#*fingers crossed my comments about jaime are okay*

[empiregalaxy]

Dying Men, Priests, Samaritans & Ill Intents in ASOIAF

There was a man. He was traveling from Jerusalem to Jericho when he was set upon by men of ill intent. They stripped the traveler of his clothes, they beat him, and they left him bleeding in the dirt. And a priest happened by saw the traveler. But he moved to the other side of the road and continued on. And then a Levite, a religious functionary, he came to the place, saw the dying traveler. But he too moved to the other side of the road, passed him by. But then came a man from Samaria, a Samaritan, a good man. He saw the traveler bleeding in the road and he stopped to aid him without thinking of the circumstance or the difficulty it might bring him. The Samaritan tended to the traveler's wounds, applying oil and wine. And he carried him to an inn, gave him all the money he had for the owner to take care of the traveler, as the Samaritan, he continued on his journey. He did this simply because the traveler was his neighbor. He loved his city and all the people in it.

                                                 (What the hell does that mean?)

 It means that I'm not the Samaritan. That I'm not the priest, or the Levite. That I am the ill intent who set upon the traveler on a road that he should not have been on.

One of my favourite moments in ‘Daredevil’ comes from the end of season one. It’s where Wilson Fisk, explains to a security force his story using a theological allegory. It’s effective, and meaningful. Fisk decides that he is the ‘ill intent’, not the Samaritian. It means alot for the show, for Wilson Fisk and the overall arching themes. It also reminds me of ASOIAF in a way.

We can establish the characters in his story includes

The dying man / traveller

The priest (who does nothing)

The Levite (who does nothing)

The Samaritan (who is a force of goodness, and helps the dying man)

The ‘ill intent’ (who is the reason why the man is dying in the first place)

So, who is who? 

THE DYING MAN 

Well, the first character to come to mind for the ‘dying man’ is Sandor Clegane. Not only do we have a scene of him physically dying in The Riverlands

She did the gash in his thigh first, then the shallower cut on the back of his neck. Sandor coiled his right hand into a fist and beat against the ground when she did his leg. When it came to his neck, he bit the stick so hard it broke, and she had to find him a new one. She could see the terror in his eyes. "Turn your head." She trickled the wine down over the raw red flesh where his ear had been, and fingers of brown blood and red wine crept over his jaw. He did scream then, despite the stick. Then he passed out from the pain. (Ch 74, ASOS)

Sandor’s also -left- to die. I don’t think, metaphorically Arya is the ‘ill intent’. (I’ll discuss her later in this meta). My focus here is on Sandor, and how he morphs into “The Gravedigger” (or if we are going by the show- “the broken man” identity). I think Sandor Clegane is rather suicidal and he is definately suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Whilst having those don’t make you ‘dying’ it does make you vulnerable. To quote Thoros Of Myr, ‘ Sandor Clegane was a man in torment.’

Travel also plays a huge role in his arc- from the King’s Landing location in ACOK to The Riverlands in ASOS / AFFC. Travelers, historically- can be naive and prone to being taken advantage of. I think this also applies to Sandor. 

Another part of Sandor Clegane’s arc is dealing with the apathy of others- in this case, the ‘priests’ and ‘levites’. Joffrey and Cersei treat him horribly, and it’s Sansa, who is one of the very few people who try to reach out to him. There isn’t much indication in the first two books that Sandor Clegane had a strong relationship with The Faith Of The Seven, in fact he’s rather cynical about it. So overall, I think Sandor is the Dying Man. There’s a huge vulnerability to his character and I feel as if he is the best fit. 

Another would be Bran Stark. Not only has he had trials and faced ‘ill intents’- from being pushed from the tower by Jaime Lannister, to having his family die and be seperated from the living members. He’s also travelled alot- and by A Dance With Dragons, is incredibly upset and even suicidal. The hospitality he gets by the Children Of The Forest is coded as rather spooky, untrustworthy and mysterious (hence the paste theories) and beyond The Wall is something out of a horror show, but it could be interpreted as Samaritan-like hospitality. Bran doesn’t encounter many travellers on his journey- not as many compared to the likes of Brienne and Arya. So that’s why I’d pick Sandor Clegane as the best example.

Theon Greyjoy, is a good fit in my opinion. The ‘ill intent’ is obviously Ramsay. Not only is Theon brutally tortured, but also deals with a degrading identity of ‘Reek’. He encounters many people who do nothing and do not care that he is being abused- numerous northern lords, for instance. They are the ‘priests’ in Theon’s arc. Is Theon dying? The cold is absolutely frightening, and his arc could take numerous directions. He’s a character who I feel is marked for death and sincerely believes he is going to die... only to find he will live.  

A good female example for the ‘dying man’ would be Jeyne Poole. In a similar situation to Theon. An exception is that people are more invested in the abuse Ramsay is showing, but there is glaring ‘but’. People only care because Jeyne is “Arya”- Ned’s valiant daughter. Would people care for Jeyne if she had no disguise? That’s a rough question GRRM poses. And yeah, I think the answer would make us all uncomfortable. 

PRIESTS & LEVITES

They both seem to be interchangable, and bare similarities. They both leave the Dying Man to die, and any attempts at pity ring false as they do not fully help him. Here apathy is a theme in ASOIAF, and also a theme in history, “when good men do nothing” (heavily discussed in a Post World War II-world). There are some instances of priests / levites

Lysa Arryn, her doing nothing in the War Of Five Kings

Kingsguard to Aerys II and Joffrey Baratheon

Barristan Selmy also considers the position of ‘knights’ (in particular, kingsguard) to have a role in general apathy

I took Robert's pardon, aye. I served him in Kingsguard and council. Served with the Kingslayer and others near as bad, who soiled the white cloak I wore. Nothing will excuse that. I might be serving in King's Landing still if the vile boy upon the Iron Throne had not cast me aside, it shames me to admit. But when he took the cloak the White Bull had draped about my shoulders, and sent men to kill me that selfsame day, it was as though he'd ripped a caul off my eyes. That was when I knew I must find my true king, and die in his service..

I think quite highly of Barristan in alot of regards, because he overcomes his apathy and qualms, in order to dedicate his life to something higher. So he is a good aversion to the ‘priest’- in Barristan’s version, he helps the dying man. He reflects quite frequently on him ‘doing nothing’ in his chapters in A Dance With Dragons:

He had seen things it pained him to recall, and more than once he wondered how much of the blood was on his own hands.

This also brings up a great philosophical question: if you leave the dying man to die, and he dies- is that blood on your hands? I think ASOIAF gives a clear answer - yes, it does. The series is about characters overcoming it, and becoming better citizens.

So who are the -straight forward- Priests & Levites in ASOIAF, besides Lysa Arryn? I’d also suggest Meryn Trant, who does not care, full stop.

Other men might have cursed her, warned her to keep silent, even begged for her forgiveness. Ser Meryn Trant did none of these. Ser Meryn Trant simply did not care.  

But he could also be argued as the ‘ill intent’. Apathy is ugly, and does mean ill. Pretty much: anyone who turned away from the suffering another character experiences is a ‘priest’. 

This is also clear in the arc of Sansa Stark. She is not a ‘priest’- she is quite kind after all, yet her arc is stacked with people who appear to care, yet don’t really. There’s the Tyrells in A Storm Of Swords, (I think Margaery isn’t a bad egg- but her cousins don’t really get a flattering description), Pycelle, Kevan and Lancel Lannister who have no issue doing actions that are tyrannical. Same could be said about Arys Oakheart, and all the times he strikes Sansa. Sansa herself is rather interesting, but her arc deals alot with ‘ill intents’ and ‘priests / levites.’

I’d also expand on Pycelle to be a Priest / Levite. His apologism for Lannisters has always been ridiculous, and then there is the part of him being okay with Daenerys Targaryen being murdered.

Yet I ask you this—should war come again, how many soldiers will die? How many towns will burn? How many children will be ripped from their mothers to perish on the end of a spear? Is it not wiser, even kinder, that Daenerys Targaryen should die now so that tens of thousands might live?

Therefore- we can establish that the major priests / levites of the story include Lysa Arryn, Meryn Trant & Pycelle

THE SAMARITANS 

These are motivated by love and kindness. I love this part of the story, because I can think about just how awesome some characters are. You’ve got Sansa Stark, saving Lancel, Ser Dontos and just being her badass, kind self. You’ve also got Arya, who gives water to men in need to aid, you’ve got her standing up for the unfortunate and smallfolk. Not many people read the Stark sisters narrative as a Samaritan story, but it’s something to consider. 

Others include- Brienne Of Tarth, Meera Reed, Edmure Tully, Podrick Payne, The Elder Brother and in the show, Ian McShane’s character Ray also fits. The whole thing about being a samaritan is that it’s usually at the expense of something. You are risking something huge, like your life or it comes at a large cost. The Samaritan in the story ‘gives all the money he had’. When Brienne Of Tarth is on her quest to save Sansa, she risks her life

I will never stop looking. I will give up my life if need be, give up my honor, give up all my dreams, but I will find her.

If the ‘soiled knights’ are priests / levites, then ‘true knights’ are the samaritans of the story. Brienne also goes on to say

Young or old, a true knight is sworn to protect those who are weaker than himself, or die in the attempt.

Brienne is probably my favourite example of a Samaritan. She, and Podrick risk so much for the quest for Sansa. It’s more than an oath- it’s love. Without getting all gushy, it’s hard to not be moved by these acts of pure selflessness. 

THE MEN OF ILL INTENT

These characters are the reason why the problem exists in the first place. Why the man is dying. And this is for the villains of ASOIAF. Think Ramsay Bolton, Euron Greyjoy, Cersei Lannister, Gregor Clegane, Joffrey Baratheon. ASOIAF actually gives us a depiction of ‘men of ill intent’ and no one, fits the mould better than the men that Tywin Lannister employs. And that includes Gregor

Your Mountain stole my harvest and burned everything he could not carry off. He put my castle to the torch and raped one of my daughters. I will have recompense.

and in A Game Of Thrones, Gregor Clegane and his men on Tywin’s orders- sack the Riverlands. There are also the atrocities at Harrenhal, which Arya and the smallfolk experienced

A young mother with a pox-scarred face offered to freely tell them all she knew if they'd promise not to hurt her daughter. The Mountain heard her out; the next morning he picked her daughter, to be certain she'd held nothing back. The ones chosen were questioned in full view of the other captives, so they could see the fate of rebels and traitors. A man the others called the Tickler asked the questions. His face was so ordinary and his garb so plain that Arya might have thought him one of the villagers before she had seen him at his work. "Tickler makes them howl so hard they piss themselves," old stoop-shoulder Chiswyck told them. He was the man she'd tried to bite, who'd called her a fierce little thing and smashed her head with a mailed fist. Sometimes he helped the Tickler. Sometimes others did that. Ser Gregor Clegane himself would stand motionless, watching and listening, until the victim died.

I think if the Samaritan story had to take place in an ASOIAF location- it’d be The Riverlands. No location is more perfect. The Riverlands have suffered so much death and heartache. Therefore, Gregor Clegane fits the mould (quite) well. As does Tywin.

Tywin Lannister was as much fox as lion. If indeed he'd sent Ser Gregor to burn and pillage—and Ned did not doubt that he had—he'd taken care to see that he rode under cover of night, without banners, in the guise of a common brigand. Should

The ‘men of ill intent’ can also include the people who give the order. So Tywin and Cersei make a whole lot of sense in being included. 

JAIME LANNISTER

Now onto the controversial topic: Jaime & Redemption. I know, it’s been discussed to death but here is my perspective (and how it fits in with the Samaritan story)

Jaime is an interesting aversion. He’s all five. His arc could be interpreted

He’s been in a state of mental and physical distress- when he loses his hand in A Storm Of Swords. This is described in depth, what this loss meant for him

"Jaime," Brienne whispered, so faintly he thought he was dreaming it. "Jaime, what are you doing?" "Dying," he whispered back. "No," she said, "no, you must live." He wanted to laugh. "Stop telling me what do, wench. I'll die if it pleases me."

(...) 

The days and the nights blurred together in a haze of pain. He would sleep in the saddle, pressed against Brienne, his nose full of the stink of his rotting hand, and then at night he would lie awake on the hard ground, caught in a waking nightmare. Weak as he was, they always bound him to a tree. It gave him some cold consolation to know that they feared him that much, even now. Brienne was always bound beside him. She lay there in her bonds like a big dead cow, saying not a word. The wench has built a fortress inside herself. They will rape her soon enough, but behind her walls they cannot touch her. But Jaime's walls were gone. They had taken his hand, they had taken his sword hand, and without it he was nothing. The other was no good to him. Since the time he could walk, his left arm had been his shield arm, no more. It was his right hand that made him a knight; his right arm that made him a man.

Jaime, although his mental and physical health has improved, has experienced a stage of being ‘the dying man’. He’s also been the ‘ill intent’ in the lives of Bran Stark (as we all know, pushed him from the tower). You don’t have to like Jaime’s actions throughout the series. You don’t have to be okay with Jaime’s actions. The story of the samaritan is not about making excuses or apologizing. What I do think Jaime’s arc is about- is overcoming apathy.

Jaime has also been the Levite / Priest. This is when he was Kingsguard to Aerys II Targaryen.

The sight had filled him with disquiet, reminding him of Aerys Targ-aryen and the way a burning would arouse him. A king has no secrets from his Kingsguard. Relations between Aerys and his queen had been strained during the last years of his reign. They slept apart and did their best to avoid each other during the waking hours. But whenever Aerys gave a man to the flames, Queen Rhaella would have a visitor in the night. The day he burned his mace-and-dagger Hand, Jaime and Jon Darry had stood at guard outside her bedchamber whilst the king took his pleasure. "You're hurting me," they had heard Rhaella cry through the oaken door. "You're hurting me." In some queer way, that had been worse than Lord Chelsted's screaming. "We are sworn to protect her as well," Jaime had finally been driven to say. "We are," Darry allowed, "but not from him."

Jaime struggles with being in an apathetic position- I don’t think he likes being a Levite / Priest who does nothing. He in fact, calls out Meryn Trant on his apathy

"Ser Meryn." Jaime smiled at the sour knight with the rust-red hair and the pouches under his eyes. "I have heard it said that Joffrey made use of you to chastise Sansa Stark." He turned the White Book around one-handed. "Here, show me where it is in our vows that we swear to beat women and children."

So we can establish Jaime has a firm relationship with Priests / Levites- they disgust him, he doesn’t want to be one. I think Jaime has trauma from Aerys reign, and that influences him.

Now, the Samaritan part. Oh this is controversial. Like Brienne, this links with his quest for Sansa Stark and his relationship with Brienne Of Tarth

"I told you, I will never serve . . . " " . . . such foul creatures as us. Yes, I recall. Hear me out, Brienne. Both of us swore oaths concerning Sansa Stark. Cersei means to see that the girl is found and killed, wherever she has gone to ground . . . " Brienne's homely face twisted in fury. "If you believe that I would harm my lady's daughter for a sword, you—" "Just listen," he snapped, angered by her assumption. "I want you to find Sansa first, and get her somewhere safe. How else are the two of us going to make good our stupid vows to your precious dead Lady Catelyn? The wench blinked. "I . . . I thought . . . " "I know what you thought." Suddenly Jaime was sick of the sight of her. She bleats like a bloody sheep. "When Ned Stark died, his greatsword was given to the King's Justice," he told her. "But my father felt that such a fine blade was wasted on a mere headsman. He gave Ser Ilyn a new sword, and had Ice melted down and reforged. There was enough metal for two new blades. You're holding one. So you'll be defending Ned Stark's daughter with Ned Stark's own steel, if that makes any difference to you."

