#{ drabble: maron }

[caointeag]

She had never been on a ship before, being trapped on one for 3 days had not been the best way to find out that while she did not get seasick she loathed being on ships. It was the ocean that scared her, it seemed more like a bottomless maw than miles of water. There were creatures in it of course, and many of which one would not want to meet. But that was no different than everywhere. But the ocean was different than the mountains or moors. Now that she had been 3 days on what felt it should all the ocean in the world and the fact there was more made her so horrified she struggled not to cry. Krakens had never felt so real to her, or merlings. Anything could live in that horror, a horror that felt terribly alive and hostile on it's own. It was as if the drowned god knew of their presence on his surface and watched their progression hatefully.

Dragonstone itself was not much better and she was glad that father had insisted that Jory come with her. The castle itself was an imposing sight with its solid black walls but the people inside were just as hard. She had anticipated issues with Lord Stannis even with Father and he sharing letters beforehand but things had been... difficult. She had already been here longer than she'd anticipated. Nothing had been what she expected when she'd convinced Father to let her do this. A request she suspects he agreed to more as means to keep her away from King Robert's wandering eye than to have her discover whatever danger was lurking in Kings Landing.

Lyarra found herself more confused and frightened than she had been when she came, and now for a whole new set of reasons. Lord Stannis was much like she’d expected from what she had been told, but the company he kept and the things he did were queer and worrisome. The Red Woman was the most obvious concern though Patchface scared her more. There was something about him that made her skin crawl, it was as if one of the Kings of Winter had risen from their final rest to walk again. She could feel him move through the castle with that strange death sense and it scared her. His little rhymes where no help either. She had inquired with maester Cressen about his condition and knowing now he had drowned… she need not know more about what he knew of the sea.

It was a pity that Shireen was so fond of him for she would have liked to spend more time with her. The young girl seemed to need more companions and Lyarra would’ve liked to be sisterly to her but the jester was so often with the girl that it kept her away. It was just as well she supposed, she was not here spend time with children or peers, she was here to do her duty to her father and the realm.

Easier said than done. To the adults she was a child and to those her age she was interesting until they decided she was too serious. She had never felt so alone in her life and so she clung to Jory like a child as often as pride would allow. She missed Father and her sisters, she missed Mother and Robb. The last time she had seen Bran they thought he might die. She felt as if they could all be snatched away forever at any moment and they were all so far she was helpless to stop it. To her shame she had cried herself to sleep more than once .

She had begun to despair that this had all been pointless. If Jory returned with answers for Father while she was abandoned here "for her own good" she would not be surprised. She had taken to hiding herself away when the despair became too much and tried to lose herself in a book until it passed. Her current spot was not ideal. She had a wide beautiful view of the ocean, her jailer, and its hateful existence mocked her. If she was elsewhere she could steal a horse and ride all the way to Winterfell, here she was its hopeless prisoner. The sound of booted feet has her looking up from her failed reading on valyrian history to see Maron Greyjoy.

Fear gripped her immediately. If Patchface was her greatest fear then Maron was her second, worse maybe as she had no 6th sense with which to avoid him. He had fought in the rebellion and was here now paying the price for his father's hubris. Reason enough to be cautious but Theon's stories about his brothers had said much more. She doesn't remember what Theon had been like when he'd come from the Iron Isles, she had been too young and he himself had been too young to be considered a true ironborn. Maron was a true ironborn. Like the ones from Old Nan's stories and her histories. Now having her own experience of the ocean, she could now only think that being a true ironborn meant he was patently, maliciously insane.

"Lord Maron, what brings you here?" She tried to be as politely neutral as possible.

semi plotted starter (also i'm sorry) for @azmenka

[thestarstoasun]

A short drabble of Will & the Apollo kids + a sprinkle of angst

PROMPT: Michael,Lee and the other apollo campers realizing the new tiny blonde kid in the hermes cabin is the son of the Naomi Solace and freaking out.

(A/N: I very loosely followed the prompt in the end)

It wasn’t surprising when the new camper, a small blonde boy with blue eyes, named Will Solace ended up in the infirmary. The first time Lee had treated Will he had been walked in by Maron, a satyr Lee knew brought back tons of demigods, covered in marks from where Stymphalian birds had attacked him. At the time, Will hadn’t said much to him, or anyone else, but he listened well. “It’s nothing too bad. Here,” Lee placed a small piece of ambrosia in Will’s hand with a gentle smile, “this will help you feel better. Just eat that and you’ll be feeling as good as new in no time.” Lee ruffled Will’s hair and walked over to check on a nasty cut that Sherman Yang of the Ares Cabin had gotten during training.

That had been two weeks ago. Will remained unclaimed by his godly parent, while it was disappointing (but unsurprising), several campers including Michael Yew did their best to cheer him up. Hermes and Apollo were at archery together, a new concept that Chiron had suggested. While two different cabins were put together for activities, all of the campers knew the real hope was that the Gods would find promise in one of their unclaimed children during an activity and claim them.

As it turned out, Will was better than other campers with a bow and arrow, though just barely above bar by Apollo standards. Michael found himself drifting over to the boy to help him more and more throughout the session. “You're stance is good, but you need to work on focusing your aim at your target. Why don't you try setting the bow down and throwing the arrow to see if that helps?” He suggested.

Will let out a huff of air and kicked at the ground beneath his feet. “What if I'm just really bad? I'm not even good at holding a sword!” His voice wavered with emotion as his eyes welled with tears. Michael couldn't help but feel bad for him. Unlike most campers, he had been claimed his first day after shooting an apple off of Luke Castellan's head. (If asked, he would swear it was an accident, but some other campers seemed to disagree.)

“Look, Will, I can't say what you'll be good at and what you won't, as your godly parent hasn't claimed you.” The younger boy sniffled and focused his attention on the ground. “But what I can say is that not every demigod is good at the same stuff. I can barely heal to save my life. Yeah, I can give someone nectar and ambrosia, watch over them, give them mortal medicine, all that jazz, but I don't have Lee or my big sister, Juliet's, skill in medicine.” This made Will's eyes widen in shock, because all of the Apollo children were so gifted. (Luke told him it was because their father was the God of a bunch of stuff.)

“My Mama says that everyone has their own skills.” Will spoke up after a few minutes of twisting the hem of his shirt in his fists.

“Your mama sounds very wise.” Michael smiled and picked up the bow Will had been using.

“She is! She's a musician!” Michael noticed how Will's blue eyes seemed to move like the sky when he mentioned his mom. He figured just because he didn't have the best relationship with his own at a young age, the same didn't have to be for all demigods.

“Oh? What's her name? Maybe I know of her.”

“Naomi Solace.” Michael almost choked at the proud tone, not that it wasn't completely appropriate. Naomi Solace was an absolute icon in the music industry. Their head counselor, Sam - a warm, ivory guy who stood at 5 '11, who would be leaving after this summer, had brought a ton of her records and CD's from home to keep in the cabin.

“Seriously? You're Naomi Solace's son!?” The other Apollo kids turned their heads in excitement and began to crowd around them. Will just nodded his head nervously, afraid he had said something wrong.

“That's fucking awesome! We all love her!” Catherine, an umber toned Apollo girl with heterochromia, spoke up.

“Will is still a child, watch your tongue, Cathy.” Sam scolded with a fond, exasperated expression. Will found himself bursting out into a fit of giggles. He had heard much worse while on the road with his mother, but he appreciated the sentiment nonetheless.

“You have totally got to introduce us one day, little buddy.” Another Apollo child, who Will had forgotten the name of, spoke up. The children of the sun God had never been anything but welcoming, so after pretending to think about it for a minute Will grinned widely. “Alright, just remember your manners.”

The rest of the day, the Apollo cabin borrowed, or rather stole, Will so he could join them in their activities. While the boy enjoyed the company of the Hermes kids, he felt a sense of belonging that he couldn't place when he was laughing alongside the talented Apollo children. That night at dinner, instead of offering his food to Hermes, he sent an offering to the God of the Sun.

