#And sorry if I have betrayed the true spirit | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

irndad · 26 days

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kiss me (under the milky twilight)- s.r.

a/n: this took so long and i'm so sorry! based on this post- reader has an ex that she keeps running back to, and spencer just wants her to see him. fake dating and hijinks ensue. VERY long. 4.6k words!! thanks to @fadingplaidtrashpatrol for ur thoughts and ideas!! masterlist // ask

The unraveling begins on a Friday.

This is one of the rare Fridays where a full weekend is staring back at them, and Spencer is immeasurably pleased at his plans. He’s rented a Russian old movie, and his best friend had agreed to sit next to him on his shitty old couch while he whispers translations in real-time.

He loves spending time with her, a little hedonistically. She’s so kind, warm in both spirit and disposition, and Spencer treasures the time he gets to spend with her. Her desk adjoins his, and so one might assume that he could tire of her presence, but there’s something a little addicting about her, something he tries to have as often as he can.

On this fine evening, she’s wearing an oversized sweater tucked into jeans- her position is mainly out of the field, and so she takes full advantage of the dress-code flexibility. Lovely earrings hang around her face, adorning her lovely features like a frame.

Spencer’s more than a little in love with her.

This has never really been a convenient fact, but Spencer’s used to wanting things he can’t have. And it was never really feasible not to want her- anyone who’s ever been in her presence would know this. It’s a foreign feeling, looking over at someone he’s lucky enough to know, and wanting them enough for that desire to turn into fantasy.

“Spencer!” She greets him warmly, standing up to do so- if this wasn’t a workplace, if she was meeting him at the cafe like they do on Wednesdays, or his home, like she often finds herself in whenever he invites her, Spencer is certain she would wrap her arms around him in an incredibly warm hug.

Because they are in the BAU, she believes it is inappropriate to embrace this way (which Spencer would argue isn’t true, given the way Morgan and Penelope are with each other, but if he told her that, it might be a little too obvious how desperate he is for her to touch him.)

The way she beams at him almost makes up for the fact that he doesn’t get to hug her.

“I got you something,” he says in lieu of a response, clutching the bag of muffins in one hand. He’d woken up early to get her to stop by her favorite bakery, and it was worth it to see that look on her face. No one’s in the office now, the day long finished, and they’re getting ready to walk to his place. He lives so close by, and he’s grateful for this fact when they walk together back to his place.

She grabs the bag, and he’s just so endeared by her, the giddy expression written over her lovely face.

“Have I mentioned that I love you? Because I do. You need to marry me, immediately.” She says to him, eyes closed in bliss, and even though she’s clearly joking, Spencer finds himself preening at her praise- wouldn’t it be incredible if she meant that? It sounds so pretty in her voice. I love you.

He beams back at her, in a way he hopes doesn’t betray how much he wants.

“I’m glad you like them,” he says back, his heart in his throat.

“I have some news that you are going to be incredibly mad at me about.” She says, and a crumb is on her painted lip, and fantasy of kisses that he cannot have enters Spencer’s mind before he can shake it away.

“I could never be mad at you.”

“I think I have to raincheck tonight,” she says almost sadly, her voice apologetic, as though she has no choice in the matter.

“Is everything okay?”

He had picked up her favorite snacks yesterday night, tidied up his apartment top to bottom.

“Josh texted me- he’s going through something and he needs me to come over-“

“He doesn’t need you to come over.”

He rarely interrupts her, and he usually isn’t capable of being upset with her. He’s not really even upset with her now, but this is so exhausting, watching her deal with this asshole.

It is a continuous surprise to Spencer that someone like her can be in a position like this.

Through Spencer’s eyes, the idea that anyone can not be in love with her is almost an impossibility. It’s not even his bias alone that makes him think this- it’s the truth of her.

Josh is an asshole finance bro who works in the city center, and Spencer hates him more than most serial killers.

He’s fucking careless with the thing Spencer wants the most in the world. Josh knows what it’s like to be with her, to be the person to falls asleep with her in his arms.

Sometimes when Spencer can’t sleep, which is quite often, he pictures her soft cheek on her chest, pictures what she would feel like entwined with his own body, legs tangled with his and her fingers in his hair. It’s a sacred thing, this image- even though it isn’t real, Spencer knows he values the imagination of her presence more than Josh gives his attention to the real thing.

They’ve “gotten together” and “broken up” and “started talking again” about 12 times respectively.

Spencer could kill him.

“Spence,” she sighs, shaking him out of his angry stupor, “please don’t be mad at me. He’s really going through something right now- he needs someone to be around. Besides,” she breathes out, “I can’t dump him.

“Why is that?” He tries to temper his tone, but the memory of her mascara running down her cheeks as she sobs in his arms shoots through his mind, and manifests as a physical sharp pain in his chest.

“That wedding is coming up,” she murmurs, looking down at her shoes. They’re scuffed, and Spencer thinks she might be embarrassed. Why should she be? He’s the asshole. “I told people I was going to have a date. Do you know how many people are going to be there, Spence? How many people are expecting me to bring my boyfriend?”

Her best friend is getting married. Spencer knows this because she’s told him, and told him gleefully when Josh had agreed to go with her. Spencer remembers thinking that he’d like to punch a wall.

Anyway.

She’s the last of her friend group that’s not in a long term relationship, and in some twisted way, he kind of gets how Josh would be better than nothing, if you didn’t want to be seen as alone.

“You don’t want to go alone.”

“Yeah, Spence.”

“I could go with you.”

It escapes his mouth without his permission, and he regrets it almost instantly. Because there’s no fucking way she’d go with him. He’s lanky and awkward and his blazers never fit and his ties are always tied wrong, and she’s beautiful and wonderful in ways he finds new ways to see everyday. He’s not a solution to her being worried about how she’s seen, he’d only make it worse-

“You would do that for me?” Her voice is small as she asks, and it shakes him out of his thoughts. He looks down at her, eyes softening at her lovely face. She looks touched, and he has to wonder, doesn’t she know?

He’d do anything for her.

“Of course,” he breathes out, a nervous hand playing with the strap of his bag, “If it gets you to stop giving that asshole the time of day, I’d do it a million times.”

Her face shifts in a way he can’t read, and she swallows.

“I can’t let you do that.”

“I want to,” he says, “Please. It would be fun, C’mon. You’re always saying I need to get out there and do things.”

“Being my fake boyfriend at my friend’s wedding is not getting out there and doing things,” she pouts, and his heart nearly jumps. It’s pathetic, but hearing her refer to him as her any kind of boyfriend is intoxicating. He wants to hear it, over and over.

“It’ll be fun,” he says, touching her hand as it rests on the table, making intentional eye contact. She has been prettiest eyes. “C’mon, let me do this for you. I’m sick of this guy.”

She gulps again, an endearingly confusing gesture, and he finds the feeling a little desperate. Pick me, choose to be with me, even if it’s just pretend.

“He’s going to be there anyway,” she breathes out biting her lip in a nervous gesture, “I- I’d owe you so much, Spence. It would make him jealous, I think.”

It’s a little hedonistic, how much he would enjoy that, he thinks. Someone would see her as his girl. He knows she might be doing this to get Josh’s attention, but still- the evening together seems like too lovely of a thing to turn down- too wonderful of a chance to not offer. He’d take a night of pretend over never getting to be with her at all.

It’s enough to make him ignore that making Josh jealous is probably the reason she’s saying yes.

“Okay, okay! Spencer, will you do me the honor of taking me to Julie’s wedding?”

“I would be honored.

The weeks approaching the wedding are a bit of sweet torture. She’d had the idea that they could practice, whatever that meant, and the memory of it lives in his mind rent free. They’d been watching the movie, already touchier than most would allow of best friends. (She’s his best, Spencer’s just the tiniest bit resentful of Julie).

She’d been sitting next to him on his worn out couch, her legs thrown across his, and true to his word, he was whispering the translation along to the movie. She smiled at him, watching his mouth move instead of the movie, and he felt tingly under her stare. How wonderful and bright it is, to be under her gaze. He kept speaking even though she wasn’t watching, because he imagines that if he stops, she might look away.

Then, she had held his hand.

Grabbed it really, fingers lacing with his own, and Spencer’s brain had short circuited. She has soft hands, he had thought to himself, and it was about the only thing he could manage to think.

“We should practice,” she had whispered, even though it was just the two of them in the lowlight of his home, “Y’know, so people believe us.”

He didn’t say that he’s pretty sure no one needed to be convinced he’s in love with her.

“Sure,” he had nodded, and squeezed her hand, “I think that’s a great idea.”

So they’ve been practicing.

This has been in equal measures wonderful and torturous. She walks with him to work on half the days, with her fingers twined with his own, and Spencer finds it intoxicating that any passerby would assume he belongs to her.

More than he already does, anyway.

Her affection is her own, just turned up to 11. She’s gorgeous- this is a fact that was not instrumental in his love of her, but ornamental- still, this is hard to ignore when she touches him as much as she does now. When she’s out with the team at the bar, she rests her hand on the small of his back- he preens every time at this. This is simple, her domesticity, her claiming his presence as her own- it’s more than nice, Spencer realizes. It’s wonderful, to be wanted by her. Even if it’s not real.

On this night, they’re celebrating. They caught the unsub before he’d been able to kill his first victim. This is a rarity in their field, and she’d given the interview that had gotten the confession. It’s the closest to field work she’d gotten, and they’re all celebrating their win. Her win.

She looks like a figment of imagination, lovely in a way he literally cannot believe he didn’t conjure up in fantasy. Her favorite song is playing out of pure serendipity, and Spencer likes that word for her. She is serendipitous as a whole.

“Do you want something to drink, honey?” The endearment feels warm and natural as it comes out of his mouth. His hand is resting on the small of her waist, and he knows he’s being egregious with the practice thing. But this is so nice, her leaning into him, one drink deep and touchier than she is tipsy, and he loves this. He loves that under this pretense, he gets to know what she feels like in his arms.

He hands her the water before she gets to answer, and she happily sips it.

“Are you proud of me, Spence?” Her voice is immeasurably fond and he drinks it in like a man starved.

“Of course,” he smiles at her. I’m always proud of you, he thinks. “You did so well, love.”

He’s not used to endearments, but she showers him in them. Before their little pretending, too. Called him dove, honey, darling. Packed an emergency lunch in his go bag in case he forgot his. She’s such a good friend, and he wants to be her lover more with each breath.

He tries to return them, now.

“Good,” she says serenely, looking at him in a way that kills him, because he will never, ever kiss her. She can hold him, and look at him like that, and he will never get to be with her, “I think my cider is too sour,” she scrunches her nose, and his heart swoops.

“I’ll get you something sweeter, baby.”

“Yeah you will!” He hears Morgan laugh, and he flushes bright red. No one seems surprised, by how touchy they’d been. Even Hotch- he’d expected a talk, but then got a stern nod of understanding in its stead.

She sips the sweet drink he got her, a little cherry on the step, and he thinks he’d do anything to keep looking at her.

Five weeks to the wedding.

He can do this.

“Could you do me a favor, Garcia? I come bearing gifts.”

Spencer’s snuck into her office- there’s not much to do today, but she hadn’t wanted to take PTO for no reason, so here she is, in her feathered and pink glory.

“Is that a hot chocolate? From Dominicks? Ooh, you play dirty, Dr. Reid.” Penelope almost squeals, and despite his nefarious purposes, he finds himself joyful- it’s alwaysgood to talk to her.

After a joyful, eyes closed and serene sip, she asks, “Alright, my sweet furry friend, what can I do for you?”

“Could you check on a Josh Collins for me?”

“Isn’t that your girl’s ex?”

“No,” Heat rises to his cheeks, before he can help it. “She’s not my girlfriend.”

“Oh, and my favorite color is black.” Penelope scoffs back, but begins typing furiously anyway.

He needs to know what is so fascinating about this guy. Because lately he can’t figure it out. He’s always fucking hated the guy, even though he’s never met him. He never had to- she’d shown up enough times at Spencer’s door crying, been broken up with and brought back enough to know that this guy is awful. Doesn’t even come close to deserving the woman that she is.

“He’s a financial analyst at a Marketing firm, went to state school for his Bachelor’s, says here that he played football in college, but I don’t think they met until after,” she says, “Oh, he has a scuba license. And skydiving! Looks like he’s a bit of an adrenaline junkie.”

It’s an evil thought. Is that what she likes? He finds it hard to imagine, picturing the moments where she’s wrapped up in his arms on a movie night- that always seemed to be her preference. In, not out.

“Is that him?”

There’s a picture of him on Penelope’s screen. Josh is chiseled and strong, smiling brightly in a polo on a jet ski- this is a photo posted on his social media, and Spencer has met a million of this guy. They bullied him in school. Spencer as genius and he’s a lot of things, but that will never be one of them. It’ll never, ever be him.

Good to know, anyway. Better not to fantasize about what he knows he can’t have.

On the day of the wedding, it’s actually a 6 hour drive. She’d offered to get them plane tickets, but he enjoyed his time with her. He was also desperate to extend the time until the wedding was over, and she’s probably the only person he wants to be trapped in a car with.

They’re sharing a hotel room. She’s booked two beds, which he’s honestly grateful for- if they’d shared a bed, he might’ve combusted.

Still, there is so much intimacy. She sings in the shower. He imagines a world where he’d know that in domesticity, where after a night spent in laughter and something like love, she showered in his home. But that’s not how he knows it. He knows it because he’s at her best friend’s wedding, pretending to be her boyfriend.

When she comes out of her bedroom, she’s gorgeous.

She’s got a green and purple dress on, a cinched waist and a sweetheart neck, a dash of plum lipstick on her lovely pout, and he’d like to kiss that smile very, very much. She’s a delicate kind of lovely, saturated in sweetness, and it’s sweet torture to have her this close.

“You look...” He struggles to find words, an uncommon occurrence in his life, “Like a vision.”

It’s sentimental and warmer than he wished he sounded, but god- she’s stunning. She looks like she’s made of old film, beautiful in that way that’s just a bit too good to be true. He adores her more with each breath.

“You think it’s okay?” She speaks to him with her doe eyes adorned with a concerned expression. He wants to kiss it away.

“You look lovely,” he says, a vast underselling.

The ceremony is a lovely affair, and Spencer learns that she cries at weddings. The bride and groom have lovely, saccharine vows, and Spencer tries not to picture a wedding that he will never get to have.

It’s a little bit impossible with her at his side.

She’s touchier now, even mores then when they were ‘practicing’. Her hands are warm laced with his own, her head leaning on his shoulder, and he feels lucky to have even a piece of getting to be with her.

At the reception, she is tackled by her friends, and he performs dutifully as the caring boyfriend. It’s not hard.

It’s a lovely night. His arms glued to the small of her waist, and he’s been introduced as her “genius FBI agent boyfriend” many times tonight. He turns bright red every time.

“This is my boyfriend, he’s the smartest ever,” she brags when she’s half a drink deep, and he cherishes the ability to draw circles on the small of her back in this moment- his words fail him in moments of praise, and touch is an avenue that he is rarely allowed to use.

“I don’t believe that intelligence can be accurately quantified-“

“Which is a thing that humble geniuses say.”

So he’s having a great tine.

Her lipstick is transfer-free, and his cheek is proof. She’s so affectionate his heart keeps doing somersaults. There’s a signature cocktail with some pun in the couples name.

“I’m fucking obsessed with these, Spence,” she says, a light airiness to her voice that he recognizes as her tipsy voice, “Can you get me another, my love?”

“Yes, honey.” He smiles at her, and kisses the crown of her hair before leaving her in the company of her friends. He’s indulging a bit too much, he’s aware. He’s going to have to give up this up when the sun rises, like some fucked up fairytale where Cinderella never gets the guy because she’s not worthy of it without the pretense.

“Could I get the house cocktail?” Spencer asks the bartender, flashing a smile at her with the giddiness of knowing he will return to her.

Spencer had nearly forgotten that part of the reason he was here was because of Josh.

Who is at the bar.

“Hey man- you’re the dude she brought, right?”

Josh is actually about 2 inches shorter than Spencer, and Spencer makes the most of this difference. He’s a broad chested muscle man, but he looks woefully underwhelming.

“Yeah, I’m the lucky guy.” Spencer replies in a deadpan tone, turning to face him with a stony expression.

“Careful, man,” Josh says, and it’s a little pathetic how he’s trying to pretend he doesn’t care, “She’ll chew you up and spit you out.”

“Really? Because it seems like you’d leave a bad taste in anyone’s mouth.”

“Whatever, dude. It’s clear that she just brought someone to make me jealous.”

“Actually, while I can’t read her mind, I imagine you’ve slipped hers entirely. Clearly your entire energy is based in whatever ego-driven shell your youth has shaped you into- and maybe one day someone will care enough about whatever tragedy made you the way you are, but I am deeply uninterested, and I’d wager she is too.”

He’s not sure if this is true, but Spencer’s noticed that in the time since their ruse has begun she hasn’t mentioned Josh. Not once. She might not love Spencer, but she might not see Josh anymore.

“Also, if you ever speak disrespectfully of my girlfriend again I promise you it will not end well for you.”

His voice is even and has an underlaying of quiet rage. It’s wonderful to call her that, even more so as she enters into his eye line.

“You looked mad,” she says in lieu of a greeting, her nimble arms wrapping around his waist with fluid ease, “Is everything okay?”

It’s only then she sees Josh, and there’s something wonderful about knowing that she came here to check on him. Josh is about to say something, he can tell even though he’s only visible in the corner of his vision.

It’s a calculated risk but he chooses to do it anyway.

When he kisses her, he doesn’t know what to expect. It falls into line like puzzles into place, one of her hands falling to his waist and the other cradling his jaw with a delicate softness. She leans into him totally and this is an intoxicating feeling- her lips are so, so soft and it’s what he’s been fantasizing about since she first smiled at him and asked him to keep going when he was rambling about Russian literature.

