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aoifeanamadan · 3 years

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After School Special

Fandom: Minecraft YouTube rpf (mcyt)

Word count: 4386

Relationship: DreamNotFound (DreamxGeorgeNotFound)

Summary:

The sky is blue, the sun is hot and Dream hates George.

Everyone knew Dream hated him, really hated him, all smug and sarcastic and closed off. Where Dream was friendly, loud and outgoing, George was quiet and pretentious. It was like he thought he was above everyone else.

Needless to say, neither of them were over the moon when they found out they had to spend two months working together in weekend detention.

Support this work on AO3 :)

Chapter Two: Montague versus Capulet

Change is hard. It’s a universal truth. But for Dream, change was foreign. It just didn’t happen. He did the same thing every day. Get up, sunrise, shower, breakfast, get in Sapnap’s truck. The days were all the same, they pushed into each other.

It was as if his life was made up of concrete blocks, one for every day. He was stacking them, and the more weight he added, the less space between the blocks. They were pressed so closely together, the weight of a lifetime keeping them tight, there was no room for opportunities to worm themselves in.

That wasn’t to say it was bad. He liked his life. It was fine. He had friends, hobbies, he did great in school. He was captain of the state champion soccer team. Girls liked him. It was all perfectly fine.

His new weekend arrangements threw a spanner into his routine. Instead of watching Netflix from his couch in his pyjamas, he was sitting at the breakfast table across from his dad. His father’s attempted conversation was a sorry replacement for Netflix’s D-List cartoons.

His dad was him lecturing about something, but it was as if Dream had cotton in his ears. His father’s throwaway words about consequence and responsibility were muted. He was saying something about the image Dream had to project as soccer captain when a ding came from Dream’s phone. It was Sapnap.

Sapnap

(9:37 am) hey im outside lets go

Once Dream read the text he was on his feet, toast in his mouth and jacket in his hand, rushing muffled goodbyes to his father. He heard the vague well wishes as he left.

Sapnap was a good friend, but one of his best traits was knowing when to be the enemy. The second Dream got in the car, he was complaining. About his dad, George, these stupid weekend classes. His lamenting was cut short. Before he could fully develop any of his woes, Sapnap was interrupting.

“Dream shut up,” he whined. It caught Dream off guard, stopping him in the middle of his first anti-George rant of the day. He looked at Sapnap, wounded. Sapnap just rolled his eyes. Dream gave up on the hurt puppy charade. He had only been on the first part of the speech, George’s entitlement. He didn’t even get to parts two, three or four (George’s pretentiousness, George’s fakeness and George’s sense of superiority, respectively). Each part was ten minutes long.

“Dude?” He didn’t like the distant hurt that he could hear in his voice. Sapnap softened.

“Sorry, it’s just like, this is your fault Dream.” This was not how Dream had expected the drive to hell to go. “You started the fight, and it’s not like George wants to do this either.” He knew Sapnap might have been right, but Dream soured at the thought of Sapnap and George’s friendship. Them discussing how Dream had ruined his weekend plans for the next two months, George trying to steal his best friend.

He pushed down the feeling of betrayal, it wasn’t fair to Sapnap. He could reserve that feeling exclusively for George.

“Yeah, maybe.” Dream hummed, noncommittal. He glanced out the window, the school was in sight. It was towering over him, looming and gothic. Dream was suddenly overcome, every part of him was saying don’t go in. He pushed the thoughts down and refocused on Sapnap.

“You might even enjoy it, George is really funny!” Dream could tell he was trying to spin this into a positive, but the thought of having to spend two hours a week with George for two months made him feel hopeless. He imagined it, the hours he’d have to listen to George try to boss him around, trying to make him feel stupid. George would try to one-up him every chance he got, that was just who he was. He could never just let Dream win.

Before Dream could reply, the car was parked. He looked at Sapnap, who didn’t seem quite as sombre as Dream did. To Dream, it felt like a solemn occasion. To Sapnap, it felt like dropping his friend off while he was on his way to do the weekly food shop.

“I don’t want to go in.”

Sapnap, ever sensitive, just laughed. He shoved Dream’s shoulders towards the door in a gentle but firm attempt to get him out of the car.

“Go on Dream, I have to get shit for dinner.”

Dream was walking and into the school before he had the chance to talk himself out of it. He wasn’t worried about the work. How hard could it be to recite some Shakespeare, or whatever it was they did in weekend English. He was worried about who he’d have to work with. He didn’t know anyone taking the class other than George.

When he entered the classroom, he was sure he was in the wrong room. At first, he thought there was no one in there. That was before he noticed the woman in the corner, facing the walls. Dream felt like he was interrupting something. He knocked on the door, which was already open. It was more of a polite way to say ‘Excuse me miss, you’re not possessed, right?’. She whipped around at the sound of Dream’s knuckled on the heavy wood. He was fairly sure she was not possessed.

As she stepped quickly towards him, he noticed her jumper. Plastered across the front there was the face of a multi-coloured pug. Her hair was wild around her, swamping her face, and her glasses made her eyes look like orbs too big for her face.

“Hello dear, sit down please, sit down. Welcome! You must be George?”

Dream rushed to correct her, rather than be mistaken for George of all people, but she had already moved on.

“I am Ms Dahlman, so so happy to have you here in English. What an opportunity! God, you’re so lucky. In my youth, we didn’t have these weekend class options. God, so lucky you all are. I am just so happy to have you here!” She was talking a mile a minute. Dream felt paralysed under her gaze, waiting for her to take a breath so he could interject.

She continued for four minutes, telling him how lucky he was to have this opportunity. He didn’t have the heart to tell her it wasn’t his choice. He did however want to clear up that he was definitely not George.

Before he got his chance, there was another knock at the door. George’s voice came from the doorway, slow and soft. It was a stark contrast to Ms Dahlman.

“Sorry, I couldn’t find the room. I’ve never had weekend classes before.” George was standing, messy-haired and disinterested. Dream thought he looked arrogant. It was just like George to be late, he had no regard for other people’s time. Something shameful in Dream couldn’t wait to tell Sapnap, to prove he was ten times the friend George could be. But he wasn’t sure if good punctuality was quite enough to convince him.

“It’s fine, just come in.” Ms Dahlman sounded pained at the interruption, but she soldiered through. “You can sit down here next to George.”

George, the real George, quirked his eyebrow.

“That’s funny, my name is George too.” Dream wanted to wipe his smug smirk right off his face. Ms Dahlman however, seemed overjoyed with the development.

“Oh! Two George’s! Heavens above, who would’ve ever thought? I knew your name couldn’t be Dream, but that was all it said on the attendance form they gave me! I said to them, I said ‘Dream? Well that can’t be a real name, can it?’ but they told me it was the preferred name, so it was what I was to use. George is much more sensible.” Dream felt his cheeks burning, but he didn’t want to get aggressive. He tried to push the feelings down.

Looking at George, who seemed barely able to contain his laughter, made that a lot harder. Dream nodded at Ms Dahlman, to be polite, but she didn’t notice. She just continued speaking, something Dream was starting to note as a consistent course of action for her.

“As I was saying, the grade you get in this class will be added to your overall GPA for the subject. Normally, it’s used to bring up the average but obviously,” she gestured to the empty class “people just don’t care about English the way they used to.”

Only then did it strike Dream, him and George were the only two taking the class. Unless someone was running 8 minutes late for the first class, no one else was coming. Dream wanted to sink into his chair and never get up again.

Before he could figure out how to melt himself down, Ms Dahlman was explaining their first assignment.

“Now, for the first two months boys you will be writing a speech!” She paused, for dramatic effect. It didn’t work. Dream and George were looking at her with the same badly disguised disinterest. She continued, consistent as ever. “Now I heard about your, how to put this, communicational issues .” She grimaced at the mention of Dream and George’s earlier conflict. “So!” She punctuated herself with a short clap. “The speech will be titled ‘What my partner has taught me.’ It’s going to be a great opportunity for you two to learn how to cooperate!”

Dream did not want the opportunity to cooperate with George. He was stuck up, rude, inconsiderate. He acted as if he was better than everyone else, scoffing and looking down at them. Dream had plenty of friends, he didn’t want or need George.

Ms Dahlman, unsurprisingly, was not finished speaking. And so she continued, taking Dream out of his pessimistic thoughts.

“Now, I can see no reason to keep you here.” Dream and George looked at each other instinctually, then up at her smiling face, waiting for an explanation. “I’ll be giving you sheets that I’ll need to be signed by your parents to prove every week that you’re putting the time in together, as well as a guide to writing the speech. But, really boys, I can’t imagine why you would have to stay in the school.”

Ms Dahlman seemed to be about fifty, possibly older. Dream had no idea how she had navigated the world so far. It seemed she never even paused her monologues to breathe.

She gave the sheets to both Dream and George, and then she just left. She walked out the door and into her car without a glance back. The boys were left stunned in her wake.

Dream looked at George. George looked at Dream. Neither said anything, neither knew what to say.

Before Dream could start the inevitable conversation, George had taken out his phone. Self-obsessed as ever. Dream commented, emboldened by his evident social superiority,

“Well, that’s a bit rude-” Before he could finish, George had interrupted.

“Can you drive?” George hadn’t even spared him a glance. So rude . Dream couldn’t say he was surprised. Dream rolled his eyes. George didn’t seem to notice.

“No. What does that have to do with anything?” Dream didn’t try to stop the animosity from seeping into his voice. George didn’t seem to notice.

“Well I can’t drive either, I got the bus here. And we can’t just stay in here, it smells bad.” Dream didn’t want to admit it, but George was right. It did smell bad.

Dream started to speak. At the same time, George looked up from his phone. They both spoke at the same time, the same idea.

“I’m texting Sapnap.”

“Maybe Sapnap can-”

Dream laughed nervously. George didn’t laugh back. Sapnap was collecting them within ten minutes, a bag of shopping in the back.

Before long, they were sitting together on Sapnap’s couch, alone. Sapnap had left the room to make some food for them. Dream would’ve been happy to sit in silence until Sapnap came back with the snacks, but George wasn’t on the same wavelength.

“So, um, how are you?” George’s voice trailed off as he spoke. It felt like he wanted to be there even less than Dream.

“Good. Fine.” Dream was curt. He hadn’t expected George to make conversation, and he wasn’t going to try and encourage it. George could go back to texting on his phone forever for all Dream cared.

“Good.” George was returning his energy. His friendly conversationalist charade hadn’t lasted very long. Dream tried to settle back into the silence between them.

It didn’t stay like that for long. By the time Sapnap was back, he was entering to hear George yelling.

“Seven billion people in the world and I get stuck doing this with you! Either I’m cursed or God likes playing house.” He was standing on one side of the couch, Dream on the other. Anytime Dream moved, George moved the opposite way.

“Fuck you, George!”

Sapnap just wanted to get everyone some snacks.

He made them recount the argument, word for word, starting with George tapping his fingers ‘too loud’ on the arm of the couch.

Before long, Sapnap was telling them both off. He couldn’t say he was shocked that he had to explain that George telling Dream “I can say with utmost certainty, that you are definitely, A Bitch.” was not working cooperatively.

Dream was just as bad. But he did at least look remorseful while recounting his shout of “Every time you open your mouth I want to push you over the edge of a cliff and I mean that with all my heart.”

In the end, Sapnap made them sit in silence at opposite ends of the couch. Dream tried to feel guilty, he really did, but he couldn’t bring himself to regret squabbling with George, or chasing him around the couch. He was just so awful . Someone needed to knock him down a peg. And it’s not like he couldn’t take it, he was coming back just as hard as Dream. Maybe even harder.

Dream didn’t feel guilty for fighting with George, but he did feel guilty for getting Sapnap tangled up in the middle of it all. Dream could tell he hated the tension he and George had created.

Dream glanced towards George, checking to see if he looked as guilty as Dream felt, only to be met with George’s eyes staring at him. Weirdo. George nodded his head towards Sapnap, then between him and Dream. Dream didn’t want to admit it, but he understood.

George was saying ‘Look what we did.’ He was saying ‘Come on, we’ve to fix this.’

As much as it hurt him, Dream knew George was right. He looked up at him. George was mouthing something. Dream looked at his lips.

He was saying ‘Fuck you.’

Dream couldn’t hold in his laugh, isolated and muffled. Luckily, it was covered up by George’s exaggerated apology.

“Dream, I’m sorry for annoying you on purpose, and then for saying mean things to you.” Dream nearly had to physically restrain himself from jumping up and down, yelling ‘I told you so!’ He had known George was annoying him on purpose. Instead, he announced his apology as a reply.

“That’s okay George. I am sorry for chasing you around the couch and also for saying mean things to you.” He stopped himself from adding the ‘I am also sorry that you are a little bitch.’ He was too mature.

Instead of a relieved laugh, Sapnap’s brow furrowed. Dream could almost hear his mind moving at a mile a minute. George must have noticed it too. They both left it, but Sapnap wasn’t saying anything. And Dream had never considered patience his strongest virtue.

“Just say it Sapnap.” Dream and George were both looking at him expectantly.

“Huh?” Sapnap looked shocked that they had noticed his internal conflict.

“He’s right, whatever you’re thinking. Just say it. I can practically hear you thinking.” George agreed with Dream. It was a day full of firsts.

“Do you guys actually hate each other? Like, there’s no reason to. Or, do you just enjoy the feeling of having someone to hate? I don’t get it.”

Dream didn’t know what to say. They had never talked about it so openly, him and George. It was an unspoken truth, so obvious it didn’t need to be acknowledged.

Montague versus Capulet, Taylor versus Katie, Dream versus George.

George and Dream just stared at each other, frozen. Sapnap moved on before either of them answered.

“You know what, nevermind. It doesn’t even matter.”

The silence made Dream feel guilty, looking at Sapnap made him feel worse. He was holding himself with annoyance, rare but visible. Before Dream could try and apologise, George was changing the subject. If he was someone else, Dream would've been thankful. But he was not anyone else, so Dream thought it was rude.

“So, where is everyone? The house is empty.” George was right. Both of Sapnap’s parents were out, a rare occurrence. The house was quiet, and the noise was obviously missing. There was no smell of cooking, no top of the pops radio. Dream hardened at the thought of George realising there was something wrong in Sapnap’s house before he could. He wasn’t surprised, it was just like George to make sure he mentioned it before Dream got a chance.

Dream scoffed. George didn’t notice, and if he did he didn’t turn around.

“Oh,” Sapnap’s eyes widened, shocked at the observation. Dream made a mental note to pay more attention to how Sapnap was doing. “My dad, he’s- he’s out of town.” Sapnap didn’t say anything else about it. Instead, he did his best to help George and Dream.

They tried to work, they really did, but it was hard. The main task was to listen and learn from each other, but Dream would have rather died than learn anything from George, and the sentiment was clearly reciprocated. It had gotten to the point where neither of them were even saying anything, just looking at Sapnap waiting for instruction.

Sapnap, bless him, he tried his best. But one thing Dream and George could agree on was that it was easy to say no to Sapnap’s ideas.

“Why don’t you bond over your childhoods or something?” Sapnap threw out his fifth idea in ten minutes. Dream and George glanced to each other before replying.

“That’s dumb.”

“Ew, no Sapnap.”

Sapnap rolled his eyes

“Okay, fine. Whatever, you guys have fun.” He took his laptop from the coffee table and put in his headphones, ignoring Dream and George’s shouts of protest.

“No, Sapnap come on! Give us another idea!” Dream whined. Sapnap shook his head, trying to hide a smile.

“Sorry guys, but I do actually have my own work to do.”

Without Sapnap, things went off track quickly. George and Dream were sitting on opposite sides of Sapnap. George was cross-legged on the floor, messing with a piece of paper. Dream was draped across the armchair, head tilting back up to the ceiling. He was tossing up and down a soccer ball.

George and Dream were thinking out loud, having long abandoned brainstorming for their speeches. It was easy to ignore it when they had an infinite two months stretching out in front of them.

“Why did you fight so hard for it to be weekends?” Dream threw the question out into the air, hardly thinking about George’s reply.

“Well, I have shit to do after school.” Dream could not imagine a single thing that George might have to do after school. “Plus, I knew you have soccer training after school. I figured the team couldn’t function without their captain.” George said it sarcastically, but he couldn’t mask the truth in the statement. George knew when Dream had soccer, even if it was probably just because of Sapnap. And he had accommodated him when negotiating their punishment.

George had done something nice for Dream, without even telling him. He had just done it, quiet and personal.

Dream didn’t know how to digest this new information.

He was so preoccupied with the idea of George being in any way considerate, he didn’t notice him picking up a new sheet of paper, tearing off a corner and rolling it up into a ball. Before Dream could glance in his direction, the paper ball had hit him on the nose.

“Hey!” Dream’s head snapped towards George. He had the audacity to smile.

“Oops,” George deadpanned. Dream was whining for Sapnap within the second.

“It wasn’t an accident! It wasn’t and you know it! Sapnap, Sapnap! Tell him!” Sapnap just rolled his eyes. Dream glared at George.

“Try that again. Try it, I dare you.” Dream tried his best to sound tough. He was big, he was intimidating. He was the captain of the state champion soccer team. George couldn’t do shit to him.

George threw another piece of paper.

“Sapnap! He did that on purpose!” Dream whined. He didn’t realise how similar to an eight-year-old he sounded until the words had already left his mouth. Sapnap didn’t even look up from his laptop. He felt the blood rushing to his cheeks.

Dream picked back up his soccer ball from his chest, a plan forming. Before he could even raise his hand, George was talking.

“Throw it, throw it and see what happens to you.” Dream gaped at George, he hadn’t even been looking at him. How did he know the soccer ball was coming? Just then, George did look. His eyes shot up from the paper crane he was making to meet Dream’s.

George’s eyes pierced him, frosty and chilling. Dream didn’t think he had ever looked into someone’s eyes the way he was doing just then. He felt like he could read George’s mind. It was saying ‘ Don’t you fucking dare’. Dream put back down the soccer ball slowly. The second George looked away, he threw it.

As the hours went by, George’s mask of indifference, his icy remarks and snarky comments, they faded away. A different George was filling his place. Still snarky, still acting as if he was just a little bit better than Dream, but different. He was excitable, quicker to smile.

George wasn’t as bad as Dream thought he was. Sure, he was a little bit rude. And he was definitely pretentious. He wasn’t as arrogant as Dream had thought he would be. And, even if it pained him to say it, he was funny.

All these things combined, he wasn’t the worst person to spend time with. No one noticed that the two mandatory hours had passed. They just stayed on Sapnap’s sitting room floor together, talking. George wasn’t a bad listener.

Dream was telling the story of his awful Monday morning, the first day of senior year. He was a good storyteller, he prided himself on that. Even Sapnap had taken off his headphones to listen. He had just gotten to the part of the story where he had to sit next to Weird Sarah. The smile George had been wearing was slipping slowly as he told him the woeful tail of having to sit next to her. George interrupted for the first time in hours.

“Hey, don’t be mean.” George was looking serious, an expression he hadn’t worn in hours. Dream didn’t understand why.

“Sarah’s actually a childhood friend. She’s really nice when you get to know her.”

Dream understood why. He felt like an idiot.

“Oh, shit, shit. Sorry, I didn’t realise. Shit. I’m sorry.” He tried his best to sound sincere, a stained sort of guilt overcoming him. George’s face didn’t change.

“No, it’s okay. It’s fine. I just forgot who you were for a second there.”

Dream felt like shit. Sarah hadn’t even done anything to him. But something in his mind was whispering to him. It wasn’t his fault if George was friends with her. Maybe they were both weird. This was classic George, trying to make him feel bad no matter what he did. Dream tried to push it away, but it was there. Lying underneath his brain, polluting his thoughts.

George, the George that Dream had come to know in that evening at Sapnap’s house, was suddenly gone. He stayed another half-hour, but it wasn’t the same. They focused on the work, writing about speech structures and other things Dream couldn’t have cared less about. And then George was gone, collected from the footpath outside Sapnap’s quiet house by his mother.

Dream and Sapnap were left alone in his sitting room. Dream wanted to sink into the floor and never get up again.

“Well That wasn’t, that wasn’t as bad as I expected.” Sapnap tried his best, but he didn’t even sound convincing to himself.

“It was bad.” Dream groaned, getting down to lie on the carpeted floor.

“Well, don’t undersell it. It wasn’t all bad.” Sapnap prodded him gently in the side with his foot. Dream squirmed.

“It was all bad.” Mixed with the embarrassment, there was a bitter kind of regret. Dream had ruined something good, something new. Before he could sink too far down his hole of sorrow, Sapnap was there.

“You should text him, to like apologise or something.” Sapnap had stood up to clean the sitting room, bring their plates into the kitchen. The conversation was over. Dream heaved himself off the floor, despite the weight of his self-pity.

“Yeah, okay. Okay. Yeah.”

It was later that night when Dream got the chance to text George. It was easier to send difficult texts from the safety of his blanket.

Dream

(10:14 pm) hey, its dream. Im sorry for talking shit about sarah.

(10:15 pm) It was mean and wasnt fair i feel really bad about it

Dream hadn’t realised just how much he actually wanted George’s forgiveness until he saw the three dots next to George’s name.

Gogy<3

(10:16 pm) its cool. dont do it again though it was a dick move

Dream

(10:16 pm) yeah i know :(

Gogy<3

(10:17 pm) also for future reference i never read texts. Message me on sc if you need me its georgenotfound

At 10:18 pm, George got a notification.

Dreamwastaken has added you as a friend.

