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macfrog · 9 months

Text

ghost

when i wrote jet, she was always a two-parter to me. two characters, two horses, two stories. equal and distinct. you guys loved the first part so much that i figured i'd leave it as it was, but recently i hit 2k and thought this could be a cool way to mark it. think of this as jet's sister story. walks right alongside her; same universe, same joel - but still very much a standalone. she can be read with or without her predecessor. thank you a million times over for all the love y'all show me on the daily. writing for you guys is so much fun. love you all the most. 🤎🖤 dedicated to @hellishjoel whose love for this pair inspires me daily

pairing: joel miller x fem!reader

summary: your loyalty to joel - and your ability in yourself - are tested in st. louis. the reward might just be worth the risk

warnings: 18+ (minors dni!!!) post-outbreak!joel, graphic violence, moderate threat, a horse is shot and killed (though i don't think i made this too graphic, more gutwrenching), reader and joel are separated, badass stealthy reader, near-SA (more intended than attempted), very protective & very violent joel, unprotected piv sex, like...bloodplay i guess? lil bit of consensual choking and spitting, creampie, possessive!joel, dom!joel but also softdom!joel, big fluff at the end, age gap (late 20s reader, late 40s joel), strong language. this fic is not sponsored by nike. lol.

word count: 10.1k

main masterlist

It’s been weeks. Weeks of just the two of you, shoulders brushing together, hips moving in stride. Horses parallel to one another, heads nodding in unison. The time you’ve spent without Joel since leaving the QZ amounts to a grand total of about ten minutes. What if something goes wrong? If he doesn’t cover himself properly? If you clear the building, come back, and you’re not only a horse down, but a partner, too? You’re standing by the hole in the wall, trying to convince yourself to duck under the bare brick when Joel’s urgent voice does it for you. “Go now. Now!” And you do.

St. Louis is quiet, still, but fruitless.

It’s been two long days of wandering around and you’ve found one building safe enough to camp in. One. The rest have either been inaccessible – boarded up, broken down, or otherwise already inhabited by infected – or Joel’s deemed them too close to the middle of town, too open, not safe enough.

Not safe enough in a world overrun by a brain-rotting fungal infection? you’d asked.

He shut you up with a sharp expression which you understood simply as: Enough.

It meant that you were wasting days, though. The night you arrived, Joel quickly combed the area surrounding the barber shop you were holed up in for supplies, and found none. He woke you at the crack of dawn next morning to set off, saying he didn’t like the fact nothing was around here. Meant someone had been through before you guys and taken it all.

Meant company, is what he was saying.

So you’d ridden around for – what, maybe three hours? You and Jet, following Joel and Ghost down cracked roads, under rusted street signs. Listening to the wind circle the buildings overhead, nudging traffic lights gently until they sang in distorted, off-key creaks to you. Always keeping your eye on the Gateway Arch between buildings, using it as some kind of north star – not for any reason other than you’d never seen it before up close, but when you mentioned this to Joel, his brows furrowed and he chewed on the inside of his cheek.

Which meant that no, you wouldn’t be paying it a visit anytime soon.

It was mid-afternoon when Joel pulled on Ghost’s reins, brought her to a halt, and held his hand out to you. Jet huffed to a stop, and you swear you felt her cock her hip angrily at him.

“Turn back,” he muttered.

“What?”

“I said, turn back. Ain’t nothin’ out this way.”

“Turn back ‘n go where?”

He jerked his head back in the direction you’d come, swerved the reins sideways and then clicked to the black-coated horse to set off. She nodded obediently, like she knew what he was thinking and she figured he was right, and began the long walk back to the barbers.

You muttered an expletive and Joel coughed a Ha, hearing you loud and clear. So you turned to silently praying for a rainstorm, for a horde of infected, for anything you could sling an I told you so in and whip it at Joel.

You followed him, though, deliberately a good few paces behind, knowing he’d keep twisting around to check on you, and letting him fucking do it. Asshole.

When you finally arrived back at your spot, the red sun low behind the buildings and bleeding skyward into twilight, you slept with your back to him.

He didn’t seem to mind. He never seems to mind when you’re distant. You wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t even notice. He knows you’ll come back when you need something from him – want his words in your ear, want his body on yours, want…him.

The splintered sunlight through the boarded-up windows of the shop stirs you from your sleep. It wasn’t much of a sleep, despite Joel’s promise late last night that he’d let you lie for a little longer; knew you had a long day ahead if you were to get out of St. Louis, and he’d already drained your energy with the travelling yesterday.

You’d woven in and out of unconsciousness all night, dreaming of creaky farmhouses with clicking children inside, their skin torn and swollen and sprouting in swirls of pale white, singed with raw red and rotten green. And you dreamt of Joel’s shotgun blowing their moldy maws apart, blood and bone splattering across the floral wallpaper behind them.

You’re lying on your stomach, flat out on the floor with nothing but a worn comforter separating your fatigued body from the dusty tile. Joel’s out front feeding the horses on the street. You push yourself up, stretching your back, and a red-hot pain licks around your wrists.

“Motherf–”

You wince, falling onto your elbows, and your fingers link lightly around the red skin. The marks from Joel’s belt two nights ago still haven’t eased, haven’t cooled down so much as a degree. They’re still glowing, still burning, still painful.

Joel’s rugged face appears through a busted window. “Y’alright?”

“’m fine,” you mumble, turning over and examining the sores in the sunlight. The sting as your fingertips trace over the skin draws sharp tears to your eyes.

He feeds Jet the last handful of the hay you’d stocked up on and steps in from the golden morning to the dim light of the shop, dusting his hands on his jeans.

“You want more water on ‘em? Cold flannel?” he asks, avoiding the sight of your pained hands.

You shake your head. “Don’t think it’s helping.”

Eyebrows close, crease between them deep, he lowers himself with an achy groan and says, “We’ll find somewhere. You ready to go?”

You nod, tight lips blocking any words you think you’d probably regret later.

Joel helps you up, hands you a bag of beef jerky from his back pocket, and tells you to go get settled on Jet. He’ll pack up.

As you walk by him, he runs a hand from the crown of your head down to the nape of your neck. Gentle as air. And you almost fucking turn back. Almost catch his hand as it leaves your hair, almost wind your body into his. Almost.

Almost.

You follow at Ghost’s tail for another two hours, this time west instead of north. Joel turns to check on you more than he did yesterday; asks a couple times if you need more water, if you want any food. Even asks once if you need a break.

Each time, you reply with a flat, No. It seems to come from your throat more than your lips, more a grunt than an actual rounded word. Teeth locked tight around it, barely separating to let the sound through.

And each time, Joel turns back wordlessly. A mutual understanding; an unspoken agreement – as most of them are – to not talk any more than absolutely fucking necessary.

You spend most of the ride hunched over, your palms pushing heavily against the horn of Jet’s saddle. The sleeves of your jacket rolled up to stop them from brushing against your wrists.

The horse whinnies softly, and you reply to her as though she’s actually speaking. As though you can understand her thoughts, your forehead pressed lightly to the crest of her neck. You tell her you’re fine; tell her she’s doing a great job. You notice Joel’s jaw turn whenever you speak to her.

And then he whispers, “Hey,” and you lift your head, following the flick of his head to a tiny, lone pharmacy up ahead. You could fall off Jet’s back in equal parts shock and relief.

Joel winds Ghost along the road towards the building, stops by the curb outside it.

Its windows are smashed, broken glass decorating the sidewalk in front. There’s dried blood painting the white stone exterior, and empty shell casings dotted along the paved ground. You draw your eyes from the sight to look at Joel, and he’s already noticed them. He’s staring around the street, eyes darting from building to building, looking them all up and down.

The back wall inside the pharmacy is blocked, rubble and rafters hanging loose from a huge hole in the ceiling. Dusty insulation hangs between beams, and through the tears in the candy floss material, you can see the metal grate of the dispensing area. Joel sees it, too; notes it with a grumble and a click of his teeth.

“You stay here,” he tells you, dismounting Ghost.

“’n what if you get stuck in there?”

“Stuck in front of the collapsed ceiling? I ain’t gettin’ anywhere close to bein’ stuck. Stay put.”

You slide to the side, rubber-toed sneaker angling toward the ground to jump off of Jet. Joel swings back around and shoots you a look like fire on your skin.

“You got a death wish, or som’?”

“You just said you won’t get stuck. The hell’s gonna kill me in there?”

“Me, if you don’t listen to my damn instructions. Get back on the horse.”

“I ain’t off it,” you snap, a little louder than you intended. Sure, you want him to comfort you sometimes, but fuck, he pisses you off.

Joel stalks off without another word, head low between his shoulders. You hook your foot back into the stirrup and shake your head, averting your gaze to the other side of the street where the sight of an ill-tempered man-child won’t piss you off more.

The street is lined with stores and cafes, a bar on the corner with torn-up leather seats spilling out of the door like someone’s barricaded it. Your eye travels further down, where faded, moldy bunting ruffles in the wind, hooked around a traffic light.

There’s a red-brick building directly across from you, a truck with green tarpaulin parked out front. The doors to the building creak as they swing back and forth in the wind. The windows are still intact – surprising for this deep in the city. Other than that, the place looks pretty damn abandoned.

Ghost shakes her head, ears flicking. A heavy, shuddered breath jolts from her flared nostrils in the form of two white clouds, lit golden in the sunlight. She moves from foot to foot. You pat Jet gently, distracting yourself with the feel of her long, ginger mane.

You hum quietly, filling an eerie silence. Something to the beat of your heart, quickening with each second. Trying to calm the horses, calm yourself. Joel’s still wandering around inside.

You read an article once before the outbreak that said horses can smell fear on humans. It was for a school project. Said it affected their nervous system, like, made their heartrate pick up, though they never concluded whether it made the horses more afraid themselves or not.

Feeling Jet’s body weight shift from side to side as you swerve around atop her, analyzing every movement, every sound, every change in direction of the wind on this street, you figure you know the answer now.

Yeah. She feels edgy.

The wind picks up, carrying leaves across the broken road, fluttering by burnt-out cars. There’s a scuff from the store and your head shoots back to find Joel emerging from the shadows.

“Nothin’,” he mumbles, giving the street a sideways look as he walks back over to Ghost.

“Nothing I need, or nothing at all?”

He lifts his hands to take hold of her. “Nothin’ at all. Place is ransacked. Whole damn city’s –”

It all happens in the blink of an eye. One minute you’re looking at Joel, watching his lips form the words, his fingertips coming to land on the leather strap of Ghost’s bridle, and barely a heartbeat later, there’s a deafening crack from across the street.

Ghost’s body falls to the earth like she’s nothing but an inanimate sack. Her front legs buckle first, her chest crashes down towards the smooth stone, and then she’s rolling onto her left side. She’s dead before she hits the ground.

Dust and dirt are thrown skyward as she slams down, head falling heavy and still on the sidewalk.

“Ghost!” you shriek, and then you feel Joel’s hands on the sleeve of your jacket – rough. Painfully squeezing, canvas burning against your wrists.

He’s gripping the material, hauling you down to him, only you won’t let go of Jet’s reins. You’re being tossed to-and-fro atop the now-panicking horse. Ghost is bleeding from her head; thick, dark blood spilling out like tar and dripping down the curb.

You scream at Joel, fighting his grip off, eyes never leaving the black horse. But then another shot fires, ricocheting off of the ground by the pharmacy window, missing his head by less than a foot, and you fall limp.

You let him drag you off of Jet’s back and hurl you inside the pharmacy, shoving you out of view and into the dingy shadows. When you turn, you realize she’s still out there, a chestnut-colored blur as she rears and spins, fleeing from the noise. You scream her name but Joel whips around and plants his palm flat against your mouth, smothering your cry into a muffled whimper against the curve of his calloused skin.

“Shut up,” he whispers, free hand reaching into his holster for his own gun.

You drag his hand from your face, dropping it. “Jet’s still out –”

“They ain’t aimin’ for Jet,” he replies, switching the handgun into his right. “They’re aimin’ for us, and they’re gonna be down here soon. I need you to listen to me.”

“But Ghost –”

“Baby,” he says, laced with frustration and desperation and panic. Your sentence falls flat on your tongue. “Listen – to – me. Now.”

You nod, tears forming in your eyes. The horse is still lying out front; you can see her past Joel’s shoulder. You think back to your agreement: Do as you say. He’s shaking you by the shoulders, forcing you to look him in the eye, repeating those words to you. Listen to him. Focus on him. Stay alive. You don’t survive this if you don’t wake the fuck up right now.

And then he has his hands either side of your face, shaking you back to reality. “Hear me?”

“What? No, I didn’t hear. I didn’t fucking hear!”

He wastes no time chastising you. Just says it again. Calm, clear. Every word its own sharpened shape.

“I need you to move, need you to get out of here. They’re across the street, in that red building. There’s probably a gang of ‘em, right? So we gotta take ‘em out.”

“Take ‘em out? We gotta fuckin’ run, Joel! We don’t even know how many –”

“You,” his voice sounds like he’s about to break, “are gonna head out of there.”

He points past you, behind an upturned shelving unit, where there’s a small hole blown in the side of the pharmacy. Unnoticeable from outside, though if the perps across the street have ransacked this place, they’ll know it exists.

“You’re gonna make your way around the street, head low, quiet, ‘n get in the back of that building. You got it?”

“What the fuck are you gonna do?”

“I’m gonna distract ‘em. I’ll cover you, alright? Just do it.”

Just do it. Just fucking do it. I tell you what to do, and you just do it, because it’s me. Because you trust me, because we’ve kept each other alive this long.

Just do it. Because right now, what the fuck else are you going to do?

Your head’s still spinning. Pulse throbbing in your ears. Lungs hammering against your chest wall for breath. You can barely think straight.

“What do I do once I’m in?”

He’s kneeling down, swinging his backpack off of his shoulders. “Take – them – out. You’ve done it before, you know what you’re doin’.”

“Real noble of you, Joel,” you hiss, taking the spare gun he offers and slipping it under the back of your jeans, “sendin’ me in alone to kill who the hell knows how many fuckin’ guys.”

