed.

Bruce just… looked sort of confused for a bit at that.

What did that mean? If it was an in-joke would Clark be that upset, but if it was leaning closer to real, what did that even mean?

He knew Clark… was different.

But he didn't realize he hadn't seen half of it yet.

“...what?”

“You didn’t tell him?” Kenny said, a little surprised.

Clark stopped smacking Pete, who was laughing his ass off. “Kenny! What do you think laying low means?!”

“Well I mean, c’mon man, you brought him here. Damn near everyone knows you’re an alien.” Kenny said, unintimidated.

Clark just… slumped back into the seat, as far away from everyone as possible, and shoved his face in his hands.

…

You know what?

Bruce was going to unpack all of this later.

Right now, all he could do was turn, look Clark dead in the eye, and say, “suddenly I understand why you had such a hard time with ‘snitches get stitches’ with friends like these.”

Clark was rubbing his eyes. “God.”

“Ah c’mon Clark. We gotta embarrass our buddy in front of his new friend.” Pete grinned.

Clark glared at him. “You’re honestly lucky I trust Bruce not to say anything. You know how much shit I could get in if everyone in Gotham knew? Area 51??” He gestured wildly to himself.

“If it makes you feel better people are starting to say those three were just tripping on something and imagined the whole thing.” Kenny said.

Bruce was still just… running with this. As it happened.

Unpack later. Survive right now.

(From his position, he could get an arm around Kenny’s neck and choke him as payback for Clark’s trust being violated)

(There was a red mark against Kenny from this, against Pete. Snitches get stitches. Silence was golden. Loose lips sank ships.

Trust no one.)

(‘You’re honestly lucky I trust Bruce not to say anything.’ When-- when had that-- when had he earned that?)

“What did happen?” Bruce asked instead.

He was ten places in his head, and lost in none of them.

They all looked at Clark.

…

Clark sighed and rubbed his head.

“Some assholes shot up the gas station last year. Killed like five people. I knew where he’d gone, I could hear the yelling, so I tracked them down. One guy shot me in the face with a revolver. I tossed him through the front of the house. Next guy shot me in the chest with a shotgun. I ended up burning his arms off. Then Pete came around and ended up clocking the last one with a shovel.”

He said it all so… numbly. Like he had unpacked in awhile ago and could now just… recite it.

“They lived?” he said, deciding not to question the… burning. The being followed. The shotgun.

“... Yeah.” Clark said quietly.

Bruce had gone back to his Gotham accent. His voice had been falling into his harder, more serious tone.

Pete and Kenny called this story embarrassing to Clark.

“But you did it?”

Kenny and Pete were looking at one another, watching this unfold after they had set it into motion.

“... Yeah?” Clark said again. “I can do… a lot of weird shit.”

Maybe the new fragile city kid going hard and cold wasn't what they'd expected when they started talking about small town maiming.

“Yeah, no shit, you beat my mile,” Bruce said. “...but you burnt their arms off.”

…he waited for one more confirmation, looking Clark in the eye just as Clark had done with him half an hour earlier.

But once he got it--even just a flash of a ‘yes’ in a look between them, Bruce said, “Good.”

And Clark did say ‘yes’.

But then he looked confused.

“Good?”

That was the first time anyone had said that.

And Bruce said it again.

Firmer.

“Good.”

Clark blinked and stared at him, like a whole other option had opened up to him.

…

“Damn,” Kenny said. “Hardass Gotham.”

Kenny still had a mark against him, and he wasn't helping himself, so Bruce didn't feel bad when he turned the full weight of a glare on him.

Maybe his eyes couldn't ‘burn off’ anyone’s arms, but that just meant that his blue eyes were cold and hard as ice.

“They shot five people? They deserve what's coming to them.”

… Kenny backed up and put his hands up. “Not sayin’ they didn’t.”

“Yeah, no one is saying that.” Pete added. “I mean, if he hadn’t showed up then they were gonna kill like their whole family.”

Clark still didn’t say anything. He was looking down, like he had never been told that what he had done was good. Not really. Whenever they had mentioned how he had done well it was also interlaced with ‘but what could have happened to you’.

They were going to kill their whole family.

They were going to kill their whole family?

That part hadn't been said. Just: Clark tracked them down. Clark fought them. Clark got shot.

Clark lived.

(They were going to kill a family, and Bruce, already mentally exhausted from the morning, from bracing himself against names, from coping, found himself seeing it happen in an alleyway unlike anything he'd seen in Smallville, and he was so tired of spending the day in that place.)

“Cool. Cool, so… fuck this,” he said, and turned to Clark, seeing him spaced out. “Hey. Kent. Snap out of it. You said you guys got out more than us, right? Time to prove it.”

Find somewhere else to go.

Somewhere to lose this conversation entirely, before they got lost in it.

“Uhhhh fine.” Clark groaned and sat up. “Let’s go.”

Pete put the car in reverse. “Where to?”

“... Bowling?” Clark shrugged and looked at Bruce.

“I'll pay,” Bruce said, fine with that.

“See you throw every single ball down the gutter again.”

“You were last!” Clark pointed out.

“Yeah. I have nothing to prove,” he said, straight faced.

“But I might try harder out of revenge now that I know I wasn't wrong about my mile.”

“I was gonna apologize but I thought that would be saying too much!” Clark pleaded with him.

“They makin’ you take gym, Clark?” Kenny asked as they drove.

“Yes.”

“Oof.”

Bruce-- Bruce wasn't angry at Clark for it, not really. He'd been the one playing mediator at the time. Half of him just… needed something to keep going. To be huffy about--something that didn't matter--so he wouldn't be huffy about things that did.

“Tommy and Harv aren't gonna say anything even if they’ve figured something out,” he said, finally leaning back some and trying to uncoil the tight knot in his shoulders. “I told them not to that day.”

And no matter how loud Tommy was, no matter how much the teachers liked Harvey-- at the end of the day, Bruce was the one in charge. He didn't say much, but when he told them to not pry or talk, neither of the other boys would.

That weight didn't transfer to Kansas well, but after that conversation-- it lingered on him, some, in the back of the car, in his nice dark clothes, and the cold exhaustion in his eyes.

“They've been letting him skip for asthma, but running a four minute mile blew that out of the water some.”

“... Thanks.” Clark said, looking over at him.

“Guess since no one is in on it over there things are kinda hard.” Pete said.

“You have no idea.” Clark mumbled.

…

“This is kinda a relief. You knowing now.”

...he relaxed a little more.

“...I'm gonna be processing this for a while still,” he said. “...but I guess it at least makes sense now why you didn't think I was insane about the Talons being real.”

….somehow, the thought that Clark hadn't just been humoring him the last few months took precedence.

Clark huffed a laugh.

“Talons?” One in the front asked.

“Nah we’re not talking about that shit with you two.” Clark said firmly.

No way.

…

Bruce found himself smiling a little.

Mentioning it had been a kind-of permission, but… he was glad it wasn't taken.

Clark kept their secrets.

“So,” he leaned forward onto the front chair again. “Clark said something about corn demons?”

“What?” Kenny said.

“What?” Clark said too, then paused. “Oh, there's uh, that hell gateway over in Stull I think I mentioned.” Clark said.

“Eh, people just like to bullshit about angry ghosts that come out around Halloween.” Pete said.

“Our murder rate just spikes on Halloween,” Bruce said. “Why’s it a hell gateway?”

Said the Jewish boy.

“I have no idea.” Clark admitted.

“Isn't Gotham like one of the biggest crime places in the US?” Pete asked.

“Recently, yeah,” Bruce said, keeping it steady.

“What's it like there?” Pete asked.

“Ever been stabbed?” Kenny followed.

“Jesus, guys.” Clark sighed.

“I would probably not be walking around so great if I'd been stabbed,” Bruce said flatly, thinking of the caning in school, and the dread Tommy and Harv had of going home, and grisly pictures on the front page.

“You two sound like you watch way too much tv.”

“They do.” Clark said flatly.

They pulled into the bowling alley.

It was… very empty. The inside only had two people in staff with the radio playing and an arcade tucked in the corner.

“Same show that told you we were supposed to be out partying when we just snuck out for ice cream?”

Bruce pulled out a handful of bills and handed them to Clark mostly out of habit.

He could probably actually… buy things here without being recognized, maybe. But habit still won this round.

Clark didn't mind, walking up and paying. “Absolutely.”

“Snuck out for ice cream?”

“Didn't think you could get any lamer, Clark.” Kenny chuckled.

...it did make him think, though. A connection he hadn't been able to make, but that he'd made sure to hold onto the pieces, just in case.

“...what they said earlier doesn't happen to have anything to with how easy scaling the wall was for you, right?”

Clark waited until they were away from other prying ears to answer.

“Um, yeah. I might've been kinda… flying. For that.”

Bruce turned and stared at him again.

“What?” He whispered back.

Clark cleared his throat as if embarrassed. “I can fly.”

Bruce is going to need a long time to work through all this.

But right now, he's compartmentalizing like a pro.

“...what else can you do?”

“Uh,” Clark mumbled as he tied his bowling shoes. “I can see through things. Like x-ray vision? And can hear really far. Like--”

He looked up and his eyes glowed blue. “I can see one of the employees back behind the counter picking his nose. And he's humming that really annoying country song that won't stop playing on the radio.”

There was something in that which nagged Bruce. Being watched without being able to tell. Being heard. But--

But he had something to soothe it, a little bit. And confirm.

“I can hear the humming, too,” he said.

Not as a challenge.

But.

He believed Clark.

This was something most people couldn't hear.

And if he could hear that, Bruce would also believe the sight.

Clark looked a little surprised, happy even.

“Really?” He smiled a little, like he suddenly felt less alone.

“And, uh, I try hard to not listen in on private conversations and stuff if it makes you feel better. I don't want to hear everything. It just happens. I have to focus to pay attention to what close.”

...the apology was fine, but the second part still kept him a little on guard.

“Like the teachers meeting with students after class,” he said, and trying to not think of how close some private discussions had been to Clark. “...how far away?”

Clark made a face as though the answer pained him.

“Miles. Like… three miles? More if I focus.”

...not even Bruce’s razor hearing did that.

He felt the knot in his chest tighten almost imperceptibly.

“...but you don't.”

“No. I try to ground myself and focus on what's next to me.” He got up to get a bowling ball. Picked out the heaviest one and twirled it in his hands idly like it didn't weigh a thing.

“I try to keep it to like… a few rooms away sort of hearing. That's the smallest I can get without having to strain myself.”

A few rooms away.

(Kisses don't make sounds, Bruce told himself, but all the same, felt his heart speed up a bit at the memory.)

“A few rooms clearly?” he said, watching how Clark spun the bowling ball as if it were just a basket ball, meant to be tossed around in the air.

He picked up his own ball to wait his turn. It was lighter. But it was still heavy in his lap.

Clark made a face again. Guilty.

“I… I can hear your heartbeat through walls, so. Yeah. Clearly.”

He looked at Bruce, apologetic.

“I'm-- I'm sorry.”

...that.

That was… too much.

He could only hear his own heartbeat in his ears and thundering in his chest, and it was too much for him.

But he couldn't have this conversation here.

He couldn't have it anywhere, maybe.

He couldn't think too hard on that, on his very heartbeat always being listened to, on the illusion of privacy, and the thought of--

He picked up his bowling ball, numb and dead to the world, and with no distractions and a mechanicalness to his movements, he rolled a strike.

They weren't talking about this anymore.

… Clark looked down, not saying a word as Kenny and Pete 'oooed’ over the strike and wrote it down.

They wouldn't bring it up again, talking about random things and trying to nudge Clark back into the conversation. But he didn't say much. He just… rolled his ball a little too fast a little too hard until he got the hang of it again.

And when it was over, no matter who won, they would drive the two back out to the farm.

Bruce kept up what amounted to polite conversation if he was pulled in.

He didn't remember who won.

He didn't remember what they said, or if he shook anyone’s hands as they dropped them off back at the Kent farm.

He wasn't as cold and detached as he'd been that morning, but he knew he was wading further from shore, and that he should pull himself back.

But he didn't want to do that around Clark right now.

Hot tea wouldn't pull back this.

When they pulled back into the farm Clark hung back at the car, if only for a minute.

…

“Thanks assholes, now he hates me.” He hissed and slammed the door a little too hard. It rocked the car and they yelled, but he didn't care.

He walked in behind Bruce and tried to tell his parents yes, they had fun, went bowling, tired now.

Up to his room.

….

Bruce followed.

Up to his room. Guest room. It wasn’t lavish or high quality, but it smelled a little dusty, like the manor, and he could choke on that a little and feel a bit better in the familiar prison of old and carefully preserved items.

‘Granny’ Clark had called it.

(Bruce’s grandparents had died by the time he was born. Parents married late by parents who married late by parents who married late.)

…

He managed to sit on the bed for a full five minutes, hands held carefully in each other and breathing slowly, heart steadying, before he locked it in place.

And he left the room, footsteps quiet as he could make them on the carpet, and went back downstairs.

#aka bruce dissociates in kansas #if i hear a single martha joke i snipe on sight #batman #superman #superbat #80s gay superbat #rp logs #the total visit is like 70 pages lol

44 notes · View notes

amymel86 · 3 years

Text

Burden

Victorian au one shot...

The Queen and Dagger Inn is a not-so-respectable establishment that happens to reside in a small village of no particular note on the outskirts of Leicester. It also happens to be very roughly halfway between Jon’s abode in York and his cousin, Lord Robert Stark’s residence in London. It had been an arduous carriage ride to make it here. When Jon arrives, the lamps had long been lit to illuminate the pitch of the night.

A fire pops and fizzles in the grate as Jon enters, a few heads turn his way but he could spot his cousin even in the dim. A Lord, a member of the ton, does not frequent these kinds of establishments unless he is looking for a three-penny-upright or a gamble. Though, there are much more agreeable places to do both, Jon is sure.

In any case, although he is not overly familiar with his cousin, he is sure he had not written and asked to travel and meet in such a place for either of those ungentlemanly past-times. “A brandy, please, innkeep,” he says, nodding to the white-whiskered gentleman behind the bar. Numerous sets of eyes were on him as he approaches the table.

“Cousin Jon,” Robb greeted with a subdued version of his winning smile. “Thank you for making the journey. Are you well?”

Jon’s brandy arrives. He made to pay the man, but his cousin was faster. “I’m able to afford my own spirits, cousin,” Jon comments, tipping a nip of the deep honey liquid to his lips.

Lord Stark gives a small smile. “I’m sure you are.”

Jon and his mother have long been the poorer relations ever since he was sired. A young, impressionable Lyanna Stark swept away by romantic whisperings uttered by his rogue father. She was tucked away in the Yorkshire countryside to have her babe, and there she has stayed, as unwed as the day Jon was conceived. His mother had told him once that Robb’s father, his uncle, had fought to bring her back to town, back to the family. If he’d not died of an infection on his injured leg not long after Jon’s younger cousin, the Lady Sansa was born, perhaps things may have been differing.

But as it stands, Lord Robert Stark is no more familiar to him than the cobbler he seeks twice a year, and he’s yet to make the Lady Sansa’s aquaintance at all.

“How are things in York?” his cousin asks, candle-glow from the single lit wick on their small oak table dancing across the amenable smile on his face. “Is your practice running nicely? And Aunt Lyanna? Is she faring well?”