Part of being a samaritan is about sacrifice, and here is where I think Jaime’s arc becomes crucial: at the end of his arc in ADWD, he goes off with Brienne under the presumption that Sansa will be killed by Sandor Clegane. This is a meta for another time (because this is getting really, really long) but I feel as if Jaime could potentially have a role in the War For Dawn. That he’d put aside the allusions of ‘knights’ and actively do the right thing. This is not about redemption, but about being a better person. Like I said, you don’t have to like Jaime’s actions- I just think the five characters in the story of the dying traveller is interwovern in his arc.

CONCLUDING THOUGHTS

Okay, this got long. I just think ASOIAF is a text that is covering themes that are rather biblically epic- the scope of good and evil, and how man reacts to it. What I liked about the Samaritan story is just how real it felt. It reminds me strongly of ASOIAF, and I hope I made that clear.

[national-nobody-writes]

2020 Creator Wrap

2020 Creator Wrap: Favorite Works

I was tagged by the oh so talented @irolltwenties!

Rules: it’s time to love yourselves! choose your 5 (or so) favorite works you created in the past year (fics, art, edits, etc.) and link them below to reflect on the amazing things you brought to the world in 2020. tag as many writers/artists/etc. as you want (fan or original) so we can spread the love and link each other to awesome works!

I’m not a particularly prolific writer (WIPs for days, but completed projects? Not so much). Somehow in this hell year though, I did manage to complete more fics than in any previous year for a total of seven new works (~49k words, all on ao3), plus a chunky chap of a long running WIP (~20k words) so I’m actually pretty damn proud of myself! I also made some new fandom friends in 2020 which has easily been one of the biggest delights of the year & has definitely helped my creative momentum, so ty all for that. <3

Counting down from 5, here are my favs:

5. Downtime

I have endless love for JayRoy and it felt so good to finally finish something for them for once this year! All of my past WIPs primarily focused on them ended up firmly in my graveyard folder, including the fic that this one shot was originally meant to be connected to. I liked the way this turned out well enough to clean it up and post it on its own though, so at least now I can say that I have something published for them at last.

(Also it got me back into the JayRoy headspace enough to outline a whole YJ/Earth16 JayRoy fic that I’m excited to start drafting in 2021, so we’ll see where that goes...)

2.3k NSFW; A mix of playful sweet and roughness, just like them.

4. Mirror Image

Bluepulse Week really saved me this year in terms of forcing me to just write, damn it! Did I finish all the prompts this year? Nope. Did it get me to complete a handful of fics that I ended up really loving? Yes. This was one of them.

This fic zoomed into existence entirely out of necessity as an alt idea to a prompt that I had a much longer idea for, but didn’t have time to complete. It then got a positive enough reception that I decided to turn it from a crack-adjacent, passable one-shot to a slightly more developed two-shot by request of one of my commenters. Really, it was writing that second chapter that ended up endearing the fic to me.

6.3k Humor, time travel shenanigans & accidental dating. This fic is the sweetness of teenage crushes, the confusing mess of discovering your sexuality, & laughter with your best friend.

3. Soft Wesper One Shots

Would you look at that, another nsfw piece. Could it be that I’m starting to get to the point where I can look back at completed nsfw fics without cringing terribly? Love that for me.

This fic took me by surprise, tbh. I wouldn’t consider myself a part of the grisaverse fandom (I’m utterly ambivalent toward the OG trilogy & have no plans to read them), but I did fall deeply in love with the whole Six of Crows gang earlier this year to the point of having quite the book hangover afterward, unable to pick up anything else except related fanfic for a couple weeks straight. These fluffy, nsfw scenes were born out of that, and I was pleasantly surprised to see such a positive response to them in the comments. The whole SoC gang has my heart, but the dynamic between Jesper and Wylan in particular got my writing fingers itching.

3.7k Domestic, post-canon fluff & tender sex with flirty Jesper & blushing Wylan abound.

2. Stick With Me

Ohh, I still get warm fuzzies thinking about this fic! If I’m only low-key proud of the first three on this list, this is one I’m legitimately very proud of. I had this idea on the docket already from a convo with @ivyxwrites early this year (or maybe last year? who knows, time means nothing anymore) but used Bluepulse Week as the excuse to finally get started, and I ended up adoring the process of writing it far more than I anticipated.

As much as I love planning out meticulously crafted, plotty stories, sometimes all you want to do is pick some well-loved tropes out of a hat instead and run with them (in this case: stuck in a cabin, only one bed, & heated argument leading to confession). It was freeing to just mess around and have fun with this fic, knowing pretty much right from the get-go how I wanted it to unfold and seeing it so vividly in my mind. It also probably helped that I was writing it for Ivy; it’s much easier for me to stay motivated when creating directly for my friends.

Finishing this was also such a serotonin-filled burst of pure victory for me since, as previously stated, I’m terrible at finishing projects--particularly multi-chap fics, particularly within a decent timeframe.

25.5k A showcase of the essence of what I love about the best friends-to-lovers dynamic. Part character study, part wires getting crossed & uncrossed, and whole idiots to lovers. This fic is the warmth in the pit of your stomach from a yearning made real & the sudden clarity of realizing what you were looking for had already been there all along.

1. The Rest Pt 1: Delicate (Remember Me Chap 4)

Oh, Remember Me. Of everything I’ve ever written, this story remains the one I’m most proud of and certainly the closest to my heart (not to mention the longest running, whoops). The first iteration of the beginning of this story was actually drafted back in 2017, but I walked away from it for a couple of years before deciding to dust it off and try again. It has spiraled into something far bigger in scope than I originally planned for, but I’ve come to love the path it’s led me down so far, and finishing this whopping 20k chunkster of a chapter was like breathing a huge (if temporary) sigh of relief.

This chap was particularly cathartic to write because it allowed for a number of convos between the boys that had really needed to happen, and was finally the ‘getting together’ moment the fic had been building toward for a while. It’s also so sappy I could die, but I will not be apologizing for that, lol. I was really hoping to get Chap 5 up this year as well, but y’know. Sometimes things just don’t work out like you plan for and that’s okay. 

Chap 5 does have 17k done already (with prob another 5-8k still to go) & I’m itching to share it, but no sense in rushing if the end result would suffer for it. Luckily, everyone in comments has been kind enough to beat me over the head with ‘take your time, we don’t mind/we’ll still be here!!!’ which I’m immensely grateful for. So, at least the pressure to hurry up and get it done is purely self-inflicted.

Of all my works, this fic has not only gotten the most passionate responses, but has also been the main gateway for me to interact with other bluepulse creators, which has been a real joy. Nothing brightens my day like the essays people leave me over there from time to time after discovering the fic. That kind of engagement is the highest praise, & responding is very self indulgent fun for me (bc, clearly, I could go on and on about this fic & YJ in general forever).

54.8k total so far (WIP). Bart & Jaime’s relationship journey from beginning to ‘current day’ (aka the moment the fic begins), using amnesia/memory restoration as a framing device. The high highs and low lows of first love, navigating a 3 yr age difference, and the long, winding road from best friends to lovers as the years roll on. Slow-burn-adjacent (in terms of both the boys’ relationship to each other and reader’s relationship to the fic bc of how long I take between goddamn updates).

Tagging @ivyxwrites, @incorrectbatfam, @paintingwithdarkness, @bluepulsebluepulse

[nossbean]

for the wip meme! book canon AU with no LSH confrontation?? 👀👀👀

Oh boy. okay, so this is the first sort of plotty thing I’ve really attempted that’s book canon. It was inspired by a post by @ginmo that crossed my dash wherein they commented they didn’t actually think JB would confront LSH. And... that set this off in my head! I am super curious to see how the truth of the situation would come out, and how emotions might be processed, when there isn’t a violent, possibly cathartic confrontation in the midst of it. Just: an abandoned camp, Brienne’s guilt and injury, and Jaime’s wariness and worry. I also think there’s some interesting tension -- er, if I can manage it -- with Jaime having to come to terms with the fact that Brienne is entirely human, which is to say, imperfect and also hurting, in many varied ways, whilst also yes, having lied to him. And for Brienne: she’s carried so much hurt and expectation, and also her (recent?) awareness of her feelings for Jaime, knowing what it means to lie to him, and I presume she fully anticipates giving up her life* for Jaime and for Podrick (and for Hyle, too, I guess... XD) only to instead find she has to live; not as a victor, on that slim chance she redeemed herself in the fight, but just exactly as she is right now.

*just a note here to emphasize that I don’t think Brienne *wants* to, but rather in line with no chance and no choice, it’s actually worse probability here, both by way of numbers and her own physical state. Brienne would give it her all regardless, of course. 

If ever I were to do a follow-up to this, I think it would be to spend more time on Brienne’s feelings about Catelyn/LSH not having any real resolution there (yet) and when she isn’t dogged by injury and fever. 

I feel like the first draft is maybe 70% written? I’ve been poking at this for a while and have shared snippets before (here, here and here) and there are parts I really like. But I admit I’m somewhat fretting about the book canon and characterization of it all 😱😬 but! my goal is to have it donezo before the end of the year! Fingers crossed. Until then, here are the first couple of paragraphs (largely unedited):

Jaime watches as Brienne dismounts, lurching dangerously against her horse with a gasp before pushing away and stumbling into the clearing ahead without a backwards glance. Unease itches just under his skin, aggravating him, while worry he disdains is the clench in his jaw. Honour nickers, stomps, and Jaime pats her neck. He dismounts, leading her forward to hobble to Brienne’s chestnut mare. Once they’re secure, he makes his own way to the clearing.

The clearing had once evidently held a camp, recently abandoned. The lingering stench of an ill-covered privy reaches him and he snorts against it. Beneath his boot comes a squelch, and he looks down, mouth curling in disgust at mouldering vegetable rinds and other food detritus. The cook fires have been poorly concealed, but they all appear cold, and when he crouches beside one, using his teeth to remove his glove and holds his hand above the charcoal, there’s no hint of heat. It’s hard to know for certain, there appear to be glades off the side of this clearing, and there is a cave ahead which may have housed more, but he expects the camp had been at least a dozen strong.

Standing, Jaime looks to the cave. Brienne is vanished, he expects inside its murk, and with a bitten back sigh and a twinge of sharp-edged intuition, he follows after her.

On a separate level, I know there’s a theory in the Arya side of fandom that actually LSH confrontations, etc, are going to involve Arya, rather than JB, as there’s an arc there to be explored viz Arya and leadership and the Brotherhood. That’s not really my wheelhouse in terms of what I’d write, but I do find it fascinating, and again, the implications for what it does to JB’s arc are super interesting to me, too. (I mean, I’m sure there are 802 theories about LSH but the Arya one I read lo those many moons ago seemed as plausible to me as JB fandom theories, is what I’m getting at)

Send me an ask with the title of one of my WIPS and I’ll tell you about it/post a snippet!

[aliveanddrunkonsunlight]

Turkey Curry Buffet (or a very loose Bridget Jones AU)

A/N: thanks to @pretty--thief for the nudge and technically, this fills the champagne prompt.

“You don’t remember me, do you?” 

She recognizes him not from when they used to play together in Evenfall’s backyard, but from all the pictures in the papers. Jaime Lannister. The handsome looks, wavy blond hair, and piercing green eyes. The only difference is his face has matured a little and quite unfairly, make him look all the better. And if Brienne did have any doubt, he is wearing a rather garish gold and crimson jumper. Lannister colors. 

His eyes travel up and down her body in a quick once over. When his gaze settled on her face, there’s a flicker of recognition, but he shakes his head. “No, can’t say I do. And I would remember you.”

It’s a comment on her appearance without being an insult, but she grimaces anyway. “What are you doing here?” 

“I’m a friend of the Starks.” 

“A friend?” Catelyn has never held much fondness for Tywin or his brood, but Brienne assumes Jaime garnered an invitation in an effort to be civil and welcoming, even to the Starks’ competitors. Keep your friends close, your enemies closer. 

Several years prior, Tywin handed over the reins to his son, the man who stood before her, but rumor said it was the younger son who kept the ship afloat, while Jaime was simply the pretty face. 

“Am I an enemy to you then?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. “I don’t even know you.” 

“We knew each other when we were little.” She tries to push past him in an attempt to get to the side of the table he’s blocking, but he snaps his fingers in recognition, blocking her path. 

“Oh, I know. Brienne Tarth. You always could keep up with the boys.” 

Her mouth falls open. “What is that supposed to mean?” 

He at least has the courtesy to look embarrassed. “I just meant…” he stumbles over his words. “You were always willing to go on adventures with Addam and I. Not like my sister.”

She clears her throat. “Yes, well.”   

He eyes her half empty plate. “Do you have a drink? You want something?” 

“No, thank you.” 

“Oh, come on. It’s the holidays. A little champagne, at least?” 

“I really can’t. I, uh-”

“You have stunning eyes,” Jaime blurts out.   

The last thing she expects is a compliment from this man’s lips. Her face blooms with blush and although she can barely tear her eyes away from his, she glances down at her plate, hoping to quell the feelings stirring in her gut. A large hand lands on her shoulder, making her look up into the smiling face of her father, who towers over her at almost seven feet. 

“Hi, darling. I see you two have found each other.” 

Jaime flashes a quick smile at Selwyn. “Yes, it’s good to catch up.” But Brienne notes the unease in her father’s face. 

“You know Brienne has done quite well for herself.” 

She puts a hand on her father’s arm, nearly begging him not to continue. “He doesn’t want to hear.” 

“Would you rather me tell the story about the time you ran round naked in his pool?” 

Brienne nearly chokes. “Dad!” She can feel the burn of Jaime’s gaze on her and when she glances over, he’s trying to suppress a smirk. “Okay, off with you now.” She gives her father a playful shove, his laugh echoing across the room as he leaves them be. 

“That’s your dad?”

“Yes, and if you make a comment about how I clearly got my looks or stature or body from him, I’ll whack you with…” Her eyes scan the table, searching for a weapon, but the only thing which might do the job is the spoon in her hand. “This ladle.” 

“Over the turkey curry buffet? How cheeky.” He raises an eyebrow at her and damn, his eyes are as gorgeous as the rest of him.  

“Piss off.” 

His mouth falls open in feigned shock. “For the love of the Seven. You have quite a mouth. Did you pick it up working for the Starks?” 

“I don’t work for the Starks.” 

“Oh, really? What do you do then?” 

“I’m a defender for Winterfell.” 

“Ah, you learned it on the soccer pitch. Should have known.” If she remembers correctly, Jaime played soccer in school. She wonders why he didn’t go pro. Family obligation, perhaps? “That’s quite impressive. We should celebrate your success. Champagne?” 

“Thank you, but-” It’s too late for her objections, as Jaime spots a waiter circulating with full glasses and snatches them two flutes. But now she has a plate full of food and no way to eat it since her other hand is full. 

“Come, come, sit.” His hand lightly lands on her wrist, Brienne tryng to ignore the sparks she feels from his touch. 

“Why are you being so nice to me?” she asks suspiciously as she takes a seat. “Shouldn’t you be circulating the party, glad handing all your business associates? Trying to make Ned Stark jealous?” 

Jaime lets out a surprised laugh. “You’re very astute, Brienne Tarth.” He takes a sip of champagne as she tries to shovel down the turkey curry as gracefully as she can. “Believe it or not, Catelyn Stark does not invite me to keep me in her good graces. It’s because she feels sorry for me.” 

It’s laughable that anyone would feel sorry for Jaime Lannister. He is no doubt one of the richest men in Westeros. He can solve any problem by throwing money at it. Jaime is heartbreakingly handsome and despite her better judgement, Brienne finds him oddly charming. She chews and takes a sip of champagne to wash it down. “Why?”   