You pull the switchblade he picked up from that farm in Nebraska and flick it once, letting it glint fiercely in the light from out front, then close it and place it back in your pocket, ready to hand if – and when – you need it.

Joel’s loading his rifle, unable to meet your eye. He sniffs. “Do it quiet, you hear me? Sneak up on ‘em.”

You shake your head in disbelief, feet starting to carry you over to the side of the room. Powered by adrenaline only, letting go of any emotion that might keep you inside this stupid pharmacy. Forgetting anything in you that might convince you to stay glued to Joel’s side.

Yeah, you can fucking do it. You’re not a kid. You’ve been doing this long enough.

This was life before the QZ. You were in a group then, a collective of survivors whose only interest was staying alive. At all costs. And you got good at it. You’ve told Joel about it before – you were the first wave. Whenever you came across another group – no matter if it was hunters, smugglers, fucking FEDRA – they’d send you in, alongside Mila. The two of you lightest on your feet, best with a knife in your hands.

You started to find it fun, after a while. Thrill of the chase and all that. Creeping up behind them, dragging the blade along their throat, dropping them to their knees as they choked and gargled and bled out. The two of you could clear an entire building in ten minutes, not a single bullet fired.

Mila preferred puncturing them. She’d lift her arm and bring the knife down with the weight of her entire body, sinking it into their necks, under their jaws, sometimes through their fucking temples. You’d seen that girl do some pretty fucked-up stuff.

You’d seen yourself do some pretty fucked-up stuff. Stuff that’d have you avoiding mirrors for weeks.

And none of it scared Joel away. None of it made him think twice about setting off with you.

Certainly never made him think twice about sending you on what can only be described as a suicide mission, just to rid St. Louis of a few bandits.

Doing it isn’t the problem, though, is it? You haven’t had to do it in a while, sure. Joel takes care of you well enough that you barely have to look twice at a threat before there’s a bullet, a blade, or an arrow through it. And you’re not scared, either. Not of those guys across the street.

No. You’re scared of leaving him. Parting with him.

You’re standing by the hole in the wall, trying to convince yourself to duck under the bare brick when Joel’s urgent voice does it for you.

“Go now. Now!”

And you do.

You emerge into an alleyway, concealed from the street by a rusty blue dumpster. Overgrown weeds at your feet, you stay crouched and still until you’re sure there are no eyes on you from the windows overhead.

I mean, you’d be dead by now if there were. So that’s hopeful.

You slink around the jagged metal, slow, silent. More gunshots sound from across the street, and you know Joel’s tossed them a bone. Maybe he’s shown himself – a flash of his jacket or scuff of his heel as he settles to fire back. Maybe they’ve already killed him. Who fucking knows?

At the end of the alleyway sits a black gate, bent and contorted into an archway which separates you from the street. Still covered by knee-high weeds, you kneel down onto your stomach and peer between the wiry green plant to get your first scope of the street ahead.

There’s a long-abandoned nail bar on the right, a few doors down from that bunting you spotted earlier. And right outside it, cast in shadow from the awning: a chestnut horse, saddle hanging lopsided on her back. Waiting, patiently, watching the shootout before her.

You breathe a sigh of relief. Stay there. Stay right there.

Joel’s on his knees outside the pharmacy, crouched behind a Jersey barrier. He lifts his head every thirty seconds, fires one heavy shot at the windows on the top floor of the red-bricked building, and then ducks for cover when they send a burst of erratic bullets back down to him, pelting against the concrete.

You watch for a minute, studying the pattern, and then slip back between the weeds like a lion hiding in the bushes. When Joel fires at the window, you push yourself up and make a swift run for it.

There’s a truck in the middle of the street. Black paint scraped, shot, and sun-burnt off. You take three good strides, kneeling once you’re at the tailgate. You peer around the rear of the truck, huge tires flat and melted into the broken tarmac. You spot your opening.

A gray fence faded by the sun, a few slats missing from the bottom half, guarding an overgrown yard, and, sitting wide open: the backdoor to the building.

Bingo.

It’s an easy enough route. Looks almost like someone’s laid it out for you this way, a perfect path. You wait for your signal – Joel’s gunfire – and sprint over to the fence, back flush against the rotting wood.

You pull the revolver from your jeans and open the chamber. Five bullets. Not bad. You snap it back and adjust your grip on it, finger ghosting the trigger. And then you hear them.

“The girl’s still inside,” a voice grunts from over the fence. Your blood runs cold.

“He’s gotta run out sometime. What the fuck’s Nico doing wasting bullets?”

“How often do strays come through? Let him have his fun.”

Strays. Like a little pet name. Like it’s sport for them. It pisses you off, your adrenaline channeling into rage, white hot across the nape of your neck, growing into determination to put your knife through every single one of them.

So, you return the gun, favoring your switchblade.

Old dog, new tricks. Yadda yadda.

You bend down, peering through the gap like a dog searching for scraps.

It’s just the two of them. One, standing by the door; looks about six feet tall by six feet wide, buzzcut atop a puffy face, tattooed arms hanging loose by his side. The other, pacing around the yard; when his worn jeans pass the opening in the fence, you scan up the tall figure and notice dirty blond hair, scraped back from a gaunt face into a greasy ponytail.

“And if anything hears him? Runners? Fuckin’…we ain’t ready for that.”

Neither of them seem to have a gun. Scrawny doesn’t, anyway, and if Buzzcut does, it’s not in his hands. Which gives you a few seconds’ advantage.

Once Scrawny turns away, you slip through and hook your arm around his neck, holding your knife to the spongey skin under the ridge of his jaw. Buzzcut steps forward, hands reach into his waistband. Fuck.

“Make a sound, I’ll cut him.”

It’s not hard for your voice to fall back to that pitch, that same old tone. Muscle memory. Hushed, so no one inside hears; serious, flat, not a hint of fear. Even though this guy can probably feel your heart hammering into his back.

There’s still shooting on the street. Buzzcut steps forward, pistol between his fingers, silver reflecting the sun into your eyes. He’s unsure if he should lift it or not. Unsure if he should do anything or not. There’s panic painted across his face the color of crimson. He’s not built for this stuff, and he knows it. His free hand comes up, palm forward. Half of a surrender.

Not good enough.

“Put the gun down.”

“Fucking bitch,” Scrawny mutters, wrestling around, long legs bent awkwardly as he leans into your smaller frame.

Fucking idiot, you think. He doesn’t know that this is the fun part. This is why you chose the knife, and not the gun. Blade over bullets. It’d be too easy to rip his brain apart with the squeeze of a trigger. Too quick. Nah, you want to hear him. Want to feel him writhe against you.

You let the blade sink into his whiskered neck. Ever so slightly. He hisses and settles.

“Put – the fucking gun – down.”

“Patrick,” your hostage spits, “just do it.”

Just do it.

Patrick glances down briefly and then nods, eyes flitting back to you. Your eyes stay locked on him, your grip tightens around the knife, but you deafen to the heaving of the chest under your elbow.

Just do it.

Where’s Joel? Is he alive? His voice is ringing in your ears.

Just do it.

There’s a pause between the bullets across the street. Have they hit him?

Just do it.

Patrick’s gun hits the ground with a blunt thud.

Just do it.

And then you feel it.

Searing pain, hot as fire in your upper thigh. A sharp scratch just below your hip, teeth cutting through denim and flesh, then a rutting feeling, twisting and digging and fucking burning as the knife is pushed further and further. You let an angry groan pass your lips and dig your own blade deep into his throat.

His skin bursts open like a bag of water. You pull on him, letting him sink to his knees flush against your chest. Before he’s even on the ground, you’re lurching forward, retrieving the pistol and swiping your knife at Patrick’s outstretched hand. He gasps, clutching his split palm, and then backs away a couple steps.

This time, he lifts both hands. That’s better, fucker.

“Don’t – don’t gotta –”

“Shut the fuck up,” you cut back, staring him down while his buddy writhes at your feet, taking his last few gulps of air. Fresh, warm blood seeps into the grass. Your thigh is on fire.

You edge closer to Patrick, and Patrick edges further away. Until his back is pressed against the wall, his knuckles scratching against the brick; his own blood streaming down his wrist.

“How many are in there?” you ask, head nodding to the doorway, barrel of the gun pressed into his cheek.

He gulps.

“How many?”

“Th-three. Please.”

“Where?”

“One in the h-hall. Two upstairs. Please,” he says again, and you drop the gun, leaving a white ring in his skin.

Mila would sink it in deep, right into his neck. The trapezius. Her favorite spot. She’d just plunge the knife in, push until he collapsed, and then leave him to bleed out. But this is a big guy. He’s gonna need more than that to floor him.

“Alright,” you concede, stepping forward. “Since you asked so nicely.”

You pull your arm down to your hip, knuckles white around the handle and take a fistful of his shirt with the other. Draw him in real close, and angle the blade to the sky, shoving it up under his chin. Nice ‘n snug.

It glides through his skin like it’s butter, and you catch the butt of the knife in your palm, pushing further up. You watch as his eyes widen, his pupils focus on yours long enough to take the memory of your face with him – and then they relax, roll back to check out the metal intrusion behind them.

Patrick gargles, chokes on blood and blade, then gasps as you haul it back out, bright red gushing down his front.

His body folds, both hands come up to cup his torn jaw, and with one kick which cracks into his knees, he’s flat on his face, breathing in dirt and grass and…the blood of his buddy.

“You’re welcome, Patrick,” you breathe, limping over him to enter the building.

Shots are firing again upstairs. It’s dark, your eyes take a few seconds to adjust, but you’re in a derelict store. Place is empty, probably looted by these assholes.

Patrick told you there was one guy in the hall, which you assume is through the door sat ajar on your left. Patrick, however, was most likely a liar. And even if he was telling the truth, you don’t know what this place looks like. You have no idea when or where you’ll come across this one guy.

The only things you have on you are your gun and your knife. So you open the revolver again, your trembling fingers fish one bullet out, and you toss it, aiming for the sliver of light between the door and its frame.

It rattles through, rolling over the solid floor.

“Patrick?” a voice calls, and footsteps begin to approach. “Tucker?”

You duck behind a battered, empty shelf.

A third guy, long brown hair tangled across his shoulders, thick beard patchy with white and gray, pushes the door open and sidles in.

“Pat–”

You’re on him before he can finish his pal’s name, same way you jumped Scrawny – now Tucker, out there. Your blade glides across his throat and he buckles, much quicker than his predecessor outside did. You settle him face down on the tile floor, nodding to him as some twisted form of a thank-you, and slip out of the room, swinging down to collect your bullet as you go.

Patrick, as it turns out, was not a liar. The bottom floor of the house is empty. You’re in a long, narrow hallway. A bloodstained runner at your feet. There are muffled voices upstairs – roaring, cursing. The sunlight streaming in through the arch-shaped window on the front door draws you nearer.

Your breathing is labored, with stress, exhaustion, and pain. Your thigh throbs under your jeans, pain shooting like lightning from the wound anytime you put weight on it. You drag yourself to the bottom of the stairs.

More shots. You swear they’ve only been coming from this building for the last five minutes. Where the fuck is Joel?

You lift your foot hesitantly, hovering over the first step. Don’t fuck this up now. You line it up, applying your weight bit by bit until you’re pushing up off the floor with a whimper, balancing on one leg, bracing for the inevitable creak of the wood.

Nothing.

You’re about to step onto the second, when the door behind you bursts open. Light screams into the hallway, shining on you like a spotlight, and three huge figures stumble in the doorway.

“Wh–? That’s the bitch on the horse!”

You throw yourself up the stairs desperately, taking them two – three at a time, but a pair of fists are in your hair, dragging you back down to the man they belong to. You cry out, swinging around, and catch him square on the nose with your elbow. He swears, retreating only momentarily, before looking you dead in the eye, blood pouring down his lips.

“Fucking – cunt,” he seethes, arms darting out to reach up for you.

His attempt is short-lived, for a number of reasons.

First: you kick his chest before he can grab you, sending him hurtling back down where he came from.

Second: one of the two Patrick said would be up here is at the top of the stairs now, taking you by the shoulders and hauling you up.

And third: Joel just opened fire downstairs.

The bullets pelt around the hallway, coming from the side you just snuck in through. He must’ve followed you across the street.

The last thing you see as you’re dragged off into another room is the three of them ducking for cover, and then you’re being flung onto a cold, dusty floor, knocking the wind out of your lungs and the revolver from your waistband. You roll over and groan, staring up at two men standing over you.

One of them – the one whose vice grip dragged you in here – is big and bulky. Like a brick wall. You realize you’ve no chance of getting by him. His fists are clenched, face reddened, black beady eyes boring into yours. Then he lurches forward, steals the gun from the floor beside you, and points it at you. The safety’s still fucking on.

The other looks younger, but still built. Toned. His shoulders swell in the green canvas jacket he’s wearing, patches on the sleeves. Short, black hair, face sculpted and smooth, chin hairless. Lips pursed as he surveys you, tosses over what to do.

“Cute little game you were playin’, down there,” he muses. “Took out half my guys.”

“Wasn’t that hard,” you pant in reply, “you’re all fucking idiots.”

You can hear Joel fighting off the rest of them, grunts and growls of pain echoing up the stairs. You don’t know which are him and which are them, and it sends fleets of panic through your chest, tightening your breath.

“Sounds like your man’s losing.”

You laugh, masking your fear with a roll of your eyes, head leaning back. “I don’t think so.”

The two men look at each other. The black-haired one nods down to you, then turns on his heel. “Do what you want to her,” he tells Brick Wall, bored, and begins walking away.

A repulsive smile pulls on the man’s lips as he glares down at you. Putrid pink cheeks swell, eyes disappear. Your heels dig against the floorboards, beginning to push yourself in a dizzy haze backwards as his huge, beefy hand reaches down for your waistband.