A dribble of melted wax travels down the old, dusty wine bottle now acting as the candle’s home, dark brown glass long vacant from its contents. Jon’s lips twitched. He took another sip of brandy. “I trust you’ve not asked me here at half a day’s journey purely to exchange pleasantries?”

Robb shoves a hand through his hair and downs the dregs of his own drink. “Quite,” he agrees, signalling for his glass to be refilled. When that was accomplished, he watches the innkeep walk away and makes a sweep of their establishment before leaning in. “I’m afraid, cousin, that I must ask to burden you with something. For the good of the family.”

The good of the family? Jon knows not what this burden shall be, but he hardly considers himself or his mother a Stark anymore what with them travelling amongst high society and he, a practicing physician. What grave burden must he now carry? He nods his head the once, indicating for his cousin to continue.

“My sister, Sansa,” he begins, wetting his lips, “she... she has found herself in some difficulties as a result of – well – being deceived most horribly.”

Jon’s brows furrow as he leans back in his chair, taking his brandy with him. “That sounds troubling.”

“Indeed. She was...” Robb took a breath, seeming to change tact in conversation. “My sister has always had her head amongst the stars. Dreaming of great romances and happily ever afters.”

Jon cocks his head. Another dribble of wax tumbles down the glass bottle. “As I’m sure many ladies do. Nothing wrong in it.”

“No. No, quite. It’s just... she was bamboozled rather badly by one utter heel of a man. He...” Robb casts a glance around and leans forward to speak in a low voice. “He convinced her they were in love but that his family had set their sights on a lady of even higher standing in society for him. I suppose my sister thought it all rather exciting; the forbidden love. He convinced her to wed quietly in a little chapel outside of London. It was all done before any of the family were aware. She... well, she had her wedding night in the village where the union took place and that was that.”

Jon shook his head at his cousin. “I do not know where all this secrecy and talk of burdens comes in.”

“Well, the gentleman turned out to be lowest kind of blaggard. The minister who’d performed their wedding was a great friend of his and no minister at all. He’d roped the chap in to this charade of his making and got him to pretend to be a man of the cloth.”

“The wedding was unlawful?”

Robb took a hefty swig of his drink, bringing the tumbler down hard on to the worn oak of their little table. “The wedding was unlawful,” he nods his head. “My sister was tricked into laying with a man that she thought to be her newlywed husband. She thought he loved her.”

Jon’s mind drifted to his own mother – of how his father had said his pretty words and then cast her aside when he’d felt he’d succeeded in his conquest. He could not stop his lip from curling in disgust and took another nip of brandy to steady his emotions. Men of his father’s ilk disgust him quite terribly. “That is... unfortunate.”

“Yes...” Robb toys with the glass between his hands. “And she is now with child.”

Jon blinks at his cousin. Ah. A moment or two of low murmuring from the other patrons passes while Jon let the situation his Lady cousin finds herself in settle in his mind. She must be utterly heartbroken and terrified. “He cannot be made accountable? A proper union between the two cannot be made?”

Robb shook his head. “The man refuses to acknowledge his wrongdoing and will not claim the child. It was his word against her own. I’d call for a duel if the scoundrel hadn’t tucked his tail and travelled abroad – business on the continent apparently.”

Typical. Jon found himself getting quite enraged at this unnamed gentlemen. “What is to be done?”

With a heavy sigh, Robb wet his lips once more. “This is where we need you, good cousin,” his finger taps at the worn wood grain of the table. “There is no one better to look after Sansa in her hour of need. You’re family, and a physician. If she can stay with you until her time comes, we would be tremendously grateful.”

Makes sense. His modest house is tucked away in the quiet of the countryside. Who is there to spread rumours and gossip about a young unmarried pregnant woman except the sheep and the larks?

“And when the baby comes?” He’s not delivered a baby in perhaps a year or two. He’ll have to renew his knowledge on the maternity and infant sciences.

“My wife, Jeyne will need to stay with you also.” This causes Jon’s brows to knit. “I will spread word in town that she is expecting again and convalescing in the country. When the baby comes, we will claim the child as our own.”

Jon did not quite know what to say to that. The plan – clever as it was – seemed rather cruel to his cousin, the Lady Sansa. That she should give up her babe. Although, there seemed no other alternative that did not mean utter ruination or giving up the babe entirely – at least he or she would stay within the family.

“I...” Jon shook himself and took the last of his brandy. “I do not possess the means that your sister and wife will be accustomed to. No footmen, no hall boys, no scullery maids. I do well, but my house is modest by their standards, I’m sure. Only the one cook, part-time, a maid who has no qualms in scolding me for walking mud into her rugs and a butler with whom I sit and take brandy with of an evening. And my mother, of course.”

His Lord cousin smiles widely. “Sounds perfect,” he says, his face turning a mite sombre again afterwards. “I am sorry to bring this burden to you, cousin.”

“When will you send her to me?”

“She’s in my carriage now. I was rather hoping, you’d –“

“You brought her here?” He had been a tad louder than the rest of their conversation. A few other patrons looked their way. Robb only nods.

“Yes, Sansa now, and Jeyne to join you in a month or two. Will you help her, cousin?”

***

They arrange the exchange of his Lady cousin from one carriage to the other in a dark, country track that neighboured the inn. Robb finally helped her to enter Jon’s carriage after seeing to it that her luggage was secured to the tail board. She glances briefly at him before turning to bid her brother farewell. Her eyes were forget-me-not blue and just about the prettiest he’d ever seen. He wet his lips when her hood came down to reveal the most stunning shade of auburn. Her skin looked like sweet cream. “Cousin Jon,” she bows her head briefly at him and he was reminded to remove his top-hat. “I wish that we could have met under differing circumstances.”

“Indeed, Lady Sansa.” His throat felt tight. The carriage bumped its way into movement again.

“My brother told you everything?”

“He did.”

His cousin nods her head. She looks like a picture, sitting there opposite him, straight-backed and prim. Lace gloved hands crossed in her lap. She’s not showing yet but Jon knows she’ll carry the babe well. He wonders if she’ll faint away if he were to suggest that she forgo her stays once she swells. He feels his cheeks heat absurdly at the very notion of the conversation.

“Then you’ll know that I am no whore,” she said plainly, posture perfect as the carriage bumps and rolls into the wheel divot. “I was tricked by a scoundrel and every night I curse his wretched name into my feather pillow,” Lady Sansa proclaims before turning away to watch the absolute pitch black of night pass by outside the window.

Oh, she has some pep. And if he’s not careful he’s in danger of being half in love with her before they even arrive back in York.

She thinks better of watching the night go by and those forget-me-not blue eyes are back on Jon again. Her tone is a little remorseful now, as though she regrets her mild outburst. “I am sorry to be a burden to you, cousin.”

“I assure you. You are no burden at all, Lady Sansa.”

The smile on her berry pink lips was the finest thing in all of Jon’s memories. “Just ‘Sansa’ will do.”

#jonsa #jon x sansa #my jonsa fic

41 notes · View notes

thepeacetea · 4 years

Text

Mistake of a Lifetime

I LIVE!!!!!!! Hey everyone! I don’t know what happened last month. It was like my brain shut down. It was the worst feeling ever. I just couldn’t write. Which was insanely frustrating. But I’m back and off of work for the next three week due to COVID-19. And since I’m not venturing into the outside world, hopefully I’ll be able to get more writing done!!! So thank you all for being patient with me. I honestly have absolutely no idea where this story came from, but enjoy my beauties. Warning, there is a tiny, little bit of swearing but nothing major. As always, if you have any questions or comments feel free to let me know. Anyway, hope ya’ll enjoy!!! Peace!!!

Damian was frustrated. He couldn’t find that girl anywhere. He knew when he explained what he had done what he did that she would understand. His angel always did. She loved him too much to stay mad at him for long. Once she learned why, Damian knew that she would come back. That’s one of the reasons he loved her, she was so trusting and forgiving. No matter what he did, he knew she would welcome him back with open arms. But right now, he was irritated with his girlfriend. She hadn’t been in contact with any of the family in five months. No one knew where she was. Tim couldn’t even find her. It was as if she just disappeared. Which is what led him here, to what was hopefully the door of his best friend’s apartment. If anyone would know where Marinette was, it would be Jon.

Finding the apartment had been a slightly more difficult then Damian had first thought. Jon wasn’t one for covering his civilian tracts, usually allowing anyone, if they so wished, to track him down. But he had been strangely quiet the past few months. Superboy had also been absent from the hero scene. When Damian had inquired as to why, no one could supply a straight answer. Jon had spoken to his parents every few weeks to assure them that he was fine, but other then that, no one knew much.

The search for apartments rented out to a Jonathan Samuel Kent had turned up blank, as did all the other alias that Damian could think his best friend might possibly use. It eventually arrived at the point that Damian had run his handwriting through the data base to find a match for a signature. Eight states and eleven empty apartments later, Damian Wayne found himself climbing the squeaking steps to the apartment located above a little Chinese restaurant in the middle of Chinatown, San Francisco.

‘Honestly Jon, the other places where far better off then this,’ Damian muttered as he knocked on the door. The sound of scuffling followed by multiple items falling sparked a flicker of hope from the Wayne heir. Though he would never tell Jon this, Damian had missed his idiot of a friend.

“Buy too much at the market again? M, I told you, just get what we need for dinner tonight and we’ll get the rest tomor . . .” Jon said opening the door, the laughter that was oh so evident in his voice died the moment he saw who was at his door.

Damian watched as a wave of emotions filtered across his friend’s face. Surprise, confusion, and doubt where all understandable, at least in Damian’s opinion, but when Jon’s face finally settled on a mixture of anger and disgust, Damian grew confused and slightly irritated. He had not come all this way nor spent all that time looking for him to be received like that. Not by Kent, not by anyone.

“What are you doing here, Wayne?”

Now that caught him off guard. Damian could not, for the life of him, remember a single moment when Jon had referred to him, or anyone, by their last name. Ever.

“Tt, came looking for you. No one’s seen so much as a flutter of your cape in five month. The last time anyone heard from you was your parents, six weeks ago.”

“Well, as you can see, I’m fine. Now if there’s nothing else . . .” Jon said, closing the door, causing Damian to bit back a growl. He did not come all this way to get a door shut in his face.

“Actually, there is,” Damian countered, forcing the door back open as Jon sent a chilling glare his way, nearly causing him to laugh. If Kent thought he could scare Damian, the only blood son of Bruce Wayne, the Batman, with that poor excuse of a glare, he was in for a nasty surprise. “I need to know if you’ve seen my girlfriend?”

Damian was expecting many things, but none of them was the utterly disgusted scoff that came from the dark-haired young man as his face twisted into a scowl.

“Yeah. Two weeks ago. On tv. At the Wayne Gala. You remember, she was hanging off your arm like one of those rich people’s lapdogs. You know, the really yappy ones.” He said, something sparking in his eyes, though Damian couldn’t quiet place it.

“Not the Italian she-devil, you idiot. I mean Marinette.” Damian strained, actively using more force to push the door open as Jon was closing it. The disbelieving laugh that left the young half-kryptonian surprised Damian.

“Mar is not your girlfriend anymore, Wayne. Remember? YOU broke up with her five months ago. And then YOU announced that you were dating that – that – Rossi girl the next day on national tv.”

“Look Kent, all I want to know is if you know where she is or not, because I need to talk with her.” Damian ground out as he began to lose what little leverage he had on the door. The half second hesitation and slight dilation of Jon’s eyes was all Damian need to know whatever came out of his friend’s mouth was a lie.

“No.”

“You were always a terrible liar Kent.” Damian stated. Taking advantage to the slight surprise, Damian force the door open, stepping inside before the other man could react.

The apartment itself was rather small, though Damian was use to having far more space then needed. The apartment was an open floor concept. The only thing separating the kitchen from the living room was a counter that extended from the wall, cutting the room in half. A worn couch was sitting in the middle of the main room with a small coffee table in front of it. A tv was pushed against the wall, a few open movie cases lay scattered across the stand with a gaming console tucked neatly underneath. A bookshelf was shoved into the far corner. A fallen stack of books lay by a beaded doorway that Damian could only assumed lead to a bedroom. A few pictures adorned the walls, though Jon drew Damian’s attention before he could get a chance to identify who was in them.

“What the heck do you think you’re doing? I didn’t invite you in! Get out!” Jon said, his voice raising an octave, jabbing his finger towards the door.

“And here I thought your mother taught you hospitality,” Damian countered, enjoying the growl his comment caused. “As for what I’m doing here, I already informed you why. I want to know where my angel is and I need you to tell me.”

“Never. Gonna. Happen! What makes you think you have any right to see her let alone call her ‘yours’?” Jon growled, actually growled, at Damian. Under any other circumstances, he would have been impressed that the cheerful, happy Kansas native sounded so . . . threatening in his questioning. But Damian was quickly reaching the end of his already short patience. Pinning the other man with a glare that would have made his father proud, Damian watched as the other subconsciously straightened to his full height.

“I’m bringing her back, where she belongs. The Rossi mission is over and I want my Angel back.”

For five seconds, Jon stood there, brows drawn together in confusion as his brain processed what was said. Five seconds where he could have been telling Damian where his girlfriend was, Jon just stood there.

“. . . what?”

“Lila Rossi held vital, insider information of a new program which my mother and Dr. Hugo Strange were developing. We needed the information, but more importantly, we needed Rossi to trust us. I, obviously, was the best candidate for the job. Father and the others helped plan and execute it. We have the information we need and the parties involved have been dealt with appropriately, including Rossi.”

“. . . all of this . . . everything . . . was for a mission?” Jon asked quietly, his voice calm as he bent his head, his bangs covering his eyes. Damian let a small smile slip. He knew Jon would understand, and once he told him where his angel was, she would too.

“Yes. Now I need to know where . . .” Damian began to say when the left side of his face erupted in pain as the sound of something breaking filled the air. Whether it was his jaw or the picture frames he landed against, he didn’t know. He didn’t have the time to figure out as he was hauled to his feet and slammed into the wall, his head smashing into an other picture. Once Damian’s vision cleared, confused emerald met rage filled electric blue.

“You mean to tell me, that everything, Every hatful word, Every cutting remark, Every. Single. Day! Marinette spent CRYING was for some GOD DAMN MISSION!?!” Jon yelled, pulling Damian closer as his eyes flashed back and forth between blue and red, and for the first time in a long time, Damian felt fear. “Do you have any idea how much you hurt her!?!”

“It was a sacrifice necessary for the completion of the mission. Once she knows that, she’ll understand!” Damian shouted, defending himself. Everyone who knew agreed. The action was necessary for the mission. Without it, the whole mission would have been unnecessarily complicated. Even Clark and Diana had agreed, so why couldn’t Jon?

“Sacrifice? Is that what you think this was?” Jon hissed, eyes steadily changing from blue to solid red. “You broke her!”

“I didn’t . . .” Damian started to say before he was slammed against the wall again, causing the remaining pictures to fall, glass breaking on impact.

“SHUT UP!!!” Jon screamed. If it was possible, Damian saw his eyes fill with more rage then he had ever seen in one person, Jason included. “You know nothing! You broke her Wayne. She trusted you! After everything that happened to her, after being abandoned by so many others, she trusted you and you broke her! She gave her heart to YOU! Marinette gave you everything, only for you to turn around and throw her away like trash!”