Please, I don't know if I am your son or not, but I really hope I am. I know I may not be as great as Michael or Catherine, but I feel connected to them. They feel like home….like mama…like sunshine.

[fightingthetides]

Dino + horse riding ft. Squaletta + drabble (Did I mention that one of Squaletta's hobbies is equestrianism?)

Send me a word or theme and " + drabble " and I will write a dabble / one-shot surrounding the given word. || Accepting || @squaletta Note: Dino isn't a muse of mine nor is he a test muse, so consider this just a fun lil thing. This 100% cannot be continued.

Maneuvering his horse to a steady trot, Dino looked to the woman riding on another horse right next to him.

Of course, Dino was riding atop his own personal horse that he picked out himself. With his nickname being ‘Bucking Horse Dino,’ and the Cavallone famiglia having two horses on its insignia, it made perfect sense for him to own a horse.

There was some traveling involved to get to the stables where he kept his horse, but it was always worth it. The mare enjoyed the open air, and being away from the city was better for her.

Whenever Dino wanted some time alone to himself to think, he often liked to visit the ranch and spend his time with the horses there. He'd brush their coats, feed them, and take them out for a ride for exercise.

In consideration of not wanting his mare to feel too lonesome, Dino had prepared other horses to stay with her, including a stallion.

The very one that Squaletta was riding atop of. He was the leader of the 'pack' so to speak.

The mare and stallion were an inseparable pair, always running around together, and eating together. As stallions do, his eyes may wander, but he ultimately always ended the day by her side.

Always so protective of his favorite mare, the Stallion demanded to be let out when Dino led her out from the stables after brushing her coat out.

She was well tended to by the stablemen- as they should, considering the money that Dino paid for the upkeep. There were other horses at the ranch, but the mare was the one that Dino bonded with.

At the sound of an impatient whinny, Dino can’t help but laugh. “Looks like he wants to go for a run. You up for it, Marone?” He gently pats his horse, who whinnies in response. It was her favorite thing to do, running alongside her partner.

“Right, let’s ride to the end of the ranch. Hope you haven’t gotten rusty after a while of not riding.” Dino grins, goading Squaletta into accepting an invitation to a race.

[queenandlionheart-rps]

pairing: jeyne westerling + maron greyjoy { @augustus1x1 } universe: university au

It’s a good thing Spring Break falls at the midpoint of the semester, because after two weeks back at school - two weeks filled with missed classes, long showers, and attempts to count their orgasms - both Maron and Jeyne are told, with little fanfare, that neither of them are welcome back to live in their respective houses come autumn. You’re too loud, I need my sleep, and I love you Jeyne is told by Wylla. But I don’t or want to see Greyjoy’s bare ass ever again.

You broke the showerhead, in every single bathroom we have and I can’t remember the last time we had hot water, is the more responsible excuse given to Maron by Harry. Wouldn’t you be happier living with Jeyne anyway? You can bang her whenever you want. In the end, the results are the same: Jeyne and Maron clearly enjoy each other more than their housemates would appreciate and discretion demands.

Perhaps another couple would be intimidated, or at least annoyed, but they are not. Instead, they roll their eyes and spend a lovely Saturday afternoon searching for flats. They choose the third one, a small flat near Oldtown that’s on the top floor of a historic building; there’s only one bedroom but the sitting room is swathed in light and the vaulted ceilings make it appear more spacious than it is. The kitchen is more than large enough for their tastes and the en suite has a jacuzzi tub Jeyne has plans for. They may never entertain many friends here, but to them, it is perfect.

And if anyone finds it strange that they’re moving in together after a few weeks, they stay quiet. Everyone’s watched Jeyne and Maron dance around each other enough. They do not want a repeat of Jeyne’s well-meaning manipulation and Maron’s drunken pining.

The lease begins in the autumn and Jeyne daydreams about filling the flat with furniture and knick-knacks, about the perfect corner for Maron’s aquarium; she finds she can’t wait to make it their home.  

Jeyne does not go to The Crag for summer break, citing a class she simply has to take that won’t be offered at any other time. [ It’s an online class, but Jeyne doesn’t think Sybell Westerling needs to know that. ] There’s an internship opportunity she mentions, too, though if she’s being honest, the internship in aquatics is little more than an excuse to spend the entire summer on Maron’s boat.

Though they call it a boat, it’s more a yacht than anything else, and by the time summer ends, they’ve made love in every room. The deck is expansive and Jeyne spends most days laying in a lounge chair, a cocktail in one hand as she takes in the beauty of the Sunset Sea while the sun tans her skin. She sunbathes topless more often than not, finding that the Essosi are much more liberal about such things. Besides, she doesn’t think Maron minds, if the bruises on her hips or the hickeys down the length of her spine are any indication.

Maron’s told his parents a similar lie and they ask even fewer questions than the Westerlings. While Jeyne is thankful for it - is thankful for these weeks of just them - she recognizes that this is not normal parental behavior.

[ She would question it, but Jeyne stopped asking about Balon Greyjoy’s stellar parenting the day his son arrived at her home with a black eye and knuckles so white she wondered if he’d gripped the wheel in anger for the entirety of the drive. ]

They have the resources to travel the world several times over and yet instead they choose to spend their summer on a yacht in the Sunset Sea with good food, little clothing, and an amount of tequila that Maron calls healthy but would make Jeyne’s mother have a heart attack. [ Another thing that would make Jeyne’s mother have a heart attack: the sheer amount of sex that the two have on a daily basis. It’s nearly obscene, even Jeyne has to admit, though she can hardly bring herself to care when his fingers are bringing her near climax, when his lips are leaving delicious purple bruises on her skin. ]

Some nights are spent on the yacht while others are spent in an apartment in Lys that Maron has kept for some time. It overlooks the water and at night when they lay in bed, the sounds of the sea coming through the open window, sweat glistening on their skin, Jeyne thinks that this is the most idyllic place she has ever lived.

She wants to stay here forever, to ignore the responsibilities life has thrust upon them.  

Jeyne tells him so one night, lips grazing over his skin. “We could leave,” she muses. “Spend the rest of our lives as castaways on a deserted island.” He arches a brow and presses a kiss to her collarbone and his quip about deserted islands being devoid of birth control makes her laugh.

“One day,” she responds, her lips curved in a genuine smile. “When we’ve seen enough of the world and we can refrain from fucking every other hour.” She presses another kiss to his lips. “I hope they have your eyes.”

[ That night is one of the most intense they ever have and by the time Jeyne falls asleep, the sun is rising and her entire being feels deliciously wrung out. ]

It’s near the end of the summer when they decide to invite their friends for a party [ if one can call a weeklong excursion a party ]. They’ve missed their friends and when Margaery and Sansa arrive, Jeyne spends hours catching up before Loras makes margaritas up on the deck.

Jeyne and Maron are found in the kitchen on the second morning by Loras, who quickly averts his eyes, though he still sees flashes of Jeyne’s legs wrapped around Maron’s waist bare waist and hears the epithets that escape from their lips. [ He complains later to Renly that they didn’t even stop. Renly laughs. ]

The party turns into little more than a bender for all of them. Mimosas and Bloody Mary’s for brunch, champagne for lunch, margaritas for happy hour, and after dinner drinks turn into a free for all. By the time the week is over, the yacht’s alcohol supply is nearly diminished, the guests have been oscillating between drunk and hungover for days, and Jeyne and Maron wave goodbye before falling into bed and sleeping for a full day straight. 

[ They’ll need the sleep for the days ahead. ] 

A trip to The Crag and Pyke round out their summer travels, with Jeyne’s family being more accepting of Maron than they’d been at Christmas. Her mother’s eyes still linger on his tattoos, though her gaze appears less harsh. Her younger siblings seem even more enamoured with Maron than Jeyne is and by the time they leave, her mother is making them promise to return for the holidays - both of them.