Something of a scream, warped by the way your body so quickly jumps away from him, escapes your throat, but it only makes him laugh. Your hand slips up inside your sleeve, fingers clutch the cold metal handle of your blade. It flicks open under the fabric, and, just as the noise draws the attention of the man now fumbling with the button of your jeans, you take one good swipe and cut through his forearm. One clean slice, separating skin and soaking the tip of your knife in his blood.

He hisses, stumbles backwards two steps, clutching his arm. You throw yourself to your feet, backing into the corner opposite.

“Nico!” Brick Wall cries out, and the canvas jacket spins to face you.

You clutch your knife, hunched, panting. The room slowly tilts, resetting every time you blink, then begins rotating again.

Nico laughs, pulling a gun of his own and aiming it straight at your face. It’s a nightmare – two on one, both of them armed. But it’s better than what was about to fucking happen.

“Fucking – bitch,” Nico snarls.

“Y’all keep saying that,” you utter, eyes never leaving the barrel of the gun, “I don’t get it. I’m goin’ easy on you here.”

“You’re gonna fuckin’ get it,” Nico spits, apparently not paying enough attention.

The building’s silent. The fighting’s stopped downstairs. And there are no loud footsteps making their way up here, which means one thing.

There’s a quieter, deadlier threat on his way up.

A brutal shot fires from the hallway, taking your breath with it, and Brick Wall’s body flops to the floor. Bullet hole in his temple. Spray of blood across the wall. Only three beating hearts left in the building.

Nico seems to gasp, whether from fright or the way he lunges toward you, wrapping a tight, choking arm around your neck and holding the gun to your temple, both of you waiting for Joel to materialize for two very different reasons.

His figure creeps around the doorway, footsteps slow and soft. His eyes flit over yours, shoulders hunched, rifle aimed ahead. Your breath lets go in one huge, shaky gasp, feeling your muscles relax.

“I’ll do it,” Nico hisses, panic strung through his voice tighter than the bow of a violin. “One wrong move and she’s dead, asshole.”

Joel shrugs. “Do it.”

Nico doesn’t move. He shakes your body, pushes the gun harder into your skin.

Joel looks you dead in the eye. “Do – it.”

Your fingers run over the handle of your knife, lowering it until you have a good enough grip to lock your fist and tilt the blade, lifting your right arm and hammering it backwards, stabbing deep into Nico’s side.

Your head leans to the right as he screams out; he falls to the left. And Joel takes his shot.

Nico’s hand bursts open, blood spraying everywhere. The revolver is thrown from his grip, rattling against the floor as your fist takes one good swing across his jaw and then you fall apart from one another – you, rocking into the steady weight of Joel’s body, and Nico, collapsing against a desk.

Joel catches you in his arms and straightens you up, shifting you to aim his gun back at the threat – though there’s not much about him that warrants such a name anymore. He’s slumped against the dark wood, dark stain seeping through his shirt, head rolled back and groaning. One hand cupping what’s left of the other, blood snaking through his fingers and down his hand like vines on a tree trunk. He looks…pathetic.

Joel fires another shot at him without fucking looking; it lands in Nico’s thigh, and he screams. Mouth full of blood and loose teeth, it’s a gargled, drowned howl of pain.

“They try somethin’?” the fierce drawl asks you, brows low, eyes dark. You know what he’s talking about. The button of your jeans is undone.

You want to say, It’s fine, I’m fine. You want to tell Joel to leave Nico to bleed out. He’s the last one, he’ll be dead inside of ten minutes. You want to go, want to climb onto Jet’s back and let her carry your weak, limp body as far from here as her legs will gallop, and then, once she’s rested, further.

But Joel won’t hear any of that, you know it. Won’t leave this little son of a bitch to slip into a half-conscious drowse, the dripping of his own blood ticking down the seconds he has left while the sound of Jet’s hooves fading into the distance lulls him to hell.

He knows you. Joel. He can read lies on your lips like they’re words scrawled into your skin, so that’s a waste of time, too.

You nod. Joel’s jaw locks. And his eyes flood black like ink.

He hands you the rifle, pulls his arms out of his backpack, and paces over to Nico. The bloody, injured figure begins to back up, push himself further away from Joel, who’s reaching down for something.

“Look, man,” Nico heaves, “you gotta see it from our point of v-view. You guys came walkin’ into our territory, you – you…”

There’s the sound of metal dragging across the bare floorboards, vibration strong enough that it rattles your entire body. You turn away, figuring you don’t need to see him pummel a man to death with a broken pipe.

You hear it, though. Every grunt from Joel, every cry from his victim. Every time the pipe bludgeons into him, the wet squelch of warm flesh and blood meeting cold, rusting metal. You wander off to the other side of the room, closing your eyes.

It’s like a pattern – like the shooting from earlier. Joel sucks in breath as he lifts the pipe above his head, groans as he hurtles it down. There’s the blunt sound, a ding almost of the metal whacking against Nico’s skull, the splatter of blood bursting. And repeat. Deep breath as the pipe winds back – groan as it uppercuts through the dusty air, crack of bone breaking when it makes contact.

Finally, he stops. Takes three deep breaths. Drops his weapon. You turn.

The limp body lies at his feet, a dent the size of Texas in the globe of his skull. Olive skin now splattered red, face unrecognizable. Blood pouring out of somewhere – everywhere in his head, circling his body in a thin, fast-moving pool.

Joel’s staring at you when your eyes lift. Sweat glistening on his forehead, lips apart. Shoulders tight. You’re standing face to face, both of your breathing heavy and labored. Exhausted. And yet…you fucking need him.

You take one step forward and suddenly Joel’s advancing, too, hands out to meet you when you collide into him. Your fingers scram for his collar, ripping his jacket from his shoulders while he messily tears apart the waist of your jeans.

His weight bears down on top of you and he pushes you to the floor, following you down. The floorboards are dirty, coated in a thick layer of dust disturbed by the scuffle you just had, and glazed by the blood of those who lost. You sit up only long enough to remove your jacket before Joel’s pinning you down, unbuckling his own jeans and taking a grip of yours.

You flinch when he tugs on the waistband, and he pauses. Looks up, watches your expression twist. Then follows your eyeline, down to your thigh, where the fresh stab wound oozes thick, dark blood.

Joel slowly peels your jeans down your legs and over the gash. When they pool loose around your knees, you bend them, angling your broken skin in the sunlight. It’s swollen, the cut, reddened and raw. Flesh dragged back and forth, torn and ripped around the edges. You can’t even feel the pain of it anymore, only a prickling heat leading up to the ridges of your broken skin.

And so, when Joel’s fingers run through the air directly above it, and he mutters something about cleanin’ you up, you grunt. Straighten your legs. Pull him by the shoulders back down to you. Reply with a rushed whisper, a Hurry the fuck up.

And he listens; he unbuckles his own jeans, sags them low on his hips, and bends your knees at his shoulders. His cock is already stiff, bead of precum at his wide tip, which he dips between your folds to collect your slick, and then fists himself slowly.

Hurryhurryhurry “– the fuck up,” you groan, watching your wet glisten off the smooth skin of his shaft.

He smirks, then pushes straight in.

Your head hits the floor, eyes rolling with it as he fills you up. His face buries between your breasts, voice muffled by the material of the fabric when he lets out an open-mouthed moan. You both adjust to the feeling – the stretch and the tightness – and then, with a couple more shallow thrusts, Joel begins really fucking you.

He drags his forehead up to yours, sweat mixing where your skin touches. Your jaw clenched; you’re hissing every time he hits that sweet spot inside of you. Holding onto him by the shoulders as he rocks his hips forward, pushing you closer and closer to your first release.

Joel lifts his hand, placing it flat on the floor above your head to steady himself. Then, he quickly glances up at it, an unusual look on his face. You crane your neck and follow his eyeline to find his hand gleaming wet with blood. Bright red. Fresh.

It’s the guy he shot. Bullet wound peering out from the other side of the desk you’re lying next to; his blood has travelled across the uneven flooring.

Joel studies his palm intently, thrusts slowing down some. His face looks…puzzled? As if he’s never had to physically encounter the result of him and his bullets. As if he doesn’t know where to put his hand, now that it’s covered in that result.

You do, though. You know exactly where you want him to put it.

You take his wrist in both hands and draw his gaze down to you. The blood drips from his almost trembling palm down your fingers.

His expression changes – softens, when he sees you looking up at him, watching him from under hooded lids. And then it darkens, when you pull his palm flat against your neck, and the red fluid stains your throat.

You can feel the warm wet between Joel’s skin and yours – the same warmth on the back of your head, creeping through your hair as it seeps further across the floorboards. You’re both covered in blood and dirt, anyway. Joel seems to consider the same, and his grip tightens.

His thumb and forefinger pinch, cutting into your windpipe. Your vision falters for a second, Joel blinks out of focus, and a tiny wave of euphoria crashes over your body. A sick grin pulls across your lips, mirrored in Joel’s.

He releases you and you gasp, oxygen surging through your throat like a burst of water in a dried-up pipe. You let go of his wrists to run your blood-soaked fingers across his face, through his hair. He’s still fucking you hard, and you need something to ground you as white-hot heat pools rapidly between your legs, and a knot begins to tighten.

“You like that?” Joel grunts, driving his hips harder.

“Mhm,” you reply, mouth falling open in a silent gasp when his tip punches into your cervix. The edges of the world start to whiten.

“You’re mine, you hear?” he says through gritted teeth. “Belong to me.”

You’re nodding, throat tossing out an, Uhuh.

“Ain’t no one gets this but me, h-uh?”

Joel’s hand is back around your neck, this time taking either side of your jaw between his fingers, keeping your eyes trained on his. Whatever the fuck makes you do it – the look in his eye, silently commanding, or maybe your own fucking desperation – you’re not sure. But you open your mouth wider, rest your tongue on your bottom lip, and plead with your eyes for him to do it.

So, he does.

His jaw slackens and a bead of spit falls from his mouth into yours. He watches as it lands on your tongue and you run it along your lips, coating yourself in him, before swallowing it.

Joel groans, lets a staggered, “F-fuck, baby,” pass his lips.

You smile in return, filthy, but needy, and beginning to crash hard as your orgasm bursts through you.

He fucks you through it, pace never faltering, still stringing wet saliva between your lips as he kisses you. You pull away when it becomes too much, burying your head in his shoulder and biting down on his shirt.

“Yeah,” he coaxes you, “that’s it. Fuck. Nice ‘n tight, baby.”

As soon as the room starts to return to your vision, the feeling back in your body, you’re rolling him over. Ignoring the burn of the wound in your thigh, you push him back down and straddle him, his cock still deep inside.

You roll your hips lazily, fingers coming down to toy with your clit as Joel stretches you even more from this angle. He groans, hands finding home tight on your hips, head rolling back. He bucks his hips and your free hand steadies yourself on his chest.

“Faster, baby,” he says, trying to move you with his hands.

“No,” you hum, “we go slow. I want to go slow.”

He grunts, pissed off. Good. Keep him that way.

You begin to slowly bounce, pads of your fingers drawing circles over your swollen clit, almost hurting with overstimulation.

“Tell me what you did downstairs,” you whisper, eyes falling shut.

“Downstairs?” Joel asks in a broken voice.

“Mhm. What did you do to ‘em?”

He catches on. “Shot one of ‘em under the jaw.”

You shake your head. “Next.”

“Ch-choked one of them out.”

“No. Not him.”

You want blood. You want Joel’s fists wrapped around someone’s vital organs. You want the sound of your screams in his ears, whether they were really there or not, driving him to commit acts so heinous he won’t look you in the eye when he confesses them.

That’s what you want: him to confess them.

“One of ‘em had a Bowie…” he breathes, knowing what you’re looking for.

You fall forward with a deep moan. “That’s it. Him.”

“…hangin’ from his belt. Shot his leg, right above his knee –”

You moan again, sighing as you sink down on his cock and that feeling creeps over you again.

“– then took the knife.”

“He on the floor?”

“He got up. He – fuck – he stood up, ‘n I put it between his shoulders.”

“Fuck, yeah?”

“Yeah. Ripped ‘im apart, baby.”

You cry out in pleasure, bouncing up and down faster and faster the more the image replays in your head. You’re leaning forward, hovering over Joel as your skin slaps against his every time his hard length fills you. Fucking him to the thought of him slaughtering anyone who posed any threat to you. Those guys didn’t make it upstairs, you’re not even sure they got a good look at you before you were hauled away. But Joel tore them limb from limb at just the possibility.

“Did he – did he scream?”

“Yeah, he fuckin’ screamed.”

Your head drops between your shoulders, hands splayed on either side of Joel’s head, and his fingers knot in your hair. He pulls your forehead against his again, whispering into your mouth.

“Begged me not to do it,” he hums, and you’re thrown over the edge for the second time.

Your hips stop moving to allow space for your high; a second blinding, screaming orgasm ripples through you. You’re gasping now, fingers clutching for Joel, but he’s already moving again.

He slips out from underneath you and lets you down gently on your front, taking your hips and pulling them up to him as he positions himself behind you. And then, without a second’s hesitation, he’s back inside you, chasing his own high. Your back arches as he fucks you, chest flat against the floor.

There’s blood fucking everywhere. On your clothes, in your hair, on the floor beneath you, streaming down your thigh. The entire room smells of it – that suffocating, sickly sweet bite of iron. The bitterness so thick that it coats your lungs with every desperate pant of breath.

And finally, fucking – finally, all the adrenaline and momentum is brought to a climax when Joel releases deep inside you, and you feel yourself contract around him as a third orgasm pulses through you. Your cunt swollen, aching, you almost don’t feel it, but for the way your legs give as soon as he stills inside you.

He’s groaning, borderline fucking whining, before he draws out of you and slumps down beside you on the floor. You’re both staring at one another, almost afraid to touch each other – as if you’re made of glass. Fragile. Breakable.

Yeah. You’re his. And he fucks you like you’re his, like your only purpose is to relieve his stress, tire out his anger, but then…then he looks at you like this, the sunlight twinkling in his warm eyes, dust falling over him like snow. Then he shifts the hair from your face so he can take a proper look at you, study every detail on your face – the cracks in your lips, the curve of your nose. And you know you’re so much more than that to him.