#dreamnotfound #mcyt #mcyt fic #enemies to lovers #highschool au #dreamxgeorge #dream/george #sapnap #georgenotfound #dream smp #minecraft youtube #minecraft #enemies to friends to lovers #no beta but i used grammerly hehe

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theowhy · 4 years

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[thiam] charisma check

rated T / ~2k / oneshot

summary: When Theo tries and fails to charm someone at Sinema, Liam steps up to the plate.

notes: honestly it was only a matter of time until i gave in and wrote thiam fic. this is... self-indulgent, in the sense that i wanted something like a honey pot mission, with jealous!theo sneaking his way in there. i hope you enjoy it!

you can read on ao3 here ✨

---

“I got this,” Theo says over the music pumping out of Sinema’s speakers.

Liam fidgets with the coke in his hands—just coke, because the bartender didn’t even humor him by asking for an ID when Liam sidled up to the bar—and tries not to look as stiff and awkward as he feels. Theo, on the other hand, fits right in, leaning casually against the bar, the club’s flashing lights spilling over him in ways that are unfairly flattering. Liam takes another steadying sip of his soda.

“Why can’t we just, y’know—” Liam gives a jerky shrug, tilts his head at their target sitting at the other end of the bar. “Pull him into an alley and threaten him?”

Theo raises an eyebrow. “I know this might be a surprise to you,” he says, “but not everything needs to be solved violently.”

“It’s worked for me so far,” Liam mutters.

“Sure, it works. But situations like this go better with a little more… finesse.” Theo’s smirk is slow and smug. “Just watch and learn something, will you?”

Liam scowls. “Go on, already.”

Theo pushes himself off the bar and grabs Liam’s cup without so much as a may I, and takes a gulp.

“Hey!” Liam flushes and drags his eyes away from watching Theo’s throat work. He snatches his cup back.

Theo grins and swaggers his way to the target. Liam hates him.

He tries to watch it unfold without looking too obvious, angling himself away from the other end of the bar and only glancing over every couple minutes or so. The target’s name is Zeke, and is their only lead on a hunt for, apparently, a group of warlocks disguising themselves as a punk band and using their underground shows to hex people. A few sources have pointed to Zeke as the one selling tickets, and Liam figured it’d be easy enough to just demand a pair and infiltrate the next show. Theo disagreed.

Liam watches Theo lean in and talk closely into Zeke’s ear, to be heard better over the noise, no doubt. It still makes Liam’s stomach twist, and he takes another sip from his cup.

Even without eavesdropping on their conversation, he can tell Theo’s turned up the charm. And he’s good at it, Liam knows from far too much personal experience. But despite Theo’s crooked smile and coy head tilt, Zeke isn’t biting. Liam doesn’t need heightened werewolf senses to see that Zeke is bored, the nods and one word answers he’s giving polite but disinterested. Liam snickers, and from the way Theo’s eyebrow twitches, he can hear it.

Zeke looks about five seconds away from shaking his head and leaving Theo in the dust, and as much as Liam would love to see it, he also knows it would mean losing their only lead. So he downs the rest of his coke and walks over to tap Theo on the shoulder.

Theo turns to look at him with an expression of such fabricated politeness Liam nearly laughs.

He says, “Hey, Mason needs to talk to you outside.”

Theo frowns in confusion, and Liam tries to express to him via eyebrow waggles something along the lines of you’re totally bungling this, please stop and take the out I’m giving you.

It takes Theo a few seconds, but these last months of working together have given them an ability to understand one another without so many words. Mason called it creepy telepathy once, but Liam thinks it’s something closer to trust. Whether Theo agrees with that is yet to be seen.

Whatever it is, Theo seems to understand. He heaves an unnecessarily put-upon sigh, then looks back at Zeke and drawls, “I’ll be right back.”

Zeke flashes a totally false smile that makes Liam want to laugh again. He pats Theo’s shoulder as he passes and disappears into the club crowd.

Which leaves Liam alone with Zeke.

Liam suddenly wishes he hadn’t finished his drink, then at least he’d have something to do with his hands. As it is, he shoves them into his pockets, not bothering with suaveness.

“Friend of yours?” Zeke asks, looking at Liam curiously.

Liam holds a breath in his cheeks, thinking. “In a sense,” he settles on.

Zeke snorts, his shoulders relaxing. Liam grins.

“Liam,” he says and sticks a hand out.

Zeke looks at him funny, a smile playing at his lips. He takes the hand. “Zeke. You’re very polite for a random dude at a bar.”

“Not my usual scene, to be honest.”

“That so?” Zeke props an elbow on the bar, leans a cheek against his hand. “Don’t like crowds?”

“Oh, crowds are fine. It’s just the music.” Liam wrinkles his nose, and this, at least, is truthful. “Not my favorite.”

“Let me guess.” Zeke leans in, biting the corner of his lip as he drifts his gaze over Liam. Liam tries not to blush under the scrutiny. “You’re more of a punk rock guy.”

“Is it that obvious?”

Zeke points to the front of Liam’s shirt. “Noisy Habits. I’ve seen them a couple times.”

“No way.” All pretense gone, Liam leans in eagerly, eyes wide. “They haven’t toured near Beacon Hills since I started listening to them, like, a year ago? That’s awesome.”

“I travel a lot.” Zeke’s smile grows, his eyes brightening just slightly under the club lights. “It’s fun checking out local punk scenes. Beacon Hills isn’t bad, either.”

Liam snorts. “That’s generous.”

Zeke laughs, throwing his head back. The amusement is genuine, Liam can tell, and he blinks in surprise. This is all going so much better than he expected.

“Seriously,” Zeke says after he collects himself. He’s moved minutely closer, enough to touch Liam’s elbow with a hand, bracelets and rings glinting. “I know some guys. They’re great.”

This is it, Liam thinks, he can’t blow it now. He swallows, doesn’t pull away from Zeke’s touch. “Yeah?”

Zeke seems to consider something as he keeps his eyes trained on Liam’s face. His tongue darts out over his lips. “Yeah,” he says finally, and his smile has an edge to it that shocks Liam in its familiarity.

It’s a little like the smirks Theo gives him, the ones after Theo says something toeing the edge of flirting. It makes Liam burn beneath his skin every time, especially when Theo’s smirk falls away into laughter, because that’s always what it is in the end—a joke. Never anything more.

This is not a joke. Liam can smell it, the scent of interest wisping from Zeke’s skin. Liam swallows. He wonders, distantly, if he’s ever checked closely enough to see if Theo was really joking.

Zeke glances at his smart watch when a text pops up on it. Liam is sorely tempted to read it, but he’s treading carefully, now. It won’t do to piss Zeke off.

Zeke’s mouth twists. He turns back to Liam. “Well, it’s been fun, Liam.” He draws out the two syllables of his name. “But sadly, I’ve got to go.”

“Really?” Liam tries to sound extra disappointed.

Zeke looks amused and… something else Liam is too flustered to put a word to. He pulls out his wallet, a worn-out leather thing covered in what Liam recognizes are hexes. This is definitely their warlock, and one paranoid of pickpocketing, at that. He opens it up and digs out two slips of paper. Tickets.

He grabs a pen from the bar and writes a string of numbers on one of them. When he’s done, he looks at Liam, a meandering stare from bottom to top.

He tucks the tickets into the waistband of Liam’s jeans. Liam nearly jumps at the brush of fingers against his hip.

“Next Saturday,” Zeke murmurs, leaning in. “Doors are at seven.”

“Cool,” Liam squeaks, grimaces, then clears his throat. “Uh, I mean—” in a deeper voice, “Cool.”

“Cool.” Zeke grins. “Hope to see you there, Liam.”

He squeezes Liam’s elbow again, then steps away. He disappears so seamlessly into the crowd it can only be warlock magic.

Liam releases a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, his heart still hammering in his chest. It… worked. He didn’t totally stick his foot into his mouth and end up in a bar fight. Take that, Theo.

… Wait. Theo.

Liam shakes his head to gather himself, then glances around. He doesn’t have to look far—Theo’s standing at the other side of the bar where Liam was earlier.

His elbows are on the counter, one hand curled into a fist in front of him. His knuckles are white. His eyes aren’t on Liam but out towards the crowd, in the direction Zeke just left. Then he turns to look at Liam.

His eyes are dark.

Liam swallows. It feels like anger, but he can tell it’s not directed at him. Still, he approaches with caution. Theo doesn’t get as punchy as Liam when he’s angry, but he does get bitchier.

When he reaches him, he lifts the hem of his shirt to show Theo the tickets tucked into his waistband. “Got ’em,” he says smugly.

Theo’s dark gaze turns even more murderous. He expected Theo to be annoyed about striking out, but this just seems excessive. He got the job done, didn’t he?

“Great,” Theo says through gritted teeth. His fist curls and uncurls restlessly.

Liam frowns. “Are you really that pissed that someone didn’t fall for your charms?” When Theo doesn’t say or do anything, Liam shakes his head and pulls the tickets out of his pants. “Whatever. Here.” He shoves them into Theo’s chest.

Theo grabs his wrist. Liam jumps, but stays thoroughly locked in place by Theo’s grip. His hand is still spread over Theo’s chest, and the tickets beneath his palm do nothing to stifle the heat that radiates from Theo’s skin. Theo slides his hand from Liam’s wrist up to his elbow, thumb dragging over the bare skin there.

Where Zeke had touched, Liam realizes.

Theo lets go of his arm, but Liam doesn’t have the current sense of mind to pull away. Not that Theo would let him, since his hand moves down to Liam’s hip next, fingers brushing against the hem of his shirt.

His thumb presses against Liam’s hip bone. Over the shirt, not touching the skin, but still. Liam almost hisses at the contact. Theo does that slow, hard drag again, like Zeke had left fingerprints on Liam and he’s trying his damnedest to wipe them away.

The slightest, faintest growl rolls in the back of Theo’s throat. Audible only to Liam, and even his supernatural hearing strains to catch it. Theo so rarely slips up at anything. Does he realize what he’s doing right now?

Another hard drag of Theo’s thumb and Liam’s about to ask that aloud, but then Theo blinks, clarity suddenly returning to him.

He snatches his hand away. Liam’s skin tingles where he touched it.

Theo takes the tickets, gives them a cursory glance. He keeps the one with Zeke’s number scrawled on it and holds the other one out. Liam takes it wordlessly, his brain still catching up on what the fuck just happened.

Theo clears his throat and says, “Let’s get out of here.”

Liam nods quickly. “Yeah.”

Theo stalks ahead as they leave, his shoulders stiff, all the ease and confidence he wore earlier lost somewhere in the last few minutes. Liam absently touches where Theo’s fingers just did, his skin feeling hot all over. As it so often does around Theo.

He looks at the boy ahead of him. There’s red in his cheeks, at the tips of his ears. Liam bites against a smile.

At least he’s not the only one.

#thiam #theo raeken #liam dunbar #teen wolf #caiwrites #to you riding shotgun

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unlockthelore · 4 years

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Confections

After returning from a trip to Kaede’s, Kagome has something to share with Inuyasha and they couldn’t be happier.

From the series Affections Touching Across Time on Ao3. For more updates, follow the affections touching across time tag on this blog.

Rin shoved the scrolls away from her with enough force, her table trembled on its legs. Bridging her fingers together, she set her chin upon them and glanced longingly out the window at the cloudless afternoon sky. With an occasional lazy breeze to offset another wave of irritation, she was able to resist the urge to simply toss her work aside and run out to the open fields. Lounging against A-Un’s side while listening to the crackling flames and sparking electricity brewing beneath his scales would have been a wonderful way to spend her afternoon. Not assessing the damages from a new wave of fresh-faced recruits, all eager for the chance to serve and potentially die beneath the Lord of the West’s command. Wholly unaware that training would be just as grueling as the battlefield.

Eagerness was a quality Rin could respect. She’d been eager in her earlier years, desiring to learn as quickly as possible. However, she also caused herself injury in more than one instance. Injury that was solved by a priestess’s reiryoku, a half-demon’s griping of how she needed to be careful, and a long nap once the pain subsided. Not a plethora of healers attempting to reattach the arm of a yōkai foolish enough to believe that a “duel” would bring honor. Sunlight mockingly reflected off the wet surface of her inkstone, glittering across drying ink as if beckoning her to return to work with the false promise of an early reprieve.

Dropping her forehead to her fingers, they bowed beneath the weight while Rin’s shoulders quaked with another chest-caving sigh.

“If you sigh so often, you’ll risk giving your happiness away.”

Mourning a beautiful afternoon had stolen Rin’s ability to discern sound, apparently, as she completely missed Sesshomaru’s arrival. Although in her defense, Sesshomaru had always been quiet in both movement and words. She was grateful to see him nonetheless — but the sight of a cup frothing misty steam stole her attention.

“Sesshomaru….”

With the faintest quirk of a brow, barely a millimeter above normal, he asked. “Did you not hear me?”

“Not in the slightest,” Rin admitted, stifling a giggle as his lips twitched at the corners. A rueful glance directed toward the scrolls set in front of her with enough venom to kill.

With pronounced grace, Sesshomaru crossed from the room, avoiding a veritable barrier of bark-bound journals and ink-stained papers strewn across their study’s floor. A sidelong glance given as he passed by a few trials of Rin’s cartography, her failures adorned with idle drawings of butterflies and flowers out of sheer boredom and conflict of interest. Golden eyes, twin suns in their own right, flicked toward her. Effectively fading the longing to tread outside but uninspiring to her work ethic. If Sesshomaru’s intention was to inspire her to continue, his own presence undermined his goals.

To her relief, he said not a word about the scrolls outside of a glance. Shifting the wooden knob away to free room on the table, Rin stared in awe and confusion as Sesshomaru set the cup down then lowered to sit by her side. Telling clattering as his swords’ sheaths knocked against the floor, his armor catching in the sunlight and soft murmuring drawing Rin’s attention to the present. Another lazy breeze curled along the back of her neck and she reached up to tuck a loose lock of hair behind her ear. Clawed fingers beating her to it, a shiver whether from the chill or his touch, running down her spine as his fingers traced along the curve of her jaw before pulling away.

Golden eyes met her own and for a brief moment, Rin wanted to ask his intention. Then Sesshomaru’s touch receded and the question drifted from her mind as well. He glanced at the scroll without a word. Taking the cue, Rin shifted it forward though she was careful of the cup and its contents. Vaguely aware of the sugary sweet scent drifting through the air and drying her tongue.

Tearing her gaze away from it long enough to re-read the message, her brows furrowed, lips pinching together.

“There was an emergency meeting discussing the behaviors of the newest recruits, in particular, defense of honor in disguise of pride,” she said, rolling her eyes at the explanation. Sesshomaru’s mirthless hum, both indignant and less than graceful, almost made her want to smile. “After having to restitch a yōkai’s arm, I can imagine why that would be cause for discussion, and concern over supplies should it continue.”

Yōkai and their pride. Even the one beside her. It seemed to reign over even the most coherent of thought, and inspire nothing short of brazen stupidity. Honestly, it eluded her how yōkai could think themselves so far from humans when they were prone to the same emotions.

“It won’t,” Sesshomaru said, interjecting on Rin’s thoughts with a deadened tone to his voice. One that she’d seen leave many yōkai cowering in his wake. “This ends.”

Rin smiled a bit, propping her head up on a balled fist. He could be so serious, yet worried in his own way. While most believed him to only have one expression, Rin was adept at reading tells. A downward tug of the lips, his eyes narrowing just a quarter of a millimeter, sideways glances, mere twitch of his nose or ears, and his jaw’s clench to name a few.

To her, Sesshomaru was very expressive.

And as he glanced aside at her with the barest quirk of a brow, Rin could practically hear the silent question in a deep gentle voice tinged with muted curiosity: You think otherwise? Tipping her head to one side, Rin inhaled the honeyed scent paired with Sesshomaru’s musk and hid her widening smile behind her knuckles.

“Yes, yes. You know this and I know this, but think with me for a moment,” Rin tapped a finger beneath her eye in a slow cadence as she mulled over her words. “Let’s say that a battle-hungry and glory-mongering impulsive soldier knows he will be revived and cared for without consequence.”

Sesshomaru’s lips tugged downward at the corners, eyes narrowing fractionally. Displeasure written across his face in Rin’s view alone. Good, she could hardly imagine someone charging into battle without respect for life itself but — for yōkai — healing innately gave them a sense of superiority.

And death could be quite humbling.

“Now, imagine if he believes otherwise and his companions also know. Accountability, anata…” She suppressed a giggle with how Sesshomaru’s eyes widened at the nickname. It wasn’t often that she used it but it did ease his mood from murderous intent quickly. As she reached up to palm his cheek, thumb brushing along the marks beneath his eyes, his eyes shuttered and reminded her of the setting sun.

“If one can’t hold themselves, they can hold each other,” Rin managed to say once she’d torn her gaze away from Sesshomaru’s, trying to remain on topic rather than lose herself. It didn’t help that he’d noticed either, a stifled twitch of his lips telling of a smug smile. She rolled her eyes, easing her hand away and ignoring the brush of his lips as he turned to greet her fingers upon departure.

“With that bit of information conveniently released, it should lend a wise soul to think twice before throwing their health to the wind.” Rin tucked her hand to her chest, skin alight with where his lips touched, softer than sunbeams. Her heartbeat quickened. Sesshomaru leaning closer to her, gazing at the scroll but with the closeness of his body to hers and his breaths against her ear, she had to believe it was a pretense.

“And Lin seemed appeased, if not thankful their ears may be spared.”

Sesshomaru hummed low, a murmuring sound reverberating from his chest to Rin’s own with how closely he pressed to her. “... I will leave this in your hands then.”

Rin almost wanted to say that it was a given, glancing aside to find golden eyes watching her with great interest. A small smirk curving Sesshomaru’s lips when her gaze lingered a bit too long. Looking away, Rin huffed. If he wasn’t aware of how handsome he was then she would have been surprised. And how much of a deterrent he was to her concentration at that.

Something dragged against the wood of her desk and Rin glanced aside to see the cup closer to her than before. Saccharine warmth curling in the steam still-rising from its opening and with another sniff, Rin’s eyes widened. He wasn’t fond of sweets and as she gestured to herself then pointed to the cup, he arched a brow at her: Did you believe it was for me? A fond smile curved her lips and without being told twice, Rin snatched the cup up in her hands, careful of the sloshing liquid.

With the sheer amount of work as of late, she hadn’t been able to visit Kaede and the others which admittedly brought its own problems. Missing them terribly was one thing but a lack of a break was wearing at her mind. From the corner of her eye, she could see him watching her raptly despite trying to maintain disinterest.

Curious. Sugar cresting her lower lip, Rin lapped it away with a slow drag of her tongue, amused by the glance and follow of his eyes.

“It’s so sweet,” she said, glancing aside when his gaze snapped back to her face.

With the quickest flick of the eyes from her own to her lips then back, Seshomaru muttered. “Is it?”

“Mm,” Rin hid her smile behind her cup. “Much sweeter than usual.”

His brows twitched, almost furrowing before his expression smoothed out. “I see,” he said, glancing aside.

Perhaps it wasn’t nice to tease him too much, Rin thought. He did go through all of this trouble. “Whoever made this has my gratitude,” she said, taking another sip and ignoring the way his ears twitched as a ghost of a smile played on his lips.

“We should be expecting Lord Etsushi to arrive in a few days time.”

“Is he bringing…”

“Yes, Lady Masae.”

The smile fell and Rin smiled understandingly, patting his arm as she took a few measured sips, wanting to savor the smooth sweetness of her drink.

“It’s understandable that she can’t resist you,” she said once she finished, though keeping the cup to hide her smile from view. Sesshomaru glanced at her, lips thinned and eyes narrowed to slits. “You’re sweet.”

“Mm,” is all he murmured but the implication was there: I am not.

“You are what you eat,” Rin reminded teasingly, brushing her knuckle beneath his jaw and his brow raised as he turned toward her. “And I often eat sweets, so…”

Letting her words trail off, she could see the moment they made their impact and Sesshomaru’s lips quirked into a smirk. “Rin...”

The space between them was almost non-existent and she could feel his sigh tickling against her cheek as he leant into her. Holding the cup between them as a thin veil, her heart skipped a beat when a light touch trailed from her knee to her inner thigh and gold encompassed her entire world.

“Let me finish my honey milk?” She offered weakly, putting up little fight when he curled his fingers around her own, freeing her hand of the cup. Fingers brushing, his touch was electric and set her skin aflame. Sweetness on her lips brushed against his own as the space between them closed.

“You already finished it,” Sesshomaru murmured, and Rin’s attempt to curse him was muffled in a warm kiss.

She wasn’t sure how it was that he just knew she needed him, but she was grateful all the same.

#inuyasha fandom #sesshomaru x rin #sessrin #sesshomaru #rin #fanfiction #my fanfiction #affections touching across time

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orangeflavoryawp · 4 years

Text

Jonsa - “A Violence Done Most Kindly”, Part 5

Okay, I know this chapter is excessively long, but I didn't want to break it up and lose the cohesiveness of it, so yeah, here it is. This one was fucking difficult to write, so I sincerely hope you enjoy it.

“A Violence Done Most Kindly”

Chapter Five: Herald of War

“It’s a promise, Sansa realizes. If we fall, you fall. Because she figures, one way or another, dead or alive, the North will come for those who abandoned them to winter.” - Jon and Sansa. Stark is a house of many winters.

Read it on Ao3 here.

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

* * *

“I was under the impression this was a summit for peace,” Tyrion says.

“It is,” Jon sighs.

“And yet you’re asking us to go to war.”