Pyke is both less and more than what she’s expected and she leaves feeling as if she’s somehow disappointed people she’d never before met. It’s disconcerting, but Jeyne pushes her own thoughts aside; she does not like to see Maron so withdrawn and she spends their drive back to Oldtown doing her best to coax a smile out of him.

[ In the end, her hand lays on his thigh, moves up, and he stops the car on the side of a mountain road near Silverhill and fucks her against a tree as the river bubbles in the background. ]

He offers her a dopey smile most of the way south, but it is only when they are in Oldtown, the next morning, that she sees Maron’s stature visibly relax. She threads her fingers through his and squeezes.

The flat is filled with boxes within a couple of hours; furniture will be delivered tomorrow, but tonight they make a bed of blankets and pillows on the hardwood floor in front of the fireplace. Her breasts are pressed against his bare chest and moonlight filters in through the windows. Maron is half asleep, and yet Jeyne is wide awake, taking in this moment.

“I love you,” she whispers as she runs her fingers through his hair. It is not the first time she’s said the words and it will certainly not be the last. But each time it seems important to say it, seems important that he knows she loves him more than life itself. He mumbles something in response that she assumes is a similar thought.

“I never knew that home could be a person before you.” And though Maron’s mostly asleep, Jeyne doesn’t think she imagines the way his arms tighten around her.  

[silverfrostheart]

The black coated male glared at the large hoodie being across from him.

"You're on thin ice old man." The glaring dark scientist growled. The guy in the hoodie held up his hands with a sigh.

"Look Maron will you just hear me out?" He said. Maron Slug coldly continued with fiddling with the machine he had been working on.

"Last warning Aslan." He said. Aslan also known as ghost, narrowed his golden eye.

"Quit blowing hot air Maron. You may be some big shot demon now, but you still can't beat me. Now if you don't listen to me, your gonna loose the one person you just got back. And that's not me."

Maron shot up and turned to look at ghost, who looked a mix of relieved but grim. Kokabiel. Was he talking about kokabiel??? He paused then grumbled, leaning on his desk.

"I'm listening." He said.

"The black banes found us. Which means the rest of the higher ups did. And they know about kokabiel."

Fuck.

Maron- @dreamseersystem

Ghost-mine

“I swear to god if you don’t get out of my sight in the next 5 seconds.”

“What? You’re going to hit me? I’d like to see you try.”

[agentargus]

So this was in my drafts and I figured I’d finish it up. @thatdamnokie and I had talked about the possibility of Seraphim interacting with more of my characters and this was the result. It’s intended as a sequel to Morgan’s Drabble about Seraphim’s first mission with Nova.

Loath as Dante was to doubt Caroline’s judgement, especially in matters of their shared trade, he could hardly pretend that he didn’t have questions. Exorcists were Repubblica’s bread and butter—or rather, bread and wine. What could possibly be so special about this one’s injuries for Caroline to suggest such desperate measures? He found cold comfort in the fact that she trusted him with a task like this, but he only hoped that this whole trip would prove to be unnecessary.

“Agent Seraphim?” Dante poked his head into the examination lab, scratching at the sigil at the back of his neck absentmindedly at the sight of her, “or would you prefer ‘Morgan?’”

“Morgan’s fine, thanks,” she replied You must be Dr. Argenti.”

Oh no, darling,” Dante laughed, “I’m barely a soccorritore* Dr. Argenti is my mother,” already finished established in her field at his age, in fact. The unwelcome reminder unfurled itself from the corners of his mind like the first clouds of a storm. Swallowing hard, he busied himself with washing his hands to keep the thunder of his thoughts at bay. Remember your training, as much a prayer as it was a constant reminder within the Societies. “Looks like you’ve got your shoe off and your foot propped up already. Sei propiro in gamba...”**

“What?”

“That was supposed to be a pun, but it doesn’t make sense in English. Anyway, let’s sneaker a peak at that foot of yours.“ She did not laugh, but he’d hardly expected her to, not if she was in pain, anyway. “Beautiful work,” he studied the tiny spiral of scar tissue with consideration, “no less than I’d expect from Cara. You could say she toes the line—toes, as in feet? Never mind. But it’s still hurting you?”

Morgan turned away from him at this “It’s not that bad. I’m only here because Caroline insisted...”

“You flatter me, but just because you made your hospital bed, that doesn’t mean I’ll let you lie in it.”

“What?”

“You’re lying,” Dante could only hope that his squint would mask the crimson glaze that always seemed to fall over his eyes at the realization of a hidden sin, “about how bad the pain is, I mean. I’m a fool, not an idiot. If it wasn’t crippling, Cara would have given you something for the pain and sent you on your way. Perhaps she already did, but you’re still hurting enough to have come back to her. She flew me out from the Vatican, darling—and boy, are her little cherub wings tired. If the pain wasn’t serious, I wouldn’t be here.”

I...” Morgan’s eyes narrowed slightly and she pursued her lips for a moment before finally sighing, “...okay fine. My fiancé insisted I go back to medical. It doesn’t hurt all the time, but I get these really awful flare-ups...”

“When you feel particularly guilty, yes? Or when you’re attacked during an exorcism.” When she didn’t respond, suggesting to him that he was right, he continued, “you blame yourself for Agent Nova’s injuries too, and the fact that she had to remove the needle, though all of that was hardly your fault.”

Morgan raised an inquisitive eyebrow, “how did you..?

“You didn’t read the release form that Cara gave to you for to sign? For sign? To sign?” English, always a welcome distraction with its many idiosyncrasies, “To sign! That’s it. But you did sign it...” again, no response. As silent as a priest upon hearing a particularly scandalous confession. Fitting for an exorcist, really. “You know,” he continued, “it was very tempting to pretend that I was reading your mind, but I’m beginning to think that the joke would be as lost on you as...well, as lost as an angel in hell.”

Morgan flinched slightly, steadying herself with almost indecent haste “...Sorry.”

“Marone! I’ve gone and made you feel guilty,” then more to himself than to Morgan, “I just make things worse! This is why I can’t get into med school...”

“Don’t worry, it’s fine...”

Not so much a traditional confession, Dante realized. Rather, it was as though the confessional vestibule stretched between them like a volleyball net, guilt and forgiveness bouncing from one side to the other...Well, it was an amusing visual at least. “I expected you to say that. You knew it would hurt you more if you projected it outward, because the ultimate guilt is that anyone else should hurt the way you do, which makes the guilt worse. A...circolo vizioso...a vicious circle?”

“You mean a vicious cycle? Yeah, I guess?”

“I see. Well, it isn’t infected, the scans in your file don’t suggest any traces of the poison left inside. Cara is beyond compare when it comes to these things. The bulk of the damage that remains is spiritual, rather than physical in nature. Then again, we could simply amputate your foot; it could give you a leg up...”

“Now I know you’re joking.”

“Only partially,” he forced a smile, hoping to God she didn’t suspect that he was stalling, “anyway, I’m imagining you’ve already been to see a therapist—and that gorgeous priest of yours, Agent Exorcist. Incidentally, have you heard the one about how a priest is like a Christmas tree? The balls are only for decoration!”

Finally, a good solid laugh from Agent Seraphim. Maybe this would be alright after all. Agent Cherub wouldn’t have brought him here if she didn’t trust him, and who was he to question her taste?

“The very business of hell is the separation of guilt from pain, yes?” Dante continued, “for what are true sinners but people who feel no guilt from the pain they inflict? Your guilt isn’t going anywhere anytime soon, but we might be able to separate it from the pain. I suspect a summoner might transfer the pain into their own body when the demon left them, so that eliminates the average magic-user. Sending you back through the hellgate is out of the question, of course...” this new boost of confidence was more fleeting than he’d realized, draining with the reasons he could muster to keep stalling. His heart raced in his throat and he took several deep breaths before conceding, “there really isn’t a better option, is there..?”

“A better option than what?”