“Jon,” Damian tried to say, but Jon wasn’t done.

“Do you know how I found her? After I found out you not only broke up with her but then decided to date the person that made her life a living hell, I spent six, SIX, hours looking for her. I finally found her on the roof where we first met her. She was just sitting there, on the edge, looking over the city. When she finally looked at me, her face was completely blank. No trace of emotion. The only real sign of life was how red and swollen her eyes were from crying. Do you want to know the first thing she said to me? ‘He left me.’ ‘He LEFT me!’” Jon snarled. “You have no idea how hard it was to keep her going after that. What it was like seeing her like that. Do you know what its like seeing someone who’s so full of life to just wilt in front of you. To see them lose everything that made them who they are.” Jon asked, his voice dropping in grief as his grip on Damian shirt loosened.

“Jon, I know. I hurt her. I know. That’s why I need to talk to her. I know my angel. Once I tell her, once I explain, everything will be fine.”

“No, Wayne. I don’t think you do know her.” Jon said, completely letting go of him as if he couldn’t stand touching him. “I know Mar better then my own mind at this point. She is the most trusting and kindest person you will ever meet, but even she has her limits.” He hissed, turning his back on his once friend, running his hands through his hair in anger and frustration.

All Damian could do was stare at the person, who had for the longest time, been his only friend. Steadying himself against the wall, the young Wayne looked down. Trying to gather his thoughts. To think of something to say when one of the picture frames caught his eye. Gingerly picking it up, Damian found himself looking through shattered glass at what appeared to be an ultra-sound photo sitting beside one the soon to be mother. Barely legible through the broken glass was Jon’s handwriting, ‘Mama and baby at eight months.’ The photo was dated three days ago. Damian couldn’t stop staring. There, through the shattered glass, stood HIS angel, her belly swollen to the point where it looked ready to burst, smiling at the camera.

What Damian was seeing wasn’t making sense. Eight months pregnant. They had broken up five months ago. He knew she had never slept with another guy before. Her first time had been with him. Once. Three months before they broke up. Eight months ago. She was pregnant. She was eight months pregnant.

His mind flashed to the last time he had seen her. The day he had ‘broken up’ with her. She had an appointment the day. A doctor’s appointment. She hadn’t been feeling well for the last few weeks. She had wanted to tell him something after the appointment. She had sounded so excited over the phone. She promised she’d tell him over dinner but he had gone first, telling her they were over. She had looked so heartbroken. So devastated. She never got a chance to tell him her news

Suddenly, the frame was torn from his hands but the damage had been done. He knew. Lifting his eyes, Damian met Jon’s gaze. Utter shock met panicked anger. For a few moment’s neither spoke. Neither man knew what say or how to react.

“Jon, I’m so sorry I’m back late! I distracted chatting with Aunty Liu and Grandpa Zhao wanted to know how the baby’s doing and then Mama Zhang wanted to give me some tea that’s suppose to help with my back pain an . . .” The sweet, sweet voice of his angel broke through the apartment before abruptly cutting off.

Damian’s whole body twisted toward the door faster then he thought possible. There, standing in the doorway, was the most beautiful sight Damian had ever seen. His angel, dressed in a soft, baby blue shirt that proudly displayed her heavily pregnant belly and black pant, stood completely frozen as her eyes, her gorgeous blue eyes that he had missed so, so much, darted between the apartment and the two occupant.

Damian took a step forward, she instinctively took one back, panic blooming in her eyes.

“Beloved I . . .”

Damian never got father then that. As soon as he spoke, Marinette’s face drained of colour as she turned and bolted from the apartment as fast as a woman of her condition could. He raced to follow, to hold her and tell her everything would be alright. That he would take care of her and their child. Their child! The very thought of his child sent an unbelievable wave of joy coursing through him! He was going to be a father! Damian was going to spoil his angel, his beloved, rotten. They would need to have one of the manor rooms renovated into a nursery. He would need to have someone take over his patrol for the next few month, his child and soon-to-be wife would need him and . . .

Both Damian’s train of thought and path was halted by the very painful grip on his arm. Fully ready to bite Jon’s head off, Damian was silenced by the red tinted glare his friend was giving him. He immediately notice how tense Jon was. He looked like he was ready for a fight, one that the kryptonian knew he would win.

“No. You are not going after her. The last thing Mar needs is this kind of stress this far in the pregnancy.”

“But . . .”

“I said no Wayne! Mar almost lost the baby once already. I am not going to allow her to go through that again! She can’t go through that again. I can’t handle going through that again!” Jon hissed, dropping his hold on Damian’s arm as he made a beeline for the stairs.

“Jon!” Damian yelled, hoping against hope that he would change his mind. That was his girlfriend and his child, damn it. He needed to be with them.

“No, Damian! Just . . . just go. You’ve done enough.” Jon shouted as he disappeared down the stairs.

Jon’s last comment caused the young heir to pause. He had done enough? He hadn’t been given a chance to fix what he had done. How could he have done enough? Sure, he had messed up royally, but he wanted to fix it. Why wouldn’t Jon let him fix it?

Pushing those questions aside, Damian ran down the stair, praying that he would at least catch a glimpse of his beloved. But the scene that met him as he burst into the street somehow drove Jon’s parting words home. There, braced against the wall of the building across from him, was Marinette. She was curled up as tightly as she physically could be, her face buried in Jon’s shirt as she let out the most heart wrenching sobs. Damian’s body refused to move as he watched Jon gently rock the mother of his child. His body refused to move as he watched the other man stroked her hair, promising to never leave her, whispering soft words of comfort to her as he planted butterfly kisses on her head. That he would always be there. That no one was going to hurt her. That she was safe.

Seconds turned into minutes before he could summon the strength to do what Jon had said. Casting one last look at his angel, his Marinette, Damian knew that taking that mission, that leaving her, had been the worst mistake of his life.

#maribat #daminette #jonette?#angst

613 notes · View notes

thebluelemontree · 3 years

Note

We know Sansa has a connection to the Seven through her wishes, but do you think the same could be said of the Old Gods? Also, do you see magic in her future storyline like the rest of her siblings? Thank you!

Of course, she has a connection to the Old Gods too. GRRM confirmed all the Stark children are wargs, even if Sansa’s abilities didn’t have the chance to manifest at the same time as her siblings since she lost Lady so quickly. Skin changing was already inherently in her and still is. It’s just that the ability is dormant for the most part. The connection between Sansa and Lady never weakened either. I already wrote about this here a while back, and it may have to do with Lady’s bones and hide being interred in Winterfell. She still longs for her, dreams of her, and even feels her direwolf’s presence close by sometimes. I don’t think she’s aged-out (if that’s possible) of ever skin changing an animal since she’s still younger than Robb and Jon when they received their direwolf pups.

Sansa was also bonding with the old blind dog on the Fingers, but their time together was also cut short. Dogs are the easiest to skin change according the Varamyr prologue, so in theory Sansa could have started to have “dog dreams” if she’d stayed in physical contact with the dog. Her time in the Vale has had her separated from animals, but that doesn’t mean it will always be so. There’s always the possibility of skin changing a bird like a falcon perhaps.

And ya know, she does have a greenseer little brother that she was always close to that might be able to help her grow her magical side. Maybe even break in an animal for her to make it easier to slip into perhaps? That’s a thing.

Slipping into Summer's skin had become as easy for him as slipping on a pair of breeches once had been, before his back was broken. Changing his own skin for a raven's night-black feathers had been harder, but not as hard as he had feared, not with these ravens. "A wild stallion will buck and kick when a man tries to mount him, and try to bite the hand that slips the bit between his teeth," Lord Brynden said, "but a horse that has known one rider will accept another. Young or old, these birds have all been ridden. Choose one now, and fly." -- Bran III, ADWD.

I don’t see any evidence that the door is permanently shut on her skin changing something eventually.

But if you mean does she have a connection to the Old Gods through prayer, the answer is yes too.

The night the bird had come from Winterfell, Eddard Stark had taken the girls to the castle godswood, an acre of elm and alder and black cottonwood overlooking the river. The heart tree there was a great oak, its ancient limbs overgrown with smokeberry vines; they knelt before it to offer their thanksgiving, as if it had been a weirwood. Sansa drifted to sleep as the moon rose, Arya several hours later, curling up in the grass under Ned's cloak. All through the dark hours he kept his vigil alone. When dawn broke over the city, the dark red blooms of dragon's breath surrounded the girls where they lay. "I dreamed of Bran," Sansa had whispered to him. "I saw him smiling." -- Eddard V, AGOT.

It might be something that Sansa dreams of her greenseer brother in the godswood after they’ve received word of Bran awakening from the coma where his own third-eye was opened by the three-eyed crow. If this scene isn’t a glimpse of the future in ADOS, I’ll eat my hat.

Sansa is a person of faith who observes both her religions, albeit for a time she favored the aesthetics of her mother’s faith more than her father’s.

She prayed in both the sept and the godswood for her father, unfortunately to no avail on that one. In the crisis of her captivity, she makes more space for the Old Gods in her religiosity.

By the time she reached the godswood, the noises had faded to a faint rattle of steel and a distant shouting. Sansa pulled her cloak tighter. The air was rich with the smells of earth and leaf. Lady would have liked this place, she thought. There was something wild about a godswood; even here, in the heart of the castle at the heart of the city, you could feel the old gods watching with a thousand unseen eyes.

Sansa had favored her mother's gods over her father's. She loved the statues, the pictures in leaded glass, the fragrance of burning incense, the septons with their robes and crystals, the magical play of the rainbows over altars inlaid with mother-of-pearl and onyx and lapis lazuli. Yet she could not deny that the godswood had a certain power too. Especially by night. Help me, she prayed, send me a friend, a true knight to champion me . . . -- Sansa II, ACOK.

I don’t think Sansa ever really turns away from her belief in the Seven to embrace the Old Gods as much as some claim. It’s the Seven she prays to during the Blackwater and the Mother she invokes when she sings for Sandor Clegane. She wants to light candles in the sept to ask the gods to protect Margaery and Loras. It’s more that she’s disillusioned with some of the earthly institutions and that causes a momentary flash of anger at the gods for (in her mind) never hearing her prayers.

When she’s in the Eyrie, a place devoid of spiritual connection or comfort, Sansa feels the pain of loss of both her religions.

It was the old days she hungered for. Prayed for. But who could she pray to? The garden had been meant for a godswood once, she knew, but the soil was too thin and stony for a weirwood to take root. A godswood without gods, as empty as me. -- Sansa VII, ASOS.

Even the gods were silent. The Eyrie boasted a sept, but no septon; a godswood, but no heart tree. No prayers are answered here, she often thought, though some days she felt so lonely she had to try. -- Sansa II, AFFC.

During this period of time, Sansa’s faith has taken a real beating from being manipulated and coerced into being a part of Littlefinger’s crimes. Cynicism and corruption appear to be winning for the time being as Littlefinger rises and succeeds in the Vale. The presence of spirituality in her inner dialogue has grown ever more faint and weary; however, as I’ve shown above, a restoration of faith is likely as she progresses toward Winterfell and reuniting with her siblings. Does that mean she will begin to embrace the Old Gods (and magic) and to let go of the Faith of the Seven? Maybe, we have to wait and see. Or it’s possible she expands her consciousness to accept more of both in her life.

Martin is a lapsed Catholic and atheist himself, but he never treats Catelyn or Sansa’s religiosity with the Seven as a joke or as less than religions that have demonstrable magic attached to them. I think it helps to keep in mind GRRM’s position on the nature of the relationship between characters, religion, and magic:

“Well, the readers are certainly free to wonder about the validity of these religions, the truth of these religions, and the teachings of these religions. I'm a little leery of the word "true" — whether any of these religions are more true than others. I mean, look at the analogue of our real world. We have many religions too. Are some of them more true than others? I don't think any gods are likely to be showing up in Westeros, any more than they already do. We're not going to have one appearing, deus ex machina, to affect the outcomes of things, no matter how hard anyone prays. So the relation between the religions and the various magics that some people have here is something that the reader can try to puzzle out.”

#valyrianscrolls #sansa stark meta #sansa stark #religion in asoiaf #the old gods #the faith of the seven #warging #skin changing #septs #godswoods #Lady #direwolf #magic in asoiaf #my meta #anonymous

57 notes · View notes

puckngrind · 4 years

Text

What’s in a Name: 13 - J. Toews

Chapter 13.

Where we left off: Christmas in Chicago where Bekah finds a hidden present in the tree.

Warnings: smut, language

Word Count: 4,102

Series Masterlist ) Puck ‘n Grind’s masterlist

Bekah had never felt more nervous than she did prepping for the team Christmas party. FaceTiming Brynn while going over details and watching Jon on television.

“Bekah, breathe! Sit, let’s chat. The party will be amazing tomorrow. They will all be drinking and they don’t care if it’s perfect they just want to hang out together. Plus, maybe lock your bedroom door and change your guest sheets.” Brynn turned on her mothering voice and Bekah stopped and looked at the phone propped up on the counter.

“Rin, this is my first big thing with the team, first. I don’t want to fuck it up! Also, did you just suggest that? No? Really! Here?” Bekah made a face trying to not think about what Brynn was insinuating as she leans against the counter and her new necklace dangles into view.

“Oh, my eyes! My eyes! It’s so, so bright!” Brynn jokingly yells shielding her eyes from the light bouncing off the diamond.

“Funny, Rin.”’ Bekah rocks the necklace between her fingers remembering when she opened the box a few days prior.

“Let’s talk about that fine piece of jewelry and what you thought it was, shall we?” This made Bekah scoop up the phone and crash on the couch. She didn’t answer Brynn. “Ok, I’ll start. That box was smallish from the picture you sent so I’m sure you thought it was something else, am I wrong?” Bekah’s face contorts and starts to speak but words don’t form. “Yeah, so, Bekah, what if it was a ring? Would you go all Bekah on him or say yes without question because you are madly in love with that man?”

“Rin, we’ve only been dating since April.” Bekah fiddles with the necklace. Her fingers tracing the platinum script T holding a diamond. She was sure Jon custom made for her but he wouldn’t answer her questions about it.

“Bekah, friend, love you but...” Bekah inhaled sharply and Brynn laughs. “But, you two have been together for almost four years. F-O-U-R! Four. Don’t give me this undefined horse shit. You are in love with each other. You are so so very good for each other. And when that man does propose in some ridiculously amazing romantic way, you my friend better say yes.”

“Yes, there you go baby!” Bekah’s attention went to the overtime game and Jon’s assist to win it.

“I mean that answer would work. Maybe leave out the last part. Just the first word will do.” Brynn laughs out and Bekah joins her.

“I better head to bed. Busy few days.” Bekah yawns.

“Oh yes, enjoy watching the Winter Classic at Notre Dame! We won’t talk about how jealous my husband still is.” Brynn whispers.

“Speaking of, tell him I said hello. I’ll talk to you soon.” With that the friends ended the call and Bekah headed to bed.

The next few days were jam packed with Blackhawks events. The Christmas party went well and then they all headed to South Bend for New Years. Jon and Bekah had team dinner where Jon mispronounced his own last name for the security guard just like Bekah thought it was pronounced back when they met. He was relaxed both Bekah and the team took notice. The two didn’t stay late and headed back to their hotel room before midnight. Jon kisses Bekah hard as the clock struck midnight. “I’m so glad I got to ring in 2019 with you, Beks.” He whispered with the sound of the New York City ball drop coverage on the television of their hotel room.