“A war against the dead is not the same as one against the living.” Jon frowns with his explanation, harsh and deep.

Sansa can see the frustration in the lines around his mouth.

“You’re asking for quite a lot on faith,” Jaime points out, lounging quite comfortably in his chair.

“And do you think I’d be here, inviting some of my house’s oldest enemies into my very home, welcoming their armies North, if I weren’t speaking the truth about this?” Jon barks. His nostrils flare with his vexation. He spares a dark look Theon’s way. “Soon you shall all see the evidence of our claims.”

Somewhere in the crowd of lords, a scoff is heard, an accompanying snort, a rush of heated murmurs.

“Let’s say what you claim is true,” Tyrion starts, pacing away from his place beside Daenerys and toward the center of the room, glancing around the other gathered lords. “Have you even a plan to kill them? Do you even know how?”

Jon’s eyes flick to the dragon queen, and Sansa’s gut clenches when he tells them, “We know that fire kills them.”

Daenerys adopts a smug expression, leaning back in her chair as she eyes Jon. “You need my dragons.”

He clenches his jaw, nodding just the once. “Aye.”

“You already know my demands,” she answers easily, eyes shifting toward Jaime.

A cruel smile curls along Euron’s face while he sits beside Daenerys. “Looks like you’ll be bending the knee, after all.”

Jon ignores Euron with great effort, his hands bunching into fists at his side, and then slowly unfurling.

Tyrion looks to Daenerys, something calculated in his gaze that Sansa can’t quite identify. She straightens in her seat, voice echoing throughout the room. “Westeros will need more than just dragons to survive the Night King and his army.”

Daenerys cocks her head at Sansa, an amused smile playing at her lips. “’Just’ dragons, you say?” she asks in a tone that sounds nearly insulted.

Sansa swallows tightly, words measured as she looks at the dragon queen. “Your might is not to be disregarded, Your Grace, but this endeavor will take from all of us.” She takes a breath, waits for Daenerys’ rebuke, but continues steadily when there is none – none but a look of mild intrigue. She looks about the room. “We will need food from the Reach. And we’ll need the numbers of the Lannister forces. We’ll need the forces of the Riverlands to secure safe passage of Northern refugees through the Neck and past the Twins.” Sansa shares a glance with Edmure Tully, who nods in answer, jaw set. She allows a grateful smile to touch her lips, before she turns her steel-cut gaze back to the other lords. “We’ll need the Knights of the Vale,” she goes on, looking to Lord Royce, and then tentatively to Robin Arryn, an inclination of her head both affectionate and demanding, “The greatest mounted cavalry in the known kingdoms,” she says with a flattering flourish that has Robin beaming with pride.

“We’ll need dragonglass for weapons,” Davos says. “And we’ll need every blacksmith you can spare working day and night to forge them.”

Jon nods beside Sansa, a dark look to his face. He stands then, taking in the room. “And we’ll need more than that. Carpenters and masons to help build the defenses around Winterfell. Healers and cooks and seamstresses, before, during, and especially after the battle, which means they’ll need to stay in Winterfell while we send the other refugees south. And we’ll need all our armies marching North if we expect to have any hope at defeating the dead.”

“What do they look like?”

Jon turns at Robin’s question, confusion drawing over his face. “My lord?”

Robin shifts excitedly in his seat, an inappropriate glee pulling at his features that sets Jon’s jaw to clenching. “What do they look like, these wights you speak of?” he asks again.

Silence reigns in the room.

Sansa shifts in her seat toward him. “Dear cousin,” she begins gently, “I don’t think – ”

Jaime’s scoff interrupts her, his scornful chuckle swallowed up by the fist at his mouth.

Sansa sends him a glare.

Sighing, Jaime’s hand lowers from his mouth, a sardonic glint to his eye. “Not like anything you’ve ever seen before, I’m sure, boy.” His eyes flick to Jon’s. “If they even exist.”

Robin’s face pinches at the insulting address but before he can wail his offense, Lord Royce stands from his seat, chest puffing out. “You will speak to my lord with the proper respect his station demands, Ser Jaime, or this summit will be at an end soon enough,” he nearly bellows.

Jaime only leans back with an amused smirk, Tyrion sending him a desperate look that seems a plea for silence.

“They look like the dead,” Jon sighs in aggravation, his temper flaring at the need for such an explanation, “In all the gruesome ways death can take a man.”

Sansa can see how the frustration builds beneath his skin, rippling the cords of muscle at his neck when he swallows. “Now, can we continue?” he asks gruffly.

Robin scowls at the answer, disinterested immediately. “I only wished to know what they looked like,” he mutters.

Sansa sends an urging look Arya’s way, and with a twitch of Baelish’s lips in her flesh mask, she leans over with a false face of appeasement to the young Lord of the Vale, a pat of her hand to his bunched fist. “And you will, my lord, when you ride North and take the field alongside His Grace. You’ll look the dead in the eye, and – with the Knights of the Vale at your back, heralding your name – you’ll vanquish them from our lands forever.” A gratifying smile plants itself along Baelish’s face, and Robin grins in response.

“Yes,” he agrees, straightening in his seat. “Yes, I shall.”

Lord Royce grumbles something under his breath when he takes his seat, eyes shifted toward Baelish in a mix of reluctant gratitude and poorly disguised mistrust.

“And why should I follow you North like a gullible child, Jon Snow?” Daenerys asks coolly, eyes nearly rolling (if such a motion could be queenly) at Royce’s outrage with the pointed barb.

“My queen,” Tyrion tries, stepping toward her and then instantly stopping at the subtle motion of her hand to stay him.

Behind Daenerys, and behind Jorah Mormont and the newly met advisor, Missandei, and the commander of the queen’s armies, Grey Worm, somewhere in the slants of shadows, Sansa catches the flicker of tense deliberation along Varys’s face at his queen’s words. His hands stay linked through heavy, concealing sleeves, his lips pressed into a perpetual purse, eyes watching the hall pensively. She shifts her gaze away from him before he can meet hers across the hall.

She remembers all too well that he’s seen the work of the Targaryens firsthand – some being her own blood.

Sansa pulls a steadying breath in, focus back on the quickly spiraling summit.

“Why should I commit my forces North on the word of a bastard king when the people are crying for their rightful ruler to save them right here in the South?” Daenerys asks coolly.

Sansa’s eyes flutter shut, bracing for the inevitable.

Lord Glover pushes from his seat so violently that it scrapes against the stone and topples back with a loud clang. “I would follow any son of Ned Stark to the depths of all seven hells before I swear to some murdering Targaryen whore!” he bellows.

The room erupts into madness.

Grey Worm steps forward, a cold wrath lighting his features, and the line of Unsullied along the wall at Daenerys’ back uniformly brace their spears to their shields in a motion of readiness, the heavy metallic clash setting the rest of the hall rising into an uproar.

Jaime barks a laugh. “Yes, the people are just clamoring for you, Your Grace,” he throws out at Daenerys with raised brows.

“Ser Jaime,” Brienne hollers from her place behind Sansa, “This is hardly the time.”

Several of the lesser lords push from their seats, Lady Mormont shouting for them to sit down and stop squalling like children. Jon braces a hand back at Lord Glover, keeping him from stepping further into the circle. Davos and Tyrion call for order and are subsequently ignored. Northern and Riverland guards edge around the hall toward the swarm of incensed lords.

Jaime lets out another ragged laugh, arms stretching wide to encompass the chaos. “This seems exactly the time, Lady Brienne!”

Daenerys shoots a deadly glare at Jaime, Ser Jorah at her elbow instantly. “I should take your head right here, Kingslayer.”

“Please, Your Grace,” Edmure urges above the shouts from the arguing lords. “This is a summit for peace.”

Daenerys stands swiftly. “Then you all should have remembered that before calling the dragon to your table.”

Brynden swears at Sansa’s back. “Oh for the love of – ”

Lord Royce advances on a particularly vocal lord from the Stormlands when he throws a casual insult at the young Lord Arryn. False-Baelish slips back from the mob, staying at the edge of the ring of seats, Sansa always in sight.

Euron stands from his seat, a sneer along his lips. “I think a little respect would do these Northern bastards some good.”

“Uncle,” Theon says, firm and reproachful. He stands from his seat, but Sansa’s hand on his arm stays him. He looks down at her with hesitance.

“Ah,” Euron laughs, a predatory glint to his eye, “This the Northern cunt that bewitched you?”

Brynden’s hand is on his sword instantly, Brienne moving similarly beside him. “Call my niece that again, you pissant, and I’ll hang your entrails from your own ships’ bow.”

“You can always trust a Lannister to –”

“ – damn Northern pride will be the death of –”

“ – bloody Ironborn – ”

“And where have you cowards been all this – ”

“ – her and her foreign band of rapists and murderers – ”

“Enough!” Jon bellows, his voice echoing off the stone walls, a deep, resonant growl following the words. “That is enough!” There’s something wild to his form then, a murderous glint to his eye that settles anyone who catches sight of it into an instant stillness. He whirls on the room, teeth bared.

At Daenerys’ raised hand, Grey Worm orders his men down, Missandei calling out similar orders to the Dothraki bloodriders alongside the Unsullied. Lord Glover rights his chair, dropping back down to it with a huff. Lady Mormont glares the other Northern lords into silence. The lords of the Stormlands slowly retreat to their corner, Robin tugging on Lord Royce’s sleeve to get him to sit back down. Jaime sits just a bit straighter, his smile falling. Daenerys remains standing, chest heaving. Beside her, Euron gives one last leer to Sansa and Theon before he slumps back into his seat, Brynden and Brienne finally unhanding their swords. Slowly, the hall comes back around to silence, tense and perturbed though it is now.

Jon heaves a labored sigh, rubbing at his chin, eyes flashing dark with his fury. “How can you all sit here and squabble over such pettiness when the dead are practically at our door? How can you call yourselves lords when you would trade your people’s lives for a crown – a crown that will mean absolutely nothing when the dead wash through your lands?” he bites out, gaze landing on Daenerys. “Because make no mistake, if we fall, you fall. That isn’t a threat. That’s fact.” he growls out, glancing at each of them in turn.

It’s a promise, Sansa realizes.

If we fall, you fall.

Because she figures, one way or another, dead or alive, the North will come for those who abandoned them to winter.

“This is all very riveting, to be sure, but if you’re all done beating your chests, I have a question for the King in the North.” Lady Olenna interrupts for the first time that afternoon, elbows resting on her armrests, hands wound together in a familiar nonchalance, as she stares insistently at Jon in the center of the room.

All eyes turn to her in the tense quiet.

She clears her throat, settling more comfortably in her chair. “This summit isn’t about trying to persuade us that peace is our best option, because we wouldn’t be here in the first place if we believed otherwise. So you can save your thrilling little speeches, Your Grace. Anyone unwilling to fight for the kingdoms has no claim to them.”

Mutterings begin among the lords once more, Daenerys slowly returning to her seat, hands curled like talons along her armrests, eyes landing on the Tyrell matriarch like flint to steel.

Jon nods stiffly to her, jaw clenched tight. “And your question, my lady?”

Olenna huffs impatiently, shifting to tap the nail of her forefinger along her armrest. “When your war is won, and the dead are defeated, will the King in the North acknowledge the independence of the other kingdoms, or is this alliance simply a ploy to seize power?”

The mutterings throughout the hall stop entirely, a taut silence blanketing the room.

Jon turns fully to Lady Olenna.

Sansa remembers suddenly, the way he looked that last night before the Battle of the Bastards – the heat in his eyes, the desperation lining his mouth (that mouth), the dangerous arch of his shoulders and unmistakable incline of his body, the way he shouted at her, pressed her, the way he instantly folded beneath her admission –

If Ramsay wins, I’m not going back there alive. Do you understand me?

The way he’d wound his hands through her hair and stumbled her back, a growl at his lips, bracing her back against the beam of his tent, his breath panted against her mouth, her hands winding around his wrists, the ragged exhale that left him when he told her, when he demanded of her –

“Shut your mouth.” Like a wounded, cornered beast.

She’d blinked at him wildly, indignation splashing across her face, breath hitched in her throat as he bore his whole weight into her suddenly, forehead braced to hers, fingers flexing in her hair.

Her throat was parched, her chest heaving.

“Shut that mouth of yours, Sansa, because I can’t – I can’t – ” And then he’d licked his lips, chocking back a sob, his mouth already so close to hers that she thinks she might have tasted his breath in that moment, shared the heat of him, felt the tremble of his mouth against her own just a moment before he kissed her, desperate and ragged and insistent.

Like trying to eat his own terror.

She’d known in that moment, and every moment after, that she’d never follow through on the promise – not so long as he lived.

His hand was hitching up her skirts, his groan filling her mouth, his own reckless promises painting her flesh, well before she’d finally recognized his demand as the plea it truly was.

Stay with me, his body had begged.

Yes, her own had granted.

Sansa looks to Jon now, eyes easily catching the sharp line of his shoulders, and the clench of his jaw, and the evenness of his gaze on Lady Olenna.

It must be so exhausting, she thinks, to live always on the precipice of death – to share an intimacy with it so violent that even to refuse it feels like a betrayal of the self.

I’m not going back there alive. She should have known not to say such words to him, after all.

But perhaps that was the start of it, the catalyst to this dangerous dance between them. He’s become so vibrant in her hands, so thrumming of life, so very not dead.

She knows now, what it means to linger –

Stay with me –

She knows.

“I never sought this crown. And I’ve no intention to seek another,” Jon tells Olenna, low and resolute, his shoulders sagging with the weight of it.

Never sought, no, but he’s grown covetous of it all the same, Sansa thinks. And even still, Jon has made it clear where his interests lie.

With the North, and with her.

Nothing else can sway him.

It’s the sort of truth that should trouble her, but she can’t find it in herself to be anything but covetous in return.

“Well then,” Lady Olenna says, fingers linking together, a barely discernible smile crinkling the edges of her mouth. “You might be the only one in this room who can claim as such.” She chuckles, leaning back in her chair. “I like you. Even if you are rather cross and sullen.”

Jon blinks at her, mouth parting, but no words follow.

Sansa ducks her head to hide her unexpected smile.

“Highgarden agrees to the alliance,” she promises, eyes flitting to Sansa for the briefest of moments, “Granted this ‘evidence’ of yours makes itself known.”

Sansa’s smile steals from her mouth instantly, eyes narrowing at Olenna.

The older matriarch only shrugs, a hidden smile playing at her lips.

“You’d follow this whelp?” Euron scoffs, leaning with one hand braced to his knee. “Just because he can spin some pretty words?”

Lord Glover almost upends his seat again, but Sansa’s instant narrowing of her eyes in his direction, chin lifted in a motion to heel, has him grumbling his acquiescence, settling back along his chair.

Olenna grants Euron an unimpressed look, an amused huff leaving her lips. “I owe you no justification, Lord – what was it?” She pauses, considering. “Are you even a lord?” And then she waves her hand dismissively. “Never mind, you’ve clearly already answered that. I suppose even a dog may be allowed to beg for scraps at its master’s table.”

Euron stands instantly, face screwed up in an ugly disdain.

The room tenses. Jon takes an even step forward. Olenna smirks triumphantly. Edmure frets uncomfortably. Daenerys opens her mouth. Sansa speaks.

“Perhaps we should leave it at that today, my lords, my ladies.” Sansa rises smoothly, hands clasped before her. “I’m sure we each have much to discuss with our respective advisors. I look forward to renewed talks tomorrow.”

Jon glances to her, brows furrowed, his impatience warring with his exhaustion, before he nods imperceptibly.

“I agree,” Tyrion interjects, turning to his queen. “We have much to think on.” His gaze is imploring, his mouth set into a thin line.

Daenerys takes a deep breath, a dissatisfied expression gracing her features as she meets her Hand’s gaze. Ser Jorah at her elbow is soft but firm when he addresses her. “Khaleesi.”

She looks to him out of the corner of her eye, softening somewhat.

The unexpected shift has Sansa blinking dumbly at them. Words pass between the two, quiet and short, and then the dragon queen is rising swiftly from her chair, barely giving even the courtesy of a nod in farewell before she’s stalking from the room, her advisors in tow.

Jon closes his eyes and releases a breath, frown deepening.

In moments, the hall is all but cleared, and Sansa stays watching the silhouette of Jon in the afternoon sun breaking through the windows. Her lips purse tight, her words stalling in her throat.

His shadow stretches long, she finds. Its edge peters out just before the toe of her boots.

* * *

Jon finds his way to Sansa’s rooms that night, greeting Brienne at the door with a weary face and a sigh of exhaustion. “Will you announce me, my lady?”

“Of course, Your Grace.” Brienne tips her head in a motion of respect. “Ah,” she says, straightening, voice dipping to a whisper, “My lady is in conference with your sister at the moment.” Her eyes shift down the hall momentarily, watchful.

Jon nods, voice low. “I expected as much. Announce me, Lady Brienne.”

Brienne raps on the door, short and expedient. “His Grace to see you, my lady,” she calls through the door.

“Come in,” sounds through the wood in Sansa’s familiar lilt.

Brienne opens the door for him and Jon stills immediately upon stepping through.

Seated across from Sansa in a similar armchair by the fire, leaning closely toward her, is Baelish. For a moment, Jon’s vision goes white, a sharp breath sucked through his lungs, rage rising in his throat, until he remembers.

(His slumped form along the snow beneath the wierwood, the wash of blood over his chin, the curl of his frozen, grasping fingers stiffened into claws.)

Baelish is dead.

The familiar face turns to him.

Arya, he has to remind himself, the breath raking from him slow and measured.

She cocks a brow in Baelish’s face that has Jon’s expression souring instantly, the unease branching through his chest.

“Jon,” Sansa greets, grabbing his attention.

He looks to her, shaking his head, shutting the door behind him. “Sorry, I – I just – ”

The eerie copy of Littlefinger stands with a sigh and a decidedly un-Baelish-like roll of the eyes. “Please, Jon, you can’t have this reaction every time you see me like this.” She plants her hands on her hips and Jon scrunches his nose up at the sight.

Arya sighs dramatically, hands thrown up in the air as she stalks toward him and the door. “Gods, what I would give to be back home and out of this skin.”

The words sober Jon instantly.

Arya stops just before him, catching the look on his face. He doesn’t know if he’s any good at hiding it, but then, hiding never did him any good when it came to Arya.

It’s hardly the first skin she’s worn, he realizes. hardly the first life she’s taken. His little sister. His Arya.

Something constricts inside his chest dangerously like regret.

Arya seems to see something in his face, because her expression schools back into a keen observation so naturally reminiscent of Baelish’s own attentive eyes that Jon has a difficult time separating the two. It only makes his chest clench tighter.

A stilted silence passes between them, until Sansa is clearing her throat, standing from her seat with a soft grace that flutters her skirts about her legs. “Keep clear of Lord Varys,” she warns Arya. “We cannot know if your act will fool him well enough.”

Arya turns back to Sansa with a single piqued brow.

Sansa huffs. “You’ll be careful?” she presses.

Lifting her chin, smoothing her hands down the silk front of her robe, Arya nods her acknowledgement, the incredulous expression leaving Littlefinger’s face at the note of concern lining Sansa’s voice. “As careful as a mockingbird.”

It’s not the kind of comfort Jon thinks Sansa is looking for, if he’s going by the worried expression on her face, but it’s the only kind of comfort he imagines Arya capable of. It’s just another piece of truth to mourn.

Arya turns back to Jon, watching him for a quiet, tense moment.

The steady stare of Baelish this close is unnerving, to be sure, but perhaps even more unnerving is the subtle recognition of Arya’s own stare through a dead man’s eyes.

She looks to Sansa for a moment, and then turns back to Jon, frown deepening, brows furrowing. “Do not disgrace her in our mother’s house,” she tells him quietly but firmly, a slip of her own voice threading through the words.

Jon blinks at her, the image of Baelish throwing him even now.

Sansa scoffs indignantly, arms crossed behind Arya.

But Arya only has eyes for their brother.

Jon nods, unable to curb the pain that etches across his face, the resentment. “I wouldn’t,” he answers her.

Arya nods just the once, lips pursed, thoughtful. “Tomorrow’s going to be another long day,” she says.

Jon gives her a moment, expecting something further. When she only stares at him, he rubs at his chin, words coming haltingly and unsure. “Yes, it will be,” he says finally, hesitant to say more.

Arya’s mouth thins into a line as she clears her throat, a quiet affection coloring her words now. “You should get some rest.” And then she’s stalking from the room, shutting the door behind her without a further farewell.

Jon stares at the closed door for many long moments.

“She loves us,” Sansa says softly. “She does.”

Jon stays staring at the door, a sigh leaving him.

“Perhaps she isn’t rather adept at showing it but – ”

“Sansa,” he interrupts, finally turning to her, a hand rubbing at his mouth as he tries to shake off the lingering unease.

She lifts her brows expectantly, arms uncrossing, the indignation having bled from her instantly.

(She doesn’t stay mad at her sister for long these days, but Jon is too hesitant to name such a thing as hopeful.)

He softens his features, catching the thrum of disquiet in her stiff posture. “I know,” he tells her, attempting a smile.

Sansa nods, lip pulled between her teeth. She glances out the window, hands smoothing over her skirts. “Well then,” she starts, looking back to him far more put together than she had been only moments before. She motions a hand toward the now vacant seat across from her. “Your Grace,” she offers.

Jon takes the chair easily, shrugging off his cloak – her cloak. He catches the way her eyes follow it when he sets it along the back of his chair and a flare of prideful possession streaks through him. His hand curls along the furs before releasing reluctantly, settling across from her.