Just blurt it out, he told himself, don’t think it through, don’t dance around the truth anymore. Then, deciding himself better off throughly ignoring his own advice, he replied as carefully as he could, “I’m a terrible liar so I’m not even going to try: I’m afraid. Why do you think I haven’t stopped talking the entire time you’ve been here? You’re an exorcist. Once you stop hearing me, you’ll feel me. You’ll know what I am and what I’m made of and you’ll understand why Cara thinks I can help you. She thinks that this...this part of me can do something other than punish people, other than hurt people, scare people into running—thank God I didn’t wear eye makeup today, because that would be running too if I had.”

He hadn’t expected her to take his hand, much less that her grip would be so firm. “Wait...just let me...” Morgan’s voice was soft, more gentle than authoritative. Her gaze, by contrast, rippled through him, awakening the dormant forces beneath his skin now struggling against their tattooed restraints. An anxious lurching, like the flutter of wings, pulsed within his stomach. He could see her lips purse and her shoulders tense in pain, but she never turned from him, not once.

“I’m sorry, Morgan...” never enough. Eventually, the realization always came.

“Hey, like you said, I was going to find out anyway,” Morgan’s forced smile was a mirror of Dante’s own, “it’s alright. I know how to handle demons...”

“But if we both doubt ourselves...”

“We have to believe in each other instead,” she finished for him, “I’m an exorcist. Literally been through hell. I’ve got this.”

Dante heaved a deep sigh, pulling up a stool to the examination bed, “alright. How did you want to do this?”

“Close your eyes. Let your heart rate slow. Relax your shoulders and think of something calming. Let go of your inhibitions. I’ve got you. You’re safe... Vefa mena Murmux ayer...”

His mind filled with memories of home. Far away, among the souls of the dead, towering and sequestered in blue—was it sky or water? Heaven or Poveglia? Did it even matter?

“Vefa mena Murmux ayer...”

Home that was not home, that place where he could not be what his creator intended, never quite fit, so he couldn’t stay.

“Vefa mena Murmux ayer...”

Too much for heaven to contain, too much trapped within a prison of flesh frozen in time. He’d broken through the shell of his cosmic egg, transformed, a baptism of fire, of his own destruction and rebirth. Graying plaster dust and fallen stars, fraying straps on a white straightjacket, an angel’s robes singed...and smoke. So much smoke...

“Duke Murmur?”

Fluorescent light swam around her with an angel’s glow. A little star bereft of the warmth her light might have exuded long ago. Now she sat before him, cold and small and fragile as all humans were. “Pretty little seraph,” he hummed, “fell and hurt yourself, did you?”

“I was injured restoring Prince Krueger to his position. The court of the Fallen owes me a debt. Will you pay it for me?”

He reached his neck as long as it would go, lips stretched white in semblance of a smile...“I was a throne, once, I think; if memory serves, I would have served you.”

Unflappable, she was. “And will you serve me now?”

“I live to serve,” this abject truth should have come up bitter. Perhaps it would have, when he was young and falling, drowning—sky or water, toward Hell or the bottom of Venice Lagoon? He couldn’t remember—all for a creator who would sooner let him fall than accept failure. But now, now he found himself in service to a trade to which he was uniquely suited—and in service to humanity.

He struggled against the shackles tattooed upon his human body’s flesh, trying in vain to grow. Such tiny hands to carry so heavy a burden...but perhaps, just this once, he could be enough.

Slowly, he caressed the seraph’s wound with one of those tiny human hands. She tensed beneath his touch as he found the throbbing agony within her, drawing it out like a splinter until it became indistinguishable from his own. “The debt has been paid.”

“Thank you, your grace,” she hummed, lowering her head in what seemed to be more relief than reverence.

Then, his chest tightened; pang of fear, a sinking doubt. Human insecurity or fear of God, he could not tell, “are you going to try where the others have failed, little seraph, going to send me away, little exorcist? You wouldn’t be the first to waste the effort.”

“That depends entirely on what you do to me.”

He could see her, really see her, even with just two eyes, perhaps with greater clarity than either one of them could see themselves, “I remain here because humans wished to be more than they were. You remain here because humans feared that they couldn’t be more than they were. A fallen angel is her own inner demon. The only thing I can do to you that you’ve not already done to yourself is ease the pain of the fall. I revel in the knowledge that we’re more alike than could ever be entirely comfortable...and that, little seraph, is why we’re both here...”

It was closeness that the both of them desired, warmer, like Icarus to the sun. Was it the sadism and masochism equally present within the fallen that relishes the suffering he shared with her? Or was it the desperation of his humanity that valued what companionship might arise from that suffering? Perhaps both.

Perhaps not comfortable, but fitting. Doubt and guilt and pain, suffering for something distant and divine. Perhaps there was solace in the bonding, mutual discomforts canceling each other out, community among the outcasts for whom the binaries of heaven and hell had been shattered into the sands of the earth. Demons and angels and humans.

After all, he was human, wasn’t he? He was small and fleshy and hungered for Morgan’s friendship, or at least her approval. One bleeding into the other, the separation imposed only by the limits of the human body. Slowly, the star’s glow faded, Morgan coming into back into focus.

“D-did it work?” Dante asked apprehensively

“I think so. My foot feels better, anyway. Do you remember anything?”

Dante pursed his lips “I... I think so. Sort of...should I be worried if I remembered?”

��Why would you be?”

“Because it would mean that Murmur isn’t as separate from me as I’ve been trying to convince myself. Demons, they’re supposed to possess you completely, but I am still myself when I’m him, in a way. Does that make me evil?”

“I don’t know as much about this stuff as you give me credit for...” Morgan signed, humbling herself as usual.

“You are an exorcist. You see me. You see him. When you look, where does he end and I begin?”

“Honestly, I can’t tell. More importantly, I’m not sure it matters. It’s what you do that’s important, not who you are.”

“I don’t think I did anything I wasn’t supposed to...Did I hurt you? I don’t remember hurting you...”

“You didn’t hurt me, I promise.”

“A miracle from heaven, then. Gloria patri!” It was as though a weight had been lifted. No longer drowning, floating to the surface, as close to heaven as a demon reborn human could manage... “And now, lunch! Carter—Agent Thorn— and I were going to get Chinese food when I was finished working on you. You should come. It’ll be...”

“Let me guess, chow-fun.”

Dante beamed “I was actually going to say the ‘mein event’ of my trip, but ‘chow-fun’ is much better.”

“Chinese food sounds great. Thanks—for everything.”

“Well, I had a bit of divine intervention.”

——

*An emergency medic who works in a specific kind of ambulance. The closest English equivalent would be an EMT or a paramedic.

**”in gamba” literally means “on leg,” but is an idiom meaning that someone knows what they’re doing.

[interdimensional-criminals]

Here, have a short drabble that follows the IDTA in what would be a pretty routine series of events for them!

____

Ted sighed, leaning against the tree he and his team sat under. Pete and Tommy sat a few feet to his right, talking in hushed voices of topics Ted didn't try to eavesdrop to figure out. Daniel stood directly to his left, an array of glowing green screens surrounding him, a pocket watch, gold, glittering in the light, sat in one hand, connected by a few wires to a small device in his other hand, the screen glowing with the same green light of the screens surrounding him.

Ted didn't know what half of the symbols and text dancing across the screens meant, but he knew for a fact that Daniel was very much focused on his work. Daniel muttered under his breath as he flipped through info on the screens, turning around to switch between what screen he was looking at every few seconds.

What was he looking for? A criminal, an interdimensional criminal whose name they didn't know but who they had been chasing for months now. Tommy had started calling him 'The Ghost' about three months ago. Ted disliked the name greatly, but even he had to admit that it was accurate. This 'ghost' was always just a few steps ahead of them despite the seemingly impulsive nature of his actions. They would track him to a dimension, they would show up, they would manage to find him, and then somehow he would still always get away with very little trouble, usually with more than a few stolen goods from the dimension. Ted, despite his grievances with the nickname, still found himself using it from time to time.