A shadow crosses his face. “Because,” he replies, clearing his throat. “I’m divorced.” 

“Oh.” Brienne isn’t sure what to say. “Recently?” 

“No,” he admits. “But a painful one.” 

“I’m sorry,” she says automatically, before realizing she really does feel sympathy for him. She places her hand at his wrist, squeezes it quickly. “I am.”   

“Thank you.” He gives her a grateful smile, perhaps because she hasn’t treated him as a pariah. Jaime drains the rest of his flute and cuts a look towards her, eyes flashing. “Now what’s this about you running round naked in my pool?”

[shipping-receiving]

Fictober 2019 Day 22: “We could have a chance.”

Rating: T | Word Count: 3069 Fandom: A Song of Ice and Fire / Game of Thrones Relationship: Jaime Lannister / Brienne of Tarth Tags: Alternate Universe – Office Notes: In this bit, I swap POVs pretty regularly. Triangle ▼ indicates Jaime's POV, circle ◯ indicates Brienne's. 

Office AU Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 4 / Part 5

(read on AO3)

//////

▼

Alright, Jaime, play it cool, Jaime tells himself. He folds his arms and leans back against his car in what he hopes is a natural pose. You have a plan. After dinner, when you’re both alone, ask if this is a date, tuck hair behind ear, let finger linger on cheek, etc. He looks down at himself. Is this pose terrible? It’s terrible. Maybe I shouldn’t fold my arms? He shifts and rests one hand against the side mirror instead. What do I do with the other hand now? He places it on his hip. This is stupid. Oh fuck, I see her.

◯

Stay calm, Brienne, Brienne tells herself as she pauses just inside the main entrance of her apartment building. It’s just dinner. You never said ‘date’, did you? You can still pretend it’s just dinner. She can see Jaime through the glass, standing at his car in what looks like a very uncomfortable position. He needs to stop rolling his sleeves up to his elbows. Wait, no, he should never stop doing that. By the time she steps out of the building, the heat of her blush has already spread throughout her entire body.

▼

She’s here, she’s here. The words are an alarm in Jaime’s head as Brienne walks towards him, and he pulls his hand back from the side mirror with a jerk. She’s wearing the blue blouse he likes, the one she was wearing at the office when he first noticed her eyes, but this evening she’s worn it loose and paired with dark jeans. She’s blushing already; that’s a good sign, right? Okay, Jaime, be smooth.

“Hey,” Jaime says in greeting. Fuck, that wasn’t smooth, that must have been two octaves lower than my regular voice. He clears his throat. “Hey, Brienne.”

◯ 

“Hey,” Brienne replies, trying to get a hold on the tremor in her voice. She absently smooths down her blouse, the one she knows he likes because it brings out her eyes. “Sorry for the late notice.” Why the hells am I speaking like I’m writing an email?

“No—” Jaime scrambles, “Don’t apologise for—I’m happy to—I would have—” and then he just exhales without finishing any one of those sentences.

“Well,” Brienne says, softly and courageously, “I’m glad you could make it.”

“Me too,” Jaime smiles.  

▼

Don’t apologise for asking, was what he meant to say. I’m happy to have dinner with you anytime. I would have dropped everything even if you had given me five minutes notice. Okay, maybe not that last one, that’s probably too much.

He opens the car door on the passenger side and gestures to the seat. “Shall we?”

“Oh! Um, I was thinking we could walk.” Brienne rocks slightly on the balls of her feet. “I know a place about ten minutes from here. Maybe not as fancy as you’re used to—” Oh fuck, does she think I’m too fancy? “I mean, it’s nothing fancy, but it’s good. It’s seafood, if that’s alright with you? I called ahead and booked a table, but we can always cancel it.”

◯ 

Oh fuck, now he thinks I think he’s too fancy. Brienne just wanted to pick somewhere familiar, and safe, and reliable. The food is delicious enough that he’ll remember the experience, but the ambience is also casual enough that it could just be a meal between friends, if that’s where this ends up going.

“Sure. Seafood sounds great.” He closes the door and locks the car. “We can walk. Is it okay if I park here?”

“It should be fine, I think.” Brienne points uselessly in the direction in which she’s already started walking. “It’s this way.”

“Seems like a nice neighbourhood,” Jaime comments, as he catches up.

“Oh, it’s decent. Quiet. A bit of a distance from the office, but the rent is reasonable enough that I can still get a small apartment to myself.”

“That’s nice,” he nods. “Having your own space.”

▼

I hate small talk. I am above small talk.

“How was your day with Margaery?” Jaime asks.

Is this small talk? I’m showing interest in her life; that’s good, right?

“It was good. She’s…” Brienne bites her lip. “We had a good talk.”

Do I want to know what they talked about? Did they talk about me? Is that why she texted me? Jaime opens his mouth and almost asks a question to that effect, but decides against it. I don’t want to know, anyway. Do I?

He opens his mouth again as they stop to wait at a crossing, but before he can think of the right phrasing, Brienne turns to him. “How was your meeting with the client yesterday?”

“What meet—Oh! Um. It was good too. Illuminating.” Gods, has a meeting with a client ever been ‘illuminating’? She’s going to see right through this.

But Brienne simply says, “That’s good.”

Jaime tries his best not to think about elopements. Damn it, Tyrion.  

◯

They cross the road and walk for the next block or so in an uncomfortable silence. Brienne doesn’t know why Jaime is being so quiet. He’s usually the one to get their conversations going. I should have just let him drive, she thinks, though the restaurant is barely two minutes by car from her apartment building.

▼

I’m being too quiet. I’ve clean forgotten how to make conversation. Quick, Jaime, think of something to say.

And so Jaime blurts out the only thing that’s on his mind right now.

“Is this a date?”

▼◯ 

Oh fuck.

◯ 

Brienne stops in the middle of the pavement. If she could have done so by screeching to a halt, she would have. “Oh! Oh gods—”

“I’m so sorry.” Jaime wipes his hand down his face. “I didn’t mean for it to come out quite so… bluntly.”

“No—um—it’s fine. It, it doesn’t have to be a date if you don’t want it to be.” No, Brienne, that suggests you already think it’s a date. “Uh, I mean, do you want it to be a—”

“Yes!” Jaime exclaims before she can complete her question. “… Do you?”

“… Yes. I think I do.” She should probably be making eye contact while saying this, but Brienne is finding the cracks in the concrete beneath her feet particularly fascinating right now.

“Okay,” Jaime responds, and he seems on the verge of laughing with relief. At least, that’s what she can tell while still staring at the pavement. “Good. Great.”

▼

They turn and walk a few more steps, as if everything hadn’t just changed between them. Jaime didn’t tuck her hair behind her ear, or let his finger linger on her cheek while she blushed. But he got an answer, and it was the answer he wanted.

He can’t seem to stop grinning.

Then, he feels a tickle on the edge of his palm. He looks down just in time to see Brienne retract her hand back to her thigh.

“Shut up,” she mumbles.

“I didn’t say a word!” Jaime protests, bringing his eyes up to her face. She’s still refusing to make eye contact. He didn’t think he could grin even wider.

“You were going to.”

“If I was going to, I would have said, ‘Go ahead. I want you to.’”

He can see her shift her gaze from her own feet to his hand again. She grabs it, not gently, but urgently, as if she would have lost all her bravery if she had waited a second longer.

“Shut up,” Brienne mumbles again.

Jaime obeys. He intertwines his fingers with hers.

◯ 

Jaime’s hand is warm. Brienne knows it is warm because it is connected to her own hand. She curls her fingers upwards, matches her fingertips to each of his knuckles. Her thumb strokes the flesh in the curve between his thumb and index finger. His hand feels muscular, how could a hand feel muscular? But of course a hand that is linked to Jaime’s forearm must be—

And then she realises they’ve missed a turn entirely.

“Sorry, we’ll have to turn back. I forgot to take a right back there.” She leads him back in the direction they came from. Because she can do that now. Because she is holding his hand.

“Good,” Jaime replies.

“Good?” Why would that be good?

He lifts their hands slightly. “More time for this.”

Oh.  

▼

The restaurant is small, but cosy. An eclectic assortment of historical illustrations of the Stormlands hang on its walls, alongside other decorative items featuring various marine animals. There’s a remarkably big model of a crab hanging over an empty table in the corner, and Jaime isn’t sure whether to be relieved or disappointed when they’re directed to a different table.

He trusts Brienne to order her usual—she seems to be pretty friendly with the owners, who look at him approvingly. He finds this to be quite the confidence booster, and sits up a bit straighter in his chair. He can feel his knee touching hers under the table.

“Hey,” Brienne says, after she’s ordered. “How are you with spicy food?”

I’m pathetic. “I can manage.” I’m an idiot.

“They have this amazing homemade hot sauce here. It’s not on the menu, but I always ask for it to go with my shrimp. We can get it on the side as a dip.”

“I’m game.” I’m also an idiot, but I already knew that part.

Three shrimps-dipped-in-hot-sauce in, Jaime is already sweating.

“I thought you said you could manage!” Brienne laughs, as she hands him a paper napkin.

“I lied,” he confesses, dabbing at his nose.

“Why would you do that?”

“I don’t know.” Fuck this hot sauce to all seven hells and back. “To impress you, I guess.”

Brienne blushes as she moves the bowl of sauce towards her side of the table. “You don’t need to do that, Jaime.”

“Isn’t that what people do on first dates?” he says, from behind the napkin.

“I guess so.” Brienne gives him a rare smirk as she dips her entire shrimp into the sauce and pops it in her mouth. She’s superhuman. But I think I already knew that part, too.

“My plan backfired, anyway.” Not that it was an actual plan as opposed to a stumble headfirst into hubris. Or rather, stupidity.

“I don’t know,” Brienne says, in the direction of the hot sauce. “You made an effort. It’s endearing in its own way.”

Jaime would be pleased by that if he wasn’t otherwise occupied with chugging his glass of iced water, and motioning to the server for a refill.

◯ 

The owner of the restaurant offers a sort of conspiratorial smile to Brienne while Jaime takes his credit card out to pay for the meal. She’d be more comfortable going dutch, to be frank, except they’d had enough arguments over the past four weekends about who would pay for entrance fees and sandwiches and ferry tickets and so forth. Jaime almost always won, on the basis that she was doing him a favour in the first place by showing him around.

As the little machine spits out Jaime’s receipt, Brienne remembers Jaime physically blocking her from handing cash over to the bewildered woman at the art museum’s ticketing counter. And how she found that he had slipped money into her pocket at some point during their time on Tarth, though she had deliberately arrived at the ferry terminal early so she could buy their tickets for them both. She wonders if she should feel offended. She bites back a smile instead.

They walk back to her apartment building, hand in hand. They don’t speak much again, but the silence is something pleasant this time. As if a weight has lifted, and yet also settled between them both. She reaches her other hand over and wraps it around his forearm. Gods, it feels even better than it looks. How is that even possible?

They reach his car, linger there, hands still glued together. Ask him, Brienne. Just ask. What’s the worst that could happen?

“Do you—do you want to come up? Margaery brought wine this afternoon but we didn’t get around to it. If you’d like some.”

“Oh! Uh—”

And then Brienne realises how that sounds. Oh gods, I didn’t mean to imply— “I don’t mean—” Fuck, does he think I’m— “I haven’t even—” Nope, he doesn’t need to know that— “I just mean, it’s nearby, and the only thing around here that’s open late is this one pub and that can get really noisy—we could go sit in the park, I suppose, but it’s pretty dark right now and it’s a bit of a detour—”

“No, I, I would love to go up—I mean—to, to talk. Or whatever.”

Or whatever.

▼

And, it’s awkward again.

Brienne is sitting next to him on her couch, both her hands in her lap, and she’s so stiff that he’s reminded of the way she sits at her desk at the office. He lets his eyes wander around her apartment while they sit in silence. Everything is simple and functional, save a framed picture on a bookshelf of someone he assumes is her father. But it feels warm nonetheless. Maybe it feels warm because Brienne is in it. Because it’s an extension of her. He thinks, for one of the few times in his life, that he is in a space that feels like a home.

Their two glasses of wine sit on her coffee table, untouched.

“Brienne—” he starts, but at the same time five words come out of her mouth in a rush:

“I’ve never kissed anyone before.”

◯ 

Brienne had been thinking about it the whole way from his car to her couch. It seemed to her like that was where this night was headed, and she just couldn’t stop thinking of those five words. They echoed in her brain as she poured them two glasses of wine, and set them down on the coffee table.

But I didn’t have to say it, did I?

“Shit. I didn’t mean to—” She brings her hands up to her face, as if she could contain the burning of her skin with her palms.

Then, she feels Jaime’s hand wrap around her wrist, guide her hands down.

“Okay,” he whispers, though there’s no one around to overhear his words. It’s just the two of them, on her couch. This—this is the entire known universe. “Thank you for telling me.”

And then he shifts toward her. Their thighs are two parallel lines, defying all mathematical logic by meeting at every single point. One of Jaime’s hands winds around her waist, towards her lower back. The other is moving up to caress her cheek. Brienne can’t tear her eyes away from his lips, which are moving in closer and closer and—

▼

“Ow! Fuck!”

Jaime’s brain is reverberating in his skull. Okay, so maybe this doesn’t hurt as bad as that one time him and Addam decided to headbutt each other for fun (it wasn’t fun, and they were more than old enough to know that it wouldn’t have been). But when you’re expecting lips to meet instead of foreheads—

“Oh gods, I’m so sorry Jaime.”

“It’s fine,” he says, as he rubs his brow with his fingers. “Are you okay?”

“I’m okay. I’m sorry. Do you need ice, or something?” He feels her tender touch on his forehead, something selfless, though it must have been equally painful for her.

“No, I’m fine, really.” Jaime opens his eyes and looks through the mess of all of their fingers. Her blue eyes are glistening in the warm glow of the lamp standing next to her couch. “Oh hells, Brienne, don’t cry.”

“I’m not!” she insists. And then a tear runs down her cheek. “Well, I wasn’t going to until you said that!”

He wipes away one tear, and another. “If you don’t want to—if you’re not ready—we don’t have to.”

“I want to,” she says. It sounds to Jaime like fear and desire in the same breath. “It’s just—I’m nervous because I really want to, and I’ve never done it, and I don’t want you to think—”

◯

Words don’t exist.

Jaime is kissing her and words don’t exist.

What are words? There is only the feeling of his lips on hers, his hand around her neck, his hand that she already knows is warm because her own hand has held it, his other hand on her cheek. There is only her own fingers in his hair, tracing the ridges of his scalp, down to the back of his neck, daring to slip beneath his collar, and Brienne finds perhaps that she has no need for oxygen ever again.

When Jaime breaks from her, all the words come rushing back into her brain, and with that, all her thoughts, her fears. “How was that?” she can’t help but ask.

Jaime just smiles at her, and doesn’t answer. Perhaps words stopped existing for him too. After a while, he asks, “How was that for you?”

“I… I liked it.” It sounds trivial, when she puts it like that. But she can’t think of anything else to say. She just knows she doesn’t want to kiss anyone else but Jaime. Ever. But maybe that’s something she should keep to herself, for now.

“I liked it too,” Jaime echoes, still smiling at her. “Do you want to—we could keep—”

“Please,” she hears herself say. Please.

As Jaime leans towards her again—leans over her, more like; she must have reclined onto her cushions at some point in that period of wordlessness—Brienne suddenly feels compelled to voice a confession. To put something into words.

“Jaime,” she whispers up to him. “I—I never thought I would have a chance at—at any of this.” A chance at dates, and kisses—and whatever comes after, eventually. A chance at love, she dares to think, even if she won’t say that word quite yet, and won’t for a while longer.