“Me too, Tae. Now we need to sleep. You have a big game tomorrow. I mean today.” Bekah kisses him again.

“2018 might have been the best year yet but I cannot wait to see what 2019 holds for us, you know?” He pulls at her leg to bring it up onto his hip. Jon’s other hand holding her head as their lips crash into one another.

“Agreed, Jon, but you need to sleep.” Bekah whimpers as they break for air.

“We will but I would like to see if 2019 sex is different.” Jon laughs as he pulls Bekah’s shirt off her body.

“I’m pretty sure it’s the same that it was this morning.” Bekah chirps as she takes his shirt off too.

“Well, let’s find out. Shall we?” His voice was low as he lowered both their bodies to the bed. “I mean we had a whole day of media and skating and it’s a new year.” He hovers over her body kissing down her jaw and sucking at the base of her neck.

“Yeah,”’ Bekah breathes out. “I’m just glad I didn’t fall on national television that’s all.” This makes Jon laugh into her skin.

“Me too, Baby. I’m sure they would have a field day with it too. Someone would mention that you were my girlfriend as you were flat on the ice.” Jon snakes down her body and back up to pull her nipples in between his teeth and fingers. Bekah’s body jolts up at the sensation. Her fingers run through Jon’s hair.

“Tae...” Bekah moans out as Jon drops further down her body to rid both of them of the rest of their clothing. His fingers slip through her folds and pump a few times.

“So ready for me aren’t you Baby?” Bekah nods as Jon replaces his fingers with the tip of cock then slides himself into Bekah while moving his body over hers as he bottoms out. She wraps her legs and arms around him pulling their bodies together and with all her might she rolls their bodies over. “Oh!” Jon’s voice sounds shocked as his back hits the mattress and Bekah sits up.

“This okay?” Bekah questions taking in Jon’s look. She runs her hands down his abs and repositions her body before rocking her hips.

“Fuck yes, it feels amazing.” Jon’s hips jolt up into Bekah and she grinds herself into him. Each movement elicits sounds of pleasure that escapes from their lips. Jon’s hands move from Bekah’s hips to cup her breasts. Running his thumbs over her peaks causing a jolt to pulsate through her body and she clinches around him. “Merde. Beks. Fuck.” Jon feels himself close. Bekah lowers her body flush with his and kisses him hard. His hands return to her hips and pulls her with the small rolling of his hips. He shutters and releases. Bekah’s body shakes and his arms wrap around her to keep her body attached to his. Both panting trying to catch their breath from that high.

“Well...” Bekah attempts to speak but cannot control her breath.

“Agreed.” Jon huffs out as he rolls their bodies to the side and runs his fingers through Bekah’s hair and down spine.

“Sleep. Tae. Sleep.” Bekah whispers as she cuddles up into him.

The experience of the Winter Classic was cold but fun. Brynn blew up her phone when she saw the coverage from family skate. Bekah was loved the look of pure joy on Jon’s face from the picture Brynn sent of the screen. That look was not mirrored in the game itself. The team didn’t do well but as Jon told the media, the experience was one he’d never forget. Bekah listened and wondered if he meant playing at the historic stadium or having her with him for the whole event. Maybe he meant both.

Bekah braced herself after the overtime loss to Nashville a few days later. This meant that her birthday might be spent with an uptight Jon focused on game tape and skating late. She instead woke up to the smell of coffee and breakfast in bed. “Joyeux anniversaire mon amour.” Jon leans over and kisses her lips.

“Merci Tae! But why does birthday sound like anniversary?” Bekah questions the French as Jon slides in front of her on the bed.

“It is the anniversary of your birth, Beks. Speaking of, you make 31 look damn sexy, Baby.” Jon takes the piece of bacon he was eating and waves it like a wand in her direction. “So beautiful.” Bekah feels the blush coming to her cheeks as she sips on her coffee.

“Don’t you have morning skate?” She looks at the clock puzzled.

“I took the day off.” Jon smirks. “I think they will call it a maintenance day. Wanted to spend the whole day with you.”

“We are celebrating my birthday at home before heading to Miami on break. We discussed this. Brynn is having my parents over and everything.” Bekah kicks her foot at Jon under the breakfast tray.

“We are. I just wanted to spend the day with you that’s all. Nothing big. We can lay in bed all day if you want.” His face lights up so his eyes are lost in his smile.

“Promise? No hidden presents? No surprises at dinner? Nothing?” Bekah’s eyebrows narrow.

“Dinner with Brandon and Alyssa only as promised.” Jon winks and crosses his heart with his finger.

“I saw that.” Bekah sips her coffee again.

“Swear. Just the four of us. Official birthday celebrations happening only in Ohio. Well, maybe a cake a dinner but that’s it.” Jon shifts and leans to kiss her lips. His promise held true. Dinner with the Saad’s only was different by the added cake the restaurant placed sparklers in and a small gift from Alyssa.

“You really didn’t need to get me anything.” Bekah looked at the gift bag Alyssa slid across the table.

“Nothing big, promise!” Alyssa motioned for Bekah to open it. Inside a tub of candy buckeyes and a kitchen flour sack towel that made Bekah laugh.

“What’s it say?” Jon leans over to read. “We’re a little nuts in this house.” The words flanked by a buckeye with it’s leaf and an outline of Ohio. “Hey!” Jon’s fake offend voice makes the table laugh.

“Thank you.” Bekah grabs Alyssa’s hand and squeezes.

“Saw it and thought of you. Plus the buckeyes are delicious and that company is from Columbus.” Alyssa smiles as the four resume dinner and discuss plans for break and upcoming home games.

Bekah sat nervously with her Winter Classic hat and new Toews jersey on as the Blackhawks took the ice after a five game losing streak. She knew if the next two games added to the streak that vacation would not be as relaxing as they both needed it to be. Jon’s goal in the first gave them a lead then he scored again in the third. Bekah was on the edge of her seat when she sees the pass to Jon and he redirects the puck into the back of the net. Bekah jumped with everyone in the arena. Hats start flying and she rips her hat off her head and tosses it towards glass. Jon skates by and blows her a kiss before heading back to the bench so the hats can be cleared. After the game, Bekah practically ran into his arms. He picked her up spun her around. “Seven!” She squeals as his lips press to hers.

“I’ll have to replace your hat but here, maybe this will make up for it.” Jon places her back on the ground and fishes the puck out of his coat pocket.

“Tae, that’s yours.” She realizes it his hat trick puck.

“I have plenty. This is your first. You called it way back when we met. Remember?” His hand brushes the hair that fell out of her bun she put her hair in after the loss of the hat. Bekah nods. “One more game then home and vacation.” Jon kisses her and leads her to the car.

Bekah was practically dancing as their plane landed Wednesday evening in Columbus. She was excited to have Jon back in her hometown even if it was only for a few days. Brynn was tasked to plan a small get together Friday evening for Bekah’s birthday but Jon told Bekah he wanted to explore her city just the two of them on Thursday. With everyone working and Jon not having hockey the thought of just meandering around Columbus was exciting.

“I want to go down to the river and walk.” Jon rounds the corner of their hotel room.

“Tae, it’s freezing outside! I thought we could do some of the inside things. You know, Art Museum or the Conservatory.” Bekah has a puzzled look plastered on her face.

“Come on, bundle up. We can do all the indoor things you want after lunch.” He kissed her lips and shuffled her towards the luggage.

“Maybe I should just wear my beach wear!” Bekah chuckles while looking over how ridiculous her luggage looked.

“I mean, I would love it but you might get frostbite in some interesting places.” Jon answers while Bekah comes out dressed in layers, her peacoat and knit hat already on.

“My gloves are missing.” Bekah shoves her hands in her pockets again.

“I’ll buy you new ones today and I’ll keep you warm on our walk. Promise!” Jon wraps her up and they head out to the street and towards the river. “This really is a beautiful area.” Jon breathes in the cold air and looks from the river to the buildings.

“I love it but don’t miss it as much as I thought I would.” Bekah snuggles into Jon’s side as he pulls her shoulder into him.

“I’m glad you said that. I never thought I’d get you to leave honestly. I dropped so many hints.” Jon shifts his weight and clears his throat.

“I remember. Every time you would say anything about Chicago I would doubt how someone like you would want me. I still sometimes don’t know how I got so lucky.” Bekah looks up at Jon. “You okay, Tae?” He stops walking and looks deep into Bekah’s hazel eyes the light hitting just right that the gold flecks dance.

“I’m the lucky one Beks. Something drew me to you in those tunnels like a magnet.” Jon whispers and places his forehead on Bekah’s. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you. I had to know more about you. Every time we were together I fell a little more for you. I counted down the weeks and months until the next time we could find our way back to each other.” Jon holds Bekah’s hips and she turns her head to take in his expression.

“Me too, Tae. What’s this about? You okay?” She removes her hand from her pocket and runs her thumb over his cheek. Jon places his hand over hers and breaths in deep.

“I’m more than okay. I love you Beks. I’ll love you forever if you let me. Always will. I, uh, I asked your dad a question in Chicago when they were there for Christmas.” Jon moves from their close embrace and drops to one knee. Bekah brings her hand right hand over her mouth since Jon hadn’t let go of her left.

“Are you... Tae?” Bekah whispers through her fingers and Jon looks up at her with all the love they share and tears forming.

“Rebekah Marie Pierce, will you do me the honor and become my wife?” Jon pulls out a box from his pocket and opens it with his fingers. Bekah gasps. “Beks, will you marry me?” Jon gulps.

“Yes.” Bekah nods her head, a happy tear breaks free from her eye as she whispers. Jon jolts to his feet and pulls her body into his, kissing her deeply. He breaks away and takes the ring out of the box.

“May I?” He smiles down at her and she nods her head. Jon slips the ring on her finger and breathes out a sigh of relief.

“Tae, this ring is perfect.” Bekah wiggles her cold fingers taking in the spectacular ring. Round diamond set in a vintage style halo rose gold band.

“I created it just for you.” Jon huffs and Bekah looks up at him.

“Were you holding your breath?” She questions and kisses him tenderly.

“Yeah. I know we love each other but that proposal could go one or two ways. You freaking out on me or just saying yes because you know this love we have will last a lifetime.” Bekah giggles at Jon’s admission.

“Well Brynn and I did discuss it and she reminded me that we have been together for awhile even without naming it.” Jon dips down and kisses her. Bekah’s hands come up to cup his face.

“Damn, your hands are cold. Maybe I shouldn’t have stolen your gloves.” Jon laughs.

“You stole my gloves?” Bekah pulls her hands to her lips and blows on them.

“Well I was nervous and didn’t want to fumble and lose the ring. Plus you won’t need them after our appointment.” Jon looks at his watch.

“Appointment?” Bekah’s voice raises.

“We have pedicures and you have a manicure after lunch. Figured there will be some pictures and showing off of the ring at dinner tomorrow.” Jon pulls her hand to his lips and kisses it. “So where does my fiancée want to go for lunch? I didn’t plan that.”

“Fiancée... whelp. Yup. You are my fiancé aren’t ya?” Bekah feels her cheeks flood with heat.

“Yes, fiancée and soon my wife. I think Mrs. Toews might become my favorite name for you... for now.” Jon runs his cold thumb over Bekah’s warm cheek making her shutter. “So Beks, lunch?” He brushes his lips against hers and starts walking back towards their hotel. Bekah decided on the same tiny cafe she took Jon to in 2015. He of course remembered their conversation about mind blowing sex and couple’s laugher bounced off the walls once more.

“I’ve never had a pedicure with a man.” Bekah’s hand slides into Jon’s as they dip their feet in the water. Jon’s fingers spinning the engagement ring around her finger.

“We should do it more often back home. I enjoy them and they are good for me feet after being in skates so much.” Jon brings their joined hands up to his lips. “This ring looks perfect on you.” Jon whispers and Bekah nods. “Are we telling anyone today or waiting until your birthday dinner tomorrow?”

“Let’s wait. Surprise them all.” Bekah giggles. “Maybe FaceTime your parents in? David?”

“They know already. Mom has been hounding me thinking I was proposing on Christmas then she thought I’d do it at the Winter Classic but when I told her I wanted to propose where we met she got all excited and told me she cannot wait to have you officially in the family.”

“So that’s why she asked me if there was anything new going on at Christmas and I went on and on about the foundation stuff.” Jon laughs.

“I’m assuming she may have thought you didn’t want to wear the ring.” He spins it again.

“I don’t want to take it off ever!” Bekah smiles as the Jon finishes his pedicure and walks across the street to grab coffees while Bekah moves to her manicure.

“He looks familiar.” The girl doing her nails says while working.

“Oh really?” Bekah smiles sweetly.

“Yeah, I cannot place why but something about him. He from here?” She looks up and Bekah tries to hide her amusement.

“No, Canada actually.” This stops the line of question and Jon reenters to pay and the two head to the car.

“Where to now Beks?” Jon asks after starting the car.

“Hotel is good. Curious...” Bekah bites her lip and Jon’s foot hits the gas making them laugh.

“I thought we were exploring today?” Jon turns toward their hotel.

“Tomorrow. We need to celebrate.” Bekah scratches at the back of his neck.

Jon quickly found his way to the hotel and pins Bekah to the side of the car. “You know, after all this time I’m still not a posed to taking you right here. It’s no longer your home or where you work.” Jon bites at Bekah’s ear.

“Or you can take me upstairs and not get out of bed until noon tomorrow?” Bekah nibbles at his lips. Jon stands and interlaces his fingers in Bekah’s. They make their way into the lobby and here Jon’s name. Some guy in a White Sox hat nods and Bekah shoves her left hand in her pocket. After stopping for a picture the couple was off again. Jon barely had the door latched before his lips were pressed against Bekah’s and her back against the wall. His hands reach down to cup her ass the lift her up. Bekah’s arms wrapped tightly around his neck. They wasted no time disrobing. Jon hovering over Bekah with his hardened cock. Bekah lifts her hips to rub the tip on her click. She exhaled with the sensation then Jon pressed in. His rhythm intentional hitting every spot he knows would elicit filthy sounds from Bekah’s mouth.

“Come on Beks. I’m there. Come with me.” Jon lifts his body from her’s to change the angle. Bekah slides her finger between their bodies and rubs her clit. “Fuck that’s hot.” Jon presses hard into Bekah sending their orgasms crashing over them. “Fuck. Damn. Fuck.” Jon grunts out as Bekah moves her hand before he crashes into her. Rolling off his hand reaches right in the center of his v line.

“What are you doing?” Bekah questions with a deep breath.

“Checking for blood. I’m good!” Bekah props up and looks to where Jon’s hand was. Fresh scratches had turned his skin pink.

“Fuck. Tae. Did I do that? I’m sorry.” Her fingers tenderly touch the scratches.

“Technically self inflicted since I gave you the ring. Learning curve. Plus you’ve seen some of my injuries. A little scratch is nothing.” Jon pulls her body on top of his and kisses her sweetly. “Round two in a minute there future Mrs. Toews?”

“Rebekah Toews. That doesn’t sound horrible.” Bekah starts to laugh and Jon catches her lips.