Always have been. Always will be.

You lean over and run your fingers across his cheek, dried blood the color of wine all over your hands. Joel lies still, places a soft kiss to the pad of your thumb when it touches his lips. Your nails sift through his beard. His eyes close over, laying in the comfortable stillness as you trace his face, delicately drawing from his dark brows down to the patches of skin between the graying hair on his jawline.

He doesn’t move when you push yourself up and roll over onto his chest. Doesn’t flinch when you press your mouth to his neck, running from the bottom of his ear up to the tip of his chin.

And when you bring your lips up to meet his, he kisses you back.

His hand sneaks through your hair to the crown of your head and he sits up, rolling you onto your back and caging you underneath him, teeth grazing along your bottom lip, asking it to part. His tongue slips inside, wet and warm and comforting against yours. Your fingers lace at the back of his head, your own cradled in his hands on the hardwood.

It’s like he’s starving. Like he’s been holding off on doing this, for whatever reason. And now that you’ve been the one to open the floodgates – fucking, destroy them – everything comes rushing to the surface. Every time he wanted to, and didn’t. Every time he was buried inside you, and purposefully held his jaw apart from yours. Every minute he’s spent since he met you, without his lips on yours. It all comes rocketing up.

And before it gets too heated, before he begins winding that coil again, he’s pulling away. Lips leaving yours, noses bumping together as they part. You smile, and Joel breathes a laugh for the first time in what feels like weeks.

“Hey,” he whispers.

“Hey.”

You glance down at his flannel: stained with dirt, with sweat, with blood. It brings you down a little from your sun-kissed, golden-rayed eutopia. You suck in a deep breath, and his finger hooks under your chin to lift your face to his.

“Should get that leg covered.”

You nod, and he pulls up off of you, letting you sit up. He wanders around the room, checking the backpacks of Nico and his guys, and pulls some gauze and a bottle of alcohol from a side pocket.

He kneels slowly by your side, offers you the white pad. You shake your head. He has to do it. You don’t know why, don’t know what’s stopping you from wrapping your own wound – something you’ve done hundreds of times by now. But it has to be Joel.

He tips the bottle over the dressing, dousing it in alcohol, and settles it carefully on the floor by your hip. You look at one another, a Ready? and a No, but do it anyway pass across your gaze.

The clear fluid seeps from the pad down his hands, thinning the bloodstains and dragging them in light orange streaks down to his wrist. And when your eyes are distracted, watching the stream of blood and alcohol, he presses the gauze to your thigh.

“Fuck – you,” you stammer, eyes screwing tight enough that you see stars.

“I know,” Joel breathes, and pushes the gauze down harder. Firmer. It shoots heat up your leg, flashes the image of that plank of wood named Tucker who stabbed you across your mind. Your teeth grit, the tendons in your neck leap.

Still holding the pad to your skin, Joel winds a dressing around your thigh. He knots it, gives it a little tug, and then sits back on his heels.

“Okay?”

You tilt your head, lift your eyebrows in form of a Yeah. A half-truth – it feels better to have it covered, but fuck is it stinging. You lift a roll of spare bandage and wrap your wrists.

Joel nods, and then passes you your jeans.

“We should go,” he tells you. Then, softer, kinder, “Gotta go back to the pharmacy. Still supplies in the…”

You push yourself to your feet, unable to listen to the end of his sentence. Ghost was carrying most of your food. The map is still in her saddlebag. Ammo, too. The thought of seeing her again turns your stomach, and Joel seems to figure.

“Why don’t you head out back, go get Jet? I’ll grab everything.”

You stare down at him. Your head shakes before words filter through it. You don’t want to be apart from him again. Not today, at least.

He seems to figure that, too. He nods once, then stands with a low grunt. He fixes his jeans, shrugs his jacket back over his shoulders, and his hand finds the nape of your neck again. He pulls you nearer him, your lips brush against the shoulder of his jacket, and then you split, grabbing your supplies and searching the room for any that these assholes might’ve left to you.

When your pockets are full, you limp at Joel’s heels down the stairs and outside, glancing down the street. The silhouette of a horse slowly meanders back over to you, head bobbing, hooves clicking across the asphalt. Show’s over.

Joel stops and waits for her to approach, lets you bury your face into her strong body when she reaches you.

You squeeze your eyes shut against her muzzle, your forehead between her glossy eyes, and hope the message finds a way through flesh and bone – strong enough and sincere enough to push its way through your skull to hers. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

Joel’s hand leaves your back and he walks slowly over to the pharmacy.

Your hands run over Jet’s soft mane, combing her gently, reassuring her as if she’s the one covered in blood, bruised and pained. You hook a finger around her bridle and follow Joel.

As you slowly approach, he’s emerging from the shadows of the pharmacy, a backpack in each hand. He reaches the same curb you were stood on less than an hour ago, and looks up to check on you. Your stomach lurches, glancing down to his boots.

There she is. Black coat shining, chest not moving. Legs splayed out on the road. Pool of blood around her velvety soft ears. She seemed so lean, so fit and graceful when she was on all fours. Now, lying in a heap in the shade of some barren street, she looks huge and clumsy. It makes your eyes swell with tears.

You shift with Jet, turning her to avert her gaze. It’s stupid; she’s a horse. How would she know what’s going on? But then, the way she’s breathing – soft, quiet. It’s like – it’s like she fucking knows.

Joel does it gently – kneels beside Ghost, searches in each pocket for your belongings. He knows your eyes are on him. He pulls a box of bullets and the folded-up map from the bag, slips them into his jacket pocket. Collects the tins of soup and canned fruit in one hand, standing to roll them into Jet’s bag.

He turns to you. “You got your switchblade?”

You nod, and he holds his hand out. You drop the heavy knife into his palm, and he bends back down to Ghost’s side.

He uses your blade to cut the bridle by the corner of her mouth, slicing through the leather running from the bit up to the headpiece. Then pulls it apart, a single strap with a tiny buckle still attached, a silver hoop at one end.

He reaches for your backpack, drags it across the rough ground, and knots one of the canvas ties through the silver hoop of Ghost’s bridle. Triple knots it, to make sure it won’t budge. And then he leans back, surveys his handiwork, and turns to gain your approval.

You can’t do much more than nod, tears dappling down your raw cheeks.

When he’s sure he’s got everything, Joel passes you your backpack, slings his on, and then kneels by her side one last time. He places a gentle palm on her head, runs his hand down her muzzle. Sniffs.

A thank-you, you think. A Farewell, brave girl.

He stands again, turns back to you. Waits for you to decide it’s time to move on.

“I can’t do it…” you whisper, and Joel nods, taking a step closer. “I don’t want to leave her.”

And then you’re sobbing, and he’s taking hold of your shoulders and pulling you into his arms, and your cries are muffled by the soft fabric of his shirt. You wrap yourself close around him, bury deeper into his chest, and Joel tightens his grip. The steady beat of his heart pulls you back down, grounds you. You match your breathing with his and pull away.

You approach Ghost shakily, then crouch, fix her mane out of her eyes, scratch her silky ears one last time, and let her go.

Joel’s face is tight when you turn back. Eyebrows low. You bite the inside of your cheek as you pass him, and then hoist yourself up onto the brown horse’s back.

He pulls himself up in front and leans back into you, head cocked to wait for your signal. You snake your arms around his waist and feel a delicate hand rest on top of yours, interlaced on his belt buckle. His thumb traces your knuckles, and when you lean your ear between his shoulder blades, he clicks to Jet.

The horse swerves off, beginning your long journey out of the city.

----------

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grippingbeskar · 11 months

Text

warmth

ೃ⁀➷ joel miller x fem!reader

❥ content warning; forced proximity, dub!consent, somnophelia, dry humping, swearing

❥ a/n; based on this request! i've had some time off, and am still going through a bit of a strange time in my life, but your guys requests always inspire me to write and create, even if its just a lil bit of joel smut. hehe.

masterlist <3

꘎♡━━━━━♡꘎꘎♡━━━━━♡꘎꘎♡━━━━━♡꘎

“So this is fun.” You say into the dwindling light of the run down shithole you and Joel are calling home for the night. “Nice and cosy.”

“Cosy?” He parrots, and looks over to what was once a gaping hole in the side of the cabin. You shrug, and sink yourself further into the bundles of blankets you managed to secure.

“S-sure.” Your teeth chatter from the icy surroundings, defeating your point. “Are you sure we can’t start a tiny little fire in here?”

“Whole place is made of wood, darlin’. You’d be toast by mornin’.” His heavy accent floods your body with much needed heat, and you find yourself scooting closer to him on the floor you’ve made your make shift beds on.

“Toast sounds p-pretty good right now.” He laughs slightly, eyes catching your own before dropping back to his lap.

He watches you shift around, bundling yourself closer to trap any body heat you’ve managed to build up, and then takes one of the blankets off the top of his sleeping bag and throws it over you.

“Joel.” You say wistfully, but immediately snatch at the new blanket and add it to your pile. “You’ll get c-cold too.”

“I’ll live.” He says simply, and lays down about a foot away from you. “We should get some sleep.”

“Right.” Your voice is breathless, but still makes a few puffs of cold air as you move yourself down onto the floor of the cabin.

You’re calling it a cabin, but it’s more like a barn the way it’s laid out. It’s smack bang in the middle of a dense forest, with hay everywhere, even in a pile that crunches underneath every time you or Joel shift. It also doesn’t help the fact you are covertly trying to get closer to him— both wanting to steal his body heat and just be close to him.

Joel is a hard man to read. At first you thought he hated you, with all his prolonged silences and gruff remarks. Then, you thought he saw you as a somewhat annoying distant cousin. One that you’d socialise with for a few hours, but then quickly get sick of and look for an excuse to leave them until the next gathering. Once the family bond idea was thoroughly stamped out in a few of his secret heated gazes, or the way his hands would linger on your hips when he unnecessarily lifted you up onto your horse, it was just confusing.

But, you were determined to figure the man out. It’s not like he wouldn’t have your undivided attention anyways. He was a freaking cowboy— straight out of a romance novel. Thick accent, gentlemanly charm and an ass to die for. You were only human.

Still, the hay crunched as you tested your boundaries little by little, as you have been over the past few weeks. Getting closer, lingering longer, smiling sweeter. And it had… well, it affected him in some way, you were sure. But you just don’t know what way. God forbid you go back to the distant cousin stage—

A blast of wind slips through a crack in the walls, and you shudder and ball yourself up.

If Joel hears you, he says nothing, so you just drag the blanket he gave you off the top of your pile and down into the middle so it pressed against you. It smelt just like him— pine and wood and… maybe a little dirt. You two had been travelling for days, and he refused to let you get your hands dirty, so it would make sense.

You buried your face in it, warming the cold tip of your nose and trying to muffle your chattering teeth. It’s a good thing you were covering you mouth, because you nearly squeal when Joel whips around, his chocolate eyes staring right into yours.

“You alright?” He asks, his voice heavy with sleep, and you’d feel bad if his voice didn’t sound so goddamn sexy like that. Right out of a romance novel, you swear.

“Mhmm.” You manage to squeak out, your face covered up to your eyes.

“You lyin’?” He asks, and you repeat yourself. “C’mere.”

At first you’re confused, scrunched eyebrows giving you away. Then Joel pulls back the covers a little, physically inviting you into his chest, and you take the hint embarrassingly fast.

All of a sudden, you’re tucked into Joel’s warmth, surrounded by the smell the blanket only gave you a hint of. You stay face to face, enjoying the ease at which his body warms your hands and nose, and one of his arms drape over your side, keeping itself respectfully in the middle of your body.

Respectfully, you wouldn’t mind if he wandered a little lower, but you tried to keep those feelings at bay.

“Warmer?” He asks tightly as you cling to him, nodding quickly. He mumbles something else, a rough sound only discernible by the way his chest rumbles with it, your cold hands slowly thawing out against it.

"T-thanks." His arm wraps around you tighter when you bury your face in the crook of his neck, the cord of your strange relationship tangling ever so slightly just like your legs do under the covers. "Nice and cosy."

You giggle at your own joke, and he scoffs. "Christ. Go to sleep."

Your laughter fades off as your breathing evens out, and pretty soon you're drifting off into sleep, Joel's arms keeping you warmer than ever.

*you can stop reading here if you aren't a whore. however, i am, so i will continue*

It must be a few hours before your eyes open again. Joel is fast asleep, soft puffs of hair warming the top of your head as your eyes flutter open to complete darkness. You've tangled even more in your sleep, unconsciously wanting to be closer, not just for warmth.

His strong leg nestled between your thighs has nothing to do with body warmth.

When you start to gain a little more of yourself from the cover of sleep, theres a mess between your legs you can't deny. Joel moves slightly as you stir, a choked little whimper escaping your throat as he pushes against you just right. Theres no part of you effected by the cold wind outside— your whole body floods white hot, two strong arms trapping you to feel nothing but the way he's against you.

It's wrong. You should pull away, or wake him up, or do something to drive a wedge between you and Joel. You hardly know for sure if he likes you, let alone wants you like...this.

Then he shifts again, a little roll of his body sending sparks up your stomach, and you make a small sound again.

"You enjoyin' yourself?" You freeze, eyes squeezing shut as you try to deny your body the sleepy pleasure it's taking from him.

"J-joel—" You squeak, a noise embarrassingly high pitched, but his hand tightens on your hip and alleviates some of the nerves.

"It's alright, darlin'. You take what you need." He murmurs, and dips his head, pressing a light kiss underneath your ear. Your hips roll experimentally, and he hums in approval. “That’s it. That’s it.”

"I... oh god, Joel." His hand guides you forward and back, setting a slow but intense fire in your tummy that licks higher and higher every shift.

"How's it feel? Good?" He kisses you again, this time on your cheek.

"S-so good."

"You got no idea how many times I wanted to wake up like this..." You think of all the times you've slept mere inches away from him, but never having the guts to make the move. "Can feel how wet you are f'me."