The same had happened in this timeline just a few hours ago, and so now they were stuck playing the waiting game once more while Daniel did his best to track The Ghost's dimensional travel in a timely manner.

Ted didn't actually know too much about the technological process of tracking interdimensional travel, as Daniel was both the one who had put together the device and the only one who knew how it properly functioned. He did know however that the process of tracking interdimensional movement was not one that he would be particularly fond of having to do himself, considering Daniel's struggles with doing so. He knew, from the many times Daniel had complained to him about all of this, that he could track which dimensions travel was happening between and that he could determine, one way or another, what pocket watch was being used to do so. He also knew that it was incredibly easy for the signals to get jammed or distorted, and that it took quite a lot of work to get everything untangled again. The universe, as you may expect, was very expansive, so tracking down these interdimensional movements took quite awhile.

"Maron's moving between M-1:45:17 and S-3:9:11 again." Daniel stated, a hint of annoyance in his voice. He didn't pause to look up from his screens.

Ted rolled his eyes, "God, does that dude ever stay in one place for more than a month? What the hell does he even do in S-3:9:11?"

"Maybe he has a vacation home there." Tommy suggested half jokingly, earning a laugh from Pete.

"I mean he might as well at this point, he spends so much time there anyways." Ted scoffed, "I don't see why he would want to leave M-1:45:17 so often anyways, I mean he has like ligitamate gods looking after him and goddamn wizards building him shit in his dimension, what does he possibly see in a dimension like S-3:9:11 compared to his own?"

"Cut him some slack Ted," Pete chimed in, "You of all people should know that a dimension isn't always all it's chalked up to be."

"You and I both know that those are two completely different situations, Pete." Ted shot him a glance that said not to push that particular topic further.

Pete nodded halfheartedly, "I suppose you're right, but I can't say I exactly blame the man for using the pocket watch for the thing it was made to be used for." He sighed, "If Tommy or I hadn't seen the things we've seen over the years either of us might've ended up doing the same thing, gallivanting around the universe without a care in the world."

"I guess that is the whole appeal, isn't it?" Ted admitted, staring down at all of the different pocket watch chains clipped to his button up.

There was a moment of silence between them.

"Fucking finally!" It was Daniel who broke the silence, "I found him!"

Ted pushed himself up from the grass as the screens floating around Daniel dissipated, Tommy and Pete both following behind him.

"Where are we off to this time?" Ted questioned, pulling the worn, silver pocket watch from his pocket.

"Funnily enough, dimension M-1:45:17, that's why I was able to figure it out so quick." Daniel answered, putting away his own pocket watch and the device attached to it.

"Oh, I don't think me or Pete have actually gotten to go there before!" Tommy exclaimed excitedly, "Do you think we'll run into any of the gods or wizards you two are always talking about?"

"I think we should probably hope we don't." Ted stated as he fiddled with the settings on the pocket watch.

"Yeah, I don't believe any of the gods over there are rather fond of us considering our few run ins with Jordan." Daniel chuckled.

"And we want to try and cause as little disruption to the dimension as possible." Ted reminded them.

"Well, at least this is bound to be interesting." Pete stated, shrugging.

"We'll see." Ted pressed a button on the side of the pocket watch and it began to glow faintly. A portal opened in front of them all, a mixture of red, orange, and yellow, leading into a world that Ted found familiar, having been there more then a few times, "Let's hope this is the last time we have to track this guy down."

[whereisthedamnlostandfound]

Chapters: 1/? Fandom: Realm of Mianite - Fandom, Mianite - Fandom Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Characters: Jordan Maron, Will Tag as I add Additional Tags: Isles Statue AU, Realm of Mianite, Series of one shots and drabbles, lapslock ch 1 Series: Part 3 of everbody's scared so make it an art Summary:

Jordan, Tom, and Karl have been released from the statues and are living with their friends and gods. Some things have remained the same but many things have changed.

[ao3feed-joanna]

dead ladies club

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/2WB8stT

by masochisticmasturbation

i was inspired by lostchildofthenewworld's amazing story A Shadowed Path and was just struck by the thought that 'what if elia and rhaegar met when they were younger'? as it's inspired by her story, some characters, like maron gargalen who is elia's father, i have 'borrowed' from her story.

but that little seed of inspiration, it made my brain spiral. it made me think: what if we knew some of the thoughts and experiences of the infamous "dead ladies club" of game of thrones? what if they had more say?

this fic will be just a bunch of drabbles that connect to one another.

i will try to make it canon, but as we don't know much about elia, lyanna, elia's mother, rhaella, and joanna, i'm free to make my own interpretation, so don't attack me if it's not what you like.

Words: 2937, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Fandoms: Game of Thrones (TV), A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms

Rating: Not Rated

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Categories: F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi

Characters: Rhaella Targaryen, Lorenza Nymeros Martell, Joanna Lannister, Elia Martell, Lyanna Stark, Oberyn Martell, Rhaegar Targaryen, Tywin Lannister, Aerys II Targaryen

Relationships: Elia Martell/Rhaegar Targaryen, Aerys II Targaryen/Rhaella Targaryen, Lorenza Nymeros Martell/Maron Gargalen, Joanna Lannister/Tywin Lannister

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/2WB8stT

[inkykate]

It’s time for the @asoiafrarepairsanta exchange and, as their secret santa, I would like to wish a very special holiday season to @lucife56 with ‘The Wasting Crown’ on AO3, a Ned/Cersei Get Married AU. And, because I’m not sure any story that begins with a plague entirely fits the spirit of the thing, please enjoy a silly bonus drabble of Jaime/Elia too!

There had been a summer, when his father and sister were at court and he was home from squiring Crakehall, that his Uncle Kevan had sent him down to his cousins in Lannisport to bend his energy and attention to seafaring. At the time, even resentful as he was without Cersei, Jaime Lannister had felt that sailing and navigating and all the activity that went with it was a bit of a lark, and he did not so much learn a craft but play at it in the noble way of a future lord paramount. In the height of summer, with a fully manned ship to attend him, sailing had seemed the easiest and most pleasurable thing to accomplish.

In the moons since the fall of the Targaryen dynasty, he had long since reconsidered his youthful view. All manner of voyaging the seas was treacherous work, and made only slightly more so by the fact that he and his charges were fugitives of the crown.

On that first panicked trip to Myr, his hands had burned under the pull of the ropes and there hadn’t been a muscle that hadn’t ached. And, while his body had learned the motions and the strength needed to earn his keep on any vessel, he lacked entirely the instincts that could bring a ship from port to port, around storm and pirate.

Jaime could not say what it did for his pride that it was Princess Elia who proved the better sailor and the more valued companion for the crew, even having shed their titles and nobility to book passage in the chaos surrounding the sack of King’s Landing. Elia was a quick hand at repairing sails and nets, at mending torn vestments and soothing wounded men. She knew better and raunchier stories (though Jaime suspected that these were borrowed from her brother) and could tease the entire ship into singing on windless days when tempers blew hard. If the sellsails suspected a higher bearing for either of them - and on the first ship, they almost certainly did, if for no other reason than that they found him gratingly unskilled - Elia’s charm and beauty were enough to stay their tongues.

Where Jaime had boarded a ship for Myr a disgraced kingsguard with the supplanted princesses and prince of the Targaryen reign, it was Lann and his wife Nym, and their two children Rhae and Dunk, who set sail for Lys. And it was Joff and his son Davos, with hair cut so short their scalps gleamed in the sunlight, who befriended Mariah and her child Ash, delicate featured but styled as a boy, on the way to Qarth. In Astapor, Yunkai and Meereen, he had been a sellsword guarding a merchant’s daughter as she toured the cities with her children. He had been husband again by Volantis, and through Tyrosh to Pentos, and now, hunting for a ship to Braavos, he was beginning to fear that he had either completely exhausted his repertoire for aliases and professions or could no longer tell the difference between lie and truth.