Sansa takes her own seat gracefully.

Jon leans his elbows along his thighs, hands grasped between his knees. An exhaustive sigh leaves him. “Arya has word about Meereen then?”

Sansa nods, leaning back in her chair. “Baelish’s sources say the city has fallen into disarray. Daenerys’ appointed representative, Daario Naharis, and the small council she established before leaving, have been slaughtered. It’s chaos in the streets, last we heard.”

Jon nods, gaze dark and considering. “We can use that.”

“It’s a fine line to walk.”

He raises a brow in question.

Sansa brushes at a wrinkle in her skirt. “It can sway the other kingdoms to our side if they see that their alternative is incompetent when it comes to governance, but calling out such incompetence could also wound her pride enough to make her withdraw.” She levels a meaningful look Jon’s way. “And Bran was adamant we sway her to our side, as well.”

Jon groans, shaking his head. “She sees herself as a savior, he said.”

“Yes.”

He frowns. “And how do we use that?”

Sansa purses her lips, silence overtaking her for long moments while she turns the question over in her head. He can very nearly see the moment illumination lights her features. “Give her a target,” she says in answer finally.

“I haven’t exactly kept the Night’s King a secret, Sansa,” he says exasperatedly. “If ever there was a target for her, that would be it.”

Sansa shakes her head, a huff leaving her. “You’re thinking about this all wrong.”

Jon’s frown deepens, head cocking like a reminder for caution.

Sansa sits a touch straighter, her hands curling over her armrests in anticipation. “She hasn’t gone to King’s Landing yet. Why?”

His brows draw down. “Because her enemies are no longer there.”

“Precisely. And yet she claims the people are clamoring for her deliverance. So why won’t she go?”

Unclasping his hands, Jon leans back in his chair, huffing his frustration. “I don’t fucking know, Sansa, I’m hardly privy to her council.”

Sansa’s nostrils flare with her momentary annoyance. “Think, Jon.”

“Oh, like I’m not trying to?”

“Not very hard, it seems.”

“Sansa,” he warns, a hot expel of breath.

Sansa shakes her head, hand outstretched to stop his admonishment. “Listen to me, Jon, please. Just listen.”

He gives her a spiteful look, but he does not argue further.

“Starvation and anarchy are hardly foes she can burn into subservience,” she says.

Jon blinks at her, the realization slow and half-formed.

She continues. “Her crusade for freedom across Slaver’s Bay only worked temporarily because, while crucifying the Masters and burning their ships makes for an intimidating show of power, it doesn’t solve any of the problems still plaguing the cities. She’s not a ruler. She’s a conqueror. It’s what she does best. So we give her someone to conquer. We give her a body, a living, tangible foe. We give her a target in the North and she will go North.”

Jon stands swiftly, hand swiping over his mouth as he stalks to the hearth. “Sansa, what exactly are you suggesting?” He looks back at her with dark eyes, half-shrouded in firelight.

She swallows tightly, rising from her seat as well. “We need Jaime Lannister.”

Jon’s jaw tightens at the name, drawing in a deep breath. “We’ve no indication he even believes us, let alone has any inclination to fight for the living.”

“Brienne vouches for him.”

Scoffing, Jon gives her an incredulous look. “And that’s enough to think he’d join us?”

Sansa steps closer, hands clasping nervously before her. Jon eyes the motion with a sense of foreboding. She makes it to the other side of the hearth, standing across from him, when she finally speaks. “He knew I didn’t kill Cersei. More importantly, he knew I couldn’t.”

Jon stares at her, a tightness in his chest.

He remembers when Bran told them the news, the raven’s scroll from King’s Landing slipping unread from his still-gloved fingers as the three of them met in Winterfell’s dawn-lit rookery.

He remembers the harsh laugh that broke from Sansa, streaking through the silence with a brand of delirium so striking he actually took a step back from her.

But she couldn’t stop, a hand braced to her chest, the other moving to steady herself along the rail, her eyes glistening, laughing and laughing and gasping, chest heaving, face screwed up in sudden pain, fingers curled around the rail, her other hand clutching the hook-and-chain necklace at her throat, and then she’s sobbing so instantly her body actually quakes with it, a laugh choked into a wail, and she’s sinking down suddenly, knees giving way, dragging her form down the rail, gasping, keening, howling.

He’d been unable to do anything for long, immutable moments but stare – watching the wash of relief and grief and release rake through her like a storm.

He remembers leaning down behind her and gripping her shoulders, pulling her back to his chest and holding her through it.

When he’d looked up next, Bran was already gone.

“That doesn’t mean anything, Sansa,” he grits out. It’s a lie, he knows. Because it has to mean something.

Sansa closes her eyes, breathes deep, and something shutters beneath her skin he hasn’t a name for. It’s gone the instant she opens her eyes again. “It means there’s still something he wants.”

Jon steps closer, a growl brewing in his throat, the realization inking into color a moment too late. “Sansa – ”

“Tell him we can give him his sister’s killer.”

Jon expels a harsh breath with a muttered curse, dragging a hand through his hair. “Seven hells, Sansa, you can’t just – ”

She closes the distance between them instantly, eyes imploring on his, the heat of the fire licking across their forms. “I don’t mean giving up Arya. I’d never – I couldn’t – ” She stops, swallows, eyes shifting anxiously between his.

Had she expected him to think that of her? Had she expected him to know her so little? Jon’s shoulders slump at the thought. He reaches for her arms instinctively, a familiar measure of comfort between them, his rough palms curling around her elbows. “Sansa,” he breathes lowly, evenly, “Tell me what you mean.”

She relaxes somewhat, face softening. “He’s a remnant of a man, Jon.” The words come out sad beyond measure and Jon doesn’t know what to do with them. In the wake of his silence, Sansa reaches up, curling her fingers along the leather of his jerkin, eyes fixed to the motion. “This grief has unmade him. It’s plain for all to see. He has nothing left.”

Jon’s hands slip up her arms and then slowly back down, watching the curve of firelight dip across the bare edge of her collarbone.

He doesn’t like to think about what that sort of grief would feel like – what that kind of loss does to a man.

(He doesn’t like to think that he understands Jamie Lannister, if only a little, if only when his fingertips bare their mark on his own sister.)

“He has nothing left but vengeance.”

Jon blinks back up at Sansa. “You mean to use it.”

She nods, lips pursed tight.

“And Arya…?”

“We have Baelish’s spies, his face, his influence. Let us use it. Let us offer Jaime Lannister a chance at the vengeance he craves. Arya will be safest when she’s the one controlling the information he receives.”

“And when he comes North with us, when he agrees to this alliance – ”

“It will be the largest threat to Daenerys’ sovereignty. She cannot take such an alliance lightly, especially when the other kingdoms inevitably fall in line. She’d never allow such an alliance unless she had a hand in it, and she’d want to keep a watchful eye, work to dissolve it from the inside, rain fire and blood if she had to. But she would go North. She would not leave her enemies to treat with each other behind her back. If we cannot tempt her empathy, then we must tempt her with this.”

Jon heaves a labored sigh, thumbs brushing along the material of her sleeves, winding slow and unmeasured circles. His eyes fix to the motion. “Even if she helps us win against the dead, how can you be sure she won’t turn on us the instant the war is won?”

Sansa sighs, hands uncurling from his jerkin, smoothing over his chest. “I have to trust that Bran would not urge us to bring her North if he didn’t have the knowledge we’d need to protect against her.”

The discontent brews in his chest, releasing itself in a gruff exhale. “Such a risk…”

“I trust our brother.”

Jon clenches his jaw, his eyes roving her face, leaning toward her without realizing it. He stops breaths away from her. He lifts a hand to trace up her arm, along her shoulder, dipping down toward her collarbone.

Sansa sucks a breath between her teeth, swift and quiet. She does not pull from him.

Jon’s eyes follow the trail his fingers make along the edge of her dress. “The lords will not like an alliance with the Lannisters. I’m not sure I like an alliance with the Lannisters.”

Sansa huffs, and the sound almost makes him laugh, his smile a worn and weathered thing when it touches his lips.

“They will follow you if you lead them,” she tells him, and it seems such a simple thing when she says it. It seems such a simple, indisputable thing.

His eyes flick down to her lips, his hand around her elbow dragging her to him, bracing her against his chest as his other hand slips back along the nape of her neck. He revels in the mute gasp that leaves her parted lips, the flex of her throat beneath her swallow. “You can be so sure?” he asks, not knowing why it should matter so much. Not knowing and yet –

Knowing exactly.

“King Jon of House Stark” she’d called him.

(How he wants to hear the words again – how he wants to watch them stain her lips when he takes her.)

Sansa lifts her chin, baring her pale throat in the low firelight. “They’ve followed you thus far,” she says. “They will follow you further yet.”

She’s a slight thing, even for her height – all spine and teeth – but she fills his hands seamlessly, his palms fitting perfectly to the mold of her.

“Tell me again,” he whispers at her mouth, suddenly ragged with the need, suddenly quaking in his own skin.

Sansa’s brows dip down in confusion, her mouth parting.

Jon steps into her, walking her back, past the hearth, its flames spitting hot and unrelenting at their retreating forms through the shadows. Sansa stumbles when she hits the desk, one hand going out to steady herself along the ledge, the other still held at his chest. “Jon,” she breathes, voice catching.

“Tell me again,” he demands. “King Jon of House Stark…” It’s a heavy pant at her lips.

Sansa’s eyes flash with understanding.

He presses his hips to hers, pins her there against the desk. He braces his mouth just above hers, his hand winding into her hair to keep her to him. “My name,” he tells hers – begs her, teeth clenching behind a desperate mouth.

Sansa slides her hand up his chest and then along his neck, sinking into his hair. “Your Grace,” she breathes at his mouth, fingers clenching at the nape of his neck.

With a throaty moan, Jon’s hand leaves her arm and winds around her waist, fisting in the folds of her dress, digging into her hip with an urgency that sets them both to trembling. “Sansa,” he pants against her.

“My king,” she whispers darkly, and he groans in response, hand clenching in her hair, tongue wetting his lips, breath raking from him in ragged, unrepentant bursts – so close, so devastatingly close – and damn Arya’s warning, damn their disgrace – not now, not here – with her so warm and pliant in his hands and he leans in, eyes fluttering closed, a needy sigh already teasing his lips, the taste of her – just there – and –

A knock at the door.

Jon groans his frustration, lips half a whisper from hers, hands already fisted in her hair and her dress and the intoxicating, breathless whole of her.

“Your Grace,” sounds Davos’ voice through the door.

Jon pulls back from her, just slightly, just enough to meet her eyes. “What is it?” he barks.

Sansa hums quietly at his chest, nails dragging at the base of his skull.

Jon closes his eyes to the lure, smothering his own impulses.

A quiet shuffle sounds on the other side of the door, and then his Hand clears his throat. “A raven from Eastwatch, Your Grace.”

Jon glances toward the door, mouth parting. He looks back to Sansa in his arms, watches the shift of heat in her eyes dim to a familiar cold calculation.

“Tormund,” he says softly, eyes still fixed to hers.

She nods, seems to steady herself, head dipping low, breath easing into something slow and manageable, her fingers thrumming just the once along the nape of his neck to return his attention. “Go,” she tells him, when they finally lock gazes again.

Jon swallows thickly, hesitating, his chest still heaving, his mouth still aching for hers.

Her hand slips from his neck and he feels the loss instantly. “Go,” she says again, almost reproachfully this time.

He growls his frustration – with Davos’ interruption, with Tormund’s sudden letter, with her own sense of practicality. Jon curses beneath a sharp exhale – a heady, breathless thing – but he’s already pulling from her, already disentangling from her enticing heat. He nods, lips turned into a harsh frown.

She releases him first, but her touch lingers long after he’s left her side.

* * *

The summit recommences the next morning. Everyone resumes their places from the day before, and Sansa has to admit to her surprise at every seat still being filled. She half-expected to find certain lords (and queens) to have abandoned their efforts at peace. There is hope yet, she finds.

Or perhaps that is being generous. Perhaps it is better to say that there are still demands to be made. Perhaps it isn’t peace that keeps them here at all.

It is of little matter, she tells herself. Jon will get them North, one way or another. This she knows, because to accept anything less makes them as good as dead already.

Sansa glances to Theon beside her, eyes searching. He shakes his head slowly, a grim expression on his face.

No word from Yara, then.

Sansa takes a deep breath in, turns back to the floor, to her brother making his way to the center once greetings have been properly addressed.

“My lords and ladies,” he starts, and then to Daenerys, “Your Grace.”

She nods appreciatively.

Jon continues briskly. “I’ll not waste any more time.” He raises a hand, an unfurled raven scroll resting between his fingers. “Last night I received a raven from Tormund Giantsbane at Eastwatch. The army of the dead is already at the Wall.”

Murmurs break out amongst the crowd, unsettling them. Tyrion steps out from beside his queen to reach for the scroll.

Jon hands it to him for confirmation, not waiting to continue. “I don’t think you all quite understand the level of this threat, the numbers we’re facing.” His voice is low, gravelly, a strum of anger already lighting it.

They’ve wasted enough time already, to have come to this.

“The dead are quite literally climbing the Wall,” he stresses, pacing the room to look each occupant in the eye. “Thousands of them – hordes of them – climbing over each other, body upon body toward the top, cascading over the edge like a waterfall.”

Sansa closes her eyes to the image, her throat tightening beneath the latent fear. She smothers it well.

“A fall like that may kill a man, but the dead feel no such effects. They topple over the wall in a flood, resuming their march on the other side – on our side. And they do not stop,” he bellows, looking around the room. “The dead have no need for sleep, or food, or rest of any sort. We’re losing precious time. And we need to be there now.”

Daenerys bends her ear to Tyrion when he returns to her side, something whispered between them that never makes it to air. Jaime sits straighter in his seat, eyes focused in a way Sansa hasn’t seen before. Euron stews impatiently in his own seat.

Jon gives the crowd a moment, but only a moment, and then he’s plowing on. “The time has passed to argue the North’s sincerity. You either believe me, or you don’t. But that isn’t the point anymore. So, let’s cut all the horseshit and talk about why we’re all really here, hmm?” His eyes grow hard. “Everyone in this room wants something. Now, some of those things are in my power to grant, but others,” he says, gaze flickering toward Daenerys, “are not – and neither should they be.”

“If I may – ” Tyrion starts, never getting the chance to finish.

“Theon Greyjoy,” Jon calls out, turning to the man swiftly.

Tyrion stares dumbly at Jon as he ignores him.

Theon blinks up at Jon, standing swiftly, a measure of uncertainty lighting his frame, even with his shoulders straight and chin raised. “Your Grace,” he answers.

“You and your sister want the North’s support for her claim as queen of the Iron Islands, and our acknowledgement of your kingdom’s independence.”

Theon’s mouth opens, closes, opens again. Finally, he simply nods, hands folding behind his back.

Jon eyes him darkly, and for a moment, Sansa thinks he may take it all back. His word, his assurance, his trust. She sucks a quiet breath between her teeth, wanting to reach for Theon and yet knowing that she shouldn’t. She stays deathly still – hanging on a precipice.

Jon’s eyes find hers for the briefest of moments, something passing over his gaze she can’t identify, but then he’s looking back at Theon, and she has to remind herself to breathe.

“You shall have it,” Jon says finally, jaw clenching after the words.

Euron scoffs across from them, moving to rise in objection when Daenerys’ upheld hand halts him. She stays watching the exchange intently, lips dipped into a frown. Euron grumbles his reluctance as he retakes his seat.

“Your Grace,” Theon says, half question, half disbelief, his brows dipping low, and Sansa wants to hold him suddenly. She resists the urge to the point of pain.

Jon doesn’t forgive Theon, she knows, and he might not ever. But she has never asked him to, and never will. She has learned to lay her brothers down in the deep. She has learned to let them rest. Not because forgiveness comes easier to her, but because survival does.

Sansa learned long ago to bury her loves, or they will bury her. It started with Lady, and then never seemed to stop. There are holes in her heart dug in the shape of graves, and she knows now that some unearthings can never be.

She does not ask of Jon what he cannot give.

“Lady Olenna,” he goes on, turning to the Tyrell matriarch. Theon sits back down, hands fluttering over his knees in a motion to calm.

Sansa blinks back the ache, focusing.

Olenna cocks her head at Jon in expectance, a familiar, challenging smirk tugging at her lips.

Jon nods to her. “You want my assurance that I’ll not seek another crown – that the North keeps to the North and does not interfere with the sovereignty of the other kingdoms.”

Her only answer is a purse of her lips, a lone nail tapping along her armrest.

“You shall have it.”

“And your proof of the dead?” she eggs on, smirk still steadily put.

Jon releases a low chuckle, hand wiping down his mouth. “And my proof,” he repeats, mumbling the sentiment as though to himself. He shakes his head, not even sparing Theon a glance. “That’s seeming more and more unlikely as time persists.”

Olenna steeples her hands together over her lap, considering, but Jon isn’t one to linger.

“Ser Jaime,” he says, turning to the Lannister knight.

A single, cocked brow is his only acknowledgement.

Jon licks his lips, fingers flexing at his sides. “You want your sister’s killer.”

A thick silence pervades the room. Tyrion dips his head, shoulders bunching with his unsteady exhale. Jaime stares unblinkingly at Jon, his one good hand curled stiffly over the armrest.

Jon takes a breath, jaw grinding. “You shall have it,” he promises lowly.

Jaime stands swiftly, pushing from his seat with such a fervency Jon’s Northern guard shifts into a ready stance, the clang of their arms resounding in the room.

Everything goes eerily still.

Jaime stands staring at Jon, his face screwed up into a visage of quiet wrath, a dangerously still vehemence. “What did you say?” he breathes out, the words slipping through bared teeth.

To her credit, Arya does not flinch a single muscle in Baelish’s skin. Sansa can see her watching the exchange from her place two seats down from the Protector of the Vale. Somewhere behind Sansa, Brienne shifts, a barely-heard rustle of armor. But it’s there all the same.

Jon turns fully to Jaime. “The North will pledge to search for Cersei’s killer and bring her to justice.”

Somewhere behind him, Lord Glover grumbles a curse but Lady Mormont’s sharp gaze silences him. Sansa sends the girl a grateful look and Lyanna nods in return, chin tilted high.

Jaime takes a step closer, stiff and warring. “You know who killed her?”

“No,” Jon lies easily enough, a trickle of pity lining his voice just enough to lend it some truth. “But we will.” A short pause. “Lord Baelish,” he calls, turning to the mock Littlefinger.

Arya offers a perfectly piqued brow.

“You are a man of the world. You must lend your efforts to Ser Jaime’s quest. Commit your resources to discovering Cersei Lannister’s murderer.”

In Baelish’s skin, Arya takes an expected moment of silence, seeming to consider the request (or command, rather). She doesn’t spare a glance to either of her siblings, only nodding slowly to Jaime, a twist to her lips with just enough reluctance to seem credible.

Jaime exhales loudly, staggering back a step, eyes fixed to the false Littlefinger. There’s a pleading to his gaze that strikes Sansa with its earnestness, its unhindered sincerity. She tightens her hands over her lap at the sight.

Jon glances to his Northern guard, motioning for them to stand down. Jaime drops back down to his seat, glancing over to Tyrion. They stare silently at each other, and Tyrion is the first to look away, a wet sheen to his eyes that Sansa does not miss. It is hard for her to fathom anyone mourning the loss of Cersei Lannister, but then she remembers that day long ago in the gilded cage that was King’s Landing.

“Love no one but your children. On that front a mother has no choice.”

It’s perhaps the most honest, the most vulnerable, that Cersei has ever been with her. The moment wears at Sansa some nights, when she lays awake staring at the ceiling, an unspeakable sadness crashing through her.

Perhaps Cersei’s greatest mistake was in loving all the wrong people in all the wrong ways.

Sansa blinks back the sudden wetness at her eyes.

It doesn’t matter. It never did. Because dead is dead, and there is no way to love that into un-being.

She knows. She’s tried.

(The muddy steps at Baelor’s Sept will always be the start and end of every nightmare she ever has.)

Jon sighs heavily, shifting to face Daenerys, brows dipping down in consternation.

Sansa turns away from Jaime, ignoring the way he stares blandly at the floor, eyes grievous, jaw tight.

“Your Grace,” Jon addresses, stepping closer.

Daenerys lifts an interested brow, a look of amused curiosity crossing her features.

He licks his lips, taking a steadying breath. “You want the North – and others – ” he says, motioning toward the room, particularly to the silent, dwelling Jaime Lannister, “to declare you our queen, to welcome back a Targaryen reign – to bend the knee.”

Daenerys looks on smugly, back straight, a regality to her posture that Sansa imagines took years to turn from practiced to intrinsic.

Silently, Sansa waits for the break.

“But I cannot give you that,” Jon says firmly, eyes never leaving the dragon queen.

The room goes dead for many moments, and Sansa swears she can hear her pulse thrumming frantically in her own ears. She swallows back the trepidation, eyeing the room cautiously for any particular reactions.

Most telling is Daenerys herself, of course. It takes her a moment, a perfectly groomed eyebrow twitching in displeasure, but the shadow that crosses her face can be called nothing but Targaryen in its darkness.

Tyrion’s eyes widen, and he glances swiftly to his queen, then back to Jon, stepping forward as though to speak. Daenerys beats him to it.

“Just as much as you want me for an ally, Jon Snow, you would not want me for an enemy,” she guarantees evenly, a touch of calm to her voice that tells Sansa she is no stranger to voicing such threats.

It tightens the ball of anxiety in her stomach.

Euron smirks beside her.