You shiver, getting more restless as he starts to grind you against his thigh a little faster than before, rocking into you as you slump against his chest again. His free hand grabs your jaw harsher than you expect, bringing your face to his to kiss you hungrily. It's messy and consuming, teeth bashing together as the two of you attempt to find a rhythm that doesn't stop the sweetness of your bodies colliding together.

It shouldn't feel as good as it does, the way your clit runs easily along his now slick thigh, your heart stuttering in your chest as you hear him groan into your mouth, clearly feeling as pent up as you are. The hand on your hip locks under your thigh then, hitching it up higher on his side, the new angle making it all the more intense and having you whine into the kiss.

Joel's tongue dominates your mouth, fills you with the taste of him you've imagined in countless nights alone but never quite perfected. He's overwhelming— pulling you up and on top of him all while keeping your mouth tightly sealed to his own. He swallows your little noises, covering them with his own groans and sighs of your name as you ride him, your mind racing with images of how he'd feel under all these layers.

"Fuck, darlin' I'm not gonna last if you keep..." He breathes out, hands travelling down your back to cup your ass. You lean down and kiss him messily, and move your hips at your own pace, chasing your high.

"It's okay— please, Joel." He grumbles something against your lips, and you just shake your head. "We can do whatever… whatever you want later. Just keep going."

He shudders, your hint of permission enough to send him over the edge. You manage to open you eyes and look at him when he cums, his eyelashes fluttering and his tight jaw going slack with pleasure. That paired with the feeling of his muscles going tight and the way he says your name, you cum with him, your hands gripping tight on his curls and you muffle yourself once again into the crook of his neck.

Neither of you have the energy to move, your overwrought nerves and exhausted body collapsing on top of him. He keeps kissing you lazily, the way your tongues tangle together indulgent of each others tastes. His arms move around you, tucking you in to the blankets so that no part is exposed to the cold, and when your body is covered he gives his hands free reign to roam your skin.

Rough pads of his fingers trail up your spine, pushing up under the layers of clothes to feel your skin against his. As you settle into his soothing touches, the reality that the two of you just came on each other like teenagers has you all hot in the face and shut your eyes tight. He pulls away, his nose nudging your face to look at him.

“You okay, baby?” He says softly, a little smirk on his face when you manage to sneak a look at him. You nod shyly, and his hands drop lower and settle on your ass again before trailing up. “That was… unexpected.”

You look down. “I’m really sorry if I just—“

“No, baby no. Not bad. Good… fucking perfect. Wish I could wake up to that every morning.” He grins, and it takes years off his usual scowling face. “Just thought I’d maybe… take you out first. I got no problem skippin’ straight to dessert though, if that’s what you want.”

“Dinners good.” You smile, and he seems a little relived at that, like maybe he might enjoy it just as much as what comes after. “Desserts good, too.”

He laughs, the sound bouncing off the wooden box of a cabin you’re stuck in, but with Joel holding you like this, the cabin is quickly becoming one of your favourite places in Jackson.

#joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x y/n #joel miller x fem!reader #joel miller fic #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller smut #joel miller fluff #tlou #the last of us #the last of us fanfiction

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astromaxi · 22 days

Note

Hi!! I saw your post about being open to req's and was wondering if you could do a yandere jjk x reader one!

Snow leopard hybrid gojo would not leave my mind and i've been rotating a scenario in my head about reader smelling a bit too much of other men. But they aren't dating and gojo's is starting to go insane about it and so confronts reader bout it.

i mean you could do it without satoru being a hybrid, i don't really mind. i'm just craving for a yan gojo rn

I AM SO SORRY THIS IS LATE

HOLY SHIT- SCHOOL SUCKS

BUT I'M ALMOST DONE YAY

Warnings: slightly possessive Gojo, crappy writing, maybe full on possessive Gojo, Gojo having a scent kink thing, so mdi (?) 18+ (?), Gojo really loving your smell and but also calling you smelly (I’m scening a slight theme with my writing…)

As always lmk if I miss anything and this isn’t proof read so grammar mistakes 🫶

———-

Fem reader!

‘Jesus Christ I want to quit my job’ was all that was running through my head as I walked up the sets to my home, my feet crying out for relaxation after the horrible treatment of a 9-hour shift. All I want to do right now is to curl up in my bed and cry.

I open my front door, and at the same time, my phone starts to ring off. Huffing I close the door and set down my bag, I awkwardly shuffle through my pockets to see ‘Gojo’ lighting up my screen. An exaggerated sign escapes my lips as I answer the call. “Hello?” My horse voice spoke out, “I’m coming over! I see you off of work” a very happy Gojo responded to me, I looked down at my disgusting work clothes and the overall quality of how I felt, “Gojo- look, I don’t feel like hanging-“ “Great! I’ll be over in 5 minutes.” Was all I heard before the abrupt sound of the call being hanged up. I roughly made my way to my bathroom, if Gojo is coming over might as well look decent.

The thing with Gojo is, that he has been becoming increasingly clingy to me. Especially knowing days when I have work it’s almost as if there’s some sort of thing growing inside himself. I tend to brush him off whenever he buries his head into the crook of my neck, his long lengthy arms curled tightly around my stomach, or when he invites himself to stay the night but insists that I wear his clothes. I brush it off as Gojo being himself as he is usually very overly touching with everyone in his life- but sometimes- sometimes, it feels a little off.

I sighed as I heard my front door opening and closing I wrapped a large towel around my body. I run my fingers through my wet hair as I cringe at it being tangled up. I slip on an old hoodie and a pair of shorts, using the towel to dry my hair I set out of the bathroom and I’m immediately pushed against the wall nearby. My vision gets clouded by a mop of white hair and twitching light grey ears, as Gojo buries his head into the crook of my neck.

“Mm-Gojo!” I yelp in surprise as I place my hands on his solid chest trying to move him off of me

Keyword: trying

Gojo slips his hands down my arms, creating goosebumps in his wake as he grabs my hands with his own and places them around his midsection. His own hands find home on my hips as I feel an aggressive sign flow out of him. “M’ not Gojo, it’s ’Toru to you” his voice is horsed, and Gojo buries his head more into my neck- if that’s even physically possible. “You smell like other guys.” Gojo bluntly says,

I raise my eyebrows at him, my hands are mindlessly playing with his Snow White hair. “What do you mean ‘Toru?” I ask, the man-child before me lets out a groan. He raises his head from my neck and stares at me with his ocean-blue eyes. My heartbeat picks up as I feel my face heat up. Wordless Gojo tilts his head to the side, his eyes turn to something more obsessive. His pale hands travel up my body to cup my face, the air in my lungs gets stuck in there.

“You smell. Every day, every single day you always smell and it’s driving me insane.” He leans into me, our lips inches apart as his eyes dart down to my lips. “You should only smell like me, only be with me. I can give you so much baby.” His right-hand caresses the side of my face. I shake my head

“ ‘Toru you..” I let out a shaky sigh “You don’t want-“ “I know exactly what I want baby.” Gojo cuts me off, his breath growing more aggressive.

His lips move to the shell of my ear. “I want, no- need you baby. I need it so badly you don’t even know the depth of it” he whispers in my ear as he goes back to face me. “You need me to, I’ll prove it to you.” I nodded my head, allured to the words Gojo was feeding me, our lips connected as he immediately pressed the kiss. His arms cage me against this wall. My knees feel like they are going to give out.

“I’m going to show you just how much I need you baby.”

—————

A/n: this isn’t really that yandere, kinda forgot about that while writing this LMAO

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mommytauriel · 1 year

Note

hiiii, I absolutely LOVED your sihtric x reader. I read that requests are open so I thought about making one right away.

could you write an aethelstan x reader where the reader grew up with uhtred's men just like aethelstan, like they treated her like a little sister/daughter. maybe reader and aethelstan are together but they, especially aethelstan, don't want to tell the others because they know that they would tease them to death, but they find out or something like that. idk i just want some fluff with him, nobody writes for him. also the reader could be dane? I know it's really simple, I hope it's okay for you!

I hope I explained myself, if i did not sorry but english in not my first language

- 🕷

+ · 。~ teasing is another form of love

pairing: aethelstan x female! reader | genre: fluff, hidden relationship | warnings: slight cursing, kissing. | wc: 5k |

synopsis: Aethelstan hates Finan's teasing, but he loves you more.

request: yes

note: I’m so glad you liked my sihtric fic! And I’m so happy that you sent a request! I love aethelstan sm and I was really happy to write this! Also, your English was perfect, I hope you enjoy it!

Thank you @destinyisall-tlk for letting me use the lovely gif!

Aethelstan had only one thing on his mind while he ran through the town of Rumcofa, and that was you. He had been with Finan and sihtric for most of the day, helping with the preparations for blood month and you have been helping ingrith for most of the day, with the both of you being busy helping with the preparations, you had no alone time with each other. Which Aethelstan was finding very difficult.

So, when Finan told him he didn't need any more help for the day, Aethelstan knew he had to take this as a chance to go see you. He didn't have much time though; he would have to go help uhtred soon at the docks. But for now, he didn't worry about that, now he just had to worry about not getting seen coming to see you.

Aethelstan looks behind him to see no one looking at him, before quietly walking into the stables. A smile spreads across his lips at the sight in front of him. You were standing with your back to him as you brush your horse. Aethelstan recognized the dress you were wearing; it was a green dress ingrith had made for you for your birthday. Aethelstan thought you looked beautiful in it. Well, Aethelstan thought you looked beautiful in anything.

“I only have a little bit of time before uhtred needs me” a voice behind you said breathlessly. You quickly turn around, surprised you didn't hear them approach. In front of you stood Aethelstan, out of breath from what you assumed was running.

“And what do you plan on doing with your little bit of time?” You questioned with a teasing smile, setting the brush on your horse's stall door. Stepping back a few steps when Aethelstan steps closer to you. The hay on the stable floor crunching against the weight of your feet.

“Well, this of course” Aethelstan smiles as he walks closer to you, closing the gap between the two of you as he seals your lips in a kiss. Your eyes flutter close and your hands go up to cup your lovers' cheeks, while his hands rest on your hips and pull you closer. When you hear the sound of faint laughter you remember where you are and that you could be seen. You move your hands from his cheeks down to his chest and softly push away from him and the kiss.

“Aethelstan, you can't just kiss me like that. We could have been seen” you say with a flustered whisper, your hands not moving from his chest. Aethelstan smirks and makes you step back a few steps, softly pushing you against the wall, and out of sight from others.

“I apologize I just couldn’t couldn’t control myself” he flirts as he tucks a strand of your hair behind your ear. You smile at the sweet gesture and lean your head back against the wall, looking into his beautiful hazel eyes.

Aethelstan smiles and cups your cheek, his thumb caressing the soft skin of your cheek. His eyes not leaving yours as he leans down, his nose brushes against yours as he looks deep into your eyes, asking for permission.

When you give him a small nod, he wastes no time and captures your lips in a hungry kiss. His touch on your cheek was soft while he squeezed your waist and pushed you further against the wall if it was possible. Your hand trailed up his side and to his nape, leaving goosebumps in your wake. Just as his tongue met yours, your horse let out a loud whine, startling you and making you pull away from the kiss.

Aethelstan huffed in annoyance at the disruption, and you couldn't help but laugh from the cute pout that found its way on his face. You smile and run your fingers through his hair, fixing it. Aethelstan closes his eyes again at the feeling of your touch and leans forward, resting his forehead on your shoulder.

“What has gotten you so touchy?” You whisper, you didn't mind it of course, but you couldn't help but feel a little worried. You just had a feeling that something was wrong. Ever since you and Aethelstan confessed your feelings for each other he's been touchy, But only when you were in private and when he knew there was no chance that the two of you would be caught.

But there was definitely a high chance of the two of you getting caught now, but it seemed like he didn't care and all he wanted was to feel you. As if he was craving your touch.

“Maybe i just missed you” Aethelstan mumbles as he lifts his head to lock eyes with you, you smile and move one of his loose curls from his face, your hand resting on his cheek, he leans into your touch. You lean forward and close your eyes giving him a chaste kiss before whispering against his lips. “I missed you to.”

The sound of more talking nearby makes Aethelstan sigh and take a step back, his hands moving from your waist to hold your hands. His thumbs gently rubbing over the top of your hands. He gives you a small smile before saying “I should get to uhtred before I’m late.”

“Yeah, or uhtred will send a search party” you say with a teasing smirk, you liked teasing Aethelstan on how protective uhtred was over him. You thought it was cute, sweet, but Aethelstan thought it was annoying. But you both knew deep down that he appreciated it.

“Don’t act as if Finan wouldn't do the same. '' Aethelstan teases back and you can't help but smile at the mention of the Irish man. It was true Finan would do the same. Ever since he found you hiding behind some barrels in your now raided and slaughtered village, a small dagger in your shaking hands, tears streaming down your face. And at the moment he found you he knew he had to protect you, take you in and give you a good life. And he did.

“I’ll see you tonight” Aethelstan promises, he leans down and kisses your forehead giving your hands one more squeeze before letting go and walking backwards towards the large stable doors.

“Tonight?” You gave him a confused look, you don't remember making plans with him tonight and besides tonight was one of the nights where you had to be home early, have a family meal with ingrith and Finan then spend some time with them before going to bed, there was no way you could sneak out to see him.

Aethelstan doesn't say anything else, he just winks at you before turning around and walking out of the stable's door, leaving you to contemplate on what he could have meant. You are brought out of your thoughts when your horse lets out a loud wine, you look away from the doors and walk to your horse's stall and pet her mane. “I know girl, sometimes i want to hit him too.”

It was late when you next saw Aethelstan. You were laying in your bed curled up in blankets, watching the fire in the small fireplace Finan had built for you. Ingrith and Finan went to bed not too long ago, leaving you as the only one awake in your cozy home. Dinner was great, ingrith had made a delicious stew that warmed your body from the cold weather, Finan had you laughing through dinner as always, he loved to see you laughing along to his jokes.