“I could say the same to you,” he breathes.

“Really?” How could that be possible?

“Really,” Jaime says, with a quiet conviction, a singular truth. He tucks her hair behind her ear, and lets his fingers linger on her cheek. “But we could have a chance, don’t you think?”

This time, Brienne doesn’t reply. She doesn’t put it into words.

Words—words don’t exist. Not for the rest of this night.

[firesign23]

Trope mash up: detective au + poorly timed confession

Okay, so, a few notes first. I got this mash-up (detective AU + poorly timed confession) and it so perfectly fit my plans for Cocks and Robbers (not its real title, I promise) that I was like “Damn.” So then I decided to write a version of a scene that will eventually be part of a longer fic. In theory. The basic premise of which is FBI-agent-equivalent Jaime has struck up an unlikely friendship with Detective Tarth of the King’s Landing PD after they worked the kidnapping of the Stark girls together three years previously. Simmering attraction, blahblah, Jaime gets caught in a bank robbery/hostage situation, manages to notify Brienne’s captain/his close friend as it started, blahblah, y’all know this trope.

Trope mash up: detective au + poorly timed confession

(Below the cut for length)

Jaime looks around the office, assessing each of his fellow hostages. The group has formed a near-circle, though none have been brave or foolish enough to put their backs to the door where one of the robbers stands sentinel. The man is watching the corridor, not the hostages, his fingers tapping the barrel of his rifle in a strange staccato. Amateur, then. Or possibly just cocky.

Of the hostages, six of them are some degree of hysterical, ranging from slightly upset (one of the tellers) to about-to-lose-their-shit-and-get-someone-shot-in-the-process (the bank president); the only one who isn’t is the bank security guard, a crude man who is eyeing Jaime with the same sort of assessing gaze. Blackwater, says his nametag. Jaime hopes like fuck he’s uninterested in getting shot--he’s the closest thing Jaime has to an ally at the moment.

Shuffling back slightly so his back is against the heavy oak desk, he manages to slip his phone from his sock, where he’d stuffed it as the robbery began. He doesn’t want this noticed, hopes like hell none of the others see it and ask questions. The quickest glance tells him his text chain with Addam is still on-screen--he mutes the output and hits the call button, then shoves the phone beneath the edge of the desk. It should be good enough to pick up the conversation in the room, give the police outside some idea of what’s going on, at least in this room.

He runs a hand over his face, eyes roving around the room once more. He's trained for this possibility, it’s part of the job, but he never expected to have to use it. Not for what was supposed to be a routine trip to the bank. He hadn’t even stopped for coffee this morning. He just hopes it’s enough, hopes he can keep order before someone fucks up and gets hurt, or--experience warns him--gets someone else hurt.

*

Brienne isn’t entirely sure how long they have been sitting in the surveillance van, waiting for Ops to get a video feed inside the bank. Too fucking long, by any reckoning.

She’s contemplating whether she can just walk into the damn building and fuck the consequences when Addam’s phone rings.

“It’s Jaime,” he says, and for a moment Brienne thinks that maybe he’s inside but not--

Addam answers, muting the mic and putting it on speaker in one swift movement, hooking it up to the computers in the van, and Jaime’s voice comes through. She’s never been so glad for his expensive taste in technology--he’s distant, as if he’s hidden the phone nearby, but the sound is clear.

“Hey,” Jaime says, interrupting low murmurs—the other hostages. “If we’re going to be stuck in Edd’s office, why don’t we go around, tell everyone our names? We might as well know who we’re stuck here with. The guy at the door isn’t going to mind.”

Edd. Bank president. Brienne writes it down, shoves it at one of the officers in the van with them. It should help, knowing where the hostages are being held. There’s a frisson of… not excitement, this is too dangerous to be excited about, but it’s something. Jaime leads the conversation, the voices in varying degrees of clarity, but he is always clear, his words layered in subtext that Brienne and Addam are able to parse. There are seven hostages in addition to Jaime, a single man guarding the door to the office where they are being held. Jaime manages to convey that there were at least three more, all armed, and he has no idea where any of them are. Nobody is injured. Yet. It’s something.

The conversation dies away, but even through the phone Brienne can tell that people are getting restless, panicked. Panicked people are dangerous. They make stupid decisions and people get hurt. Jaime must notice too, because he speaks again, in that same level, soothing tone. Panicked people are dangerous, but they can be controlled.

“Listen,” he says. “Every single one of us has a reason to walk out that door safely. Let’s focus on that, okay? Jeyne, what about you? What is waiting for you?”

Brienne listens as the group takes turns talking about the thing that means the most to them, the thing worth living for. Friends. Family. One of the women mentions that she has a cross-stitch she’s never found the time to finish. Another talks of the holiday she has booked, her first one since her husband passed away the year before. Jaime keeps them talking, engaged, distracted. Brienne tries to pick up hints of the situation inside the bank, keep her mind on the task at hand, but there is an aching humanness in the conversation that sets a strange lump in her breast.

“What about you, Jaime?”

It’s one of the women that asks. He’s avoided talking about himself up til now.

“I have a cat,” he says, a familiar gentle fondness in his voice. It’s a good line. True, but not revealing. “Giant grey tom called Honor. I rescued him in the Vale last winter. Well, I didn’t. I was with a friend--”

“You fucking her? This friend of yours.” It’s one of the men. Bronn, she thinks, the security guard. She doesn’t even want to imagine why his mind went there, but it keeps the conversation moving. Someone titters, a nervous laugh but a laugh all the same.

“I never said it was a woman,” Jaime replies dryly.

“It’s always a woman,” says the man. “That’s a no, then. You wanna fuck her?”

This time, Jaime ignores the comment entirely. “We had to head back early, before a snowstorm hit, and it was dark and late and fucking freezing, and she insi--”

“Told you it was a woman.”

“--insisted on checking the car before we moved. Said animals would sleep anywhere when it was that cold. Of course, she was right. She found this scrawny little kitten tucked around the engine and…”

Brienne knows the way he smiles at this part of the story, the unaffected little shrug he gives as if to say what else could we do? One of the women laughs genuinely, despite the circumstances. Jaime has that effect on people.

“The friend can’t have pets at her place, so he came home with me. He’s mouthy and stubborn, so I tried to name him after… well, she didn’t like that. And Meticulous Pain In My Ass was too unwieldy, so Honor it was.”

There’s a softness in his voice by the end, an affection that she knows is about more than the most spoiled feline in King’s Landing.

“Sounds like you have more than the cat waiting for you,” says one of the women, startling Brienne. “She must be very lucky.”

She expects him to object, or play it off, but Jaime is simply silent for a long moment. “She’s extraordinary,” he finally says. There is a raw honesty that she rarely associates with him in his tone. “She doesn’t know that I... She should be told.”

And she knows, objectively, that he is talking about her. She’d held that little kitten halfway to King’s Landing before they’d found a place to stop and buy supplies, it’s not like she can forget that. She can even, in that distant part of her that is not entirely focused on the job, acknowledge the implications of what he is saying. She can’t deal with them, but she can acknowledge them. It isn’t until Addam looks at her though, far too much sympathy in his eyes to be coming from her captain, that she realises.

Jaime doesn’t know she is here. His words are meant for Addam, not for her. A message to pass on, if the worst happens. He doesn’t… however calm his voice, however clever his communication, he doesn’t think he’ll be walking out of that bank alive.

And his last-- no.

“Take five, Tarth,” orders Addam, brisk but not unkind. “It’s your turn to grab the coffees.”

She doesn’t want to go, doesn’t want to risk missing… She doesn’t want to go, but she can’t stay either, can’t sit in this cramped little van listening to his voice knowing it might be the last time she hears it.

Not when he’s just admitted he loves her.

Fanfiction Trope MASH-UP

[dvp95]

can't breathe when you touch my sleeve - chapter 1

pairing: dan howell/phil lester

rating: e (eventually)

warnings: none

tags: alternate universe, slow burn, fluff & humour, tiny bit of inner turmoil wrt sexuality but trust me it’s not that deep, eventual smut, idiots in love

word count: 5,384 (this chapter & total)

summary: Dan keeps making a fool of himself in interviews, to the point where it’s basically a meme. Now he’s got to sit down for the better part of an hour and sell his show to the YouTuber he’d had a massive crush on when he was a teenager.

read on ao3 or here!

“You’re gonna need to do this one alone, dude, our flight’s been delayed again.”

At least Dan’s costar seems somewhat put out. She looks all chagrined and her accent has slipped back into a drawl since they’d finished filming. The FaceTime call is grainy, but he can tell she’s tired from being in the airport all day.

“It’s fine, Jaime,” Dan lies through his teeth, because there’s nothing she can fucking do about it anyway. He sighs and looks at himself in the mirror, where he’d paused in fixing his eyebrows to take her call. “Does Patrick even care, or is he just sleeping on his luggage again?”

“The latter, of course,” Jaime laughs. She turns the camera briefly so Dan can see the star of their show lounging across his bags with a blanket over his face.

Dan laughs, too, but there’s panic in it. “So you guys are really, like. Stuck in Atlanta.”

“Yeah,” she sighs. “But it’s just one interview.”

Just one interview. The amount of damage Dan knows he can do with just one interview makes him consider calling out sick.

“It’s an interview with BBC Radio One,” he reminds her. Jaime’s only reaction is to blink at him. This is why he regrets spending all of his time in America, with Americans. They’re fine and all, he loves his job, they just don’t understand the sort of ramifications that could come from Dan fucking up this interview. Ramifications like, his grandma might hear it.

“It’s fine, you’re talking to a YouTuber,” says Jaime. “You’re better with them.”

“That’s because they’re more like people.”

“Jimmy Kimmel is people, Daniel.”

“He’s not,” Dan says, adamant. “And Jimmy Kimmel saw me do a fucking nosedive on my way offstage, didn’t he.”

It’s their second year doing press tours, the first they’re doing any kind of international coverage, and it’s already become a widespread joke that Daniel Howell sucks in interviews.

Give him a script, he’s fine. Ask him questions he can riff off, he’s fine. But he’s easily distracted, gets starstruck in ways his coworkers have managed to suppress, and his limbs aren’t friends with his brain. He’s spilled iced coffee on many a PA, said BuzzFeed no less than five times during the Wired autocomplete interview, turned into an actual fucking tomato when Lilly Singh complimented him.

He always thought, hey, at least it’s mostly online coverage. Not the fucking BBC. He’s more comfortable in an online space. And he’s happy with it all, since being in a well-liked Netflix original means that he’s more or less living the dream.

If only he could stop making a fucking fool of himself in interviews. It’s basically a meme at this point.

“You’ll be fine,” Jaime says.

“I’m going to offend them and/or fall on my ass,” says Dan.

Jaime’s lips twitch, lagging a bit with the shitty airport wifi. “Yeah, maybe.”

–

It’s a very close call, but Dan doesn’t roll into the BBC late. His hair might be a fucking disaster and he might have almost left the house without his left shoe on, but he got here and that’s what counts.

“Hey,” he says at the desk, trying to act like he didn’t just run here after getting off on the wrong Tube stop. He’s never spent a lot of time in London, has barely been back from America in a few years, and he might have overestimated his navigation abilities. “Hi, um, I’m -”

“Daniel Howell,” the receptionist says, looking for all the world like he hasn’t done anything strange. “Sure, yeah, you’re just going to go down that hall there, it’s the third door. The toilets are on the way if you want to freshen up.”

Dan is fairly sure he looks like a mess, so he thanks the kind person profusely before running off to the bathroom to check.

Yeah, alright. He’s looked worse. He’s also looked a lot better, but he didn’t pack any straighteners or concealer in his jeans, so it’ll just have to fucking do. He fixes his hair as best as he can and dries the sweat off his face. After that, all he can really do is make sure his flies are zipped before he makes his way to the room he’d been pointed to.

It’s small and sparse, clearly not part of the radio behind-the-scenes. In front of a plain white backdrop, there’s just a couple dark loveseats and a coffee table with glasses of water that Dan is already having a premonition of knocking over.

A guy is setting up one of the two cameras, hasn’t heard Dan enter, and now Dan is wracked with the certainty that anything he says or does at this point will come out awkward.

“Uh,” is what he goes with, wincing when the guy almost knocks the camera off its axis as he jumps. “Sorry. For - that. And for almost being late.”

“You can’t be almost late, can you? You’re fine, sorry, just let me get this…”

“I thought this was a radio interview?”

“No, I mean, I do have a radio show, but I’m not hosting today. This is just for the website and YouTube.”

The voice sounds irritatingly familiar, like it’s on the tip of Dan’s tongue, but that doesn’t surprise him. He’s probably heard most of the people here on the radio at some point, even with how little he’s on this side of the pond.

He’s immeasurably relieved by this not being a live radio interview that his grandma might hear, but he’s still feeling weird without his costars.

“Sorry,” Dan says again, for lack of anything else to say.

“It’s seriously okay,” the guy laughs, finally securing the camera on its tripod properly and spinning to greet Dan. “Hi! You’re Daniel, right? I hear it’s just us today.”

Dan’s brain takes an entire second to place the eyes, the smile, when they aren’t half hidden by a long fringe and bad webcam quality; to place that voice when it isn’t accompanied by some kind of weird animal noise. He makes a weird noise of his own once the lightbulb clicks, and he finds himself blinking rather more than a regular human does.

“Holy shit,” says Dan. “You’re AmazingPhil.”

AmazingPhil smiles with his tongue between his teeth. “Last time I checked. You can just call me Phil, though.”

He’s got glasses on his nose, his hair pushed off his forehead, a corgi on his jumper, and Dan would be lying if he said he wasn’t considering just turning around and walking out.

AmazingPhil - Phil - looks good. The last time Dan had the time to sit down and watch one of his videos was back in uni, and he’d thought Phil looked good then, too. Really good. Like, put Phil’s videos on whenever he was sad and think about that stupid Britney lipsync whenever he was showering kind of good.

Now he’s got to sit down with him for the better part of an hour and sell his show to the guy he’d had a massive crush on when he was a teenager.

“Daniel,” Phil says when Dan doesn’t say anything, his smile softening. “You alright over there?”

“Yes,” says Dan, feeling his face heat up. “I - yes. Sorry. I just - I didn’t expect you.”

“I’m guessing you’ve seen one or two of my videos,” Phil jokes, gesturing for Dan to sit down. “Get comfortable, I’ll grab your mic.”

Get comfortable. Is Phil having a laugh? Dan doesn’t think he’s been this high strung in months, and he sits stiffly on the sofa with his hands clasped in his lap.

Fucking hell. Dan had embarrassed himself on nearly every stop on their press tour last summer, still new to the whole process, and the interviews in L.A. and New York earlier this year weren’t much better. He’s just a massively awkward person, not aware enough of his own body or of the things coming out of his mouth.

He can’t even imagine how he’s going to fuck this one up.

Phil laughs when he approaches Dan, fixing the mic to Dan’s shirt with long, fumbling fingers. Dan’s heart does something acrobatic. “I don’t bite. Y'know, more people have seen your face than they have mine.”

“Probably,” Dan concedes in a mumble, hyperaware of his gaze while Phil gets comfortable on the other sofa. He doesn’t know where to look. He wants to try and match this calm man to the guy in his memory who’d once put makeup on and meowed at a camera for twenty seconds. “It’s not the same, though.”

“Why not?” Phil asks, crossing one of his ankles over the other.

“Well, you’re, like,” says Dan. He gestures vaguely at Phil, and then again at himself. “And I’m, like.”

“Very informative,” says Phil.

“I’m better at talking about the show,” says Dan, feeling the very stupid need to try and prove himself to someone he’s only just met, really. Phil smirks at him a little.

