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rise-my-angel · 11 months

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Heart of the Great Wolf

3 - An Intrigue Drenched in Blood

Pairing: Jon Snow x F!Baratheon!Reader (Slow Burn), Robb Stark x F!Baratheon!Reader

Length: 8.6k

Warnings: angst/hurt comfort, animal death, discussions of child murder and infanticide, brothels, blood and violence, slight canon divergence

Notes: Previous Chapter Here, Things pick up from this point on, I assure you. Series Masterlist Here.

Bright and noisy was the state of Kings Landing as knights poured in from every corner of the most populous cities. All with their shiny armour and polished bravados like they were every bit of confident that they would win the winning gold and glory. They were never your kind of attraction even in your younger years here. The play fighting that so many of these men staked their life on, and of all the days to miss it was yesterdays which had the worst of action.

Not allowing the chance to even truly approach for a question, Ser Gregor Clegane otherwise known as The Mountain had speared the newly knighted Ser Hugh with a lance right through the throat. A space in his armour seemingly perfect for such an action and it felt hard to believe that it was nothing but a coincidence. Nothing in this city was a coincidence anymore it felt.

Walking towards the stands you passed by where curiously your King uncle was absent from his seat. Not a man to miss a spectacle you toyed with the ridiculous notion that he would ride in the event. Even now you could recall a time when you were thirteen and a tourney was on just like this one, you had stopped by the tent King Robert was in and admonished him for being so foolish to join.

It was easier to be comfortable with him in those days. You were sat up on a table, popping grapes into your mouth as you casually would remark that not only would no man dare hurt the King even in jest, but that the armour he was trying to fit in was about fifteen years too small. Were you not so close, he might have gotten you in trouble for such a comment. You couldn’t imagine even having a conversation with him that would allow for fun now.

The King was less miserable, and typically more reasonable and sober back then and you were still full of a youth like pep in this city. You still had the urge to explore the nearly fifty miles length of tunnels hidden about by the former dynasty and the pretty colours, bright sun, and vast diversity of lords and ladies impressed you. You still could walk into this city with a smile, unlike now. Maybe it was the loss of a childhood trait, or more realistically it was the adult understanding that this was a dangerous place and you’d be a fool to think otherwise.

You still wore the pretty dresses, and entertained the noble daughters whom were some degree of friends but the spark was gone from your eyes despite it all. This place and it’s people no longer giving you joy, instead just now a place of bloodshed and the tediousness of cleaning up after your King’s messes. No wonder your fathers scowl had deepened the lines in his forehead so much, you were beginning to think you’d return to Robb in Winterfell, stress having doubled your age on him.

Spotting Renly, he gave you a closed mouth smile of surprise as you pulled your skirt upwards to climb the steps before flattening it all out as you sat next to him. His voice was as light as ever, not that you expected much. “When you asked if I’d be here, I didn't actually expect you to show up. I thought this wasn’t your kind of thing, my dear niece.”

Tilting your head with a slight grimace you relented. “No, I can’t say I see the great appeal in cheering about men whose claims are they are young and very good at knocking men off horses with a stick.”

Nudging you with his arm, Renly smirked. “Shame, you could do with some fun in your life, shake up the terribly boring personality my brother passed onto you.” Glaring with only a flicker of your eyes to the side, you felt back a slight smirk as he just sauntered onward like nothing. “I hope for Robb Stark’s sake you aren’t such a rigid, bore in bed as well. Last thing one of those northerners need is less enthusiasm in their personal lives.”

Rolling your eyes, you took a breath before just passing him onto the truth. “I promised Shireen I’d go see a tournament, so I can write to her all about it.” You dared not look at him, knowing it was something unjustly vile about her on his tongue.

You think you could see him shrug somewhat beside you. “At least it gets you out for once, you and Lord Stark seem to be working way too hard for a King whose never going to thank you for it.”

Watching the very man approach, he nodded with an unblinking stare for just a second before sitting next to his daughter. No one thought your jobs, certainly not Hand of the King’s job was done for the sake of thanks. Not when the King had attended maybe two or three small council meetings over the course of the six years you’ve been sitting in on them to some degree.

Squinting in the bright sun, you shrugged with an otherwise flat expression. “Someone in this family should do the hard work for once, I may as well take over that mantle.”

Chuckling, Renly and yourself glanced over to the King making his own way to his seat finally, the bumbling sack of nerves and apologies that was his squire following suit with the wine. “Don’t be so harsh on our King, takes a lot of energy to fuck as many whores as he does at that age.”

The contenders next begun to ride up. Ser Gregor large and as brutish as ever on a large yet skittish black horse that seemed to be as unsettled as many felt looking at the man. On the other side, dressed in a bright and ornate armour with poise was his opponent. Curls atop his head neat and styled and a rose in his hand as he looked towards the stands near where you sat, for a subject to give it too.

Settling on the young redhead in the front stands a few rows from you, you could see the elation in Sansa’s shoulders as she gently accepted it. “Thank you, Ser Loras.”

Unnoticed to her as he took steps away, glancing up to the rows where you sat he glanced with a pointed glint in his eyes. Renly did not respond, but the words were there as there was solidarity in your silence. You would tease your uncle as he would you, but something between the dynamic you two had build up seemed to have been discussed in the men’s private affairs. Your teasing was never meant as anything but fodder for banter.

The shared look was not romantic, but they tended to stay away in public due to image. Much of the court knew about Renly, you weren’t as sure many, if any at all, outside of the small collection of whisperers, knew enough to say the same about the son of Mace Tyrell, heir to Highgarden.

In the seat below you and one above the two Starks, Lord Baelish turned with a jaunty grin. “A hundred gold dragons on the Mountain.”

Renly beside, did not hesitate. “I’ll take that bet.”

The two knights made their way to each side of the procession as the lower man begun to brag of his confidence. “Now what will I buy with a hundred gold dragons? A dozen barrels of Dornish Wine, or a girl from the pleasure houses of Lys?”

With a quirk of your eyebrow, you glanced at him. “You could even buy a friend.” The reaction was as satisfying as such a man could emote. A smile as if he knew a secret you didn’t and it only reminded you why bothering to speak to him was so grating. Lord Baelish not allowing for a moment to let another get the one up on him even in words he always felt compelled to have the final look, the final say.

The trumpets sounded out, both riders finally going towards the other as it only lasted for a mere moment. Loras’s Lance striking Ser Gregors shield and pushing him back. The large black horse fumbling in it’s steps as it fell into the wooden railings and knocking the large knight himself to the ground. The crowd cheering with delight as you felt the pride next to you.

Pride in both energy and voice as Renly shouted down smugly, “Such a shame, Littlefinger. It would've been so nice for you to have a friend.”

Standing up and turning to face you both with a quieter tone and a wider smile, you felt the creeping below your skin with a narrowing of your brows. “And tell me, Lord Renly. When will you be having your friend?”

Both of you said nothing, but the glares spoke many things all at once that the man only found amusement in as he turned back. You and Renly glancing at the other for only a moment of seriousness before you glanced back to the waving Ser Loras at the people. “Dare I ask how much gold you two are playing around with to come up with that little stunt?”

Renly laughed, the one thing about you that separated from your father is that you didn’t have to lecture to disprove. If the rich wanted to play with their money like jesting boys, you’d just let them it didn’t matter to you. Leaning in to whisper closer to your ear, “To be fair my dear niece, it wouldn’t have worked as well on any other horse. A man’s animal is only as wild as it’s owner they say.”

The next words didn’t come out of your mouth, as the sounds combined with what image flashed in the side of your vision gathered a mix of yells and stunned silence. Ser Gregor at some point having acquired his sword, took it through his horse’s neck in a single slice. The anger in him wild and untamable as he turned on his opponent, knocking Ser Loras to the ground only just missing from by strikes to his shield.

Both you and Renly standing at the action, Loras was good, but not good enough for that. Strike once twice, enough that you felt the bubbling anxiety in your chest before a growling voice came down from that of the King’s Stand to leave him be.

Striking his sword against his before each pushed away from the other, brother against brother stared the other down in a hatred that spoke more about themselves then it did defence of another. Ser Sandor Clegane, the brother of the giant Knight in front of him with half his face burned in a sear of fire for life. Half the hair on that side barley able to cover it beyond the strands coming from the top of his head that weren’t destroyed.

It wasn’t of any interest to you, nor did it matter, but you recall learning what such a mark meant and how it happened. The two now clashing swords, your eyes narrowed and your nerves grew tense in your muscles. This would get out of hand until more bloodshed arrived but only one man dared to interrupt such a commotion.

“Stop this madness in the name of your King,” The roar from the stands as King Robert stood was strong and echoing. Ser Gregor taking a final swing as the other ducked the blow with a surprising grace as he bent down to kneel, sword stabbed in the ground with a bow of his head.

You felt Renly’s own nerves ease beside you as the Mountain threw his sword to the ground with a raging huff and stormed off. The King yelling to let him go as the crowd parted in a justified terror. The Hound was not a man you enjoyed associating with, found too much pleasure in the necessary harshities of life and considered you to be as aggravating and dull as he did your father. However, he did follow around your wretched cousin for most of his days and that would make anyone angry.

The crowd cheered for Ser Loras and The man most just called The Hound as the smaller and younger raised the others hand in the air of victory, you and Renly sitting back down slowly.

Glancing at him, you could see a brightness in his eyes looking at the proclaimed Knight of the Flowers, and you couldn’t see it within you to give anymore passing jests at the matter. His new close association with the Tyrells struck you as an odd choice, and it pinged a distrust in your brain but you in no way had let it effect what a terror that would be for him.

Renly wasn’t a fighter of any kind, you weren’t even sure he had ever held something longer then a stick to play fight with and certainly had never been hit hard enough to bleed. It’s scary to imagine that you are forced to sit there and do nothing as the man you love has a blade shoved into him.

You perished the thought, you dared not let yourself imagine anything for the two faces which struck you as the scariest.

Sighing to yourself as you walked through the Red Keep you were thankful for the silence, the handmaidens appointed to you were fine girls, good at their jobs, but they were also giggly and chatty and fussed over you a bit too much. Having to tell them day after day, “I can walk myself through the castle halls my ladies, I assure you.”

When you were younger, it was either one of your fathers household guards that would keep and eye on you, or another who wasn’t sworn to serve but seemed to always know when you snuck off. Ser Barristan was in the sworn brotherhood of the Kingsguard, but he took a liking to you the day you arrived in Kings Landing. Not quite good at holding your tongue just yet, but you were still serious and respectful like your father taught you.

It was one day he had been sent by the King to fetch his niece so he could spend some time with you that he came across the most unique of sights. A wide area of Lord Stannis’s quarters had been pushed up against the wall and he stood in the middle with you, only aged thirteen, with a wooden sword in your hand.

He watched for a while, seeing the clever instruction your father was giving you. Ser Barristan knowing your lord father to be a formidable opponent and one that he would not wish to fight on the other side of a battlefield. Yet it wasn’t that style which he taught you.

You were less hacking and slashing, and more about swift movements and carefully timed slices that would cut down faster then your strength could overpower. After that, it was he who often found his way to accompany you when the King had no immediate need of him.

Days like this, you almost missed that. You didn’t want the hen chatter of girls fussing over you like you were the princess but you did miss the company of those who didn’t see fit to treat you like a dainty doll. Sometimes you had wondered if your strange mix of ladylike properness and a tendency to more lordly tasks was because of your father. He gave you and Shireen a lords education and such teachings led you to other interests.

To many you weren’t ladylike enough, but it wasn’t as if you pretended to be anything but the highborn lady you were born as. You enjoyed the company of other women, you took pride in your appearance like many, but you also spent much of your days as a teenager being kicked in the mud and hit with wooden swords by three teenage boys that had no qualms of making you feel like you were fine at being both.

However, as you heard a groan of frustration and tiny pattering of feet scampering beside you as it dodged into the hall, you were met with an amusing sight. Arya was covered in a layer of sweat and grime as well as what appeared to be scratches along her forearms when she stopped. Bending forward to rest her palms on her thighs as she caught her breathe, only flinging back up in surprise when you chuckled.

Slowly approaching, you didn’t bother hiding a smirk. “Such a ghastly state of dress for a highborn girl such as yourself, Lady Arya.” Your chuckle bellowed to a much heartier laugh at how quickly she told you to shut up.

Coming closer to you, she plopped herself down onto a small series of steps as you carefully sat down to join her. “Syrio has me catching cats. If I can be quick enough to catch them, then I’m quick enough to move around my opponents.” You smiled fondly at her, exhausted and covered in scratches that looked unseemly like looking at your once self.

Glancing up, you kept your eye on the black cat hiding around the corner. Peeking it’s one ear’d head out occasionally to eye it’s chaser. “You’re smaller then a normal target. They’re stronger but if you’re faster then them, that’s how you get them before they get you.” When she looked at you with a curious question in her eye, you shrugged looking back to the black cat. “It’s what Jon told me when he started to teach me how to swing a sword.”

Looking up with narrowed brows she asked, “I thought your father taught you?”

Nodding, your fingertips started to tap at the other in a fidget. That memory was still clear as it was when it happened. “Sort of. You were just born, you wouldn’t remember any of it. But it was one night I couldn’t sleep and I ended up wandering into the training yard. I was fooling around with one of the training swords, no idea what I was doing at all. And before I knew it, Jon had snuck up behind me and hit me in the legs with one and I just fell to the ground.”

Arya looking a bit taken back, but you laughed. “We all used to rough house a lot more back then, me and your brothers. He and Robb were around fourteen or fifteen by that point, and I was twelve. So just shy of being too old to pick on girls anymore.”

Moving to tuck her knees closer to her chest she wrapped her arms around them. “So what, he hit you and then..?”

You mimicked the same position, “At first he joked that if I was going to play with swords I should at least learn to not turn my back unguarded. But then he asked if I really wanted to know how to use one.” Feeling far away, the girl next to you disappeared as well as the castle walls around you. “I think we met up after everyone went to sleep for three weeks straight. He taught me some basics, then realized I would learn a bit better if he didn’t teach me how to fight like him, but how to fight against someone like him.”

Smiling to yourself, it was during those nights all to yourself that had done you two in. You weren’t a lady in that moment, and he wasn’t a bastard. You were just you and Jon, your best friend guiding you how to fight simply beacuse you wanted to know and he wanted to teach you. You got roughed up a lot, in the privacy of the night, Jon certainly didn’t shy away from grabbing and throwing you around when you got too cocky.

“When I returned home, my father recognized what kind of cuts and bruises they were, instantly. I never told him who did it, I was scared he’d write to Lord Stark and Jon would get in trouble. But he never got mad at me. No, he figured if I wanted to learn and I already was, then he saw no reason to not continue himself.”

Those days you think were some of the last time you and your father so easily got along. He smiled and laughed during those lessons in his quarters, proud of his daughter so keen on learning the things that helped made him the Lord he was. You hadn’t seen your father so freely smile like the did on those days in a very long time. It was the last time he felt truly like your father, and not more like your Lord.

Lost in thought for more then you assumed, Arya’s voice startled you. “Does it bother you?” Glancing down at her, but she was looking at her feet not you. “Having to act like a lady when you want to do things the boys do?”

Considering for a moment, you saw no reason to sugar the truth. “For a while it did. When I came to Kings Landing for the first time, everyone treated me like a fancy highborn lady when both on Dragonstone and in Winterfell, people just treated me more like who I was already.”

Formality of such high luxury certainly was not common on Dragonstone. Being doted on and cared for like it was a waste of your effort to lift a finger that much was not the way of your father. You didn’t have so much done for you, that you forget what it means to earn your keep through your own means.

“But, I think I had to learn that it wasn’t being a lady that I didn’t want.” Glancing down to her, who now was looking at you with wide eyes. “It was just that I didn’t want to be the kind of lady people like the Queen wanted me to be. I’m nothing like Sansa, but I’m as much a lady as she is.”

Arya looked away quickly, a flash of long hurt in her eyes that you knew stemmed from a sister who didn’t treat her well. “My father wants me to be like her.”

Not even a second hesitation did you spend, “He doesn’t.” Turning to face her properly, you called her name firmly. “Arya. Fathers will always want things for their children, things that they have no way of knowing what we’d like about it or not. He’s not a mind reader, he can’t see the future you want for yourself and sometimes accepting that it’s different then what he envisioned takes time. But he adores you, and he would never tell you to be someone you can’t be.”

Running a hand over her hair, you could feel her trying not to lean into it. Trying to look impassive instead of upset as you continued. “We’re not all going to get the future we dreamed of, but that doesn’t mean your father wouldn’t support your choices no matter how different from Sansa’s they are at the end of the day. He went out of his way to hire Syrio to teach you something he first said wasn’t for girls. He wants you happy, even if it doesn’t lead you to the future he wants or you want.”

“Like how you didn’t get the future you wanted?”

Taken back, you didn’t understand her words but there was no anger or judgment in them as she elaborated. “You didn’t get to marry who you wanted, but every time I see you writing or opening a letter Robb sent you, you still smile in the same way my father does at my mother.”

Not in these open walls would you broach that. Not sure of what she knows or suspected or if you were just projecting onto her. You smiled, and your next words echoed the very thing Jon told you would be what was in store for you. “I’ve known Robb since I was eight. He’s easy to fall in love with.”

Your lips remembering his, and how easy it was to let his touch and his deep words make you lose yourself in him. But also the boyish grins whenever he teased you, the lack of worry you had knowing you could say anything to him and there’d be only support. Even before.

Somewhere in your heart was something far different that needed not thinking of now, or even if you had to think long enough to be real with yourself. But it was locked away for a reason. You couldn’t take that feeling with you, you had to let it go in order to give Robb who you really were. Not just pretend.

That part of your heart, had been captured protectively by the other. That part of your heart now sat heavy alongside that of the wolf who took it with him. That part of love was tucked away safely at the Wall with the one who insisted you not take it with you. You were with Robb now, and no matter what one part of you said, the other part of you yearned to see Robb and actually be happy. You did want it.

“Sometimes the things we want, aren’t the things we originally asked for. But that’s part of duty, how to be just and firm in our choices. Whatever your duty becomes, you have to learn to want it. Otherwise it’ll just eat away at you.”

Glancing up, you saw the little tomcat start to inch away down a stairwell, pulling a smirk as you nodded your chin over to it. “I hope you really want that cat, Arya because he’s about to bolt.”