His middling talent for fiction aside, Jaime found that he was quite unable to pretend away the closeness that came with pretending to be a husband, and, whatever name she wore, Elia had become as familiar to him as Cersei had ever been. Which is why he knew to be suspicious when Prince Aegon, nearly four name days, was not there to greet him with endless questions about the ships in the harbor, and when Elia’s face was too carefully serene, and when Princess Rhaenys burst into giggles when his greeting gave way to a grumpy frown.

“Any luck on booking passage?” Elia plated a selection of sweet meats and fruits for him, the rewards of their earlier market trip, setting it in front of the chair he favored in their rented house.

“A few possibilities,” Jaime rolled a grape between his fingers, observing the graceful courtesies that Elia extended naturally and noting that there was something sharp and stubborn in her eyes that he knew was going to be a source of trouble. “I will ask around about the captains tomorrow, and see if I can spot any familiar faces in their crews.”

“We’ve been lucky so far,” Elia commented, handing Rhaenys a sliver of melon before tiding up the remains of dinner to be served again at breakfast.

“I know I’m not always the best at identifying times to be cautious, but this seems a reasonable safeguard,” His stomach growled and, as much as he wanted to be focused on what Elia had yet to tell him, hunger won out. The simple meal, unpreserved and unsmoked and likely grown in a garden less than a day’s ride from their rooms, was something to be treasured when faced with weeks of hard tack and fish at sea.

“Why do we need to be cautious Papa?” Rhaenys asked, brazenly stealing another bit of melon from his plate.

“Why Rhae, it’s because you are too beautiful and too clever and all the world would like to have you for their very own,” Jaime’s heart no longer wrenched at being called father, though he still could not escape the itching memory of fleeing everything he had ever known in clothes borrowed from a dead man with his wife and children.

Rhaenys no longer knew she was a princess, no longer knew that she was anything more than a sailing sellsword’s daughter with a seamstress mother, but her disbelief was near imperious. “Be serious Papa!”

“Mama and papa have to work, little Rhae,” Elia’s voice was firm as she sidestepped the question, though he could hear in it the echoes conversations they’d been having since Tyrosh. The children were getting too old to be fooled and heard more than they should — and that was dangerous for keeping secrets. “That is why we will go and live in Braavos.”

Jaime distracted Rhaenys with a slice of orange. There was time enough to explain the dangers of the world to her when she was older. “And where’s Maron hiding?” The false name the rightful king of Westeros believed to be his own.

“Why, Tom,” And, as always, it took him a moment to remember this was the name he had settled on. “I am ever a dutiful wife and I noticed how you adored the fashions of Tyrosh.”

“How thoughtful,” He remembered no such thing, had thought theTyroshi disturbing and gauche in truth, but Rhaenys was giggling again. “Did you trade Maron for some pear brandy and jewel toned silks?”

“No, no Papa,” a voice burst from the courtyard, followed by a mass of pale limbs and bright, bright blue. “Mama would never trade me away.”

Prince Aegon smiled up at him, teeth flashing, and looked so much like Prince Rhaegar in the lines of his face that it took a beat to realize that his fine silver hair was blue.

Seven hells, his hair was blue.

“It’s always so silly that people comment on Maron’s hair,” Elia’s phrasing was obviously for the children’s benefit, as her direct gaze was for his. “And the children and I thought it would be even sillier if we gave them a better reason to look.”

“Mama bought the dye in Tyrosh,” Rhaenys added, dancing around her brother. “So it will last for a really long time because the Tyroshi are experts. Mama said.”

“Except,” And Elia gave the sly smile that always preceded an embarrassment for him of some sort. “I think it looks quite silly for my son to do this alone, don’t you, my dear?”

This was worse than he had thought, far worse. “Perhaps you or Rhae -“

“Our hair is too dark,” Elia shook her head in mock sadness, though Rhaenys’ pout as she held out the ends of her dark braid at least gave the farce some measure of truth. “Come children, let’s get ready to dye Papa’s hair.”

The children were a blur as they ran in search of buckets and whatever else they deemed necessary for inflicting this horror on him. He kept his voice low, just in case. “Elia, I don’t want to dye my hair.”

The smile she gave was truly sympathetic, even if her eyes promised that she would have no nonsense. “Dark hair is common enough in Braavos, Jaime. Rhaenys and I could walk down the streets in Martell colors and no one would think of it overmuch. But Aegon’s coloring is all Valyrian and even in Essos that is increasingly rare.”

“Robert thinks you dead,” Jaime murmured. “Every rumor we’ve heard on the way back from Qarth has agreed on that.”

He can hear the excited banging of buckets as the children prepare to play this new game that seems all strange silliness to them and that is all strategy to Elia. She thinks little of his vanity, Jaime knows, but he wonders if she is as aware of their intimacy as he is. When she walks over to him, propping her hip against the table, all he can think of is how soon he will be pressed against her in their berth on the way to Braavos and of her holding him close after he woke from yet another nightmare of Aerys’ court last night.

“Targaryen silver, Lannister gold. Enough rumors with both and Robert may change his mind.”

This too is a discussion that they have had more than once. Jaime’s father would surely welcome him back. Jaime’s twin, his other half, is Robert’s queen. Elia’s brothers had raged when there was no sign of her or her children. He has to believe that they could find a way home, to trade a dead king and future heirs and a returned kingdom for their safety.

“Viserys and Daenerys are in Braavos as well,” Elia adds, reaching out to card one hand through his hair and, he hopes perversely, enjoying the shade of it.

“Too many Targaryens in one basket,” Jaime winces. “I know you Elia. You intend to meet with them, yes? If it is too dangerous to return to your brother’s household, then you really shouldn’t be chasing after the Targaryens that Robert knows about.”

“Viserys is ten. His sister is two. They shouldn’t be on their own.”

Jaime had been ill prepared to venture out into the world at seven and ten without the safety of his father’s name; he couldn’t imagine doing so at eight. “Her Grace protected Viserys, but there wasn’t anyone in the Red Keep that didn’t know he could no more take pressure and stress and failure than Aerys could. He’ll have broken under it.”

“Children are resilient. There may be hope yet,” Elia’s delicate features danced with warmth and kindness and good humor. Now that he knew her plotting, it was easier to be in her company.

“And to keep our children -“ The feeling of being a fraud was fading more every day. “- safe and amused I need to have blue hair.”

Jaime didn’t know when it had ceased to be a question that he would give in to Elia’s demands.

“I am pleased we understand one another ser,” Elia leaned forward to brush a kiss across his forehead, lingering a measure that was either familial or loving, before disappearing to marshall the children to strip him of his golden crown.

Alone with the rinds of his dinner, he felt her touch like a brand, and he wanted to ask if she ever wondered which Lannister and Martell siblings their mothers had hoped would marry, and he wanted to ask if she still thought of Rhaegar and if she mourned him or cursed him, and he wanted to tell her of how betrayed he felt by Cersei’s marriage and how wretched he thought he should be now that she was with Robert’s child. He wondered if her appreciation of his glibness and irreverence was just another way she made do, and if he was still a knight of the kingsguard, and if she thought of him as a king slayer. He wondered, above all, what she thought and what she felt when her children called him father.

Jaime wondered who he could ask if it was a virtue and a sign of honor that he asked her none of this as the children laughed him to the buckets of water, scraps of linen, and dispiritingly large bottle of dye to turn his hair from gold to hues of blue.

But then Tom the sailing sellsword knew his wife Mariah loved him, even if he did like the Tyroshi custom of brightly colored hair. And it was Tom and Mariah, and their children Rhae and Moran, who would settle in Braavos to ply their trades and build their lives. And any answers that Jaime Lannister could gain would be lesser truths than those.