Ser Davos tries for diplomacy. “Your Grace, please.” He takes a deep breath. “You’ve come to Westeros at an ill time. We’ve barely survived the carnage that the War of the Five Kings rained across the continent, and our people are tired of war and subjugation. A man just wants to till his own soil, to put food on the table for his wife and children, to swear to a lord that honors the protection of his own. That is the kind of freedom the North – and Westeros – wants.”

“And you think I cannot give them that?” she challenges, chest heaving with her indignant breath.

Jon steps forward, standing partially in front of his Hand. “What I think is that the last city you promised such freedom to has paid that price tenfold in blood. So, you’ll forgive us our skepticism, Your Grace.”

Her lips purse, nails digging into her armrests. “Come again?”

False-Baelish rises smoothly from his seat before Jon can speak further. “Your Grace, you must know by now the fate of Meereen? Your last conquest?”

“Know what?” she snaps.

Arya lets slip a barely held smirk across Baelish’s thin lips. “Daario Naharis is dead, Your Grace, as is the council you put in place before you abandoned the city. The Masters have made war on their former slaves. The streets run red with the blood of your promised ‘freedom’.”

Sansa sometimes thinks Arya plays her part too well, or rather that she enjoys it too well. Either way, it gets them a reaction.

At first, Daenerys is stiff, hardly moving, her eyes widening only minutely with what seems to be a previously unknown revelation, her nostrils flaring in her outrage. But then something shifts, a crease to her brow, a quiver to her jaw, the quick blinking of her violet eyes. It’s gone but a moment after it passes over her face.

Daario Naharis.

Sansa’s eyes narrow at the dragon queen. There was affection there. Perhaps there still is. Her heart clenches at the realization, a sliver of empathy bleeding out into the light. She smothers it instantly.

Daenerys clears her throat, the momentary exposure shuttered up with cool authority. “Lord Varys,” she calls, glancing toward him out of the corner of her eye.

He steps forward gracefully, head bowed.

“Is this true?” Her voice is low, a decibel away from being called a hiss.

Varys glances toward Baelish, eyes narrowed in consideration, a thoughtful breath leaving him. Eventually, he nods, his face shifting into one of remorse. “I apologize, Your Grace, for not informing you early. I thought the news would…detract you from your current goal.”

Her spine snaps impossibly straighter. “You are not responsible for deciding what it is I should or should not know, Lord Varys. You will inform, and you will advise, but you will not omit. You will not presume to think for me, do you understand?”

“Of course, Your Grace.” Another bow of his head, hands still hidden in his sleeves. He keeps his gaze from Baelish this time, flicking toward Sansa instead.

She sucks a mute breath through her lips, face a blank visage, giving nothing away.

He only looks just a moment, but it’s enough to prickle her skin with unease.

“I suppose that’s what you should expect when you leave the running of state to a sellsword,” Lady Olenna throws out, shifting in her seat to a more comfortable position.

Daenerys gives her an unamused look.

Olenna rolls her eyes in the most ladylike fashion Sansa has yet to master.

“My queen, we must continue to look forward,” Tyrion interrupts, stepping up to her seat, just at her side. He raises his hand as though to settle it over hers on the armrest, perhaps in comfort, but a swift glance from her stills his hand mid-air. He flexes his fist, dropping his arm back to his side.

Sansa watches the quiet exchange with interest.

Tyrion clears his throat. “Your vision takes time. It takes patience, and endurance, and fortitude. But Westeros can only benefit from such vision.” He looks about the room, addressing the rest of the occupants now. “You say you want freedom? Well, sitting here before you is the Breaker of Chains. You want a strong leader? They call her Mhysa and the Unburnt. You want a way to win against this ‘Night’s King’? She is the Mother of Dragons!” He pauses, takes a breath, steadies his voice. “We’ve all had our failings – some of us more than most.” He hardly dares to meet Jaime’s eyes across the way. “There isn’t a person in this room who can say otherwise,” he says critically, voice hardening. “But Daenerys is the queen we need. Now – at the edge of this ‘Long Night’ – and always.”

Sansa bristles at the words – even more so with the fervency with which he says them.

This is not the man she remembers. But then, none of them are who she remembers. Every person in this room is a stranger of sorts – even Jon.

None of these faces filled her childhood. It is not something she mourns. It is just a truth. Just the way of life.

(She does not think she could have Jon the way she does now if he still wore the face from her childhood.)

“You’ll forgive my reluctance to follow a Targaryen, brother,” Jaime says finally, “given my history with the last one I served. A pretty face is not enough to save you from madness.”

Daenerys flashes unforgiving eyes his way. “Brave words from a murderer.”

Jaime leans forward suddenly, face screwed into something ugly. “And I’d murder him again, given the chance.”

Daenerys steals a heated breath through her lungs, eyes darkening dangerously, mouth curling into a sharp scowl. “Shall I just present my back to you now? Would that be sufficient invitation?”

“’Burn them all’,” Sansa says with a dark inflection, the words staining her lips in their heat.

Daenerys snaps her violet gaze to her, sharp and focused, mouth tipped open as though to speak, but no words come.

Jaime turns stiffly to her as well, but his gaze shifts quickly to the sworn shield at her back, and she doesn’t have to look at Brienne to know that she’s staring resolutely away from Jaime. Sansa swallows tightly, meeting Daenerys’ incredulous stare. “That’s what your father told him.”

Murmurs break out across the room once more, and Jon swings his startled gaze to Sansa.

(It’d been a moment of quiet confidence when Brienne admitted to her conversation with Jaime, his confession in the hot pools. She’d vouched for him, and not without reason.)

This is the man who almost killed their father in the open streets, bringing him to his knees, and back into the Lannister fold, where he eventually lost his head.

Sansa swallows down the bile.

This is also the man who killed the king who brutally murdered their grandfather and uncle, who would have brutally murdered more, had he not acted.

She is tired of trying to understand Lannisters. She doesn’t want to anymore. She wants nothing to do with them, really. But she’s played the game long enough to know that sometimes enemies make the best allies, when you know how to shift the board. She won’t forget that lesson easily.

Baelish taught it to her well, after all.

(Some wounds linger, she remembers.)

“Just before Ser Jaime here stuck a blade in him, that’s what your father said – with caches of wildfire buried beneath King’s Landing. ‘Burn them all’.”

Daenerys swallows thickly, eyes riveted to hers. Her ire bleeds from her slowly, almost imperceptibly, if one wasn’t watching closely enough.

But Sansa is watching.

The murmurs around the hall grow louder, shouts interspersing the rush of whispers, a wave of agitation and confusion sweeping over the room.

“Would you do the same?” Sansa asks her evenly, gaze a frost blue.

Daenerys opens her mouth, stops, huffs her frustration, clamps her mouth shut tightly. The words pry beneath her skin, Sansa knows.

“Would you do the same, Your Grace?” she urges, not letting up.

Chin raised, Daenerys blinks back the daze. “I am not my father,” she seethes, voice a tremulous wind, something of pain seeping through.

Sansa only stares at her. Jon sighs, wiping a hand down his mouth, looking about the room.

“Your Grace,” Ser Davos begins, an imploring look on his face, “You’ve given us no proof of that one way or the other. But perhaps, this is your chance.”

Daenerys throws a withering look at Davos, but she makes no comment.

“The last Targaryen to sit the Iron Throne murdered our grandfather and uncle in open court, and then demanded that Lord Arryn of the Vale break guest right and kill our father, as well,” Sansa continues, back straight in her seat. “King Aerys broke faith with his lordships first, and the Starks have more reason than most to refuse Targaryen rule, yet here we are, asking you for help, putting aside past grievances – justified grievances – because none of this will matter if we don’t stop the dead. None of this will matter when we are the dead.”

Daenerys takes a heavy breath, the ire now dimmed in her eyes.

Jon steps forward, dark eyes steady on Daenerys. “Make no mistake, Your Grace, that’s exactly what’ll happen if we don’t stand together – all of us, every single person here.” He turns to take in the room. “I can’t promise that we’ll win. I can only promise that the North will fight regardless. Now, I’ve come here to ask the same of you. You’ve all heard my arguments, and you’ve made your demands. But it’s time to decide. I understand if you need your proof, but the North can’t wait any longer. The dead are already at our door and we leave for Winterfell in the morning, with or without allies.” He looks pointedly at Jaime, a barely discernible nod sent his way.

Euron looks as though he’s ready to object when Daenerys’ upraised hand silences him in his seat. He grumbles reluctantly, but she’s looking at Jon with an expression of serious consideration. Sansa is too practical to call the feeling that brews in her chest hopeful, however.

Another silence pervades the room, this one so stilted and heavy that Sansa can feel it in her lungs. A shuffle of feet here, the creak of a chair there. A cough, a grumble, the rustle of fabric as someone shifts in their seat. It’s suffocating suddenly – this stagnation, this utter and useless stillness.

Sansa wants to howl for it.

“You won’t be leaving alone, Your Grace.”

Sansa’s gaze snaps to her uncle, watching wide-eyed as Edmure Tully is the one to rise from his seat, hands tugging his jerkin into place, chin raised even while his jaw quakes. He nods to Jon, swallowing tightly before speaking. “The Tullys broke bread with the Starks once, not so long ago.” His gaze shifts to Sansa, infinitely tender and resolute all at once. “’Family, duty, honor’. I’ll be damned if I’m the first Tully who disgraces those words.”

Sansa’s heart swells.

Just behind her, Brynden lets a gruff smile grace his features, eyes crinkling.

Jon’s brows rise in surprise, but only for a moment, before his face softens into a weary gratitude, nodding stiffly. An appreciative smile tugs at his lips as he allows himself the smallest sigh of relief.

Sansa cannot hide her smile at the sight, glancing down to her lap.

“The Vale is with you, Your Grace,” Lord Royce pledges as he stands, glancing down toward Robin, who looks up at him only mildly alarmed before he settles back in his seat at the nod of reassurance both Royce and Baelish give him. “Aye,” the young lord croaks out, clearing his throat, trying again. “Aye, King Jon, you have the Vale as well.” Robin puffs his chest out with the words, shoulders pulled back in a show of confidence Sansa is sure he doesn’t entirely feel, but is grateful for, nonetheless.

Jon turns to address the rest of the lords but never gets the chance. The sound of boots thumping on the hard stone sounds just moments before a Northern guard bursts through the door to the hall, panting, eyes wide. “Your Grace! Your Grace!” he shouts, taking a large gulp of air after his apparent sprint.

Davos stands swiftly. “What is it, man?”

“At the gate,” he says, bracing his hands to his knees as he tries to breathe. “It’s – it’s Yara Greyjoy!”

Theon jolts to a stand, eyes wide, and the room erupts behind him, Euron the loudest of them.

It’s moments later that Yara breaks into the hall, blood dried at her temple, hair and coat still speckled with snow, kicking a shackled undead into the center of the room, its snarl chocked off by the leash around its neck.

Daenerys stares on in dawning horror. Jaime’s jaw sets, his eyes hardening. Olenna blinks back the shock, glancing toward Sansa.

“Good thing these fuckers hate the water,” Yara says, wiping a hand under her nose, a brilliant smile breaking across her mud-streaked face as she braces a boot to the back of the scrambling corpse’s neck. “So, when do we leave?”

* * *

It doesn’t take long for Jaime Lannister and Olenna Tyrell to pledge to the North after Yara’s dramatic entrance, with the lords from the Stormlands following suit shortly after. Daenerys makes a grand enough speech about fighting for the people, about burning the evil away, and Jon suffers through it as stoically as he can, knowing it’s a small price to pay to guarantee her forces come North.

Euron Greyjoy, however, has different plans than his queen. He takes one look at the wight and renounces his support, cursing all of them for fools, ignoring Daenerys’ call to heel when he turns his back on her and makes for his ships at the coast.

They’re already on their march North when they hear word that Euron hadn’t even made it to Harrenhal, let alone Gulltown. Daenerys Targaryen doesn’t take too kindly to desertion it seems, having burned him where he stood.

Jon’s sure it’s as much a punishment for Euron as it is a warning for the rest of them.

Do not betray the dragon, the warning says.

Jon feels the sinking dread like a stone in his gut when they pass through the gates of Winterfell and the shadow of dragon’s wings blankets the courtyard, darkening the image of their brother’s face as Bran sits waiting for them in reception.

He doesn’t have time to think about it though, because they throw themselves into preparations quickly enough, shoring up the walls, building trenches, forging weapons with the dragonglass Daenerys promises from Dragonstone. Tormund and his people make it to Winterfell days later, and Jon’s war council lasts long into the night that first eve of their return.

Sansa takes to the crypts more often of late, and this is where Jon finds her in the short hours before dawn once the council has let out. He’s been hesitant to breach her solitude, her sanctuary. She stitches black direwolves to her handkerchiefs these days, and it’s a likeness he wishes he could forget, but the severed head of Shaggydog is as haunting a memory as the arrow-riddled body of the young boy who loved him.

The brother who loved him.

Sansa stands before Rickon’s statue with her hands folded before her. A ring of winter roses lays at the base, slowly wilting.

She heaves a sigh, and it seems to take all of her, but her voice is steady when she tells him, “We’ll have to burn them.”

Her admission jars him into movement, a hand coming up to brace at her elbow. “Sansa.” There’s a question laced through her name he doesn’t know how to ask.

She turns to him then, just slightly, just enough to catch his gaze over her shoulder.

He has learned, after many moons, how to read Sansa Stark’s grief – how to discern it by the lines of her face, the stiffness of her frame, the heady weight of her silence.

His fingers curl more surely around her elbow.

“If we want to survive the Long Night, then we will have to burn them.”

Jon looks past her down the long tunnel of crypts. It’s a shadow-drenched cavern of memory and stone and deep, still quiet that takes him – an ages-old memoriam of long dead Starks. It’s a line that stretches far, and he remembers suddenly, that it’s a line he is never to join.

King in the North he may be, but never a Stark.

Jon grinds his teeth, the ache in his jaw an easy distraction.

He’d hoped to be buried here one day. A child’s dream, perhaps. A foolish wish.

Jon wants to laugh suddenly. To laugh and laugh and choke on it – because what a joke. The gods have ill humor, and he has little appreciation for it.

Sansa reaches a hand to his side, fingers clutching at his furs. He sends a baleful look her way.

“I’ll light the fires myself,” she says softly at his side, and he has to swallow back the tartness, eyes fluttering closed at the breath that stains his lungs. “With Bran and Arya,” she finishes, voice softer than he’s ever heard.

He reaches a hand to the small of her back, dragging her against him.

She settles a palm at his chest where his heart lies, beaten and floundering.

“I would not have you buried here,” she mutters against his shoulder.

Jon grips at her dress, fingers bunching in the material at her back.

“Not yet,” she finishes, mouth sliding against his throat. “Not for many years to come.”

He should take it as the hope it is, as the single, rare confession it is – that she isn’t ready for him to leave this world.

But something too long festered flares to life at the words. Something too darkly honed.

The hand bunched in her dress draws upwards, dragging the material with it. He presses into her, backing her up against the wall.

Sansa looks up at him with a flicker of concern, hands bracing at his shoulders.

He’s silent as he unfastens his cloak, letting it fall to the cold ground at his feet. He pulls his jerkin free of his breeches, unlacing it with practiced ease.

Sansa stares at him, breath hitching. Her hands hover uncertainly in the air above his shoulders, her hips pinned to the wall by his. “Jon.”

His jerkin hits the floor alongside his cloak, his eyes never leaving hers. He pulls his tunic free of his breeches, hands moving to the laces at his groin. Sansa’s hands fumble to stop him.

“Jon, please, what are you – ”

“I’m a Stark, aren’t I?” It’s a guttural rush of air that leaves him.

Sansa’s hands still over his. She blinks furiously at him, mouth parting, cheeks heated at his stare.

“You said it yourself,” he whispers, chest heaving.

Sansa’s eyes shift between his, tongue darting out to lick her lips in her anticipation. “Jon.”

“You said it yourself,” he hisses now, accusingly, a bite behind his words he hasn’t a name for. And then he’s rucking up her skirts, a hand gliding to the back of her knee, tugging it up over his hip.

Sansa gasps, arching against the wall instinctively. She pushes her skirts down frantically, chest rising and falling so fast she’s getting lightheaded. “Jon, wait, this isn’t – this isn’t – ”

His mouth finds her throat, his tongue reckless and heated against her flesh. Sansa’s head lolls back against the wall. “Jon,” she pants, fingers stilling at his shoulders with a fierce grip. “Jon, what – ”

He grabs at her wrists, tugging them up above her head, holding them there with a single, calloused palm. His other hand undoes the laces of his breeches completely. “I’m a Stark, aren’t I?” he asks again, the heat of resentment and longing and regret flaring white-hot inside him. It comes out a growl. It comes out a desperation.

Sansa’s chest heaves against his, tongue wetting her lips. “Jon.”

And he’s just so tired of hearing that name. Just so fucking tired of it.

He rucks her skirts up, tearing at her smallclothes, fumbling recklessly for the heat of her, that throbbing, sodden heat of her.

Jon groans when his fingers find home. He nips at her lips, catching her hitched breath between his teeth. “This is where I belong,” he says without repentance, sliding into her on a hissed breath, his head dropping to her shoulder as he shudders against her, a deep-seated groan leaving him.

Sansa’s sharp inhale sounds against his temple, her hips pushing up to meet him.

Jon releases her wrists, grabbing for her thighs instead, hoisting her up against the wall as he thrusts deeper, drawing her legs around his waist.

A sigh of contentment breaks against his ear, his name lost in the space between their pants, and he remembers suddenly.

He remembers where they are.

“Don’t stop,” Sansa moans breathlessly.

He grinds his hips into hers faster, deeper, with a mercilessness that almost scares him in its intensity. One of her hands reaches out to steady herself, bracing against the base of Rickon’s statue. Jon looks decidedly away from the motion.

He only fucks his sister harder.

The crypts fill with their ragged pants, their dark curses, the fumble of their forms against the crude stone.

“This is where I belong,” he groans against her mouth, biting down on her bottom lip.

Sansa cries out, nails digging into the naked flesh of his hips, drawing him deeper into her, and he feels himself breaking, crashing, barreling into her with a ferocity he’s never felt for anything – anyone – no one but her. “Mine,” he growls into her mouth, fingers bruising on her thighs, teeth etching their mark along her throat. He braces a single, trembling hand against the wall at her back, the rough stone cutting into his palm as his thrusts grow frantic and uneven. He curls his bloodied hand along the stone wall, nails catching on the rock, and he anchors himself amidst the tide.

“Mine.”

It’s a shadow-drenched cavern of memory that takes him. A place of no light. A hollow of stone so entrenched with the dead he finds a familiar home.

Sansa does not let him go.

Even when he spills inside her.

Even when he mars her thighs with the discoloration of his need.

Mine, he swears.

The declaration clatters around the stone crypts like a herald of war.

* * *

{“Fire sows no seeds,” he tells her. “It molds no stones. It tills no earth. How could it ever fashion life from death?”

Sansa stops, looking down at her still brother, knuckles white where her hands grip at each other in their wringing. She slinks slowly back to her chair, the wind rushing from her in something not unlike defeat. She is just so lonely, suddenly – so desolate and worn and without him.

Without Jon.

“You knew all along?” she asks almost plaintively, exhaustion echoing along her words. “You knew the dragons weren’t…” She stops, swallows, tries again. “You didn’t bring them here to defeat the dead. You brought them here because only the dead could defeat them.”