Her head whipping up, you watched her leap to her feet sprinting down the hall as the little black cat sprinted off faster. As Arya grumbled loudly, you laughed freely.

Much true of words, you didn’t come here wanting to be wrapped in the tendrils of liars and spiders, but as you entered Lord Stark’s room? The very spider sat in the seat across from him, his face somewhat less apprehensive as it was you who entered, not one of mistrust. “My lady.”

“Lord Varys.” You did not sit int he seat beside him, coming to the end of Lord Stark’s desk and leaning back against the wall closest to it, arms crossed as you and him shared a look. His eyes steady and serious as you nodded. “Am I interrupting?”

Cordial and showing no intent, yet he never fooled you. “Not at all, in fact it makes it easier to share such sensitive information while you both are here.”

Lord Stark stared intently at the man, trying to gauge just as you. “Lord Varys seems to think the Kings life is in danger.”

“Oh I don’t think, Lord Stark. I’m afraid I know.”

Your posture couldn’t be more uptight and rigid as your stoned face, but you found no patience in playing nice as Lord Varys did. “Are you speaking of the same kind of danger that killed Jon Arryn?”

A slow nod, his voice was even as if none of this effected him. Despite his very presence and confidence of truth saying otherwise. “If you suspect Lord Arryn was poisoned, it would need to be one that was fast and utterly incapacitating if given the proper dose.”

“If we suspect?” Your emphasis on the doubt of we as in you and Lord Stark had Varys raise an eyebrow to you.

“I assure you my Lady, I don’t act on questions or doubts.” Glancing between you and Lord Stark he settled on what appeared to be the one who relaxed his trust more. “The tears of Lys, they call it. A rare and costly thing, as clear and tasteless as water. It leaves no trace.”

Lord Stark rose, pacing in thought towards the open air of his balcony. Your jaw clenching in consideration of the idea. What Grand Maester Pycelle had said, he seemed confident at first it must have been natural causes. If he didn’t sense a foul attribute then this ran deeply, did it not?

Asking who would give it to him, his voice was muffled as he still looked out to the city. Lord Varys playing such a game that irritated you. Telling you what you already know, but in a riddle to avoid any prying listeners to the subject. Never close to a man who says what he means. “Some dear friend, no doubt. But which one, there were so many. Lord Arryn was a kind and trusting man. There was one boy, all he was he owed to Jon Arryn.”

Squire to Knight upon his masters death, and yet once the master was dead soon was the squire turned knight. Something was tying up it’s loose ends but the ends of what? Lord Varys only saying whoever paid Ser Hugh would’ve been someone able to afford such a price.

His hands pressed against the top of his chair, the same yarns spun in Lord Starks head. You looked from him to Lord Varys. “Jon Arryn was Hand for over twenty years, why kill him now?”

Leaning forward, he spoke of something he knew the answer to and yet still forced you and Lord Stark to form more of that very thing on your own. “He started asking questions.”

There was no way of knowing how haunting this meeting would be to you one day.

The ferocity of your Uncle as he called a meeting of the small council himself told everyone whom didn’t already know the newest update, that something was about to explode. King Robert was the most blatant example of the fury of a Baratheon as any of you living now.

Something akin to madness was in his eyes as you watched him arrive, there was a calmness in both Lord Varys and Renly, a curiousness in Grand Maester Pycelle as he arrived and a difficult to read Lord Baelish who was the only other one present then Pycelle who didn’t know. As Lord Stark finally arrived, walking in you wondered how much of a unified front it appeared to be.

Niece and brother on both sides of the King Baratheon and a horrific message displayed. The only time your King uncle did not mince words, was now. Drenched in anger and vengeance that did not sit comfortably in your stomach. He looked at Lord Stark with all the vitriol he could, spitting out in anger “The whore is pregnant.”

Lord Stark hardly finding it in him to care for hiding his disgust but they fell on the Kings deaf rage.

It was like he didn’t even hear the man speak. “I warned you with would happen. Back in the North, I warned you but you didn’t care to hear. Well hear it now. I want them dead, mother and child both, and that fool Viserys as well. Is that plain enough for you? I want them dead.”

You hadn’t been born until two years after the rebellion ended, you’d never seen him in a place that wasn’t in times of peace and yet he ranted and raved as if all three of them were armed and blooded at the gates. This was not a man you recognized, this was a man who spoke of an unborn child with the same he did of Rhaegar Targaryean.

Lord Stark’s tone was deep, cracking with a shocked twinge at who this man was. “You will dishonour yourself forever if you do this.”

The fury grew louder as he spoke. “Honour? I’ve got seven kingdoms to run. One king, seven kingdoms. Do you think honour keeps them in line? Do you think it’s honour that’s keeping the peace? It’s fear. Fear and blood.”

Your father had a similar idea but never in a lifetime would it be in a manner like this. Lord Stannis felt that if people don’t fear you they won’t follow you. That if you can’t scare the wicked away then the good will not stick around to be picked off by what you refuse to pluck out. If you don’t pull the weeds out by their roots with determined force, then they will overtake the garden and nothing good will stay to grow between the rot.

Your voice was rough, as if your throat was scratched in need of water but it was hissed out without much care for hiding the feeling building. “Fear and blood isn’t far from fire, now is it?”

The King turned to his left to look at you, but you did not flinch back at the rage nor the spitting words from his mouth as he said your name. “Careful now. You’re my niece but you watch that.”

“You’re chasing shadows twenty years removed, shadows you can’t even be sure are real.”

Lord Varys far calmer then the other member still glaring your way. “My lady, you wrong me. Would I bring lies to the king and his council?” You both stared at one another, and in just a brief moment so quick you could’ve imagined it, there was a flash of something in his eyes.

Something like what he found in yours unsettled him. The way you know for a fact, he had looked at Lord Stannis many times over. Lord Stark asked who even provided the information. The spider’s answer did nothing but leave the wolf and little stag unconvinced. Or you supposed, given the calm manner which Renly refused to challenge and the true fury in the other?

Perhaps the two unconvinced members of this council, were indeed two wolves.

“Jorah Mormont. He is serving as advisor the Targaryeans.” You huffed a breath of disbelieving laughter at such a spy. As Lord Stark looked as unimpressed, he himself having much more direct reason to press to them that he wasn’t to be relied on.

“Mormont? You bring us the whispers of a traitor half a world away and call it fact?” Lord Baelish trying to reason that being a slaver is not the same as a traitor and yet only traitors would betray their loyal family and flee across the sea to escape whatever sentence justice demanded from him. You took no part in entertaining slave traders.

“And if he’s right?”

Glaring once more at your king, “And if she miscarries, if the child dies in infancy? We do not plan murders based on a whispers of what if, your grace.” Your name spat once more but you did not hear. “You mean to fear someone who doesn’t even exist yet so much, that you’d murder it in their mothers womb and call that anything but that of a coward?”

King Roberts face almost red from fury as he once again hissed your name. “I told you to watch yourself or have you forgotten who is king here?”

You stared at him as still as possible, not recognizing this as your uncle. This King was a stranger.

“No, your grace. Have you?”

Lord Stark speaking up before the King took a chance to raise his voice so loud it booms through the seven kingdoms. “The Narrow Sea still lies between us. I’ll fear a Targaryean child the day the Dothraki teach their horses to run on water.”

Looking in shock between you both, he yelled at the others to talk sense into you two.

Lord Varys took his chance, looking to Lord Stark notably as opposed to you both. “I understand your misgivings, my Lord. It brings me no joy delivering this news to the council. It is a terrible thing we must consider, a vile thing. Yet we who presume to rule, must do vile things for the good of the realm, however much it pains us.”

Grand Maester Pycelle took his reasoning, a rational approach to a fruitless endeavour. “I bear this girl no ill will, but should the Dothraki invade, how many innocents will die? How many towns will burn? Is it not wiser, kinder even, that she should die now to tens of thousands live?”

Tell that to the unborn child you refuse to give a chance, you thought to yourself.

Renly finally spoke, and you felt that weight in your chest plummet down and slam you hard into the floor. “We should have had them both killed years ago.”

Your eyes blazed as you looked at him, across the table. His were with no guilt even. Of course, the brother handed everything he did not earn nor deserve by the brother he now sat beside advocating for what he sees as the least amount of effort for the most unfair of results. Lord Baelish spoke somewhere to your left but you did not break your eyes from Renly.

“When you find yourself in bed with an ugly woman, best close your eyes and get it over with. Cut her throat, be done with it.”

The men here all sickened you but none as vile as Lord Baelish. Not even King Robert’s rage made you feel as if you were covered in the slime from a swamp from his voice alone.

Lord Stark looked his old friend right in the eye. “I followed you into war, twice. Without doubts, without second thoughts, but I will not follow you now. The Robert I grew up with didn’t tremble at the shadow of an unborn child. I will have no part in it.”

“You’re the Kings Hand, Lord Stark. You’ll do as I command or I’ll find me a hand who will.”

Lord Stark’s only action, was to look his friend in the eye as he pulled off the pin of his position, and tossed it onto the table as it landed with a clunk. “And good luck to him. I thought you were a better man.”

The yelling went on for some time. Not a single one of you with the capability to have him calm his fury and the unravelling of what once made him a King fell before your eyes. As some finally begun to leave, you sat in your seat before projecting loudly. “Your grace? A word?”

Room emptied out, he turned to you. His voice quieter but not without it’s rage. “You have a lot of gall to speak to your king like that, girl.”

Not moving an inch your eyes blazed towards him with a narrowed brow. “Speak to you like what? Like you’re a coward afraid of an unborn infant?”

“A coward-”

Slowly pushing yourself up, you braced your palms on the long table. “Tell me, your grace. What happened the last time a half Targaryean babe was murdered along with their mother? How well did that serve us in the long run, or I am I just supposed to assume that House Martell has forgiven all of that?”

King Robert stormed closer, leaning his fists much like you did your palms. With a tilt of his head you felt as if he somehow still towered over you. “They were that son of a bitch’s own children or did you forget that too? You’d have them alive now and walking around doing gods know what just beacuse doing what needs to be done isn’t honourable?”

“This isn’t about honour,” Your own voice finally rose to a proper shout and your uncles head jolted back as his eyes widened for a moment. “I’m talking about justice. You aren’t an honourable King for doing this, but you’re certainly not giving Lyanna justice by murdering women and children who’ve done nothing.”

“She hasn’t been done right by until every member of that family is dead-”

He leaned forward and so did you. “You served her justice. You killed Prince Rhaegar at the Trident, you were the jury and executioner for his crimes and blaming those who weren’t even there or alive for it has nothing to do with Lyanna and you can’t serve a just sentence for something that isn’t even close to have happened yet.”

You weren’t fool to think you got through to him, but he was lost in thought for just long enough for you to find the limit of your handling be reached. “Don’t do anything to people who haven’t proved a harm to you. That unborn child is someone you’ve never met, you have no idea what they could grow up to become, uncle.”

Passing by, he was simmering down as you were when you stopped beside him. “I’m not even telling you what to do about the girl. You choose to kill her, and just her I will not argue. But you cannot punish an infant just beacuse they have drops of Targaryean blood somewhere in their veins. You have no idea what that child could turn into, and if they are a threat? Then we serve out that justice. But only when justice is required.”

You got to the door before he spoke, voice raised to catch the distance as he turned to look at you.

“It doesn’t matter what you two do. If I won’t give it to him, I won’t give it to you.”

You shook your head, a sad sigh breathing from your lips. “I wasn’t asking for it, your grace. And with all due respect, I’m not just your niece. I’m his daughter. Not yours. I wasn’t raised to think you were ever in the right towards him.”

The door which closed behind you sealed you and Lord Stark inside. You have to admit, there was nothing more of a bizarre shock to the day this had been, then being told Lord Arryn and Lord Stannis had visited this brothel together. You father alone being here was enough to conjure an image of him that you wondered how rigid and emotionless you came across to these woman as he likely did.

Lord Baelish had urged you and Lord Stark to visit his establishment, to see the last person Jon Arryn visited before his death.

The girl in front of you, her name Mhaegen, was little more then a child. Younger then you, but you doubted with your heart that were you to ask Lord Baelish how old she was, that he’d give you an honest answer. In her arms, was a stunning baby girl.

Bright green eyes, already the makings of a strong face of dark hair and once more a ping inside you clung. Two actually, but the first one was how much of a Baratheon this little girl was. “She looks like him, don’t she, My lady? She has his nose, his black hair?”

You stood slightly in front of Lord Stark, running your finger down the girl’s cheek. She looked so much like Shireen did at that age, you wondered if you held her, would she yank at a stand of your hair until your head was leaning cuddled against hers. Something your new baby sister had loved to do when you could still hold her at that time.

But this baby wasn’t just a reminder of your sister, it wasn’t even a clue of mystery about how this all connected to Lord Arryns death. No, you were looking at this baby girl, your raging Uncle’s bastard daughter and you were stunned by this was your cousin.

This small girl was your cousin like Joffery was, and yet this girl smiled weakly as you tickled the side of her neck with a coo and a smile. How many of them were in this city alone? How many of them didn’t have a clue that they belonged to a family that could give them life outside of the poverty of flea bottom?

Lord Stark stepped up beside you, as the no doubt teenage girl looked to him. “I named her Barra. Tell him when you see him, my lord. If it pleases you, tell him how beautiful she is?”

Lord Stark said he would, but you both knew it would not matter. The King barley had any love in his heart shown towards his own children, for as many faults as Queen Cersei had no one could doubt the love for her children was a real as her hair was blonde.

Children, babies, that meant nothing to the man your uncle had become.

“And tell him I’ve been with no one else. I swear it my lord. By the old gods and the new. I don’t want no jewels or nothing, just him. The King was always good to me.”

The gods have mercy what a web of lies King Robert had played this girl up to, to think he’d ever entertain her as more then something to warm his bed and little Barra as anything but a bastard to cast out beacuse highborns like the King had no use for anything that didn’t bear his name or his house’s titles.

Perhaps becoming a Stark was the final nail hammered in that deemed you not one of him anymore.

Lord Stark asked what it was Jon Arryn wanted, and to the only amusement you found that day, she looked almost worried she painted the wrong idea of him. “He wasn’t that sort of man, my lord. He just wanted to know if the child was happy. And healthy.”

He looked at the glee on the young mothers face at her babe, the longing and tragedy deep within your eyes barley hidden by a steel mask that weight you down. He ran his hand over the baby’s foot gently as he spoke, “She looks healthy enough to me. She’ll want for nothing.”

He didn’t have to pull you physically, but it seemed like tearing away from the girl was a cruel task. Just an infant who had a lifetime of poverty and neglect in front of her all beacuse your King Uncle had no taste for self decency. You thought too of the one in the armoury, Gendry. How learning of who his father was, would come as no comfort considering the sort of man Robert Baratheon was proving himself to be.

No child deserved to grow up fatherless, but perhaps knowing who they are could hurt or disappoint then thinking they were just a no one. Joining Lord Stark into the next room where Lord Baelish looked as relaxed as ever and you felt as rigid as ever.

It wasn’t such a place that bothered you, but it certainly was the eyes and ears of who owned it and for what. You wondered if there was even any women in this establishment who didn’t fuck just to fill Lord Baelish’s need for information.

“What do you know about King Robert’s bastards?” Lord Stark had asked him.

With a sly grin, it was impossible to tell which he looked at more. The proper Stark, or you. “Well, he has more then you for a start.”

Your heart skipped a beat, and you pushed it down as far as it could go.

“How many?”

Lord Baelish glanced at you with no doubt this time, before sliding them back to Lord Stark. “Does it matter? If you fuck enough women, some of them will give you presents.”

Presents being children who will never feel like their apart of a world that respects them.

Lord Baelish gave you no answer as he walked slowly to you, Lord Stark, and the accompanying Jory to the door. Something inside you was screeching and yelling, like it had the answer to something you weren’t quite at yet. It made your heart pound, but it also set your blood alight like it burned. You didn’t know why, and yet what arrived outside for you was it’s own present that intended to ruin.

Members of the Lannister guard surrounded the area, standing two to one of the Stark’s own household guard their spears at the ready. All three of you slowly wandering into the streets slowly, your lips parted as galloping came forth until a horse with Jaime Lannister sat atop came by. “Such a small pack of wolves.”

He was not a foe you could beat, nor were you prepared for such at all kind of fight. Not truly. Jory using a calm reason to such aggression. “Stand back, Ser. This is the Hand of the King.”

The eyes on him were glinting with smugness but anger. “Was the Hand of the King. Now I’m not sure what he is, Lord of somewhere very far away.” Climbing off the horse, he paced every so slowly with a bravado only a true dangerous fighter could pull off like he could. “I’m looking for my brother. You remember my brother, Lord Stark? Blond hair, sharp tongue, short man.”

Lord Stark steady and calm as you were with a heart that wanted to strangle your lungs from within, “I remember him well.”

Looking to the side at nothing, there was as smirk that seemed to think the northerners cared to play such a game, or you for that matter. “It seems he had some trouble on the road. You wouldn’t know what happened to him, would you?”

He had done none of that, but Lord Stark did not go against his wife’s actions even for a single second as he declared, “He was taken at my command. To answer for his crimes.”

Lannister men shaking their amour as some reached for a better hold on their weapons as the lion pulled his. “Come, Stark. I’d rather see you die sword in hand.”

Moment of anger, or naivety, or just a helpless love you stepped forward with sharp narrowed eyes, “If you threaten my lord again-”

Lord Stark held a hand out, gently keeping you in place and by his side despite the lion pointing his sword with a smirk. “Threaten? As in, I’m going to open your lord from balls to brains and see what Stark’s are made of?”

“You kill me, your brother’s a dead man.”

It all happened so fast, Jaime turning to his own, “Take them both alive, kill his men.”

You had little on you, a small blade that you pulled from a pocket that fit in the palm of your hand almost. You sliced it at the weak softness on the Lannister armour of the one who approached you, crying out as blood split from the cut and you ducked to avoid his counter.

You were fast but it was against too many and a woman whom had no armour, only a dress, and no real weapons to speak off as the Stark guardsmen were taken out most by surprise. As you moved, almost punching into the neck of a Lannister one it punctured a wound enough to have him sputter up and fall to the side as Jaime Lannister shoved a small dagger of his own into Jory’s eye.

Stood in shock for just long enough that the rest were overwhelmed until it was them against the two of you. Lord Stark pulling his own sword, you were suddenly hauled backwards by two arms which didn’t feel like armour was behind them.