“Well, you’d have to be.”

As much as it makes Dan flush red, he finds himself honking a laugh at the same time. Phil’s smirk widens into a grin.

“Don’t look so fucking pleased with yourself,” Dan says, trying to let the banter relax him a bit. He hasn’t fallen on his face or accidentally said something horrendous yet. He leans back into the sofa and smiles at Phil. “Okay, alright. Moment over. No longer starstruck.”

“Still seems silly to me, I’m really not that big.” Phil laughs. Dan has to bite back roughly a dozen inappropriate comments. “Not compared to some people on the platform, anyway, but that’s fine. I like where I’m at.”

“I understand that,” Dan says, surprised that he’s not lying to sound empathetic. “Like, I love making Heatwave, it’s fine that we aren’t going to be the next Stranger Things.”

“Do you mind if I turn on the camera?” Phil asks, those eyes focused on Dan in a way that makes him feel warm all over. “It’s just, you’re actually speaking. About relevant stuff. So I feel like I should be capturing this on film for some kind of posterity.”

“Fuck off,” Dan says, and then immediately freezes. Phil only laughs and gets up to switch on the cameras and lights.

Okay, good. Still hasn’t mortally offended his teen idol yet.

Phil sits back down and rambles an intro to the lens, looking somehow even more comfortable now that it’s on. Something about being filmed makes him sit up straighter and his eyes go a bit wider. He gestures at Dan with a smile, says, “As you can see, I’m here with Daniel Howell to talk about Netflix’s Heatwave! This is your first time doing an interview by yourself, isn’t it?”

Not a hundred percent sure how Phil knows that, but it’s probably obvious in everything Dan has said and done since getting here.

“Er, yeah,” says Dan eloquently. He scratches the back of his neck and gives his closeup camera a sheepish grin. “That obvious, huh? Jaime and Patrick hide a lot of my awkwardness, they’re good at this bit.”

“You’re doing just fine,” Phil says, encouraging and warm. He ruins it by adding, “At least you haven’t asked me when the baby is due or elbowed me in the face.”

“Oh my god,” Dan groans. He plays it up, throws his head back with it, but the blush is all real.

“I have to ask,” Phil says, and his voice changes slightly. It takes Dan a moment to figure it out, but then he realises that Phil is using his off-camera voice now. Deeper, less enthusiastic. “Is the whole awkward klutz thing a marketing ploy? Like, you’ve been at the center of so many memes.”

“I wish it were a marketing thing.” He blinks over at Phil and mournfully admits, “I got my head stuck in the doors of the Tube last time I came to London. Luckily nobody was filming.”

Phil laughs. It’s a really good sound. Dan wants to make it happen over and over, and he has to stamp down on the urge before it turns into a class clown act. “How did you even manage that? I thought I was clumsy.”

“I tripped,” Dan says, a little more whiny than he really meant to sound. Oh, well, seeming cool in front of Phil is a lost cause by now.

“I trip a lot, too,” says Phil. He’s back in his camera voice. Dan likes this voice, too, more familiar with it, but he already misses being spoken to in that deeper, calmer tone. “Probably a good thing we’re sat down for this, or we’d have to take a trip to A&E.”

“Touch wood, mate,” Dan says dryly.

He’s surprised and charmed when Phil actually does, reaches out and taps on the coffee table.

The conversation flows more easily, then, because Phil starts asking questions about the show and Dan is finally in his element. He knows the show back to front and he’s experienced in the art of holding back spoilers from two decades of finishing video games before his friends did. He tells the same story he’s told in three other interviews, about how he didn’t know he was supposed to do an American accent for the audition and the character got Britishized for him.

Phil laughs like it’s his first time hearing it, even though he’s clearly done his research.

“But you still do a slight accent,” Phil says.

“I do,” says Dan, mildly surprised. He shouldn’t be, but he’s so used to people not noticing or just not commenting on it that Phil bringing it up is strange. “I didn’t think it made sense for Warren to be, like, posh.”

“It doesn’t,” says Phil, “that was a good call.”

“Not that I’m posh,” Dan says, because it’s important to him that Phil know this.

“Really,” says Phil, dryly.

“Oh, fuck off,” says Dan. He regrets swearing on camera, but figures someone will edit it out. “It’s not my fault Winnie the Pooh raised me.”

The grin Phil turns on him makes Dan briefly forget where he is and what he’s talking about. Luckily, one of them is a professional, and Phil gets the interview back on track easily. Dan even manages to make him laugh a couple of times. When he dies, he wants someone to stand up at his funeral and tell everyone that he made AmazingPhil laugh.

Dan even manages not to embarrass himself on camera. He thinks he’s gotten off scot-free, actually, until they’re saying goodbye and Phil goes in for a hug at the same time Dan goes for a handshake.

“Oh,” Dan says eloquently, his knuckles just sort of pressed to Phil’s stomach.

“Sorry,” Phil laughs. He goes for it anyway, wrapping his arms around Dan’s shoulders and not letting go until Dan steps back, feeling so extremely awkward with his hand just kind of crushed between them. Phil doesn’t look awkward. Phil is smirking. “I always give my fans a hug.”

“Shut up,” says Dan. He’s aware of exactly how whiny he sounds, and he wishes he could suck the noise back in and sound cool, unruffled.

“What?” Phil grins. “I’m flattered.”

“I’ll have you know,” says Dan, “I haven’t even, like, watched you since 2011, so.”

Phil’s smile falters. Dan wants to punch himself in the face.

“Just because I got really busy,” Dan rushes to assure him, like Phil actually cares what one bloke thinks of him. “Like, I actually started working my ass off, and couldn’t keep spending fourteen hours a day on YouTube, and then it just stopped being a habit, and I got a new Twitter for professionalism so I fell out of the loop with a lot of people, and -”

“Dan, breathe,” Phil says, but he looks pleased.

Professional people don’t call him Dan very much anymore, not since some other idiot called Dan Howell joined the same union as him. Daniel was a better option than James, and Dan had been going through a pretentious phase that hasn’t quite ended yet, so.

He’s reminded people at work to call him Daniel before, when they try to get overly familiar with him, but. He doesn’t really mind when it’s Phil.

“Okay,” he says, a beat too late for it to sound natural. Well, self-deprecation hasn’t failed him yet. “I’m just walking a very fine line here between seeming cool and also telling you I used to reply to everything you ever tweeted.”

“Aw, Dan,” says Phil. He holds a hand up to his chest like he’s touched. “You couldn’t seem cool if you tried.”

“Shut up,” Dan huffs, shoving lightly at Phil’s shoulder.

Phil’s tongue pokes between his teeth again when he laughs. Dan wishes he could stop noticing that. “It’s nice. I like meeting someone just as weird and awkward as me.”

“I’m way more weird and awkward,” says Dan. “If I didn’t already know the shit you get up to in your bedroom, I’d think you were normal.”

Both of Phil’s eyebrows raise, and it takes Dan about half a second to realise what he’s said and promptly turn crimson.

“I’m alright at acting normal around celebrities,” Phil says, blessedly not drawing attention to Dan wanting something to strike him down where he stands.

“I’m not really a celebrity,” says Dan.

“Sure,” says Phil.

“So you don’t have to, like, act normal around me.”

“Alright.” Phil grins, shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans, rocks back and forth on his feet in what Dan recognizes as a nervous tic. “Did you know that caterpillars don’t just grow wings in their cocoons? They turn into caterpillar soup and then reform.”

Dan blinks. “Why the fuck would I know that?” He blinks again. “Oh, god, why would you tell me that? You mean they just fucking dissolve into liquid before becoming an adult? How fucked up would that be?”

“I know,” Phil says, very earnestly. “It keeps me up at night, Dan.”

Not a fluke. ‘Dan’ still sounds good coming from Phil. Although, if Dan’s going to be perfectly honest with himself, he thinks Phil could call him anything and he’d like the sound of it. He likes Phil’s voice and he really, really likes Phil’s voice when it’s just for him to hear. There’s a part of Dan’s mind that exists purely to remind him he’s attracted to men, and it’s currently clanging pots and pans together as if he couldn’t figure it out on his own.

“Now it’s going to keep me up at night,” Dan groans.

“At least I’ll have company,” says Phil. His voice lilts a bit on the last word, like he wants to make it a question but changes his mind at the last second.

That part of Dan’s mind that he usually tries to forget about, that part he keeps locked up tight unless it’s relevant, is now adding operatic singing to the percussion. It yells, This is flirting! The hot guy is flirting with you!

But he can’t trust it, not when the stakes are as high as having another conversation with AmazingPhil, so he stamps that voice down.

“Yeah, you can DM me,” Dan offers, putting that ball firmly in Phil’s court. “Like. When you can’t sleep. Or whenever, really, I’m jetlagged as fuck right now.”

Phil smiles. “Okay. I will.”

–

Dan doesn’t actually believe him. When his phone dings with a Twitter notification at one in the morning, he gets a sharp neck pain doing a double take at his screen.

Okay, cool. Actual AmazingPhil has sent him a caterpillar emoji. It’s stupid how fast that makes his heart race.

He’d followed Phil’s Twitter while he waited at the Tube station and had been pleased to see that Phil already followed him, too. He hadn’t had time to snoop on his profile or anything before the train came and then he’d gotten distracted when he got back to the hotel, but he’s got nothing but time and insomnia right now.

Dan opens his laptop and clicks on Phil’s Twitter profile to get a good look. He opens the Instagram and YouTube links in new tabs, since it’s not like Phil will know Dan is stalking every page.

youre really still thinking about that, Dan sends from his phone before he settles in to scroll mindlessly.

Phil’s not very good at taking pictures of himself, is the first thing Dan notices. He checks Instagram quickly to confirm it, and, yeah, what the hell? Phil either doesn’t know or doesn’t care what his angles are, because he looks more or less average in every single photo he’s posted in the past few months. He’s not an average-looking guy.

Twitter is kinda boring; Phil doesn’t tweet a lot and when he does it’s either video promotion or an anecdote that doesn’t sound fully true. Dan closes the tab and focuses his stalking on Instagram for a bit.

It’s a good choice. Phil’s selfies are still mediocre, but he’s got good photos with his friends, other YouTubers, some musicians. There’s about a dozen with Nick Grimshaw in some capacity over the past year, but that makes sense to Dan - he’s pretty sure they work together.

Lots of food pictures, which Dan can appreciate. Scenic views of Los Angeles, Orlando, somewhere by the sea that looks like Scotland or the Isle of Man. It doesn’t seem like Phil travels to many places, but those three locations pop up over and over again. And, of course, London. Dan wonders how long Phil has lived here, if he knows the city like the back of his hand the way Dan used to wish he could be rich and famous enough to do.

London used to be The Dream. Still is, really.

His phone vibrates again. I wasn’t joking, it drives me mad. I’ll just be minding my own business and all of a sudden I remember caterpillar soup and I start to spiral. Did you know they retain memories from being a caterpillar? How????????????? They’re SOUP. Then, after a couple seconds, Sorry. Hi., with a string of emojis.

Dan laughs quietly to himself. He’s still a bit starstruck, but he’s also just… charmed. Phil is a charming person.

that’s fucked up and i will be thinking about it for the rest of my short and meaningless existence, Dan replies, because if Phil can’t handle his humour then what are they even doing here.

Remember me when you’re soup, is what Phil says.

Dan decides to save his YouTube stalking for tomorrow night, closing his laptop so he can focus completely on the fact that he’s DMing with AmazingPhil right now. He bites his lip and starts one sentence about four times before he goes with, will do. soup will be soon, im gonna die of embarrassment tomorrow for sure.

What’s tomorrow??

buzzfeed uk. i hate doing buzzfeed interviews bc its like theyre waiting for me to fuck up. theyve got whole listicles on my messy ass

BRB looking up any and all listicles about your ass.

Dan feels warmth curl in his gut. He still can’t be sure if Phil is flirting with him or if this is just what he’s like, and he’s also not really sure what he’d want to do about it if Phil is flirting.

It’s not that Dan doesn’t know he likes guys. He’s known that for a long time. But aside from a few fumbling encounters during secondary and uni - and more than a few during his gap year, when he truly felt like nothing mattered - he hasn’t let himself explore that. It’s fucking terrifying just to think about, and that was before he had millions of people looking at his every move.

He pushes all that back into the box to deal with later, because Phil is messaging him again.

You could invest in a belt.

they dont help!!!! flat ass problems amirite? Dan tries to change the topic immediately after sending that, because the last thing his overthinking needs is to talk about ass with Phil. im also mad at buzzfeed bc they never let me play w the puppies. patrick got to last month and i almost cried i was so jealous

That’s not even a joke. Dan and Jaime had been stuck taking Buzzfeed quizzes on camera while Patrick got to roll around on the floor and play with dogs. When Dan heard, he’d literally started tearing up.

Patrick hadn’t even appreciated it properly. Fucking cat people.

Well, Thor isn’t a puppy anymore, but you can play with him while you’re in town if you want to!

Then, Phil sends him a photo, and Dan makes an embarrassing squeal of a noise, because, what the fuck, why didn’t Phil have any fucking dog photos from the past three years on Instagram? The cutest Welsh Corgi Dan has ever seen is curled up on a familiar duvet cover with one of its eyes peeking open at the camera, curious.

HOLY SHIT

PHIL

HOW IS THIS THE FIRST IM SEEING OF THJS DOG IM GONNA CRY

Haha, you weren’t kidding that you haven’t kept up with me! Thor is the most popular guest star on my channel.

Well, now Dan regrets starting with Instagram, but he doesn’t want to stop talking to Phil long enough to watch a video. He’ll enjoy that personal hell when he can’t sleep tomorrow.

WHY ISNT HE ON YOUR INSTA

Cos he’s got his own! Go follow him @AmazingThorgi if you wanna see! Dan immediately exits the app to do that, swiping up at the notification when Phil double-messages. You’re Insta-stalking me? :)

AmazingThorgi is Dan’s new favourite Instagram account. Thor is ridiculously cute, and Phil seems to have a habit of dressing him up and making him sit in front of plants.

Somehow, Phil takes incredible photos of his dog. Dan would like to know where that composition and lighting knowledge is in his selfies. He doesn’t even know how he’d bring that up, because how do you tell someone they’re smoking hot but have some kind of block when it comes to using a front camera?

When he’s scrolled back to puppy pictures and his eyes are in legitimate danger of watering, Dan goes back to Twitter.

amazingphil who i only know thorgi

He’s the best!!!!!! I’m slightly allergic to him but that’s ok he’s worth all the benadryl in the world!!

Jesus. Dan isn’t sure his heart is physically capable of handling all this new information about a guy he used to know everything about. There’s something so endearing to Dan about that, about a man who loves dogs so much that he’ll take allergy medication every day instead of not owning one. That’s just. Something Dan thinks is very cute.

They tell you not to meet your heroes for a fucking reason, and that reason isn’t 'because they’re somehow even better in person.’ Dan has met a few people in the acting sphere that he was disappointed by, to be honest, but.

Every new message he gets from Phil just makes him sound more and more like someone Dan really wants to hang out with.

And Phil had, in a way, offered that. Dan isn’t sure if it was just a lead-in to showing off cute photos of Thor, but he’s just sleep-deprived enough to take it as an invitation.

im in town for 3 wks what is thors schedule like

Phil responds with a couple of barely comprehensible, excited emojis, and Dan has to bite his lip so he doesn’t smile at his phone like a goofball. Not that anyone is here to see him, but. It’s the principle of the thing. He’s helping me film sometime tomorrow but he’s free all week after that!!