Bran gives her a look that could only pass for calculating – foreign and jarring though it is on her brother’s tender features. “She was never the solution,” he answers her.}

#jonsa #jon and sansa #jon x sansa #jon snow #sansa stark #arya stark #house stark #starklings #my writing #game of thrones #got fanfic #a violence done most kindly

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thecorteztwins · 4 years

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These are all scenes from my longass ALT-MARAUDERS FIC PITCH and you don’t need to read the whole pitch because it’s huge and a fic in itself, but basically what’s going on is Xavier ordered Miss Sinister, Madelyne Pryor, Pyro, Haven, and the Shaws to work together as a crack team accomplishing bringing “home” mutants like the Marauders but probably also other stuff too. I don’t really care what their mission is though because it’s about their relationships. Also it looks like ALICE is now the adopted team baby, at least for Madelyne and Haven (maybe Pyro too, I like to think he looks out for her) sorry I don’t make the rules OH WAIT I DO AND I SAY SHE’S TEAM BABY honestly she really fits the theme/the team, given her history? So I’m down for it. Tagging @sammysdewysensitiveeyes since you showed interest in it and since it’s got YA BOY PYRO and @hexiva since you asked about it too, though no obligation to read it, or to read all of ‘em! I feel like you might like “Scientists” though, Hex. CONTENTS A Box Full of Darkness - Sebastian/Haven Canvas - Madelyne/Alice Scientists - Claudine/Haven Like An Old Married Couple - Group Parties, Pleas, and Promises - Pyro/Shinobi Sea & Sky - Madelyne/Haven Awkward - Pyro/Sebastian Stories - Madelyne/Pyro Out of the Frying Pan - Sebastian/Shinobi Nightmare Dressed Like A Daydream - Pyro

*** A BOX FULL OF DARKNESS "Do you care at all for poetry, Mr. Shaw?” The ship had a small sitting room that also served as a library, shelves lining three of its walls. The wood, the carpet, the small chair, the atmosphere, all made one forget that one was at sea, and not in fact in the nook of some old college’s study. One had to wonder who had chosen the books. ”No, Ms. Dastoor, I can’t say it has ever appealed to me. Most of the arts do not, particularly the ones that are not visual in nature. I do not see the point of endless stanzas and pentameters to say in metaphor and allegory what could be said much more clearly and succinct in a single sentence of plain simple prose.” ”Then I hope you shall forgive me for sharing a bit---it reminded me of you, you see.” There was one in her hand. ”Ah, what was it? Something from the Decadent movement? Or perhaps some pretencious Bohemian lampooning the upper class from which he came himself? Dare I hope for Ozymandias, perhaps, and will it be Smith’s or Shelley’s?” He was smirking slightly. Perhaps he thought he was being funny. Or it might just be his face. ”You seem to know much about the subject despite a disinterest in it. I rather admire that you took the time to learn,” and she did sound genuinely approving, encouraging, “But, no---Mary Oliver, someone much more recent, and much more recently deceased. I am paraphrasing her here so that my meaning, my reason for seeing you in this, is not confused: Someone once gave me a box full of darkness. It took me years to understand that this too, was a gift.” He smiled wryly, “Is that how you see me, Ms. Dastoor, a box full of darkness?” “No,” she said, her gaze rising back up from the open pages to meet his, her large dark eyes unreadable as they drank him in, boxes of darkness in themselves, “And I do not agree that evil and suffering---if we must use ‘darkness’ to mean those things, which I also do not agree with, but is what I believe Ms. Oliver may have meant--is ever a gift, no matter what we may get out of it through our own power to come back from it...but I believe you see it this way, do you not?” There was no accusation in her tone, no disapproval. There seldom was. She was only asking, only observing. At least, Sebastian thought, that was what she wanted to seem like. He always suspected her motives were more, and that she was simply trying to disguise the fact she was trying to needle him, rather than making it pointedly obvious as, say, Emma, might. Coward---but then, he knew that of her. “Perhaps in less poetic terms, yes. I’m a practical man, Ms. Dastoor. I used to work in a steel mill. I saw how heat and pressure forged the worthless in the valuable, how the smelting process pulled the precious iron from the rest of the ore and shaped it through force into something useful. The same can be said of people---and I do indeed say it. You have heard me. Is that the darkness of which you speak?” ”The steel you speak of and the shapes it was forced into were valuable and useful...by the definitions of what the humans shaping it needed and wanted. But ore and iron and metal and stone, all these have no intrinsic value, or lack there of. There is no objective difference in the value between steel and granite, glass or diamond, gold or plastic. Thus, too, I believe that when it comes to people, you are deciding what is valuable according only to your standards. But is there objective worth to your perception of strength over your perception of weakness, beyond what is merely your perception?” And yet again, her voice was calm, not accusing, merely observing and asking. Sebastian returned, just as calm, if slightly smug, “Is there objective value in your perception of kindness and morality, Ms. Dastoor, beyond that it is merely your perception?” “I believe it has practical applications, but I have also never claimed an objective standpoint in our discussions, have I? Whereas you have, if I am recalling corrective,” Again, there was nothing aggressive in her tone. She was polite as could be. “I have and I do, but if I am to have it be put to a test of authenticity, I must require you to subject your own beliefs to the same scrutiny. It is not fair for the burden of proof to only fall on my shoulders.” Still also calm, still slightly smirking in his turning around on her. “That is quite true. I apologize,” she relented, ”But, to my original point---while I may disagree with Ms. Oliver’s sentiment, is it not one that appeals to you, one that you share?” Sebastian, too, relented with his smirk becoming a smile, “Yes.” The smile widened, knowing and amused,

“And despite your claim of not sharing the poem’s sentiments, I believe you see me as your box of darkness---and you are excavating me in search of some gift.” He put one hand in his suit pocket and began to depart, though he turned once, the smirk returned, and said, “Do let me know if you find it.” *** CANVAS “It doesn’t matter anyway,” said Alice, interrupting Madelyne’s angry rant, “I’m not real.” Madelyne Pryor had just explosively dragged the girl away from Claudine, insisting that the child shouldn’t have to see that...that...MONSTER...at any point on the voyage home. And if Haven hadn’t stopped her, she’d have ensured that Alice wouldn’t have a chance to, by KILLING the other woman, whom Madelyne now realized was aptly named “Miss Sinister” for fare more than her looks. She might still do it... But first--- “Don’t give me that!” Madelyne suddenly rounded on the girl she had just been comforting, been supporting, been swearing she’d never have to see her abuser---that was what it was to breed and clone someone just for the sake of their violation, abuse, beyond abuse!---again. But Alice had hit a nerve. And for the same reason Madelyne Pryor had so much empathy for her, she now had ire too. Madelyne’s snapping did, at least, stop Alice from crying. She’d been about to start, but the shock of Madelyne’s sudden change halted her in mid-tear. “You’re made of real flesh and blood, right?” Madelyne demanded rhetorically, “And you have thoughts and feelings right? Well you're real! The flesh being shared doesn't make it less real, just not unique. So you’re no less real than someone’s identical twin. And even they’re not really copies, because they have different personalities. So the only way you could be a copy---which you’re not---is if you had the first Alice’s same genes AND same thoughts and personality and everything! And you don’t, right” “Um,” Alice sniffled, a little afraid to correct the woman, who was so fierce whether she was defending Alice or berating her (or at least, it seemed like that was what she was doing...Alice wasn’t sure), “Actually...actually...I get all the memories of the previous Alices, so...so....I am a copy, actually...” “Oh,” Madelyne felt her argument just get ripped out from under like a trick rug someone had pulled. Her empathy came flooding back from the girl...and shame for shouting at her. Especially since she knew who she had REALLY been shouting at. “Well...” Shit, what did she do now? She’d just as good as told the girl she WAS a copy! How did she salvage this now? Come on Maddie, she told herself, What did you need somebody to say to you when you found out? “Listen, Alice,” she put her hands on the girl’s shoulders, firmly but gently. Her tone matched. “Yeah, you’re a copy. So am I. But we’re still real people, for all the reasons I said. No one gets to treat use like Claudine---or Colcord---treated you. No one should, anyway. It DOES matter. Being a clone, a copy, it doesn’t make you less alive. And so what if you’re a copy? You’re still YOU. You become more and more your own person with every moment you’re alive. Think of it like...like...” A Xerox. It was what she had compared herself to when she’d told Jean what she was. A Xerox that lost a lot in translation. What memories she’d had were either lies manufactured by Sinister...or worse, remnants from Jean that had bled into her mind when the Phoenix brought her to life. “Think of it like a Xerox machine, okay?” she said, more gentle than ever now, voice soft, and little tears of her own welling up, “When it first comes off the copy machine, yeah, it’s a duplicate...but then you can draw on it. You can write on it. You can crumple it up or throw it in the bin, or you can paint over it until it’s something new entirely on the paper. It’s up to you. It won’t stay a duplicate for long though. Either you can change it...or someone else will. But it’ll happen either way. And you know what?” Madelyne put a hand on Alice’s face, looking into her eyes, “I bet you can paint a real masterpiece.” *** SCIENTISTS “Are you alright, Claudine?” Madelyne had whisked Alice off. Haven had been going to do that originally, but since Madelyne had stepped in, Haven would leave it to her. She didn’t need to be the hero every time, and Madelyne...Madelyne had much in common with Alice. She might be better for Alice. And Alice might be good for her. But Haven’s next concern after Alice and Madelyne was Claudine. Claudine was the victimizer, yes. She had done awful things to Alice, to the Alices before her, to the other children. She had also been a victim too, and no one else here had pity for her now that they knew what she’d been besides that. No one else but Haven. “No moral outrage, Radha?” Claudine smirked slightly. She’d retreated to her lab, and it was hard to tell if she’d been expecting Haven to follow or not. “Of course,” said Haven calmly, “It horrifies and revolts me that those girls were bred only to be used as their hosts, their entire personalities, their souls, displaced for yours. Horrifies and disgusts me. Just as it horrifies and disgusts me, on just as deep a level, that the same was going to happen you if you did not escape in such a way.” “So because I was in danger of something terrible happening, you can excuse what I did?” Claudine sounded curious, mocking somehow, tapping one red-pink nail against a porcelain cheek. “Not excuses,” said Haven still calmly, “But I understand. And I still care if you were hurt just now.” “It’s more than that, isn’t it though?” said Claudine, still sounding amused, “You want to see if I’m wracked with guilt or not, if I hate myself. You want to see if I’m remorseful or tortured like you, like you want me to be maybe. Like you hope I am because it proves I must have some good in me, and you can comfort me and feel good about that. And if I’m not remorseful at all, you want to see why that is, if it’s because of Sinister or if it’s just me. And then if it’s just me...you want to figure me out too. Like you do with dear Sebastian.” Haven blinked, her sole sign of surprise, “That’s quite a lot of conjecture, Claudine. But...you are not incorrect, no. We do like to divide things neatly into victims who could do nothing, who had no power, and the victimizers who are wholly monsters...but that’s not wholly true, is it? Sometimes, the victims can do something. And sometimes, the only thing they can do is a monstrous thing. They’re caught in a Catch 22---either they don’t do the one thing they can, and thus will feel they are to blame for what happened. Or they do it, and they must live with the guilt. I can’t tell you if you were right or wrong Claudine, because---” “---sometimes there is no right or wrong, because the entire situation was wrong, and that’s not your fault.” Claudine finished, “I’ve heard how you talk with the kiddies, Haven. Like those little ones we pulled out of the fight pit. Or the one who pushed his friend forward at the flesh market so he’d get taken instead. You’re just oh so understanding, aren’t you? Seeing things from all sides.” “I would hope so. I certainly try to be. But, I admit, I’m not seeing something right now...why do you say that with what sounds, to me, as a mocking tone? Am I misinterpreting you, Claudine?” “A bit. I’m not mocking you, really I’m not---but I am teasing a little. It’s just so funny, you know?” Claudine’s index finger was next to her smiling mouth, “How you’re always thinking, always watching, and how I’m the only one who notices. What do you think the others would think, if they knew?” “I’m afraid I’m still not understanding you, Claudine. Would you mind helping me by putting it a bit plainer?” “Ever so polite. Come on now, Haven---as well as you know people, you must know they don’t like being put under a microscope. Everyone likes the IDEA of someone who “gets” them, who knows just what they’re feeling and what they need without them ever needing to open up all their vulnerable little insides like clams willfully tearing themselves out of their shells...but when it actually comes along, they don’t like it. Especially if it doesn’t feel earned, or specific to them. Because when they say they want that, they’re thinking of a partner, a lover, one single person who knows them that well because they’ve been with them that long, and love them, just them, that much. But telepaths like me, we get all that without having to see them as special at all. We don’t have to love them or spend time with them to KNOW them. We don’t have to open ourselves up in exchange. That’s why people don’t like us. And that’s---” She stepped close to Haven and bobbed her fingertip just above the other woman’s nose, “---why they wouldn’t like you. Oh yeah, you’re great when you’re sensitive and empathetic and all that, when you just know when someone needs a cup of tea or a shoulder to cry on...but it’s only to a point. Underneath all that soft silk and sweet words, you’re a lot like me---a scientist. We see the data. We gather it. We examine it. We analyze, we classify, we theorize. People call Xavier creepy these days but I think he’s just finally being honest.” She picked up Haven’s right hand, and raised it up, Haven allowing her. “So,” Claudine met her eyes, still smiling, “When are you going to be honest too?” Haven smiled back, with kind sincerity as always, “May I be honest now, Claudine?” “Of course.” Haven put her other hand on top of Claudine’s, sandwiching the unnaturally pale paw between her two soft brown ones, “Everything you say is accurate. But it’s also a deflection. You could have told me that you just did not wish to talk about Alice, you know. I would not have pried or pushed you. You know I never do.” Claudine laughed, and it was the laugh of someone who had just been proven completely correct. *** LIKE AN OLD MARRIED COUPLE “We’re going to need you to go undercover for this mission,” Xavier explained to the team, “It’s been decided that Sebastian and Haven will do best in this environment. Naturally, you will be outfitted with image inducers, and provided with all the false documentation required.” He slid a folder across the table to them, explaining, “You will be posing as husband and wife, Mr. and Mrs. King.” “King. I’m sure you thought that was very clever, Charles,” said Sebastian, picking the folder up and perusing it, “And I see our first names are...Abraham and Lakshmi. Is that a reference to something?” “Lakshmi is the goddess of which Radha is an aspect,” Xavier explained, “And Abraham...well, that just sounds slightly like Hiram, your middle name, or so I thought. I thought it might help the pair of you remember your identities, without being obvious to others.” “Well, thank you Charles. It’s good to know you put a man on the Quiet Council of whom your opinion is so low you think I can’t remember two names for a single night,” said Shaw, getting up and taking the folder with him, without excusing himself. The rest of the team follow suite, save Haven, who of course said the politest of goodbyes and thanked him for arranging the false identities. clever, and our first names “We’re leaving in the next five hours, so there’s hardly any time to prepare,” Sebastian said, plainly speaking to Haven even though he was looking ahead, not at her, “Ms. Dastoor, come with me so that we may discuss the details of our ruse.” Pyro watched the pair like a hawk as they went in a different direction from the rest of the crew. “Jealous, Pyro?” Claudine quipped, “I confess, I didn’t think Sebastian was your type...then again, he does have a certain resemblance to Dom I suppose...” Pyro was in no mood to play, however. “If he touches her I’m a-toast him from the inside out, see if his stinking GUTS are fireproof!” he proclaimed, a small jet of flame emanating from his wrist-shooter for emphasis. “Husband and wife...what’s Xavier thinking?! And she’ll be all alone with him and have to keep up the act if he does anything!” “Don’t sweat it,” Shinobi assured, “ I know my dad. She’s like ten years too old for him to be interested.” Pyro looked confused, “Isn’t she YOUNGER than him?” “Yeah,” said Shinobi. A look of disgust came over Pyro’s face. “Don’t look shocked,” Madelyne told him, “Don’t forget, he dated someone under ten once.” And that garnered...about the expressions you’d expect. Even from Claudine. “Me, you idiots! I was making a joke!” Madelyne clarified, seeing their shock and horror on their faces, “I’m technically like twelve years old max! God, you people...”

Meanwhile, Sebastian and Haven’s conversation in the former’s ship office was not far off. “With all that covered...” Sebastian finished as the last of their act was hashed out, “I have to bring us to what will likely be the most difficult part of this for you. Ms. Dastoor, I am not sure what the norms are for married couples in public in your country, but at some point in the evening...I will most likely put my arm around your shoulders.” “I understand,” said Haven, with the solemn gravity required for such a thing. “There will hopefully be no need for anything else, but if dancing occurs, there is a chance that a hand on your waist will be required as well. Can you allow and “act natural” this without displaying any discomfort?” "This will be tolerable if need be, Mr. Shaw, though not preferable. Will your hand be on mine, outside of potential dancing?” Sebastian cracked a smile, amused, “Husbands and wives don’t hold hands, Ms. Dastoor. I’m shocked you’ve never noticed that. It’s far too intimate for a married couple.” “I’m afraid you lost me, Mr. Shaw. Too intimate for a married couple? Is this a Western peculiarity?” “Men don’t slap their wives bottoms, Ms. Dastoor, “Sebastian explained, “They slap the bottoms of waitresses and flight attendants when their wives aren’t there. Does that help illustrate it better? “Yes, I think I see, Mr. Shaw.” “We probably haven’t had sex in the last 25, 35 years. At least not with each other.” “Thank you, Mr. Shaw.” “ Our marriage bed is as dry as the Sah—” “Thank you, Mr Shaw.” It was the first time that Sebastian had ever heard Haven cut him, or anyone, off. He would have taken offense from someone else, but he actually liked this, and smiled. He found it amusing he’d managed to get under her skin enough to prompt such a, for her, dramatic reaction. He’d have to make a note of this. *** PARTIES, PLEAS, AND PROMISES These Krakoa portals were truly a godsend. For many mutants, that was because the X-Men and other agents of Krakoa could now come to them easily and bring them to a safe place. For others it was because it enabled them to keep contact with their family and friends while also not having to leave what they felt was at last a place they could belong. But for Pyro and Shinobi...it meant bar-hopping from Manhattan to Moscow to Mexico! to Bulgaria to Bangkok to Taiwan to Timbuktu! In Manhattan, a cute guy with a nose piercing bought them beers and guided them through the city with his friends, boyfriends, and cousins til 5 AM when the guy’s cousin decided she really wanted spahgetti, so they all went to her house in the Harlem projects where she made them some and then they watched 90s hip hop music videos together. They stayed til 10 AM, then hopped a portal to Mexico, and went to a resort strip, where they got piss drunk again by doing shots with a guy covered in tattoos who might have also been involved with the cartels---Shinobi said he knew him from his dad’s black market business---and then Pyro got in a fight with the bouncer while Shinobi snorted molly in the bathroom stall. Got drunk again in Shanghai, fell off the bouncy dance floor, made friends with some Ukrainian tourists and went back to their hotel, walked in on an orgy, and when in Rome... Next thing they knew, they were in downtown Tokyko, drunk again, running on foot from the Japanese police, each of them holding a marijuana plant in a pot, laughing uncontrollably. Shinobi grabbed Pyro’s hand and they phased through a wall, only to fall down through thin air into an underground parking garage. Their potted pot plants shattered as they hit the concrete, and this just made them laugh more despite their own bruised tailbones as they lay there between a couple of cars. Eventually, when the giggles ran out, Shinobi slurred, “Man, I’m so glad...so glad our last night is awesome.” “Wha?” Pyro said, not sure he’d gotten that right. He was pretty boozy right now, after all, “What’d you mean, last night?

"Well, I, uh,” Shin said, obviously uncomfortable, “I decided...if I can’t hang out w’you anymore...gonna make the last time a good time.”

”Wh--” Pyro started, then his expression soured, “It’s yer dad, isn’t it?”

No answer.

”I knew it! He told you...tol’ you you couldn’t...be mates with me no more...that it?”

Shinobi mumbled.

”Listen Shin...forget him! You a grow...grown man! Y’don’t have to do what that old douchebag says! He’s just a...just a cunt, a right cunt, y’know? Fucking cunt...” Pyro wobbled back and forth, so vehement was he in his support.

”Well, we’re workin together now...” Shinobi said weakly.

”Yer workin WITH him though not for him! And why’re you even doing that? C’mon, he he wasn’t any good to you why should you do anything for him?”