Lord Baelish’s voice in your ear as you fought against him was a whisper, “You’re far more useful alive then dead, my dear.”

You were not strong, something Jon, Robb and your father all trained to to keep in mind. Even a man like Lord Baelish could keep you as long as he tried harder then your muscles did, but you couldn’t. You watched the two men clash swords, Jaime confident and Lord Stark desperate. You had hardly seen the Lannister fight in person, but he must have been quite good as for the briefest of seconds?

Lord Starks sword pushing him backwards, his eyes flickered between the man and the weapon worried that there might be a possibility that he loses. Just as Jaime lost the upper hand, one of the Lannister guards stepped forward.

With a harsh push, stabbed his spear into Lord Stark’s leg bringing him to his knees. Already shaking, you gasped with what little breath remained as the hold keeping you from the fight loosened. Enough to slip your arm just enough to lunge back into the middle of his chest.

Jaime standing back in hesitation, watching as you rushed to his side, uncaring of the sweat and blood staining your arms and dress as you grabbed Lord Stark to keep him from collapsing entirely. He shook from the pain and blood loss, you shook from the shock and pathetic cry of how useless you were in a place like this gods forsaken city.

Jaime Lannister climbed atop his horse, turning in place as he gave you both one last look that radiated of both anger and something like a sympathy that you wished you could snatch away and shove down his throat until it choked him. “My brother, Lord Stark. I want him back.”

The City Watch had found you like that, a barley conscious Eddard Stark with a spear in his leg as you looked to the dead around you. Killed for what? In retribution of a man who tried to have a ten year old boy murdered twice?

The weakening look in Lord Stark’s eyes as he grew weaker, your lungs did not breathe nor did it feel like your heart ever stopped threatening to explode from your chest.

For a reason you could not explain, the sight or the light and angle making his appearance remind you so close to that of his son, you for a brief second imagined Robb in his place.

You didn’t understand why your mind conjured such an image, but you knew it horrified you all the same.

#jon snow x reader #robb stark x reader #game of thrones #asoiaf #a song of ice and fire #jon snow x you #robb stark x you #jon snow imagine #robb stark imagine #jon snow #robb stark #ned stark

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bellysoupset · 28 days

Note

OMG, the strep throat fix is so good!! Any chance for a part 2???!

LETS GOOOOO

Part 2 bc I thought of a way to use it for Part 3 🙈 Queen of self control.

------------------

"This is so embarrassing," Leo grumbled, rolling on the couch and pressing his feverish face to Jonah's tummy, voice coming out even more muffled by his sweater.

He felt, more than heard, his boyfriend chuckle, a hand resting on Leo's shoulder. The movement caused the sweater to slightly suffocate him, which would've been fine any other day, but given that he could only breathe through his mouth since his nose was stuffed, it caused a coughing fit and Leo sprung up.

He coughed and coughed until his ribs hurt, a horrible taste flooding his mouth and his head spinning from the lack of oxygen. The hot soup he had had for dinner tickling his throat, but Leo swallowed it back down.

It was embarrassing enough that he had crashed into Wendy's apartment five hours earlier than he should be, sick, and had caused Vince to stay behind from hanging out with his girlfriend. It was mortifying that he had to shower in her private bathroom, just to bring the fever down. Leo didn't want to add throwing up in her couch to the list of offenses.

"Here," Wendy's voice broke through the fog and Leo wiped at his eyes. It felt like they were burning and his head was throbbing. He really wanted to go home, but after all the stress he had put Jonah through in the morning, Leo was willing to sit around since the other man seemed to be genuinely enjoying himself.

Normally Vince's personality — earnest, warm, positive —, brought out all the sass Jonah had. It wasn't that he didn't love the guy, Leo knew damn well that wasn't case, it was just that he couldn't help the sarcasm with someone who was so sincere. However, that wasn't the case today.

Leo wasn't sure if the fever was playing tricks on him, but it seemed like Jon had forgotten his walls at the door... He had missed Vince, even if he would never say it out loud.

"What?" Leo asked tiredly, pressing the heel of his hand to his forehead and rubbing at it, as if he could remove the pain. Wendy sat near his foot on the couch, holding a metal tin.

"I knew I had this somewhere," she said, showing him the case and Leo stared at it, his brain refusing to cooperate.

"Vicks VapoRub?" Jonah sounded amused, "that's some mum stuff."

Wendy rolled her eyes at him, opening the tin, "lean back, Leo," she instructed and Leo frowned, instead of obeying.

He blinked owlishly at her, "I'm fine," the rasp sounded ridiculous even to his own ears and Jonah let out a scoff, while Wendy completely ignored him, pushing him back against his boyfriend.

"Get his shirt?" She asked, grabbing a dollop of the gel and Leo's frown deepened as he felt Jonah's hands pulling his shirt up.

"What the- No!" Leo whined when Wendy promptly smeared the gel on his naked chest. His whole face burnt with embarrassment and he brought his hands up, angrily covering his face, "this is so humiliating."

"You're really not my type, don't worry," Wendy teased him, "I don't do blondes," she continued to spread the gel around. Leo felt Jon press a kiss to his temple, but he still didn't pull back his hand, hoping the ground would open and swallow him. He couldn't believe he was getting rubbed down by Wendy, of all people.

"Shut up," Leo groaned, then whined when Jon pushed his hands down. Wendy was grinning at him, her cheeks pink and her green eyes alight with mischief.

"Leo, relax," she rubbed the gel up to his clavicle, her cold fingers making goosebumps spring up and causing Leo to blush even more, if that was possible. He was sure he looked great, swimming in an old sweats set from Vince, with the large sweat shirt all but tucked under his chin; His hair had dried all weird and was sticking out as if he was part of a grunge rock band, and now Wendy was sitting near his hip, lathering him in minty gel.

He let out a heavy sigh and sniffled grossly, reaching to wipe at his raw nose with the sleeve, only for Jonah to manifest a soft tissue in front of him.

"D-anks," Leo mumbled, blowing his nose again and clutching the tissue in a fist when the action caused his head to swim again. He groaned and slumped on Jon's shoulder, breathing through his mouth, "this is horrible."

"I know," Jonah continued to hold him, almost halfway across his lap like an overgrown baby, "let's head home?"

Yes, Leo thought, but he could clearly tell Jon did not want a positive answer. Not with how large he was smiling. He shook his head no, closing his eyes.

"In a bit," Leo said, shivering as Wendy tugged his sweatshirt down and then the minty cream started to warm up his skin and unclog his nose. He cuddled up even closer to Jonah as he could, trying to melt in his arms.

"So you were saying about school?" Jon said, his voice a note lower, rumbling in his chest, "how are the kids treating you?"

"The little ones are easy," Vince answered and Leo heard a squeal, probably him grabbing Wendy and causing her to fall on his lap, on the opposite couch, "the seniors are a bit of an issue. I don't think they give much of a fuck about my class at all."

"I mean, I sure didn't give a fuck about my history classes," Jonah teased him, while Wendy interrupted with a delighted sigh.

"Tell him about the pies," Leo could clearly hear the smile in her voice and the smugness in Vince's as he answered.

"I got five different moms bringing me pie this week, as a welcoming gift to the school board."

Jonah laughed, "you're already getting bribes?"

"Not bribes," Wendy sounded more smug than Vince, "they're flirting with him."

"No way," Jonah, incredulous, eagerly sitting up and causing Leo to groan as it moved him. Immediately Jonah settled back down, combing his fingers through his hair, "sorry, sorry- No way?"

"Yes, way," Wendy scoffed, "he's the new hot teacher, did you expect anything less?"

"Hot is an overstatement," Jonah teased, while Vince chuckled.

"Go fuck yourself, Banks- Leo, do you want a blanket?"

Leo was nearly drifting off, but almost as if he had missed a step in a set of stairs, he jerked from the slumber, forcing his eyes open. His stomach felt weird and his head cottony, vision slightly fuzzy as he rolled on the couch in order to see his friend.

True to what he had guessed, Vince was sitting in the other couch, with Wendy perched on his thigh.

"Whaa-"

"Do you want a blanket?" Vin repeated the question, looking concerned and before Leo could nod in agreement, Jon interrupted.

"He's still really warm, better not."

Leo whined, whole face scrunching up. He was freezing. He dug his feet on the couch, burying them in the crack between futons, and curled up, trying to prove that he did need a blanket. Lucas would've gotten him one.

"No, he wouldn't," Jonah answered him with a huff and Leo frowned, confused and blinking drowsily, all his limbs feeling heavy.

"Uh...?"

"Go to sleep," Jon rolled his eyes, stroking his cheek, "I'll wake you in a bit."

"Mmm'kay," Leo sighed, leaning against the soft touch and vaguely hearing as Vince tried to argue with Jon and Wendy that one blanket surely wouldn't kill him... Then the words all became white noise and all Leo could feel was Jon running his fingers through his hair and suddenly a blanket being tucked around him by rougher, bigger hands.

#mywriting #sickfic #fever #cold #strep throat #leo wagner #VERY fluffy and 3 caretakers for Leo

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morallyinept · 4 months

Text

Shoot: Wired Magazine, Feb 2023 Issue - Published online on Jan 9th 2023

Photographer: Peter Yang

Interviewer: Hemal Jhaveri

Grooming: Mira Chai Hyde

Full interview, behind the scenes, outtakes & shoot photographs below. 👇🏻

Jett's Pedro's Shoots Masterlist

• Cover shot and original images used in the magazine.

• Outtakes and behind the scenes images.

• Full interview

Unmasking Pedro Pascal, the Complicated New Face of Sci-Fi

The Last of Us star talks video games, violence, and playing tough guys (Hi, Mando!) when you’re actually a people pleaser.

PEDRO PASCAL IS a little too nice, actually. Too many hugs. So many polite refusals of snacks. On the set of a photo shoot for this interview, there’s an evident tension inside him. He retreats into the aloofness of celebrity, but he is also eager to connect. He seems to enjoy having his picture taken, but he gets shy when the photographer moves in for a close-up.

It’s in his nature to be open, but he holds a lot of himself back. He’s not too far off, in fact, from the anonymous bounty hunter he plays in The Mandalorian. He wants to take off the mask and let people see his face, but he doesn’t want to deal with the fallout.

Too bad. Not only is Pascal returning for season three of The Mandalorian, he’s also starring in HBO’s The Last of Us, probably the biggest video-game-to-TV adaptation of all time. In that now oh-so-recognizable face of his, one senses, well, shock. It’s unthinkable - magazine covers, TV stardom, all of it - for a kid who wrapped himself up in ’80s movies and late-night HBO after his family fled Augusto Pinochet’s dictatorship in Chile, seeking political asylum in Denmark before eventually ending up in the United States.

Pascal always dreamed of being a performer, yes. And he spent years kicking around with small television roles and New York theater gigs before getting his eyes gouged out in Game of Thrones. But he never imagined becoming Hollywood’s go-to reluctant father figure. You know, famous.

Maybe that’s why Pascal now seems chiefly concerned with making those around him feel comfortable. When the shoot runs long, cutting into one-on-one time, he assures me he’ll stick around to talk. And he does, for much longer than his schedule is supposed to allow. I get the feeling he’s just excited to finally be sitting at the cool kids’ table - Ethan Hawke! Nick freaking Cage! - and doesn’t want to do anything to mess it up.

Like most celebrities, there’s a part of him that is a little insecure and hungry for validation; even an offhand compliment about one of his performances seems to set him at ease. He’s most engaged when we talk about his family and politics. It comes through in his voice, his body language, a cleverly deployed arched eyebrow. He cares so much. He’s also uncomfortable caring so much.

This is, I suspect, the source of his powers - that empathy at his core, visibly competing with the tough-guy exterior. Unlike most hero types these days, whose bodies glisten with smoothed-over perfection, Pascal has aged into his face. Whatever he lacks in shine, he makes up for in grit: His broad features and salt-and-pepper facial hair lend him a grizzled, protective air. In The Last of Us, he plays Joel Miller, a father in a postapocalyptic zombified wasteland dealing with loss both personal and global. The performance flicks between menace and heartbreak, infused with deep feeling - a natural ability to find the humanity at the heart of a conflicted hero. That’s Pascal. Our conflicted hero. Empathy hugs and all.

You seem to be picking parts - The Mandalorian, Joel in The Last of Us - that play very intentionally into a tough, conflicted outsider status. But maybe that’s too neat and tidy?

I find it funny when anyone applies choice to my experience. Of course you can say no to things, but you can’t say no to Jon Favreau, Kathleen Kennedy, Dave Filoni, or HBO. It never felt like stopping and considering what the characters were. It was simply the circumstance of a door opening and stepping through it.

So there was nothing specifically tempting about The Last of Us?

To be totally honest, it was wanting to work with Craig Mazin, who did Chernobyl. Also, HBO is content that I literally grew up on. I experienced their original programming. Their original programming was very, very mature.

You mean, like, the after-11 pm original programming.

Absolutely. And I saw all of it, which is pretty nuts.

Your parents didn't care?

Obviously there’s a variety of immigrant experiences in the US, but it tends to be really strict in one way and really open in another way. If my parents liked what they were watching, they rarely sent me out of the room. But I had to get good grades or I wasn’t allowed to watch shit.

Same here - get good grades, do whatever you want.

They didn’t take TV seriously as something that would influence our choices. But basically, I developed a real big dream about being a part of something that would be important to a network like HBO.

So how’d you prep for The Last of Us? Did you play the video game?

I hadn’t heard of the game. Their instruction was: Don’t play the game. I ignored them. I tried to play the game, and I was very, very bad at it. (But my nephew was fantastic.) It was important to me to play notes that were directly related to what was originally in the game - physically, visually, vocally.

Did you bring anything personal to the role?

That’s the fun part—how much you get to externalize internal darkness in a safe way and bring in things that are from your nightmares.

Such as?

Joel’s capacity for violence, and being good at it. I didn’t get into any physical fights growing up, and definitely not as an adult. Violence scares me tremendously. Is it the fear of violence in general? Is it the fear of your own violence?

Or maybe the fear that you’ll like it?

Totally. I love thrill-seeking stuff. But I don’t make a practice of testing my limits. I’m actually a little bit opposed to it. I don’t like pain.

Meaning physical pain?

Pain of every kind. I don’t like psychological, emotional, or physical pain. Some people will be like, Oh, I know that it’s very likely I'll break something, I’ve got to try that. Fuck. That. I don’t think of myself as- I’m not a tough guy.

Really?

I don’t live that way. I’m a lubricant. I want people to feel comfortable. I don’t know how to function at the expense of anyone’s comfort level. I’m a people pleaser.

I see some of that on social media, where you seem to do everything you can to make, say, the sci-fi fandom more welcoming and inclusive. You’re very supportive of your sister, for example, who came out as trans in 2021. How are you navigating your role in political spaces?

Total improvisation and ultimately just erring on the side of, like … [very long pause, two deep sighs] My entire heart is set on, you know, the marginalized underdog. It’s not a choice. Like, how dare anyone not support the people that are deserving of support, and are deserving of protection and need more of it than you do. Do you know what I mean?

Yeah, but some actors would say, My star is rising, I don’t want to get involved with this.

Maybe if you pause to think about it, it could keep you from doing the right thing. And this feels like the barest minimum. Like, the barest minimum.

You mean an Instagram post isn’t enough?

No, it’s not. My personal hope is to seize the opportunity to be of service in ways that are true. I’m keeping my eyes open. The truth is that I don’t think I do nearly enough. I’m, like, a LIB-ER-AL, but there are contradictions there as well, because we live capitalistically. I guess we carry, you know, the weight of that shame?

The weight of capitalist shame? The fact that you make money is a bad thing?

Kind of?

You’ve had late-career success. You were consistently working—

I was consistently working, and it was a total struggle in such a typical way, but there was always somebody that would be able to bail me out—to help me pay my rent or help me get groceries.

But now you must be rolling around in all your money like Demi Moore.

[Laughs] Demi Moore in Indecent Proposal?

Yes.

I don’t have the bod for that. She’s basically the only one who could pull it off. Yeah, I get my cash. I spread it all over my bed and I roll around in it.

I knew it. But seriously, how do you think about your recent stardom?

I didn’t get Game of Thrones till I was in my late thirties. And therefore, the amount of times I was helped, and the amount of people that I could rely on through some really tough times—I’m never going to let some of them ever buy dinner again. I want to take care of people as much as they took care of me.

Who helped you?

There’s the family that my older sister sort of acquired. And then also by becoming part of a theater community that really looks after itself.

You have some famous friends too.

Does that mean we have to talk about Oscar [Isaac]?

The internet loves this friendship.

I met him through a play we did together in 2005. An off-Broadway show where we were getting $500 a week, before taxes.

Do you have a favorite memory of the two of you?

There’s so many. He’s so naughty. His level of naughtiness onstage during that play, for example. He played a ghost, which meant that the living characters in the story could not see him. I had to do my scenes, and he would physically be there, but because my character couldn’t see him, he could fuck with me, all in front of live audiences, as much as he wanted, trying to get me to crack up or forget my lines. The memory is simultaneously dark and wonderful.

Would you say you tend to be a hopeful, forward-looking guy?

We have to hope. But I’m too privileged. You know what I mean? Like, I’m too lucky. It’s an interesting thing. The reason my older sister and I grew up in the States is because my parents fled a military dictatorship. So, you know, only 10 years after my parents were in hiding, I was crying because The Breakfast Club was checked out at the video store.

But I’m guessing there were also challenges?

Looking back, so much of it only seems to present itself as an opportunity. When my parents ended up on a list of pardoned exiles and were able to go back to Chile, it came with enormous families on both sides, which was missing from the experience of growing up in the States. I guess it’s only in middle age where it feels like it can be emotionally challenging to accept that there isn’t anywhere to plant my flag as an individual.

Everywhere is home and nowhere is home. But that also still feels like a good thing to me. It’s often framed as a disadvantage in our culture, but it’s an advantage in character, and in perspective, and in outlook.

Do you think that if you had popped into national consciousness when you were younger, you would not have wanted, say, a traditional Marvel role—the cape and the CGI and all that?

But I do want that. I want to be in movies.

But the world’s in a fairly tense political moment right now. Does that change what it means to be a hero?