Your eyes were fighting to stay open; it was late and the warm blanket you were wrapped in, and the fire was basically begging for you to close your eyes and drift off to sleep. But you couldn't, you had to stay up to see Aethelstan and as much as you wanted to sleep, you wanted to see Aethelstan more. It was as if the gods heard your thoughts because a few moments later you hear a soft knock on your window.

A smile spreads across your lips at the familiar knock. You sit up in your bed and fling the blanket off your legs and quietly rush towards the window, wincing when your bare feet touch the cold floor. You quietly open your window, scrunching your nose in distaste at the gust of cold wind that hits your tired face, but your look of distaste goes back to your smile at the sight in front of you. There stood Aethestan dressed in dark clothes as always, a small smirk on his face.

“You gonna let me in or am i gonna freeze out here while you stare at me?” Aethelstan says with a cheeky grin, finding it adorable how your eyes lit up when you saw him and the way your eyes looked him over. You give him a shy smile, feeling flustered that you were caught.

You step back, giving him enough room to climb through the window. Mumbling to be careful and not step on the creaky floorboard. Aethelstan rolls his eyes and climbs through the window, mumbling that he knows and that you don't have to keep reminding him. When he successfully climbs through the window he gives you a smirk, but the smirk is whipped off his face and replaced with a look of wide eyes, when he accidentally bumps into your side table. Thankfully nothing fell off.

“What were you saying?” You whispered in a teasing tone as you stepped closer to your lover, finding it funny how he was just about to brag about his ‘sneaking skills’. Aethelstan just smiles and grabs your hand, pulling you to his chest and wrapping his arms around your waist for a hug.

“I was about to say how much i missed you” Aethelstan says quickly as he leans down to kiss your cheek, wanting to change the subject. You laugh quietly and move your head up from his chest to look up at him, your arms on his shoulders.

“You saw me a few hours ago?”

“So? I’ve barely seen you at all this week” Aethelstan smiles, bringing his hands up to fix your messy hair, laughing when you try to slap his hands away. Your eyes widen and your hurry to cover his mouth with your hand, muffling his laughter.

“Finan is going to kill you if he finds you here, you have to be quiet” You whisper, your eyes looking to your door before focusing back on Aethelstan. You take your hand off his mouth and he gives you a shy smile whispering back. “Sorry, Sorry”

“You wouldn't actually let him kill me, right?” Aethelstan says with a faint smirk, watching as you move to go sit back on your bed, getting under the blanket and making room for him. Aethelstan leans down and takes off his boots, knowing that you would be the one killing him if he got dirt in your bed.

“No, I still have some use for you” You joke as you lay on your side, propping your chin on your palm as Aethelstan lifts up the blankets and quietly gets in your bed laying on his back. He felt his body relax into your warm and comfortable bed, his head tilting to look at you.

“Oh, really like what?” Aethelstan whispers with a smile as he pulls you closer to his side, wrapping his arm around you and resting his hand on your hip, absentmindedly playing with the fabric of your nightgown.

“Who else is gonna keep me warm on cold nights like this?”

“That’s true… i am pretty good at it” Aethelsyan says in a cocky tone, a small smirk on his lips as he looks into your eyes, his hand having an itch to caress your cheek. You smile and playfully roll your eyes at his response, nudging his side with your knee making his smirk turn into a smile.

“The best” You whisper as you put your hand on his cheek, leaning forward and pressing your lips to his. Aethelstan let out a hum of surprise, but he was eager to kiss you back. His hand on your waist moves to the middle of your back as he presses you into his side, the warmth of your body moving to his. The sweet and gentle kiss didn't last long but it still left you both breathless when you slowly pulled away from his soft lips.

Your eyes flutter open and meet Aethelstans hazel eyes, a smile on his lips. You never failed to make him smile. You return the smile and lay your head on his shoulder, your hand resting on his chest, Aethelstan moving his free hand to rest over yours on his chest. You couldn't stop your eyes from fluttering close as your body relaxed in his hold. But your eyes don't stay close for long when you remember something Finan had told you at dinner earlier.

“Finan mentioned at dinner that you seemed a little off earlier, is everything okay?” You mumble as you tilt your head up to look at him. You thought back to earlier in the stables, when you had a feeling, something was wrong and with Finan mentioning it as well you knew there was something. Aethelstans eyes open at your question.

“Yeah, I’m fine” Aethelstan whispered with a fake smile, hoping that you wouldn't notice the dismissiveness in his tone. But you noticed his tone, and the fake smile, you knew him too well to not notice. A small frown adores your face, and you sit up and little, leaning on your elbow.

“Aethelstan, you know you can talk to me. Right?”

“I know that…I just” Aethelstan stops himself with a heavy sigh, closing his eyes so he could try to gather his thoughts. It's not that he didn't want to tell you he was just…embarrassed. Embarrassed that he let something so silly bother him.

“Hey…it's okay, take your time.'' You whispered in a comforting tone, your thumb rubbing the top of his hand reassuringly.

“Finan and sihtric keep on teasing me about my lack of a woman” he mumbled as he finally looked at you.

“They only tease because they don't know the truth” you tell him with a small smile.

“Well, I've become tired of their teasing” He rolled his eyes, annoyance clear in his voice. You sigh and nod, you understand where he was coming from. Finan and Sihtric’s teasing can get too much sometimes, you knew firsthand how their teasing was. They were never mean about it; they just didn't know when to stop. And it didn't help that they enjoyed teasing your secret lover the most.

“We could always just tell them about us” You said in a hopeful tone. You hated keeping things from Finan and ever since the two of you confessed you wanted to tell him, but you didn't because Aethelstan wasn't ready. But it's been many months later and you still hadn't told Finan, or anyone. You didn't blame Aethelstan, you understood his reasons, but it was hard for you to keep your relationship a secret, you didn't want to hide your love for him anymore.

“Finan truly might kill me if we tell them, hell uhtred might even let him” Aethelstan shuddered as he thought about the protective Irish man, it was no secret that he would do anything to protect you, and uhtred was protective as well, he treated you as if you were his own daughter. Yeah, I'm not surviving that Aethelstan thinks to himself.

“Finan is not going to kill you because we are together Aethelstan” you assured him as you tried your best to sound confident. You knew Finan wouldn't kill him, but he definitely will threaten him…many times. You let go of his hand and moved some of your hair from your face before resting it between you and Aethelstans body.

“You just were saying that he would kill me if he found me in here, '' retorted Aethelstan as he moved to lay on his side, moving his hand the was under your head to prop his chin on his palm, copying your position.

“Finding out we're together and finding us alone in my room in the middle of the night are two different things'' you giggled quietly, finding the small pout he had on his face adorable. You watch as Aethelstan closes his eyes and lets out a sigh, a look on his face showing that he was thinking. You let out your own sigh and bring the blanket up your shoulders to protect you from the cold.

“Okay” Aethelstan whispered after a few minutes of silence. You look away from the fireplace that you could see behind him and give him a confused look. “Okay what?”

“We'll tell them tomorrow” Aethelstan whispered as he reached for your hand between the two of you, squeezing it gently as he watched for your reaction. He knew it wasn't fair to keep asking you to keep your guy's relationship a secret, especially because he was the one afraid of the teasing, he knew the two of you would receive.

“Really!” You beamed loudly; you were so enthralled with the fact that you wouldn't have to hide your relationship anymore that you didn't notice how loud you spoke. You only noticed when Aethelstan let go of your hand and moved his to cover your mouth, like you did to him earlier.

“Are you trying to have me killed?” Aethelstan quietly jokes with a smile, his hand stifling your giggles, but he moves his hand when you pretend to bite him, laughing quietly himself.

“Really” You repeat in a whisper, a huge grin on your face. Aethelstan moves his hand to your cheek where he uses his thumb to caress your soft skin. His heart was beating fast, he loved seeing you happy. The way your eyes lit up and your beautiful smile, it made him feel a way he never felt before with anyone else.

“It's not fair to keep on having you keep us a secret, i love you and i want everyone to know that” he whispered as he leaned closer to you, his hand on your cheek moving down to your waist.

“No matter what they say?” You whispered as you looked into his eyes. You couldn't find words to describe the way you were feeling at that moment. Cold?, Tired?, A little. Shocked?, Happy?, Yes. Loved?, Absolutely. Was there a word that meant all that at the same time?

“No matter what they say” he promises as he repeats your words. Aethelstan lays back on his back and gives you a small smile. You return the smile and nestle in his side, laying your head on his chest. You closed your eyes when you felt his hand come up to play with your hair. The sound of the cracking of the fire and the sound of his heartbeat lulling you to sleep.

The first thing you normally notice when you wake up is the fact that you kicked the blanket off the bed, again. But not today, the first thing you noticed is that you woke up alone…Aethelstan was gone. He probably left when you fell asleep, like the other times before you thought with a small frown. You knew he had to or the two of you would have most likely been caught but you can't help but feel a little sad that you woke up alone.

You hear the distant voice of uhtred and you sit up in confusion, he never came over this early. You get out of bed and tiredly walk towards your desk, mumbling a few curse words in anger when you almost trip over your blanket that ended up on the floor. You grab your robe that was on your chair, before leaving your room and following the sound of uhtred's voice.

It leads you to the kitchen where you see Finan, Uhtred, Sihtric and to your surprise a very tense Aethelstan sitting at the table. The sound of your footsteps causes uhtred to stop talking and the four of them to look at you. Sihtric gives you a look as if he was saying good luck. Uhtred was giving you a small smile and a nod and Finan…well he didn't look happy. Uncomfortable? No, he looked more tense than Aethelstan.

“Goodmorning?” You greeted but it came out as more of a question, your hands nervously playing with the sleeve of your robe that Sidgeflaed made you. Feeling a little nervous under the gaze of the four of them, you could tell something was off.

“How did you sleep?” Finan questioned as he pulled out a chair at the table for you. You gave him a confused look at his odd tone but nonetheless you sat down. In Front of you sat Uhtred and to his left was Sihtric and to Sihtrics right sat Aethelstan at the end of the table. The atmosphere screamed tense.

“Uh good, you?” You questioned as Finan sat at the other end of the table to your left. Finan visibly flinches at your words, an uncomfortable look on his face, He looked as if he was in pain from your answer.

“Yeah, I'm sure you did” Sihtric snickers under his breath with a small smirk on his face. The confusion on your face becomes even more evident at his words. You watch as uhtred rolls his eyes and Finan gives sihtric a very angry glare but that only seems fuel sihtric on as he quietly laughs to himself.

You glance at Aethelstan to see if he had any idea on what's going on, but when you see him avoid your eyes and look down at his hands, fidgeting in his seat you realize what's going on. It was as if a vail had been lifted off your eyes. Aethelstan is still dressed in his clothes from last night meaning that he never changed. Finan asking you about how you slept, Sihtrics joke, the very tense Atmosphere. The two of you had been caught.

“And you uhtred, how did you sleep?” You gave him a nervous smile, hoping to steer the tense atmosphere away. Uhtred returned the smile with one of his own before he spoke in a calm tone.

“I slept fine, it was a good morning until i went to go check on Aethelstan in his room and saw that he wasn't there, I come here to see if Finan knew where he was and he had no idea, Finan gets the brilliant idea to see if you know, so we come to ask you and you will never guess what we saw. Can you?”

“I have an idea of what it was” You mumbled as you folded your hand in front of you on the table, avoiding eye contact from anyone. Embarrassed to be caught like that, it could've been worse but still…definitely wasn't the way you wanted them to find out.

“Y/n would like to explain why i found a boy in your bed, And not just any boy, Aethelstan!” Finan Finally shouts, he looked as if he was holding it back while you talked with uhtred but he just couldn't hold it in anymore. He had to know, why were you, his sweet daughter in the same bed as Aethelstan?

“We were sleeping” you say matter of factly as you look at Finan, raising your eyebrow. While Uhtred and sihtric were amused from your response, Aethelstan was feeling as if he was going to pass out. You were very similar to Finan, both of you were sarcastic and Aethelstan was worried that you would somehow make this situation worse with your remarks.

“Obviously! But why was he sleeping in your bed?!” Finan snapped as he looked at you expectedly, he wanted a good answer, the real reason why he was in your bed…holding you.

“Umm, I was cold” You remarked. Technically you weren't lying, you were cold…but you also weren't telling the full truth. Aethelstan sighs and leans back in his chair at your words, while Finan only seemed to get more annoyed at what you said.

“It was a cold night.'' Sihtric chimes in and Uhtred nodded in agreement, smirking slightly when Finan glares at the two of them, mumbling angrily that they aren't helping. Uhtred wasn't mad about what happened, he just had to put up the strict act and well sihtric…he was finding this all to be very amusing.

You glance at Aethelstan to see he was already looking at you, he gives you a small nod and you know it's best if you just tell them. You clear your throat and look at Finan leaning forward a little. “Me and Aethelstan are dating, we have been for months.”

It was silent for a few moments. Sihtric was smiling and patted Aethelstan on the back, he was happy for the two of you and he couldn't wait to tell Osferth this, they may or may not have made a bet, and seeing how happy sihtric is, he won. Uhtred just hid his smirk, he already had a feeling there was something between the two of you and was happy that he was right, he wants you both to be happy, you both deserved it.

“Him? You're dating him?!” Finan shouts as he points his finger at Aethelstan in disbelief.

“Hey! What's that supposed to mean” Aethelstan pouts as he crosses his arms over his chest, feeling offended by your dads' words. He completely understood and knew that Finan wouldn't be the happiest because of how protective he is of you, but like rude Aethelstan thought.

“God what did I do to have you betray me like this?” Finan grumbles dramatically as he puts his elbows on the table and his head in his hands. You roll your eyes at his dramatics and cover your mouth trying to stop yourself from laughing. Sadly, Sihtric wasn't so lucky and he quietly started laughing. A big mistake.

“Sihtric i swear to God! What are you even doing here?” Finan Shouts at his friend as he looks up from his hands. Uhtred sighs and rubs his temple while you and Aethelstan glance at each other with wide eyes, both of you slightly amused. Okay maybe more than slightly.