Swallowing down the minor uncertainty of whether or not this is flirting, if this is a date they’re setting up, Dan figures out a time and place to hang out. He’s got a day off between interviews this week that he’d originally planned to spend in bed recharging from all the social interaction, but being given the opportunity to get coffee and go to a dog park with Actual AmazingPhil is a gift from a higher power that he won’t ignore.

Phil gets sleepy and Dan finds it sweet that he can tell by the way Phil types, his grammar slipping by the wayside and his emoji use becoming a hundred percent incoherent.

we should both sleep mate but send me pics of thor to get me through buzzfeed hell

One comes in immediately, a somewhat blurry shot of Thor’s nose buried into Phil’s thigh, and Dan curses under his breath. He puts his phone on the nightstand and struggles to fall asleep when all he can think about is how cozy that photo looked, how much he wants to crawl into it and live there forever.

Dan may or may not be fucked.

–

It’s a relief to have Patrick and Jaime with him again, all three of them subject to the repetitive questions and whatever weird, unique tasks are thrown their way by entertainment news sources, but Dan can’t wait to get away from them once they’re back at the hotel.

He gets himself set up with a beer and some Dominos in bed before he opens the AmazingPhil channel on his laptop. Hotel wifi isn’t the best, but it’ll have to do.

There’s a lot of content and links, and every title is as clickbait-y as the last. Dan could probably scroll down Phil’s page for eternity without making a decision, so he sorts the uploads by most popular.

A video of Thor as a puppy takes the number one spot, which Dan isn’t sure he’s emotionally prepared for, and not far behind it in views is just a video thumbnail of Phil looking bemused and titled 7 SECOND CHALLENGE! (BONUS). It really is only seven seconds long.

Dan can’t help but be curious about that one. He clicks it, makes it full screen even though it’s a short video.

The shot opens on a closet door and it folds open, revealing a grinning Phil. His fringe is soft over his forehead and he’s wearing a shirt with a roaring bear on it - this was a couple of years ago.

“Hi,” video Phil says, jolting Dan back to the present. Phil giggles. “I’m gay.”

It’s not all that much of a shock, really, but Dan’s heart still picks up speed as he watches Phil laugh again, close the door, yelp as he knocks into something.

Something else starts autoplaying, and Dan lets it. A younger Phil talks to the camera about a bad gym experience, and Dan finds himself zoning out for half of the video.

Phil’s been out as a gay man since… when was that video posted? 2014? 2015? Dan doesn’t have the wherewithal to check right this second. For a few years, in any case, and he’d said it so casually that he must have known for ages before that, and Dan.

Well. Dan can’t quite shake the feeling that, if he had kept up with Phil all these years, he might have had to examine that box in his mind a lot closer by now. The word gay rolls off Phil’s tongue like it belongs there, like it’s second nature, like it has never been a weapon. Dan wants to hear him say it over and over like a personal calming ritual.

A cursory Google tells Dan that Phil’s coming out video was posted in 2014 accompanying a collaboration with Phil’s friend PJ, and that he has never spoken about his romantic life since.

That’s a blessing and a curse.

Dan sighs heavily and thinks, not for the first time, that he should really invest in therapy. Then, he lets himself become untethered from reality as he watches Phil talk and joke about silly things in the autoplaying videos. The pizza tastes like cardboard.

As if he’s looking at his own body from the perspective of an outsider, Dan takes the figurative locked box in his figurative hands and lets it fall open to sort through some things. Just for a little bit.

[minsyal]

[Mistakes, Dean x Reader]

Summary: A case in Lancord, Indiana leads to new discoveries and a deeper look into the readers life. When the details are uncovered, will the reader face off with fate or succumb to the past?

Created for @spndarkbingo Square Filled: Murder Pairing: Dean x Reader Tags/Warnings: Character deaths, injury, mentions of drugs, mentions of abuse, tinge of angst Word Count: 4.06k To the Bingo Masterlist To my main Masterlist

12:00am

The witching hour passed by quickly in the small town of Lancord, Indiana. A group of rebellious teenagers idled by the train tracks, smoking stolen Lucky Strikes, discarding the butts on the ground below. Boisterous laughs filled the air, drowning out the chirping of crickets and hissing cicadas that sang through the hot summer air. The night was still young in their eyes, there was still a lot to do and an entire duffel full of alcohol supplied by their older siblings to empty.

“Did you hear that?” A thin brunette girl dropped her hand to her side, tapping the cigarette to drop the ash.

“Hear what?” The jock-type said, ignoring her concerns. “You’re just a little buzzed.”

The horn of a train sounded.

“A case?” You peered over the leather interior of the Impala, hands dangling on Dean’s chest, brushing lightly against the soft fabric of his flannel button-down. Sam nodded, lips pressed together in a thin line as the white light of his cellphone cast shadows across his face.

“Bunch of teens found…” he cringed, craning his neck to the side, “ground into the tracks.”

“Sounds like a train accident.” Dean leant back in his seat, adjusted his legs, and rubbed his hand against yours. “Last I checked, I’m not Hanks. Isn’t our problem.”

“Hanks?” Sam narrowed his eyes, drawing his brows inward, staring blankly at his brother who only scoffed in return.

“The Polar Express?”

“Whatever, dude.” Sam let out a strained breath as he continued wordlessly scrolling through the articles on a local paper’s website, his lips moving as he read. “Anyway,” he shook his head, “this is the third time in the past four months this has happened – the tenth time historically.”

“Kids need to learn to stay off the tracks.” Dean commented, earning yet another strained breath from Sam who was not pleased.

Despite being shot down with every sentence, Sam continued. “Just bodies found every time. They’ve never identified a train in the incident and there’s no record of any conductors being out at that time of night.”

“So, a ghost train?” You cocked your head to the side, amused at the thought of an eerie white train haunting through the night. “Spooky.”

“Did it wear a white sheet too?” Dean poked at his brother.

“Can we just check it out? It’s not too far away and if it isn’t our thing, we leave.”

“Fine, where to?”

“Lancord, Indiana.”

Your heart stopped.

The Winchesters had taken you in a few years ago after meeting on a hunt in Ruth, Montana. They were heroes in the hunter world; nearly ever hunter knew about them and just to meet them was an honor. Your parents had mentioned someone named Bobby, but by the time you reached out to him, he was gone. Dean was the first to show any sign of attraction of the two of you. One drunk night in Virginia led to another in Georgia and by the time you got back to Kansas, you were a thing. You immediately moved into the bunker and straight into Dean’s room. Between the apocalypse, the leviathans, and a few archangels, you had your ups and downs through the relationship, but you always found home in one another.

The motel Dean had chosen was in one of the roughest parts of town, but he wouldn’t have known that. The impala rolled into the parking lot, gravel crunching under the wheels. You felt something run up your spine, cringing as the drug-addicted loons stopped their deals to turn to see who was disrupting their weekly stock-up.

“Are you sure you want to stay here?” You watched judgmentally as the boney men decided you weren’t worth their time, turning their bodies quickly to make the exchange and then run back into their respective rooms. “It’s kind of…” you racked your brain for the right words but came up short, “you know?”

“Sketchy?” Sam chimed in, obviously in the same mindset you were.

Dean hadn’t a care in the world as he pulled up to the front office, not paying the two of you any mind before waltzing in and paying for a double-queen room. The room was exactly how you expected it to be. The two beds had ugly orange comforters on them with no bed skirt to hide the box holding the bed up from the floor. A small kitchenette was in the back of the room, stocked with a microwave that looked as if he hadn’t been cleaned in months, a broken fridge, and a complimentary phone book with the pages of local eateries marked. Beside that was a seating area with one wooden table set with two chairs and an armchair that Dean was pleased to find out was actually a recliner.

“Okay,” Sam slapped his hands against his legs as he rose from the bed, “let’s split up. I’ll head to the scene and you two the station?”

“Sounds like a plan.”

The station’s tile-coated floors reflected against the fluorescent lights that were embedded in the cheap ceilings. It was exactly how you remembered. The secretary was a woman around your age; her hair was tied back into a tight bun and a pair of thick-rimmed glasses hung from her nose. She eyed the two of you, focus falling over Dean for a moment too long, before speaking directly to Dean. “Can I help you?”

“Gabriel,” he flipped open his badge, then tilted his head in your direction, “Collins. We’re here to investigate the recent accidents out on Old Petersburg Road.” She didn’t bother examining your badges, instead picked up the phone and paged an officer who came out from the back room.

“Agents.” He greeted, eyes falling from Dean to you as a smile crossed his face. “[Y/N]?”

“Mr. Miller?”

He had aged considerably since the last time you had seen him, but you hadn’t seen him in 10 years. “You’re workin’ for the F.B.I. now.” Before you knew it, you were pulled into a bear hug by the old family-friend. “That’s pretty damn impressive. Y’know, here we all were thinkin’ you and your family ran off.”

You let out an awkward laugh, returning the hug before finding yourself back at Dean’s side. “Always had a dream of saving people.”

“You’re a bit late for that.” He turned on his heel and motioned for you two to follow him into the back. “Just had another incident last night, a few miles down the track from the last one. Twenty-somethings were out there with a broken-down car, hopped on the tracks, and,” he let a hiss out through his lips, “kaput.”

“Kaput.” Dean repeated, the first word he had actually spoken to Officer Miller since meeting him. He had been idling at your side, allowing you to take the reigns and drive the horse. Typically, Dean was the one to be in control during hunts; this was something new. It felt nice.

“Ka-put.” Miller fingered a manila folder stuffed to the brim with scraps of paper that fell aimlessly to the floor. “Eres’ what we got so far. Yesterday’s was four teens – Jaime, Kyle, Veronica, and Patrick.”

“But there were only three bodies.”  The folder was substantial, weighing heavily under your grip. “Patrick, your son?”

“He’s in the hospital, then headed to the psychiatric ward. Says some ghost attacked them. I think he’s in shock.” A yearbook photo of Veronica fell from a folder, her smiling face looking back at you.

“How do you know him?” Dean watched as you clicked away on your phone, texting Sam to get an update on where he was at in the case. You had finished looking through the files, looked to be what Sam originally hypothesized – an unrestful spirit.

“Family friend.”

“Family? I thought your ‘rents were dead.” He relaxed in the driver-side seat. “I mean, uh,”

“It’s fine, Dean. They are. We knew him before we got into hunting. I was probably four or five when we met.”

“So, you lived here?”

Biting the inside of your cheek, you nodded. “For a little while.”

“What’s up with this Miller guy?”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s kind of a creep.” Dean turned the key in the ignition, letting out a sigh as the engine roared to life. “Don’t get me wrong, seems like a real nice guy, but he doesn’t seem to have all his marbles in check.”

“He’s got a lot of problems, Dean.” You shrugged off your blazer and discarded it in the back seat. Then inched across the front seat to settle against Dean’s chest. “First wife cheated on him, second is currently cheating.”

“How do you know that?”

“Facebook.”

“I don’t get it,” Sam kicked his legs up on the bed as he scrolled through historical archives that the Lancord civic center had provided on a flash drive. He occasionally narrowed his eyes, focusing on the text before him. Your stomach turned as you thought of all the people you knew who were being affected by this. Was this really what you thought it was? “If it’s a vengeful spirit, then who? The deaths began five years ago – a total of 30 victims – all killed in similar manners. They go near these tracks, they die. It doesn’t seem to be specific with age, vic’s are anywhere from 5 to 80.”

“It’s an all-inclusive spirit. Kills everyone.” Dean had eaten half of his burger by the time you got back to your motel and expressed his intent on finishing off half of yours too. You didn’t think you could get it down anyway. “Okay, so we figure out who it is, salt and burn the bones, and hey,” he clapped his hands together, “we’re scott free.”

“Scott free.” You sighed, taking a long drag from your cup of coffee, something you surely didn’t need this late at night. Something wasn’t right here. “So, who do you think it is?”

“Veronica was related to Henry McAlister, distantly.”

“McAlister was murdered in his sleep fifteen years ago.” You added, receiving a look from Sam. “We heard about it a lot when I moved here with my family. Big news even five years later.”

“You lived here?”

“I know!” Dean said with an open-mouth, hand coming to rest on your arm, “She didn’t tell me either ‘til the Captain was all up on her.”

“He hugged me, Dean.”

“A little too long.”

“Okay, anyway,” you rolled your eyes, “McAlister’s brother killed him, then disappeared.”

“and McAlister is probably kind of pissed off about that.”

“So, how about a little grave-digging tonight?”

McAlister wasn’t hard to find, he was in a shallow grave of four feet in the rural Sunrise cemetery just outside the county lines. Sam and Dean dug up the coffin with ease, salted the body, and threw in a match. “Another one in the bag.” Dean snaked an arm around your waist. Flames licked at the leather toes of his boots as the thick smell of ash filled the air surrounding you.

The screen of Sam’s phone lit up, drawing his attention away from the fire. “Hello?” Sam excused himself, walking to the backside of the Impala, taking the two dirty shovels with him as he loaded them into the trunk. “Ok, we’ll be there. Yeah. Thank you.”

“What’s up?”

“Another body turned up.”

“Dad has a new job here, [Y/N].”

“He’s killing more people, I know.” You grunted, hopping down from the truck bed that you had been riding in. Your mother closed the rear window, choosing to speak to you face to face instead of through the thin cracked grass.

“He’s doing what’s right.” She rustled around in the trunk and pulled out her carry-on-sized suitcase filled with her clothes and jewelry. “Come on, I have to get ready.”

“For what?”

“You’re starting school here tomorrow. Your dad is going to be on this job for a few months.”

“Job,” you scoffed, grabbing your own belongings and following her into the dingy motel room.

“Agents.” Miller greeted, tipping his hat. His face was white, eyes teary, and clothes mudded from the soft rain that had begun falling a half-hour ago.

The scene was similar to the last. Flashing red and blue lights blinded you as you followed the boys through the police tape. Another body laid on the tracks but was identifiable as Miller’s wife. She was cold, her lips had turned a deep blue and the veins running throughout her face had become visible. Unlike the last deaths, the body was left intact.

“Excuse me.” A broken tissue was brought to blot at his reddened eyes. “Officer Rose found her around 10:50. Thought ya’ll should be on the scene.” Miller excused himself as he retreated back to his car, immediately chiming in on the radio.

“So, what?” Sam frowned, pulling you and Dean to the side. “Body was found after we burnt McAlister. It wasn’t him.”

“There have been deaths every night for the past three nights. Whatever it is it’s picking up steam.” Dean looked to the scene where officers were taking photos and collecting evidence. “I say we come back tomorrow night, make sure nobody else is here, and take care of whatever has murder on the mind.”

“Do you expect us to just stock up on everything we have? Every weapon? What if it isn’t a spirit?” You sighed.

“Then we figure it out.”

Sam had laid down for a moment, deciding that he was getting no where with his research and was desperate for a few minutes of shut-eye. Dean was situated across from you, foot raking up and down your leg every-so-often. He hummed innocently, ignoring the daggers you shot at him as his foot inched its way upward. Eyes trained on the folder Miller had given you, you flipped through the text messages and emails logged from the past victims.

“I think our spirit has a type.” You said, laying the papers out in front of Dean who had given up on playing footsie.

“Like hot blondes?” He winced as you kicked him under the table, the sound waking Sam.

“No. It’s going after people who have done something wrong to others – no matter the severity.”

“Okay,” Sam ran his hand down his face, “we know Miller’s wife was cheating. What about those kids, or the ones from the night after?”

“Jaime was stealing from her parents.” You sifted through the screen shots to show her bragging to a friend about how much she spent on her parent’s credit cards. “Kyle was cheating on Veronica.” The next page showed the contacts listed in his phone, mostly falling under a category of “babe” or “hoe #1.” “And guess what Veronica was doing?”