There’s so many ways to misunderstand people and to forget that, at the end of the day, your neighbor is very likely to give you the shirt off their own back. The interchanges that you have with strangers are, more often than not, human. But then you can go and look shit up and be terrified by how divided we all apparently are. To comfort myself, I just remember that everybody I come in contact with is sort of, in their own way, heroically kind.

In some ways, you’re the face of that new kind of hero.

Oh my gosh. It’s funny when the phrasing “the face of” comes up, because Mando is faceless. I haven’t thought about it in that way. I’m always struggling to imagine myself as being a part of something that I have been witness to growing up and watching. There’s a disconnect for me - I don’t know how to place myself in that world. Like, I just go a little blank.

Then talk about your character in The Last of Us. Joel can be a little scary.

I think what’s scary about Joel is that none of us really know what we’d be capable of if faced with the idea of losing love. Whether it’s conscious or unconscious, being alive or even being a human being is directly connected to the love you feel. Existing is connected to the love you feel toward a particular relationship - your child, your partner - and to lose that? Some people are not capable of applying rational thought to that kind of loss, or the threat of that loss, or the threat of that loss again, right?

That’s what makes you human.

That’s what makes you human and inhuman. It’s such a beautiful question that the video game poses. I avoid all of it by not having kids. And staying out of relationships.

Do you want kids?

I don’t know.

You’re close with your nephews.

Well, yes. Only because they were so good at playing The Last of Us. No, I’m just kidding.

It’s funny then, or at least a bit ironic, that you keep getting cast as these reluctant father figures.

I love being… I like being able to imagine it.

Jett's Pedro's Shoots Masterlist

#pedro pascal #jose pedro balmaceda pascal #pedro pascal shoots #pedro pascal interview #pedro pascal magazine #pedro pascal photo shoot #pedro pascal shoot #pedro pascal photo

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thelustybraavosimaid · 1 year

Text

Darling Jonsas, context is very important when providing quotes. So, some things:

A portion of Jon VI, ADwD is the aftermath of Jon learning that "Arya" is off and married to Ramsay. Anger...

By now she'd be eleven, Jon thought. Still a child. "I have no sister. Only brothers. Only you." Lady Catelyn would have rejoiced to hear those words, he knew. That did not make them easier to say. His fingers closed around the parchment. Would that they could crush Ramsay Bolton's throat as easily.

...bleeds to distress and frustration:

Jon felt as stiff as a man of sixty years. Dark dreams, he thought, and guilt. His thoughts kept returning to Arya. There is no way I can help her. I put all kin aside when I said my words. If one of my men told me his sister was in peril, I would tell him that was no concern of his.

[...]"Snow," muttered Lord Mormont's raven. "Snow, snow."

Suddenly he could not suffer it a moment longer.

...

Mully and Kegs stood inside the doors, leaning on their spears. "A cruel cold out there, m'lord," warned Mully through his tangled orange beard. "Will you be out long?"

"No. I just need a breath of air." Jon stepped out into the night.

And obviously occurs in others:

"You're not scared?"

The girl smiled in a way that reminded Jon so much of his little sister that it almost broke his heart. "Let him be scared of me." (Jon X, ADwD)

Jon walked to the edge of the Wall and gazed down upon the killing ground where Mance Rayder's host had died. He wondered where Mance was now. Did he ever find you, little sister? Or were you just a ploy he used so I would set him free?

It had been so long since he had last seen Arya. What would she look like now? Would he even know her? Arya Underfoot. Her face was always dirty. Would she still have that little sword he'd had Mikken forge for her? Stick them with the pointy end, he'd told her. Wisdom for her wedding night if half of what he heard of Ramsay Snow was true. Bring her home, Mance. I saved your son from Melisandre, and now I am about to save four thousand of your free folk. You owe me this one little girl. (Jon XI, ADwD)

"I have made mistakes, I have admitted as much, but—"

"A grey girl on a dying horse. Daggers in the dark. A promised prince, born in smoke and salt. It seems to me that you make nothing but mistakes, my lady. Where is Stannis? What of Rattleshirt and his spearwives? Where is my sister?" (Jon XIII, ADwD)

When Jon thinks about the representation of his heart, which is equated to his sister, it's not about Sansa:

"The heart is all that matters. Do not despair, Lord Snow. Despair is a weapon of the enemy, whose name may not be spoken. Your sister is not lost to you."

"I have no sister." The words were knives. What do you know of my heart, priestess? What do you know of my sister?

Melisandre seemed amused. "What is her name, this little sister that you do not have?"

"Arya." His voice was hoarse. "My half-sister, truly…" (Jon VI, ADwD)

George is not playing 5D chess here, like at all. What you see, especially in this case, is exactly what it is. His personal torment, his despair and pain over "Arya" over the latter half of his ADwD chapters is not even remotely about Sansa, nor has it ever been. Arya is not a "proxy" for family, Jon considers her his heart, and he her home.

This should not have to be told to anyone. No one should have to be told that the relationship Jon and Arya have cannot be interchangeable with other characters, but here we are.

Stop lessening their narrative and emotional importance to one another.

#you want to find some supporting evidence for your ship? use your own #stop stealing ours #jon thinking about arya is not jonsa nor is it about sansa #why the fuck would it be #the whole 'he's actually thinking about sansa' reeks of misogyny actually #and i fucking hate the notion #that is NOT what George is writing #nor is that how he writes at all #asoiaf #jon snow #anti jonsa #ramble

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teddypickerry · 1 year

Text

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐘 𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐒𝐓 𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓.

— pairings! jonathan byers x fem reader

— word count! 2.2k

— warnings! cursing & suggestive material. mostly just ‘i miss you’ ‘i miss you more’ ‘no i do’ blah blah

— summary! in which long distance sucks. but a phone call from your boyfriend might just save the day <33

LONG DISTANCE relationships are hard. everyone knows that. over forty percent of long distance relationships end in breakups... within five months. yeah. so you can imagine the difficulty and the pain that y/n felt as she watched her boyfriend move over a thousand miles away. the byers family had enough of the hurt and emptiness that the dark town had brought their family. so y/n was more than understanding of their move. but that didn't mean she liked it.

it had been three months since the byers moved and jonathan had yet to stick to his promise. his promise of phone calls every other day, even if he was busier than hell. y/n understood, he had moved to a whole new state and he was the man of the house he had always joked. jonathan had to deal with the stress of moving and coach his little brother, will, and new sister, eleven, through it. three months felt like an eternity however, y/n doubted she'd make it without her best friend here with her. sure she had steve, nancy, robin, and the kids but they all noticed her sad glances when she noticed the empty seat during movie nights. or sat alone in classes, as if jonathan's ghost were sat beside her.

"i'm sorry i haven't called," a voice rang into her ear as y/n sat on her bed, twirling the phone chord with her hand. "it's okay, jon. you've been busy. your mom's been telling me all about it."

"ugh, yeah. but i'm just... i'm sorry. i have no excuse really. i just miss you," he mumbled into the phone as he fell on his bed, pressing the phone to his ear as he imagined what his girlfriend was doing right now. he could picture her perfect smile and her pretty hair. and god he could practically smell her. "i miss you too."

"what are you doing right now?" jonathan asked his girlfriend, a smile tugging at his lips. "studying, i presume?"

y/n felt herself hold back a smile as she glanced over at the notes and books open on the end of her bed. her boyfriend knew her too well. "i don't know what you're talking about, byers." she could hear his chuckle on the other side of the line, wanting to reach through the phone and see the look on his face as he did so. "yeah, okay l/n."

there was a silence on both sides. as if they ran out of things to talk about, or began to think too hard what to talk about. y/n could only feel frightened at this. never once in her life did she not know what to say to jonathan except for when they were in seventh grade. when they were at stacy calmon's party and were dared to kiss. but that's a story for another time. "i went to a party last night with steve. he wanted me to pretend to be his sick sister so he could get laid."

"sounds like steve," jonathan humored as he cracked a smile. "who's party?" the thought of y/n at a party was always an interesting one. she had been to very few in her life, not having a desire to watch people she disliked get plastered and then procreate in a random person's bed. "noel may's. he has the good shit at his parties."

"noel's? that guys a dick. what are you doing hanging out with him?" y/n could hear her boyfriend's dismay in his voice as if she just told him the mind flayer was back. "well you don't know him. i mean yeah he was an ass freshman year but he's changed. steve and i have been hanging around him a lot lately."

"hm," jonathan hummed as he tried to avoid a frown. four months ago his girlfriend wouldn't even think of being within six feet of the popular jock who used to call her boyfriend slurs. he decided to give her the benefit of the doubt, considering how steve used to treat the couple and he now was someone who would never leave y/n's side. they were best friends and it seemed to be that way for the rest of eternity. "well if you like him..."

y/n could feel the judgement from her boyfriend's side. which only made her sigh as she made her way over towards her books. shutting them and placing them on top of her dresser. the only thing she could hear was her boyfriend's breaths on the other side of the line. jonathan also glanced around his room unsure what to say. when he noticed a picture of them framed from prom last year. he didn't want to go at all. but with convincing from his girlfriend and his mom, he was in a suit with a rose in his hand. and luckily for him, that night happened to be one of the best he ever had. it was the night he fell in love with her. "remember prom?"

"mhm and how much you didn't want to go," y/n smiled fondly as she turned to face the polaroid taped to her wall. 'Forever' jonathan had wrote on the frame of the small photo. his smile in it the biggest she had ever seen. she remembered nancy snapping the photo and running to hand it to her when it developed. y/n had never loved anything more. "but i had fun didn't i? you we're right as always."

"say that again," y/n joked in a seductive voice making jonathan spit out yet another chuckle on the other side. "i told you i loved you that night. i think i always loved you but... that night. it was the very first night i knew i loved you. the way you were laughing at my jokes in the car on the way to the motel. in the dress that looked absolutely perfect on you."

y/n remained silent as she reminisced on the evening, her eyes still locked on the photograph. "i'll always love you, y/n." jonathan smiled into the phone as the girl hummed. "this sounds like a breakup?" she humored as he laughed. "no, never."

"can i be honest?" she started to play with the phone chord nervously as jonathan furrowed his eyebrows from the other side of the line. "yeah..? see now this sounds like a breakup."

"well, the parties. i always go with steve or someone you know and... i just don't want to seem lonely. but they all know, i know they do. i see all their puppy dog sad eyes everytime i sit next to an empty seat. it's just not the same. i keep trying to fill the void of you not being here but... it doesn't work." y/n laid down, the phone against her ear. she could feel jonathan's sadness. there was a reason she didn't share her loneliness with him earlier, she didn't want him to feel bad. there was eventually a sigh on jonathan's side as he rubbed his face with his hand.

"do you know how much i miss you?" jonathan whispered as if he didn't want y/n to catch it. she closed her eyes. "i haven't made any friends here. that's kind of why i've been avoiding the talks. i just, i can't lie to you. and i knew you'd be all worried so i just... avoided. i'm sorry. i don't mean to leave you all alone."

"so we're just two lonely losers," y/n blurted out making both parties fall into a fit of laughter. she opened her eyes as she glanced over at the polaroid once more. "i wish i could fly. i'd just pick you up and we'd go back in time. before all of this crap we've been through. just back to the very first night we met. at the party."

"when we first kissed. i can practically taste your strawberry lipgloss.” the boy smiled fondly. the two both laid down silently as y/n glanced over at the clock. it was far past when she should be asleep but she didn't seem to mind. not when jonathan was on the other end. "what if i come visit you?" her midnight thoughts got the best of her as she mumbled into the phone. jonathan sat up as he furrowed his eyebrows. "you want to come here?"

"i know you wanted to come home for christmas and come visit everyone and you still should. but i just... i don't know it's stupid nevermind. i'll see you in a month and a half anyways." y/n sighed to herself as jonathan shook his head, as if she could see him. "no, no it's not stupid. i could never get enough of you. you could just come for a long weekend you know. thursday night and come home sunday night. three nights of you is all i've ever dreamed of."

"okay now that was a cringe line," y/n giggled as she smiled. jonathan did the same as he shook his head once more. "okay sorry. but really? you'd wanna come visit me here?"

"of course, jon. i want to see your new life. see where you, el, and will hangout. scope out if there's any girls that might try and steal you, you know the usual." y/n shrugged into the phone. "there's no girl ever who could ever take your place c'mon."

"yeah i know... what are you doing?" the girl questioned as she could hear her boyfriend rustling around. "grabbed the newspaper, looking at flights."

"you get the hawkins newspaper? not even the editor of the hawkins daily gets the hawkins daily." the girl laughed at her geeky boyfriend, fighting the urge to call him a major geek. "i like to be informed. shut up... there's one next weekend to the airport about an hour from here. this could work. the only problem is your dad."

"i'll just tell him i need to fly a thousand miles so i can get a shag," she smiled sweetly into the phone making jonathan jokingly scoff. "mhm, he'd love that. surely a yes."

"next weekend he's gonna be in sheffington for a meeting anyways. it seriously wouldn't be an issue. and robin can totally get me out of school on friday. she's a master at copying handwriting," y/n plotted as she smirked to herself. feeling her boyfriends excitement through the phone. "holy shit, i'm gonna see my girlfriend."

"holy shit, you're gonna see your girlfriend." y/n mocked making jonathan simply smile at the thought. "you still have to ask your mom and i still have to go buy the ticket tomorrow."

"well if you're getting the one here i'll get the one on the way back. no protest," jonathan added the end words, predicting his girlfriend's argument. she smiled at his words. "fine, you idiot. but don't just not buy it so you can hog me for a month. i'm very popular and well liked."

"oh trust me know. i had to wait in line for five hours on our first date to even speak to you." he humored. "i w- mom!"

"hi, sweetie! i haven't talked to you since last week. how are you doing?" the familiar and comforting voice of joyce byers filled y/ns ears as she giggled. "hi, joyce! i'm fine, thank you."

"mom give me the phone back and my girlfriend back, please and thank you." jonathan muttered from the other side of his mother as she gave him a pout before handing him the phone once more. "wait is it okay if y/n comes and stays with us next weekend? there's a flight on thursday night."

joyce lit up at this question immediately responding in an inevitable yes. this resulted in a five minute rivalry over a conversation with you. jonathan won in the ending shaking his head as joyce walked off to check on will. the teenager sighed, leaning against the table. "it's like midnight for you. go to bed."

"hm... no. try again later." y/n hummed, fighting off a yawn as she pulled the comforter over herself. "you're tired. sleep, please. i need a fully refreshed girlfriend for next weekend. we can't have a tired girl who can't stay up all night."

"staying up all night doing what?" she teased him as he pressed his lips together, watching his mother enter the room once more. "oh you know..." he awkwardly laughed. "just go to bed, m'kay? then you can spend all day tomorrow bragging to our friends about how you're gonna see me."

"mh.... fine. but only because i want to not because you're telling me," y/n nodded as jonathan smiled at his girlfriend's sureness. "love you."

"gonna dream of that long hair of yours that i've yet to see."

"oh shush."

#jonathan byers x reader #jonathan byers #stranger things #steve harrington #nancy wheeler #joyce byers #will byers #robin buckley #stranger things fic #charlie heaton #jonathon byers #jonathon byers x reader

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asterz-playz-official · 11 months

Text

S4: Unwinding Au

Idk what ends up happening with the Unknowing, but Michael and Jon both end up going into that weird comatose state.

I’ve already somewhat described Michael’s dream-thing, and we already know what Jon’s is, but i dunno if Oliver talks to both of them, only one of them, one at a time, both at the same time, or something else entirely…?

But Michael forgets his name and appearance when he comes out of it, acts weird and unsettling, and then Jon wakes up and is like “oh. He needs a statement.”

And so Michael starts recording a statement, while Jon waits, and the “statement of…” bit alone starts to pull him back together.

“Statement of [?], regarding []. Original statement given…. [?????]. Audio recording by…

*voice becoming less distorted* “…Michael… Mi- Michael- Michael, um…

*Almost completely back to normal* “….Sh- Sh-? …sh-Shelley. Recording… I’m recording.

*all the way back to normal.* “Michael Shelley… recording. *Softly* …thanks.”

God, Martin must be SO jealous. /j

But yeah, Michael The Archivist is… certainly something to behold, pun very much intended.

Best part is that Elias can’t behold him anymore. So he just has Jon stick with him all the time. Personal security camera. /hj

Michael just keeps trying to collect every single photograph of himself that he can find and keep them in his office or on him just as a reminder. Cause he’s scared that if he forgets what he looks like, things’ll just go downhill from there.

He has stickie notes on his desk with his name and facts about himself on them, he’s made a tape of clips of himself reading stuff in statements, and of the snippets of his voice that were in Dust to Dust.

However, fears and stuff are… difficult to deal with, when you literally embody them.

The tapes, and any Polaroid photos he has, are the only things that seem to hold up super well.

So he decides to just… record a statement. About who he is.

Fortunately, prior to the Unknowing ritual counter-operation, Sasha had the genuinely brilliant idea to start taking tons of Polaroids of each of them so that they could all make sure they could remember who everyone was, and identify when people didn’t look right. Just in case.

So he tries his best to be clear with his phrasing and everything, and be as specific as possible, even though it hurts and feels wrong and everything.

He fills two whole tapes with memories and information and everything. A-side AND B-side.

His name, why he was named that way, childhood, teenhood, Ryan, before the institute, joining the institute, being in the institute, everything he can remember.

He actually goes to try and start up a third tape before he finally blacks out.

He dreams of a flight of stairs that goes on forever, and wakes up in a cold sweat.

His brain feels like sludge, and he can hardly stand, but someone’s left a statement on his desk, apparently for when he wakes up. It’s “packaged” too neatly, tucked into a file folder and held together with a paper clip, so he knows that it’s from Jon even before he sees the little “J” on the note.

It’s strangely crisp, though. Jon usually has to spend a lot of time carefully smoothing the creases out of any crumpled documents he finds.

Something prickles at the back of his mind about this, but he ignores it, just wanting to take in some information and get ahold of himself again.

It’s only after he gets past the initial record information that he realizes it’s not from Jon at all.

It’s… a statement about… broken glass.

As usual, it’s not actually possible for him to stop recording as he reads, but as he does so, his hands are shaking.

He recognizes the handwriting.

Michael hadn’t even noticed the name was a pseudonym until the narrator mentioned his “taller, skinnier roommate”, and Michael knew who it was meant to be.

Jon would never put this thing on Michael’s desk, he knew he wouldn’t.

Didn’t he?

No, he absolutely knew. Jon wasn’t sadistic.