“You asked me to come? You said it was a fucking emergency!” Sihtric Shouts back. You felt your lips twitch up to a faint smile at the fact that Finan thought this was an emergency, gosh he's so dramatic.

“Well now I’m asking you to shut the fuck up!” Finan snaps, feeling extremely annoyed at his friend. Finan felt as if everything was happening too fast, you were his little girl. It was like yesterday when you would ask him to tell you bedtimes stories before bed or come to him for everything. He didn't like that you were growing up so fast.

“And this is an Emergency! My daughter is dating…She's too young” Finan starts, His voice going to a whisper at the end. Finan frowns and turns to look at you, shaking his head. “You're too young.”

“Dad, most girls my age are married and popping out babies” you tell him with a sigh, it was true. Finan looked at you as if he was offended that you would even tell him that. “Well, you're not okay!”

“Not for a very, very long time…Got it?” He says as he gives Aethelstan a glare. Aethelstan nods and gulps nervously. You roll your eyes for what felt the hundredth time since you woke up, you weren't ready for marriage and definitely ready for babies. Aethelstan looks extremely uncomfortable at the mention of marriage and babies, there was no way he was ready for that either.

“Finan” Uhtred said as he looked at his stressed-out friend, Uhtred shakes his head and gives him a small smile. Silently telling him that that's enough and that it's okay. Finan sighs and looks away from Uhtred and down to his hands before looking to Aethelstan. As much as Finan hated the idea, it was true. You were growing up and he had to get used to the thought.

“No more sneaking through her window, and if you break her heart I’m going to break your ribs, Uhtred won't even be able to protect ya” Finan says in an extremely intimidating tone that even made you nervous. You looked to uhtred, your eyes begging him to do something to stop Finan, he just shrugs. You glanced at Aethelstan, who looked to you when he felt your stare. You gave him a bashful smile, feeling sorry that he had to go through this.

Aethelstan returned the smile with one of his own, his eyes telling you it was okay. And it was okay, it was worth every single threat Finan gave him. You were worth it. Despite the dramatics from Finan, you were happy this happened. The sound of Sihtric’s voice breaks you out of your thoughts of Aethelstan.

“Gods there looking at each other all lovey dovey” Sihtric jokes, making you look down at your hands feeling flustered while Aethelstan blushes and takes a sip of water from the cup he forgot was in front of him. Uhtred laughs at the Flustered and shy couple. Finan just grumpily frowns and leans back in his chair.

Your eyes look up from your hands and towards the door when you hear it opening, a smiling Osferth walks in. His smile widening when he sees us all. “What's going on here?”

“So not the right time baby monk” Finan sighed as he closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead, he didn't think he could handle Osferth after everything that just happened. Osferth looks at you in confusion when you start giggling, a few seconds later Aethelstan was joining you.

Yeah, it definitely was worth it.

note: I am soo sorry this took so long to get out. These past 2 weeks have been very stressful, with the weather and one of my very close family friend passing away, it been hard for me to focus on my writing. (Sorry for the small emotional dump)

But I do hope you guys enjoyed this! I love Aethelstan sm so I loved writing this! To the others who have sent me req, I have seen them and I will write them, I just don’t know when I will get them out :(

Please comment and tell me what you think about it, I would love to read all your thoughts!

#the last kingdom #the last kingdom x reader #the last kingdom fanfic #aethelstan x reader #aethelstan tlk #aethelstan the last kingdom #harry gilby #the last kingdom fluff #tlk fandom #aethelstan

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its-actually-minicika · 1 year

Text

The Harshest Winters (18+!)

Part 2;

Pairing(s): Jacaerys x Reader (rip king 🤍), Dark!Aemond x Reader (though it's very much one sided on his behalf);

Warnings: angst galore, mentions of SA, blood and gore, allusions and descriptions of death AND sex, book canon Aemond- need I go on?

Author's Note: The support received on the last part was insane :")) so here I am, writing another one! If this gets enough attention, I might just turn it into a series; Nonetheless, I hope you guys enjoy!

Also, this isn't proof-read; We die like men tonight :") Part 3 is out now! <33

(Y/N) and Ser Cain ride through burnt-down forests, scattered with ash and blood - twisted loyalties reveal their sick ambitions, and the girl is faced with a very tough decision.

"How'd you even manage to get into Harrenhal? Aemond may be blind in one eye, but he keeps an iron fist over who enters and leaves the Keep." Her hushed voice echoed through the empty forest.

Ser Cain looked at his lady with a glimpse of reverence, that could almost be confused with one of slight amusement.

"I must admit, I got plenty of help." He barked dryly, running a calloused hand through his blonde hair. "You may have had no friends among the Greens, but there was a certain wood witch that wanted you gone as soon as possible."

(Y/N)'s eyes widened in momentary shock. Her mouth opened and closed back up again, before she finally managed to form a proper sentence.

"Alys? Alys Rivers?" She asked tentatively, amusement licking at her fair features.

"Us bastards always find a way to help one another," Cain let out a roaring laugh, that brought a level of warmth to the Lady's weary heart. "I wanted you safe, and she wanted you gone. We reached a deal very quickly after that."

"No way you struck a deal with Aemond's bedmate." The girl huffed out in disbelief, "She'll be in a lot of trouble if ever he finds out... There is hardly anything for her to gain from freeing a war captive."

"Aye, he will be mad..." Her sworn protector made a short pause, "Yet there's nothing that stirs someone on more than jealousy." The knight sighed, lost in deep thought. "She has everything to gain from this - the walls talk in Harrenhal, my Lady. And they... well, forgive me for being so blunt - speak stories on how the Kinslayer loses sleep by visiting you in your chambers at night."

The girl's cheek are caught ablaze; the innuendo was more than clear on Ser Cain's face alone. She stills her horse and throws him a jaded look.

"As you saw when you guarded my door, ser - he does intrude often. But there was never a moment where we..." As her words came to a halt, the girl huffed out in a discontented breath, "I would rather die than spread my legs open for the usurper's kin."

"I know." Cain reassured her, a wide smile plastered on his face. "With the way you were gripping that candle holder, ready to swing it at me, I can only imagine the hell you gave Prince Aemond."

"It wasn't nearly as much as he deserved. I'm afraid I failed to do Jace justice."

Wordlessly, Ser Cain reached for her saddle, and gave her shoulder a tight squeeze. His other hand came to grip the horse's bridle, forcing both mares into another sprint.

"We can't stay in one place for long." He wanted to apologise, but (Y/N)'s reassuring smile made him calm back down again.

"Trust me. If there is anyone who wants to put as much distance between them and that disgusting psychopath, it's me."

For a while, the only noise made in the smoked out forest was the gallop of the horses and their shallow panting. After a while, even that proved to be too little.

"I have to ask," The woman started, quirking her brow up at the knight, "Where are we going? Riverrun is hardly a safe space - Aemond will go there first, once he gets notified of my absence."

Following her own logic, (Y/N)'s eyes widen.

"My brothers. Father and grandfather...!"

"You needn't worry, my Lady!" Cain Waters assured the girl with a delicate brush on her arm, "We like to think that we thought of everything - and Riverrun has been emptied since the very beginning of the Kinslayer's wild attacks."

A sigh of relief etches it's way from the girl's throat.

"Your father raised your grandfather's army - he's marching to Dragonstone, with Kermit, to aid our true Queen. As for your youngest brother and grandfather, they're both in the Eyrie - where Lady Jane Arryn is expecting you, too."

"So that's were we're heading." (Y/N) concluded with a deep sigh. "We won't reach it tonight."

"No." Cain agreed, but soon added determinedly, "We'll probably reach the Saltpans on the morrow. We'll hide a while near the Trident and, when the time is right, march North towards the Bloody Gate."

"Gods be good, it will take us weeks." She exclaimed through a shallow breath. "We can't afford spare that much time. Aemond will be hot on our tracks, that much is for certain."

Cain's eyes softened at her outburst, and the robust man bit his inner cheek.

"We have to take this chance - for your safety, my Lady." He tried to encourage her with a crooked smile, "Do not worry about the Kinslayer. I'll kill him if he touches you."

The way in which he spoke oozed with honesty and determination. His eyes were like two silver daggers, scanning, searching for any danger that could put his Lady's life at stake.

Cain was a loyal knight, Lady Tully concluded, a trusted friend and fantastic travel partner. He was her sworn shield - and men, willing to devote themselves to a cause in the way he did, waiting for nothing in return, were very few and far between.

The tiniest shadows of a smile dance across her tired features. She takes in a deep breath, and allows her shoulders to relax.

"I know you will, Ser Cain." She confirms with a small nod, focusing her attention to the road ahead.

Still... when a dragon stands between a man and his duty, what brainless knight would ever rush to a lady's aid?

Aemond's footsteps echoed through the wailing keep. His armour fell heavy on his shoulders, and the sword in his grip was fully drenched in blood.

Of all the men slain by his hand that day, Simon Strong, the old fool, had screamed the loudest. He begged until his last breath for mercy of the Warrior and the Mother, for a chance to prove himself and his loyalty to the Crown, but to no avail.

Of all the guards assigned to Harrenhal by his darling mother, all but one died, as fallen victims to his endless frenzy.

"If the words you speak are truthful," Aemond mocked him with an airy laugh, "Then pick up this sword and clash it with mine. Should you be innocent, the Warrior will grant you strength enough to defeat me."

But no Warrior, and no other God, beckoned his call that day.

Instead, Simon Strong died with his head severed, and body still twitching with a sword in hand.

Now, it was Aemond's turn to wail and sigh at the sight before him - the last knight he kept alive, a boy as green as grass, petrified beyond belief.

When he spotted the One Eyed Prince, the boy all but fell to his knees, begging for forgiveness through tear stained cheeks and apish breaths.

"Your Grace, please, you must believe me!" He deplored helplessly, "I had no part in this - I didn't know!"

Aemond felt his lips quirk up in a cruel smile. The view below him was beyond pitiful; a most amusing glimpse into what the Conqueror himself must have experienced when he put Westeros through the judgement of steel and flames.

Still, even the most amusing jesters become ridiculous when faced with the passage of time.

"Exactly. You didn't know." His honeyed voice rang out into the cluttered room. The Crown Prince took a step forward, reveling in how the knight pressed himself deeper into the ground. The stench of piss flared up his nostrils.

The boy had shat himself.

His whimpers broke through the otherwise silent room. A mixture of "Please"s and "Your Grace, don't"s - it left Aemond dissatisfied and forlong, irked to no end.

"You say you have seen this knight around." He hummed in admission, "Pray tell, what was his name again?"

"C-Cain! Cain Waters! He was a broad man, with a straight stubble and long, blonde hair!" He shook his head after each and every word, desperate to prove himself. "He had a scar - right here, on his left arm! And a broken nose - it curved to the left side, and he said he'd gotten it from a brawl!" The boy blabbered incoherently, spewing as many things as he remembered from the immediate memory.

Aemond chuckled at his words, raising his hand out to stop the disordered boy. Wordlessly, he held his arm out, enouraging him with a curt nod to raise to his feet again.

"You have an excellent memory, do you not? It seems like you remember a lot of things."

The knight nodded fevereshly, trying his hardest to stop his limbs from giving out.

"Yes, yes, Your Grace! I talked to him countless of times, I can recognise his voice with my eyes closed!"

Aemond quirked his head to the side, and let out another curt laugh.

"Good, very good, indeed! And, tell me..." As he spoke the last of his words, Aemond Targaryen got closer to the shaking boy, "You call this level of interest... not getting involved?"

Without waiting for an answer, Prince Aemond let go of the soldier's hand, running his sword through his stomach in a simple, yet effective movement.

"Y-Your G-Gh..." He strained himself to hiss though his bloodied mouth, before falling on his knees, his hand placed atop his wound.

"You've proven yourself very useful." Aemond asserted dryly, "Just as you said."

The Prince turned back on his heel again, and began marching towards the open door. With a bored expression on his face, he threw the child one more dejected look, and added, "But I've simply no more need for you."

The knight's endless gagging filled the room with a paculiar sense of dread. Somewhere along his way, Aemond got a hold of a kitchen wench; he grabbed her with his bloody hand, and clicked his tongue in pure disdain.

"Clean that up." Was all she was instructed to do.

Daylight had long broken the sky in two, as Cain and (Y/N) finally reached the Saltpans of the Trident.

Tired, and famished far beyond belief, the two stopped at the gate of an ale house, dismounting their horses and knocking on the door politely.

A couple of seconds went by, until a small click of a key was heard on the other side. An old woman stepped outside, holding out a crossbow, that was still too big for her wide frame.

"I said, no more scoundrels, and ruffians, and thieves, and men! Away, away with you!"

Her wrinkled hands swished and flicked about, right under Cain's nose, who swallowed a small laugh, and gently raised his hands out in taciturn surrender.

"No ruffians, scoundrels or thieves sit in front of you, ma'am. ... Though, of being a man, I must admit I'm very guilty."

Upon hearing his words, the old lady shook her head, with a strength so great, (Y/N) was sure her eyes would pop out.

"Oh, no, no! I said, no more of those around here!" She repeated again, though she lowered her crossbow from Cain's face, upon hearing the sound of his mellow voice.

"Madam, I... We beg you to reconsider." The Lady's voice rang through the open clearing. As she glanced up at the old, plump woman, her features turned soft and pleading, begging for help, like a child would to her wise mother.

She gripped Cain's biscep with her left hand, ensuring that their host would see her amethist ring, that now rested upon her ring finger. "My husband and I are so tired from our long journey and... as you said, Madam, the streets aren't safe."

The house's owner squinted at them with a hardened look, but then, almost too suddenly, she stepped aside for the two to come in.

"You'll have to forgive an old spinster," The woman smiled tightly over her shoulder, "It's just that in these parts of the Reach, you don't know in who to trust."

"Aye, we hear that." Cain replied with a warm smile, leading his lady inside with a hand respectfully placed above her waist. "Great thinking!" He leaned in to whisper in her ear, congratulating her on the ability to adapt to their situation so fast. "If I didn't know any better, my Lady, I'd say you didn't need me to make the trip."