“Cheating on Kyle?” Dean scanned the paper as you nodded. “Bingo! The two twenty-somethings weren’t the best people either. One was suspected for an old murder case in Kentucky and the other was a drug dealer who was selling synthetics claiming they were the real deal.”

“So, who do you think it is?”

“I have an idea.”

“Stop acting like that.” Your mother walked past your bed and threw a heavy book down in front of you, shaking the bed. “Read this, tell me what you find.” She instructed as she closed the bathroom door. Your father had been working with Mr. Miller at the station for awhile now. He was nice, sad, but nice. Your father had taken a liking to his wife and were engaging in sexual affairs for the past few weeks. This irked your mother, who had kicked him out to sleep in a different room. As mad as she was, this only gave him the chance to hookup with her more often.

“How much longer are we going to be here?”

“Until we’re done.” She exited the bathroom, wearing a pencil skirt and blazer. Hopping on one foot, she pulled a slick black heel on her foot. “Now, get going. We’re looking at our next case. I need that information by the time I get back.”

“The next case? I’m just starting to make friends here, though!”

“We don’t have friends in this life. You know that.” The door slammed shut behind her, leaving you alone in the room.

“The grave is right here.” You pointed to a patch below a large willow tree located a quarter of a mile away from the tracks. The grass was vibrant, almost glowing with life. It was a shame it had to be dug up. It was nearly 11 o-clock at night, there was no sign of anybody near the tracks. The police had been told to keep the area vacated, and Mr. Miller didn’t even bat an eye when you gave him the order.

“Whose grave is this?” Dean pushed the old shovel into the ground, using his foot to kick it down. “If I didn’t know better,” He stopped digging, his head swiftly whipping around to stare behind the three of you. Sam did the same, squinting as he adjusted to the low light.

A woman stood a few yards away, just beyond the tree-line. Her hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail, kept well given her state. She looked like a hunter, she was a hunter. A dim light loomed in her eyes, fiery and full of rage as her gaze penetrated the brothers, her only focus on you. They weren’t her concern.

They weren’t his concern either. Trailing the woman was a man who stood a few inches taller. The hems of his jeans were considerably worn, his flannel hung loosely at his waist. An old ball cap was fixated on his head with a generic logo sewn across the front.

“Mom…dad?” Wherever your stomach was already it dropped ten feet further. You felt dread pooling in your chest as the ghostly spirits of your parents stood feet away. They were just as you remembered. “I didn’t mean to…” A knot tied in your throat, forcing you to choke the words out, “I’m sorry…” Rushing emotions flowed through your body, the main one being trepidation, the next regret.

The years of sheer emotional and sometimes physical abuse grew on you. It was all becoming too much. You had witnessed so much at such a young age. You lived in the hunter world, death and sorrow was supposedly something that just followed. It was written in the fine print that you had neglected to read before signing the contract, sealing your fate.

You had watched your family die, one by one, all falling prey to this cycle that would never stop. Grandpa had been turned by a vampire, dad killed him without question. Grandma was killed by grandpa. Your aunts, uncles, cousins… everyone had died in increasingly horrifying ways. It was only a matter of time before you too followed in their footsteps. An escape was something you could only dream of. It was something you thought you could control.

The case was done. You were leaving tomorrow and in a last-minute decision, you decided you were leaving alone.

Dean didn’t take another moment to think as he positioned himself between you and the two glowing figures in the trees. “You did this.” Your mother spoke, her voice shaky but still strong. She spoke as if to a child, scolding them about a failed test or uncompleted chore. She stepped forward. “We gave you everything… and you did this.”

Without warning both brothers were thrown like rag dolls, landing hard against tree trunks, and falling to the dirt below. Your father shook his head and stuck his hands in his pockets, inching forward to the edge of the willow. “Did you always hate us?”

“I-I didn’t hate you.”

“Liar.” Your mother screamed, the power in her voice propelled you backward. The impact crushed your lungs, leaving you desperately gasping for air. “You never loved us.” She joined your father, her tone now venomous…fuming. “You’re worthless, a sorry excuse for a hunter.”

Another crushing blow came when your father took control, throwing you ten feet further into the forest. Fallen branches scraped against your skin, leaving burning cuts in their wake. A twig snagged at your lip, easily tearing the soft skin. Blood oozed into your mouth, staining your teeth and tongue with the dark crimson liquid. He flung you again, this time into a tree trunk. Something snapped. Something dislodged. Something hurt, badly.

“We should have let you die when we had the chance.” He said, gearing up to toss you again. “You only held us back… and them?” A thin finger pointed to the brothers who were falling in and out of consciousness. “They don’t need you either.”

“We don’t have friends in this life.” Your mother added.

Words weren’t processing through your mind correctly as you watched the world twist and contort, swirling the trees with the sky. A pounding resonated at the back of your head, successfully taking your attention off the situation at hand. Your mother’s lips were moving, but you couldn’t make out any of the words. She raised a shaky fist at you. Surely, this would be the end. Afterall, karma eventually had to catch up and your fate had been sealed when you were born to two hunters.

Flames burst from beneath her skin casting red and white lights across the forest. Ash crumpled to the ground where he stood, and your father soon followed. Blood curdling screams raced through his throat, a guttural sound you had never heard echoed in the night.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Dean ran his hand over your cuts, fingers lingering at your wrist. “You don’t have to if you don’t want, but-“

“They hate me.” The aching in your heart distracted you from the pain spreading across your body. The motel room was quiet. Sam had left to stock up on a few medical items while Dean tended to your many wounds. Luckily, a dislodged shoulder was easy to fix and cuts were only temporary.

“What happened…between you and them?” He watched you intently while you looked anywhere but at him.

“I killed them.”

“Why?”

Silence fell over the room as Dean waited patiently for your response. He never pushed too hard for information, and he always knew when to stop. His calloused fingers played with yours, brushing against your palms and rubbing soothing circles wherever they could.

“I thought I could escape hunting.” You pushed your lips together, attempting to keep your emotions at bay as you continued. “I was a kid. I just wanted to do normal kid things – learn to ride a bike, hang out with friends,” you huffed, “hell, I even wanted a boyfriend. My parents were in the way of all of that.”

“So, you killed them.”

“I regretted it the minute I pulled the trigger. Dad died instantly. Mom just screamed,” you closed your eyes, breathing heavily to calm yourself, “and screamed, and screamed. She didn’t stop until I…” A tear fell and it was as if the flood gates opened. That first tear led the charge as more and more openly streamed down your face. “They hate me.”

“Sweetheart,” Dean gathered you in his arms, quickly jumping from his position at your knees to the bed. He leaned against the headboard, his arms drawing you in to his chest where you let yourself finally mourn what you had done so many years ago.

“I ran from town, I stole their car, I sold their belongings for money… Dean. I’m a bad person.”

“We’ve all done bad things, Y/n.” He steadied his heartbeat with a few deep breaths, “That doesn’t make you a bad person.”

“But I-“

“We all make mistakes, but your mistakes don’t outweigh the good you’ve done for this world.” He drew your head from his chest as he cupped your cheeks in his hands. Your reddened eyes met his, surprised to see his wet with his own tears. “You’ll always be part of our family. Even if we mess up along the way, we’ll get through it together… because you’re a Winchester…” he let out a soft chuckle, a tear streaming from his eye, “even if I haven’t officially changed it yet.”

[avengerdragoness]

Silence Unsealed With A Kiss [Bart Allen x Reader]

Requested by anon: “Can I request a YJ imagine where the reader is Zatanna's cousin and they are left alone with Bart because everyone else is on a mission. Also Bart is being super flirty and reader uses their magic to make him stop talking? Maybe kiss at the end, maybe not, whatever you want. And OMG I absolutely adore your writing! Keep up the good work!”

A/n: I hope you enjoy this! Sorry it took me so long to get this out, I’ve been super busy with life. Hope you enjoy it love! <33 ______

When your cousin forced you to visit the team. You were not interested. Yes, you had powers the exact same as Zatanna’s and your Uncle Zatara’s, but you didn’t want join the junior justice league. And to be stuck in a cave with a bunch of super teens? Not something you wanted to be a part of.

But alas, Zatanna didn’t give you a choice. “I don’t want to be here” You glared at her as you stood outside the Zeta tube. Zatanna sighed, “Come on [F/n], just give it a chance.” She pleaded as you rolled your eyes. “You told me about the team you were apart of, they were impressive. All of the kids now, they’re basically all rookies. You and Doctor Fate, aka my uncle, have trained me. I don’t need to be a part of the junior squad Zee.”

Zatanna sighed, “Well, according to Batman and the Justice League, you do.” You didn’t answer and that’s when she put a hand on your shoulder. “Listen [F/n] if you’re as ready as you and I know you are. Nightwing and M’gann will put in a good word for you to the Justice League. Then we’ll be able to work together again.” Looking over at her, you caved. “Okay, fine, if this is what you think is right.”

She smiled before giving you a quick hug and helping you get through the Zeta tube. Entering the Cave, Nightwing and M’gann were there to greet you. “Good to see you again [F/n]” M’gann said going to hug you. Nightwing smiled at you, “We’re happy Zatanna convinced you to give the team a chance.”

You shrugged, “Yeah, she convinced me to give you a shot.” Nightwing nodded before the rest of the team ended up coming in. They all noticed you, recognizing Zatanna but at a loss for who you were. Next think you knew a brush of wind went by you and a boy of about your age with brown hair was in front of you. “Whoa, dude, personal space” You stepped away from him.

Then another boy in a blue suit walked up and pulled the guy back. “Calm down hermano.” You looked over at Zee and cocked an eyebrow, she simply shrugged.

“Everyone” Nightwing caught their attention, “I want to introduce you to someone who might be joining us. This is Zatanna’s cousin [F/n], she has some powerful magic and we’re lucky to have her here. [F/n] this is the team. Blue Beetle, Wondergirl, Beast Boy, Batgirl, Lagoon Boy, Bumblebee, Robin, Impulse, and you already know Superboy.”

“I do, good to see you again Conner.” He smiled at you and gave you a fist bump. “Right back at ya.” You didn’t notice how Impluse’s smile dropped a little because of your interaction with the older man.

Nightwing looked toward the rest of the team. “Okay everyone, let’s get down to business.” Saying as he walked over and clicked on the holo-computer, making the large screen appear. “We have had more sightings of these aliens who have been abducting people. We’ll be spliting into the Alpha, Gamma, and Beta squads. Alpha will be Wondergirl, Miss Martian, Beast Boy and I. Gamma will be Batgirl, Superboy, Bumblebee, and Zatanna. Finally Beta will be Lagoon Boy, Robin, and Blue Beetle. Mal will run point from here.”

You figured they wouldn’t have you out on a mission yet and simply stood there with your arms crossed. However, Impulse was gaping. “Wait! Nightwing! What about me?” Nightwing looked at him, “I told you after the last mission, if you’re going to be reckless you’re sitting this one out. That’s what you did. Maybe you can show [F/n] around”

“Yipee” You said unenthusiastically, earning a glare from you cousin and a few chuckles from the rest of the team. Of whom were silenced by a strong look from their leader. “Anyway” Nightwing said “Let’s move we have a small time frame” saying before beginning to lead everyone to the Zeta tube. Zatanna walked over to you, “Play nice, please.” You chuckled, “Don’t I always?”

She rolled her eyes and chuckled before following the rest of the team.

You turned to the speedster who had been watching you, cocking an eyebrow at him. He perked up, “Well I guess I’m giving you a tour beautiful.” He grinned. “Don’t call me that” You answered flatly. He laughed nervously before waving for you to follow. But when he sped away you stood there confused. “Umm” Looking around.

Just then he was in front of you again. “Sorry, I forget I have super speed sometimes” You shrugged, “It’s fine.”

After that he took you on a tour of the cave, showing you all of the important areas, like the training room, kitchen, bedrooms, and finally the common room. Though by the end of the tour you were close to punching this kid in the face because of all his flirtatious comments.

“So gorgeous, what do you think of the cave? Great view right? Almost as great as looking at you.” He smiled cheekily. You glared at him, “I swear if you make one more flirtatious comment I’m casting a spell on you that will make you stop talking.” Pointing a threatening finger at him. Bart simply found that as a challenge, “Really? Because that’d just make you hotter than you already are.”

Your fists clenched when he said that “ecnelis” his laughing soon turned to nothing. He tried to speak but no words or sounds escaped his mouth. Sighing in relief you fell back on the couch. Just then the team came back and Bart sped over to the control room. Pointing to his throat and trying to talk but still failing. All of his teammates began to laugh except the older ones who just exchanged a look.

That’s when you walked in with a smirk. Zatanna gave you a knowing look, “What’d you do?” You rolled your eyes, “I warned him that if he didn’t stop flirting with me I’d do this. He challenged me.” Nightwing sighed and looked at Bart, “Technically you did bring this upon yourself” saying to Bart while everyone snickered. Though Zatanna wasn’t laughing, “[F/n] give him his voice back.” Saying as you came and stood beside her. “Fine” You laughed, “but he deserved it.” Saying as you walked over to him. He expected you to do a chant but instead you pulled his lips to yours in a quick kiss, shocking just about everyone but Zatanna. Pulling away Bart stared at you, gaping.

“What?” You rose an eyebrow “That’s how you counter that spell.”

Zatanna chuckled, “Come on we have to get home” She gestured for you to follow. Which you did, saying goodbye as you left.

Once you were gone everyone looked at Bart who was still gawking at the Zeta tube. Jaime walked over and poked him, “You okay?” Bart just looked at him then the door. “Dude, I’m definitely going to keep flirting with her.”

[regardstosoulandromance]

Piano Lessons

inspired by this post (seriously go look at this post, it’s hilarious)

summary: Stella is a piano teacher and Dani is in desperate need of lessons (is this an au? it’s an au. one where everything is nice and Stella is a piano/violin teacher) rated: pg read here on ao3, or below

Stella Gibson was not one to frequent her local library but ever since Velma Jekinson- the mother of one of her most promising pupils- had mentioned that she'd have to take Jenny Jekinson out of her piano lessons because of no way to get her from tutoring to piano, Stella had offered to walk the girl home.

On top of that, Stella figured that thirteen year old Jenny could use an friend after overhearing Mrs. Jekinson's loud telephone conversation where she wished that her little Jenny would get over her “lesbian phase”.

Five minutes early, Stella looked over the community bulletin board, wall papered with fliers and business cards. One in particular caught her eye. Eyebrows drawing together, she reread it several times before letting out a short, sharp laugh.

Wanted: (it read) Piano Lessons

Hi. I am Dani and I need to learn how to play the piano before next Saturday. My parents have been paying for me to get piano lessons every week for the last twenty years but I never actually attended any of the lessons and I spent the money on candles instead. Now they want me to play Beethoven's 5th Symphony at their wedding anniversary next Saturday.

If you can teach me, be here tomorrow at 11:06am with a grand piano. I am a fast learner (I once memorized the lyrics to MMMBop by Hanson in less then eight hours) so I am pretty sure I will pick it up quickly. In return I can teach you some cool basketball moves or tell you some facts about crime statistics. Whichever you prefer. Not both, though.

Dani

And the poster below began, “For Sale: Candles (1997-Present) Hi. I am Dani and I am selling my candle collection.”

“Are you going to teach Dani?” Jenny's voice startled her slightly. The girl had appeared at her elbow silently, bag in hand.

“You know her?” asked Stella.

“Yeah,” Jenny nodded, “She's a copper. Once told Jaime to get lost when he was kicking around my books.”

Stella gave Jenny a tight lipped smile, putting a hand on her shoulder, “Does you mother know about this?”

“Nah, it was just one time, and Dani scared him good,”  replied Jenny as they began their walk back to Stella's house.