Shinobi looked shocked, then angry, demanding, “How d’you know that?!” "Pfft, I’m not as thick as your old man thinks, you know! I can pick up a hint or two! Especially when it’s you telling me.” Shinobi looked shocked again, and Pyro, still swaying in place, clapped him on the back and explained, “Ah, I don’t expect you to remember but you’ve said a few things when you were as full as the back of a plumber's ute.Don’t worry, weren’t nothing too personal, no specifics, so don’t look so scared alright?” Pyro knew how it was to want to keep some things private, things that hurt, and even drunk he was trying to be sensitive to that, sensitive as someone like him could be. He continued, “And anyway, would have still guessed. He’s such a right bastard to everyone, can’t imagine him being some warm old papa bear behind closed doors. “He’s---” Shinobi started, about to tell Pyro about just how horrible his father was, and then remembered how ‘sympathetic’ Warren had been, and instead went back on the defensive, “Well it’s none of your business!” Pyro shrugged, not deterred, “Sure it’s not but I’m a journalist, so what do I care? It’s been my job to go where I’m not wanted. And you can do what you want, Shinobi me mate, but you can’t expect ol’ St. John to just keep his trap shut on anything, you know that. Calls it likes I see it, me. Thought you liked that.” There was a sobering silence between the pair for a moment, sitting on their butts in the silent garage while the noise of the Tokyo nightlife sang beyond the concrete walls of what they were missing. “Don’t...don’t tell him I said anything,” Shinobi said at last. Pyro promised him he would not. For he heard the plea in his new pal’s voice. *** SEA AND SKY (Context: Happens just after THIS) “Haven?” Madelyne arrived to the rescue, praying she wasn’t too late. She’d thought she was when she saw the wreckage, but she also saw Haven within it. And she wasn’t lying there like a body, she was sitting up, kneeling over...something. “Haven, thank god! Are you injured? Stay right there, I’ll come over and help---oh dear lord.” As Madelyne had begun to move forward, she’d seen what Haven was kneeling over, its half-charred head in her lap. “Is he---” “Yes,” said Haven, calmly, sadly, distantly. Madelyne didn’t ask how; it was obvious, the explosion killed him. She’d thought his powers would protect him from that kind of thing; it must have been specialized to combat that. Freaking Pierce. She didn’t bother to question how Haven was alive, but if she had, she’d assume maybe it was something also designed only to kill humans and Haven had been in a safe place during the explosion and then found Sebastian’s remains after. Something like that. “Alright, come on,” she said gently but firmly, taking Haven by the arm, trying to pull her up, “There’s nothing you can do for him now. He’ll be reborn on Krakoa by the time we go back to pick him up anyway. Wait, what are you doing? Haven, put that down, that’s disgusting!” Haven was carrying the...torso. She was tenderly cradling the great hunk of lifeless meat, needlessly supporting the neck and head as one would for an infant. The sight out Madelyne in mind of a bizarre Pieta scene. Madonna of the Charnel House. “Haven, he’s dead!” “I know, Madelyne, I know. But isn’t it...wrong to just leave a body here? I know he will have a new one on Krakoa, but it still feels obscene to leave the old one unburied, unconsecrated, uncared for.” “Haven...” Madelyne started, not sure what to say. And she thought of something she never had before. What had happened to her body? Her first one? The original? The one that died at the end of Inferno? She’d come back first as a being of pure psychic energy disguised in a human form, a very solid ghost, essentially. That was all she was for a long time, walking and talking and fucking, all while TECHNICALLY still being dead. It was only recently that she had really become flesh and blood again, Jean Grey’s DNA spliced by Arkea into the body of a woman named Ana Cortes, altering the physical appearance of the young Columbian into that of the redhead and allowing Madelyne Pryor’s consciousness to take up residence in it...meaning Madelyne was still, as ever, occupying a body that wasn’t really her own. And her first hadn’t been her own either, just a copy of Jean’s, but she wondered now, what had been done with it? Knowing the X-men, they gave her a perfectly proper funeral. Maybe they even cried. But she wished, perverse as it seemed, that they had thrown her out with the garbage, had the HONESTY to treat her in death as they ultimately had in life, than PRETEND that they really saw her as a loss. She knew they didn’t. Even the ones who knew her FIRST, Rogue and Psylocke and Longshot, who had met her BEFORE they met Jean, even they had wanted that witch instead of her at the end.... “Yeah, okay, just...just put it somewhere it won’t...rot,” she said uneasily, “And we’ll call Sebastian when he...when he wakes up. See what he wants to do with it.” It should be, Madelyne felt, his choice, and Haven agreed. When he did get the call, his reply was firstly being rather disgusted they had kept it, and then, without any emotion, said they should just thrown the “damn thing” overboard. “Funeral at sea then,” said Madelyne as she turned off the phone, “You want to do the honors, Haven? Since it was your idea.” Not like anyone else wanted to be a part of it. Well, except Shinobi, who had suggested launching it like a cannonball and then having Pyro set it aflame in the sky. They thought they were funny. “Would you mind helping me terribly, Madelyne?” Have asked, “I’d rather lower it down gently, and if your telekinesis could that, I would appreciate it...but I also understand if you don’t wish to touch something so gruesome, even psychically.” “I’m not squeamish,” Madelyne smirked. As she performed the task, she noticed Haven was silent. “You’re not gonna...say a few words, or anything?” “Mr. Shaw has told he isn’t religious, so I don’t think he would want it. And he isn’t...well, he isn’t dead. So what does one say, really?” “Hell if I know,” said Madelyne, “It’s funny---I’ve been dead a lot, you’d think I would be an expert on it.” As she began levitating the chunk of meat that once house Sebastian Shaw’s mind and soul, if he had the latter, she continued, “I never even thought about what should be done with my body...which isn’t really even mine now actually, don’t ask...I guess cremation is most appropriate. Fire, you know. It’s kind of my thing, whether I like it or not.” “I’ve always wanted a sky burial, myself,” said Haven. “I’ve never heard of that,” Madelyne sounded very interested. The word ‘sky’ had piqued her interest as a former pilot. “It’s a practice among my mother’s people, the Zoroastrians, as well as many other people, such as Tibetans. The body is placed on a mountaintop to be decomposed naturally by the elements and the animals. In Ancient Zoroastrianism specifically, it was placed on the Dakhma, the Tower of Silence, to be desiccated by the sun and consumed by birds of prey. I realize this sounds ghastly to a Western point of view, but--” “No, no, I get it. You’re just...going back to nature, becoming a part of everything else again, right? That sounds like your kind of thing.” Haven smiled at her, “It is.” Below, the body gently broke the surface of the waves, and Madelyne released her hold, allowing it to sink. “I guess that’s sort of what we’re doing here. Just with fishes instead of birds. Me though...that’s not for me. I don’t want to be a part of everything. Not when I’ve fought so hard...to just be ME.” *** AWKWARD “Hey! You got a problem with me, fuck knuckle?!” Calmly, Sebastian turned his head in the direction of the insult just hollered at him from the the far end of the deck, “Why, several, Mr. Allerdyce. Though most of them stem from the back you quite clearly have a problem with ME.” The Australian was drunk, but Sebastian knew from experience that the scrawny little bastard didn’t need THAT to be rude and belligerent, in particuliar rude and belligerent to Sebastian. Sebastian could ALMOST appreciate the balls on him, if only he could back them up. But without his fire to intimidate---and it could not intimate Sebastian---he really was just like one of those irritating little rat dogs peeking from ladies’ purses to bark challenges at true canines. “You’re damn right I do!” Pyro returned, “For starters, you’re---” And then continued with a really rather impressive listing of all his opinions on just what made Sebastian Hiram Shaw, Black King of the Hellfire Club---er, Trading Company---just such unbearable company. Sebastian listened in a detached, blaise manner, quite unruffled by the display of uncouth unruliness, and ready to simply throw the fool overboard should he come close enough to grab. “And on top o’ all that, yer a homophobe to boot!” What. Sebastian blinked. Nothing else had surprised him in the entire rambling rant, but this? This he had not seen coming. “Come again, young man?” “You heard me! Don’t think I don’t know why you’re always tryin’ t’get between me and your son! You don’t want him catchin’ the gay any worse than he’s got, eh?” Sebastian stared at him for another moment. Then, the corner of his mouth twitched, and he turned away, and put his fist up to his lips, as though stifling a cough, “Excuse me.” Did that fucker just laugh?! Pyro wondered. “Excuse my boot up yer arse, you old dicknob! Listen, it’s 2020, and you can’t get away with---” He is laughing! He was indeed. Pyro had not been prepared for this. “Hey...hey what’s so damn funny, huh?!” “Nothing, nothing,” Sebastian waved a hand, but it was clear from his voice he was still trying VERY hard not to laugh again, “Please, do go on about my bigotry. After all, I’m very conservative when it comes to sexual practices, as I’m sure you know.” Something begin to click in Pyro’s intoxicated mind. Something that suggested...he might have made a mistake here. And an admittedly pretty hilarious one. “Oh god yer in the fucking Hellfire Club, “ he muttered, dragging a hand down his face, “Of course you don’t care about that...” “Well, it was funny though,” Sebastian said, and the bastard was actually SMILING, “Thank you, Mr. Allerdyce, I haven’t been that tickled all week. But, no, I know about my son’s egalitarian predilections with regards to sex and gender----he inherited them from me, after all.” Oh. Oh god. Of all the things Pyro HAD NEVER WANTED TO KNOW OR IMAGINE. A moment ago, Sebastian had been planning to throw Pyro overboard. But now? Now Pyro was considering just doing it to HIMSELF. *** STORIES “And then I got to Cambodia and let me tell you---food is great. People say don’t ask what’s in it but me, I got to ask---it’s my job, see---and yeah, they eat things ‘Mericans never would, or most Aussies, but I say, why’re we judging? We eat pigs and those’re way more intelligent than spiders or half-hatched duck eggs, seems we’re the savages for that, y’know? Not that I’m givin’ up pork any time soon but you know what I’m saying?” Pyro and Madelyne were sitting on the ship’s edge, watching the sun go down over the water, sharing a few beers, talking about what they’d done before all this. “You don’t look like you ever ate pork in your life, string bean,” replied Madelyne, “ But yeah. You say Cambodia? What part?” “ Senmonorom, capital of Mondulkiri Province.” “No kidding! I dropped cargo off there once!” Madelyne exclaimed, “When I was a pilot! Spent the whole rest of the day there since I had the time. Couldn’t understand a word but I loved the---oh no, hahaha, I loved the food!” “Ha! I’m sure it was just noodles you got, love.” “Mmm...pretty crunchy noodles, then...” She paused, and looked pensieve, more serious, “It’s crazy. I can really remember the texture. Not the taste though. He must not have known what it tasted like.” “He?” Pyro asked. Madelyne was suddenly sober in more ways than one, as she explained, looking away, “I never went to Cambodia. I never flew that plane. That cargo never existed, and neither did whatever I ate.” “Well, y’don’t need to lie to me get me to like you, Madelyne.” “No, you don’t understand---they’re not lies. I mean, they are, but---they’re not to me, I---but they are---I hate them, but I forget that they’re not---” She was clutching her hair now, and looked distressed. “Whoa, whoa, hey there mate, what’s the matter?” Pyro placed a hand on her back, trying his best to calm her down, something he wasn’t great at even for himself, “Listen, Maddie...I been through some crazy shit. And I heard crazier on Krakoa from people. We mutants...or, people who are, I dunno, mutant-adjacent like you...we live weird lives. You don’t GOTTA tell me but I’ll believe you.” Madelyne took a deep inhale, “It’s not that. I know you’ll believe me. It’s just...I never really talked to anyone about it, you know?” Pyro was uncomfortable now. He braced himself. He didn’t like going deep, he wanted everything to just be fun and casual. But he wasn’t going to run away or brush it off either. He owed his friends better than that; when he’d been on his last legs with the Legacy Virus, his friend Avalanche had been everything. He knew their value. Madelyne, too, needed to amp herself up for this. “So you know I’m a clone, right? Of Jean Grey?” “It’s come up, yeah.” “I was grown to full adulthood in a...in a vat, basically. But Sinister---the man who did it---didn’t want me to KNOW what I was. Would spoil the plans he had for me and...for me and Scott. So he gave me some false memories. Mostly I had “amnesia” but I could remember being a pilot. To explain the memories of flight and fire that I got from Jean----what memories don’t come from him, are from her. Well, the Phoenix actually...it’s complicated.” “Yeah, I’m getting that. That’s rough, buddy,” oh god he sounded like an idiot, “ But in my book, you still went to Cambodia.” He was answered with an eyebrow quirk from his friend, and so he elaborated, “Look, I’m a journalist, and I’m a writer, and I...I write stories. Even when it was something true, I’m still making a story about it. And when I make it up entirely, it’s as real a story as when I wrote the one about the real event. Ah fuck, I can’t talk, can write a damn novel but I fuck up all the words when I try to SAY it...look, Maddie, what I’m saying is,” He put a hand on her shoulder, “When I met you, it wasn’t who you are now, or who you were when you came out of that vat. It was some human bird running with the X-Men in Dallas. Yeah, I noticed you looked a hell of a lot like Jean and I thought that was who you were the whole time. Then I saw the broadcast they made, where you talked to your husband---shit, wait, he married you and Jean, what the fuck---telling him to find your baby---oh fuck I’m just realizing why you’re so mad at him, holy hell--before you gave up your life to save the world. That’s who I remember. And your memories, real or fake, well they’re a part of you, they’re your stories. Stories...they make us who we are. And even if they were made up, who you are, what you did, isn’t. You’re a story, yeah. So are we all. Fuck I’m really mangling this but you know what I--- oh.” Madelyne was hugging him. Holy shit. Well, he must have done something right, then. Damned if he knew what, though, he thought he’d fucked it up royally with that Trump-level rambling. And when she released him, she looked up at his shocked face, and said, “St. John?” “Y-yeah?” “Eat some damn pork. You really ARE a string bean.” *** OUT OF THE FRYING PAN Sebastian Shaw was indeed generally immune to explosions. And also to fire. He simply absorbed the thermal energy, rendering it harmless to him, if annoying. Afact that a certain Australian had exploited mercilessly. But Pyro was not here now, and so he could not stop the blaze that Shinobi was trapped in, that Sebastian had escaped but Shinobi had not yet. He’s not out yet, Sebastian thought nervously as he watched the blaze, waiting, Must be unconscious, must have hit his head, the fool, idiot boy, told him to stay in super dense form, stupid stupid stupid child He’d burn to death, if smoke inhalation didn’t get him first. He would die, and be reborn on Krakoa. It would be fine. And the suffering, the death, would serve him right, for being so foolish as not to listen to his father, to do the sensible thing and stay dense, why had he let himself get caught there? If you were weak enough to die, you deserved it, deserved it for KEEPS. Sebastian could say that, and admit it applied to him too. He would not DENY the second chance given to him by Krakoa, but nor would he pretend that Emma didn’t earn his death by virtue of being ABLE to do it. If you could do it, if you did do it, then it was within your rights to do it, was how Shaw saw things. Right of power was the only right that mattered, and you did no favors by RESCUING someone, you only prolonged their weakness. Any moment now, he thought, Any moment...if he’s going to make it out, it will have to be soon. There was a horrible cracking as a wood beam crashed down into the flames. The building was coming down. And Sebastian Shaw’s feet were suddenly moving. But was it by his deliberate decision? Or his own accord? He didn’t know. He sprinted into the structure, careful not to let his body bash through what supports remained---it might not hurt him but it would crush Shinobi if the boy was still alive---heedless of the fire, though the smoke stung his eyes, and he knew he was not immune to the effects of breathing it. If he was going to do this foolish, stupid, NEEDLESS thing, he had best do it fast. He scanned the room through the gray haze, and caught a glimpse of purple obscured by some rubble. He tossed it aside, digging through it like a terrier on the scent of a rabbit, until he found his boy, unmoving but still breathing, and hauled him from the wreckage. His body hair sizzling against his heat-proof skin, the sweat turning to steam the moment it left his brow, he gathered the limp form of his son into his arms, and ran from the flames, this time not caring about the beams he knocked aside, ran right through as though they were as intangible as Shinobi could be. When they were out, and a safe distance away from the blaze, Sebastian laid his son down, and waited for him to wake up. As soon as Shinobi did, as soon as his eyes opened, and he began to speak, and to realize what had happened, to start to express his shock at the fact his father had just saved his life at risk to his own... Sebastian’s fist landed against the boy’s ashy face. And again. And again. Until Shinobi was dead. He left the battered corpse where it was, and begin making his way to find the other Marauders, and tell them they needed to head back to Krakoa when most convinient, that Shinobi had died and would be waiting there. And when they arrived and picked him up, Sebastian knew he would have the good sense to say nothing to anyone. And he’d have a talk with him about the importance of handling oneself in such future situations. He really did try with the boy, dammit, but there was just no teacher like experience, he supposed. And painful experience worked best. *** NIGHTMARE DRESSED AS A DAYDREAM

"Look it’s the Marauder!” everyone cried out in awe and admiration as Pyro entered the party. His grim, stoic expression, his majestic stride, were in contrast to the lascivious frivolity around him of the swimsuit-clad crowd, but this difference only made the girls come swarming to him faster. He accepted their fawning adulation, but only cooly, as it was just his due. He was, after all, the handsomest, most power, Supreme Mutant, and this was all normal and natural. It was only when he began passionately lip-locking with Jean Grey on the hood with Jean Grey that-- Wait, what? This was wrong. This was so wrong. It had to be a dream, but even then it was WRONG. He’d never had a dream of this kind about a woman in his life, let alone Jean Grey. And if he was going to, why would it be JEAN? That felt extra wrong, given that he was pals with Madelyne now, was this some kind of weird-- “GET OFF ME!” cried a man’s voice, and Pyro broke away from the embrace, looking up. Some several dozen feet away, Fabian Cortez struggling with an amorous Avalanche, who seemed to have been engaged with the same activity with the redheaded ‘Supreme Mutant’ as Pyro just had with Marvel Girl...and Dom was wearing the same outfit Jean was. “Oy, what in the--” Pyro started to demand, when suddenly a huge head ---Mr. Sinister’s head, specifically-- erupted from the ground. It was bedecked by yet more scantily clad girls, with a throne on top it in which sat Claudine, being accosted by them, and she looked as confused as Pyro and Fabian were, confused and horrified. Then the rain began, endless rain, and Pyro was all alone, all alone in the mud as the rain came down, rain and pain, so much pain, coming from parts of his body he’d never had in his life, his womb, his-- “All right, that’s quite enough of that!” the voice of Emma Frost echoed throughout all of existence, and the lights came back on in the world again as Pyro woke up. “Freakin’ kids,” he muttered, as he realized what had happened. There was a baby telepath in the latest batch of rescues, and the little bugger had gotten their dreams all mish-mashed together. Happened more than once before. Grunting, he turned over, and went back to sleep...though a little uneasy this time. He wondered, who had that last part come from?

#fic #writing #alt marauders #out of cortez

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arcanesupern0va · 5 years

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Rick In The Water; Ch2: Snap Out Of It

A/N: I'm still working on trying to find the right voice for Rick, so if you had any advice or feedback, I would appreciate it so so so much. Anyway, thanks for reading. 💜 CW: Still references to abuse, that’s just like an ongoing theme tbh, let me know if I need to tag it better, please Pairing: Rick Sanchez/Reader Words: 5768

My ao3

Masterlist

|Ch1: Second Chance|

I had only been asleep for an hour or two when my alarm went off. I climbed back out of bed, dressing quickly and touching my makeup up before heading downstairs to start breakfast. The little bit of sleep I had managed seemed to take the edge off of the pain in my arm but I popped a couple of ibuprofen for good measure. After every fight, I’d grown accustomed to serving up chocolate chip waffles and eggs, Ryan’s favorite meal, trying to win his favor back. I started my usual routine, mixing the batter and cracking the eggs but this time felt different. I wasn’t making him breakfast because I wanted to stop the fight and “make it up” to him, he had expected it. Like it was a reward for beating the tar out of me. Right as I was plating his waffles, he nuzzled in behind me, murmuring good morning in my ear before eyeing the plate in my hand hungrily.

“Smells great babe,” he said with a self-satisfied smile, heading to the front door to grab the newspaper to read over with his breakfast. By the time he returned to the dining room, his spot at the table was filled with his plate of food, a glass of no pulp orange juice and a piping hot cup of coffee and he smiled at me, causing my skin to crawl. I quickly excused myself back into the kitchen to grab my breakfast, a small bowl of yogurt adorned with berries and a cup of coffee. I dawdled a moment, trying to avoid having to be in the same room with him for as long as possible before he called for me. “Hey, are you going to be joining me?” he asked sweetly, though I could hear the undercurrent of annoyance in his tone. I scurried back in with my bowl, apologizing and we sat down to a silent breakfast. My phone’s ringtone for Madison broke the silence, earning me an irritated glare as I quickly extracted the device from my pocket to read the message.

“Madison was just letting me know she made it to school okay,” I told him, returning my phone to my pocket.

“Tell her to come straight home after school today,” he ordered. I obliged, quickly typing out his demands. I nodded as the message sent and he returned to his breakfast. The silence returned until his alarm on his phone started to blare, telling him it was time to leave for work. He stood up quickly, briefly kissing my cheek before heading to the front door and disappearing on the other side of it. Once the door shut behind him, I finally was able to breathe a sigh of relief, tears streaming down my cheeks once my composure had been dropped. I gathered the dishes, listening intently for his car to start and speed down the road, signaling that he was well and truly gone for the day. I had buried my face in my hands, trying to stifle my sobs when I heard a sound that I could only describe as utterly sci-fi. I looked up to see a tall, slender, blue-haired man standing in my kitchen wearing a look of concern on his face with his back to a green swirl that seemed to appear and then disappear out of nowhere.

“Rick?”

“H-hey Nova. I was waiting for Dipshit to leave so I could come over here and check on you- m-make sure you were o-okay. A-are you okay?” he asked, disguising his concern as disinterest. Once the surprise of suddenly seeing him wore off, I quickly reverted to my anger from last night and greeted him with a look of disdain.

“I’m fine Rick, you can leave,” I told him coldly, turning to continue cleaning the dishes from breakfast.

“Y-yeah, the cry-crying I walked in on is what every housewife does. It’s to*uuuuuurp*tally normal,” he said, rolling his eyes at me. He stowed a white device back in his jacket before approaching me, grabbing my chin to force me to look up at him. My heart raced for a moment, going back to those vulgar thoughts from the night before coming to my senses. It was like Ryan said, he didn’t want me and I had to be kidding myself to think he would.

“W-what are you doing?” I blushed, trying to pull away before he saw through my concealer.

“J-Jesus Christ Nova, what did he do to you?” he demanded. I moved away from him quickly, trying to catch my breath again and fight back the tears burning my eyes.

“Nothing, I told you I’m fine. I want you to leave Rick,” I told him coldly, turning my back on him completely.

“M-Morty told me he overheard that piece of shit telling you you weren’t allowed around the house anymore. D-don't tell me you’re going to let that dipshit control you like that,” he demanded.

“It’s not controlling. He just wants the best from me. I disrespected him last night,” I explained.

“Dis-Disrespected him how?” he scoffed. “You were the p-perfect li-little housewife last night.”

“He said I was paying too much attention to… you,” I admitted sheepishly. I watched his face move from confusion to realization and settle on smug pride.

“Oh, s-so he’s threatened by me?” he marveled darkly. “That’s just, that’s just excellent.”

“You would say that,” I said rolling my eyes and grabbing a towel to dry my hands. “I don’t understand why. You’re my best friend’s dad.” He raised an eyebrow but remained silent. A sly smirk tickled his cheeks as he all but stared at me as though the answer to that question was obvious. “What Rick?” I demanded, growing frustrated with him.

“He’s c-clearly threatened by my animal mag*uuuurp*netism,” he gloated, wiggling his eyebrow at me. Despite myself, a watery chuckle slips out and his look of pride is replaced by relief. “N-Nova you need to leave, like get the fuck out of here now,” he urged, dropping all humorous pretense and looking me over seriously. I realized I had been unconsciously holding my wrist delicately and my attempts to play it off were too late to stop the realization dawning on his face.

“It’s nothing Rick; I’m fine.” I tried to assure him, tucking my hand behind my back causing me to wince.

“I’m gonna kill him,” he murmured darkly, his eyes going wide as they darted around maniacally, avoiding my gaze.

“N-no, Rick, please,” I plead weakly moving closer to him. “It would kill Maddy.”

“Well that i-it going to kill you!” he exclaimed, moving closer to inspect my wrist. I winced at his touch, the area still incredibly tender. Embarrassment flushed in my cheeks, trying to figure out the quickest way out of this conversation.