[ao3feed-tywin]

dead ladies club

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/2WB8stT

by masochisticmasturbation

i was inspired by lostchildofthenewworld's amazing story A Shadowed Path and was just struck by the thought that 'what if elia and rhaegar met when they were younger'? as it's inspired by her story, some characters, like maron gargalen who is elia's father, i have 'borrowed' from her story.

but that little seed of inspiration, it made my brain spiral. it made me think: what if we knew some of the thoughts and experiences of the infamous "dead ladies club" of game of thrones? what if they had more say?

this fic will be just a bunch of drabbles that connect to one another.

i will try to make it canon, but as we don't know much about elia, lyanna, elia's mother, rhaella, and joanna, i'm free to make my own interpretation, so don't attack me if it's not what you like.

Words: 2937, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Fandoms: Game of Thrones (TV), A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms

Rating: Not Rated

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Categories: F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi

Characters: Rhaella Targaryen, Lorenza Nymeros Martell, Joanna Lannister, Elia Martell, Lyanna Stark, Oberyn Martell, Rhaegar Targaryen, Tywin Lannister, Aerys II Targaryen

Relationships: Elia Martell/Rhaegar Targaryen, Aerys II Targaryen/Rhaella Targaryen, Lorenza Nymeros Martell/Maron Gargalen, Joanna Lannister/Tywin Lannister

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/2WB8stT

[queenandlionheart-rps]

pairing: jeyne westerling + maron greyjoy { @knightsandkrakens } universe: university au companion piece found here

Jeyne Westerling had wanted to attend Oldtown University from the time she was six. She’s a legacy; her parents had met there, one of her uncles had donated the main arts building, and her great-times whatever grandfather had been on the board when the school was founded back in 1807. Oldtown University is in her blood; it’s where she’s meant to be, and Jeyne spends most of her high school career ensuring that her grades are good enough to get in without her father having to make a call. Her mother, Sybell, had been a scholarship student from the wrong side of the tracks who had fallen in love with Gawen Westerling, and the resulting gossip about their marriage had ruined a great deal of social capital Gawen had built up as captain of the rugby team.

The result is this:

The Westerlings still have money but they no longer enjoy the social status of generations past, and at Oldtown, Jeyne soon learns that status matters.

Her name, however, matters more.

For all she’s worried about fitting in, she’s recruited by Theta Phi Alpha within a week of settling into her residence hall. The Thetas are the most popular girls on campus, throw the best parties, and always look as if they’ve stepped outside of a magazine. Joining them will mean her nights are late, her mornings are early, and she will rarely get a moment of privacy. Even knowing this, she pledges anyway.

Jeyne isn’t sure she fits in, but she ignores that cloying voice in her head and soldiers on.

[ Months later, as she’s enjoying her college life, she’s pleased she has. ]

She’s been in Theta for a year and living in the house for six months before she realizes that Maron Greyjoy’s eyes linger on her at parties a bit longer than others do. He’s a couple years older and a member of Sigma Chi, the most popular fraternity on campus. By definition, he can have any woman – or man, she supposes – at any given time.

He has a bit of a reputation, too. Family money, made through somewhat nefarious means, with a father she’s heard he can’t stand. That doesn’t stop him from spending his money, though, and every time Jeyne attends a party at Sigma, she’s surprised by how expensive and top shelf the alcohol is. Jeyne finds that Maron Greyjoy surprises her often, with the winks he teasingly throws her, the way even the most innocuous of touches to her skin sends her heart into spasms, and how much she longs to see the genuine smile he seemingly reserves for her.

For all of her time spent on appearance – perfectly manicured nails, purposefully tousled waves of chestnut hair, and hours spent in the gym working off Friday night parties – Jeyne is still a kind woman at heart. So when she sees the darkness in his eyes or hears the self-deprecation in his voice, she reaches out, promising that he’s wrong, making him laugh, and hoping that the feeling of her fingers carding through his hair show him that she cares.

Jeyne grows used to Maron surprising her more often than not. She’s not surprised, however, by his sense of humor and finds herself laughing more often with him than with any other man. Her dates appreciate this much less than she does.

And for all of his reputation, she’s never felt safer as a drunk woman than she does with him.

[ Sometimes she drinks a bit too much and wakes up in Maron’s bed, her clothes still on while he scrunches up in his easy chair. Jeyne ignores it when she thinks she’d rather he be wrapped around her instead. ]

That’s not to say that she’s ignored any other man in her vicinity. Jeyne’s slept with at least two of Maron’s frat brothers, though she can’t recall them being anything more than acceptable. It doesn’t matter, anyway, she thinks. They don’t matter.

They’re not him.

It’s mid-November when Jeyne notices his gaze on her legs. It lingers, more than she expects it to, and she’s reminded of how he had stumbled over his words one afternoon, how he’d sprained his ankle at a party just after catching her attention, of how his cheeks had turned pink when one of his friends had mumbled under his breath.

Alone, these bits of information mean nothing. But, together, Jeyne thinks they just might mean something.

Maybe he likes her, too.

It’s not popular in Theta, but Jeyne’s grandmother had taught her how to knit and so during her nights when she tells her friends she’s studying, Jeyne works on a sweater for Maron. It’s deep blue, like his eyes, and she knits a design of krakens around the hem and cuffs. Jeyne wraps it and sends it off with Maron at Christmas, making him promise he’ll wait for the holiday to open it.

[ When his sister posts a video on Facebook of him opening her gift and pulling it on over his pajamas, her heart might just grow two sizes. The photos his other siblings post make her smile widen and when his own gift arrives, it is so thoughtful that Jeyne cries for the first time on a holiday. ]

He shows up the night before New Year’s, wearing her sweater with a bruise around his eye and a solemnity that tells her she should wait for him to share before she asks. Jeyne finds out later that he fought with his father before leaving, that he packed a bag and hopped into his car [ a ridiculously expensive piece of machinery she still has problems pronouncing ] before coming to The Crag. They spend the rest of the holiday together, walking the shore, staying up late with movies and wine, and pretending that they aren’t falling asleep with each other on her family sofa every evening.

She’s touched that he chose to come to her, is even more touched that he chooses to stay, and for a second at midnight, she thinks he might change her life entirely.

He doesn’t.

But when they return back to Oldtown, it’s clear something has shifted. What isn’t clear, however, is just what that is.

What is clear, though, is that Jeyne is in a state of limbo. Weeks pass and still he does little differently. Weekends are spent at parties, drunken nights are spent sleeping in his bed while he sleeps in his chair, and he still gives her smiles that make her think he just might be The One.

And yet, Maron hasn’t paid her the attention she wants. So Jeyne takes matters into her own hands and she posts fairly regularly on Instagram, waiting first until she’s seen that he’s liked someone else’s post. It’s fairly tame, all things considered, but there’s a hint of her cleavage, her legs look like they’re on fire, and the background is one she knows he’ll appreciate. This becomes a regularity: Jeyne posts, Maron likes, and she finds herself waiting for more.

Nothing else changes. Until Spring Break.

She’d kept her plans open for some time, hoping that something else would shift, that maybe she’d be spending the week with him inside of her more than not. Since she’s been disappointed by that, Jeyne decides, last minute, to take a couple of friends up on their offer on a yacht trip to the Summer Isles.

Maron loves the sea, she knows, and it seems rather fitting, spending the weekend on Margaery’s father’s yacht with the sea behind her. She makes sure she has a world mobile plan beforehand and each day her Instagram story is filled with photos and videos of her, Margaery, and Sansa wearing bikinis and drinking cocktails, the blue of the ocean making the perfect backdrop.

There’s one photo, however, that she sends just to him [ oh, she’ll pretend it’s a mistake later, that she hit his username instead of my story, but in reality it’s much more calculated than that. ]. In it, her bikini straps are falling off her shoulders, the smile on her face is much more genuine than it is seductive [ it’s a smile she gives only to him and she hopes he recognizes it ], and she’s on a small island that appears to be mostly deserted. The caption is what makes it the most fun, however. Love my girls, but wishing you were here. When she sees it’s been read, Jeyne smirks and puts her phone away to have another bellini with her friends.