It’s actually better.

When she pulls back, she scans the space. Josh is gone.

“Well that had the intended effect,” he says- it seems better than anything else, like confessing that the only reason he did it was that he could. He kissed her.

She nods, clearly a bit frazzled, and fuck-

“I should have asked, fuck, I’m sorry-“

“No, no, you’re okay, um-thanks for getting rid of him.”

Her voice is hollow.

Despite the awkwardness of the kiss, which Spencer cannot stop thinking about.

Did he imagine it, or did she lean in? Did she sigh into it? How is he going to ever get over the fact that he’s never going to do that again?

Her lipstick is grape flavored. Now they both know that.

They get back to the hotel at half past midnight, and she’d been a little distanced- not so much they still didn’t look like a couple, but enough that Spencer knows. They’re winding down the artificial love affair, and all of the things he’s become kind of addicted to are going to go away. Her fingers running through the tendrils of his hair, her delicate fingers rubbing tiger balm on his temples when he’s got his migraines. Her cheek kisses, the honeys, my loves, sweethearts.

Kissing her.

When she drops her bag on the hotel bed and sits on the edge of it, he sits next to her. She’s been quieter, since the kiss.

“Hey.”

“Hey back,” she replies, bumping her knee with his in fondness.

“I’m sorry I surprised you with, you know.”

“Kissing me?”

“I should have asked- I’m sorry.”

“I’m not upset that you kissed me,” she says, looking down at her shoes, “I’m upset that you only did it because you wanted to spite Josh.”

“What?”

“I know that this is my problem, Spence,” she says, “You never… led me on, you know? I know that this was always my thing to deal with. Being in love with you was never something that I thought would be a problem. But when you offered to go with me- to pretend to be my boyfriend, how could I pass that up?”

This makes no sense.

“I know,” she runs her fingers through her hair in a frustrated motion, “I know that it was never a good idea. But the idea of getting to be with you was just too much to turn down, even it it wasn’t the real thing. And now we’re going back to normal and I promise that I will go back to being your friend. It might take me a second, though-I might need some space.”

She needs space from him? Because she can’t transition away from being his fake girlfriend?

“You don’t need space from me.”

He’s so fucking bad at talking.

“Spencer-“

“No, no,” because now he has a shot- now there’s a reality where the pit in his chest doesn’t have to live there forever. He can be with her. Because for some crazy, insane reason, she wants him. “You don’t need space from because I don’t want space from you, okay?”

He sits next to her on the bed, eyes a little crazed with want with nowhere to go.

“I’m not sure what you mean.” Her voice is tempered, and he thinks he hears hope.

“I love you. I am in love with you. I’ve been in love with you as long as I’ve known you,” he grabs her hand-it feels desperate to say and he sure he sounds it, “I didn’t kiss you because I wanted to spite him. I did it because I couldn’t live with the idea that I would spend the rest of my life never have kissed you.”

He probably would say more- so many things are coming to mind, most of which are pleading. She’s the only thing he’s ever wanted this much. Before he gets to, though, she kisses him.

It’s sudden, as all things of this nature are, but he pulls her close on instinct. She ends up on his lap, her hands around his neck, and it is so rare that fantasy lives up to reality. But this is better, the feeling of the weight of her pressed against him and the taste of her grape lipstick.

It’s a minute when she pulls back, and it takes everything to not chase the contact.

“I love you too,” she says, the sweetness of it dripping from the sound of it. He wants to hear it again, and again, and again.

“For real?”

“For real.”

When the run rises in the morning that follows, he’s wrapped around the length of her like a vice, right and close to him, Her head rests on his chest, and while there is another bed there, it’s clearly not seeing any use.

He’s never slept better in his life.

#spencer reid #spencer Reid fluff #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid x fem!reader #criminal minds #criminal minds x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #criminal minds fanfic

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writersblockiskillingme · 6 months

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delete this if you find it weird or confusing 🙏

But headcanons of what snow (old) would act like if he saw the granddaughter of his first love that he betrayed or something , like she looks exactly like her and she’s been chosen for the games

Reminder of His First Love | Coriolanus Snow Headcanons

Warning/s: Old!Snow, mentions of death, possible grammar and spelling mistakes

Author's note: OMG THIS IS AMAZINGG!! I really tried and I truly hope that I did this justice it deserves and I'm sorry if this is not what you had on mind. Enjoy!

So you're a granddaughter of one and only songbird, Lucy Gray Baird.

After she escaped form Snows clutches, she made it look like she was dead just so he could leave her alone forever.

Her heart broke from his betrayal.

She moved to the furthest part of the District 12 once she returned back home.

She tried to live her life to the fullest after everything that happened.

Later on she married a nice man from her District and they had a son.

She sadly passed away not long after.

However, her spirit lived on and passed itself upon her dear granddaughter who she sadly never met.

She would've been proud if she knew you.

Your father always told you that you were your grandmother's clone.

And boy was that true.

Your face, your hair, your voice, the way you carried yourself... everything was just like Lucy Gray.

Your mom always used to joke that she was reincarnated in came back as you.

And just like your grandmother, you got picked for the Hunger Games as a female tribute from District 12.

President Snow was sipping on his tea as he watched the reaping ceremony and he could swear that his heart stopped beating for a moment once he saw you in a colorful dress as you stepped up.

He tried to not think of Lucy Gray Baird for a long time, now imagine his shock when she stepped onto that stage once again.

Once the interviews came and you were interviewed by Caesar Flickerman a usual question came up.

"What is your talent?"

You stopped to think for a moment and answered without hesitation.

"I can sing." You smiled at him and then looked at the crowd. "I know that it may not help me much in the arena, but I'm really good at it."

Snow thought that you proved that, alright.

You formed alias whith Foxface in the arena.

As she died you held her in your arms as you sang her to sleep.

"No, nothing you can take was ever worth keeping..."

Snow was frozen in his seat.

During the games, he found it hard to watch them somehow.

It was perfectly clear that Lucy Gray came back to haunt him and destroy him.

And boy did she do exactly that.

He never would have thought that Lucy Gray's daughter would become the leader of the rebellion.

He should've explained it, though.

The rebells won and you were supposed to be the one to execute Snow.

The words that you told him once you met up with him before his execution echoed in his mind until the moment he died.

"I am absolutely repulsed by you."

With that, Lucy Gray's clone left him speechless.

He couldn't believe that after all those years she still affected him.

But you now what they say, you never forget your firsts.

Pretty soon he was tied up against the pole as you stood a few feet away from him.

"You're as pure as the driven snow." You mocked him before you let the arrow fly, ripping through the air.

It seems like Lucy Gray's mockingjays did harm him after all.

TAGLIST:

@hellonheels-x @especiallythewomenandthechildren @prettyinsatiable @caroline-books @runningfrom2am @10ava01 @thecrowdedstreetin1944

#headcanon #headcanons #coriolanus snow #coriolanus snow x reader #the hunger games #thg #thg movies #ballad of songbirds and snakes #the ballad of songbirds and snakes #anon ask #coriolanus x reader

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ragingbookdragon · 5 months

Text

It all happens so fast. She returns from the trip she’s been on for the last few days only to be arrested and put in federal custody for exposing secrets on NEST. She’s tough, seen war zones, fought extra-terrestrial alien robots, and stood before evil unafraid, but this scares her to tears. Men she works with day in and day out, in her face, yelling at her to come clean about selling secrets and all she can do is plead innocent.

But then they start asking her where she was, and she snaps her mouth shut on the answers. They dig into her, asking her if she was meeting with a contact, who it was, where she was. She keeps silent and it’s only until they decide to charge her with treason that she offers a simple answer.

“I was with someone, but it wasn’t for any type of secret meeting or sharing of intelligence.”

They press her over and over and over and it ends with her in a dark room, alone, cuffed to a table. It’s technically false imprisonment and cruel punishment, but she knows she doesn’t have much of a choice given the fact of how difficult a position she’s in.

She thinks of him. No doubt the rumors have already spread around the facility. She wonders if he has heard anything, if he has already said anything. She knows she can’t say anything, knows she can’t tell the entire truth—they won’t understand. How could they? They’re two completely different species.

Her spirits begin to dampen when a crash echoes outside and the roof of the darkened room is ripped from the walls. She covers her head the best she can, fear gripping her as light pours into the room and she squints as his face becomes clear to her.

“Optimus?” she breathes, and he reaches down, snapping the cuffs on her wrist like they were toothpicks before he picks her up and pulls her out, setting her down on the ground.

Guns are pointed their way, and she can’t help but hide slightly around the leg that is suddenly in front of her, guarding her. And then all of the Autobots are squaring off against the human soldiers, protecting her. Lennox somehow ends up in the middle of a multitude of aliens and humans, yelling at both sides to lower their weapons.

“Alright! Everyone put your guns down!”

There’s a breath and then the humans lower theirs followed by the Autobots.

Lennox looks at her. “You know I trust you, I know you wouldn’t do what they’re saying, but if you have a true, factual alibi, you have got to tell them. Now.”

She purses her lips, thinks for a moment, then looks up at Optimus; he gives her his own calming look and a nod. “She and I were both recently out. We were together.” He looks down again, kneeling enough that he can take her hand in his larger one. “We are navigating a difficult and new relationship between two different species.”

“Optimus,” she whispers. “I—you don’t have to tell them this."

His pointer gently brushes her temple. “If telling them our truth means it protects you, then I shall.” Optimus looks at the higher-ups she answers to. “If you mean to punish someone, then it will be me. But know this, she has not betrayed your trust and remains a trusted agent.”

It’s quite a commotion and the night ends with her job and security reinstated and a new manhunt for the double agent; she sits outside in the field, far enough from the facility that she doesn’t have to worry about being questioned anymore. The crunch of the ground comes behind her and she doesn’t look as Optimus sits down beside her on the grass.

“I am sorry that this is how things have come to light,” he murmurs, staring up at the sky. “It is not how I would have wished it.”

She sighs, not tired of him but of the entire thing. “It’s not your fault, Optimus. I think I should’ve told Lennox that I was out before we left. If nothing else, just to let him know that I wasn’t doing anything malicious.” She looks at him. “I’m sorry too.”

“It’s not your fault, my spark,” he says and shifts a leg until she is between his, his hands are wrapped around her, thumb brushing her thigh. “I should’ve done more to protect you.”

“Have they said anything since this afternoon?”

“I would not be surprised, but I was once taught to listen to all but only take few as truth.”

She leans back against him. “Thank you, Optimus.”

“Always, my spark.”

#optimus prime x reader #optimus prime x reader imagines #optimus prime x reader imagine #optimus prime imagines #optimus prime imagine #optimus prime #optimus x reader #optimus x reader imagines #optimus x reader imagine #optimus imagines #optimus imagine #optimus #transformers #transformers bayverse #bayverse transformers #transformers x reader

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tomezatos · 1 year

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so like basically in the REIGEN manga tome tries so desperately to throw herself into the center of this literal Superhuman world she sees and play the role of the eager young protagonist and its so endearing but in the end reigen has to come clean and she can’t keep using the spiritual premise as a crutch. not because she was wrong to have her whimsical interests, but because the fantasy of specialness can often be an escape from the isolation a person feels due to being unable to live up to societal ideals of normalcy, and yet in the end the fantasy can itself end up feeding directly into the isolation by obscuring your view of the other people in your life. you cannot prioritize the idea of being unique or special alone and that is the reason that the power structures in the story (as represented by roshuuto in REIGEN) so frequently fail short; because actually EVERYONE is a Pathetic Freak Weirdo Nerd Loser, from the handsome, popular rich boy, to the pretentious Dark!Reigen foil who takes himself too seriously, to all of the mundane teenage girls who the audience is initially tricked into dismissing as shallow, but also by the same token EVERYONE deserves to be loved and feel supported.

because actually bonds with other people are the most important thing, and centrally this is also why REIGEN relies so heavily on bonds with others as something to create horror. the evil spirit mimics the voices of the ones you love and lures you in and when you’re at your most lost and scared and in need, that’s when you turn around and the face of the person you trust betrays you. tome only contracts the fatal curse in the first place because she cared about reigen and went back to make amends with him. because that’s the most horrifying, most terrifying thing, the thing that renders you absolutely helpless, isn’t it? it’s letting yourself rely on others and trust them to the point that it leaves you vulnerable, isn’t it? but you have to do it, if you want to achieve true connection then you can’t continue keeping up a veneer of Specialness and posturing as someone you’re not no matter how afraid you are of being seen as your true self. that’s the idea that really connects tome and reigen above all else. you have to be who you really are and you have to trust that you’ll be loved for it. and that’s horrifying! that’s an unimaginable, Forbidden terror! but it’s necessary.

and also I think it’s so clever how REIGEN conveys this by only bringing in shigeo kageyama, the protagonist and most recognizable character who the reader has so many preconceived notions of, in at the last moment as a terrifying ghost who is impersonating him. I mean also it’s partially because shigeo can easily be made to look scary lol, because let’s be real, he can be pretty goddamn scary /hj BUT MOSTLY it’s to have him in his uniform, in his most recognizable and iconic form that the reader will cling to, and then have it be blown away by the post-canon shigeo, the real shigeo, the shigeo who has grown and changed and is no longer stuck in the role he once was. because to be vulnerable with others you have to grow and change and do away with old pretenses and dynamics that you’ve become dependent on. it can be scary to stop playing roles after you’ve grown use to them for so long, but you don’t need them - your most honest self will be the most loved. and also I love how just like tome could tell that it was the real reigen bcause he immediately ran into a spiderweb and yelled, you can tell that it’s the real shigeo because he’s immediately rude as fuck and he and reigen literally instantly go into their mean pithy little affectionate banter lol ok sorry anyway.

and also because you cannot really be any more or less special than anyone else and you need bonds with others, it’s true both that you have to rely on other people, but also that you owe it to them to be kind. reigen is literally a normal person working in the spirit business, so he has to rely on other people with the necessary abilities, such as dimple the spirit and serizawa the psychic, yes, but he also does his part to take care of the people who matter to him. roshuuto is so focused on appearances and power - as shown by how he goes on and on about connections - but when it comes down to it, he was not willing to save others (leaving hoshido in Reliance), and so nobody bothered trying to save him in turn. he only abandoned, and was abandoned. this is shown most acutely in the end by how roshuuto “has no other option” but to pass his curse on to someone else to save himself, while reigen “has no other option” to take on a curse to save someone else. reigen and serizawa accepting their responsibility as adults to protect the children around them is an extension of the idea that you are equal to everyone and are obligated to be kind to your loved ones and recieve kindness in turn. anyway mutual trust and communication is all that matters and tome kurata is The protagonist of all time Sorry,

#reigen manga #mob psycho 100 #mp100 #mine #reigen spoilers #tome #reigen #shigeo #roshuuto #long post #REALLY LONG POST IM SO SORRY and its not even good analysis its just word vomit im #my dad bought me a copy of REIGEN for valentines and I reread it all in one sitting I feel stark raving mad rn

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arcielee · 1 year

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The Past and the Pending

Summary: Aemond will find you and bring you the fuck back to Westeros. Paring: Aemond Targaryen x Modern!FemReader Word Count: 3790 Warnings: Smutty smut, possessive Aemond (you know you love it, I do too, no judgement) dubcon, oral (female receiving), fingering, p in v, all the goodies. Author's Note: We are coming to the end of this depravity and there is one last part after this. I cannot express enough thanks to @f4ll-for-you for all of her help! I literally posted, “Hey, this is my first ever Reader Insert attempt, does anyone wanna read it?” And she was the only one willing and the friendship that has blossomed has absolutely changed me for the better as a writer. Thank you from the bottom of my heart ♥ lēkia - brother Tags (kindred spirits): @glitterandgoldfinds @narwhal-swimmingintheocean @fan-goddess @welcometothelioncage @hueanhdang @sahvlren @heavenly1927 @missusnora @lemonivall (I have never had a taglist before, but if you are bold it is because Tumblr has betrayed me and it will not allow me to tag you, I’m so sorry) Series: Call It Dreaming

Prince Aemond Targaryen was a quiet force that would sweep through the Red Keep, his dark presence engulfing every room he entered into. His temperament would be described as obsessional, almost consuming, whenever his meticulous mind was set on something or someone. His traits and his drive would have been admirable in a firstborn son, but instead he learned early on his fate was predetermined, understanding that his title would forever be superseded by the fact he was only a second son.

On the night he returned from Storm’s End, he came to realize that his power dynamic had shifted. Aemond was ushered away into the small council chamber, not even able to change from his clothes that hung heavy from the rain. He saw the change in the expressions around the table, the disappointment in both his grandsire and mother’s expressions, but Aegon did not share their concerns and found optimism within his err, boldly stating how his brother had, “the true blood of the dragon.”

Aemond was grateful his brother stood at his side with the new alias Kinslayer tacking onto his legacy and, in return, he devoted himself to serve his king, no matter the personal opinion on his drunken addled reign.

He was a formidable ally to Aegon, quick to push his grandsire and his self-serving counsel aside, while suggesting for Daeron to return to the Red Keep at once, which would allow Tessarion to be added on the battlefront.

Aemond then turned his focus to the retaliation he knew would come from his sister, pouring over tomes and books to scrutinize battles past and best predict the impending. It did not prepare for the attempt made, but the gods showed favor as Daeron happened to be visiting with his mother when two brutes slipped into her quarters by one of the many ingresses that lined the castle walls. The prince’s yells were quick to bring the attention of Ser Criston Cole and together they were able to subdue the would-be assassins.

The two men with the monikers Blood and Cheese were beaten until they were unrecognizable, until the needed confession spilled from their broken teeth and bloody lips: that they had been sent by Daemon.

An eye for an eye, a son for a son.