But Michael knew someone who was…

The moment Michael finished the statement, he took the quick route into Elias’s office and demanded to know what the hell he thought he was doing.

(Guess I’ll continue this later or something, just lost my momentum lol)

#the magnus archives #tma #michael shelley #michael tma #tma au #tma unwinding au #unwinding au #jonathan sims #jon tma #elias bouchard #Elias tma #rambles #thoughts

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pin-crusher2000 · 24 days

Text

Mortal Kombat: Earth-66 (1.5)

Here is the second half of character interactions (Mar’i & Jake)

1- Mar’i: wanna spar? I’ll let you wrestle me to the ground.

Chris: oh! Hehe sure.

Mar’I: *smirks* read you like an open book!

2-Mar’i: future bro in law, wanna fight?

Jon: sure, won’t hold back though!

Mar’i: Tamareans is stronger than kryptonians.

3- Mar’i: you are daddy’s favorite Robin

Damian: *tt* is that so?

Mar’i: talked about you for hours.

4- Mar’i: we are both noble heirs for warrior queens

Hunter: it means we are both strong.

Mar’i: but I’m more stronger *does the lower bottom eyelid & sticks tongue out anime taunt.*

5-Mar’i: you think your arrows are faster than my starbolts?

Connor: yup, fastest drawer on the planet!

Mar’i: that’s what Lian said.

6- Mar’i: I’m a warrior princess!

Arthur: & I’m a warrior prince.

Mar’i: let’s see who’s the better warrior!

7-Mar’i: is it true that you eat worms?

Hector: no! I’m just a regular kid with hawk armor on!

Mar’i: that’s what a person who eats worms would say!

8-Mar’i: A Tamarean is stronger than a kryptonian!

Osul-Ra: wrong, & I’m a Phaelosian not a kryptonian!

Mar’i: *shugs noise* same thing.

9-Mar’i: *gasps* are you a warrior princess too?!

Otho-Ra: I’m my papas StarChild.

Mar’i: I’m my daddy’s StarShine.

10-Mar’i: wow! You get super strength?!

Colin: yeah, & I get even stronger.

Mar’i: strong like a Tamarean?

11-Mar’i: are you spying on Chris & I?

Conner: just being a good big bro & watching out.

Mar’i: thanks for that, but we don’t need you.

12-Mar’i: your just like uncle dami, But a princess!

Mara: I prefer a demon instead.

Mar’i: yup, talk like him too.

13-Mar’i: you can shoot lasers out of your eyes!

Maya: *giggles* yup & turn invisible too!

Mar’i: wooah! Cool!

14-Mar’i: Irey is my best friend!

Maxine: no she’s mine!

Mar’i: Mine!

15-Mar’i: hmph! Stop talking about my mom like that perv!

Clifford: what? I just said she’s like E.T. But with double D’s?

Mar’i: I’m gonna kick your butt!

16-Mar’i: what am I thinking about?

Kathy: Ranch with pizza on the bottom.

Mar’i: *gasp* soooo cool!

17- Mar’i: what’s hotter: my starbolts or your magical flames?

Suren: my flames can burn to ash.

Mar’i: my bolts are hotter than the sun.

FireWing (Jake Grayson)

1-Jake: loser has to make a parfait for the winner!

Chris: & it’s gonna be you.

Jake: then I’m gonna make it butt flavored.

2- Jake: we are the strongest of our teams.

Jon: let’s see who’s stronger between the both of us.

Jake: loser has pretzels for the winner.

3-Jake: dad said you were his favorite Robin.

Damian: *tt* is that so?

Jake: he was right, you are a butt munch.

4-Jake: we are both warrior princes.

Hunter: but I’m far stronger.

Jake: let’s test that out.

5-Jake: your screams can hurt eardrums?

Connor: yup, even steel at full scream.

Jake: really? Mine too! *starts screaming autisticly*

6-Jake: we are both warrior princes.

Arthur: yup, I’m of water & you of fire.

Jake: fire is better than water.

7-Jake: is it true that you eat worms?

Hector: no! Where did you heard that from?!

Jake: my sister bird boy! *giggles*

8-Jake: *deepens voice* accept my challenge kakarot!

Osul-Ra: *highens voice* Right! Let’s do it!

9-Jake: a warrior princess?

Otho-Ra: I’m my papas StarChild.

Jake: Mar’i would love to have you as a sister.

10-Jake: woah! You can turn into a giant!

Colin: yup, maybe even bigger.

Jake: can I do pull-ups on your wrists?

11-Jake: can you teach me how to be cool?

Conner: bro, you are already cool with the flame outfit!

Jake: awww, cool.

12-Jake: you’re just like uncle Damian.

Mara: how so?

Jake: a butthead but pretty.

13-Jake: you can shoot lasers?

Maya: yup, & turn invisible too!

Jake: can I use it to pull goons pants down? Please?

14-Jake: since my mom’s species came from cats could you technically control me?

Maxine: huh, you came from cats?!

Jake: meow! Meow! *purrs*

15-Jake: keep my mom’s name outta your mouth!

Clifford: why? I just said she’s like E.T. But with double D’s.

Jake: I’m gonna punch you in the tenders!

16: Jake: what number am I thinking of?

Kathy: not a number but the color blue.

Jake: darn, thought I could trick you. *pouts*

17: Jake: what’s hotter? My starbolts or your magical flames.

Suren: I can burn a body to ash.

Jake: can you light your farts on fire though?

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a-mag-a-day · 1 year

Note

MAG 91 - baking apple pie

After being all brave and sassy with Jude Jon definitely has learned a lesson or two about meeting up with avatars, although this one seems a lot nicer. Offering him a cup of tea instead laughing at him and threatening him.

JON "I… Where did you get that scar?" [LONG SIGH AS THE SOUND OF RUSHING AIR RISES] MIKE "And I was trying so hard to be polite." - Well, that lesson wasn't enough though…

MIKE "The air… it doesn’t… leave your lungs like you expect it to." - I hate falling, so I never did anything like bungee or something like that… But sometimes when it's super stormy outside it feels like the storm blows the air you want to breath out of your mouth. Terrible feeling.

"Not unless that’s what happened to your hand, but I’m guessing that burn came from sticking it somewhere it wasn’t wanted. And you still didn’t learn." - Yeah, even Crew knows it..

"The part that always bothered me was how I didn’t remember it. Not really." - Ohhh, does the "not really" flood already slowly start here? I know in S4 there's sooo many of them, and we heard it in S1 and 2 also a couple of times.

"Did you know that Lichtenberg figures are fractals?" / "The thing that chased me, you see, it was an arcing branch of the Twisting Deceit, taken shape to follow me. But the shape it had taken more rightly belonged to the sky. To those same vast unknowable heights that blessed book wanted to take me." - Another one of those edges, a phenomenon of the sky bleeds into It Is Not What It Is.

Daisy is so brutal… Kicking Crew a few additional times just to be sure… And we see some of her apologist nature. Tricking herself into only hunting monsters.

JON "So… so what now? You kill us? …" DAISY "You think he’s going to save you?" JON "What? What, no –" [GUNSHOT] [JON CRIES OUT] - again, Daisy. Is. So. Brutal. She just shot a dude right in front of Jon. Because it's fun to see his fear…

DAISY "One packet cigarettes, Silk Cut. One lighter, gold, spiderweb design. Hm." - Oh hi there you sneaky little thing! Also Jon totally smoking again…

God, hearing Jon gurgling and whimpering is so hard to listen to.

DAISY "You been following me, Basira?" - Basira is Daisy's soft spot… How her voice wavers here.

DAISY "You don’t know what he is. You don’t know what it’s like to have your secrets pulled out like teeth, just because he asked?" - On my first listen I didn't understand what all this "stop asking question" and then they just answer them as all about. This is when it finally clicked.

JON "I thi- I thi- I think it was Elias." DAISY "Yeah. Well he’s on my list too." - Lol, that tone in Daisy's voice.

JON "What about Mike?" DAISY "Who? Oh. Grab a spade." - Can you imagine, fours days ago Jon got his palm completely burned and now this murder cop tells him to dig a hole to bury the person she just shot in front of him or she'll shoot him too if she's merciful or cut his throat if she's not.

Godd poor guy

#a mag a day #tma #the magnus archives #episode asks #mod ashes #tma spoilers #Mag 91 #lycanlovingvampyre

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sweetlikehoneystingslikeabee · 1 year

Text

"Happy Birthday to you, doll!"

A very lovely, lovely birthday to my dear friend @itsmalachitenow, featuring her two favorite batman rogues Scarecrow and Mad Hatter! She's one of my favorite people in the world, so please join me in wishing her a wonderful day. As a note this is very personalized with her self insert Lyric Adagio.

TW: NSFW 🔞, dollplay, oral, penetration, hypnosis, plot with porn, x self insert

That morning when Lyric Adagio woke up, she noticed the large bed she shared with her two lovers was empty. Did they both get up without her? A pleasant smile played on her face. They probably wanted to let her sleep, given today was her special day. Despite what anyone else might think, her boys did treat her so well.

In the other room she could hear the whistle of the Mad Hatter's teapot and smell pumpkin pancakes on the stove. Oh, they were definitely setting up for her birthday. Jonathan Crane, also known as the Scarecrow, made the best pancakes. Perfectly fluffy and the pumpkin was deeply comforting. She stretched out her arms and yawned.

The cold of the hardwood floor under her feet gave her just enough jolt to look around. Next to the bed was a pill organizer and a bottle of water, which she quickly used to wash down medication for the morning.

Their home… an eclectic and almost haphazard mix of three different aesthetics. Alice in Wonderland motifs galore, along with video game and movie merchandise and somehow the occasional glimpses of the Southern Gothic. It worked for them. It made her smile every morning, a constant reminder of their presence even when they had to be apart.

Not today, however. This whole weekend was going to be all about her. A planned dinner out with her loved ones and friends and the rest of the time? Private time to two of the most infamous of the Rogues Gallery, all to herself.

As she entered the kitchen and dining area, she could see Jon finishing off pancakes in a pile and a thing of bacon about to be put on. Jervis was pouring tea in three separate cups at the table, a grin on his face as he spotted her.

The moment the kettle was set down, he was running to her and twirling her around. His voice rang out sing-song, "Aaaaaa very happy birthday to you!"

"To me?" Lyric giggled.

"To you!" He stopped just short so she could get her breath, "Oh Alice, I'm so pleased we get to celebrate yet another year of you… existing!"

"Hm?" Jon called out in monotone, yet a smile played on his face, "Is today some sort of special day?"

"Pooh-pooh, Marchie!" Jervis blew out his cheeks in protest, "You know perfect-ly well! None of us are exempt from the time spell."

"And now you're rhyming." He flips the last pancake onto the side plate.

Lyric was practically jumping on her toes, "Aw, but Jon, my heart is in a swell! You know that's his cutest tell. He can't be the Mad Hatter and rest just on his laurels!"

Jervis couldn't help the giggle that came from his throat, clapping his hands in delight, "Very good, Alice!"

Jon quickly turned, spatula in hand, "Don't you encourage him! …happy birthday, my dear." The mock frustration on his face quickly melted away to a warm smile. He held his arms out to her as she approached.

"Did you take your morning medication?" Jon asks as she leans in for a kiss on his cheek.

She grins, "Yeah, Doc, I did." There's an amused chuckle in response. The first time she had gotten discombobulated from forgetting night or morning medication, Jon took it upon himself to ask when he was home. It was one of several subtle ways he told her how much he loved her.

Another was the way he would make her plate to always include a tad extra food, even if she wasn't going to eat it. He knew what it was like to have food scarce or kept away from you. It was a feeling he'd never wish on someone else. And so, his loved ones would always have more than enough.

Jervis sat in the seat across the table from her, chin in his hands and his tongue sticking out just a tad, "There's already milk on the table. I know what you like!" And she'll watch as he puts far too much sugar and cream into his. Though… hers isn't much better.

"The reservations are clear for tomorrow night, by the way." Jon called above the sizzle of bacon, "And everyone cleared their schedules." It made him happy to say it. Just for you, dear. They all want to be with you on your day.

"Even-"

"Even the Cheshire Cat, yes!" Jervis interrupts.

Lyric mixes her tea and comments, "Oh man, I thought Edward was going to be out of town?"

"He was until he heard he got his dates mixed up. You know how that man is with dates." Jon rolls his eyes and jokes, "The illustrious Riddler- the genius Riddler- amazing at everything he touches but can't be bothered to keep track of the days when he hyper focuses on his work." The only time that man ever paid attention was when he was forced to- like in Arkham.

Lyric smiles. He canceled plans? The others really do all like her. She tries not to cry into her cup of tea. It took a minute for the rest of them to warm up, but… old friends and new friends and her parents. All together.

"I'm so happy." She sighed, "The only thing is that's gonna be so many spoons."

"Which is why today is about relaxing, pet!" Jervis cooed, "No flare-ups on our watch!"

Lyric felt her shoulders relax as Jon put a plate of food in front of her. He sat down between them, briefly bowed his head and then started to eat. She wondered briefly if this meant they weren't going to do anything today. Which was fine, she understood why, but… she was rather hoping they were going to do something, even if it was small.

Jon, as if sensing this, had a sly smile on his face, "I think we should open presents after."

"Presents?" Jervis and Lyric both chattered.

"Wait, why are you excited?" Lyric asked.

"Because, dear Alice…" Jervis grinned, "I know what your present is." The look on his face sent a pleasurable shiver down her spine.

A nervous laugh, "I am excited but also afraid!"

"All I could ever hope for, dearest." Jon flirts.

Certainly, it gave her reason to finish up breakfast, tea, and then brush her teeth. Get situated on the couch in their modest living room to wait for her presents. Midnight, the taxidermied crow, watched with glass eyes from a nearby bookshelf. There was that sparkle in her eyes that attracted them both at the various times they first met. That wonder she met the world with.

Jervis stood there with a larger set of boxes in his arms, meticulously wrapped with hand-tied bows. Meanwhile Crane dug into a nearby cabinet, moving various things out of his way to pull out a bundle- book shaped and wrapped in newspaper and twine. Jervis made a movement with his hand for Jonathan to go first.

“Age before beauty.” Jervis jokes.

Jon sniped, “Where in the world did you even hear that? One of your reality shows?”

“I do not WATCH-” If Jervis hadn’t been holding things, his hands would have gone to his hips.

Satisfied with the reaction he managed to get, Jon handed the bundle to Lyric, “You said how much you like hand-made gifts. Both of us decided to partly do that this year.”

Trying to stifle a laugh at their banter, Lyric took the present in her hands, delicately pulling away the twine in her lap. As the newspaper fell away, she could see a leather bound book, the binder sewn by hand. The binding was thick and sturdy, obviously recycled. As she flipped through, she realized these pages were of perfect quality for sketching.

Her eyes were wide, “You made me a new sketchbook?!” She was quick to get up and wrap her arms over Jon, the book tight in her hands.

“It was a new venture, certainly,” He kissed the top of her head, “I managed to purchase some inks as well that I think you’ll have fun experimenting with. Either for writing or sketching.” Out of her line of sight, he gave a thumbs up to Jervis, who began lining up his presents along the living room table. He grabbed up the newspaper to toss to the floor for now.

As Lyric turned back around, she looked over the boxes with curiosity, “Is this where I should be scared?”

“Positively frightened.” Jon learned to whisper in her ear, hand on her shoulder. The tickle of air on her ear made her shiver.

Biting her lip, Lyric sat down in front of them, and Jervis plopped down on the couch next to her. Jon managed to slink his way behind them, with his lanky arms draped over the back. She went to the smaller boxes first- ribbons for her hair, stockings, some very comfortable but still sensual lingerie… And a pair of women’s oxford shoes. Lace up, black and white with a small chunky heel.

She knows what’s in the largest box.

Jervis is positively brimming with anticipation next to her, “You’re going to relax today- We had just the thing! Doll you up… and put you on a string.” There’s a dark tone to his voice, not playful like he normally would be. It’s sultry, inviting. She can feel him edging closer to her.

The box opens and her hands immediately go to the soft fabric of a blue-green dress. She’s careful not to grab at it in a way that’ll wrinkle it. Jervis wordlessly assists to stand and take it out to show her.

“Jervis… It’s beautiful.” She sighs, smiling at all the details. There’s cotton lace patterns along the bottom and accent edges, poofy skirts and frilly long sleeves. When he turns it around, she sees the faux ties in the back hiding a zipper to ease her way into wearing it. A lovely combination of her tastes and sensible fashion for her body. For a moment her eyes close as she pictures herself wearing it. She can feel Jonathan weaving his fingers lightly through the hanging strands of her hair.

His voice is lower, more graveled, “Shall we begin treatment?” She recognizes it. It’s the voice he wears when he dons the Scarecrow mask. Unfortunately for her, it’s also a weakness in which he’s keenly aware of.

“How do you want to do this, dear?” Jervis licks his lips as he asks, “With assistance?”

Lyric thought about it for a brief moment. She knows why he’s asking. Whenever he used any of his skills and devices of the mind, he always managed to whisper in her ear that her muscles felt light, like air. It allowed movement and positioning that normally would leave her aching afterwards. Yet he would never just assume she wanted to be put even slightly under without asking first. It showed how their relationship had developed over time the longer they’d been together.

She nodded, “Just a little.” One of her eyes winked and she made a motion with her fingers indicating a small amount. Jon’s hands went flat over her shoulder in reassurance.

Jervis, even in his casual wear, kept a pocket watch on him at all times. Just in case. Gold, with an engraving of the white rabbit from the original book illustrations of Alice in Wonderland on the back. This particular watch was an anniversary gift from her. The moment it was opened and she saw the black and white of numbers, and could hear the ticking of the second hand- her mind already began to relax.

“Oh, Alice, dear Alice…” Jervis cooed, “We’re sure to find something to fit your palate. Relax and we’ll tell those muscles to mollify- Any pain you feel we will therefore nullify.” Immediately Lyric feels any tenseness in her muscles wash away like water on the beach.

The smile on her face was soft and happy, “That feels nice, thank you.” It was through dedicated practice that it was effective this quickly. At this point she practically hopped and skipped over extra steps with grace.

“What a pretty little doll we’ve found.” Jon’s voice has gotten close to her ear, helping tilt her chin with his hand.

Jervis compliments, “Yes… But we simply must dress her in something more fitting, don’t you agree? This simply won’t do!”