“Sounds fucking amazing.” He kisses her again. “I’m so glad you said yes.” Jon kisses her again and roll their bodies for more.

The sun woke both Jon and Bekah up the next morning. The evening of celebrating evident on their tired faces. How about we have breakfast, go do something then nap before dinner?” Jon whispers into his fiancée’s hair.

“Sounds amazing Babe.” Bekah starts to move and Jon pulls her back into his chest.

“I know I keep saying it but I’m so glad you said yes.” Jon kisses her temple.

“I really worried you didn’t I?” Bekah looks up at him and he nods. “Well I’m sorry. I never want you to question that I love you.” Bekah’s heart bings.

“That’s not it, Beks, I know you love me but nine months together and four years is a big difference.”

“I know and I freaked out for most of those four years and looking back I wonder what would have happened if I just let it happen.” Bekah whispers.

“I wonder all the time what would have happened if I met you back in Chicago in my rookie year.” Jon admits.

“I would have never met Rin.” Bekah realizes and Jon opens his mouth then closes it. “Speaking of, we need to get going to do something touristy before dinner.” Bekah pulls Jon’s tired body out of bed and to the shower. The two made their way around Columbus. Jon decided he wanted to see things she loved growing up. Bekah took him by her schools, the playground a boy kissed her on when they were five, her grandparents’ house she spent every Christmas at until he passed and Grandma moved. Jon pictured Bekah in every step. Every piece that made her, her. Before they knew it they were sitting in front of Derek and Brynn’s house. Bekah’s parents car sitting in the drive way. The two looked at each other.

“Ready?” Jon asked.

“Ready!” Bekah answered popping out of the car and into his embrace. The couple walked through the door and Brynn was the first to catch the ring on Bekah’s finger.

“Is that.... eeeeeeekkkkkkk?!?!” Brynn squeals with delight and rushes her best friend. Jon nods at Jim and Marie comes over to gush over the ring.

“So when’s the wedding?” Bekah hears her Grandmother’s voice from the couch.

“We haven’t...” Bekah starts.

“I was hoping this summer.” Jon matter of factly states and looks over at Bekah’s stunned face.

“Oh that soon. Would there be a reason?” Bekah’s grandmother questions and all heads snap in her direction then at Bekah’s. She feels the heat rising in her cheeks and her mouth goes dry.

#what’s in a name fic #wian #jonathan toews fic #tazer me 19 #love a damn blackhawk 🤦🏻‍♀️#happens in the 2018 2019 season #j toews fic #jonathan toews

67 notes · View notes

a-girl-must-have-a-new-name · 4 years

Text

Best One Yet

Gendry choked as he opened the Tyrell’s front door and a fog of dried ice assaulted him. However he waved it away and gallantly held the door open wider so that Arya could slip under his arm and enter.

“Wow Margaery really outdid herself again this year didn’t she!” It was more fact than question, one Gendry didn’t bother answering as they took in their surroundings for the evening. Margaery Tyrell had gone all out this year and had decorated her house as if it were a mausoleum, if mausoleums were underground vampire clubs of course. Columns that Gendry was at least seventy-five percent sure hadn’t been there before, now lined the entrance and into the ballroom of the estate. Instead of twinkling lights or whatever it was that they usually used for parties it seemed like Margaery and Loras had acquired a couple hundred sconces to light the house in a flickering candlelight. Gendry hoped that when the eventual fire would start Arya and he would be long gone. Though it seemed as though Arya had no such plan, eyeing the “mood lighting” in absolute delight.

“This is amazing! Robb had said Margaery had been going crazy the last week or so with planning, but even he has to admit it was worth it!”

“I don’t know, I kinda like last years theme better.” Last year had been a pumpkin carving party with tons of alcohol involved.

“That’s just because you enjoyed seeing Joffrey accidentally cut himself with a carving knife.”

“And you didn’t?”

“Well lets just say I wasn’t boo hooing as his goons dragged him to the hospital for stitches.” Arya smiled as she thought back to Joffrey almost fainting from the sight of all his blood.

“Arya, Gendry! I’m so glad you came!” Margaery Tyrell was on them in an instant hugging and kissing both on the cheek before pulling away to look at them.

“Love your costumes by the way! Please tell me that you’ll both enter the couples contest!” Margery spoke over the music. Arya looked up at Gendry coyly and shrugged. This year they had decided to go as Batman and Catwoman. Not the most original costume idea they’ve had but one that suited them fine nonetheless. In fact Arya was rather proud of the look. Having decided to go with a more vintage looking Catwoman, taking her inspiration right from Julie Newmar.

Arya had begged Sansa for months to make the costume and after promising to cover Sansa’s chores for the rest of the year. (As well as forking over the money for materials needed and a little extra for service) Arya couldn’t be happier! How Sansa had gotten the pattern needed and an almost exact type of fabric she couldn’t say but damn was her sister good at what she does. Sansa had even offered to help her do her hair and make up, styling it like Brigitte Bardot.

Arya had thought Gendry would go with the Nolan batman costume or something of that nature. To show off his stature and muscles, also because it was overall just bad ass if she had to say so. However, to her surprise Gendry showed up to her house in the Adam West Costume eyebrow mask and all. Once Arya could stand up straight again after laughing too hard she asked him why the choice?

“Who doesn’t want to be Adam West? Besides the other costumes made me look strange with all the extra padding sewn in on them.” Gendry did mention off-handedly, obviously a little embarrassed at the explanation but Arya couldn’t see why. Gendry had a great fucking body, one that was constantly on her mind if she was honest. He was well built from years of sports and hard work, lifting and carrying car parts and tools at his job at Mott’s Garage. He wasn’t crazy muscular like Dany’s Boyfriend was but he was still fit buff. In Fact with him wearing the batsuit she was reminded of vintage photos of American football players.

Shaking away her thoughts she turned back to Margaery admiring her own costume choice, Margaery had opted for a vampire look, befitting this year's theme. She was wearing a long flowy black sheer and laced corset dress with black and red roses adorning her hair in a makeshift crown that ended up cascading strategically down the back of her hair in smaller roses.

“Margaery your costume is great, I can see why Robb spent so much on his costume!” Arya

“Hey from what I heard my costume didn’t cost anything near what yours did. Hey Gendry what’s up? Batman nice!” Robb had joined the little group, greeting Gendry with their usual hug and leaned over to try and muss Arya’s hair who expertly dodged. Robb’s costume was very similar to Margaery's having an almost Victorian design with the same details sewn into the dress cape he wore. The group talked a little longer but Margaery had to excuse herself having hosting duties and Robb being the ever dutiful boyfriend followed her. Arya turned to Gendry eyed him up and down a glint in her eyes as she spoke

“Mr. Wayne would you care to dance?”

“Only if you call me Batman when we are out in public, Don’t want to have my identity known.”

“Purrr-fect.” Arya jokingly said as she grabbed Gendry’s hand and excitedly led him to the dance floor. Where a dark techno beat was blasting. For the next hour or so they danced. It was truly an eclectic set Margaery had put together. one moment it was a haunting waltz music which unsurprisingly for the group that had gathered all knew. (products of their upbringings) Gendry was a little nervous only having learned these dances later in life but Arya gently reminded him as they went and soon it was no problem at all for him, even surprising her once or twice with twirls and dips.

There were also the songs where they pull each other closer, moving rhythmically to the slowed hypnotic beats. A growing frustration at wanting to be even closer to each other, often forgetting where they were and getting caught up in the moment. Only getting a warning click of disapproval from Jon once, before his girlfriend Ygritte dragged him away.

While jumping along when rave music blasted. After one final dance, one that was exceptionally energetic, Gendry pleaded for a break and both moved towards the refreshment tables. Gendry in search of food and drink for them while Arya looked for a place to sit.

“Arya come sit at my table!” Sansa’s voice rang out clearly but Arya had trouble placing it until a wild hand beckoned her forward.

“Sansa is that you?” Arya was shocked instead of seeing her normal long Tully red hair Sansa was wearing a short dark black wig. Styled in a classic men's side part. It was jarring to see her with dark short hair. Arya thought rather enviously that it suited her even better than when Arya sported a short cropped hairstyle all those long years ago. Sansa’s delicate features were highlighted even more. And was it possible that Sansa’s blue eyes looked even brighter because of the dark color? Life was unfair.

However, Arya didn’t dwell on it like she would have years ago instead she smiled widely and approached Sansa who for her part was lounging at the table she had acquired and was looking around the room from time to time.

“This is great isn’t it? I think it’s even better than junior year's Rocky Horror theme!” Sansa exclaimed as Arya plopped down beside her.

That year had been a karaoke party while the film continuously played on loop on one of the dance floor walls. Sansa had been dragged up to the mic to sing and pretty much stole the show. Well at least she had until Olenna Tyrell walked down the stairs for a drink and came face to er- Renly Baratheon's gyrating hips as he danced drunkenly on one of the tables.

It had been a night to remember truly. Especially when Olenna surprised everyone and grabbed the mic from Sansa’s hands and with a strength that a woman of her age shouldn’t have possessed pulled Renly down from the table and had him singing along with her in no time.

“That was a pretty great party.” Arya admitted remembering Sansa’s scandalized face at the time.

“Hey Arya I grabbed a whole bunch of different things to eat! I even snagged a goodie bag for dessert. I figured we can grab a few more later. Margaery isn’t going to notice- Oh hey Sansa almost didn’t recognize you! Great costume but I thought Arya said you were going as the little mermaid?”

“Oh I am, however somebody made a better case that they should be Ariel” Sansa replied casually with a conspiratorial smile forming across her lips as she looked behind them.

“Sup Bitches! Gendry I love what you’ve done with your brows!” Theon shouted loudly as he placed two bottles on the table, a water for Sansa and a beer for him.

Gendry who had taken a bite out of his cupcake once again began to choke, though Arya couldn’t be worried at the moment as she grinned wildly at Theon reaching over the table to give him a high five. Theon had a long red wig on and a purple seashell bra that was slightly skewed. His bottom half Arya was happy to see covered by a mertail. Which was connected to a stick so he could move it around.

“Alright I give up, Gendry I don’t think we are going to win the costume contest.”

“That’s fine with me, if you guys don’t win it, the contest is rigged!”

“Come on now, I think we’ve got a good shot to win this year” Ygritte's voice came from behind as everyone turned to look at them. Ygritte and Jon looked absolutely ridiculous in their Scoops Ahoy costumes.

Jon had absolutely refused at first, saying there was no way he’d walk around looking like that. Contest or not.

However, it was no surprise to Arya that, that evening as she was walking through the hallway she spotted Jon meticulously adjusting the sailor hat to sit perfectly on his locks. Jon having caught her looking only sighed defeatedly and shrugged his shoulders. As if to say “what can you do?”

Everyone moved around so that there was more room at the table and Theon nodded his head regarding the newest members of the table looking them up and down before his normal sly smile crept across his face.

“I’ll give it to you, you’ve got the upper hand in terms of popularity at the moment. But what Sans and I’ve got is pure classic nostalgia, and humor. Though I do have to admit Snow, those shorts are a riot!”

“Not to mention you really nailed the hair Harrington!” Robb joined the conversation plopping on the only chair left at the table next to Jon and ruffling his hair. Causing Jon to curse moving out of reach and adjusting the hat once more.

“Where’s Margaery? Sansa asked, looking around for her.

“She’s setting up for the runway right now.” Robb answered as he swiped Theon’s beer taking a sip for himself while Theon went to go get more drinks for the table.

“She got a runway for this?” Gendry asked in disbelief, rich people never stopped surprising him.

“Hey at least it’s not a haunted mansion like she rented three years ago.” Robb offered knowingly. Patting Gendry on the back.

“But Harrenhal was awesome. I want to go back!” Arya defended. Gendry looked visibly ill at the thought. That was back before they had become a couple, they had decided to go to the party with their friend Hot Pie. It was not a good night for Gendry who up until that moment had been able to keep his fear of jump scares and ghost to a minimum. It also didn’t help that some pretty boy named Jaqen had gone along on their group's tour, walking with Arya and laughing at the scare actors and tour guide as they went.

The only thing that made the tour bearable was after one close call of Gendry nearly hitting a worker with his Thor hammer. Arya having realized what was wrong, left the front of the group to walk side by side with him the rest of the night. Taking his hand in preparation for the next scare, and squeezing it to reassure him before letting go again. At some point in the night Gendry just kept a hold of her hand. And within the week they were going out. So yeah maybe Harrenhal wasn’t as bad as he remembered. But still the thought of the creepy burnt house and all the ghost and ghouls that were there was enough to keep him away for a lifetime

The rest of the night ended up staying for the most part at the table, laughing and reminiscing on Halloween’s past. Theon caused everyone to cry from laughter as he retold highlights of his tricks as a child. How he had successfully tee-peed old Walder Frey's house and never got caught. To which Robb added that he never got caught only because Robb was blamed for it instead. It cost Robb a month of cleaning and yard work at the man’s house to make up for it.

Arya had moved from her chair at some point to sit on Gendry’s lap and leaned into the crook of his neck enjoying the feeling of his body laughing at her brother’s wild antics. It was nice to see the usually stoic man open up and enjoy other peoples company. But Arya knew it was only because this was her crazy family and he’d known all of them just as long as she’d known him. He was just as much a part of the stories as anyone else.

The group ate and drank the rest of the night, Robb having left half way through to go help Margaery once more, and soon the contest had begun. The crowd cheered as each couple walked the runway. Margaery and Robb walked first after having explained they wouldn’t be competing but still thought the costumes deserved to be appreciated. They looked like quite the power couple. Then after a while Jon and Ygritte had their turn. Both laughing as they walked, people screaming their character’s names and quoting the show as they went. As they sat back down Jon winked at Arya.

“Beat that.”

“Oh trust me, we will!” feeling her competitive streak rise up Arya hopped out of Gendry’s lap and grabbed his arm dragging him along. After quickly consulting with each other on what they were going to do Arya ran back stage to hand her phone to Margaery asking her to play it on the sound system. By the time Arya got back to Gendry it was almost their time to walk. And as soon as the original batman theme started playing the crowd went wild. Gendry ran out on stage karate chopping and punching the air in wild broad strokes in time with the music. Meanwhile Arya waited until he was about two thirds of the way down the runway and then she was going. Thanking her parents for all the years of gymnastics she had taken Arya carted her way down. Twisting and flipping perfectly down the line. Before landing perfectly next to Gendry. Both grinned like idiots as they took a sweeping bow. Confident in their spot they hopped off the Stage Gendry catching Arya easily in his arms which added more fuel to the fire as the crowd laughed and cheered even more. Walking back to their table Arya eyed Ygritte coyly before asking.

“Still think you're winning?”

“No, no we know when we’re beat.�� Ygritte laughed.