The outrage for the attempt on the little Targaryen princes allowed the uproar needed amongst the seven realms to capture and bring Rhaenyra and their uncle to trial. They were convicted and their execution was a show for the smallfolk, thus ceasing any more murmurs of who Viserys had wished to be his heir.

This led to present day, with the seven realms now under the unquestionable rule of his brother, King Aegon II, who proved to be an insipid drunk with access to the royal funds, which was used to throw extravagant revelries that allowed him to wag his cock at every woman within Westeros.

Yes, he was the king and he was kin, but Aegon was still insufferable.

His brother’s incessant celebrations left Aemond numb to their victory, with an emptiness that replaced the consuming vengeance he had felt since that fateful night on Driftmark. He always assumed when it had been rightfully served, that a sense of peace would take over but instead he found a gnawing want for something more.

“You need a woman, lēkia,” Aegon had told him with a giggle.

In that regard, Aemond had an insatiable appetite but only once it had been awakened. The last woman he took to bed was when they first claimed Harrenhal and slaughtered every Strong within, save for a bastard who served as a wetnurse.

Their chemistry was explosive, burning bold and passionate until the inevitable end of the wick. Alys spoke often of her purpose, stating the gods have given her a new destiny to fulfill, whereas Aemond was respectful of the old gods and the new, but found he often preferred the process of coming to a conclusion with thorough research, as opposed to an unseen deity’s say-so.

When he told her this, she clucked her tongue and touched his cheek. “My prince, I know your destiny and you just need to find her.”

Instead, Aemond returned to the Red Keep and fell into the mundane routine of small council meetings, training with Ser Criston, and riding Vhagar. The only time he felt a sense of purpose was backside the massive she-dragon, allowing her freedom to soar over the seven realms and trusting the gentle pull of the reins and a word utterance would return them to King’s Landing.

To return to nothing.

He had always preferred seclusion, but it wore on him as of late. His sister was busy with the twins and her new babe, a young princeling named Maelor, while his mother was devoted to breathing down Aegon’s neck and upholding his royal reputation. Daeron found his purpose within the Citadel and was forging his chains and Ser Criston allowed time to train with him, but he was dedicated to the shadows cast by his mother and brother.

So when his day’s tasks were done, he would retreat to his room and allow himself to remove his eyepatch and the façade it held, choose a book from his growing collection and seat himself in front of the fire to read.

This was how you found him.

His agitation was apparent by the rush of color to his cheeks; he could not fathom how you managed to enter without him realizing. He watched as you made a soft noise of surprise, your backside was to him and he knew, from what you wore, that Aegon had picked some whore from the Streets of Silk and slipped her in.

His tone was sharp when he questioned what you were doing and he saw you jump. Aemond was in a sour mood and he knew he was projecting, but his temper flared and he glided across the room to take hold of you by the throat, though he was careful with his hold.

What he had not expected was the beauty that seemed to glow from you, your look so exquisite and unlike anything he had seen before within Westeros. The embarrassment of you seeing him so intimately tightened his expression and you returned his look with an unabashed regard that held no tremor of fear, but your eyes seemed to brim with a sort of adoration.

His gaze rolled over your shapely legs that peered below the hem of your queer clothing and the gnaw of lust began to form in the pit of his stomach. He watched with rapt attention when you removed that flimsy piece of clothing to show the small clothes that fit with your figure with the most delicious flattery to your curves.

His passion had been awakened; he had to taste you, he had to touch you.

His fingers trailed your skin, soft like silk to his touch, and your scent warm and subtle. Your body fit so well against him and the noises that spilled from your kiss swollen lips was a sound he always wished to hear. The moment he finally sheathed himself inside your wet warmth, you mewled so pitifully and he shuddered from how your cunt molded so perfectly around his cock. Aemond struggled to pace himself, but your tightness clutched so sinfully and he swore the world anew when he spilled inside you.

Aemond pulled you beneath the covers, unwilling to have you return from wherever his brother dragged you from. He loved curling against your soft backside and how you felt pressed against his chest; there was pleasure from watching you sleep, with the subtle rise and fall of your bare chest with your every breath, while cradling his arm between your breasts.

He regretted falling asleep, for when he awoke you were gone and all that remained was the queer clothing you had arrived in, your fragrance still lingering on the thin fabric.

Aemond went to find his brother and confront him about you, only to learn that Aegon had been bedridden since late the day prior with stomach pains. “You swear you have not left this bedchamber, lēkia,” he questioned.

“Speak softer,” Aegon moaned, dark circles that amplified the purple of his eyes. “I swear to you I did not leave my room for anything last night, save the bucket.”

But if she was not his, where did she come from?

He called for Ser Erryk and together they searched every brothel within the city, questioning every madam and giving the description of your beauty. There was no lead and they tried to entice him with what they had available, but Aemond did not want the touch of anyone but you and you alone.

You had become his new sense of purpose, consuming his every thought.

It was weeks before he saw you again; there was the familiar soft gasp falling from your lips and you were back, flesh and blood, in his bedchambers. His temper flared and you were coy with your reply. There was the question that had tormented him for weeks, “Where are you from?”

“I cannot say.”

He wished for an answer, but his body betrayed him and the ache he felt only began to subside once he grabbed onto you, feeling your soft flesh and enveloped in your warm aroma. He pulled you close, appreciative of the black, simple dress that complimented the curves of your body; your nipples peaked beneath the fabric and your body arched, the soft flesh of your ass pressing into his crotch.

You were intoxicating and he was mournful with his words, “I imagine you will leave me again.”

“I will need to,” you replied, your eyes doleful. “But I will stay as long as I am able to.”

As long as I am able to.

Your words remained with him, a soft echo in his mind as he returned to the monotonous tasks of his every day. They rolled away and one night, in the quiet of his bedchamber, he laid back and stared at his canopy above his bed. His gaze held nothing, but beneath his pillow he held a grip of his dagger, the fabric of your shirt touching his knuckles.

He ached for your touch, the clothing left behind had lost your smell, and he mourned that he did not hold onto you, refusing to allow you to return from wherever you had come from.

Aemond did not remember falling asleep, but he felt the shift at the edge of his bed and the realization he was not alone in his room. He had an automated response, only to fully awaken once he saw the hold he had around your neck and your wide eyes.

The passion remained the same and how perfect your body was against his own. A sense of ataraxia washed over him with you wrapped in his arms, a comforting calm until he felt your body tense every so slight. “What is it?” He was quick to ask, wanting to resolve whatever vexed you in this intimate moment.

You turned to face him, your eyes glassy and the tip of your nose red with your words, “I only wish I was able to stay longer with you.”

Morning came and his bed was empty again, but he now understood what must be done. He returned to Harrehal and sought out Alys. When he entered the throne room, he looked up at her and she wore a wicked smile on her painted lips, but her focus was on the mortar in her hand. “What do you seek, my prince?” She asked with the lilt of her Riverland accent.

“Who,” he replied, his gaze watchful as her hands continued the motion in front of her. There was a collection of mason jars, marble bowls brimming with herbs from all over Westeros, and the wispy smoke of sage hung heavy in the air.

Alys lifted her kohl smeared eyes, a twinkle to the blue that bore into him. “You finally found her,” her tone was playful, almost teasing. “You know that I need something of hers to locate.”

He handed over your vintage shirt.

“The White Duke,” she grinned. “Is this dear to her?”

“I hope so,” he answered.

She tsked and took just a shred of the fabric, dropping it onto the marble slate in front of her before sprinkling a powder on top. A flame sparked and it reflected in her eyes. “Fate is peculiar,” she began, her tone still teasing. “She is not of this world, my prince.”

Aemond remembered your reply, I cannot say, and he asks, “Am I able to get to her? Would I be able to bring her back here?” He swallowed. “She has visited me before.”

“Yes, I am aware,” Alys continues. “I can create an access that will allow you to retrieve your destiny, as well as a potion that you must give her so she can return with you, with whatever she carries.” Her eyes focused on him, her lips drawn into a thin line. “We cannot traipse back and forth this plane of existence, my prince. I can give you two days, but after that the portal will be closed so on one else can cross.”

She paused for a moment. “This, of course, will cost you, my prince.”

But no cost could compare to the opportunity to see you again. Aemond returned that evening and noticed a chalk symbol on the cobblestone. Alys handed him a small vial with a soft purple glow emanating from the glass. “This is what she must take to be able to cross over and stay within Wetseros,” she instructed. “Where you arrive will be the same way you must return.”

He nodded, his jaw clenched.

“I will close this portal in two days, whether you return or not,” she repeated and she gave him a kiss. “Good luck, my prince.”

Aemond Targaryen found himself in your room.

Where he stood was a soft, iridescent glow beneath where he stood and it faded away. A purple lucent light remained, casting from your bedside and allowing enough light for him to look around. It was apparent the space was intimately yours, an almost chaotic cleanliness and your fragrance touched everything. He noticed a velvet chair with clothes folded on top and to his right, by the door, were your shoes neatly lined up. Aemond bent over and removed his boots, placing them alongside.

He saw a shelf that stretched from the ceiling to the floor, littered with literature and small trinkets; on the wall were pieces of artwork that hung. His gaze then fell towards the bed where you were sleeping; you were wearing a thin, white tank top and the blanket was halfway down your hips, your lips slightly open with the soft breaths of your slumber.

There was the curl of his lips as Aemond took slow steps around your bedside, his eye taking in your relaxed form in the sheer top, and he reached to gently pull the quilt back further to show the black cotton underwear that hung on your hips. His hand reached out to you, his fingertips pressing into your soft skin and his touch elicited a sleepy moan from your lips, your nipples pebbling in response.

He felt the tightness in his trousers and he pulled back to remove his tunic before moving to climb into your bed, pressing closer, his nose trailing from your collarbone to the curve of your neck, his mouth opened slightly as he took in your smell.

You shift beneath him with a sigh, goosebumps spreading over the skin that shows, and he was quick to place his palm to cover your mouth; your eyes widen and it takes a moment to recognize it was Aemond Targaryen, bare chested and pressing up against you. He relaxes his grip and your hands move to touch his face, your fingers soft on his jawline, “Aemond-?” Your voice is a harsh whisper and he moves forward to take your mouth with his own.

You moan into the kiss as his tongue massages against your own, shifting himself to move on top of you and brace his elbows on each side of you, caging you in. You move to open your legs and cradle him against your hips, your hands tangling in his silver hair.

His lips move downwards, tracing your jawline to your neck and kissing your chest. He shifts his weight to one side, reaching to grab your neckline with one hand and pulling to allow your breast to spill. His hot mouth suckles and bites into your soft flesh and you moan louder, grinding your hips upwards for friction.

You see the curl of his lips as he reaches for your stretched neckline and tears it down the center. “Hey,” you push to your elbows, your voice low. “I would have taken it off if you just asked.”

“I do not ask for what is mine,” he replies and pushes you back into a bed with a kiss that removes the air from your lungs and all thoughts from your mind until all you can think is the sensation of his lips trailing lower, his kisses sprinkled over your chest, your breasts, your ribs and lower.

You lift your hips and peel off your underwear that is soaked with your anticipation; Aemond moves to your center with a greedy lick of your silky folds, the sensation sending shivers throughout and your clit blossoms in response. “Vok,” Perfect, he praises into your cunt and you shiver again with his Valyrian.

You feel his slender finger curl into you, a tentative touch to your velvety walls until you clench in response. He hums his satisfaction before adding a second finger for a come hither motion to massage that spot within you; you mewl pitifully and bring your hand to your mouth to smother your noise.

He pulls back to look at you and you are quick to whisper, “I have roommates,” he probably does not know what the fuck that is, “I live with others here, they have their own rooms… I-I don’t want them to hear me.”

“I do not fucking care,” he growls and he dips lower until his mouth is on your cunt. You gasp at the simultaneous ministrations of his mouth and his fingers within you; your thighs begin to shake and you nearly cry when he quickens his motion, the pleasure crashing over you and your cunt clenching desperately around his fingers as he coaxes you through your orgasm.

There is a wet squelch when he pulls his hand back and you weakly look, face flushed, as he brings his fingers to his mouth to lick them clean, his grin wicked. “As sweet as last night,” he says and he moves to unlace his trousers before returning to nestle in the cradle of your hips.

Your eyes are glazed and you sigh with the pressure of his chest to your own, his hard and warm and still somehow molds so perfectly against you; he moves his hips and you feel his cock pressing against your slick slit, tantalizing your swollen lips. “Aemond, please,” you beg, your nails biting into his toned shoulders.

He reaches his hand to line himself with your entrance, the gentle thrusts of his hips to fill you and you moan at the stretch of your walls as his cock sheaths into you. He begins to rock against you, hitting deeper within, and the soft pants of pleasure spill from your lips with his every thrust.

Aemond leans forward, his mouth finding yours with a gentle kiss that does not match to the powerful pace of his hips. “Wait,” you breathe and he pauses, his expression curious as you push him back and he follows you lead to lay back onto your bed.

You take care to prop your pillows behind his back and his gaze watches as you climb on top, your touch gentle to guide his tip between your wet folds. He reaches to grip into the softness of your hips, lifting to ease the entirety of his length into you; your head tilts back with a cockdrunk grin to your lips and you slowly begin to rock against his hips, while Aemond presses to meet your motion.

You look down at the prince and his gaze is intense in return, one sapphire eye and one lavender eye that bore through you. The lighting of the room gives him an ethereal beauty and your eyes admire how the shadows spread across the rivets of his chest and abdomen when he flexes to meet you with the motion of his hips. His silken hair spills on both sides, a contrast to your dark sheets, like a silver halo for this deity clenched between your thighs.

“Aemond,” your voice is so low, but he is rapt to your attention. “Jenigon nykēla.”

Touch me.

He releases one hand and reaches between your thighs, his thumb gentle with his touch until the slick on your cunt coats his tip. He finds your pearl and moves in circles to match the rhythm of his hips, his touch igniting the passion that coils in the pit of your stomach. Your nails bite into his chest, leaving creases of red crescent moons on his pale skin; you bite your bottom lip, quickening the movement of your hips.

Aemond returns your passion, rutting upwards until your breath hitches and your velvety walls begin to clench around him, coaxing his own release with a guttural groan from the back of his throat; his arm pushes himself upright and the other moves to slip around your waist, burying his face in the juncture of your neck and shoulder, soaking in your scent.

He falls back and pulls you with him, his arms wrapping around you and you nestle against his chest; your smile is unable to leave your face as you press a kiss to his chest, moving to press your lips to his neck. He hums, his cheeks dimpling with a closed lip smile, and you whisper, “Aemond, how did you find me?” Your voice is soft. “This has to be a dream.”

He hums again, pressing a kiss to your hairline. “I will tell you everything in the morning,” he promises, nestling with you beneath the quilts on your bed.

Your fingers trace the hard planes of his abdomen, the softest touch to test if he was really there. But in the morning you will be gone, you don’t say and, instead, his steady breathing lulls you to sleep.

#the past and the pending #Aemond Targaryen x Modern!FemReader #aemond targaryen #aemond fanfic #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen x modern!reader #hotd fanfic #aemond smut #thanks for reading #and thanks for all the love #♥

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miller-lookforthe-lite · 5 months

Text

steps: part two

joel miller x f!reader

rating: M

words: 7k

tags/warnings: unplanned/(unwanted?) pregnancy, thoughts and discussion of abortion, UNSOUND MEDICAL PRACTICE/ADVICE, description of injury, canon-typical violence, hurt/comfort, not proofread i'm literally so sorry - please heed the warnings, as these may be triggering to some! MDNI

part one | read on ao3

There are no doctors in Kansas City. There’s nothing left of the QZ, in fact, besides a group of raging militants who have taken over and are hunting for the very two boys you happen upon. Henry and Sam don’t have much, but they have a relentless ambition, and Joel must see that as reason enough to go with them.

As you journey through the tunnels underneath the city, you get sicker. It’s clear to you now that this is not some nightmare you can wish away, not like one of your silent demons. This is real, and here, and now, and if you’re not pregnant, you’re dying. You’re not sure which would be worse.

Ellie finds out while she’s kicking a soccer ball with Sam, because Joel lowers his head to inquire to Henry about a pregnancy test and is a lot less fucking quiet than he ought to be.

Her head snaps towards them and you scowl at Joel, burning his entrails with your eyes, picturing his slow demise, then feeling even more sick at the prospect, taking it back, praying the Deity didn’t hear you think it so it won’t come true.

“What the fuck?” Ellie exclaims, her head whipping to you. “You —” Her head swings back to Joel almost cartoonishly. “And you? I thought — ew, gross, but holy shit — I thought Tess —”

“Ellie,” you warn quickly, trying to jump ahead of Joel’s ire, because that definitely also happened and you know he’ll never tell you why or why you happened after.

“Enough,” Joel snaps, and the room hangs still. Even Sam, though no one has bothered to bring him up to speed, can tell that the tension simmers low, and he abandons the soccer ball in favor of curling up by the far wall.

Joel turns back to Henry. “You know where I could find one or not?”

Henry shrugs. “All kinds of shit stashed in here, man. Take a look.”

Ellie’s gaze is burning into your skin, but when you turn to look at her, you only see a quiet understanding in her eyes, a Knowing too old to live in a body so young. She plops down in the seat next to you while Joel and Henry are off rummaging through the bins on the far side of the bunker, and her huff troubles a strand of her hair. You reach forward to tuck it out of her face. Her mouth is set into a grim line.

“Is that why you’ve been sick?” She murmurs, her voice betraying her fear.

Your heart clenches. You didn’t want her to have to feel the way that you were feeling. She shouldn’t have to shoulder it, shoulder you, but you don’t know how else to be with her but truthful. Her face so open, so honest, begs nothing less in return.

“Yeah,” you say, and she reaches out to grab your hand. You blink back sudden tears that choke your throat and crowd your lashes.

“It’ll get better then,” Ellie says, knee bouncing. “The sickness. I heard that it gets better after a while. And you won’t have to yack every time we think about cooking beans. So that’s a plus.”