Lyric could feel the flush go to her cheeks and ears as they spoke. Trying to “behave” and not break the character. The Mad Hatter stood in front of her, holding out his hands for her to grasp so she could be pulled to her feet. Her feet were slightly shaky from being too relaxed, something Jon helped to manage by swiftly moving from behind the couch to her side.

“Thank you.” She said, getting her balance, “It’s… been so long since someone has found me-”

Jonathan smooths a palm over her cheek and laid a soft kiss on her lips, “Shhh… You’re alright now, dear. Nothing can hurt you now that you’re ours.”

“Yours?” Lyric asked.

“Oh, yes!” Jervis added, “Completely ours in every way! Let’s start with this shirt-” Giggling with excitement, Jervis moves to pull the young woman's shirt up over her head while Jonathan holds her by the waist. Her nipples perk with the cold air, which he moves to fix with his hands massaging over her breasts. His mouth opens to kiss her on the mouth, his tongue moving to taste her.

“Patience.” Scarecrow reminds them both, “We’ve barely just begun.”

The other man is clearing his throat, “Y-yes, quite!”

The trio of them grinning and smiling, they guide Lyric to the bedroom, laying her softly on the bed. Jonathan unceremoniously pulls off her pajama bottoms and presses himself between her knees. Staring down at her. Observing her reactions. He thinks how beautiful she is with her hair splayed around her head. The warmth in her eyes. Softly he grasps her hands to help her sit up as Jervis brings in the stack of present boxes for them to go through. She can’t help but lean in closer to a clothed Scarecrow for warmth. His arms wrap around her back and shoulders as their partner sets up the “game.”

“Hmmm you’re so cute like this.” Jonathan whispers, “So difficult to wrap our doll up when we could have you just… like this...”

Now it’s Jervis tutting them, “Patience! Here, love.” His movements are slow as he slips white lacy underwear up her legs. Lyric pulls herself up on his shoulders so they can be pulled up over her hips. The light brushing of Jervis’s thumb and she realizes the underwear has no crotch, thin straps on either side of her pussy leaving her showing. She whimpers but tries to keep still as they pull over a matching sheer bralette on her top. Jonathan went to tweak her nipples as he felt the fabric.

“This one is perfect.” He says to Jervis, “She looks like an angel.”

Jervis sighs dreamily, “Isn’t she, though?”

At that she couldn’t help but give a nervous laugh and look down at the bed. It wasn’t new things they were saying, but… every time they did, she felt so special. Jonathan grasped her chin in his fingers to look at him and to kiss him, Jervis kneeling onto the ground with stockings. Lyric couldn’t help but gasp at Jonathan's mouth as their third began laying kisses over her thighs, her knees, her calf- Soft cotton easing its way up one leg and then the other. When she could look down, she saw a looping blue ribbon accenting the top of them, just underneath the frills.

Jonathan helped to straighten the fabric over her thigh and ghosted his face along her jawline, “Pretty as a pinup.” His statement was followed by a dry laugh. There’s definitely a box somewhere with scintillating photos of her that he snuck in during stays at Arkham. He helped her lean on him to get to her feet, both men staring her over.

Jervis takes the opportunity to grasp her in his arms and kiss her rapidly over her neck and shoulders to the point of having her laugh. His fingers crept down just above her pussy, teasing but not quite touching her clit. Her soft moans echoed in the room as Jonathan unzipped the dress and loosened the ties so she could step in. Jervis almost pouted, no longer having the easy access as he had to back away. The colorful fabric skirt slipped over her waist, poofing out over her hips. As the sleeves fit over her arms, the look was almost complete- She looked like a fairy tale princess. One of the harder parts of this sort of play besides the sexual tension was they always made her wait to see the whole thing until it was done.

“My lady,” Jervis held her shoes in front of her as Jonathan finished tying the dress in the back. He couldn’t help but kiss her leg again as she stepped in and he tied the laces.

Jonathan kisses the side of her neck, pulling her hair away, “Dolls are to be cherished and loved, isn’t that what you said Jervis?”

A soft giggle as he stands, patting his knees, “Oh yes, I’ve said that many times! I’ve always wanted one to pamper… We’re almost done dressing up.” He motions with his hand towards the mirrored vanity in the room. It was antique, something the boys found for this exact sort of scenario.

It was here they sat her down on the small bench in front of it, facing away from the mirror, hands pulling her hair away from her face. Soft brushes that felt like silk glided over her cheeks to apply blush. Jonathan's wiry fingers dabbed on lipstick slowly to match the curve of her mouth. He moved behind her to tenderly brush her hair as Jervis applied a dab of nude eyeshadow to the corners of her eyes. She was getting the full treatment today and she knew it was their way of truly making the day all about her. A ribbon weaved through her hair behind her ears and was tied in a bow atop her head, completing the look.

As her eyes glimmered, Lyric was slightly turned around on the bench until she was looking directly in the mirror and able to see herself clearly. She could hardly contain her excitement at the view in front of her. With a slight wobble, she managed to stand up on her own two feet to see the entirety of what they had done. Her hands went to the skirts and swayed them back and forth.

“I think she likes it.” Jonathan said, his finger crooking into one of the ribbons in the back of the dress.

Jervis went to tilt her head up, “I think so too! But now what shall we do? We’ve brought our doll home… we’ve dressed her up-”

“I was thinking something of a reward. For us.” The Scarecrow began to circle her, “And surely we can pamper her in other ways.”

Lyric’s knees pressed together where they couldn’t see. Something about it- the way they talked about her like she wasn’t in the room, listening to everything. She knew what came next. Her body practically leaned into Jervis as his hand went to the small of her back and his lips found its spot in the crook of her neck.

“Well doll?” Jonathan’s brow queried, “Why don’t you show us how else we could pamper you?”

The young woman’s hands shook as she grasped the fabric of the skirts in her hands, trying to remain cool and collected even as Jervis dragged his tongue along her skin. With a shaking breath, she lifted the dress in its front just high enough to see her wet pussy on display. Just as she could see Jonathan lick his lips in a crass gesture at her, she suddenly felt Jervis move one of his hands to paw at her between her legs. Not quite pressing in, his thumb moving gingerly over her clit as his fingers explored between her slit. She grasped onto his arm for anchor as she moaned. The skirts fell over to hide his hand, but he continued.

Jonathan clicked his tongue, “I was still looking at that, doll. Don’t you want to please me as well? Or is your brain too clouded with pleasure to think of much else?”

Before she could answer, Jervis plied a finger inside of her and his teeth grazed into her shoulder. Her voice came out choking, “Yes- I- I-” Her hips moved in time with Jervis’s ministrations, the anticipation bringing her ever higher. The scarecrow assisted by first yanking the skirt up to put in her hand- Then he took her lips to his to overwhelm her. Every moan and whimper she gave him just made him harder through his pants.

As his body brushed against hers, she could feel it against her bare skin. For a moment she wondered how this was going to go before Jonathan suddenly backed off.

“I think Jervis should have you first.” There was a smile on his face she didn’t quite trust.

Yet, Jervis, panting hard against her skin, agreed, “Yes, yes, don’t you fret, you’ll have your turn soon enough yet. I want to taste our pet.” And with that he and Lyric went to the bed, him remaining clothed as he pushed her to fall on her back on the plush comforter.

Out of the corner of her eye, Lyric could see Jonathan setting himself to sit one leg over his other crossed on the vanity bench. Staring. A closed mouth smile betraying how much he was getting off on this. The Mad Hatter was quick to push Lyric’s skirts back up and press her legs apart with his hands. With a moan, he went to kiss her thighs before moving to her pussy and diving right in with tongue. She couldn’t help but weave her hands and fingers into his hair as he tasted her right to the core.

It didn’t last long as his face peeked up over the fabric of her clothes, “Oh Alice, you taste delightful- I just know you’re going to feel even better…” She could hear him unzipping his pants and a groan of relief at what she assumed was him taking out his cock.

He managed to wiggle himself above her, kissing her on the lips, “See how good you taste? So delectable-” His cock lined up and pressed inside her aching cunt. He was average at most in length, but there was a thickness to him that always stretched her out just a little at first.

Not to mention the fervor in which he’d thrust up into her hips, always making sure they meet at the hilt no matter how he rushes. Like she’s the only person he could ever want. His hand pressed down over hers, holding them above her head by the wrist as his other balanced his weight.

“You feel so good, Alice- so… Just like I always-” All the foreplay leading up to now had him plenty wound up.

She managed to twist her hips up to meet him so he’d go deeper. A shiver went up her back, and she whimpered, “Please don’t stop, Jervis- Don’t let go.”

Seeing the sweetness of her face as she begged almost made him cum then and there. Yet Jervis knew he had to rein himself in, thrusting just a little slower to make himself last longer. As Lyric looks over to Jonathan, she can see he’s no longer sitting on the bench. Likely somewhere else in the room, watching. Normally, Jervis would be the volunteer to be a creepy voyeur for his enjoyment. Feeling his eyes on her was enough, Lyric could feel herself building to that first orgasm.

“I’m almost- Jervis!” She moaned as Jervis kissed her again, moving faster to stimulate her with his cock. With a grunt, he came, pressing in deep for just a moment before he kept going- Panting and practically unable to speak as he went. She could feel that warmth of his cum inside of her slipping out.

“Mine, mine, mine-” He murmured, “You’re all mine-” Almost like a prayer on his lips to keep him going despite his own overstimulation.

With an arch in her back, Lyric came over his cock, her wrists pressing hard against his hand. Thankfully, he was just that little bit stronger, a wide grin on his face as he watched her face contort in ecstasy. Then he lifted himself off of her with a kiss to the cheek. He was going to clean up while Jonathan had his fun. Just before Lyric could wonder where he was, a fully nude Crane was pulling her up into his lap. She was so malleable like this- something he took advantage of as he positioned her over his cock.

His voice was rich as he growled, “And now you’re all mine. Just what am I to do with such a pretty little thing?” Before she could answer, he began to press her hips and pussy down over him- thankfully only half way at first. He was thinner, but longer. Just enough that pressing her all the way down in the initial stroke would be cruel.

He lifted her, despite her agonized moans, “T-too much- S… Sensitive-” Yet he continued, knowing she was fully aware of their safeword or colors if it all got to be too much.

“I think you should be able to take both your masters' cocks in one sitting-” Jonathan chastised, “Perhaps next time we’ll even do both. This body is ours. You belong to us, beautiful doll.”

He’d been stroking himself off in the dark as he’d watched, pre-cum already lining his shaft. Mixing with Lyrics slick and Jervis’s cum inside of her. There could be something witty to be said about it, if he wasn’t so focused on trying to hit all of her sweet spots. Slow, methodical and agonizing was the way to drag out her pleasure like this. That with some choice verbiage and the tender way he held her midsection as he thrust all the way into her, was nearing her at another edge.

Jervis sat in front of her on the bed, head in hands as he stared at her lovingly. Helping pull the dress out of the way as her face flushed and she seemed to lose any possibility of praise or banter. Just crying out as Jonathan played with her clit with each even stroke.

“Our perfect doll…” Jervis cooed, petting her cheek.

All of it was too much- Lyrics second and final orgasm hit her like a large wave in the ocean, trickling out to smaller waves as she panted out her release. Jonathan held her there for a moment before lifting her off and handing her to Jervis to cuddle into as she came down. Grabbing a nearby tissue from a box, he jerked himself off to completion, hand on her arm to keep his mind on track. He could have kept going inside of her, but he figured she had been pressed far enough for one session.

He put his cock away after some quick cleaning and settled in behind her on the bed, his arms going across her waist. Kissing the back of her shoulder.

“Was that good?” Jervis asked, “A pleasant present for our dearest? You are now… fully awake, my control is no longer a suppressant.” He gave a small clap for good measure, pulling out the watch for her to hear the ticking.

With the weight back in her body, Lyric painted, “So good. Better than good. That was… That was fucking amazing.” She was almost breathless but laughing all the same. The smile on her face made Jervis feel so warm.

Jonathan’s voice was quiet in comparison, “Happy Birthday, darling. Do you want to clean up or sit here for a minute?” They would have to apply some aftercare, but it could wait for her to process.

“I’m tired…” She said before moving her leg and wincing, “Actually, clean up. Is that okay?”

“More than okay!” Jervis sat up, “We’ll get you all cleaned up! And this dress will have to be cleaned too.” There was a knowing smile on his face as he said it.

The aftercare was a calming haze of motions from helping her undress and getting her in a bath to her having fresh water and pain medication on hand after (just in case). Her fuzziest and most comfortable pajamas ready for her to put on. A small collection of Vincent Price horror movies for them to watch as she sat in a blanket huddling between them. Soft reminders that they love her and care about her and consistently asking if she needs anything else.

“Don’t hesitate to ask.” Jon says as he kisses her softly on her head.

At first she takes out her new sketchbook and makes doodles of the two men next to her. Yet Jonathan could see the two of them with droopy eyes in weariness. They both end up convincing him to move to the middle and then napping on him in the middle of “Theater of Blood.” A soft sigh and smile. He wouldn’t have it any other way. His hands on both of them to keep them closer.

#dc scarecrow #dc mad hatter #smut #x self insert #jonathan crane #jervis tetch #foxwriting

19 notes · View notes

bluiex · 1 year

Note

I have spotted a pattern, I like ships or I guess anything involved someone is something beyond our understanding, incomprensible to our mortal minds and the other dude is just a guy.

The only difference is that jon Sims theatre kid takes after my crumbly asexual heart.

Procrastinating is my life, and I have been procrastinating to even start TMA two or three years ago I think? I have started it this year and been stuck on episode 24 because of school. But anyways here’s an excerpt of the draft that I haven’t updated in two months:

Grian tries to not remember a lot about Last Life, only the winners should remember. Yet Jimmy does as the omen, as the Canary. Grian does as a Watcher.

But there is something that still sticks.

Scar isn’t an idiot, he runs successful businesses. He’s a con man, with his salesman voice that’s both so grounding but bubbly

He’s good but he lies.

Friendship points being a cutesy name to tell apart enemies. He scams you until you have no armor.

Scar’s honey coated words about the desert, about monopolies, how he held those poppies and lilacs and asked the stupidest question but Grian still smiled so hard.

Grian now answers yes to this question, when there’s no desert.

Scar can make you believe that he’ll always be there, that your hands will still shake but he’ll be there to hold them.

It had been so long since his claws were last held.

Grian likes to think he walked away back in Last Life but there’s this burning feeling in his lungs.

this feeling that instead of walking away, he crashed and burned onto Scar’s knowing arms.

Then Martyn was looking at Grian strangely and they both understood.

That Grian isn’t meant to be walking among them.

Grian doesn’t want his long-time friend to see him differently.

He’s still Grian, just, the added bonus of that this body is [pristine, bare, austere, bleak, spartan-] naked when it comes to organs. Organs don’t make up a person, look at Cleo!

But it’s not that: Martyn listens, he doesn’t see.

- Conductor Anon (currently sick, woe is me)

It's a really good ship dynamic >:3c and fits so well with scarian oh Conductor anon your writing is always so good <3 but yeah i havent listene to TMA since it's finale.. maybe one day I'll get around to relistening to it lol

#bluie gets an ask poggers #long post

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lycanlovingvampyre · 1 year

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MAG 111 Relisten

Activity on my first listen: putting up a new fence

I think this actually might be my absolute favorite episode... Also, I always considered this episode to be a "Schlüssel Episode" because it unlocks (heh) so many mysteries, answers so many questions! It took me way too long to make the connection... Schlüssel means key. Keay... (I wonder if this was intentional and planned, or a very happy coincidence. Having graduated from an art high school I know these coincidences actually happen a lot!)

Yeah, le me, who couldn't pay attention to the statement in MAG 4 or MAG 62 in detail still had no idea what was happening when Jon and the Hunters talked about the book. It only clicked when I heard Jon read Gerry's death.

JON: "She was there sometimes, the one he had followed around the world. There was almost sadness in her eyes." Not even Gertrude was immune to Gerry's charm :) God, why is he so perfect...

Okay, so some thoughts on Gerry's appearance! I know there is a discussion about him potentially looking like he did when he died, so in a hospital gown, possibly with a shaven head, no piercings etc. While that would be a look that fits the tragedy theme of TMA, I don't think that is the case. I think it works like in The Matrix. "Residual self-image". The appearance of the summoned dead will look like the mental projection of their ghost self. Now why do I come to this conclusion. Simple. MAG 154. Gertrude did not notice anything when she spoke with book!Eric. She did not suspect that he blinded himself. His mental projection probably looked like he did, when he worked for Gertrude - without damaged eyes. Why did Mary look so different though? Gerry says in this episode, that the ritual of binding herself to the book was only half finished and left her damaged. Probably that's why she has Sanskrit all over her. There's a novel by the German author Cornelia Funke, Inkheart. In this book the protagonist (and a few others) can bring book characters to life by reading them. When such a person wasn't skilled enough at reading them to life, the characters came to life damaged. In the film version they had this effect, that these characters will still have residual text all over their body.

I love the ghostly echo!

Why did Gerry ask Jon for a cigarette? Is he just the typical goth who smokes and asks everyone and eventually he'll find one or did Jon have a package somehow sticking out of a pocket? Either way... The Web's addiction got them to talk.

GERRY: "Nice lighter. You a spider freak, then?" JON: "What? Oh! Er, no. I-I never really, uh… I never really thought of it." That slippery little thing...

GERRY: "Good. Don’t think she would have wanted that. God, I can’t imagine her dying in bed." The way he says that makes me believe he did care for her.

GERRY: "Yeah, the world changes in horrible ways. For you. I’m a book." JON: "You can’t be serious." GERRY: "I’m dead serious." Such. A. Mood.

JON: "Just one. How do I stop the Unknowing?” GERRY: [Casually] "Nah, I don’t know." JON: [Incensed] "What?!" Lmao! Also their dynamic is sooo good!

The voice actor is so perfect. That audible edginess!

GERRY: "Huh. Do you like it*?" JON: "I-I don’t know. I never really thought about it. Yes, I… I suppose I do." (*the compulsion ability) That's why he's the perfect candidate. Tbf it seems like quite a handy ability...

GERRY: "Not when I was with her. She travelled light. Left things behind." Saying: Left me behind and I didn't think she would do that...

GERRY: "Thing is, it’s harder than it looks. What’s out there… doesn’t care about blood." JON: "Well, I-I mean, except for the vampires…" GERRY: "Yeah, obviously except for the vampires." Pffft...