Stella had converted the front two rooms into a studio and waiting room, perfect for lessons in both the piano and the violin, and her nearly flawless technique had made her one of the most sought after instructions in the city.  

“I didn't know police officers could be so pretty,” Jenny shyly commented as she followed Stella inside.

Dani Ferrington fidgeted in the sunlit entryway of the library the next morning. The poster was a stupid idea, almost as stupid as lying to her parents for all these years. Crossing her arms, she slumped against the wall, sliding down it. This was a stupid idea, if only she hadn't gotten all those fancy ideas after going to the symphony, but she'd been ten! It wasn't her fault that that pianist was gorgeous and-

“Are you Dani?” a voice said above her.

Opening her eyes, Dani first saw a pair of high heels, then a slim pencil skirt, then a pink blouse, and a blonde haired woman looking down on her.

“Uh,” Dani scrambled to her feet, and stuck her hand out, “Yeah! Dani Ferrington! Is this about the poster? For piano lessons?”

The woman shook it firmly, “Stella Gibson, and yes. I couldn't quite fit a grand piano through the doors, though, so we'll have to go back to my studio.”

Dani nodded, “Yeah, thank you so much-”

“I'm not promising miracles,” Stella interrupted, then looked over Dani appraisingly, “But we'll see what we can do.”

“I took lessons for a week,” Dani explained once they'd walked back to Stella's house, “But I was too fidgety so I bought scented candles instead.”

“So I read,” Stella replied, “Why don't you take a seat at the piano.”

Dani felt under dressed in her weekend jeans and sweatshirt. The piano was glossy black, matching the rest of the furniture, a contrast to the soft blue curtains and accents.

Sitting next to her on the bench, Stella set several pages of sheet music in front of them. Dani gaped at the papers.

“This is for Beethoven's Fifth?! They look like ants!” She cried, “There's so many and this is hopeless!”

Stella shuffled the papers around so another was on top, “I'd like to offer this as an alternative. It has a simpler repetition- much like MmmBop- but still sounds impressive to the untrained ear.”

Dani glanced at Stella who, aside from arching an eyebrow, looked serious. Was she teasing her?

“Okay, how does this one go?” she asked.

And Stella began to play.

Dani became acutely aware of how close they were, and how beautiful Stella was in this light, as the notes of “All I Ask Of You” filled the room. It was enchanting. Taken in, she didn't notice her mouth go slightly slack.

“Wow,” she whispered as Stella finished.

“And now, you,” Stella swung around, getting off the bench, “Sit up straight, with your feet flat on the floor, shoulders relaxed.”

Dani snapped to attention, “Yes, Ma'am.”

There was a short snort of laughter behind her, and Dani took it as a point in her favor.

Stella moved behind her, taking Dani by the wrist to place her hand on the keys.

“Before you play, or even learn how to read notes, you must have the correct hand positions,” she said, carefully positioning Dani's fingers.

And suddenly, Dani forgot how to breathe. As Stella leaned over her, a piece of blonde hair fell to the side of Dani's face and she tried to take a breath. Breathing was somehow a worse idea then not breathing, as she then had a nose full of perfume.

Just as gently as Stella arranged Dani's right hand, she arranged the left, placing each finger on the correct key.

“Got it?” she asked, leaning forward to look Dani in the eyes, intoxicatingly close.

Dani nodded and tried to focus on the black and white spotted page in front of her.

Two hours later, Dani was stiff from sitting up straight and ridiculously turned on from Stella's strict ways.

“That's enough for today,” Stella said, “If you're free after six in the evening this week, we can continue.”

“Yeah, that would work,” Dani got up, rubbing her hands on her trousers, “Thank you again, so much.”

Stella waved a hand, “Think nothing of it. I enjoy a good challenge, and you certainly are one.”

Dani smiled back, “See you tomorrow then?”

“Until tomorrow,”

Ten minutes to six, Stella put her kettle on and leaned into the hall mirror to check her hair and reapply her lipstick. She'd done this a half hour ago and, realizing this, froze, hands still twisted in her hair.

She hadn't been this fussy and nervous in who knew how long. Not for her last date (a disaster) and never for a student.

But Dani wasn't exactly a student, not properly with an hourly rate and an expectation of professionalism. She was here for a week, then gone.

The door bell rang,breaking her from her thoughts.

Tilting her chin up, Stella smoothed her hair one last time and went to answer.

“Wine?” Stella asked as the third night of their lessons was drawing to a close.

“Sure, thanks,” Dani had made sure to look at least a little presentable after their initial lesson. Tonight she'd packed a pair of darker jeans and a sweater to change into after work, and if she wasn't mistaken Stella might have check her out on the way in.

Maybe.

Following Stella into the kitchen, Dani caught herself humming the song she'd spent the past hour trying to learn.

“It get's in there, doesn't it?” Stella said, tossing a look over her shoulder, “Red or white?”

Dani shrugged, “Whatever you like,”

“A pink then,” uncorking the bottle, she poured two glasses, passing one to Dani.

Their fingers brushed in the hand off, sending a jolt through Dani. She quickly took a sip.

“Do you teach full time?” Dani asked.

“Yes, but it's mostly children of well to do families. Do you have any children?” Stella said.

“No, maybe someday, but not right now.”

Stella swilled her wine in the glass, “Do you have a man?”

“A man?” Dani gave a little laugh, “No, no. Uh, I'm gay.”

Eyes instantly flicking up to meet Dani's, Stella's mouth lifted into the smallest smile. It was tiny, but Dani saw it.

Of course, it was then that the phone chose to ring, causing them both to jump from their shared moment back to the real world.

“Mrs. Pertersen,” Stella said flatly as she answered, “Unfortunately, office hours ended at five.”

Dani set her glass on the counter, taking this opportunity to leave. Waving good bye, she quickly gathered her things, shutting the door behind her. It was only in the cool night air that she realized how hot her face felt.

Day four came and Stella was shamelessly taking the opportunity to correct Dani's hand positions as an excuse to sit close to her. Dani's thigh pressing against her own on the bench, Stella felt a light all over. Dani had left far to fast the night before, just as things had been getting interesting.

“You've almost got it,” she urged, “You have everything correct, it's just putting it all together.”

That's when Dani lifted her head, suddenly leaning forward to kiss Stella. But the unexpected movement and forward force took Stella by surprise, knocking them both backwards. They fell off the bench, into a jumbled heap on the floor. 

Stella groaned.

“Fuck!” Dani cried, getting up in such a hurry that she hit her head on the bench.

“I'm so sorry,” she said, rubbing her head and helping Stella up, “That was a mistake, I shouldn't- I should go.”

“Dani, wait- !” still dazed from the fall, Stella reached out for her, but Dani was already out the door.

As the door smacked shut, Stella sighed, dropping into a chair.

Dani lay on her bed, eyes closed, the previous night's events replaying again and again behind her eyelids. Why did she ever think this would work? The candles, the piano lessons, the kiss... It was all because of that pianist she'd seen when she was ten.

One trip to the symphony and ten year old Dani had gotten it in her head that she too wanted to play the piano. The piano soloist had probably been her second crush, if she was being honest with her self.

With a start, Dani sat up. Rolling out of bed, she grabbed a chair and pulled it to her closet. Madly, she tossed a box from her top closet shelf onto her bed, then began digging though it.

Did she still have it? It had been twenty years ago. Dani looked through old school folders, odd papers that she really didn't need to keep, until she found the journal she'd kept for a month. Flipping through the pages, a folded piece of yellowing paper fell out.

Holding it up to the light, Dani read, London Symphony Orchestra, Dec. 3rd, 1997.

It wasn't hard to find the anniversary party. James and Colleen Ferrington's 50th wedding anniversary announcement was published in the personal announcements section of the newspaper and Stella already knew the date of the party.

What was more difficult, was forcing herself to take a cab to the hall the party was being held, walking up the steps, and blending into the background, waiting for the entertainment. But she did, as silly as it felt. And Dani, pale as a sheet, managed to pull off the charade, playing “All I Ask Of You” with only two mistakes.

“Excuse me,” Stella flagged down a young man in a tie, bearing a tray, “Could you pass along a message to that women over there? The one by the piano. Tell her to meet Stella in the garden.”

She didn't have to wait long. Dani, half running, almost crashed into her behind the beginnings of the hedge.

“I'm so sorry!” gasped Dani, “I almost did it again.”

“No harm,” Stella said, “You did well in there.”

“It was fucking dumb luck- I mean freaking dumb luck,” Dani replied, with a sigh.

Stella smiled, “How is your head?”

“I've done worse. How about you? I'm so, so sorry, I shouldn't have-”

“Nonsense,” Stella cut her off, “Stop apologizing.”

“But I feel like I took advantage of your generosity-”

And with that, Stella grabbed the front of Dani's blazer and pulled her in for a kiss. This one longer and far more balanced then the last.

“Now we're even,” she whispered as they broke apart.

“Okay,” Dani whispered in reply, “Um, we should maybe go get coffee some time?”

“I'd like that.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

They smiled, walking around the garden quietly.

“Why did you want to learn piano,” Stella asked, after a moment, “All those years ago?”

“I saw the London Symphony,” Dani explained, smiling slyly as she pulled a piece of paper from her pocket, “And I fell in love with this one pianist. She was amazing and I wanted to play the piano just like her.”

She handed the paper to Stella, who looked confused, “And what am I looking at?”

Dani flipped it open and pointed to a single line.

Piano Concerto No.1 In B Flat Minor, Op.23, by Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky, Piano Solo Performed by Stella Gibson

[fashiontrendin-blog]

Food, Coffee, More Coffee: Inside the Spending Habits of a Working Student

http://fashion-trendin.com/food-coffee-more-coffee-inside-the-spending-habits-of-a-working-student/

Food, Coffee, More Coffee: Inside the Spending Habits of a Working Student

I don’t think my spending habits are too bad, but I do have my slip-ups. This year, I’ve been pretty good at keeping my spending in check, but we’ll see how that progresses/devolves as the holidays draw closer. I do know that, day to day, most of my money goes to food and coffee. Although I often eat at home — I love making breakfast and try to have either lunch or dinner at home every day too — it still has a way of adding up.

Also, I guess I should mention that I work at Man Repeller AND am finishing up my BFA at the School of Visual Arts, which means I require a good amount of coffee just to keep me alive and kickin’. It also means I’m trying to balance a budget that accommodates both work and school. On most Thursdays and Fridays, I’m home finishing up assignments, cleaning and generally relaxing (which helps me save), but this week was different, and my budget took a hit as a result. You’ll see what I mean. With that, here’s what I spent my money on this week.

Today, my friend Maria and I are taking a day trip to Storm King Art Center, wahoo! Before I leave, I run downstairs and redeem my free, medium-sized beverage from Think Coffee thanks to my loyalty points. (Funny story: My loyalty account is for some reason linked to my cousin’s phone number, so she gets all my receipts. Hi Jaime! She likes knowing how my week is going. Large coffees = rough week.)

There’s only one food option at Storm King so I get an above-average vegetarian chili and a decent chocolate chip cookie. After our shenanigans upstate, we part ways and I come home and make pasta for dinner because wowee, I am so hungry. At 9:45 p.m. I run (okay, fine, walk) to CVS and buy Tide Pods because I already committed to doing my laundry and, surprise!, had no detergent left.

I usually walk to work, but this morning I wake up late and can’t figure out what to wear (UGH) so I have to take the subway. I put $20 on my Metrocard for this trip plus future use. I study photography and primarily use film for my personal work, so I drop off a roll of film that I took yesterday at Storm King. Thankfully, I save a couple of dollars by just getting it processed and scanning it myself at school. My buddies at Two Hands bless my wallet and give me a discount on my coffee and don’t charge me for my 3 p.m. orange juice. I get home from work pretty late so I spend the rest of my night watching YouTube videos and eating leftover pasta. SO fun.

Another exciting day at work! Pretty sure I was still tired from my day trip to Storm King and finishing up all the props for the MR GIFT GUIDE (!!!!) so I had two coffees today. This is why I am good friends with the people at Two Hands: a minimum of two visits a day builds a strong relationship. Then, Madi tricks me into getting lunch with her at Sweetgreen, but then bails to By Chloe, so I am stuck eating yet another Harvest Bowl alone (add avocado, no cheese, swap almonds for pecans, tysm). After work, I have one too many alcoholic beverages and plenty of mini snacks at the MR Ralph Lauren event. I mistakenly think that means I’m set on dinner but, 30 minutes after, when I start scanning film at school, I feel hungry again.

When I finally get home, I whip up a gourmet meal (toast and butter) for dinner and then realize that I left MY ONLY USB CABLE in the office and so, while my phone is slowly dying , I decide to get one on Amazon. (Another funny story: I thought, “Hey, maybe I should buy an extra USB cable” while walking past the Apple store that evening on the way back from the event but didn’t buy it!)

Today the water is out on Mott St. (where the MR office is located) and so my beloved Two Hands is closed (honestly they just need to #sponsor me at this point), so I get a coffee from Cafe Grumpy instead. Good thing I have a loyalty card going there too! I also get more film processed, woohoo! I decide to go to Maman for lunch today because I just really need a sandwich. Then, Emily and I stay pretty late at work finishing up the gift guide but I still manage to make yet another bowl of pasta for dinner when I get home (I’m having a phase).

TWO HANDS IS STILL CLOSED BECAUSE THE WATER IS STILL OUT! Cafe Grumpy it is. I usually don’t work on Thursdays but we had to finish wrapping up the final gift guide shoot. I make it back home in time for some lunch before class so I whip myself up some eggs on toast and then head to school. I spend three hours talking about photographs with my thesis class and then have a nice dinner with my friends at Goemon Curry! (PSA: they have cutlery that looks like little rakes and shovels.) I head back to work for a little bit after that to finish up random bits and bobs and then come home and sleep like a baby for the next couple of hours….

….Before I wake up late for a shoot happening this morning, ACK! I didn’t have time for breakfast so I run to Irving Farm to redeem my free coffee and get a croissant. I didn’t have time for lunch before going to class so I grab a brownie and another coffee during break so my stomach stops making weird noises in class. Usually I don’t do anything on Fridays because I prefer to chill at home and eat MORE pasta but tonight is different because it’s my friend Margo’s birthday and we celebrate with beers! A friend and I have a pre-celebration dinner at Big Daddy’s which includes a very delicious veggie burger and sweet potato tots. 10/10 would recommend.

HAPPY SATURDAY! I spend the first half of the day at home cleaning my apartment and having lunch before going to Chillhouse for a manicure. Before heading in I wander around Soho and am, of course, hankering for a snack and so I, of course, go to Two Hands, because I gotta stay loyal. This is actually the first manicure I’ve ever gotten in New York since moving here 3.5 years ago. It was a very long and stressful week so I decided to treat myself to some pretty nails since I don’t think I will have to paint anything in awhile (fingers crossed) (don’t look at me Emily).

While in the area, I pop over to Top Hat and buy some presents for friends and myself because Christmas is near! And you know who likes gifts? Me. Also my friends! But mostly me. On my way home I make more exciting purchases at the supermarket. Grocery haul you say? NO PROBLEMO! I got bananas, sparkling water, pasta sauce, pasta and a bottle of blood orange juice and kombucha.

BAM! DONE! Money spent! Honestly this week has just been a documentation of how many times I go to Two Hands in a week and also how much coffee I consume, which isn’t usually this much, I promise. I actually don’t feel that bad about the money I spent because I had a great week and I did a couple of special things like go to Storm King and get a manicure, but I do want to keep working on my spending habits.

For now I’m just gonna sit back, relax, and wait for my mother to make a comment about how much caffeine I drink.

Photo by Louisiana Mei Gelpi.

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