You can’t help but smile, still feeling hot and slippery with shame, but hope shines through, minuscule and persistent. “I hope so,” you whisper.

—

When you leave the motel, Ellie’s the one to lead the charge. You follow her, leaving Joel gazing down at the graves he just dug. Henry and Sam are under those piles of dirt, and you can’t help but think that it’s some kind of curse that surrounds you, the same deadly spirit that befell Tess.

Ellie thinks it’s her fault, a strangled confession pulled out of her that she knew Sam had been bitten but tried to save him. You know that feeling, know the despair it leaves behind, but you’re not quite sure how to reach the place she’s gone to.

A plastic-wrapped stick sits in your pocket, has for days, but you’re too scared to do more than make sure it’s there, palming reassurance. Henry had slipped it to you before he died, not saying a word, but there was kindness in his gaze. There was a care you didn’t know people still had for other strangers. Your heart aches.

Along the road, it’s been hard to find food. Joel had shoved what he could from the bunker into his bag, but there wasn’t much in the way of nonperishables - the Kansas City militants had already taken care of that. He let you have the last of the crackers, but you can’t help the pangs of hunger that wrack through you late at night, curled up in a ball on the ground, your back to some tree or to him or to Ellie, one of them always wrapped around you, always watching. You can’t help the dread that follows either, that you swallow like the air that feeds you these days.

Joel feels it too. You know he does, but he’s better at hiding it. He’s acting strange lately — delicate — not something you’ve ever known him to be. He guards you when you’re sleeping, but can hardly look at you in the daylight. Where he’s started to let his eyes wrinkle at Ellie’s teasing jibes or stupid puns, he slams his lid shut when you deign to speak your piece. He offers you a hand to help you over a ridge, and always, always throws an arm in front of you when he thinks something sinister lies ahead, but then swiftly pulls away like the boil of your blood burns him too.

After six days have passed, you go behind a tree and pee on the stick. It’s not hard. All you fucking do is piss these days. What is hard is remembering the hands that touched the test before you - a dead man’s fingers before they pulled a trigger twice, him and another child. Is that the price you pay? One child’s life for another? What kind of sign is that — what kind of life is this? What kind of world to bring a baby into?

Two lines glare back at you. You muffle your sob into the heel of your hand.

—

Your teeth are clattering against each other, your violent shivering overtaking any autonomy you once had over your limbs.

You’ve set up camp underneath a rock overhang, and your breath comes out in puffs. Ellie’s pressed as close to you as she can get between the layers of your coats, the extra flannel that Joel had wrapped around her hanging loosely off her puffy-coated shoulders.

You’re in Nebraska, as far as you can tell, wide open plains stretching as far as you can see, the foothills offering little respite from the biting prairie wind, but you take what you can get under the boulder’s meager shelter.

Joel hasn’t stopped moving since you decided to set up here; he’s tearing up jerky pieces, distributing them to you and Ellie and only pushing one between his lips when you glare, he’s coiling some rope, he’s pushing a tarp under some stones to provide some cover from the ceaseless wind. You wish you could bring yourself to get up and help, but you don’t know how much help you’d be, not with the illness still permeating your veins, your trembling uncontrollable.

When Ellie figures out that she can’t fix it no matter how she lends her heat to you, she speaks up where you couldn’t.

“We need a fire,” she wheezes to Joel, eyes flicking to you even though she tries to hide it.

He sniffs, doesn’t look up from his tarp-maneuvering. “It’d blow out,” he says, raising his voice to be heard over the wind.

Your desperation pushes you to chime in. “We could at least try. Under the tarp, or maybe the rock would shield it enough —”

“It won’t,” Joel snaps, and he still won’t look at you. He clearly intended to stymie your words, but now that you’ve started, you can’t stop.

You get up from your spot next to Ellie and wrap her firmly in the blanket from your pack. You stumble on shaky legs over to where Joel continues to fiddle, continues to fuss. “Let me just fucking try, Joel, we’re freezing, we can’t—”

You reach for the flint that you know is in the bag he holds. Your gloved hand brushes his, layers of cloth and unspoken and Too Spoken between you, and still he pulls away like he’s been burned. You freeze, watching him quickly shift to a different task, turning his collar further up against the wind.

“Fine,” he mutters.

You don’t know why it hurts so much to curl up next to the fire that night.

—

When you stop to make camp a few nights later, you decide you’ve had enough of this, this awkwardness and separation that your revelation had caused you. After Ellie’s been asleep for an hour, her soft breaths quiet in the dark, you push Joel behind a tree before he can protest, grab his face with your hands and pull his mouth to yours before he can remember that you haven’t spoken, haven’t talked about it, have only worried in silence. He grunts, the sound vibrating pleasantly against you, before pulling back, only a little, the slightest breath of distance. His eyes are locked on yours, so close that you can’t see straight, can only see brown brown brown, can only drown in it.

“I don’t…” he says softly, one hand on your wrist and the grabbing for your waist, turning you, pushing your back into the rough bark, but so gently, so gently it prickles and scrapes and wounds.

“Why not?” You say like you haven’t noticed how he’s been treating you differently, like he doesn’t know what to say to you, like you aren’t the same person you’ve always been before all of this. Like you aren’t praying praying praying that he won’t make you beg.

(He doesn’t.)

—

It’s dusk when you stumble upon a still-smoking pile of ash, the crisp wind spiraling it up to the conifer fronds above, dancing its warning like a specter. It makes Joel stop in his tracks. His shoulders, ever broad and imposing, are tense.

He spins on his heel and almost knocks right into Ellie, who trails mindlessly behind him.

“Dude!” She protests.

“We’re goin’,” he hisses under his breath, grabbing onto the handle of her backpack to drag her along with him.

You have to pick up your pace to keep stride with him, bounding through the trees. “Joel—”

“Don’t,” he snaps, releasing Ellie’s bag. She remains next to him without issue or question. “We gotta circle back to the road. Ain’t safe if there’s more people out here.”

“The road?” Your skin is warm, your breath coming short, but you keep your voice quiet as his, startled to stir the crunching leaves beneath your tired boots. “Joel, we got off the road ‘cause there were people —”

“I know why we got off the road.” His countenance is fierce, his resolve steely, but he still won’t look at you.

“It’s safer with the cover,” you insist behind him, a furious ire bubbling in the back of your throat. “Here we can — we can —” You’re gasping for air now, and Ellie notices, her steps faltering. She tugs on Joel’s jacket, wordlessly. You have to stop and brace your palm on the rough bark of the oak that shelters you, your vision narrowing to a tunnel of blurred, black edges and brown sodden ground.

You don’t know how he got there, but he appears in front of you, one hand gripping your bicep and the other pulling your own hand to his heart.

“Breathe,” he commands softly, and you try, you really do, but you know he sees the truth of it.

You’re fading, ability dulling quicker than an overused knife, and you can feel the panic crest in your mind, the sting of liability pricking at your consciousness.

“Sorry,” you struggle to say. He just takes an enormous breath, the cavern of his lungs expanding and exhaling underneath your hand. You follow the mountain of it, the in and the out and up and down, and it makes it a little easier to see again.

You drag your eyes up to meet his, shame and exhaustion omnipresent parents in your expression. He looks blown wide open, sad, maybe worried, but mostly so, so certain.

His grip on you tightens. “Let’s stay in the woods,” he whispers his acquiescence. You feel no kind of victory. You want him to argue with you, not the dark circles printed onto the skin under your eyes. That can’t be all you are now.

Joel tenses suddenly, eyes flicking from you up to the edge of the tree line. You think he’s about to grab you and Ellie and run when you hear a muffled shriek from behind him, his broad form blocking your sight. He whips around to reveal two women, one with golden-red hair and one with a knife to Ellie’s throat. Ellie struggles and swears and writhes. You freeze.

The golden-red-haired woman has a revolver pointed at the two of you. You can’t see Joel’s face, but you know that he’s furious. You almost hope it’s with you, hope it’s because you caused him to turn his back, to lose his focus. You want him to feel the way you feel.

“Quit it,” hisses the taller woman that has a hold on Ellie, like she’s speaking to an incessant fly rather than a young girl at her mercy.

“Let her go,” Joel says lowly, calmly. There’s no questioning a tone like that. “Then you and I can talk like adults.”

“We don’t want trouble,” the golden-red-haired woman responds smoothly, her fist around the revolver begging argument. “Just hungry. Just lookin’ for food.”

You don’t even think about whether you should, whether Joel has a plan. You keep your eyes on Ellie as she continues to squirm. She’s afraid, but maybe not as much as she should be. Her confidence in you crushes you. You dart forward to Joel’s bag, unzip it from where it rests on his back. You pull out the measly offerings - two more pieces of jerky wrapped in flaking paper. An old health bar. Some roasted acorns you had made that taste like bitter ash. You throw the food at their feet. Joel doesn’t stop you.

The woman holding Ellie narrows her eyes. “That’s it?”

“That’s it,” you plead. “You can check.”

You shoulder off your own, lighter pack and toss it to them. Joel glares at you, his fingers clearly itching towards his own gun tucked in the back of his pants, but you glare right back. Not with Ellie’s throat under a blade, you try to tell him with your fear.

The golden-red-haired woman bends down slowly to rummage through your bag, revolver still pointed your way. Joel shifts his weight while the woman looks down and she cocks the gun without even looking up, clicking her tongue in admonishment. Once she deems your supplies as paltry as you had claimed, she stands up, kicking the bag over, and slipping your meager offerings into her pockets. “Fine. Elaine, let her go.”

Elaine’s eyes flash like she’s considering an argument, and you try to calculate the distance from your hand to Joel’s gun, from the bullet to the spot between Elaine’s eyes, and the speed her lithe wrist would need to flick the knife across Ellie’s life.

Your action is decided for you when Elaine relents, shoving Ellie out of her grasp and forward to the forest floor. You’re there to catch her in your arms, her gangly limbs knocking painfully against yours, her furious demeanor tempered by your trembling.

You pull her back with you towards Joel, scrambling on the ground, and look up to see he’s drawn his gun. “Get movin’, then.” He bares his teeth at them.

Elaine moves to back away, but the other woman hesitates. Elaine nudges her shoulder with her own and hisses. “Madison.”

Madison looks between you and Joel as he helps you and Ellie up like she’s trying to decide something. Ellie seethes with derision and you have to clutch her to keep her from springing back towards her captors, this time on the attack. She only settles when she realizes she can’t lash out without hurting you, her fury still spitting but her face turning into your collarbone, probably more for your sake than her own. You rest your palm on her head. Joel’s got his free arm wrapped around you, too, sandwiching you and Ellie tight to his side.

Madison seems to decide and opens her mouth. “You know the way to Jackson?”

Elaine halts her retreat, brows furrowed and eyes clenched.

Joel holds his gun steady. “Get out of here.”

Madison continues to speak like she didn’t hear him. “Settlement out in Wyoming. My brother was headed there with an old army buddy. Heard they take people —”

She cuts off at the click of Joel’s safety. His finger rests on the trigger. He doesn’t say another word, just bores into her with eyes of molten lead.

Madison nods, and before you can blink, she and Elaine are gone. You’d almost believed you’d dreamed them up if your stomach didn’t turn at the thought of your reserves, now depleted.

Joel doesn’t let either of you move for a good ten minutes, his gun still raised and his arm still around you both. Ellie’s breathing has evened out and she turns her head up to look at you. You run a hand through her ponytail. “Okay?” You whisper. She nods, lips in a hard line.

You let her burrow herself back into you and look up at Joel. His thoughts race too fast to hide from his expression, and when he finally lowers the gun, he steps forward to grab your pack and swing it over his own shoulder.

His jaw grinds itself to dust as he stares at the ground, and it occurs to you what he might be agonizing over.

“Army buddy in Wyoming? Joel—” Your breath catches before you can really ask him. He looks up at you with hardened eyes and nods.

You let out a shuddering exhale, still rocking, rocking Ellie in your hold. The word rolls acidic off your tongue. “Jackson.”

—

It’s Jackson you’re headed for when the first shots ring out. You’re following the faded lines of a dusty map, hoping for the best. It’s brought you to a small town, several wooden buildings lining what must have once been a comfortable main road.

It’s not even that your guard is down, either — Joel had been antsier than ever after the run in with the women, especially since Ellie’s life had been on the line. She grumbles against his insistence, but you think she’s secretly appreciative of this mangled care, this devotion that no one before has extended to her.

They still get the jump on you, though, because they’re trying to get the jump on someone else. You glean somewhere during the shootout that it’s two opposing groups, both vying for the others’ resources. One had been holed up in the last building in town, the last one Joel had to clear before giving the signal. The other had been over the hill, peering down, waiting for their moment to ambush. They had thought Joel, ransacking and searching, was their target. It probably hadn’t mattered that he wasn’t.

You hear the shots before you know any of this, before you see anything that happens, so you follow protocol and grab Ellie and duck down behind a crumbling outpost, pushing her head under your cover. You peek over to see a torrent of people flooding out of that last building, the one Joel had been headed towards. Their guns are pointed away from you, up towards the peek where the last shot echoed from. Their shouts are incoherent, and your eyes search frantically for Joel. There’s no sign of him by the building, but there is a blooming red scar on the ground where he had been standing.

You feel a hand on your shoulder and spin around, knife raised high. It’s Ellie who stops you, grabbing around your middle, and swearing under her breath when she sees who’s startled you.

Joel’s managed to sneak around the back of the houses towards you, clutching his arm to his chest. Blood pours from between his fingers. His jaw is set as solidly as stone, and he jerks his head back towards the foothill you came from. He wants you to sneak back unseen, you’re sure, but you can’t focus on anything but the red viscous that flows from him, the life force, the cellular beat, and you feel it in you, too, you have that same blood growing in you, in your body, in your stomach, eating you alive to keep itself growing —

You reach your hand towards him, and he jerks back. All you can see is your hand, frozen in the air. He and Ellie must exchange words, something, but you don’t hear, the pounding of your eardrums too raucous, the rushing of your own tremulous blood overwhelming. He turns and crouches in on himself, hunched in pain or stealth, you don’t know. He runs on sure and quiet feet back towards the trees. Ellie only goes when you start behind him, like she’s not sure you can be trusted to follow.

—

You make it about half a mile up the side of the mountain before Joel’s using the trees to keep himself upright, the heft of him only supported by the roots at your feet. It’s Ellie who ends up stopping him and sitting him down, back against a bristled trunk. You waste no time falling to your knees beside him, whipping off your pack. Your hands shake as you riffle through it for the tweezers, for bandages, for anything that might help him. If only he still carried around oxy.

You pull out a small glass bottle of amber, stomach-churning liquid. Joel finds it in himself to shoot a judgmental glance your way, before his eyes are rolling back in pain. He keeps his arm clutched to his side.

“What?” You hiss. “It’s not like I can drink it anymore, of course I still have some.”

You flip the cap off as quickly as you can and pry his good arm away from the wound. It’s still bleeding profusely, an ugly, obscured fissure in the perfect planet of his skin. He makes a high sound in the back of his throat when you pour the moonshine over the wound, but his lips stay pressed tight together. When you’ve got it as clean as you can manage, you grab the tweezers. You can see the metal still buried in his flesh plain as day. You’ll have to get it out.

“Can I help?” Ellie flutters anxiously at your side, her hands lifting and retracting with directionless adrenaline.

You nod towards your bag. “Grab the bandages, then cut them into three strips for me.”

She doesn’t waste any time, and you turn back to Joel.

His skin is sallow, and sweat crusts his brow. You reach up to wipe some away with your thumb and his eyes flutter. “I’m gonna take it out.”

He nods, breathing heavily, expression unreadable. “I know.”

You search his eyes for any kind of direction, anything that would help him that he’s too reticent to admit. When you find nothing but grim determination, you grab the strap of your pack and offer it up to his mouth. He understands, and takes it gingerly between his teeth.

Your hands won’t stop shaking as you level the tweezers with the hole in his arm, so you balance your forearm across his chest. His great, heaving breaths push you up and down. You place the two tapered points of the tweezers as best you can on either side of the bullet, having to dig through some flesh. Joel keens under you. “I’m sorry,” you mutter, over and over, a mantra that pulls you forward into the next several minutes. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

It takes several attempts, and probably a whole lot more damaged surface area than appropriate knowledge would have allowed, but you’re able to finally wiggle the bullet out of its warm home. The silver pelts to the ground and bits of Joel’s muscle, along with a whole torrent of blood, flow from the pulsing circle. Ellie’s there with the bandages and you throw your whole body weight into pressing them against his arm. His eyes roll into the back of his head, you think he might be shrieking through the fabric at his teeth. “Just have to stop the bleeding,” you tell Ellie, or Joel, or maybe the wind. “It’s okay. It’ll stop. I’m sorry.”

Eventually, it does, or at least it slows. You remove the soiled, rust-colored fabric from Joel’s arm and wrap it up with the remaining bandages, but not before pouring more of the alcohol on it. He sobs, eyes squeezed shut, and Ellie clutches on to his uninjured shoulder, her eyes wild with fear.

“No sepsis, Ellie, that’s why,” you pant, breaking off another portion of the bandages with your teeth to secure it. His breathing calms when he seems to notice Ellie pressed up against him, her trembling fingers pulling the fabric from his mouth and pressing her face to his chest. His good hand holds her to him, clinging with a strength you’re relieved to see remains.

You go to wipe your filthy hands on the grass when you notice a spare bit of Joel’s gore on your thumb. You crawl as far away from Joel and Ellie as you can manage before spilling everything in you onto the bushes. You dry heave long after your stomach is empty.

—

You lie awake several nights later. Your back throbs against the unforgiving forest floor, your blanket wrapped around the top of you instead of padding the ground. Ellie snores softly on your right side, the tender puff of her breath singing through the frosty air. You wish you didn’t begrudge her the rest, a better person wouldn’t, but no matter how tired you get you can never seem to quiet the racing of your mind when the sun goes down.