“I just hope you know when you Are.” Jon said with a chuckle as he pointed to the stage where Sansa and Theon were alreadying posing. And once the regular music started once more. Both started to strut the runway. In tandem looking like ridiculous models. At some point Theon somehow was able to wrap the part of the tail that was attached to a stick around his neck dramatically like a scarf before ripping it free at the end of the walk. Sansa for her part pulled out a sword from a hilt and started brandishing it. Arya quickly realized it was her prized fencing sword Jon had bought her. But couldn’t find it in herself to be mad. Instead she threw her head back wolf whistling as Theon turned “seductively” around showing the complete costume. In the end it really was no contest. Sansa and Theon won by a landslide. And after a long winded and completely unnecessary acceptance speech on Theon’s part. (which Arya was very sure she heard Jon muttering to himself that he wished Theon would actually lose his voice.) The party had drawn to a close. The group separated all feeling like the night wasn’t quite over. Gendry hummed in content as he and Arya made it back to his apartment. Having ditched the costumes for more comfortable clothes Arya was snuggled up on the couch in one of Gendry’s large t-shirts, as Gendry flipped through dvd’s before finally settling on one. Quickly putting it in and turning off the lights he sat on the couch as well, gladly letting Arya into his space as she leaned against him once more. Arya laughed as the title menu for the batman show lit up the screen.

“Not tired of it yet?”

“No way gotta pay homage to it right?”

“Right, and what better way than a marathon and candy?”

“Oh shit I forgot to get the goodie bags!”

“I know, that’s why I swiped them, when you were asking Robb if they needed any help cleaning.”

“Why you crafty little thief there’s like 10 bags here!” Gendry laughed as Arya pulled her bag she had taken for the night out and revealed all the treats she had grabbed. Arya merely shrugged, pulling two out and tossing one to Gendry.

“ What can I say? I really wanted to pay homage to Catwoman.”

This was hands down Margaery’s best Halloween party yet.

#gendrya fic #arya x gendry #asoiaf fic #game of thrones #arya stark #gendry waters #gendrya

40 notes · View notes

constantlytiredghost · 4 years

Text

Apparently I kinda blacked out yesterday night wrote 1k+ words that I only have a vague recolection off and am now owner of a new AU that I have no plot for :’D Now I just gotta figure out where I want to go with this :’))

Martin couldn’t remember how he got here. He had been in the woods and then….. nothing.

To be fair.

He still was in the woods. Sort of.

But he didn't think that there was a library in the woods.

Libraries didn't belong in the woods, did they?

But there clearly were bookshelves right in front of him.

Tall bookshelves that reached high towards the sky that was barely visible between thick branches.

There weren't any actual walls or a ceiling. No, that was wrong. There used to be walls and a ceiling, at least Martin thought so. There are still some ruins indicating that it was a building once. Half crumbled walls with broken windows and wooden beams that might have supported an actual roof once. But all of it had clearly crumbled long ago leaving only bookshelves that had been overgrown by vines.

Dry leaves crunched under Martin’s feet as he walked through the row of shelves. Most of them were still whole and in surprisingly good condition, just like the books that filled them.

Some seemed like they had been victims of smaller rodents or rain with gnawed on corners and stains on them and there even was a bird's nest in one of the higher shelves but most seemed like your typical well kept books, that one could find a regular library. A library that wasn’t in the middle of the woods.

Martin traced his fingers along a few of them before he grabbed one and pulled it out. He still somehow expected it, to simply crumble into dust between his fingers, but it didn’t so he carefully opened it.

The paper felt dry and brittle between his fingers, but it didn’t break. It felt old. Not a normal old, not a -you could find this in an antique store- old, but an old that had a tangible weight behind it. The words that filled the pages inside of it seemed handwritten and were in a language that Martin didn’t know or recognise.

It made him question even more how he ended up here, but he just couldn’t remember.

He sighed and closed the book, gingerly putting back into the empty space where he had taken it from.

Staying here and staring at books certainly wouldn’t help him get home, so he started walking again. Brushing his fingertips along shelf boards as he made his way deeper into the strange forest library. He came by a few seating arrangements consisting of moth-eaten seats and slightly rotten tables. One even had a cup standing on it, filled with what Martin assumed was rainwater and a small frog that seemed very content with his little pool.

“Don’t think you can tell me how I got here, huh?” Martin wondered out loud. The frog didn’t reply. Martin wasn’t even sure if it was aware of his presence, but that also wouldn’t be anything new.

“Thought so.” he said with a sigh. “Would’ve been too easy, right?”

For a moment he thought about taking both, cup and frog, with him, but he decided against it. He didn’t want to startle the animal even if it didn’t seem to care about him so far. In general, it felt wrong to change anything about this place as if it would interrupt something bigger if he did so.

So he kept on going, following the paths between the shelves. In the beginning, he tried to keep in mind the course he was taking but with more and more crossings to add to the mix and soon gave up.

If he was lost, then he was lost. It wasn’t like he hadn’t been lost from the beginning.

The deeper he walked into the labyrinth of shelves, the more he could see of the stone floor as the leaves under his feet grew less and less. The branches and leftover beams above him slowly got replaced by a wooden roof. It was still patchy and had holes in it. Some bigger some smaller but it was an actual roof instead of a forest canopy. Maybe he was getting closer to the centre or something similar. Or just a part of the building that was less of a ruin.

Just as he had finished that thought, he stepped out of the path between the shelves into an opening. It was circular with various passages between more shelves leading to and from it and filled with long tables with chairs around them. It looked a bit like a study hall or something similar. At the opposite end of it was a stone wall—a stone wall with a door in it.

Martin didn’t know where the door led, but it certainly was a change scenery. He hesitated a bit before he stepped further into the area and made his way through the tables. He stopped in front of the door. It was wooden and seemed old, just like the rest of the library. It even had some mushrooms growing out of it. Spindly little things with white stems and purple hats. They didn’t look like any mushrooms Martin had seen before, and he had to resist the irrational urge to touch them just to see if something interesting would happen.

Maybe all of this was a dream? It certainly seemed strange enough to be one, but at the same time, it lacked the dream-like quality.

Martin pinched himself just to be sure, but he didn’t wake up, so it seemed real enough. Probably. With a sigh, he pushed against the door.

It opened without any resistance. There wasn’t even so much as a creak of unoiled hinges like one would assume from such an old door. Martin stood in the doorway starring into the dimly lit interior until his eyes got at least slightly used to it.

It was an office...used to be an office? The room behind the door held a big desk filled with stacks of more or less ordered papers mixed with dried leaves and other plant matter. Martin stepped closer, looking around as the door fell shut behind him without a sound.

Besides the desk, there were also more shelves filled with books and scrolls and loose papers. A crash from Martin’s right startled him and made him whirl around.

There was another doorway leading to another room. A doorway which was currently occupied by another man who looked at him just as shocked as Martin himself felt. He was small, at least smaller than Martin with dark hair that was lined with grey streaks. And the crash seemed to have come from the books that now laid at his feet.

“Who are you?” the man asked. He sounded gruff, but not necessarily unfriendly. He mostly seemed surprised and unsure.

“Oh..uh... I’m Martin. Martin Blackwood.”, Martin introduced himself. “And I think I might be lost?”

“Lost? Well, that might explain some things.” the man muttered, more to himself than to Martin and moved to pick up the books he had dropped earlier.

“Does it?” Martin asked, watching as the man placed the books on another book stack that was already on the large desk. The man only hummed in response.

“Maybe.”, he said then, which did nothing to clear up Martin’s general confusion.

“And you are…?” he asked then hesitatingly. Unsure what to make of the man that seemed just as strange as the library.

The man looked up from the desk, fixating Martin with dark eyes.

“Me? Oh, yes, sorry, I forgot. I am the Archivist. You can call me Jon, I suppose.” the Archivist, no Jon offered with a crooked smile.

“Archivist? So this is your library?” Martin asked, pushing further. Jon shrugged.

“No. Well, yes. Maybe. Might as well be. I’m the only one here most of the time.”

“Most of the time?”

“I mean there’s the beast.”

Slowly Martin started to think that he had ended up in a fairytale. A library in the woods, a strange Archivist and now a beast. He wondered what that would make him.

“A beast?” he pushed on.

“You didn’t meet him?”

Martin shook his head. He was pretty sure that he would remember a beast if he had met one.

“Huh. That’s weird. Well, I mean he’s not really a beast. I mean he is, sort of, sometimes, but he’s not a monster or anything. He guards the archive. How did you say you get here again?” Something seemed to have picked Jon’s interest because the look in his eyes had changed.

Now it was Martin’s turn to shrug.

“I was in the woods, I think? And then I got lost? I mean I think I got lost I can’t remember, but next thing I remember is standing between bookshelves.” Martin shrugged again. “I had hoped you could help me find a way back, maybe.” he added then.

Jon tilted his head slightly.

“Maybe.” he agreed then. “I’m not sure myself, but I can try. I might have to check a few things though and read some things up. That might take a while.” He looked at Martin as if trying to read him for a second. “You’re welcome to stay here during that time, wouldn’t want to get you any more lost, right?”

“I, uh...thank you?”

Martin wondered what Jon had to look up and why he couldn’t just point him back in the right direction. Still, something told him that this probably wasn’t all that easy and that ending up in libraries that shouldn’t exist in the first place took a slightly more creative solution than a few vague directions and a pat on the shoulder.

“No problem. Shouldn’t take more than a few days hopefully. I can show you your rooms? If you want?” Jon looked at Martin questioningly.

“That would be nice.”

“Well, then. Follow me.” Jon waved him along and vanished back through the doorway in which Martin had seen him the first time.

After wavering for a second Martin followed. If Jon wanted to harm him in any way, there was nothing much that would stop him no matter where Martin stayed. And there was still a beast that apparently lurked outside of the ruins of this very strange archive. He would take his chances and simply hope that this wasn’t a fairytale where Jon turned out to be the witch that was planning to eat him.

#nat writes #tma #jonmartin #jongerrymartin #gerry is the beast I think #to me this feels like dark academia and corvidcore had a baby idk #i like this i think #now I just need a plot #and motivation #and time #and I want an abadoned forest library myself #also this is not really proof read at all but #cant bring myself to care #magical library au

39 notes · View notes

sdvbrsb · 3 years

Text

the Core 500 is covered with faux brushed aluminum plastic

Up front, the Core 500 is covered with faux brushed aluminum plastic that's similar to nike air max 102 essential white the finish on the front panel of the Define S. (It's not yet rated for side crashes.) Safety equipment on the test vehicle included a tire pressure monitoring system, theft deterrent system, four wheel disc brakes with rear wheel anti lock, multistage front airbags and a security alarm.. “I had need of a strong escort to see me safely to the king, and Lady Sybelle had need of fewer mouths to feed.” A scarf concealed the tall man’s features, but atop his head was perched the queerest hat Asha had seen since the last time she had sailed to Tyrosh, a brimless tower of some soft fabric, like three cylinders stacked one atop the other. Your breasts can always get a larger shape especially if you are skinny right now. Scott Sanders and his girlfriend Angela only planned to live in their RV for a month upon moving to the Colorado Springs area, until Sanders lost his job and had a hard time finding an affordable nike air vortex desert sand apartment.Thousands are moving to southern Colorado and many of them struggle to find work and affordable housing. There will befour beers on draft, four cans, four bottles, and a cellar list of "more exotic" offerings. And another thing, she wants some sort of a passport. Upgrading to include a helicopter tour makes an already great trip even better, as the helicopter gives you a bird's eye view of this natural wonder. 20.) One of the most distinguished of the Frankish bishops was St. Those guards at your door are a bad jape. Queen’s men all, Jon Snow knew. Mother asked where I was going. Good to see that Old Navy is coming to Laurel. Do not your masters, under God, provide for you? And how shall they be able to do this, to feed and to clothe you, unless you take honest care of everything that belongs to them? Remember that God requires this of you; and, if you are not afraid of suffering for it here, you cannot escape the vengeance of Almighty God, who will judge between you and your masters, and make you pay severely in the next world for all the injustice you do them here. “I will see that they are presented to the queen.” Selyse Baratheon would take to these three better than she had to Val, he suspected; they were younger and considerably more cowed. 11 by Islamic extremists headed by bin Laden, but also many felt first hand the fallout from the attacks. They required him to renounce abolitionism, and promise obedience to the laws. With her flashing black eyes, which looked somehow foreign, her thick, dishevelled, black hair, and her mute, fixed, enigmatic gaze, the little creature might well have attracted the notice of anyone who passed her in the street. She was chastised with mochila apex puma 35 l puma a lawful weapon,—was in weak health, nervous, made angry by her punishment,—excited. That's due in part to the new "thin seat" design Chevy has incorporated. Now for how the Broncos quarterback position get tricky. Researchers at the Technische Universit M (TUM) have now developed a technology using a compact synchrotron source that measures not only X ray absorption, but also phase folie samsung j6 2018 pt tot telegonil shifts and scattering. He will be missed by all of us that knew and loved (I can hear him gagging at my sentimentality ) him.. “Almost from the first time I met him I had an overwhelming desire that he should be mine, mine at once, and that he should not look at anyone, should not know anyone but me. I haven had many attempts at that height this year. She gazed a bokacsizma bakancs long while at the thick, green foliage, at the setting sun, and suddenly asked the others to leave us alone.. Reid and Holm crashed the net and Reid's rebound attempt was saved. The agent for Northrop’s release testifies to this, and it has biciclete rusesti vechi been generally admitted fact. Blue-eyed shadows walked amongst the mounds of snow. I guess it was naive to expect anything else, but God almighty, why do people do these things. casquette ny kaki mère It would have been a bad decision even from an on field umpire. First and foremost, being overweight does increase your risk of developing type 2 diabetes, and consuming too much sugar can contribute to weight gain.. 751 N. If the reader wishes to know what kind of preaching it is that St. Kedry had been fluent in the tongues of all of the Free Cities, and even the mongrel Ghiscari that men spoke along the shores of Slaver’s Bay. When we have succeeded in persuading them that anything is necessary to be done, then will be the time for bringing up the question whether the object shall be accomplished by an immediate or a gradual process. Just doesn seem like a smart comment to make from a player motivation perspective.. The three Dornishmen cheered with all the rest. Yarwyck shrugged. Even in frigid temperatures, it's important to replace the water that's expended in the form of sweat and breath. The battle over the Council for Tobacco Research culminated this month as New York's attorney general went to court маратонки puma mercedes amg to try to strip the tax exempt status of the council and the Tobacco Institute, the industry's lobbying and public relations arm, both incorporated in New York. Clare finally has the life she's always wanted and everything seems perfect until the people closest to her begin dying in violent and elaborate ways after each polo raflorene wish. There were four four point circles on adidas mariposas the court 35 feet from the basket, and if a player made a shot while standing in the circle, the shot was worth four points. “Wait,” she’d said. 23, and again at the Dew Tour stop in Breckenridge, Colo., on Dec. When I was there we were under resourced to the point where it was a waste of time and life. "The whole media conflict is self destructive at best. “They call him frog,” she said, “and we have just learned why. Declare war on insects. However, caution is advised when taking ACE inhibitors such as captopril, enalapril, and lisinopril because the high potassium content in acai may potentially increase the potassium levels in the blood when taken along with ACE inhibitors. He seized the brazier with his off hand and flipped it, scattering embers and hot coals at Selmy’s feet. Tyrion knew eunuchs when he saw them. I was a little overawed by how good he was in his craft. But I didn't mind that, because I knew I had to deliver, and only then would they develop confidence in me. Les mdecins n'ont jamais vu a, a t il avou. That did not make them easier to say. The other key features involve 22 foot power cord; S shaped brushes, Stain Trapper tool for pet urine. The structure of an active comet. From the twenty three tests analyzed, just 12 had been think about audio methodologically sufficient to incorporate. All the best!. Sigorn’s father, the old Magnar, had been crushed beneath the falling stair during his attack on Castle Black. He almost retched it right back up. Rowand has five or six children, the elder of them large enough to have carried pieces of the wood about the room; there must have been a severe contusion, and much extravasation of blood, to infer death from violence in this case; apoplexy is frequently attended with extravasation of blood; there were two Marias in the family..