GERRY: "But they care about your choices, your fears, not your parents. Families are just useful ‘cause they can push you in the right direction. And the Lukases are very good at that." This sentence means so much in regards to Jon and Martin. It's about the choices... I mean we absolutely know that a lot about Jon's story was about choices. But that bit about the Lukases being good at pushing people in the right direction? Just think about Peter and Martin...

JON: "And I imagine they’re not… reluctant to remove any members that might put that legacy at risk." Throwback to MAG 13...

JON: "Er… Statement of Gerard Keay, deceased, regarding the death of his mother, Mary Keay." He does it there, the Knowing of what the statement will be about. Gerry did not specify, that it would be about her death...

GERRY: "I never knew my dad. Not really. He worked in the Archives like you, but quit once I was born." ADFHDFKLFHG!!!! Worked in the Archives?! QUIT?! I didn't catch that when I was first listening, but when I listened to this episode again, it struck me! This was the reason why I looked up the discussion thread of MAG 111 in the TMA sub (like I said in the last episode). I wanted to know what people said about this when the episode came out, what theories people would weave. Turns out... nothing! I couldn't find a single comment talking about this! WTF?

GERRY: "so she killed him in his sleep to practice her bookbinding. I guess she failed. I always thought he was in here, but when I eventually got hold of it, there wasn’t a page in there." I wonder if Gertrude ever thought about telling him. I mean, in the end it made no difference. She had burned the page years ago.

You know what? Writing down that last bullet point made me think. The characters in TMA have so much depth. They are exceptionally well written and perfectly portrayed by their voice actors. They feel so real. It's kind of daft to wonder "Oh, did that character ever think about blabla" because they are not real people! Of course they didn't, they don't exist. But because they have so much depth, they feel like actual people and that's why these questions pop into my mind.

GERRY: " The best you could hope for from them, would be that they don’t spot you, and instead my mum chased after them, obsessed with others who had tried to stare at them without being blinded: y’know, Flamsteed, Smirke, Leitner." Second time the name Flamsteed was casually thrown around...

GERRY: "Idiots who destroyed themselves chasing a secret that wasn’t worth knowing. And the worst thing was, she marked me as a part of that, without my understanding. Or consent." Is this meant to be about Mary bringing him into these circles who were close to horrible things or him being Eye-aligned?

GERRY: "I think… I think I finally understand why she brought me back. I just don’t understand why she left me behind." I heard the idea of Gertrude's intention, that she thought binding him would prevent Gerry from rising as an Avatar. But is being a book so much better?

The famous color analogy! It works so perfectly though, some colors being similar, some clashing with each other... But all part of the spectrum.

GERRY: "I mean, you could see them all as just one thing," Ah yes, the thing Leitner and Gerry have in common. Foreshadowing of the Fears being one thing after all!

GERRY: "No. There aren’t any god-like powers of hope, or love, or indigestion, or whatever. At least not that I’ve seen. Just fear. I don’t know why." And still they work to use them to escape. Thinking of a beloved person will ground you, make you feel less fear and the Fears will leave you alone, when they are not getting anything out of you. Same with hope, that statement-giver in MAG 66, seeing a small shimmer of light or the ability to slightly move as hope and not to give up on it instead of surrendering themself to the despair of never quite reaching an escape.

GERRY: "Some say, or well, they guess, that it could bring other entities through with them." Again, foreshadowing!

JON: "And if one of the rituals succeeds?" GERRY: "The world becomes a factory farm." And that is why I wear a Fear Factory bandshirt for my Gerry cosplay.

JON: "Why would anyone want that? I-I mean, there are people, or they used to be people, who are trying to do this. Why?" Capitalism analogy? A handful of people are alright with dooming the world just for more money, more power...

GERRY: "Uh, the Rite of the Watcher’s Crown. It’s what she called the ritual for the Eye. She didn’t tell me much about that one, just that she knew how to take care of it." This kinda sounds like the Watcher's Crown is the upcoming ritual of the Eye. But isn't there a discussion, that the Watcher's Crown was Jonah's prison ritual? I mean, Jonah talks about being a king of a ruined world in MAG 160. So the crown symbolism would fit.

I love how the whole fandom immediately went with Gerry's wish and just calls him by his nickname.

@a-mag-a-day

#a-mag-a-day #mag 111 #tma #tma spoilers

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ollieofthebeholder · 9 months

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to find promise of peace (and the solace of rest): a TMA fanfic

<< Beginning < Prev. || AO3 || My Website

Chapter 42: January 2017

“Compassionate leave my ass. We barely even knew him.”

“He was a cop,” Daisy said, her face blank and inscrutable. “Same as us. It could’ve been any of us, partner, so just take the damn leave, huh? Go be thankful it isn’t you.”

Basira snorted. “Come on. You know that’s just so they figure out what the official story is.”

“Yeah. But it’s not like we can talk about it anyway.” Daisy shrugged into her coat. “I’m going for a drink. You coming?”

“No,” Basira said, after a moment’s pause. “No, I’ve—there’s something I need to do.”

Daisy stared at her for a long moment. Then, without another word, she turned and slouched off. Basira watched her go, then headed in the opposite direction. She might’ve been able to get there on the Tube, but maybe the walk would help her clear her head.

It didn’t. By the time she reached her destination—which she’d only half-realized was her actual destination—she was still as keyed up and muddled as ever.

The place seemed deserted. It was only when Basira shrugged her way past the empty desk and headed for the steps that it occurred to her that it was Saturday. Police work meant she didn’t have consistent days off, exactly, and it was easy to lose track of what day it was if you didn’t have anything to ground you in the linear flow of time. Still and all, she’d been able to get into the building, so that probably meant someone was here.

She headed down into the basement and opened the door, exposing a single occupant, who looked up with a smile that immediately morphed into a look of confusion and concern. “Basira?”

Basira grimaced and made a helpless gesture that even she didn’t fully understand. “Sorry. Forgot what day it was.”

“It’s fine. I mean, I’m here.” Blackwood rose to his feet, looking uncertain—and also, she noticed, not making eye contact with her. “Are…are you okay? Do you want a cup of tea or—or cocoa or something?”

“Tea’s fine.” Basira wasn’t particularly thirsty, but she recognized that she probably needed something. “Where is…everyone else?”

“We don’t normally work Saturdays. I just came up to do some reorganizing. These shelves are a mess, honestly, and we don’t always get time to sort during the week if we’re not also investigating.” Blackwood hesitated. “Jon’s supposed to be coming by, but not until later. For now it’s just me…hang on, let me go get you that tea.”

Basira sat, rather hesitantly, at the desk and watched as Blackwood walked away. Martin. If she was here as a civilian, if she was going to…she needed to stop thinking of him as a suspect. He wasn’t, hadn’t been for a long time. She still didn’t know who’d killed Gertrude Robinson, and frankly at this point she didn’t care. Let it be another cold case. There were hundreds of them on the books; statistically speaking, if a homicide wasn’t cleared within a week of its happening, the likelihood went down every day. Maybe someday someone would find the answers, but for now, she could just wash her hands of the case and be done with it.

Her dad would’ve had a fit over her thinking like that. Stick to a task until it was done, that’s what he’d always taught her. Don’t give up just because it’s hard. She could hear his voice now: Do the job not for respect of the person who gave you the task, or respect of the person at the heart of the task, but for respect of the task. Any work worth doing is worth doing all the way. It was why she’d become a cop in the first place, never mind why she’d stayed. Yet here she was, not only giving up on a murder case, but seriously considering why she was still wearing the badge at all.

She looked around the Archives. It was the first time she’d really…looked at it, as something other than a crime scene; even when she’d been here before, she’d been focused on finding Blackwood—Martin—swapping out the tapes, and getting out before anyone noticed her. Now, though, she took in all the details she’d previously dismissed as irrelevant: the cardigan tossed casually over the back of one of the chairs, the framed photograph on another desk of the dark-haired assistant grinning cheekily as he dangled from a climbing rope, the messy collection of flyers and memos tacked to the bulletin board. Idly, she skimmed her eyes over them. It didn’t look that different from the board in the station, actually—the memos were about different things specifically, but there were still references to file numbers, requests for follow-ups, and reminders about procedures, typed on official Institute letterhead or scrawled on sticky notes or torn from a notebook. Interspersed with the official, or official-adjacent, memos was everything from the menu for a nearby takeaway to a picture of a kitten dangling off a branch with HANG IN THERE written above it to a crumpled picture of a sign she couldn’t quite read from where she sat. The place was still kitted out for Christmas, in a really over-the-top way; that, and the fact that it was dead silent save the faint hum of the climate-control system rather than jam-packed with uniformed cops answering phones, badgering witnesses, and arguing, was really the only difference between the Archives and the police station, where the few holiday decorations the captain allowed came down promptly on the twenty-sixth.

Suddenly, it wasn’t a repository of creepy things and spook stories, or the site of a murder, or the aftermath of an infestation. It was just someplace to work.

Basira kind of liked it. And kind of resented it at the same time. When had the station stopped feeling like that?

Martin came back into the room with a mug in each hand. Because she was a cop and trained to spot those kinds of details, she noticed that one of them was the same mug that always seemed to be on his desk when she came by, an oversize blue and green striped one that looked like it had been done at one of those paint-your-own-pottery places. The other was a matte black with a flat grey silhouette of a forest, complete with a deer standing alert. He handed it to Basira, still not looking at her. “Here you go.”

“Thanks.” Basira wrapped her hands around the mug and stared at it for a moment, then back up at Martin. He, too, was staring into his cup like it held the secrets of the universe. It suddenly irritated her, and she couldn’t help but snap, “I’m not going to arrest you or anything.”

“I know you’re not going to arrest me,” Martin said, sounding surprised. He looked up at her, just for a moment, then flinched and redirected his gaze again. Before she could call him on it, he gestured vaguely in her direction and added, “It’s just you—your—the scarf came loose.”

Startled, Basira reached up and realized Martin was right—the pins had come undone and her scarf had slipped back, exposing her hair. Even if she wasn’t as devout these days as she’d been growing up, there were some things that were still important to her. And it kind of surprised her that Martin knew enough, and was respectful enough, not to look at her when she wasn’t wearing hijab.

“Thanks,” she said again, pulling the scarf back in place and pinning and tucking it with movements that were more than half mechanical. “Okay. I’m good now.”

“Are you?” Martin asked pointedly, but this time he looked her directly in the eye and she knew he wasn’t asking about whether she was decent.

“No,” she admitted. “We lost Altman. Just…wasn’t…paying attention. Don’t know what they’re going to tell his family.” She took a long swig of her tea. “Guess it could have been worse, though, if I hadn’t talked to you first. So…thanks.”

“Glad I could help,” Martin murmured. Something flickered in his eyes, just for a moment. “At least they’re not making you do a lot of paperwork.”

“If I have to fill out one more form, I am going to scream.” Basira kind of wanted to scream anyway, but she held it in. “They’ve given us all a few days of ‘compassionate leave.’ I think they just want us out of the way while they figure out the official story.”

Martin hesitated, then frowned at something on the desk before looking back up at her. “Do you…want to talk about the real version?”

Basira did. She desperately did. That was why she had come here, she realized. You could only talk about Sectioned cases with other Sectioned cops; any cops who’d been on this case probably didn’t want to talk about it, and most others wouldn’t want to hear about it. Really, most of them wouldn’t swap stories unless they absolutely had to for a new case. The Magnus Institute was the only place she’d ever gone where she could talk about it, and Martin was the only person she’d ever felt like listened to her.

“Yeah,” she said. “Where do you want me to start?”

Martin took a deep breath. “You said it started with a kidnapping case?”

That was as good a place to start as any. Basira exhaled—and began to talk.

Just like last time, when she’d made her official statement, everything came pouring out, little things she’d barely registered at the time and the way she’d felt. No dispassionate report, this, she was telling him things she never could have admitted on an official form. There was no place for these things, literally or metaphorically speaking. And just like last time, Martin listened, his attention fully on her, his eyes understanding and sympathetic. He prompted her when she got stuck, asked a question here or there, but mostly he just…listened. It was honestly a relief to tell someone all of this, and have them listen without judging, without condemning, without interrupting. And something about Martin—maybe it was the sincerity in his eyes, or the stillness in his bearing, or the fact that he reminded her of nothing so much as all the pictures and videos she’d seen of capybaras—made her want to tell him everything. He’d have made a great cop.

No, she thought with a moment of sudden clarity. He’s too good a person to make a great cop. He’d have been drummed out of the force ages ago.

"All in all, there were five people killed in that building, including Leo Altman,” she concluded at last. “Aside from Rayner and the woman, who was identified from an old report as Natalie Ennis, two more were shot and killed when they attacked some of the officers. Three more were subdued and arrested, but as far as I know they haven’t said a word. God knows how they’re going to process them with all the secrecy around the operation, but thankfully that’s not my problem. I think they were connected to that cult group from way back, the Church of the Divine Whatever.”

“The People’s Church of the Divine Host,” Martin said quietly. “You’re right. I know the report you’re talking about—the one that identified Natalie Ennis—we have a statement from the man who made it, he was her roommate’s boyfriend. I should…probably reach out and follow up with them, let them know she was involved. I presume it’ll be in the news in some capacity, at least.” He took a breath, then looked back up at Basira, his gaze steady. “What are you going to do now?”

Basira was, admittedly, taken a bit aback. “Do?” she repeated. Was he asking her what the police procedure was at this point?

“I mean you, personally. Not the police,” Martin clarified. “What are you going to do after your ‘compassionate leave’ is up? If I understood you right when you made that first statement, once you’re Sectioned, you get called out on all the…weird cases you’re available for, right?”

“Right.”

“Do you want to keep doing this? I don’t mean walking into dangerous situations and rescuing people. I’d imagine that’s not the part you mind. I mean the part where the ‘dangerous situation’ is something no amount of police training can prepare you for. Because I’ll be honest, Basira, you keep doing that, you’re going to end up on the wrong end of one of these statements. Either you’re going to end up as a victim, or you’re going to end up as a monster.” Martin held her gaze. “I should know.”

Basira blinked.

She was a good cop. She knew the law forward and backwards, she applied it more or less evenly across the board, she followed procedure and did her duty. She’d been commended by her superiors and relied on by her fellow officers. People took her word for things and trusted her instincts. But by whose standards was she good? Did it mean she was doing the right thing, or did it mean she was toeing the line? She thought about what she’d realized about Martin, how he would have been either broken or discarded rather than allowed to continue to be the kind of person he was now if he wore the badge. What did it say about her that she was still on the force, still in line for promotion, still considered to have a future in this career?

Either you’re going to end up as a victim, or you’re going to end up as a monster.

“I’m done,” she said decisively. “With the police, with Section Thirty-One, all of it. I’ve given you my statement, and that’s it. I’m walking away.”

Martin sighed and nodded slowly. “Good,” he said, surprising her. “Wait, hang on.” He leaned over to reach into a drawer on another desk, pulled out a small leather object, and handed it to her. “Here. Tim stopped using this weeks ago, he’ll never miss it. It’s not the strongest thing in the world, but it’ll at least keep you safe for now.”

Basira studied the small folded bit of leather. “You think I’m in danger.” It wasn’t a question.

“These things don’t like people breaking their toys. And they usually only let you think you’ve got away.” A shadow seemed to come over Martin’s face, just for a moment. “I don’t know if the Dark will be after you for sure, but it certainly won’t be happy if it figures out you talked to us. Just…be careful, okay?”

“I will.” Basira hesitated and studied Martin for a moment. “You should quit, too. This place…it’s not right.”

Martin shook his head. “I’ve tried before. Didn’t work. It’s far too late for me.”

“Any advice on how to keep from getting that far?”

“Stay away as best you can,” Martin said seriously. “Which means not going anywhere near people or—or things that have been Marked by…all this. The Institute. The bookstore. Me.” He pressed his lips together for a moment, then met her eyes. “Detective Tonner.”

Basira stiffened. “You’re saying—”

“Why do you think I got so nervous around her? She’s been part of this sort of thing—not the same aspect, but a different kind—for a long time, maybe as long as I have. Maybe longer, I dunno. She told Jon she’d been Sectioned for fourteen years, but that doesn’t mean she didn’t have some experience from before that. I’ve been mixed up in this since I was a kid.” Martin took a deep breath. “But she’s like me—too entwined, too deep into it to be able to walk away. So yeah, Basira, if you don’t want to ever have to deal with this again, and I don’t blame you in the slightest, you’re going to have to stay completely away. I might leave London if I were you, so you’re not even tempted.”

Basira stared at Martin for a long moment. Finally, she said, “I’ll think about it. Goodbye, Martin.”

“Goodbye, Basira,” Martin said quietly. “Stay safe.”

Basira stood and walked out of the Archives, for what she hoped would be the last time.

Part of her—a surprisingly big part of her—regretted that, actually. She liked Martin. Not like that, he wasn’t her type—she wasn’t even sure she had a type, if she was being completely honest, she genuinely couldn’t remember ever having a crush or anything like that—but he was a good guy. They’d deemed him the most likely suspect in Gertrude Robinson’s murder, but even then she’d been reluctant to believe it. And while their conversations during the tape exchanges had been brief, she’d found she looked forward to them. She’d never really been one to make friends easily; even in places where she was part of the majority, she’d preferred being on her own, immersed in a book or working through a crossword puzzle. Mostly she’d found people to be ignorant or cruel or just plain stupid, not worth her time. Sure, maybe there’d been times she’d wished…but on the rare occasions she’d reached out, it had never been worth it. The only people she’d ever really been able to get close to had been…well, Daisy, and now Martin.

And if she wanted to keep out of the crap she’d dealt with under Section Thirty-One, she would lose them both.

Standing at the foot of the bridge across the Thames, she clenched her fists and tried to think rationally. She couldn’t just…walk away, not like that. It wasn’t that easy. She had to put in her notice, and they’d probably want her to finish out the pay period at least. Probably she’d have to do the whole two weeks thing. Which meant she would almost certainly run into Daisy again, which…wouldn’t be a bad thing. Basira was a bit skeptical of Martin’s claim that Daisy was in it too deep to walk away, or maybe she just wanted to be skeptical of it, but either way, she needed to tell her to her face that she was quitting. She’d be on her own with Gertrude Robinson’s murder, and even if it wasn’t a case she relished—Daisy was the sort of person you wanted by your side when you were tracking down a murderer or chasing a fugitive or going through a door, but she wasn’t one for sitting and sifting through evidence when she could be out in the field—she at least deserved to know that it was wholly hers now.