You turn onto your side to see Joel lying next to you, flat on his back, eyes wide open towards the night sky above. He looks almost comical, bundled up to his throat and arm crossed across himself in an awkward approximation of healing. He spares you a brief glance, raising an eyebrow but saying nothing before he turns his gaze back to the branches that bow above you. He’s keeping watch best he can, but his injured arm is still in a sling, which means he can’t wield the rifle properly. He’s to wake you or Ellie if anything happens. You all know you’ll probably wake in the morning curled together like a three-pod cocoon, the greater threat to your person the chill of the wilderness.

You see your breath crystalize in front of you, even in the dull silver light of the moon, but you can’t see most of his face. He turns it from you, shrouded in shadow, like he does the rest of himself. You never know what he feels, never know where you stand. He had said he didn’t blame you, but it’s hard to believe him when he clearly harbors some kind of sorrow.

You don’t know if its the faux anonymity of the dark that gives you the courage or the delirium that your baby secretes into your bloodstream, but you almost feel inspired to ask him. Instead, you open your mouth and stick your whole entire foot into its waiting orifice.

“What did you think about abortions? Before the outbreak?”

The harsh of your whispering disturbs the tranquil blanket of night. He doesn’t move, doesn’t answer. His eyes don’t even shift to indicate he’s thinking about it.

“Because,” you rush to cover your clumsy footsteps, “you were from Texas. Everyone always said — I mean, I’m sure there were people everywhere that—”

“I don’t know.” He saves you from yourself, his cool, clean baritone soothing your spiked and frayed nerves. The baby pounds its fists against your insides braying like it had heard the word you uttered. You feel sick.

“Oh. Sorry.”

“No,” Joel continues, turning his head to look at you. “I mean, I don’t know because I don’t think I paid enough attention to that kind of thing. Sarah’s mom never even — considered — so I didn’t — ” His voice catches in his throat and he looks away.

You knew about Sarah, but not from him. Tess had whispered to you one putrid Boston night about his past, about Texas, about a daughter that hadn’t made it, which she only knew about from Tommy, but you’d never heard him say her name. You feel the scorching lick of shame about your heart, not having even considered what your current state would mean to him. One child, stripped away so cruelly from him, and here you were implying you’d thought about doing the same to another, but then again — maybe that’s what he’d want. To nip it in the bud, to end the pain before it could start.

You take a shuddering, bracing breath, but your voice still comes out meeker than you wish it would. “My sister told me about it. She said there was a place you could go in the QZ, some woman in the Fireflies. I don’t know how,” you admit, “but I kind of wish I did.”

“No,” he snaps, and you shrivel. “It never works out, especially not now. It would just kill you.”

You acquiesce. It makes sense. It seems too good to be true, a relic of medicinally sound days-gone-by.

“Sorry,” you say again, at a loss for anything more.

“Will you quit?” He huffs, and he surprises you, reaching out his good hand to latch onto yours. “Enough apologizin’.”

You can’t stop yourself from pulling his gloved palm even closer to you, into your chest, curling around it like you’re supposed to want to curl around this thing inside you, this parasite that eats away at you, this child you’ll evict from its warm, safe home, whether you want to or not.

He notices your reticence, turns on his side to face you, to coax your bile out of you.

“I feel sorry, though,” you whisper, blinking furiously, finding it hard to look right at him. “I don’t want it. I think I hate it, and I ought to feel sorry for that, right? That’s so awful, Joel. I’m so awful. But I’m so — I can’t —”

You shudder, and it’s like turning off. The tears you felt like crying halt their rise to the surface, and your breath slows. The blade of the hurt dulls, pricking instead of slicing, fading. It’s hard to hear him when he responds, hard to feel the gruff hand he lifts to cradle the back of your head. It only comes back into focus when he insists.

“Hey, listen to me.” He shakes you a bit, and with Herculean effort, you lift your heavy eyes to meet his. His expression is intense, pinched, and so, so beautiful.

“You’re not wrong, you’re not bad. I know this is hard. I know,” he shakes you again when your eyes start to glaze.

“Joel,” you breathe.

“Listen,” he says, fingertips pushing into the firm of your scalp, and you notice faintly that he’s abandoned his sling, that he’s pushed his pain aside to reach for you. “You’re doing better than you think you are. I see it, I see you fightin’. You’re not failing, darlin’. Not on my watch.”

You feel yourself nodding, not knowing where the internal command came from. “I know, Joel.” How do you tell him? How can he not understand that you trust him, just not yourself and your rotten, black heart?

He exhales harshly, searching your eyes for doubt, for something other than this flatness you feel settling over you. He gives in when he can’t find it, but his hand keeps rubbing your head, and you lean into it, relishing in the prick of his calluses. “Okay,” he says, then closes his mouth, opens it, shuts it again. His indecision pulls you back to the forest, back into the body you now share with another.

“What?” You venture, and his eyes alight, enthused to have found you in there.

“You ever been to Texas?” He says quickly, and he doesn’t blurt things, but maybe he did just then.

A startled laugh escapes your lips. The world shifts into focus, and the world is just his eyes, boring into yours. “Probably not. I don’t think we travelled much before the outbreak. Boston’s all I remember, besides a few summers in Maine.”

He lets out a low whistle, eyes flicking over to Ellie to make sure his sound hasn’t bothered her. She remains still, burrowed in the confines of her dreams. “Pretty different from Texas, then,” he says, and you laugh again, realer this time, easier.

“Colder,” you agree, “Even in the summer. We always had to bundle up next to the coast, even in July.”

“Nice though?” He prods into your memory with an iron poke, trying to keep you awake, keep you alive. Guide you ashore. The granite slopes wade into your mind, crashing waves and evergreen needles, a creaking Cape and damp, mossy mornings.

“Yeah,” you agree. “Really nice. Pretty quiet. Not many people, mostly just the deer and the gulls.”

His eyes flash, some emotion you can’t name, but it feels like it fits in the still blanket of space between you. “Maybe it wouldn’t have been such a bad place for a baby.”

You think of a child, toddling through the sand, tossing rocks into the water at your ankles. You think of a quiet life in a cove town, small but big enough for the three of you. You think of scribbled drawings on an antique fridge, of fatherly pride and big hands sweeping up a little girl, throwing her over his shoulder. Her lovely laugh peeling through the dunes.

You can’t help but smile. “Maybe you could have built us a cabin or something.”

He grins then, a real, full smile lighting up the planes of his face. You want to reach out and stamp it into your skin, hold this moment, suspend it in simplicity. “Big order for that. Think the invoice would be pretty intense. You plannin’ on compensating the vendors properly?”

You snort, curling his still-captured hand under your chin. “What, the baby’s not enough? Plus, your memory’s shot. Rural real estate isn’t anywhere near expensive as those city slickers liked to run you for.”

“I guess a nine month gestation is payment enough,” he says, and you feign to smack him, beaming.

“Three beds, three baths,” you continue. “One for us, one for the baby, one for visitors.”

He sucks in through his teeth. “Steeper and steeper, these costs. And it’s oceanfront, too?”

“Balsam fir,” you babble, the picture forming so seamlessly in your mind. “So it always smells clean. High ceilings — and a skylight! So we can still see the stars.”

Joel’s nodding, eyes shining. “Okay, okay, you’re right. Whatever you want. I owe ‘ya that much.”

Your heart skips a beat. You feel a giant spark smolder in your chest, so you tuck yourself into Joel’s side to share it with him. He carefully folds you into himself, stretching around the subtle curve of your abdomen that’s recently manifested.

Something unnamable pulses through you, through the bump, over to him. Before you drift off, you convince yourself you might have seen it in his eyes, too.

—

One stormy night in Boston, you’re helping Tess pack a couple of bags. The thunder cracks and you shiver, mind wandering to Katie, to where she might be sleeping that night, if she’s wet, if she’s cold. Tess hasn’t said much to you, her mind on her next move, her next haul; she’s particularly preoccupied with Joel’s absence, you think, but you don’t say anything. When her grim determination sets the precedent, there’s no getting around it. You wouldn’t want to pry, anyways.

She’s the one to finally break the silence. “He say anything to you before he left?”

You had been here at their place earlier in the day, while Joel was packing up to leave. He hadn’t said a word, had just brushed by you on his way out, your shoulder buzzing from the brief contact.

You shake your head. “No, I don’t even know where he was going.”

Tess hums, eyes flitting from the door to the radio against the wall. “Well, whatever. We can’t wait around all night. You hungry?”

Your stomach gurgles in response, carving deeper into the hollow pit of your abdomen. “Yeah,” you say, like there was ever any other answer.

Tess heats up the green beans with ham you had brought that day from your shift at the pantry. The corner of the can is dented, which is why no one cared that it had gone missing, but Katie had started rejecting the dented ones recently, saying botulism was a silent killer the Fireflies couldn’t afford to barter with. Your palms sweat. You’ve eaten so many like that, it’s probably fine. But what if this was the time it wasn’t? What if Tess ingests your poison and you’re the thing that kills her, after all she’s been through?

She doesn’t seem to care, dumping portions into two bowls and leaving the rest in the beat up tin pot on the stove. You both slurp in silence, letting the wash of sodium rush over your gums. You should have thought to add pepper, but getting up again feels too much like an inconvenience, and maybe a slight on Tess’s preparation.

You’re both jolted from complacency when Joel bangs through the front door, throwing it shut behind him and shouldering into the nearby bathroom before either of you can stand up.

“Joel?” Tess calls warily.

A moment of silence, then he responds. “Just a minute.” His voice is strained, slightly raspier than usual.

Tess immediately knows something is wrong, and you know because of the look on her face. “Fuck,” she mutters, and pitches towards the cabinets underneath the sink. She tosses you a couple of rags. “Will you go hand these to him, or get him to sit the fuck down? Where’s the disinfectant?” She starts muttering under her breath while she rummages around and you stand there uselessly, rags flowing limp between your fingers.

“Will you relax?” huffs Joel, emerging from the bathroom and moving stiffly to the kitchen table. You can’t help but gape at his complexion marred with bruising, the ugly discoloration above his eyebrow and around his jaw swelling to a reddened burst. Blood drips down his nose, around the contour of his rugged angel lips, then down onto the rotten floorboards underfoot. He sits, unable to hide a wince and a grunt, or maybe not trying. You’re still frozen.

Tess whirls by you, slipping the rags from your hands and settling next to Joel with a bottle in her hand. She wets one of the rags, then starts to dab at his face. He halfheartedly bats her hand away for a second, until she glares, then relents and lets her clean his face.

“You wanna explain yourself?” She murmurs lowly after a minute. Her voice spurs you into action. You want to help, want to stitch him together with your own sinew, dull his pain with a drug from your veins, but you don’t think he’ll take kindly to it. Tess has clearly done this before; even if she hadn’t, she’s comfortable, certain of where she stands with him. You can’t step into the space she takes up.

“Not really,” he mutters, a childish impatience squirming through him. You feel his own restlessness in your own feet; useless, you can’t just stand here. You turn to the stove, grabbing another bowl from the cabinet and doling him a portion of the sad green beans and ham. You grab the pepper, flaking a kick into his food that you’re sure he’s said he prefers, and turn to quickly set it down in front of him. Tess is done, grabs the rags to toss in the sink.

Joel seems confused. “We’re outta green beans.”

You grin at him, the flesh on your face feeling tight and out of place. “Good thing you’ve got a supplier.” You don’t say that you had stashed him a can extra even above your smuggling quota. You don’t mention it because you know he likes them better than any of the other shitty cans because they remind him of home, because they’re made down south, somewhere, because he can’t know that you know that about him, that you study him like he’s something worth knowing about. You can’t wear your love so openly like that, but you think he might see it leaking out of your porous heart anyways, because there’s a stern gratitude in his nod, in the bite he lifts to his mouth. Tess knows too, and squeezes your shoulder as she walks you out later.

“Thank you,” she says, “for doing that for him. He’ll never say it, but he’s grateful. I’m grateful. You’re a good kid.” Your heart beats faster. You can’t remember the last time someone said something like this, told you you were good, saw the care you hemorrhaged, and gave it back to you. You nod and head back to your own empty place, counting down the hours until you can see him again, until you feel like there might be a reason you’re here.

#joel miller x reader #joel x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x y/n #joel miller fanfiction #the last of us fanfiction #tlou fanfiction #joel miller #joel x f!reader #joel miller fic #joel miller fanfic #tlou fic #tlou fanfic #tlou

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goodnightmemes · 7 months

Text

THE CRAFT (1996) SENTENCE STARTERS

❛ I can't stay home and watch daytime TV for the rest of my life. ❜

❛ The almanac says today will bring an arrival of something. ❜

❛ We need someone to call out the corners-- north, south, east and west. ❜

❛ I am sorry. My defenses are up. People here have been really rude to me. ❜

❛ He comes on to anything with tits. ❜

❛ Everything in nature steals, you know. Big animals steal from little ones. ❜

❛ Maybe you're a natural witch. Your power comes from within. ❜

❛ I had a dream about you. In my dream, you were dead. ❜

❛ Man invented God. This is older than that. ❜

❛ Do you guys worship the devil? ❜

❛ Sometimes I will want it to rain, and a pipe will burst in my room and it will just get flooded. Or I will want it just to be quiet, and I will wish for it, and I will go deaf for three days straight. ❜

❛ Nothing makes everything all better again. ❜

❛ Maybe he was just trying to save face then... because... he's going around the whole school saying that... you're the lousiest lay he's ever had. ❜

❛ Why'd you lie about me? ❜

❛ Look, I don't want to go out with you again. Okay? Please stop begging. It's pathetic. ❜

❛ She's gonna cry, and then I am gonna cry. We're all gonna cry. ❜

❛ You girls watch out for those weirdos. ❜

❛ We are the weirdos. ❜

❛ Did you tell your friends? That you're a lying sack of shit. ❜

❛ Did you ever play that game, light as a feather, stiff as a board? ❜

❛ I think she doesn't want to be white trash any more. And I told her, "You're white, honey. Just deal with it." ❜

❛ Ever since I was a little girl I said, “All I want in life is a juke box that plays nothing but Connie Francis records.' ❜

❛ It's just that I can't stop thinking about you. I don't know why, but I think I love you. ❜

❛ I don't know what's happening to me. I can't eat. I can't sleep. ❜

❛ When you open a floodgate, how do you undo it? You unleash something with a spell. There is no undoing. It must run its course. ❜

❛ You should let him suffer. ❜

❛ It's not for you to judge suffering. ❜

❛ True magic is neither black nor white. It's both because nature is both. Loving and cruel, all at the same time. The only good or bad is in the heart of the witch. ❜

❛ Whatever you send out you get back times three. ❜

❛ You want to invoke the spirit? You must be experienced to do this. It's very dangerous. ❜

❛ You know, the serpent is a very powerful being. You should respect it. ❜

❛ Listen, all I am saying is I think it's enough already. ❜

❛ I know you think we're getting what we want now, but it's going to come back to us threefold. ❜

❛ Are we actually having a theological conversation here? ❜

❛ I mean, it's fun, it's scary. I mean, who gives a shit? ❜

❛ Stop trying to win them over, because it won't work. ❜

❛ How do you know what I look like? We're talking on the phone. ❜

❛ I disagreed with them once, and they turned their backs on me. That's not friendship. ❜

❛ Sometimes it's like we're one person. Know what I mean? ❜

❛ You should have seen the look in his eyes. It was so weird. They seemed empty, like it wasn't even him. ❜

❛ You're a witch! They were right. ❜

❛ The only reason you're in love with her is because she cast a spell on you. Sad, but true. ❜

❛ You don't even exist to me! You don't even exist. You are nothing. ❜

❛ The only way you know how to treat women is by treating them like whores! ❜

❛ He's sorry? Oh, he's sorry! He's sorry! He's sorry! Sorry, my ass! ❜

❛ Don't touch me! Everything I touch turns to shit. ❜

❛ You know, in the old days if a witch betrayed her coven... they would kill her. ❜

❛ I know I don't know you very well, but I just didn't know where else to go. ❜

❛ And now, it's like everywhere I turn, they're all around me. No matter what I do, ❛ they're still there. I don't know what to do. ❜

❛ She's inside my dreams. She knows what's going on inside my head. She can read my mind. ❜

❛ I can't control it. I always end up hurting somebody. ❜

❛ You must invoke the spirit. ❜

❛ If it isn’t real then why are you still bleeding? ❜

❛ Run! Run back up to your room like the little coward that you are. ❜

❛ What's going on? Why aren't you dead? ❜

❛ He came to me. Saved me. And he wanted me to give you a message. You're in deep shit. ❜

❛ By the way, what happened to [name]? They rushed out of here without even saying good-bye. That's bad manners. ❜

❛ Relax. It's only magic. ❜

❛ Look. I know I am a little crazy. I don't mean to be. ❜

❛ It all got out of hand, and I am sorry. No more games, okay? ❜

❛ We were just wondering, do you still have any powers? Because we don't. ❜

❛ Hold your breath until I call. ❜

❛ Be careful. You don't want to end up like [name]. ❜

#rp meme #rp prompt #sentence starters #sentence meme #roleplay prompts #role #inbox meme #askbox meme #rp prompts #rp memes #*movie

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naavispider · 6 months

Note

OMG OMG OMG

I remember reading an idea sort of like this ages ago. But I can’t remember if it was an avatar fic or smth else 💀

have you ever seen the golden compass? The movie with the spirit animal daemon things???? well, I rewatched that yesterday and I couldn’t stop thinking about it.

so, imagine Spider’s daemon spends his entire childhood flicking through forms. The first being a gigantic spider, and the second a blond, shaggy furred dog. Only, when (insert daemons name here) finally settles, he’s a beautiful orange tiger.

this, at first, would be wonderful. (Both bc tigers r fucking cool and second bc it has symbolism from the start of the first movie when tigers are brought back from extinction - it would be the first time Jake or any other humans see a true orange tiger).