1 note · View note

silver-colour · 4 years

Text

fic: The Long Road Home

Summary: Martin was just going outside for a walk, and then the world ended. Now he has to find his way home, to Jon, before it’s too late. AKA Martin’s pov of the events of MAG160

Tags: h/c, panic attacks, canon-typical comfort (theyre alive and together); all dialogue you recognize is from mag160

Written for @themagnuswriters TMA h/c week, day 7, for the prompt “panic attack”

Read the whole fic under the Read More, or HERE on Ao3

And HERE is the Ao3 collection for all my fics this week!

“Obviously I’m going to tell you if I see any good cows,” Martin said, already turning around to grab his coat. The days had been getting much colder and windier since their arrival in Scotland. If they were going to stay here all winter one or both of them might have to travel to a larger town to get some winter gear.

As he pulled on his boots Martin started making a mental list of things they might need: coats and hats, definitely, and possibly sturdier shoes as well. Strangely enough the cabin had a large collection of gloves, in which they should be able to find some to last them the winter. What they really needed was food, some stuff they could stockpile.

As Martin locked the door behind him he had to suppress a shudder. He had gotten rather good at stockpiling food with long shelf life since the Hive attacked him. And gods, didn’t that feel like ages ago now? The memories were still enough to wake him at night, sometimes, both in London and here. Whenever he woke from worm-infested dreams, he had to check the cupboards, and the fridge, and see if there was enough food there to last them a long time.

It’s a compulsion he hasn’t been able to rid himself of, even if it wasn’t the worst thing to be compulsive about. As Jon had put it once, after finding Martin in the kitchen at impossibly-early-AM: “it can’t hurt to be prepared, right?”

So Martin had been bringing extra groceries every time he went down to the village. A few cans of food here, some dried pasta or bottled water there. Their stores were doing alright, but if they wanted to be comfortable for the winter, instead of just surviving, he’d have to look into getting some nicer things as well. Perhaps some extra fruit preserves, and dried meat?

Still compiling lists and thinking about recipes (more tea, definitely more tea, and should he already be preparing for Christmas? What if they got snowed in? They should check the shed out back, make sure there was enough firewood as well), Martin emerged from the stretch of forest behind the cabin.

Looking up the hill he could see the clouds tumbling and chasing each other across the sky in the same wind that grabbed at his coat. Definitely getting colder– soon it wouldn’t even be decent hiking weather without wearing a scarf and hat. The path uphill meandered and circled, sometimes branching off to go downhill and up the next one. Martin was halfway up the path, about to take the corner that would bring him back in view of their safehouse, when he felt the winds pick up, ike someone flipped a switch.

For a moment Martin had to lean his entire weight against the sudden gale of wind, then it lapsed as abruptly as it started, leaving Martin to tumble over his feet around the corner. He hit the ground hard, cushioning his fall with his arms, tearing his coat in the progress. He blinked, dazed for a moment, resting his head on his arms for a breath before getting up.

Had it been only a moment? A creeping, sneaking fear whispered the question in his mind. Hasn’t it been much longer? Aren’t you lost out here, aren’t you hurt, and abandoned, and alone?

The light had changed in the short(had it been short?) time he’d closed his eyes– still enough to see, but it looked more like twilight now than mid-day. He’d have to go home right away, Jon must be worried by now. Fighting the pain in his arms as well as the creeping fear, Martin struggled upright, attempting to wipe the mud of his knees, his coat, and blinked.

He looked around at where the safehouse should have been visible. Instead there was… everything– nothing– certainly not what had been there when he left. The path down the hill was a mess of spirals, and confusing roads crossing, linking up and breaking off. The forest at the foot of the hill seemed to loom, even though Martin stood higher than the forest. It appeared to reach for him, for the surrounding land, as though it wanted to reclaim it all, and keep it forever in it’s choking, wooded embrace.

And then there was the sky. Though the wild winds were still there, now pulling in many different, unpredictable directions, the sky had lost all clouds. Its colour was one no sky should ever, could ever be. That of bruises both old and new, and in it was– God. That was no moon or sun. That looked entirely too much like– like an eye.

You’re alone, now, Martin, and so very, very lost. Who will find you now, Martin Blackwood, out here where no one knows you, where none remember you–

He shook his head, attempting to get rid of the whispers, the all too familiar thoughts burrowing into their old places again. He didn’t have time for this, he had to get back to Jon.

Could this be caused by a ritual? The rituals weren’t supposed to work at all, Jon had said. He’d said it would never work to only bring a part of the Whole That Is Fear into this world. Yet this looked an awful lot like someone had succeeded. Whatever this mess was, he had to get back.

Surveying the crooked path Martin dimly wondered whose ritual this was supposed to be. Were those spirals moving? He’d never find his way back across those. He stared straight downhill, at the impossibly looming forest, to where he knew the cabin should be– to where Jon was.

Dead ahead and downhill then? The way would be rocky, and dangerously slippery, and the going very slow. But it was more likely to keep him going in the right direction. Martin dreaded losing sight of the forest, and the-place-where-the-safehouse-was. Somehow it felt like he’d never see it again, if he followed the spinning, twisted path back around the corner.

Path decided, Martin straightened his back, pushed down the thoughts spiralling in his head (you’ll never make it Martin, what will Jon think when he finds you’ve abandoned him? Perhaps he’ll be glad–) and started the climb down.

Climbing was hard, much harder than it had looked from the path, rocks loosening up when he tried to steady himself, edges scratching at his palms, and his knees, slowing him down even as they tried to throw him down.

Every step felt unprepared, rushed and unsafe, yet took forever. When Martin crossed a new path, this one twisting in a gravity-defying way, he slumped down for a moment to catch his breath. Looking down he still had so very far to go– looking down the impossible path it tempted him again, to just take the road, it’s a little longer, sure, but won’t it be easier, and faster in the end?

It was unnerving, how accurately it knew his thoughts, what way best to tempt him into what would certainly be an endless maze. It sounded so much better. Which was why he couldn’t trust it, could not take that path.

Further down, ever further down he climbed, for what could be hours, and felt like days. Martin lost all sense of time, but surely, surely the hill hadn’t been this high this morning? Or even when he stood up there on the path, and made the decision to climb down?

A rock shifted under his feet, then a second one slipped loose in his hand and he was falling, plunging down, far too fast–

When he opened his eyes he found himself staring up at the wrong-sky above, one of the eyes (hadn’t there been only one before?) staring straight down at him. With consciousness pain flooded through him, telling him he was bruised and battered all over. More than that he could feel himself being watched, being Seen, and coldly judged, and left alone to suffer his pain.

And really, truly, wasn’t this what Loneliness was? Worse than inside the Lonely, where he felt nothing but loneliness, here he was: Seen, Known, lying on the ground at what might as well be the end of everything; to be out here without anything, no one to help him, no one to save him, all alone–

Martin curled up on his side, bruised limbs protesting loudly at his every movement. He might as well be in the Lonely again; the result was the same, and the pain would be less.

A cold washed over him, a feeling of distance, from himself, from the Eyes and the spiralling paths, from the pain in his limbs and the despair in his heart. The Lonely had never quite let him go, and was coming back for him now, to suffocate him in nothingness; to bring him back to that place where he didn’t have to care that no one would miss him. After all, it was his own choice this time. Better to be Alone, than the stay, and see the aftershocks of the death of the world he once knew. His only regret was–

Jon.

Jon was still out there. What was Martin doing, what was he thinking? Jon was still waiting for him, he had to be– perhaps he was even looking for Martin right now. He had to get back to Jon. Jon might know (might Know) what to do, how to fix this– this thing that was no longer their world.

Under even louder protest Martin unfurled his limbs and slowly, very slowly stood back up. He was at the bottom of the hill; he’d made it down! Not the way he’d wanted to, but certainly faster than his descent thus far had been. His jeans were torn in several places, and his coat would certainly not help him in the winter– would there still be a winter? Martin could feel that cold creeping back at the thought, and willed himself to start moving.

He could worry about wintery weather when it arrived. There were bigger problems for now.

Here at the bottom of the hill the forest seemed even more ominous than it had before, malevolent roots seemed to reach for him, whip-like branches twisting in his direction, and despite the fact that the larger-than-life trees obstructed any view of the sky he felt Watched. Perhaps the Eyes wouldn’t be stopped by something as simple as wood and leaves. Or perhaps there was something in the forest watching him.

Martin quickened his pace. Despite his aching legs, and complaining back and bruised everything, he had to get through this. He had to reach Jon. So despite the oppressive fear that hung like webs between the trees, the need to make himself small, and the feeling of have-to-hide, he squared his shoulders and walked on.

The forest watched his every move, his every step, but now that he didn’t need to climb a rocky slope Martin could pay attention to the path. He avoided several gnarled roots that attempted to trip him, and never strayed from the road. This path, at least, had not been affected by the spirals on the hill. Somehow, Martin got the feeling that the forest would not have let that happen.

After a meaninglessly long amount of time, Martin emerged from the tangled forest. Up ahead, at the normal distance from the forest where it had stood before, was their safehouse. It looked the same, untainted and unmoved by the changed world around it. Which might have been worrying, if Martin had stopped to think about it.

He did not. Martin broke into a sprint the moment he saw the cabin, running for the door, and– it was locked.

Of course it was locked, he’d locked the door himself. Fumbling the key into the lock, he whispered a thanks to whatever gods might still be listening that he hadn’t lost it along the way. The door opened with a now-familiar creak, and Martin made himself lock it again behind him before going any further.

Jon was unconscious, lying on the kitchen floor, the new statements scattered around the table and floor.

“Jon? Jon wake up, please, Jon, wake up!” Martin was frantic, and Jon was not moving at all, so he slapped him.

A dazed blink: “Uh– Wh– Martin?” Another blink, as Jon began to look less dazed. “Wha– Oh god. What– What happened?”

Martin could cry, from fear, from the release, for the fact that Jon was alive, and Martin wasn’t alone.

“I- I don’t know; everything– It’s all gone wrong!”

“Help me up,” Jon made to move, and Martin helped him up, supporting them both against the edge of the kitchen table. Then Jon tried to move for the door.

“No– don’t, don’t go outside. It’s– It’s real bad, Jon” Martin breathed. But Jon seemed determined to see, to Know what happened. He limped over to the window instead.

“Oh god.”

“I- I don’t know if it’s just here, or–,“ Martin started, to explain, or to stop Jon from looking outside, to distract him and divert his attention back to Martin.

“No. No, it’s everywhere. They’re all here now,” Jon’s voice was shaking, yet he spoke with a certainty of Knowing that unsettled Martin. “I can feel all of it.”

“Jon. Jon, I’m scared,” in another time, another place, Martin might have felt ashamed to admit it. Here and now, the words barely seemed enough to convey what he felt.

“The whole world is afraid, Martin. Because of me,” he choked out a laugh, and that laugh hurts Martin more than anything Jon just said. “And The Watcher drinks it all in.” He laughed more fully, yet the edges of it were ragged and sharp.

“John?” Martin’s voice was barely more than a whisper.

“Look at the sky, Martin. It’s looking back,” Jon laughed, deranged, distant, and this needs to stop, now.

Martin might not be able to fix their situation, (a situation Jon caused, he said?) but he could at least try and stop Jon. Because the way he’s laughing? It sounded like Jon might as well be crying. Martin shuffled over to the window and dragged the curtain closed.

He knows the sky is looking, and he understands a little bit better why the sky might be looking at them. He was out there, just now. Before. However long ago. It felt like he’d been gone for days at times. If he was, then Jon must have been unconscious for all that time. Or perhaps Martin just got the time he spent Out There wrong.

But he came back, they're together and that’s more important than anything else. He folded Jon in his arms in a bearhug and just held him. Jon’s laughter slowly turned into sobbing, as whatever he Saw, as the Knowledge of what he has done washes over him.

Jon clung to Martin like a lifeline through the sobs that racked him. They stand like that for a long, long time, before Jon stopped shaking. He never let go of Martin.

“Come on, Jon. I’ll make us some tea.”

A snort, something that might still be either laugh or sob escaped Jon. “What’s the use of tea, Martin? What is the point of anything, now? We cannot sit here and pretend everything is normal!”

“Of course not, Jon!” Martin said, perhaps more exasperated than he really felt. Mostly what he felt was fear. “But that doesn’t mean it isn’t still nice to have something warm to hold.”

Hidden in Martin’s arms Jon whispered something that sounded suspiciously like “I’m already holding something warm.”

A small smile found its way onto Martin’s face. “Let me find some tea, and we’ll move to the couch. Then we’ll figure out what to do next alright?”

Jon nodded against his chest. “One step at a time, and the first step is tea.”

“The first step is tea,” Martin agreed.

#tmahcweek #tma #the magnus archives #martin blacwood #jonathan sims #the archivist #silver writes fic #mag160 spoilers

23 notes · View notes

hobbitsnapes · 4 years

Text

The Red Hoods Protègè chapter 8

Older Damian Wayne x ofc

(Photo made by my lovely friend @bakketsux)

Summary:Red hood has taken a young vigilante under his wing and subsequently changes Damians life forever. (I suck at summary’s)

The sound of feet tapping and General noise from the kitchen woke her up from her slumber. She rubbed her eyes to rid them of the cloudy vision she had and sat her head up, listening to see if it was actually real and not just a dream. Once she heard more noise she realized it was actually real and sat up.

The touch of the plush rug she had just got 2 days prior a welcoming sensation in her bare feet. Due to the dropping temperature making the hard wood floors uncomfortable to walk on.

She sat up fully and looked at the clock, the red numbers flashing 6:45 a.m. why would jason or Roy be out there making so much noise? Both men usually up at this time but are still so tired they hardly make noise.

She stood up and slipped on her slippers and a large robe and walked out the door, the sight in front of her making her double over in laughter

There stood Jason in an apron with flowers decorating it dancing and singing little bitty pretty one as he made pancakes.

When he hears her he spins around with a large smile on his face. He walks over to her and grabs her hands and starts to dance to the song with her, both laughing as if they lost their minds. “D-dad why, why are you doing this?” She says between laughter. “Does it matter?” Says Jason as he spins her around.

The pair dancing around the kitchen both now with spatulas in hand acting like they’re microphones.

They don’t even hear when Roy berguduantly walks into the kitchen. Only hearing him when he turns the music off.the two turn around and look at the large redhead with confusion. “It’s not even 8 in the morning. Why are you up dancing like a chicken with its head cut off.” the two look at one another and then to Roy.

Before he can move the two run and tackle him to the ground. A loud thud when they all hit as all three laugh in a pile on the floor.

As Damian walks to the same bench with Titus beside him he sees her standing with what looks to be a book bag on her arm. When he sees her funny a large smile stretches across his face at the small jump she does when she sees him.

She starts to run at him and he stretches his arms out to her but rather than running into his arms she crouches down to hug Titus. “Hii pretty boyy, oh I missed you so much.” She says in a baby voice to a very excited Titus who has now taken to liking her entire face. She laughs as Titus climbs on top of her and knocks her to the ground. But rather than pushing the large dog off she rubs behind his ears, the dog laying down on her as she does this.