“O-oh so you’re back for less than a month and suddenly you’re so concerned with my wellbeing?” Venom laced in my tone, as I tried my hardest to resist tears. “You don’t get to leave and come back fifteen years later and suddenly decide how much of a shitshow my life is. New flash fuckwad, it’s kind of your fault I’m in such a fucked situation.” I knew I was lashing out, that I was just trying to hurt him but I couldn’t stop myself. The anger I’d been sitting on for all these years started pouring out.

“M-my fault?” he hissed. “How the fuck did you get there Nova?”

“You fucking left! You knew everything I’d been through with my fucking parents and you still fucking left!” I had to admit, it felt pretty good to finally confront him for what he’d put me through but I still couldn’t stop the wave of guilt I felt building, waiting for the perfect moment to drown me. “Your family accepted me and cared for me and I was dumb enough to think that when I was under your roof, I was finally loved. Silly fucking me.”

“Nova, you have no idea what the fuck you’re talking about,” he growled.

“Oh what Rick? You just leave the ones you love all the time? That’s how you get your kicks? Maybe next time, before you come barging into my home telling me how much my life fucking sucks, maybe, just maybe, you think about your own part in making that happen,” I told him coldly. A tense silence filled the room as I watched him process my words, seemingly refusing to yell back, to even say anything. “Rick, get the fuck out of my house.”

“N-Nova, wait-“ He dismissed my demands, and I could feel the heat of my rage flush against my cheeks.

“Get. Out.”

*+*

After Rick finally left, I grabbed a bottle of wine from the refrigerator, sunk against the countertop and sobbed. I lost track of time, and before I knew it, the wine was gone and I could hear Summer and Madison climbing out of Jerry’s car, saying their goodbyes before the front door swung open.

“Mom? I’m home,” she called out. I quickly picked myself up off the floor, tossing the bottle in the trash and stumbling over to the refrigerator to look for something to make for a snack.

“Hey honey, I’m in here,” I responded. “Are you hungry?” I could feel myself swaying where I stood, opting to just grab the plastic container of strawberries from the crisper and start slicing them. Madison plopped herself down at the kitchen table, pulling out her agenda to start on her homework.

“Oh my god, yes Mom I am starving,” she said gratefully. I slapped a smile on my face as I walked over to the table to deliver her bowl of strawberries looking over her shoulder to look at the homework she’d been assigned. It honestly looked like gibberish to me, but she seemed to be breezing through it quite easily. That was her father in her. Even though he was a complete monster, he wasn’t a dipshit as Rick called him. He could pick things up incredibly quickly and had the decency to pass that trait onto his daughter.

“So what is this? Math?” I asked hesitantly as she dug into her strawberries.

“It’s a scientific equation,” she explained at length the point of the equation which just left me to sit there and nod in response. Not only did it look like gibberish, but it also sounded like it too. I was watching her work for a while in silence when swearing erupted from next door. We exchanged glances briefly, her giggling in response. “Morty’s grandpa is funny,” she snickered.

“Oh really?” I raised an eyebrow in response.

“He asks a lot of questions about you and Dad though. I don’t think he likes Dad.” Her face flushed with embarrassment as she quickly looked to the door, relieved that he wasn’t about to jump from the other side.

“What’s not to like?” I remarked absently, standing up to peer out of the window to investigate the source of the swearing. Rick was berating Morty for messing something up, and rage swelled in my gut. Before I even realized what I was doing, I was flinging the front door open to go confront the crotchety old man abusing my godson.

“The fuck- the hell do you think you’re doing Mor*uuuurp*ty? Can’t you do one fucking- anything right?” Rick was shouting as I approached the garage. Pausing to take the scene in fully before bursting in, I sussed out that Rick was working on some new invention and Morty was supposed to be holding something steady while he worked. A childlike fascination overtook me and I resigned to pressing myself against the outer wall of the garage, opting to listen in closely. “Look M-Morty, I just want to make sure your Aunt Nova is safe- is okay, just keep the damn thing still. Do it- do it for her.” He sounded frustrated, but also a little desperate.

“Aw jeez, Rick, Aunt Nova- Aunt Nova’s strong. She’s been with Mr. Dawes for a long time now, I think she’s used to it.” I heard the sound of metal on metal as Rick slammed whatever took he was holding in his hand down onto the metal work table.

“And w-what? That makes it okay- that makes it acceptable?” Rick seethed with anger. “I-I don’t understand why I-I’m not allowed to just kill him, but your mom said that’s strictly off the table so the next best thing is this m-mental dampener. But look, Morty, it’ll nest itself in his brain, Morty a-and it’ll neutralize his angry thoughts towards Nova, Morty. I-I-It won’t work forever but maybe we can talk some sense into her, g-get her away from him-“

“You know Rick, I don’t understand why you suddenly care so much,” Morty said angrily. “F-f-first you were avoiding her and now all of a sudden you-you're concerned for her safety?”

“Yeah, well, I care Morty. I’m not going to try to explain it to you b-because I just do,” Rick blew him off and the sounds of welding started up again, seemingly without Morty’s assistance.

“And wh-what’s in this for you?” Morty asked scathingly, and I was surprised to hear such anger coming from the timid boy. “A-a-are you trying to sleep with Aunt Nova? That’s sick, Rick. That’s fucked up, even for you.” Morty accused his grandfather.

“W-what? No! Even if she were interested in that, that would be n-none of your business, Mor-uuuurrrp-ty.” I was frozen in shock against the side of the garage, trying to ignore the part of me that was hoping Morty would press his grandfather for more.

“Oh gross, you’re into Aunt Nova? Wasn’t she like, a second daughter to you?” Morty sounded horrified and I could feel my cheeks burn.

“She was Beth’s friend in high school. T-that’s all she was- is to me,” Rick tried rationalizing to his grandson. “She’s a b-beautiful girl, but that’s not why I’m trying to help her. Is it so hard to believe- so hard to comprehend that I’m not the biggest fan of domestic abuse?” It was Rick’s turn to equip a scathing tone, albeit it sounded a lot angrier and more vicious than his grandson’s.

“I just know you don’t do stuff without there being a benefit for you.” Morty’s voice was growing closer and I knew if I stayed here, I would be found out. My only option was to head toward the back of my house where their voices were too faint for me to hear. I quietly opened the gate to the back yard, slipping around it and closing it as silently as I could behind me.

“What’s going on out there?” Madison asked when I finally made it back in the kitchen.

“I think Rick and Morty were arguing over something,” I dismissed, omitting the topic of their argument because I truly didn’t know how I felt about it, and I certainly didn’t know how to explain it to her.

“Did you talk to them when you went outside?” She asked, closing her textbook and storing it back in her backpack.

“I didn’t want to get in the middle of it,” I told her, lost in my head trying to process everything that had happened today. “I’m gonna start dinner soon. What are you in the mood for?”

“Ooh, can we have spaghetti and meatballs? With garlic bread?” She asked eagerly. I looked over to the clock, knowing I’d have to make a quick trip to the store but since Ryan wouldn’t be home for another hour and a half, I nodded quickly.

“You wanna go to the grocery store? If you can be quick you can bring Summer too,” I offered. She practically squealed with joy at the suggestion, finishing cleaning up her homework before running over to Smith’s house to fetch her best friend. I followed her out the front door, locking it behind me as I made my way out to the car. I was only in the car for a moment before the girls had re-emerged, followed by Rick who stood in the doorway watching us regretfully as I backed out of the driveway, turning up the radio to drown out the sounds of endless teenage girl chatter and hopefully my own thoughts.

*+*

When we returned home with grocery bags in tow, Madison and Summer disappeared up to Madison’s room, leaving me alone in the kitchen to start dinner. I put on my favorite playlist and filled a pot with water and started the meatballs. I fell into an easy routine, breaking noodles into the pot when it came to a boil. It was barely enough of a distraction to keep my mind off of Rick though and in idle moments, I found myself zoned out and staring at the wall trying to even begin to process it. I was concluding that I wouldn't be able to, not without a high price therapist.

I was moving everything out to the dining room when I heard Ryan pull up, quietly proud of my timing. I called upstairs for the girls, asking if Summer would be staying for dinner and receiving an “Uh, duh!” in response. My body tensed at the sound of the front door opening and closing, my husband groaning as he took off his suit jacket and stored his briefcase in the closet. For a moment, I couldn’t believe this was my life, it all felt… wrong. Nonetheless, I moved to greet Ryan with the usual peck on the cheek and smile and called the girls down for dinner, earning a distrustful eye as Madison and Summer galloped down the stairs to take their place at the table. We discussed our days, leaving me to lie about mine as I couldn’t tell my husband I had spent the morning and afternoon drunk on kitchen wine in the kitchen after I’d gotten into a heated argument with my best friends dad about the years of psychological damage he’d inflicted. I allowed myself to slip into a quiet contemplation about the conversation I’d overheard in the Smith‘s garage, taking a knock at trying to figure out how I actually felt about it, as Madison and Summer told Ryan about their days. A sudden knock on the door broke me from my reverie and Madison excused herself to answer it.

“Summer!” she called from the hallway. “Your Grandpa is here.” She reappeared in the doorway with a surprisingly calm and collected Rick in tow, although that didn’t save me from the distrustful look Ryan was watching me with from across the table.

“Ah, Rick,” I greeted him casually, using a napkin to clear my face. “Were you here to collect Summer?” I asked politely, standing to greet him properly. Ryan’s eyes bored into the side of my head, but I knew as long as non-family members were present, I was safe from his ire. When he shook his head quickly, I raised an eyebrow, acting confused but he tore his gaze off of me to look over at Ryan.

“Hey, Ryan. I just wanted to come over to apologize for last night if I did anything to upset you. Beth was upset that Nova wouldn’t be coming around anymore and she demanded I come over and apologize.” Rick’s tone appeared to be perfectly apologetic, but I knew it wouldn’t be that easy. I knew why he was here and I was stunned at how long it took me to come to the realization. The dampener.

“I - well - how’d you know that?” Ryan stumbled and I silently motioned at the girls to return to Madison’s room. Rick smiled widely, a hint of a manic hysteria lurking in his smile. He rested his hand on Ryan’s back holding out his hand to make peace although not answering his question.

“I just wanted to make sure that any disagreements or perceived disrespect between the two of us wouldn’t stand in the way of my daughter’s happiness,” he said coolly, disregarding Ryan’s question, opting instead to check out the spread for dinner. To my quiet surprise, Ryan didn’t respond and when I looked over at him, he smiled serenely at me.

“Of course not Rick, I think I overreacted,” he admitted genuinely, much to my surprise. “I misinterpreted the situation.”

“That’s great Ryan, I’m glad we got to have this talk and clear the air,” Rick smiled at Ryan, lacking the genuine nature Ryan had.

“Would you like to stay for dinner, Rick? (Y/N) made spaghetti,” he offered, standing up and shaking Rick’s hand as if they’d been friends for years.

“You know, I’d love to,” Rick said, moving around the table to take up the seat right next to me. Realizing I was still standing, I sat back down, my eyes flicking between the two men sharing the table with me. Still stunned at my newly docile husband, I couldn’t bring myself to react or even look at Rick as he moved his chair closer to me under the guise of going for some noodles.

“(Y/N), you should serve our guest,” Ryan reprimanded me but his usual disdain was absent from his voice, replaced instead by a gentle urging. I quickly shook my head to come back to reality as I quickly stood up to start ladling food onto Rick’s plate. I stole a glance up at Rick, who gave me a small eye roll before returning to watch Ryan intently. I slid the Parmesan cheese over next to him, returning to my seat and quiet disbelief.

Rick and Ryan chatted amicably over dinner, allowing me to disappear into my head while the two talked about Ryan’s job, or more accurately, while Ryan talked about his job and Rick put on a very convincing listening face. When dinner finally wrapped up, Ryan adjourned to his office, surprisingly leaving me with Rick as I cleaned up the dishes. Once Ryan was occupied in the other room, Rick’s casual demeanor was dropped and he quickly grabbed the dishes out of my hand, opting to carry them into the kitchen himself, mumbling something about making my sprained wrist worse.

“What did you do to Ryan?” I asked cautiously as I followed him into my kitchen, keeping my voice as low as possible. I watched him load the dishwasher, trying to ignore how bizarre just… everything was becoming.

“Hmm?” Rick asked, peeking around the corner, keeping an eye out for Ryan himself.

“You did something to Ryan,” I told him flatly. “He’s being docile. He left me alone with you.”

“I-I’m not going to do anything to you,” he said, his eyes narrowed up at me before opening the cabinet next to the sink, looking for dishwasher soap. “And now, neither will he,” he added darkly.

“You didn’t answer my question, Rick.” My patience was wearing thin but he continued to ignore me as he busied himself with gathering more dishes from the dining room. Running my hand through my hair, I could feel panic starting to set in. Sure, I knew what he’d done on a surface level, but I also knew that this would be way too easy of a fix.

“Tell me what you did, Rick,” I demanded again, my tone threatening the established volume limit of our conversation.

“I just made him… nicer,” he said, frustrated as he shut the dishwasher and finally looked at me. “You and Beth seem to think that he should be allowed to keep living and while I fervently disagree, I had to go with the next best option.” I had no idea how to respond and I could feel him searching my face for any kind of reaction before continuing. “Y-you don't mind if he's dim, right? I-I'm not quite sure how much this is actually going to affect him. It’s only been used on sentient slugs. Th-this is more of an inaugural test on humans.”

“So what happens now?” I asked him, my voice trembling as I rubbed my face in my hands.

“W-well, I guess I just wanted to make sure you wouldn’t - that Beth wouldn’t lose her best friend,” he scratched the back of his neck with a shrug before turning away. “She seemed pretty pissed about it, so I figured I should fix it for her.”

“Hmm, is that so?” I asked, still suspicious of his motives.

“Well, I mean yeah. I’m living under her roof. Pissing her off- making her mad doesn’t exactly work out well for me.”

“I just know you don’t do stuff without there being a benefit for you.” Morty’s accusation echoed in my mind, but it was pushed away when Rick’s face lit up with an idea.

“You wanna go for a ride? I told you I’d take you out on my ship,” he asked eagerly.

“Oh yeah, Ryan would love that,” I replied, my eyes narrowed at him. He brushed me off with a wave of his hand and left the kitchen. I followed him to Ryan’s office, where he held a finger up, signaling me to wait here.

“Hey, do you mind if I steal Nova- (Y/N) for a little bit?” It was weird to hear my real name coming from Rick and to think back, I don’t think he’d ever called me by it.

“Sure,” my husband said in a pleasant tone that I had been pretty sure he was completely incapable of. “Where are you guys going?”

“I, uh, I was just gonna take her over to see Beth. Shouldn’t be too long, I won’t have her out too late,” he lied smoothly, and I swore I could hear him winking.

“Oh, okay, cool,” Ryan replied genially. “I’ll see you around, Rick.” Rick returned, pulling me gently by my arm, heading directly to his ship.

*+*

As we climbed in the ship, Morty appeared at the doorway to the garage. He eyed Rick suspiciously as he approached the driver's side door.

“Where, uh, where are you taking Aunt Nova, Rick?” he asked angrily and I could feel myself blush at the memory of their earlier conversation. He looked at me remorsefully, and I had to quickly avert my gaze, biting my lip to resist the urge to giggle anxiously as the young kid watched me nervously. "A-Aunt Nova? Are you okay?"

"I'm great, Morty," I assured him, although the words came out strangled. My nerves were in overdrive, partially at the thought of going up even twenty feet in this enormous potential death trap and partially at the realization that I was going to be alone with Rick.

"See-see Morty, she's fine. I-I-I'm not going to do any-anything to her,” he spat at his grandson, offended.

"Rick, don't be mean to Morty, he's a good kid," I reprimanded him, earning myself a raised eyebrow but no retaliation, something I didn't even realize I was expecting until the opportunity passed and I relaxed slightly.

"We'll be back soon Morty. She just wanted to see the ship," Rick told Morty plainly, turning the engine over. Morty's suspicion seemed to not be subsiding but he said nothing as the ship began levitating and Rick smoothly backed it out of the garage and up toward the sky.

Before I knew it, I found myself glued to the window, taking in the beautiful sights of the city below, only blobs of light to me now. I watched as the lights slowly faded and became a wooded landscape. Rick lowered the ship slightly so I could get a better view.

"Wow," I murmured, mesmerized by sights I never thought I would be able to see outside of pictures. "It's so beautiful out here."

"It's alright," Rick smirked. "Y-y-you wanna see something truly incredible, let me take you out into space sometime." My eyes widened at the thought, tearing my eyes away from the window to look at him.

"This thing can go into space?" I asked, awestruck.

"Can it go- of course, it can go into space! What good is a SPACEship if it doesn't go into SPACE." He shook his head in amusement as my cheeks flushed pink.

"Rick, the headlights are flashlights. Excuse me for not expecting a lot from it." I told him flatly, trying to stop the smirk that was playing at my cheek.

"You keep making fun of my headlights…" he grumbled, "Y-y-you want me to show you or not?" he asked grumpily.

"Yes," I replied breathlessly. He pressed a couple of buttons on the dash before shifting and grinning wildly at me.

"Yooou're gonna want to put your seatbelt on,” he told me. I quickly belted myself in as the ship began building up speed as it headed for the sky. As we approached the atmosphere, he pressed another couple buttons and he pressed the gas even harder, pushing me back into my seat as we finally broke through. He started slowing the ship down, turning to me to watch my reaction as I took in the inky dark that now surrounded us. He wasn't kidding, it was beautiful out here and I didn't have the words to even react to the astounding view. "L-like I said, incredible huh?" he smirked at me, and I looked over at him, mouth hanging agape.

"No wonder you never came back," I murmured. When he sighed next to me, pressing a button to stabilize the ship and hover, I immediately regretted it.

"That's not- it wasn't like that,” he told me, exasperated. "I mean, i-i-it was kind of like that, but it wasn't because I didn't like- didn't want to be around you. You were an incredible kid and I wanted like hell to stay, but I just… couldn't."

"I really don't want to talk about this right now Rick," I told him, exhausted at the thought. "I just lost my space virginity, and I kind of want to have this memory be a pleasant one." He opened his mouth to speak, but seemed to think better of it, he closed it again and we fell into a comfortable silence. We existed in that silence for a while, before an alert in his pocket went off. He pulled out a high tech looking device and sighed as he read the message on it.

"We should be getting back,” he informed me regretfully, pushing a button on the dash to take us out of the hover mode keeping us in stationary.

"R-Rick, if Ryan is going to be acting docile, do you think we could come out here again?" I asked nervously, averting my eyes to take in the last bit of the view as we broke through the atmosphere yet again. Rick was quiet for a moment, considering my question.

"Maybe we could take you with us now and then," Rick answered finally.

"We?"

"M-Morty and I go out on adventures from time to time, you could come with us on the less dangerous ones,” he explained.

"The less dangerous ones?" I asked incredulously. "What are you doing to my godson?"

"N-nothing bad!" he contested. "Sometimes, shit just goes wrong."

I sat in silence for a moment, really thinking everything over before responding, "I want to go on adventures, but I want to also go on the ones that are considered dangerous." I declared finally.

"I'm not going to take you somewhere you might die," he told me, rolling his eyes. "I didn't neutralize your husband so he wouldn't kill you so I could take out and get you killed myself." Going out into space had pushed Ryan so far out of my mind, even briefly and anxiety washed over me again at the thought of going back to my house. Before I could voice my fears, my house was coming back into view and I pulled my phone from my pocket to check the time. 2:30 am. I was so dead.

"You won't have to worry about it because it's way too late and he's going to kill me for being out this late," I panicked. My breathing quickened and suddenly it felt as though I needed to get out of this ship as soon as possible. Rick looked over at me as he landed the ship to find me hyperventilating.

"H-h-hey, Nova, hey- c-calm down, i-it's gonna be okay," he tried to soothe me. As soon as the ship touched down, I wrenched the door open, pouring out on the floor as my legs had become no better than noodles. Rick hurried around the ship with a groan, picking me up off the ground and resting me in his workshop chair. "N-Nova, it's okay. He's not going to hurt you." He dug through his labcoat before extending his flask to me. I took a grateful swig, grimacing at the harsh liquid within.

"You don't know that. You said yourself that you've never tested that dampener on a human. You don't know what he's like, Rick," I croaked. He groaned angrily, digging through some of the boxes that now filled the garage before producing a small disc-shaped device. He pressed it against the back of my hand and after a light pinch, he removed it and tossed it away.

"If anything happens, if he starts getting angry, tonight or any other time, press into that spot and I'll be there immediately," he explained. "Be warned, if you push that, he's probably going to die, just, uh, full disclosure."

"Why are you doing all this Rick?" I asked tearfully. He turned his back to me with a shrug.

"I just want you to be safe," he murmured. We sat in silence again, passing his flask back and forth as my breathing slowly returned to normal. I finally resolved to face my husband when my head was finally feeling nice and foggy and he waved goodbye from his bench, leaving me to walk back to my house alone.

As the front door shut behind me, I expected a light to flick on and my husband to greet me in a drunken stupor, but he wasn't there. As I crept through the quiet house, I waited for him to pop out at any moment but it wasn't until I entered our bedroom that I found him sleeping peacefully. I quickly showered and carefully climbed into bed to avoid waking him. As I closed my eyes, I was treated to a recap of everything I'd seen today, and my dreams were filled with ideas of adventures at Rick's side.

+Ch3: Neon Moon+

#rick and morty #rick and morty fanfiction #rick sanchez x reader #rick sanchez/reader

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