BUT BUT BUT‼️ when quaritch was alive his form was ALSO a tiger - a white one - with the same gruesome three-strike scar along its eye m. Bc I’ve decided daemons and humans share scars.

OR OR OR‼️‼️‼️ spiders daemon settles in a desperate attempt to protect him when they meet the recoms for the first time‼️‼️‼️ AAAAAAAAA

I would imagine that Navi don’t have daemons. And they don’t understand the connection between daemon and human. So, therefore, spider doesn’t really get it either. He just sees his worst fear realised and believes his daemon is betraying him.

THIS ALSO MEANS‼️‼️ Recoms might have Pandora daemons‼️ I would imagine some of them would have ikrans as their daemon, zdog would defo have one of those purple bat things and Lopez would have a viper wolf I don’t make the rules. But quaritch would definitely have a giant thanator.

and when they are being pulled up into the ship- or any other time ig - Quaritch’s thanator (who is male, spiders daemon is also - pretty sure it’s like uncommon for daemons to be the same sex as the holder but that’s just how I pictured them) would totally have spiders daemon held by his scruff in his mouth that would be so cute.

ALSO ALSO OMG IM HAVING SO MANY JDEAS JUST WRITING THIS. They would torture spider INSTEAD OF THE MACHINE - they would try to separate him from his daemon like they do in the golden compass ‼️

My original idea was for humans to be shapeshifters. Mainly bc I totally wanted that held bu the scruff scene - but it’s actually quaritch doing it not his daemon. But also, the idea of a thanator daemon grooming a growly tiger daemon is so cute to me.

daemons show people’s true emotions. So spiders daemon is definitely as scared at the beginning, but visibly relaxes very quickly I’d assum - especially around quaritch. And I totally want an over protective thanator pacing the outskirts of their camp every night - lingering on the place spider is sleeping.

sorry for rambling, legit typed this out in three minutes I was so enthusiastic I was shaking. I have another idea from ages ago that I still need to type up - just bc I wanna share ♥️♥️

Hellooo old friend 💞

Firstly I'm soooo sorry it has taken me this long to respond. Life's been crazy and I've got a promotion/new job which is draining all my mental energy. I've not really been able to write anything at all in the past few weeks and it's making me sad 😭

This prompt is incredible and I 100% agree with the imagery of Quaritch's daemon holding Spider's by the scruff of the neck 😭 I don't have names for them (but I think Spider's one would be a girl) so here's some headcanons.

Quaritch's daemon is a thanator and Spider's is a tiger. As they are both full sized I think this makes for a very interesting concept. Spider's daemon settled after a huge argument with Neytiri a few years ago when she banned him from coming round. (They got over the argument like in the comics but ever since then Spider has an added resentment towards Neytiri because he was desperately hoping his daemon would settle as a creature from Pandora. He feels that if they never fought then he wouldn't be 'shackled' with an Earth daemon, which only adds to his 'alienness' in the clan's eyes.)

At the beginning of the movie Quaritch is almost sure straight away about who Spider is, because the daemon is a dead give away. (I don't know the lore from Golden Compass if characters are like,, born with their daemon or what, but in this AU the fact that Spider's is a tiger is a major give away for Quaritch).

"Miles?" He asks when suddenly a tiger emerges, growling, from the bushes to protect Spider.

Spider has seen enough of Q's video logs to recognise him, too.

The kids are not only surrounded by a dozen recoms but also all of their daemons. Z-dog's is a viperwolf, which pins Tuk down on the ground while Prager's prolemuris attacks Lo'ak. Wainfleet still grabs Kiri and works out that they are Sully's kids.

"Let them go!" Spider yells as he lunges for Wainfleet and his tiger launches itself at Z-dog's viperwolf.

Then, Quaritch's daemon emerges from the trees, silencing the kids with its presence. It goes straight for Spider's tiger, pinning it down easily. Spider yelps as he feels the bite of the thanator around his daemon's jugular. Quaritch commands the thanator to ease up a bit, but still keeping the tiger trapped.

"How are you alive?" Spider growls.

"Your daddy backed up his memories. All his personality too. It was all saved onto a drive and uploaded into... me."

"Let them go..!" (he's struggling because of the thanator's grip on his daemon)

Quaritch smirks, turning his back on his son as he radios command.

Cut to the parents arriving and all hell breaking loose. Q's thanator releases Spider's tiger when a blast goes off right next to them. Spider and his daemon run like Hell. The tiger is only slightly faster than Spider, but the thanator is in hot pursuit. (once again my lack of knowledge about the golden compass lets me down because idk how far Quaritch and his thanator can be separated, but let's say Quaritch catches up fast). When the blast causes Spider to fall down the bank he is initially knocked out but his tiger isn't, and stands guard to protect him, growling, when Q approaches.

The tiger tries to fight the thanator, but ofc is easily overpowered because of the size of the thanator.

Spider is groaning slightly as Quaritch pulls him over his shoulders, but he's too out of it from the fall to be able to prevent himself being carried off

He is aware that he can't see his daemon, and suddenly panic sets in. He knows the recoms could easily hurt her to hurt him.

The adrenaline kicks in enough for him to lift his head and scour the forest through weary eyes - his tiger is being carried in the jaws of Quaritch's thanator a few paces behind them. "Get off!" he tries to yell.

(don't ask me how the daemons are lifted into the demon ship)

At first, Spider and the tiger are thrown into the same cell. They huddle together for warmth at night and the tiger does a good job scratching up the door and tearing down the security camera.

The only person who can handle the two of them is Quaritch, because of his daemon, so it's a struggle to get Spider into the Neuroscanner, and there are some nasty fights between the tiger and the thanator, resulting in a lot of pain for Spider.

The neuroscanner is useless though because spider doesn't give them anything, so eventually they decide to bypass the ethics board and separate Spider from his daemon. Quaritch does not know about this (and like in the golden compass) enters just in time to see them doing this to his son. He's able to stop Ardmore and eventually Q convinces her to let him take Spider out into the field.

When Spider is faces with seeing Q again, he has the full stoic facade, but his tiger is trying not to cower and is trembling. Q sees this and takes even more pity on Spider, his heart breaking for him when he sees what the RDA has done to him.

After a while in the forest, Spider's daemon starts to relax and bond with the thanator, especially since the thanator protects and looks out for it against the Pandoran wildlife.

At night, spider and his tiger curl up together and Q watches them in the firelight thinking all of his deep, wishful, fatherly thoughts, while his thanator is looking at him pointedly as if to say 'why are you jealous of them, I'm right here'

Nevertheless, the thanator looks out for Spider and the tiger

Spider riding Q's thanator eventually

Spider and Quaritch watching their daemons playfully interact and Spider being totally embarrassed while Quaritch is sitting there smugly watching his daemon lick Spider's to clean its fur

If anyone has more please share!! I need to brush up my knowledge of the golden compass lore, but I tried!

#spider socorro #miles quaritch #avatar the way of water #avatar x golden compass #atwow #miles spider socorro #recom quaritch #avatar 2 #atwow au #avatar 2 headcanons #ask: daemons #my stuff

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cowgurrrl · 1 year

Text

Pine Point

Pairing: rockstar!joel miller x actress!reader

Author’s note: 😮‍💨 (ps fic is named after this song)

Summary: You and Joel deal with the aftermath of your accident [4.7k!!]

Warnings: hospital settings, a very quick mention of a miscarriage not experienced by the reader, questionable Hollywood motives once again, quick mention of Ellie’s foster home situation, kinda angsty actually, arguing (oops), language, not a super cohesive ending

Joel stays with you all night and into the morning. You're not sure if he got any rest while sitting in the uncomfortable chair next to your bed, but you know that he never let go of your hand. Every time you woke up from a bad dream or because a nurse was prodding at you, the callouses on his hands helped remind you that you were safe. He asked questions about your injuries and what recovery would look like for you. He listened, watched, and even recorded the nurse's voice (with her permission, of course) so he could reference it later. You wonder if he did the same thing when Sarah was born. You imagine him, eighteen years younger, furiously scribbling down notes on the best way to swaddle his newborn daughter. The image makes you smile, and when Joel asks what you're smiling about, you shake your head and mumble, "Nothing."

Carolina, being the goddess that she is, stops by your house to get you a clean change of clothes before stopping by her own house for Ryan. Joel helps you change into sweatpants and a flannel button-up from your house. He recognizes it but doesn't say anything or try to take it back; he actually smiles when he pulls it out of the bag. "Looks better on you," he mumbles as he kisses you and tugs the fabric over your shoulders, shaky fingers buttoning the shirt closed for you. The air seems lighter, and the hospital less stuffy in the morning light. Your body is still sore and aching as you sit on the edge of the hospital bed, but you're in better spirits. You're ready to go home and put this all behind you.

"Hey there, stranger," a gravelly voice says, and you turn to see Carolina wheeling Ryan into your room in a wheelchair. Your tear ducts betray your better mood, and you immediately burst into tears at the sight of him. He's bruised and swollen and stitched up, but he's alive. You step off the bed with Joel's help and bend to hug him, sobbing into his shoulder. You think Carolina and Joel exchange hugs and cheek kisses, too, but you can't see through bleary eyes. Ryan reaches up and smooths your hair down like he does and has done every single time he's ever held you while you cried. For some reason, the gesture makes you even more emotional. "I knew I looked bad, but I didn't think it'd be enough to make you cry." He says, and you laugh.

"Shut up," you sniffle as you step back to look at him, carefully wiping tears from your puffy face. Ryan grabs your hand and kisses the top of it. "Besides, I look like shit, too."

"Never." He smiles, and you take a deep breath. You look up at Carolina and swallow thickly. She looks exhausted, her hazel eyes more brown than anything under the hospital lights, and her lips are cracked from pulling at the skin all night. You stare at her, and she stares back, and something unspoken passes between you. Joel keeps you upright, and Ryan holds your hand in his as you hug her as tight as you can and fight more tears. She rubs your back and gently rocks you back and forth like a baby. You've always said Ryan and Carolina were your Mom and Dad friends because they are so parental and nurturing, but it feels especially true now.

"I'm so sorry." Your voice catches in your throat, and you feel her shake her head.

"You have nothing to be sorry for. You're not the one who ran the red light." She says.

"But, I should've been paying attention. I should've seen him coming. I should've,"

"You're both safe. You protected Ryan the best you could and brought him home to me. There is nothing more I could've asked of you, okay? "

"He could've died," you say. Carolina says your name quietly, like she's scolding you, and pulls your face out of her neck, her hands framing your face. Ryan squeezes your hand, and you pinch your thigh with your other hand to stop crying.

"This was an accident. You didn't get in the car thinking someone was gonna hit you, right?" She asks, and you shake your head. "But when you did get hit, the first thing you did was check on him. You did everything possible to make sure he was taken care of because you are a good fucking friend. Maybe one of the best. So, I don't want to hear you apologizing because I should be thanking you." She hugs you again, not hard enough to hurt but enough to make you feel like she's pressing all your broken pieces together again.

You could probably count on one hand the number of times she's hugged you like this. Once when she and Ryan got married, and you managed to keep her divorced parents from fighting the whole night with copious amounts of liquor and strategic pulls to the dance floor. Once when she had a miscarriage about a year before they had Elizabeth, and you flew home early from shooting in Maine to be with them. You weren't supposed to see them for another two months, and she broke down the second you stepped into their bedroom. And once, when your childhood dog died, and you couldn't make it home in time to say goodbye. Pieces of each of you that you never thought would ever come close to resembling what they used to have been meticulously pulled back together by each other. You can't go back and stop the accident from happening, but slowly, you can let yourself be put back together.

"I love you," you whisper, and she kisses your temple.

"I love you, too."

After a few more minutes of crying and hugging, Carolina and Ryan go home. You promise to come over and see them once you feel a little stronger, but they don't rush you. Joel hands you a tissue once they're down the hallway, and you smile before taking and wiping it under your eyes and nose.

"Feel better?" He asks, and you nod. You step into him and rest your head on his chest. It's partially so you can be close to him and partially because your body hurts too much to stay upright anymore.

"Thank you," you say. He kisses the top of your head and tucks your hair behind your ears so he can see you clearly.

"You don't have to thank me."

"I want to," you look up at him, and he smiles. Your phone buzzes on the side table, and you reach for it, but Joel stops you. His smile has dropped, and he suddenly looks worried. You furrow your brows and glance between him and your phone. "Joel, what's up?"

"Mel called this morning," he says, and your heart immediately sinks. "Um, she asked if you and Ryan would be ready to do reshoots in two weeks." You nod and bite the inside of your cheek before laughing. You feel crazy standing there, laughing so hard that the ache in your chest blossoms into sharp pain. Joel says your name softly, and you shake your head.

"I just had the scariest experience of my life, and the only thing she called to ask about was my fucking reshoot schedule?"

"I told her to wait."

"No, that's not how it works with her. She needs an answer immediately, or she doesn't get auditions, and if she doesn't get auditions, then I don't work, and she drops me," you scrub a hand down your face and take a deep breath. "I'll call her when I get home."

"What're you gonna say?"

"I'm gonna say yes."

"What?" He asks. "You just said this was the scariest experience you've ever had, and you wanna just go back to work?"

"I don't have a choice. The entire schedule gets thrown off if we don't go in and do whatever they need us to do. Thousands of people are relying on us so they can make money to feed their families. If I say no, production gets halted, it takes longer to get the movie to screens, and we lose money," you shrug. "And they'll put makeup on the bruises and stuff. It'll be like it never even happened. Just how they want it."

"You don't have to go through with this. I'm sure Mel would understand." He insists.

"You don't know Mel, then," you say. "I'll message her later. It's easier to just shut up and do it than fight about it."

"But-"

"It's fine, Joel. Please, just drop it." You blame your brain pulsing against your skull and the searing pain in your knees for snapping at him. It's not what you wanted to say, but you're so tired. And angry. And in pain. You pull away from him and sit back down on your hospital bed as a nurse comes in with your discharge paperwork. She's incredibly cheerful for ten in the morning. It almost hurts your head having to listen to her describe different types of infection and how to prevent it. Joel nods as she speaks, obviously taking in every piece of information he can and clutching the paperwork to his chest.

"Other than that, I think you guys are good to go. Do you have a way of getting home?" The nurse asks you.

"I'm takin' her back to my house," Joel answers, and you have to bite your tongue before you say something about him speaking on your behalf. The nurse leaves you with a wheelchair so you don't have to walk all the way to the car, and you look at Joel.

"I can take care of myself,"

"I know you can," he says as he begins gathering your things around the room. "I just wanna take care of you, too." He's being incredibly kind and helpful, you realize that, but that does nothing to stop your frustration with the whole situation.

Mel will always be Mel, this much you concluded years ago. But Joel butting into your professional life feels like a step too far. You know this business like the back of your hand. He doesn't. It's unfair for him to try to tell you how to deal with your agent when he doesn't know the repercussions. He doesn't understand just how many people are relying on you and Ryan to come back to set for a few reshoots. It would literally waste hundreds of thousands of dollars in studio money to push this back. Answering the nurse's question without consulting you first did nothing to make you feel better.

Joel seems to notice the silence filling the space between you at the same time as you because he turns and leans down so he can look you in the eye. All your things are stuffed into the huge bag Carolina fished from your closet, and the hospital room looks identical to when you arrived. Joel takes a deep breath and grinds his teeth as he thinks.

"Please, let me take care of you." He says quietly, his tone gentle and borderline begging. Nobody's taken care of you during a sickness or an injury since you left your parent's house. Especially after you started becoming more famous, you didn't want anyone to see you in that vulnerable state and exploit it. People like you are expected to suck it up, keep going and hope it'll go away in a week or two.

This is different. This is letting Joel assume responsibility for you for at least a few days, something you're sure you'll feel horrible about after the fact. This is staying at his house, eating his food, and sleeping in his bed because you're too wobbly to do those things alone. This is trusting him way more than you ever have. But he wants to. He told you he does. He took notes on how to change the bandages on your fucking stitches. He obviously cares. So, why does this feel so hard? You sigh and swallow your pride, and nod.

"Okay."

Joel's house is not what you expected it to look like. Most musicians you know stick to a very sleek, very boring black and white theme for their homes. White couch, black coffee table, white rug, black piano, white walls, black art. It's typical and almost a running joke between you and your friends each time you end up in a musician's house, but Joel's is different. His house looks lived in with scattered shoes by the door, backpacks slung over chairs, and colorful art on the walls. Some frames depict vast Texas landscapes or longhorns mean mugging the camera, while others are just abstract, bright paint splashes. There are smaller ones, too, with Ellie's loopy signature at the bottom. The couch is oversized and plush, with pillows and blankets nearby for movie nights. Report cards and family pictures hang on the fridge via silly magnets from different states and countries. You realize it feels like a real home after your first night.

You've gotten into a routine by the third day at Joel's house. Joel will wake up before you, sneak out of bed to make breakfast, and gather the pills you need to take to get through the day. Sometimes, he brings it to you, and other times, he helps you down the stairs and into the kitchen. You'll drink coffee and eat breakfast together as the sun slowly peeks over the Los Angeles skyscrapers. After you eat, he'll check your stitches and change the bandage to ensure they're healing correctly. Then, you'll just sit together and hold hands until one of the girls stirs awake, and you get to watch Joel be a dad.

Sarah is the next one up every morning, but especially this morning, walking down the stairs a full hour and a half before school starts and giving Joel the rundown of her schedule for the day as he makes her breakfast. She asks how you're feeling and then makes sure her dad gave you your medication. You really can take it yourself, but watching them work together to make sure you're alright is sweet. They tease each other for a while before Joel checks his watch and curses under his breath, making his way to the stairs after kissing your and Sarah's foreheads.