Let him stew on that for awhile. Maybe he’ll even wonder if she means him.

When her phone pings minutes later with a new notification, Jeyne allows herself a satisfied smile.

[ It’s nothing compared to the expression she will wear two days from now in his bed, when he’s done nothing more than make her scream his name as she falls into oblivion. ]

[hrlaw]

small little drabble on harras’ relationship with his greyjoy cousins.

the smile on the boys face is matched only by that of the woman he often calls mother, all while being rather acutely aware for his age, that she is in fact not his mother. the six year old’s hold’s his cousin’s face in his hands as she lifts him into her lap, lady alannys greyjoy nee harlaw was as beautiful as his real mother had described her, the boy nods softly in rhythm with her soft singing, as she bounces him lightly in her arms as she walks… his best friend ( rodrik greyjoy ) keeping pace with his mother, all three ironborn gleefully chanting, the king and his men stole the queen from her bed and bound her in her bones. the sea be ours, and by the powers, where we will, we’ll roam.       and so on and so on, with the nine and six year old in tow, the lady of the iron islands was always seen with a beautiful air of grace, but it was not rare to watch her be with the boys she referred to as her sons even if only ( one ) of them was actually her’s biologically, the baby maron greyjoy, was often in her arms when the two older ones played with their words, often chanting the nursery rhyme she had so diligently taught them,       the god has been raised from his watery grave, do you hear the blood curling cries? we are all to call, pay heed the squall, and turn your sails toward home!     as swords clashed together.  the blonde boy, heir to house harlaw of grey garden, was often seen with rodrik despite the three year gap, in order to be someone rodrik could enjoy swordsmanship against, the boy had to work thrice as hard to keep up with the older one. and was often hailed for his speed and strength with the blade despite his age.

the smile on the boy’s face is matched only by that of the woman he often calls mother, he’s rather aware at this point it’s rather unsightly for him to do so in public. at nine he’s found himself laughing along with his cousin’s son, and best friend, rodrik greyjoy, as they tease and mess with maron ( none too harshly of course else the three year old will cry and that is always rather annoying ), all while being equally as teased by rodrik’s uncle victarion greyjoy.       cousin alannys, as he’s been trying to call her at more formal dinners when the family sits down together to engage in pleasant conversation at a table as if they’re playing lannister, brings up the deaths of some of their iron born during the recent raids. the way that the priests react to the news reminds him of the nursery rhyme that haunts him in his sleep, and was rather upsetting to his birth mother when he came home singing it after having lived three years with the greyjoys on pyke.   some men have died, some men have rised. and other sail the sea, with drowned god’s priests, and prices to pay, we knock at seafloor’s door.         rodrik often reminds him that if he wants to play with the other boys he needs to keep pace, they’re going raiding as soon as the ship’s crew finishes being finalized, which means that for the next week or so, the pair find themselves falling asleep ontop of each other as they watch the ship get stocked for it’s journey during the evenings. he whispers a ‘goodbye mother’ to his cousin as he hugs her and steps back onto the ship as it takes off, instantly running to rodrik’s side, so they can both wave goodbye on their way out.

there is no smile to find any faces as the rebellion marches on. harras never thought that he’d see battle, no amount of raiding shores could have prepared the now twelve year old to stand next to his best friend as fifteen year old rodrik leads grown men into battle upon orders of his father king balon greyjoy. he likes to think that both his mother and the woman he often calls mother are both praying to their respective god(s) in their favour, they’d been winning the battles, but lately ----- everything seems to have gotten much more difficult. he loses sight of rodrik during the battle, and barely manages to make it to the ship when he hears the horns blow with the warning to retreat, to get out or ( die ). he’s sure it’s rodrik who blew them… until he’s running back to the ship, and almost trips on the body.  he has to be hauled, crying and pulling on rodrik’s armor trying to hold onto him, back to the ship. by the time the rebellion is thwarted, the news has been given to the woman he calls mother ages ago, and when he returns to pyke, he’s failed his cousin, she won’t even see him. not that he blames her, her eldest sons cut down… maron was even younger than he and had been sent to battle anyway… ( after all kings of the iron islands had been known to win battles by the age of eight ). and theon, dear theon, who was still an infant, had been sent to the north. the blonde boy’s hair was stained red from the battles he’d taken a part of, the death of rodrik and maron had taken the largest pieces of his heart, the rejection of the woman he called mother had lost the key to reopen any sort of trust or faith, and the news that he would likely never see his baby cousin ever again had turned the peacock’s sunshine into a true ironborn, full of salt and stone.

the smile on the young man’s face falls short of what he hopes it would upon seeing the child of the woman he once called mother. asha greyjoy has graced isle harlaw with a visit, she does this ( often ) or so he hears from his cousin the reader, but he isn’t sure if she visits her mother, harras often does, but the woman he once called mother no longer recognizes him. when his name is mentioned to her, it makes her stance worse, so he just pretends to be his father, which she falls for most of the time, though she’ll comment that his hair is rather light and he shouldn’t be playing in the salty sea so often. still he’s kind to asha in their brief encounters, he hears she’s made quite a name for herself, and he’s glad that she lives up to, and has ( in some cases ) managed to surpass her elder brothers.   but harras himself hasn’t been to pyke in years, and unless personally summoned by lord balon greyjoy, he does not show his face on the island he once called home, much preferring to spend his time on ships, raiding and killing, or at grey garden with his birth mother, who runs her hands through his hair, and reminds him that pyke had never truly been his home, and that as master of grey garden he shouldn’t be risking his life so often. but what risk ? harras harlaw has never been defeated. the smile he gives his mother is falls short of what he hoped it would, but harras doesn’t smile anymore. not really. not since he became a true iron born, rejecting his mother’s teachings of books and good things. nothing came of books and good things, books and good things wouldn’t have saved his cousins.

the smile on the young man’s face is matched only by that of the woman he once called mother as he tells her a piece of news he’s sure the reader or her own daughter have already passed on, “lord balon is dead, euron is king now.” he tells her, her look of confusion hits him, and the crushing of his insides does not wait for the words to leave her mouth, “ what about rodrik? isn’t my son next in line? ” the wielder of nightfall falls silent.             lips purse for a moment, he pictures it so clearly, hoisting the colors for rodrik. what is dead may never die, echoes mockingly in his head, on rhythm of the song of the woman he once called mother. instead he gives her another smile, just as false and empty as the first, “ he didn’t win the kingsmoot. ” there’s a soft ahhh from his cousin. she can always tell when he’s lying even in her manic state… but ( that hadn’t been a lie ) now had it.

[ao3feed-tywinxjoanna]

dead ladies club

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/2WB8stT

by masochisticmasturbation

i was inspired by lostchildofthenewworld's amazing story A Shadowed Path and was just struck by the thought that 'what if elia and rhaegar met when they were younger'? as it's inspired by her story, some characters, like maron gargalen who is elia's father, i have 'borrowed' from her story.

but that little seed of inspiration, it made my brain spiral. it made me think: what if we knew some of the thoughts and experiences of the infamous "dead ladies club" of game of thrones? what if they had more say?

this fic will be just a bunch of drabbles that connect to one another.

i will try to make it canon, but as we don't know much about elia, lyanna, elia's mother, rhaella, and joanna, i'm free to make my own interpretation, so don't attack me if it's not what you like.

Words: 2937, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Fandoms: Game of Thrones (TV), A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms

Rating: Not Rated

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Categories: F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi

Characters: Rhaella Targaryen, Lorenza Nymeros Martell, Joanna Lannister, Elia Martell, Lyanna Stark, Oberyn Martell, Rhaegar Targaryen, Tywin Lannister, Aerys II Targaryen

Relationships: Elia Martell/Rhaegar Targaryen, Aerys II Targaryen/Rhaella Targaryen, Lorenza Nymeros Martell/Maron Gargalen, Joanna Lannister/Tywin Lannister

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/2WB8stT