She stands up and looks at Damian, with his usual clean shaven face and pushed back hair, but now wearing dark pants and a white long sleeve tucked into his pants.

He looks at her as she stands up, her short black hair having a soft wave to it, high waisted jeans with a slightly baggy white long sleeve cotton shirt tucked loosely into her jeans. Her electric blue eyes framed with just a simple mascara and what looks to be nothing else in her face.

Before Damian can say anything she reches up and takes him into a almost bone crushing hug. The action startling him until he snaps out of it and wraps his arms around her. Him having to slightly bend as she is significantly shorter than him. She rests her head on his shoulder and he does the same. She smells of a faint rose and vanilla sent. Probably a body wash rather than a perfume. Her breaths evening out the more he holds her. Neither wanting to let go until Titus nudges in between them.

They both laugh at the obviously jealous dog. They look into each other’s eyes and smile. “Never thought I’d see the day.” Confusion takes over her as he says this. “What do you mean?” “Never thought I’d see the day that you look even more stunning than usual.” A deep blush covers her face at his words. He chuckles at her as she dips her head down as she blushes.

The pair spend the rest of the day at the park, she had brought a bag full of fun toys for Titus to play with. The large dog never growing tired as they play fetch and run around the park until darkness falls over the city.

When they part ways they make a promise to get coffee the next morning. A large hug is shared as a goodbye as he watches her walk down her street back to her home.

And they continue this pattern for a few weeks, going to get coffee a few times a week in the morning at what is now their favorite cafè. It’s never crowded and it always smells of fresh baked goods as the two sit and catch up. They first started out by sitting across one another until one day Damian takes a seer beside her. Now the two sitting beside one another each time.

As the two get to know one another, they can feel the connection they share, as if it’s a small bubble that they are in. Their what once was a small look at one another can last for minutes. And during which Damian finds his arm wrapped around her.

Each time they part ways his heart pulls at the sight of her walking away. His heart beating fast each time she walks through the doors to him. He’s gotten her order memorized so much that when she gets there, he’s sat with her usual at their same spot.

All these times have been blissful, nobody coming up to them or any urgent phone calls. It’s as if everyone knew they were together and chose to not bother them.

That was until Damian and her decided to go to the park.

As the two walk towards the entrance of the park, a man runs up to them with a camera in his hands. “Hi there, I'm Mark and I work for the Gotham Gazette. And you’re Damian Wayne, the son of the billionaire Bruce Wayne. And you are? And where are you two going?” The man looks at her as she looks away from him to Damian, obviously very uncomfortable with the man asking who she is. “We’re going for a walk is all. And it’s none of your business to know who she is.” Damian says as he looks the man in the eye. His usually calm face now hard. His usual flirty and happy voice turned sting and annoyed. “Well I’m only asking what her name is.” Says the man now annoyed due to damians response. “Yes and I know why you’re asking for it. It’s not out of kindness but out of it’ll get you paid more to know who I’m with. And again, it’s none of your business.” As Damian says this he puts her slightly behind him, her arm wrapping around his as her head leans bows to the ground. “Is the reason you won’t tell me who she is is because you’re embarrassed to be seen with her?” The man says this with a smirk, thinking he’ll get a great story out of this. His smirk leaving his face at damians once annoyed face turned angry. “The actual reason I won’t is because you vulchers want to know every single detail about my family’s life. You want to know so you can snap a photo and write a poorly written story about her and have her face on front news so you get a few extra bucks. And for what you just insinuated about her and I due to you not getting your way I could make one phone call and have you fired. It’s not out of embarrassment. It’s out of respect for a human being not to be put out in front of everyone like a circus animal. Now, if I were you, I’d walk away with an apology to her and go find something else to exploit.” He stutters out an apology and briskly walks away with his head low. “You didn’t have to do that for me Damian.” “Yes I did, I didn’t like what he said about you and he had no right to even think it.” “Yes but there’s other ways to to go about it, you didn’t have to call him names or threaten to get him fired. A simple leave us be would have done the trick.” “I guess I’m just worried is all.” “Worried about what?” She tilts her head to the side as she asks this. “I’m worried about them getting to you. It’s been absolutely amazing these past few weeks just being with you, nobody asking questions or making assumptions or, anything. People make being famous this amazing thing when it’s not. It’s not all you can buy and parties and loved by everyone. It’s constantly checking to make sure you say and do the right thing, it’s worrying every time you’re out someone like him coming up to pry into your life, it’s always having eyes and expectations put on you. It’s fun when you’re a child. You think everyone loves you when in reality, you’re under a microscope.” “I have an idea!” Now Damian is the confused one. “What would that be?” “You said that people are always watching you right?” “Correct?” Now he’s even more confused. What could she be on about? “Then let’s have a day where you’re not Damian.” “I don’t think that’ll work.” “No im saying, get a disguise of some kind, get some clothes you never wear and some glasses and a hat.” “And how well do you think that’d work?” Damian asks, now amused at what she’s saying. “Well nobody’s deduced who Batman is and he only covers half his face.” This makes Damian laugh. “This is true, alright then. I’ll have to ask my friend for some of his clothes if we actually want this to work.” “Then let’s plan foorr, Saturday?” “Alright, I’ll text you the address of the place, I’ve been dying to take you there. And bundle up it’s quite chilly there.” “Alright, now let’s hurry up. I got bread to go train those ducks in the pond to do my dirty work.” A large laugh is heard from Damian at this.

As Jon takes the laundry to his room to fold he hears his phone ping. He goes and grabs it,thinking it’s a text from his mum asking to see if they ran out of milk. But what he sees is an unknown number with a single text. ‘I’m coming over.’ This frightens him as he doesn’t know who or how anyone would know not only his number but his address.

He doesn’t have time to get downstairs before a car pulls into the driveway. And out walks, Damian? What is he doing here? “Is your father or brother present?” “Um, no. Why are you here anyways.” “I’m in need of a favor.” This shocks Jon. What could Damian need that he doesn’t already have. “I have to borrow some of your clothing.” Now this shocks Jon further. “And why do you need my clothes?” “I have a date, and we decided that it’d be a good idea for me to be dressed in antire I don’t normally wear.” “So you and your girlfriend are dressing up in disguise so nobody will recognize you?” Jon says with a laugh as him and Damian go up into his room. “She’s not my girlfriend Kent.” “Yet.” This makes Damian blush and Jon laugh at his lack of response.

Jon searches through his closet until he finds clothes that would fit Damian, where Jon didn’t become as large as his father, he does stand a few inches taller than Damian. He gets out a few items that are typically too large on him and hands them to Damian. “These should do the truck. And good luck dames.” “Thanks, and so help me if you tell anyone about this I’ll shove a sword dipped in kryptonite so far up your ass it’ll end out your mouth.” “Secrets safe with me man.”

When she gets to the address of the place Damian texted her she looks around for Damian. A gasp leaving her when she finds him waiting at the door. “Oh my gosh you look so cute.” She says when she hugs him. He’s wearing light wash jeans, with a white t-shirt and a dark red flannel with a leather jacket over the top. His usually styled back hair flattened to his forehead due to the black beanie he’s wearing. His usually bright emerald green eyes covered by thick framed glasses. He looks nothing like the usually well dressed and confededemt man but looks like he walked out of a magazine nonetheless. “Yeah yeah yeah. You said to disguise myself so I did.” “Well I think you look very cute, you look cute in formal wear, casual wear, and a disguise.” “So you saying I look cute all the time?” Damian says with a smirk. “Yes, always.” “Well same goes for you.”

The two step inside and the coldness of the room truly sets in. She looks out and sees people out on a large ice rink, some are holding hands, others are skating fast around in what looks to be a race and others are falling flat in their ass.

They pay the man at the door and put on their skates. As she takes a step into the ice she feels her ankles shake and so she grabs onto the side of the rink. “Umm, did I mention I don’t know how to skate? Cause if I didn’t well I can’t skate.” This makes Damian laugh as he watches her grip for dear life to the side of the rink. Her knees bent as she tries to move but looks more like a baby deer. “Here, come and grab my hands.” Damian says as he places his hands over hers. She slowly grabs his hands but starts to shake as he takes her hands away from the walls and into his. “Do you trust me?” “Yes.” This makes Damian smile. “Then trust that I won’t let you fall. Now I need you to turn around okay?” “O-okay” as she turns around on shaky legs, she feels damians flush his body to her back and let’s go of her hands to wrap around her front mid section. She instantly relaxes into his hold as they slowly start to skate around. Her arms over his as they move along the ice. His head leans down close to hers, she can smell his cinnamon chapstick with his lips being so close to her. “See I promised I wouldn’t let you fall. When you’re with me, I don’t want you to worry, I won’t let anything bad hurt you.” “I know, I feel safe when I’m with you.” This makes damians heart beat faster. Never once has he felt the way he does for her and her saying that she feels safe with him, warms his heart beyond belief.

They skate around some more in silence for some time, just enjoying their time together. “See that guy right there? The one in the green jacket?” “Yes? What about him?” She asks Damian. “His feet are wobbling the faster he goes, in about five seconds he’s gonna fall on his ass.” And sure enough, in just a few seconds the man goes from looking confident with his skating to falling on the ice. This makes her throw her head back into Damian and laugh, her laugh shaking her chest and simultaneously making Damian chuckle at her. Her nose and cheeks flushed due to the cold temperature of the room and her smile wide across her face. “You look so beautiful when you laugh.” As he says this she blushes, but before she can lower her head like usual, he grabs her chin and plants a soft kiss to her temple. The action making her gasp and flush deeper. Damian chuckles at her shock and mentally pats himself on the back. He’s wanted to kiss her for the longest time, but opted out a kiss to her rosebud lips for her temple.

The two skate around until the rink closes, both again making plans for the following weekend to the same restaurant they had their first date. But where their usual goodbye hug is replaced with her giving him a soft kiss to his cheek. A shock going through him as her soft pillowy lips touch his face.

As the two wait for their dinner they chat about what happened throughout the week, even though each night they find themselves texting until they can’t keep their eyes open. “Yes I know trying to smuggle in a pot belly pig into a mansion isn’t my greatest idea, but I couldn’t help but take her home when I found her.” “Why don’t you just have a farm built to house all your animals dames? I bet that'd make your family happier than to walk in and see another animal running around?” There’s plenty of Rome’s I can put them. Besides, it’s always funny when one of them gets into drakes room and rips his pillows apart.” This makes her laugh. “You really can’t stand him can you?” “We're way better than when we were younger. But it’s still really funny when my animals mess with him.” She laughs as he says this, his obvious dislike for his older brother apparent.

The two sit and enjoy their meals, chatting until a song is played. She gasps and stands up, grabbing his hands in hers. “This is my favorite song, please dance with me?” “We're at a restaurant, people will think we’re mad.” Damian laughs “and this is Gotham, plus we’re away from anyone who can watch us. Please dames?” Damian gives in and holds her to him, one hand in hers and the other on her lower back as he gently sways her to the music. “What song is this?” “It’s by the singer birdy, it’s called wings. I’ve loved it for years.”

The two sway to the song until the chorus comes on, she starts to lip sync to the song and this makes Damian chuckle. Her arms above him as they sway faster to the beet. The two sway to the song wrapped in one another’s arms until the end of the song.

As the two head out the door, hands locked together they spot a group of people, all with cameras watching them and are walking towards the pair. Damian tenses up as he sees them, knowing that they’ll bombard them both with flashes and questions. They both turn to one another and before he can say anything she takes a firm hold of his hand. “I know what to do.” “What’s that?” “RUN!” She yells, Damian barely hearing her before they start taking off down the street. They laugh as they pick up their speed, now at a full sprint. They see a bench in their way and both jump over it, they duck under some hanging plants in the way as they take off. They keep running even when they cross the street. They yell and laugh as they run, probably looking as if they’ve lost their minds. But neither caring at all at the moment.

They finally stop when they find themselves at the park, now vacant of anyone due to the late hour. They stand there as they catch their breath. Both laughing still. “I can’t believe we just did that!” Damian yells, “did you-did you see their face!” “No I was trying to run!” This made both have another fit of laughter. Blood still coursing through them and excitement still preset. They laugh some more, until they both look at one another. His hair no longer in a neat style, now messy with his face flushed and a large smile on his face. Her once neatly curled hair unruly and a mess with flushed cheeks.

They stop laughing as they lock eyes, their breathing slows to an almost stop. Before either can think they lean in at the same time. Lips crashing together as what could only be discribed as a pull so tight finally letting go. They both let out a sigh as their lips move in perfect harmony. His cinnamon chapstick blended with the tea he drank earlier making her yearn more for him. Her hands hold onto the sides of his face as his arms wrap around her, holding her tightly to him as all the emotions and want finally exploding between the two. They can feel the sheer passion and yearning between them as their lips move together. His hand going from her back to the back of her neck to hold her closer to him as their lips dance. Her hands going into his hair and lightly pulling the stands into her fingers to ground herself. A groan leaving him at the action. Her hands travel from his hair to the front of his shirt, pulling at the material. They break apart as they giggle, Damian unbuttoning his shirt as they smile into the kiss. Once damians gotten his shirt off he takes her jacket off of her, the cold air sending a shiver up her spine and a gasp to leave her lips. He wraps his arms back around her the warmth surrounding her as his lips cover hers like a plush blanket, his arms enveloping her as his hands hold her as if he was pouring out every emotion he can through them. His hair softer than she could imagine as she held it between her fingers. He lays her down on the damp grass, what would usually be prickly to her skin is a comfortable tickle that intensifies her nerves as shocks fill both of them. She removes her hands from his hair and run them down his neck to his shoulders, she runs the pads of her fingers across his body as a shudder comes from him at the contact. He grabs a hold of her thigh with his hand and grips it, the action causing her to moan into his mouth. His grip on her tighter due to the sound. Her lips remove from his as they kiss at his exposed neck, a moan mixed with a stutter leaves him as her soft warm lips wrap around his pulse point. The pleasure causing him to shake. He lets out small moans as her tongue runs around his neck as pleasure shocks through him. He can’t take it anymore and pulls her mouth back to his, their tongues meeting as they deepen the kiss. They lay there tangled in each other, the darkness around them and the chill air a distant memory to them.

They lay there facing one another, his arm under both their heads as the other wraps around her, pulling her to him. Her fingers running softly arose the side of his face and neck. As both lay there, so close their breaths melding into one, they share another small kiss, lips barely touching as they do. As Damien looks at her he smiles, a large lovesick smile covers his face as he looks at her. Her hair now even more of a mess, flushed cheeks and her usual soft lips taking on the color of a deep red rose. “What are you doing to me?” Damian whispers, it’s as if he takes any louder he’ll disrupt the calm atmosphere around them. “And what are you doing to me?” “I know what I’m doing.” Damian whispers to her, his lips ghosting over hers. “I’m falling for you.” Their lips meet again, basking in one another as they lay under the stars, neither being a billionaire son or masked vigilantes, they’re just themselves in that moment.

Tags: @comic-nerd-dc @psychovigilantewrites

#damian wayne fanfiction #damian wayne imagine #damian wayne #batfam x reader #batfamily #batman #red hood #jason todd #dick grayson #tim draje #dc #dc imagine #dceu #damian wayne x reader

21 notes · View notes