"I'm surprised he doesn't just yell up the stairs for her. That's what my dad used to do." You say as you sip what's left of your coffee, and Sarah shrugs.

"He doesn't yell very often. It scares Ellie. Besides, she wouldn't wake up even if he did." She says nonchalantly, and you immediately want to stuff the words back down your throat.

"I'm sorry."

"For what? You didn't know," she shrugs, and you shake your head. "In the wise words of Hank Miller," she says before assuming a slouched posture and putting a hand on your wrist. "You're too hard on yourself, darlin'." You laugh at her Texas accent but still can't shake the feeling that you keep getting this— your relationship with the girls— wrong.

"Well, your grandfather sounds like a very smart man."

"And he's right, y'know," she says, looking at you with those beautiful brown eyes. You wonder if she can see right through you like Joel can. "The whole time you've been here, you keep apologizing."

"I only apologized once this morning."

"Yeah, to me. How many times have you apologized to my dad?" She asks, raising her eyebrows, and you sigh. "It was a family decision to have you come stay with us. Three out of three Millers voted yes. I promise it's really okay."

"It's not that."

"Then, what is it?"

"I don't... I've never..." You struggle with the words. "I've never dated someone with kids, and I don't want to overstep or make you guys feel like I'm taking your dad away from you. I don't know how to do this, so I keep saying things and then just feeling stupid or like I messed up. Like I should've remembered the thing about Ellie's foster homes." You don't know why you're disclosing all the information to an eighteen-year-old, but she seems receptive.

"Ellie doesn't want any of us to treat her differently because of her past, and I'm pretty sure if you tried, she'd rip you a new one. The fact that you're even trying makes such a difference. My dad has dated... some really not great people he never even told about us. But not only do you know about us, you care about us enough to freak out about us, which is totally unnecessary, by the way," she says. "My dad, Ellie, and I are a team, and we have been for a really long time, so we were a little worried when he told us he was dating again. But he's so happy. Like annoyingly happy." You both laugh at that and feel the weight on your shoulders ease off.

"And Ellie and I kinda agreed that as long as you made my dad happy, we'd find a way to be happy for him, but you make it pretty easy. I like having you around. We both do."

"Yeah?" You ask, and she hums with a big smile on her face. You bump her shoulder with your own and smile too. "I like having you around, too."

"So, no more worrying about us, okay?"

"I can't guarantee anything, but thank you. I really appreciate you saying all that."

"You're welcome." She says as you wrap an arm around her shoulder and kiss her temple. Joel walks back into the kitchen with a knowing look but doesn't say anything, and you wonder how much he heard. A groggy Ellie, still in her pajamas, trails behind him and blindly reaches for the orange juice in the fridge.

"Oh, motherfucker," Ellie mutters as she sloshes around the last inch of orange juice. She holds up the mostly empty container and gives Joel a deadly serious look. "This is child abuse."

"That ain't child abuse," Joel says, already halfway to the garage. Ellie rolls her eyes before landing on you and softening.

"How're you feeling?" She asks, and you laugh.

"Better after watching you fuck with your dad."

"He's easy to fuck with," she says as the garage door opens again and Joel's footsteps get closer. "Watch this."

"Here you go," Joel says, handing Ellie a new container of orange juice. She furrows her eyebrows and looks at him.

"I didn't ask for this."

"What? Yes, you did."

"No, I didn't."

"Oh, my God, Dad's losing it." Sarah chimes in. Joel looks confused and like he's genuinely trying to remember if Ellie asked for it, and you can't stop the snort from leaving you.

"You little shit," Joel says, making Ellie laugh. Then, in the blink of an eye, Joel tickles Ellie, and her screeching laughter fills the kitchen. You and Sarah laugh, too, especially when the laughter turns into squeaks. Ellie tries to slip out of his grip, but he picks her up, hauls her over his shoulder, and makes for the backdoor.

"Joel Miller, do not throw your daughter in the pool!" You yell, and he groans before turning back around and dumping a still giggling Ellie on the couch.

"You win this round, kid," Joel points in her face before kissing her cheek. "Alright, we're gonna have to leave for school soon. Can you be ready in thirty minutes?"

"Yes, I'm not Sarah."

"Hey!" Sarah shouts as Ellie runs back up the stairs to get dressed, giggling the whole way to her room.

As you and Sarah talk about school, Joel puts eggs, bacon, and toast on a plastic plate for Ellie to eat in the car, forever worried about her missing meals. He takes a little longer than he needs to so he can watch how you two interact, his eyes twinkling in the sunshine. You and Sarah have been friends from the jump, but you have to admit that there's something a little more sacred about her letting you into her space. You and Sarah do your best to ignore his puppy dog eyes, but when Ellie comes downstairs with her backpack slung over her shoulder, she makes a face.

"Why do you look like that?" She asks, making Joel quickly snap out of it.

"Why do you look like that?"

"That's so funny. Did you come up with that yourself?" She rolls her eyes. Joel does a squeaky, high-pitched voice to mock her as he grabs his keys from the counter. He walks over and pecks your lips before walking to the front door.

"Alright, Miller bus is leavin'! Let's roll out!" He yells. The girls bid you a quick goodbye before chasing after him, leaving you completely alone in the house.

After putting your dirty dishes away, you venture through the house now that you feel a little stronger. You start at the fridge, looking through all the little pictures and magnets deemed worthy of being seen daily. You decide that your favorite is the one of Joel, Tommy, and the girls at the Grand Canyon. It looks like it was taken a few years ago based on the babyish plumpness of Ellie's face and the braces on Sarah's teeth as she smiles. Joel is squinting in the sun, but he's so completely in his element in the desert with his family, hands on the girls' shoulders. It's pinned to the fridge with a Washington, D.C. magnet depicting the Lincoln Memorial.

As you glide through the house, you keep finding new favorites. Many other celebrities you've met either don't hang up their family photos because they run the risk of ruining the aesthetic of their home or because they don't want people to see them. Joel, however, has massive frames holding multiple pictures of his family throughout the years. A picture of a much younger Joel with a baby strapped to his chest sets you back on your heels because of just how little he looks. He can't be older than twenty-three as he poses, one hand on baby Sarah's back and the other holding a diaper bag. You watch them grow alongside each other as you move down the wall.

You see pictures from an elementary school career day where Joel and Sarah pose with different tools. Pictures of Tommy, Joel, and Sarah lined up for what looks like a Fourth of July parade when Sarah was a toddler, her chubby hands latched to her dad's as she sat on his shoulders. Then, suddenly and without warning, a round little face framed with wavy brown hair enters the pictures, but it feels like she was always meant to be there. There's a framed photo strip of the three of them making goofy faces at the camera and pretending their dad isn't cool as he kisses their cheeks and rests his head on Ellie's shoulder. You feel almost emotional looking at the worn photos and seeing their love for each other transcend a camera lens. Though, a buzzing in your pocket stops you from thinking any more about it, and you roll your eyes as you read a text from Melanie.

Heard what happened. I'm so sorry :( I got all those pictures from the crash taken down 👍 Still good for reshoots in two weeks?

You sigh and type out a response as the front door opens and Joel walks back in.

"What're you doin'? I thought you'd be in bed." He says, and you shake your head.

"I wanted to snoop, and I'm responding to Melanie about scheduling."

"Oh, good. When are you gonna move reshoots to?" He asks as he walks over, his keys still jingling in his hands from dropping off the girls.

"I'm not moving them."

"What? I thought you were gonna try and change it." He says as you press send on your message confirming the dates and look up at him, confused.

"I never said that."

"We talked about it at the hospital."

"Yeah, but I never said I'd change the time just because you didn't agree." You say, and he scoffs. You tuck your phone away and cross your arms over your chest while he searches your face like he's waiting for the punchline to a joke he's never heard. When it doesn't come, he shakes his head.

"Wow." He breathes, and you furrow your brows.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Something."

"I just can't believe you didn't even try to fight her on it." He says in a frustrated tone, and you give him three beats of silence to rethink what he just said.

"Melanie can be a bitch, but she's also responsible for my career. If I fuck her over, I fuck myself over." You say when he doesn't backtrack.

"Is that what she told you?"

"Joel," you warn, but he doesn't stop.

"If you keep goin' like this, it's gonna kill you. Do you realize that?" He asks incredulously, and you throw your arms up.

"We are in entirely different worlds when it comes to our careers, so can you please stop telling me how to run mine? I don't get on you this much about your job."

"Because I don't work myself to the bone like you do."

"You're right. You don't," you snap, and he takes a deep breath. You're not quite sure where to go from here. You don't know if this counts as a fight, but you know you feel bad. "I already confirmed. I can't change it now." You say softer than the harshness that took over your voice moments ago.

"Okay," he nods. "Then, 'm comin' to set with you because we both know that if somethin' goes wrong, Mel isn't gonna do shit to help you." He says, all of his frustration pointed at your manager now, and you want to argue that what he said isn't true but can't find the words. You think it's because, deep down, you know he's right, but you won't say it. Not now. So, instead, you just nod and unclench your jaw.

"Fine." You say as you pull out your phone to add an addendum to your previous confirmation. Joel walks into the kitchen and puts his keys on the counter before leaning against it, arms crossed over his chest. Once you're done typing, you look up and stare at him, watching the gears in his head shift.

"I really thought the car accident would've made you wanna slow down or, at least, take the time to recover. Make you see there's more to life than just work." He scoffs, and you bite your tongue so hard you taste blood. You move from your place by the photos and reach the bottom of the stairs, fighting tears, before you turn to him. He hasn't moved, but he's watching you.

"I hope you know that was a really fucking shitty thing to say to me. I would never take something like this and spin it against you because I care about you."

"I do care about you."

"Then, let me do my fucking job and stay out of my way." You walk up the stairs with a little stomp in your step. It feels very juvenile and petulant, but you're pissed and embarrassed. Who is he to dictate what you do and when? It's none of his fucking business how you run your own career. Who is he to make you feel bad for working? To fight with you about something that doesn't concern him?

Still, even as these angry thoughts spiral in your mind, you cry the second you close the bedroom door behind you. The physical pain, nightmares, arguments, and guilt eat you from the inside out. And as you sit in that big house overflowing with love so real you can feel it in the floorboards and the man who showed up at the hospital for you downstairs, you feel completely and utterly alone for the first time since you signed your name on that stupid contract.

#one for the money two for the show #rockstar!joel miller #the last of us #joel miller #joel and ellie #joel miller x reader #joel tlou #the last of us x reader #joel miller fic #joel miller the last of us #joel miller fluff #the last of us au #tlou au #joel and sarah #joel miller drabble #joel miller x female reader #joel miller angst

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streets-in-paradise · 9 months

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There's a Songbird who Sings - Steve Harrington x (Fem)Henderson!Reader

Stranger Things Oneshot

Warnings: This is just fluff and musical references. I wrote it on my phone, so there was not much proofreading. It may have a few typos (sorry)

Summary: Steve accidentally discovers your real singing voice and you try to explain him why you feel Insecure of it.

Notes: As quite a few oneshots i have released before, this short thing is an attempt of bringing to life a mentioned moment in my headcanon series. It can be read separatedly, but for more context you can check it on my masterlist.

Tags: @losersclubisms

No matter how much he had grown, Dustin will always be your little brother. Still, as time passed there were certain shared rituals he was starting to consider childish despite being comforting. Bedtime ones were the most shamefull to him, he slowly stopped asking directly for that sort of comfort even at those times where he did need it. However, you would always be able to read him well enough to provide the care without an expressed ask.

" If Steve finds out I will kill you." The boy warned you, guessing your intention as soon as you sat on the bed next to him " I'm not a baby anymore, you don't have to sing for me. "

" But I want to." You reassured him, sweetly caressing the top of his head. " Would you call Aragorn, son of Arathor, a baby for finding comfort in singing songs to his friends? "

The reference made him smile.

" Although it's true that badass characters in Lord of the Rings are always singing, you have to accept we live under different cultural values."

You chuckled, not willing to refuse the claim.

" And you have to accept you are never too old for comfort. " Was your simple correction. " It's alright, I promise no one will find out. Steve is still in the living room and with the TV on, I doubt he would hear anything."

In that at least you were mistaken, since the secrecy didn't last long.

He didn't mean to eavesdrop, Steve merely wondered if you needed help calming the boy down from the emotional consequencies of the awfull day he had. It was the reason why he was staying over; joining forces with you to make things better for him. He was about to announce himself, but stopped right away like if he was caught up in a sudden trance.

Your voice.

" There's a feeling I get when I look to the West and my spirit is crying for leaving." You were singing for the boy a the other side " In my thoughts I have seen rings of smoke through the trees and the voices of those who stand looking."

Soft as a caress, the sweet and undeniably feminine charm of your interpretation was one hell of a surprise. He had no idea you could actually sing, even less that you sounded that good. In awe as he was with the discoverment, he could only remain there untill you would finish fearing that making his presence be noticed would make you stop.

Carefull as he was of not letting your brother know he have been there, he still couldn't hide the shock as soon as he saw you. The pure adoration in his eyes betrayed him, but you were just a bit embarrassed.

" Dustin likes it, don't make it a big deal." You justified yourself in advance, whispering your way out of the bedroom area. " When we were younger I used to tell him stories all the time, and sing for him on bad nights. He still enjoys it, but he is growing up and would prefer to keep it as a secret."

" I can easily see why." Steve recalled as he followed you. " Stairway to Heaven is a great choice, you do sound like an angel."

Unsure of how to react, your freaky side emerged.

" Actually, there is this very dumb backsmashing controversy claiming it hides a satanic message. Conservatives would claim I'm brainwashing my brother into a cult"

Absolute cluelessness, he couldn't help loving it a little bit.

" It's cliche, but is one of the very first rock songs I learned full lyrics for so i used to sing it all the time back when he was very little. " You continued, admitting some guilt he didn't find a reason for. " There is a repetition comfort aspect in it, when he is down I know he wants to hear that one. I tried to switch it as I was learning more, but Don't Fear the Reaper didn't have the same effect."

Being back in the living room gave you more freedoom to talk.

" That's so sweet, you are great big sis. " He praised you, then turned off the tv. " and a great singer as well, turns out. I mean it for real, but i guess your freak friends must have told you that already. Aren't they in a band?"

He made you laugh and, despite pleased for it, he had no idea of why.

" Thanks, Steve. Is very nice of you to say that, but the truth is that I never use my real singing voice in public."

The confession was delivered with a clear undertone of shame and that confused him a bit.

" I know, I just noticed it. We have listened to music together and when we sing along you never sound like that. "

" Neither I do with Eddie, it would be so embarrasing if he would have heard that. I'm sorry you had to. "

That part encouraged him, but he was still not getting it.

" You have to be kidding, that was awesome!"

" Not in metalhead standards. " You explained yourself. " What I did was taking the most popular and overused song from an actually cool hard rock band and turn it into a lullaby sounding pop garbage because that fits my vocal range better. It's an abomination, the disney princess version of a rock anthem. "

Of course , that didn't seem a problem to him.

" I guess it could fit in the Snow White and the Seven Nerds soundtrack. "

You wanted him to take it serious, since it was a real insecurity for you.

" I have been cursed, Steve. I do love to sing, but my voice doesn't fit in my favorite genres and that's one of my biggest frustrations. " You exaggerated in an attempt to mock yourself while being graphic. " There is metal in my veins, but I sound like the most comformist pop singer. The best I can give is a decent ' Race With The Devil' GirlSchool cover, but never the sort of shit any of the guys would find trully cool. "

" Bullshit, show that to Munson and he would loose his shit "

He was just trying to prove a point cheering you up, but as soon as it began to cross unwanted territory he deviated the conversation back on the two of you. His intention was to make you feel better, not to make things easier for other guy to steal your attention.

" … Or better don't, and let this be our little secret so I only have to share your voice with Dustin. "

#steve harrington #joey keery #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x henderson reader #stranger things

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alaynasansa · 1 year

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Her empathy

Sansa was too well bred to smile at her sister's disgrace

The rasping voice trailed off. He squatted silently before her, a hulking black shape shrouded in the night, hidden from her eyes. Sansa could hear his ragged breathing. She was sad for him, she realized. Somehow, the fear had gone away.

The silence went on and on, so long that she began to grow afraid once more, but she was afraid for him now, not for herself. She found his massive shoulder with her hand. “He was no true knight,” she whispered to him

Of course, Jeyne had been in love with Lord Beric ever since she had first glimpsed him in the lists. Sansa thought she was being silly ; Jeyne was only a steward's daughter, after all, and no matter how much she mooned after him, Lord Beric would never look at someone so far beneath him, even if she hadn't been half his age.

It would have been unkind to say so, however, so Sansa took a sip of milk and changed the subject

She had always imagined the Night's Watch to be men like Uncle Benjen. In the songs, they were called the black knights of the Wall. But this man had been crookbacked and hideous, and he looked as though he might have lice. If this was what the Night's Watch was truly like, she felt sorry for her bastard half brother, Jon

“I'm certain your father is well,” Sansa told her when she had finally gotten the dress buttoned right. “I'll ask the queen to let you see him.” She thought that kindness might lift Jeyne's spirits

Sansa dried her own tears as she struggled to comfort her friend. They went to sleep in the same bed, cradled in each other's arms like sisters

They all laughed then, Joffrey on his throne, and the lords standing attendance, Janos Slynt and Queen Cersei and Sandor Clegane and even the other men of the Kingsguard, the five who had been his brothers until a moment ago. Surely that must have hurt the most, Sansa thought. Her heart went out to the gallant old man as he stood shamed and red-faced, too angry to speak

Sansa heard herself gasp. “No, you can't.”

Joffrey turned his head. “What did you say ?”

Sansa could not believe she had spoken. Was she mad ? To tell him no in front of half the court ? She hadn't meant to say anything, only... Ser Dontos was drunk and silly and useless, but he meant no harm

Sansa found herself possessed of a queer giddy courage. “You should go with her,” she told the king. “Your brother might be hurt.”