Did she really want to quit? For just a moment, Basira stood torn with indecision. She’d got into police work to track monsters, and then she’d found out there were literal monsters that she could take down, and there were aspects of the job she enjoyed.

Either you’re going to end up as a victim, or you’re going to end up as a monster.

No. No, Basira wasn’t going to do that, she wasn’t going down that route. And even if she wasn’t worried about becoming the sort of cop that got smeared by all the papers—and she wasn’t stupid, she was a woman and a Muslim, she’d absolutely be the first person the higher-ups threw to the wolves if they needed a scapegoat or a sacrificial lamb—there was the other aspect of it. Whatever her doubts about his opinion on Daisy, she believed Martin when he said the more she dealt with these things, the less likely it would be that she could walk away from them. She didn’t know what her purpose in life was, but it wasn’t to die at the hands of a spook. She was not going to end up like Altman.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, she began walking again. First things first. She had a few days off. She needed to head back to the run-down flat she’d been living in since her dad died and start typing up her resignation letter to hand in when she was back. The sooner, the better.

#ollie writes fanfic #to find promise of peace (and the solace of rest)#tma fanfic #tma #basira hussain #martin blackwood #daisy tonner #police work cw #slight misuse of beholding powers (maybe)#kidnapping mention

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cellsshapedlikestars · 2 years

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ohooo, for a prompt, i've always wanted to read a jonsa story based on sense and sensibility, because they give me big colonel brandon and marienne vibes!

Uh oh! Here's where I get my Tumblr card revoked, because I was never a big Jane Austen person. I know I read P&P and liked it, and I know I saw the P&P and S&S 90s movies when I was younger and liked those, but that's about it. I always meant to read all of them, I just never did. So I went and rewatched the S&S movie for this prompt (all I could really remember of it was Alan Rickman and a picnic??) Anyway, this is based off the movie ONLY, though I've added in more bits, because at least in the movie, Marianne and Brandon getting together seemed so abrupt and almost unearned? Maybe that's just me.

Anyway, this started as recreating the movie scenes, but as usual, I couldn't just stick to the source material and went off on my own. Whoops!

read it on ao3 here:

ephemera, chapter 24

Sansa stares ahead, watching the gentle sway of leaves in the wind. Next to her, Colonel Jon reads from one of her books, the one mother handed to him when he arrived. Sansa knows she should be listening to the words, but she cannot. She does not care much for stories right now, that is not why she sits out here when the Colonel comes to visit.

It is for his voice.

Deep and low and rumbling and Northern, it soothes the ache inside her.

After Hardyng, she thought she could never be happy again. But right now, she is content.

The Colonel's reading ends, and Sansa turns to look at him – his long, solemn face. When she first met him, she thought him quite dull. Too stiff and too dour.

“Shall we continue tomorrow?” she asks him, though he does not look at her, just at the book in his hands.

“No,” he says slowly, “tomorrow I must away.”

There is a twist in Sansa's chest that she does not know what to do with as she says, “away? Where?”

“I cannot tell you,” he finally looks at her, then leans forward a bit, conspiratorially, and says, “it is a secret.”

Sansa feels her lips pull into a reluctant smile. Despite his reserve, the Colonel has always managed to pull these smiles from her. When Hardyng was around, she had tried not to smile at the Colonel, for she knew of his infatuation with her and did not want to encourage it. Yet still, she could hardly help herself sometimes.

“You will not be away long?” she asks, though it comes out sounding more like a demand.

He gives her a small smile, just a slight quirk of his lips, and shakes his head.

…

The next day when the Colonel does not arrive, she feels restless and goes for a walk with Arya out among the rolling hills.

“There,” she says, staring at a spot in the grass. “That is where I first saw Hardyng.”

“He is an idiot,” Arya scoffs, head turning in the direction of Hardyng's estate to glare at it, though she cannot actually see it.

“If he had chosen me,” Sansa keeps staring at the spot, the memory of her twisted ankle, of Hardyng showing up on his horse like some prince out of a story. “If he had chosen me, he would have had a wife he loved, but no money.”

Had Hardyng actually loved her? Sansa is not so sure, now. He said he had, but when the moment came, he did not choose her. And even if his aunt had not thrown him out, even if he had not lost his inheritance, would they have been happy? If he had come here that day and proposed, if they married, would it have been a good marriage? She is certain he never would have told her about the girl he got with child. She is certain he never would have taken responsibility for it, until he was forced to. Their marriage would have been founded on lies.

The more she learns about Hardyng, the more she thinks on him and his actions, the less the loss of him hurts. Now it hurts because she had fallen in love with such a man. Now it is her own foolishness that hurts. He had been everything she thought she wanted. On the surface, he was the perfect gentleman. Underneath, he was nothing of the sort.

Not like Jon, she thinks. The Colonel has proven himself to be kind and honorable and true. He may not look the part – he may not have an easy laugh and a devilish smile, but she has grown to appreciate the smiles he does give. Slow and hard to earn, for he has been through his own heartache before. It has left a mark on him. She thinks she can understand him better, now. She is also learning to appreciate that he is handsome, though not as traditionally as Hardyng had been.

It has only been one day since the Colonel left for town, and yet she misses him. Not the sharp way she had anytime Hardyng left, thinking he would never come back and worrying that she had done something wrong.

No, missing Jon is something altogether more subtle. Like suddenly finding that a piece of herself has gone missing, and she wonders – when had the Colonel taken hold of her? When had he worked himself so deep into her soul that she misses him like this? He had been so steady, so unobtrusive. She had grown used to him, grown to need him, without even noticing. She had grown to trust the Colonel, to take comfort in his presence, while Hardyng had made her feel like she was on a ship, tossed about at sea. If Hardyng was the storm, then the Colonel was the calm eye of it.

…

When the pianoforte is delivered, Sansa thinks she might weep. With joy, with sorrow, she does not know.

“He must like you very much,” Arya comments drolly as Sansa sits herself before the instrument, her hands shaking.

“It is a gift for all of us,” she tries to argue, though she feels the heat rush to her cheeks at the thought of it. The thought of the Colonel seeking this out for her.

There is sheet music with it, and Sansa is determined to learn it before the Colonel is due back. She shall play it for him when he arrives.

At the first notes, she hears her mother breathe in deep, and even Arya sticks around to listen. It has been so long since they have had music in their home, and this time, Sansa shall not play anything melancholy. She still misses father, she always will, but she wants to be happy. She wants mother and Arya to be happy.

…

Sansa has never felt nervous in her skills before, but she does now as she sits at the pianoforte, with Colonel Jon sitting on the settee behind her.

In a bout of utter silliness, she hopes that the back of her dress looks pretty, that her hair looks shining and smooth today, for that is all the Colonel can see of her right now. Complete foolishness.

She begins to play, and though her mother and sister are here, it is really for the Colonel. Just as a thank you, of course. Nothing else.

…

Sansa has always been a bit rash.

Not in the way her sister is, but with her heart. Look how quickly she gave it away to Hardyng. Sansa tries her best to follow the rules of society, but her heart has always lead her astray. She remembers her mother warning her about propriety with Hardyng, and Sansa had tried her best not to let herself be compromised. She had never kissed Hardyng, not even when he told her, quite ardently, that he loved her.

So she cannot fathom why, while mother and Arya are busy in the garden, she leans over and kisses Jon while he is in the middle of reading to her.

He pulls back, eyes wide, as an ugly red blush takes over Sansa's face. She cannot believe she just did that. What must the Colonel think of her?

But he had been reading her favorite poem, though she knows he has never been one for poetry himself, and he had looked so handsome in the fading afternoon light.

“Miss Sansa,” he breathes, eyes searching hers, face filled with disbelief.

And yet, she can find no trace of disgust at her impropriety. It makes her heart skip, and she can feel a smile pulling at the corners of her mouth.

“Should I not have done that?” she asks, a teasing to her words. “Did you not like it?”

“Miss Sansa,” he stutters, “I know that you are still heartbroken-”

“I am not,” she sits up straighter in her chair as annoyance curls through her.

“You are, otherwise you would not... you would never entertain me as...”

“Are you telling me that you know how I feel better than I?” she asks, her tone going haughty. The one Arya always mocks as her Princess Sansa voice.

“No, never,” the Colonel shakes his head, and if she were not so annoyed, she might find the panic lacing his words amusing. “But-”

“But-” she interrupts, though she knows that it is rude to do so, “I have come to know you better. I have come to appreciate – no – desire your presence here with me. Mother always said that I live with my head in the clouds, but not anymore. I see things clearly now. I see you clearly.”

“Sansa,” he says again, the use of just her name making a slight shiver work it's way down her spine. “You know that I admire you. You must know that from the first moment I saw you, I...” he trails off, unsure what to say. Colonel Jon is not a poet by any means, but she has come to appreciate this about him. His words may not be flowery, they may not flow from him easily, but he means what he says. Every word from him is the truth.

“Just admire?” she teases, her confidence growing. He notices it now, and frowns at her.

“Do not mock me,” he says sternly, which only serves to make her smile wider. “You know that I love you. That I have loved you for quite a while.”

“I do,” she agrees, her smile fading, as something warm grows inside her. “And though it has taken me too long long to understand it, I do know now that I love you.”

Colonel Jon's smiles are rare, and so the one that lights up his face now makes her heart sing.

“I had not meant to propose today,” he says, sliding off his chair and down onto one knee. “But my dearest Sansa, if you would-”

“Yes, of course,” she interrupts again, her heart racing, her smile so wide that it hurts her cheeks.

“About time!” Arya shouts, and both of them turn to see Arya and mother peeking around the corner of the house. She does not think she has seen either of them look this full of joy since father died.

“Yes,” she says lowly, just for Jon. “It is about time.”

#jonsa #jonsa fic #prompt fic

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driflew · 1 year

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i got an ask on main about my witness, and looking over what i had of the sequel pieces... neither of them are done, but what i had written for both could probably stand on their own, so i'm just gonna post them here! first, here's the Tim piece

When the tape clicks off, it isn’t Jon that lingers in Tim’s head. It isn’t the fact that Jon apparently came back from the dead, just like Sasha. It isn’t that the three of them had all completely forgotten him despite the fact he’d been returned to them, even when looking him right in the eyes. It isn’t that Jon might very well be here, in the Institute, just a few flights up stairs up from where the three of them sit around Sasha’s desk.

No, what echoes in Tim’s head long after the tape on the table stops spinning is his own voice, snapping “get out” over and over.

And sure, maybe he’d been right to panic seeing some stranger sitting at Sasha’s side. Maybe he’d been justified in going on the defensive, chasing the man out. Maybe it had been smart to assume the worst before it could happen. If it had been just about anyone else there, he’d probably have saved Sasha’s life—she’s certainly got the scars to prove it.

It hadn’t been anyone else, though.

Tim wonders if he’d noticed the resignation in Jon’s voice when he’d had Jon in front of him. Had Jon looked as exhausted as he sounded on the tape? Tim doesn’t remember, but the defeat in Jon’s voice will—

But the defeat in Jon’s voice will stick with him. He remembers the defeat in Jon’s voice on the tape. He remembers Jon’s voice.

[“The tapes,” Sasha had explained, back in February, when Melanie had come through and exposed the fake to her. She’d set down the tapes she’d dug out of the imposter’s desk, “are immune to the effects of the notThem. It’ll change our memories, and it’ll change digital pictures and videos, but anything analog stays the same. These are all we have left of the real Jon.”

Tim had already lost his brother to some skin-stealing imposter. He’d already watched some grinning thief rip the skin off Danny’s face. He wasn’t ready to listen to the tape, especially when Sasha told them what it was.

“This one’s his meeting with the Distortion—with Michael. Jon’s whole statement’s here.”

“And this one?” Martin had asked. The look on Sasha’s face had told Tim everything he needed to know, even before she told him it was the tape Jon had carried when he’d found the table—he didn’t need to hear another person he cared for die. He wondered if Jon would understand.]

Jon’s voice is deep, far deeper than the fake’s had been, smooth and quiet and—

And Tim is standing, up and out the door of Sasha’s office before he even realizes his feet are moving. Because if he can remember Jon’s voice—if he can remember Jon—if Jon is alive and just a few floors away, if Tim can actually do something to pull someone he cares about back from the Circus that took Danny and nearly took Sasha without him being able to do anything—

Tim hasn’t shown his face in Research in months, and he’s sure he looks somewhat unhinged, barreling in now. Most of the rest of the Institute thinks, perhaps rightfully, that the Archives staff is made up of unstable maniacs, and thus avoids anything or anyone Archives-related like the plague. Tim can’t say he blames them, but it does mean that there’s quite a few unfamiliar faces when he casts his gaze about the desks. Most of them are new hires, probably, but Tim’s looking for one very specific transfer.

He doesn’t know what Jon looks like—any time he looks away from Jon he forgets. So he holds onto that. Tim looks over each stranger, then closes his eyes and sees what he can remember.

The man standing by the door—Tim closes his eyes and recalls that the man’s hair is blond and he’s about Melanie’s height. No. There’s two men sitting by the window—eye’s closed, Tim knows one’s got a scar on his chin, the other’s giving Tim a weird look. Not either of them, either. There’s a guy at a desk in the middle of the room. Tim closes his eyes, and everything about him vanishes immediately.

When Tim opens his eyes again, he sees a man with long, black hair, streaked with grey. He’s scrawny, covered in scars, and very resolutely looking down at his desk, though Tim doesn’t actually see any work on it.

Tim drags a chair over from the desk directly next to his sitting down. The man doesn’t really acknowledge Tim other than to glance at Tim over the rim of his glasses.

He has no recollection of what Jon looks like. He’d asked Melanie, once, to tell him about the two Jons, but she’d ended up too flustered about how strange the whole thing had been to actually tell him anything. So Tim won’t know if the man in front of him is Jon unless he hears the man speak.

Maybe-Jon is, however, completely content to pretend Tim isn’t there, and somewhere between being attacked by a worm woman and stopping the apocalypse, Tim seems to have forgotten how to socialize.

“So, uh,” Tim starts. The man raises his eyebrows a little, but doesn’t respond. “You’ve worked here for a while, right?”

Something in the man’s expression crumples, and Tim winces with the realization that maybe new hire small-talk wasn’t his best choice.

(But Jon isn’t brave.

He’s barely existed for months. He lost his friends and all legal proof of his life to a monster which stole his face and changed it. He looked his friends in the eyes and realized they didn’t know him at all, and there would be nothing he could do to convince them otherwise.)

“Yes,” is all he says, and it’s not enough for Tim to figure out if it’s Jon’s voice. Half an hour’s worth of recording isn’t a lot to go on, but it’s impossible if he can’t get Maybe-Jon talking.

(He tried to help them anyway, even though there was absolutely nothing he could do for any of them, and got thrown right out by someone he once cared about but no longer has any faith in, someone who had been his first friend here, someone who doesn't know him at all, who already buried him but who can't even cherish his memory.)

“Have you always worked in research?” Tim asks.

“No.” He doesn’t elaborate.

(Then new people start forgetting him. Then Alina stops recognizing him even though they’ve sat next to each other every day for weeks, even though they only met after he came back.)

“Where did you used to work before? Library? Artifact Storage?” Tim asks, and he decides that actually, he doesn’t really care about subtlety at all, “Archives?”

That gets a reaction out of the other man immediately—he looks like he’s been slapped.

(The Fears weren’t done with him, not when they could still feed on the terror he felt every time he looked in the mirror and wondered if his reflection would change again. He’s so very scared, all the time, of being forgotten again, and how could the Fears let him get away?

Avatarization is so often an accident, and when someone is so deeply marked, so totally without any idea what is happening to him, and so completely without a helping hand to keep him anchored…

Jon never stood a chance.)

Tim would feel more guilty about that if his reaction weren’t incredibly convincing confirmation. After all, the Archives have only had seven employees in the last three years, and everyone who isn’t down there currently is either dead or Jon.

(And then Tim strikes up fucking small talk in the middle of the work day, like he used to with every stranger there? That is its own circle of hell, because Jon doesn’t want to brush him off, because when will someone come talk to Jon again? It’s achingly familiar but only to Jon, and Tim won’t even remember it when he walks away but Jon is probably going to think about this one conversation forever. Does Jon leave? Tim smiles at him and it’s friendly and this is unbearable and he wants to, but if he does, when will he get a chance like this again?)

Tim is almost sure he’s got the right man. He sits up a little straighter, trying to figure out how he should explain. He isn’t sure if he should be smiling or not, but it might be on his face anyway. The other man sees his expression and pales.

(But Jon is not brave and he has never been brave and the best and only defense he has ever had to deal with strangers—because that's what he is, now, isn't he?—is to just put up a wall and get away, so he tries, and it sucks even more because this isn't even the first time Jon has done this to Tim but it's not like Tim knows, because Tim doesn’t, can’t know it’s him, and it's not like Tim is going to remember to try again, or care to, so this is all moot and pointless because it might as well be over immediately before it starts, and Jon needs to leave if he doesn’t want to be forgotten again, because he cannot handle being forgotten again, not by Tim or anyone else.)

“Look, I think I left my, uh—” he fumbles for an excuse, and coming up blank, he simply stands. He collects his bag up off his desk, and he looks anywhere but Tim. “I’ll— I’m busy. There’s— you know. I’ll see you around.”

“Wait—” Tim tries, but he’s taking a full step away from the desk, and Tim doesn’t know what will happen if he walks away, but Tim refuses to forget again. Tim doesn’t have enough clear memory of what Jon’s true manner was like, or what his voice sounded like, even though they’d known each other for years. But Tim wants to remember, and though Tim wouldn’t recognize him anywhere, he thinks he recognizes this now—Tim wants to recognize this—and hopes that’s enough.

“Jon!”

And Jon—because that’s who it is, Tim is sure, even baselessly—freezes in the middle of his attempted escape, his head snapping back to Tim so quickly Tim thinks he’s going to break his neck. The look on his face is far too hesitant to be called hope, but it’s close, and Tim wonders the last time someone else called Jon by name.

“What?” Jon asks.

“Jon,” Tim says, with a bit more conviction this time. Jon’s stance relaxes, just a fraction, and a knot in Tim’s chest loosens by the same measure. “I thought that was you.”

#lew writes #my witness #tma fanfic #this is a bit old but still alright

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