mardia

Catelyn Stark died at the Twins with a Frey cutting open her throat, and she woke up in Winterfell, beneath the branches of the weirwood tree, red leaves drifting down over her body.

Distantly, she hears footsteps approaching, and looks up in hope, praying that it’s the paramedics arriving–but it’s just Higgins, shockingly normal in his suit and tie, asking, “Rebecca, someone heard shouting–” and then he sees Rebecca crouched over Ted’s prone body and gasps, the file folder in his hand fluttering to the floor.

“Leslie,” Rebecca chokes out, “Ted’s collapsed, I need you to go downstairs and wait for the ambulance.”

“Yes, yes,” Higgins stutters, “But–”

“Go,” Rebecca orders, and Higgins stumbles over his own feet, rushing out of her office.

(Futurefic, set seven years after s1.)

Ted Lasso: Schrodinger's Witch.

Or, the one where AFC Richmond are leading the Premier League table, and Trent Crimm and the rest of the British press are slowly losing their minds as a result.

Because the second that Killmonger touches him, the second that his hands are on T’Challa’s bare skin, wrapped around his throat–T’Challa can feel him, every inch of him, Killmonger’s rapid heartbeat, his too-quick breathing, the adrenaline coursing through his body, the fear and rage and confusion, all of it running through T’Challa’s mind like a spark of fire along dry grass.

“No, no, no,” and T’Challa thinks it’s his own voice speaking until he feels the puffs of air against his face, until he realizes that it’s Erik speaking, his own face inches away from T’Challa’s as he says, “Not you, not you.”

An alternate universe in which Alina meets the stag, comes into her powers, and destroys the Fold--all before ever meeting Aleksander.

Carefully taking a pillow and placing it in his lap, Ted mumbles, “Think I outta be getting home, sleep this off.”

“Can’t do that either,” Higgins says, grimacing sympathetically. “You’ll have to, ah, burn it out.”

(In which Ted gets dosed with sex pollen, and Trent and Rebecca work together to help him through it.)

The first clear thought that Richard has, when Áine tells him about her stay in rehab, in the midst of his tangled feelings of sorrow and surprise and worry, is "Well, that explains a lot, then."

"Does it now," Áine says, her eyebrows flying up and her voice getting sharp, and that's when Richard realizes he's actually said it out loud, shit and fuck.

If the gods were going to take him away from Cersei and everything he’d known, bind him to a boy half his age, Jaime almost would have preferred it if Robb Stark had been a fool, had been as dull and self-righteous as his father. Seven hells, he could at least have been ugly.