Joffrey shrugged. “What if he is ?”

“You should help him up and tell him how well he rode.” Sansa could not seem to stop herself.

Prince Tommen sobbed. “You mew like a suckling babe,” his brother hissed at him. “Princes aren't supposed to cry.”

“Prince Aemon the Dragonknight cried the day Princess Naerys wed his brother Aegon,” Sansa Stark said, “and the twins Ser Arryk and Ser Erryk died with tears on their cheeks after each had given the other a mortal wound”

Halfway along the route, a wailing woman forced her way between two watchmen and ran out into the street in front of the king and his companions, holding the corpse of her dead baby above her head. It was blue and swollen, grotesque, but the real horror was the mother's eyes. Joffrey looked for a moment as if he meant to ride her down, but Sansa Stark leaned over and said something to him. The king fumbled in his purse, and flung the woman a silver stag

“I want the man who threw that !” he shouted. “A hundred golden dragons to the man who gives him up.”

“He was up there !” someone shouted from the crowd.

The king wheeled his horse in a circle to survey the rooftops and open balconies above them. In the crowd people were pointing, shoving, cursing one another and the king.

“Please, Your Grace, let him go,” Sansa pleaded.

“If I'm not betrayed by my own guards, I may be able to hold here for a time. Then I can go to the walls and offer to yield to Lord Stannis in person. That will spare us the worst. But if Maegor's Holdfast should fall before Stannis can come up, why then, most of my guests are in for a bit of rape, I'd say. And you should never rule out mutilation, torture and murder at times like these.”

Sansa was horrified. “These are women, unarmed, and gently born”

“I will remember, Your Grace,” said Sansa, though she had always heard that love was a surer route to the people's loyalty than fear

Sansa went to Ser Lancel and knelt beside him. His wound was bleeding afresh where the queen had struck him. “Madness,” he gasped. “Gods, the Imp was right, was right...”

“Help him,” Sansa commanded two of the serving men.

One just looked at her and ran, flagon and all. Other servants were leaving the hall as well, but she could not help that. Together, Sansa and the serving man got the wounded knight back on his feet. “Take him to Maester Frenken.” Lancel was one of them, yet somehow she still could not bring herself to wish him dead

The Hound had turned craven, she heard it said ; at the height of the battle, he got so drunk the Imp had to take his men. But Sansa understood. She knew the secret of his burned face. It was only the fire he feared

How can I let my sister marry Joffrey ? she thought, and suddenly her eyes were full of tears. “Margaery, please,” she said, “you mustn't.” It was hard to get the words out. “You mustn't marry him. He's not like he seems, he's not. He'll hurt you”

She did not want Margaery to suffer as she had, but she dreaded the thought that the Tyrells might refuse to go ahead with the wedding. I warned her, I did, I told her the truth of him. Perhaps Margaery did not believe her. Joff always played the perfect knight with her, as once he had with Sansa. She will see his true nature soon enough. After the wedding if not before. Sansa decided that she would light a candle to the Mother Above the next time she visited the sept, and ask her to protect Margaery from Joffrey's cruelty

When Sansa turned, the little man was gazing up at her, his mouth tight, his face as red as her cloak. Suddenly she was ashamed of her stubbornness

He is as frightened as I am, Sansa realized. Perhaps that should have made her feel more kindly toward him, but it did not. All she felt was pity

Sansa had been wary of Tyrion's squire at first ; he was a Payne, cousin to Ser Ilyn Payne who had taken her father's head off. However, she'd soon come to realize that Pod was as frightened of her as she was of his cousin

He had not been dead when she left the throne room. He had been on his knees, though, clawing at his throat, tearing at his own skin as he fought to breathe. The sight of it had been too terrible to watch, and she had turned and fled, sobbing

Robert did not need to know that, though. He was only a sick little boy who'd loved his mother

Robert had spindly arms and legs, a soft concave chest and little belly, and eyes that were always red and runny. He cannot help the way he is. He was born small and sickly. “You look very strong this morning, my lord.” He loved to be told how strong he was

A few moments later and the big man sprawled dazed in the dust with his helm askew. When his squire undid the fastenings to bare his head, there was blood trickling down his scalp. If the swords had not been blunted, there would be brains as well. That last head blow had been so hard Alayne had winced in sympathy when it fell

Ser Wallace reddened. “I am no more a s-squire, my lady. My n-nephew knows full well that I was k-k-kni-k-k-kni—”

“Dubbed ?” Alayne suggested gently.

“Dubbed,” said Wallace Waynwood, gratefully

After that Ser Roland Waynwood swept her up and made her laugh with mocking comments about half the other knights in the hall. His uncle Wallace took a turn as well and tried to do the same, but the words would not come. Alayne finally took pity on him and began to chatter happily, to spare him the embarrassment

Sansa Month 2023 : day thirty - your favorite sansa trait

#sansa stark #alayne stone #source: a game of thrones #source: a clash of kings #source: a storm of swords #source: a feast for crows #source: the winds of winter #sansamonth2023 #sansastarkappreciationfest2023

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bourniebna · 18 days

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[Discussion | Fanfiction]

Smitten with the Glimpse of You

Synopsis: Wally West being the self-identity (and spirit animal) of every NTT Raven admirer. "Moral" of the Story: To all the straight girlies out there, find yourself a man who would look at you bundled in a blanket the way Wally looks at Raven here.

✵~✵

“How come we were not recruited for the team?!? How come I wasn’t recruited?”

Roy Harper - or rather Speedy - exclaimed accusingly at Robin, the leader of the New Teen Titans. His displeasure was backed up by Garth, Lilith, and even Mal Duncan, who were all having their hands on their hips and a betrayed look, like the kids who were left out of the coolest party in town while their supposed besties were invited and didn’t even bother to tell them about it.

“Sorry, kids, but it wasn’t my call, actually,” Robin shrugged in defeat, not having the answer himself.

And it was true that the reform of Teen Titans had not been initiated by Robin or Wonder Girl, and especially not by him - Kid Flash. It was unexpectedly the deed of an otherworldly girl named Raven, who was a half-demoness desperately trying to stop her own demon father Trigon the Terrible in his wrathful path; who all by herself sought out and brought together the members in a strategic order; who even thought as far ahead as arranging the construction of their base with Silas Stone as soon as the team was formed.

Who purposely sowed the seed of infatuation in the lost heart of Wally West.

Subconsciously, he clenched his hands. Zatanna’s words still rang in his head like the blasted alarm clock he had woken up to yesterday morning. After such revelation, Wally had thought that he had been done with her for good. Yet, in the end, he still couldn’t outrun his lingering adoration for her.

How could he anyway, to a girl whose inner strength was so great? To whom Wallace West was the last hope?

Wally allowed himself to steal a glance at the possessor of his mind, engulfed completely by her majestic royal blue cloak. The only signs of her being the one under all those layers of fabric were her delicate fingers peeking out to hold the god-knows-what book that Gar just bought and her all the more delicate, cold shoulders that he had grown so familiar with.

Those fingers whose touch heals, both the body and the mind.

Those shoulders whose loveliness could only be overshadowed by the subtly hopeful gleam in her grey eyes whenever they looked his way.

Wally was more observant than he let on. And right now, he wished that he could also see her face, basking in the calmness of her defined features and tracing the depth of her distant, melancholy sight. She was always so shy, so humble; always shielding herself from the world in the comfort of her robe.

Oh, but he knew her.

He had held her slim figure so many times when she was in danger. He had felt her soft curves against him whenever she needed some consolation. For Heaven’s sake, he knew her face - one as sweet as the mystical moonlight. Not even the thickest of cloaks could bury away the grace in her stance.

Why couldn’t she realise that she was so adorable?

And a smile found its way to the lips of the smitten speedster.

✵~✵

Author's Note: Me too, Wally. Me too.

#Raven DC #in this house we do not call her #Rachel Roth #or #Raven Roth #DC comics #Discussion #Fanfiction #WallyRae #KFRae #Wally West #Kid Flash #NTT #Amazing Heroes #Issue 2

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liltalle · 11 months

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Sorting Hat Chats - Nimona

@sevilemar got me to watch the wonderful new movie Nimona. I'm very excited about it, and I thought I'd try my hand at sorting the main characters, since I haven't seen that done yet. Here are the basic of the system I'm using.

Spoilers below the cut:

This is a very Snake Primary movie overall, so I'm going to start with our most obvious Snake Primaries and work from there.

The titular Nimona is a Snake primary. In her flashback, we see her seeking connection with all the different animals, but it only works when she finds Gloreth. And then Gloreth is her PERSON, they're in love, it's adorable, and then, the most heartbreaking thing that's ever happened to her, Gloreth betrays her. And thus her Snake primary burns. She doesn't connect with anyone else (we might assume) for the next thousand years, and tho she's self-confident and self-sufficient, she admits that the hatred from others makes it hard for her to value herself. Then she hears about Ballister, and she gets very excited, because here's, finally, a potential kindred spirit. She takes Ballister to be the classic burnt Snake/Bird villain archetype, wanting to take revenge on the world that rejected him, and is disappointed when that's not quite him (I'll elaborate when I get to sorting Ballister). Nimona herself is angry with the Kingdom and its rejection of her, but she seems to keep her anger to graffiti and fantasies of revolution, but Ballister, if her new person wants to overthrow the government, she's all on board and will help him however she can. Even when he's not what she expected and doesn't fully accept her yet, sticking with him and helping him is so much better than being alone, and she'll stand by him until he completely rejects and fears her.

Nimona's obstacle to the acceptance she craves is wrapped up in her secondary: She's a Lion. I read once that a shapeshifter Lion secondary would have a distinguishing trait that would be constant through all their forms, and that's obviously Nimona. Her animal forms are consistent over a thousand years, her impression of Ballister has a red streak in his hair and acts like her, and when she properly acts (a bit of a Bird model), as the Demon Baby and Ambrosius, she loses patience and lets herself through pretty quickly, terrifying the Squire and making Ambrosius' death a bit over the top. And her consistent difference from everyone around her is her struggle, she can look similar to all the animals but not so similar that they accept her. Gloreth, miraculously, accepts her human form and her shapeshifting abilities as well... until she doesn't. So she's careful, opening up to Ballister again. She's Nimona, she's defiantly herself, and not defined by any group, but she's reluctant to explain. She does enjoy lying to Ballister, but only as a momentary joke. (And maybe jabbing at his gullibility is related to her burnt tendency to trust people at face value?) She gradually reveals herself, until she's unmasked as Gloreth's monster, and Ballister leaves her.

And now she's broken, she burns entirely, I think, primary and secondary. She takes a form without any of her usual red, and she's not playing a role, she's become the monster they all think she is. And she loses her weakened sense of self-preservation entirely. She is only drawn to the statue of the woman she loved and who betrayed her.

Until Ballister stops her. "I'm sorry. I see you, Nimona. And you're not alone." Ballister knows all her secrets and still sees her true self, her Person finally accepts all of her authenticity... and she returns to herself and falls into his arms.

In light of all this, I was at first confused by her final sacrifice, but then I noticed, first she looks at the screaming crowds, and looks upset, but only after she looks back at Ballister, and sees his horror, does her face turn to resolve. She's always empathized with the people of the Kingdom, especially children (as they feel like her, similarity is a good way for Snakes to connect), but I don't think she's ever really taken them as her problem. But when Ballister fully accepts her, she fully accepts him, which includes, as Snakes tend to, adopting his values. She takes his duty to defend the people as her own. He's a hero, and she's his sidekick.

(Damn, I want to cry again.)

Ambrosius Goldenloin's Snake primary is very clear from his imagined monologue to the Director, so I'll quote it at length here: "I've lost my mind. I've lost everything. The man I love, my best friend." He just says his everything is his Person. Followed by a note of jealousy: "Although now he's got a new best friend. What's that about?" His distrust of Ballister, here and elsewhere, is distinctly framed as "What else is he hiding? Who is the real him?" because if he never knew Ballister, then their connection wasn't real, and his loyalty to him isn't owed. But he isn't sure he's wrong about Bal, and so he keeps trying to make sense of his confusion, and find out if he should still be loyal to him. And he's built Ballister into his sense of self so much that he then asks: "Who am I? A direct descendant of Gloreth? I never asked for that." This man's not a Lion primary, he doesn't find his destiny or heritage meaningful in defining himself. And finally: "Now everyone expects me to arrest Ballister. And if I don't, I'm a traitor to you. And if I do, I'm a traitor to him!" He frames his choice as a binary one between two personal loyalties: to the Director, and to Ballister. They are his People, deciding between them is the only thing that matters. Gloreth, the Institute, the ideals he was taught, they don't even register for him. And Ambrosius deciding which of the two to trust is much of his arc.

His secondary is less explicit, but I think the clearest moment of him problem-solving is trying to catch Ballister on the subway. Todd, a stereotypical Lion secondary, sees an obvious clue and immediately wants to move. But Ambrosius waits, and watches. And his first clue is "He hates freestyle jazz." His skill in this investigation, as he argued before, is that he knows Ballister the best, so he'll have the best chance of catching him. He's invested in Ballister, so he has power around him. And once Ambrosius has thoroughly watched the full clip (and asked a tech where the train is going), only then does he decide where to go. The thoroughness and humility here, coupled with his intro scene giving Ballister such care and support, make me think Ambrosius is a Badger secondary. A Lover archetype for our hero/villain's boyfriend, but a variation who's very conflicted with a whole lot of agency. I love it. (And his sorting matches mine.)

Ballister Boldheart/Blackheart is a wonderful Bird primary, with an arc of transforming his belief system over the course of the movie, who models Snake for the two important Snake primaries in his life.

He starts out with a dream, "I'm here to slay monsters and protect our kingdom." But it's never about his specialness, I think he just absorbed the cultural narrative, and so just did what seemed like the obvious right thing. (Flashbacks to my Bird primary model) By the time he graduates the Institute, they've "brainwashed [him] good", as Nimona says. The Institutional Badgery values of protecting the Kingdom from monsters has become entirely his. And the public's doubt in him gets to him, he has trouble not absorbing their input.

And when it all falls apart, he's immediately concerned with the Truth. He's innocent, this isn't right, he just needs to give the right people the right information and it'll all be fine. He's not the burnt Snake primary villain Nimona expects, his values are still pretty intact despite everyone turning on him. It takes time for them to break down. The plot challenges him one piece at a time. When he sees the video, he edits his system enough to say that "the Institute's not the problem, the Director is." He gradually accepts more and more of Nimona. When Ambrosius rejects him, he decides it's ok to embrace the villain role a bit and have fun.

He definitively turns on Nimona not because of his loyalty to her or to Ambrosius, but because of a piece of paper (so Bird pri) and a deep part of his system: "Gloreth's monster is the embodiment of evil and what the Kingdom needs protection from." Only when he sees Nimona again, understands her, and lets go of this belief can he fully accept her. His early system, "I'm here to slay monsters and protect our kingdom" is half transformed. He's no longer here to slay monsters, he's still here to protect the Kingdom - but by accepting the Monster.

I think he's also a Bird secondary. He builds his own arm in a derelict tower. He makes an innocence wall to connect the dots. He likes making plans and he's initially uncomfortable with Nimona's improvisation when things inevitably go south. There's a particular way he's supposed to do this, honestly, quietly, carefully. But then, when Ambrosius rejects him, he takes up a bit of an Actor mask of the villain role, and he and Nimona start to sync and have fun together. He trusts his training and he's better at swordplay than any of the other knights, because, as Ambrosius said, he worked harder than any of them. And he learns to plan with Nimona, using her shapeshifting as a tool to get the confession from the Director. And him leaving his sword behind, "I don't fight for her anymore", the tools he uses are an important part of his identity.

The Director is definitely an Idealist. Her values are Badgery, about protecting the community from the outgroup, but her final decision to turn the cannon on the city shows that this ideal is inflexible when it comes to protecting actual people. Since we don't see her change, it's hard to tell which Idealist primary she is, but I think she's a Lion. She tells Ambrosius!Nimona that she had a dream as a child, and simply states that Ballister's knighthood would be the first crack in the wall. She has a monologue, but it's not an explanation. And when everyone around her turns on her, she doesn't update, she doesn't change like Ballister does, her convictions are internal and she carries them to the terrible end. And I think she's a Bird secondary. Lasers are her distinctive tools, to kill the Queen, to knock down Ambrosius, and to (try to) kill Nimona. She plots and lies, easily but carefully, on her own, no improvisation and no support from others. Her monologue is just her dropping her mask and speaking her Liony conviction.

Todd (Thoddeus) Sureblade strikes me as a pretty stereotypical Double Lion. He's impulsive, ready to rush off to catch Ballister at the first clue of where he went. He's a Glory Hound, competing with Ambrosius to lead the knights. And he never questions that he's in the right and better than those around him, until the very end. We only see his sad expression, but reading into that, I think the way the final battle ended shook him, and he's done some emotional soul-searching.

And while my sortings for the antagonist characters are more tentative, I enjoy the concept that this story, that's so much about inverting classical tropes, would invert the character archetypes such that Snake and Bird primaries are the heroes and Lion primaries (with Badgery and Glory Hound values) are the villains.

(These are the 5 characters I think we know enough about to sort decently. The Queen, the Squire, and Gloreth don't get much screen time.)

To sum up:

Nimona - Snake/Lion (Bird sec model)

Ambrosius - Snake/Badger

Ballister - Double Bird (Snake pri model)

The Director - Lion/Bird

Todd (Thoddeus) Sureblade - Double Lion

(If anyone else has sorted these characters, or has disagreements, I'd love to hear about it. I'm trying to get better at this.)

#nimona #sortinghatchats #ballister boldheart #ballister blackheart #ambrosius goldenloin #nimona film #shc #snake primary

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