She gave her a polite smile, and sheepishly bowed her head.

"Perhaps you don't know any better, then." She laughed at him teasingly, before moving her attention back to the old maid.

"My husband and I travelled no small distance - we live near Bitterbridge, but we decided to join with our relatives near Crossroad's Inn." She gave Cain's hand a tight squeeze, and looked at him affectionately, before pressing on. "With with the war looming over us, nothing is more important than family."

The old lady smiled at them, showing off her three gold teeth. Her eyes held no malice now, and she shifted her weight from her left foot to speak. "Mine mother was from Goldengrove - a proper Lady. She was almost a lady in waiting for Brianna Tyrell."

Looking almost wistfully to the side, the inn wench let out a melancholic sigh.

"Oh, but what am I sharing these stories for?" She questioned jokingly, while clasping her hands together. "I'll prepare breakfast for you two. And a bed - to sleep in for the night."

Cain offered the woman a small nod, and smiled tightly in reply.

As she made herself busy with boiling some eggs, the man leaned in, muttering lowly to his lady.

"She didn't ask us for how long we'd stay. She assumed right away we'd be gone tomorrow."

Taking in his cautious words, (Y/N) hummed, as she nibbled on her bottom lip.

"And if her words are true about her mother, then she served as vassal for the Hightowers, as well."

"Do you think she's a Loyalist, my Lady?" The knight choked on his own breath.

"It might be too soon to tell."

The man's eyes fell back on the dirty window, that offered but a shallow peek into the outside world. His face contorted to one of great concentration - Much like it did years ago, (Y/N) mused to herself, before an important Tourney.

"We'll tread lightly. ... It might be a good idea to show our support to Aegon when we talk amongst ourselves at dinner."

"An easy conversation to over-hear, of course. Especially after a glass or two of wine."

Their little dialogue ceased a moment, and both travellers shot each other a warm smile.

"W-W-Wait, just because I brought the letter here, that don't mean I'm gon' speak to the young master, too-" The strained voice of a serving maid bounced off the stone walls of the black Crypt.

She looked around frantically, shaking her head with so much dedication, that her braid came undone onto her shoulders. The servants around her made no attempt to soothe the girl, or take her under their protection - for they, too, were scared of the wrath that resided deep inside of Aemond.

Still, a raven, who's beak carried a letter that spoke naught on the outside, besides it coming from an inn in the Saltpans, had come to Harrenhal that afternoon.

A more educated one from the flock of young maids tried to decypher its contents in the light of day, but to no avail. The letter had to be opened. And it had to be opened by their reckless Prince, first.

"H-How do we even know it's something important?" One elder girl chirped shyly. "What if it isn't, and Prince Aemond punishes us for wasting his Grace's time?"

A shuddering thought went through each and every resting body, that rang clear through their bodies, like a blade would on young flesh.

"And what if it is important?" Another spoke up, "We'll all be executed for not bringing it to him, sooner!" She sobbed into her hands.

"Bring what to Prince Aemond?"

The rise of the unknown voice elicited a scared gasp from each member of the pitiful assembly. Comically, they all turned on their heel at once, gripping their throats in horrified wonder.

None but Alys Rivers stood before them, her own hands resting on her hips and her cascade of black hair, fraiming her expecting face in a gruellingly gorgeous way.

"Seven hells! You had us scared to death, Rivers!" One maid or another chastised her deeply.

Upon hearing the lack of reverence in her voice, the Strong witch clasped her hands tightly together, and glared upon the crowd with a look full of disdain.

"You ought be careful with how you address me. You forget yourself, wench."

Her words were cutting and scornful, and yet, they had no effect on the defying servant.

"I should be careful with how I speak to you?" The tiny woman let out a small scoff, "'Tis you who should sooner not forget her standing. You aren't mistress of this Keep. You are naught above us in station."

Caught in the red, Alys scorned down at the meek, servant girl. Her back turned awfully straight, and she demured in a demanding tone.

"You will either tell me at once what it is you're hiding, or I will have my Aemond take all of your heads." She let out a small chuckle, and carried on, "You'll see how much power I have over this keep and you - for I carry the Dragon's son, and his fires already lick at my womb."

The possibility of Alys Rivers carrying the Kinslayer's bastard sent a shiver down their hollow spines. Soon, the girls threw each other a despondent look, and settled their eyes upon the floor.

"It's... a letter from the Saltpans... m'lady." The same maid who provoked her now spoke. "We don't know of it's contents, but..."

Silence fell over the windy crypt. Alys quirked up a brow in amusement, and extended her arm out in palpable anticipation.

"I'll carry it to him, then. Make haste, give it to me, and begone."

For once, her command was almost immediately executed. The plump girl that had brought the raven inside hurried to give the parchments to her, and scurried along the dark hall, making herself scarce and unseen.

Alys' green skirts kissed the grounds which the woman walked, leaving a rustling echo along the large halls with every calculated step.

She reached for Aemond's Quarters, and slyly made her way inside.

"My Prince," Her voice rang out, "A letter addressed to you has just arrived."

The eager polishing of Aemond's sword was the only noise in the room for a while. He hummed expectantly, putting an end to his endeavours, and getting a hold of the enclasped letter with two of his long fingers.

Silently, much like a predator would it's prey, he analysed its contents, feeling a smug smirk tugging at his upturned lips. He lowered it after a while, and looked out the window, lost in the depthness of his thoughts.

"My Prince, what does it say?" Alys inquired officiously, dropping her head over his thighs. "Is it of an important matter?"

Aemond let out a joyous laugh - and, whether it was due to his amusement over Alys' stupid question, or due to the contents of the flimsy letter, was up to anybody's guess.

"Tell those kitchen wenches to prepare for a grand feast for tonight. We have reason to expect very pleasant company."

The man rose from his chair and smirked to himself once more, before making his way towards the grand oak doors of his private chambers.

He stopped on his tracks, however, to assert the woman on his bed once more.

"Alys... should you come to my room unannounced again, I will have your head for it." He uttered neutrally, with a bemused rise of his brows.

"Do you think it wise to leave tonight?" Cain's pleasant voice rang through the girl's ears, as the two made good haste scarping down on the dinner they paid for.

"Tonight?" The girl hushed back at him, before taking a sip of her wine. "You don't trust the old lady, do you?"

"Aye, I must admit, I don't." Cain confirmed her laid out question, as he followed the woman's form into the small kitchen again. "I can't shake off the feeling that something bad is about to happen."

Placing her hand atop his in a pacifying manner, (Y/N) squeezed tightly, putting an end to his restless thoughts.

"Then we should leave tonight. Wait until she's fallen asleep, sneak out and mount our horses. We can sleep when we reach the Bloody Gate, or hidden away in the forest." She concluded with a stone faced look.

Cain bit his lower lip and clicked his tongue in distaste for the plan. "I'm sorry for making you go through this, my Lady. A young woman shouldn't be forced to sleep outside, under such pitiful conditions."

"But it's better to be safe than sorry," She assured him once again, "And I've slept in worse than grass and branches - you should know."

The knight's face twisted into pure rage.

"I swear to you, my Lady, I will have his head for all he made you go through. I will."

"There would be no one else I trust more with the task." She smiled at him happily, and a pang of sisterly affection surged through her bones. "Let's finish eating. Then we'll retire in our room and start packing up."

Cain nodded in agreement, and offered the girl one of his many placid smiles.

The evening went on with little to no commotion - the night displayed the hour of the wolf, when the two finally made their way outside their room, and onto the small corridor that led to the stables.

Still, their footsteps, however careful, alerted their horses, who'd grown so accounstomed to Cain's presence.

With a small huff of their muzzles, they rested their head upon the separating barrier, and shook their manes expectantly.

"That's it, those are my good girls." Cain hushed to them, untying their bridles from the putrid wall. "Let's go for a ride, shall we?"

In the same manner he did the night before, (Y/N)'s sworn shield helped her up the saddle, and secured her belts in place. Soon came his turn, and, before they both knew it, the pair was exiting the stables with tentative steps, stopping at the entrance.

"We'll take to the North road, but we'll travel slightly East. We'll be on Arryn grounds... and hopefully more safe."

"That sounds like a plan." Lady Tully agreed with a tight expression on her face. She let out a shaky sigh, opening the inn's gates with a strong jerk of her hand.

Cain clicked his tongue once, twice, three and four times, until both horses broke into a hasty sprint. With his hand over both bridles, he guided the horses over to the stony road.

The night was clear. The shadows scarce. And yet...

A looming figure washed up before them both, swallowing the light of the moon and shaking their foundations to the very core.

"Ha..." (Y/N) let out a laugh in disbelief, feeling her heart rising to her throat.

Cain's face tightened, and his knuckles turned white over the saddle's head. His body contorted in fear and disgust for the man above them, as he took in a deep breath.

"Run." He instructed dryly.

When a horse races with a dragon, which one of them wins? - It was a rather stupid question, for this was a race that the poor horse would lose everytime, no matter it's good breeding or strong muscle mass.

"TO THE FOREST, BACK INTO THE FOREST!" Ser Cain yelled out, turning both animals around, hoping for a chance of escape.

"Have you lost your mind?! He'll burn the trees down!" His lady's reply came and went, swallowed by the wind, and the ring of Aemond's cruel laugh.

"What other choice do we have?!"

That much was true, the lady admitted inside her head. Aemond was ruthless, and, chances were, they would both die either way. If there was even a slither of hope that they'll survive by confusing the man, they had to take it.

As the horses ran, Cain tried his best to untangle their bridles, but (Y/N) shouted after him.

"Don't!! Aemond won't burn me with his dragon, he needs me alive for my grandfather's banners! But he won't hesitate to hurt you, should we be separated!"

With one hardened breath after the other, the two made their way back into the forest, where Cain reached out to unbuckle his lady's saddle. His stiff fingers made slow work - the exhaustion, fear and speed with which they galloped made it extremely hard for the knight to see even three inches ahead of him.

"We get off the horses!" He alerted the woman, as beads of sweat rolled off his forehead. "From that distance, he can't see us - he'll think we're still on them! We'll have to run from that point on, but we must take the chance!"

(Y/N) replied in kind with his instructions, and both lady and loyal knight jumped off their horses' saddles, hitting the ground with a ferocious impact.

Pain surged through her limbs and bones, but Cain quickly grabbed her hand, and dragged her further into the forest, and farther away from Aemond's roars.

Their strained breaths and silent whimpers echoed through the quiet woods - they ran and ran, until their feet gave out on them, and the two reached a small cave.

"Come -" The man encouraged with a raspy voice, as his knees buckled below him.

For a while, there was silence. (Y/N) swallowed thickly, and whispered to her tired knight.

"We should stay here for a while. Maybe an hour, or... Shit, he won't leave either way, will he?"

"Aye, my Lady, not without you." His grey eyes came to clash with her (y/e/c) hues. A look of strange determination took a hold of his harsh features, contorting his brows in such a way, that they almost mended through themselves.

"From here we could go to Maidenpool. The forest covers enough a distance for such a feat."

"Maidenpool?" The girl's voice shook with fear, "It's nose to nose with King's Landing - going there is a death sentence!"

She closed her eyes tightly and kicked her leg into a nearby stone. "Shit, shit, shit - we were so close!"

"I shall challenge him to a fair fight." Cain mustered up to say. "The Kinslayer has no honor. But he still values the tradition."

The lady's eyes shot wide open, and her head shook to the side. "No, absolutely not. Aemond is well rested - you haven't slept in two days!"

"I must. What other choice do we have?" He repeated with a shaky voice, as he wobbled back on his feet again. His eyes trailed over the girl's small silhouette, and patted her back keenly.

"You stay here, my Lady. Should I arise victorious, I'll come back and find you."

With each word of their heated dispute, both companions raised their voices.

"No - not a chance. As your Lady, I'm commanding you; and as your friend, I'm begging you - let me come with."

"There should be no need for that." Aemond's deep voice rumbled out.

Cain wasted no time to place the girl behind his back, and unsheathe his sword with one swift movement.

"... How?" (Y/N) asked him in pure disdain and disbelief.

"Lady Alys sees many things. Before I left, she saw you in the fires of the kitchen, wasting away in this cave to rot."

The Crown Prince gave the girl a mellow smile, as he took a step ahead.

"At first, it made little sense to me. Especially since that withered whore sent me a raven, assuring me of your whereabouts in her inn." Hearing the calmness in his voice, the girl spat out a low curse.

But Aemond laughed at her display, and gently shook his head.

"The view you get atop a dragon, My Lady, is a very valuable thing. You can already guess my frustration when all I saw were pesky trees, but then... then I saw this cave."

Cain let out a low growl, and measured the One-Eyed Prince with his wild stare.

"None of that matters now." He spoke calmly, cutting him off, "We've to reach an agreement, Kinslayer. Pull your sword out now, and face trail before the Gods."

As his eyes trailed across Aemond's clean armour, the knight let out a strained snarl.

"Lest you be scared to, of course."

That seems to be the final drop for Aemond, who suddenly unsheathes his own Valyrian steel sword, and places it atop Cain's breastplate. "You'll regret ever taunting a dragon."

"We'll see."

Having said the last of their words, the men swayed on their feet, clashing steel with steel. When Aemond charged him, Cain moved barely fast enough to avoid the blade's sharp edge.

No sooner was Aemond's first slash blocked, that the knight made another - this time, the Kinslayer's armour proved to be pivital, as the sword rang though his breastplate, without making any damage to the warm body inside.

Hard and fast the cuts came, from low and high, from left and right, and each one Cain managed to block. The frustration in Aemond's eye etched itself into Vhagar's mighty roar, so barbaric and wild, that it sent a shiver of dread down (Y/N)'s spine.

Her knight caught one blow high on his armour, and a painted trout had lost its head. He countercut, and the Prince imposed his own shield, lunching in a fiery backslash.

Cain moved to his right, but the Kinslayer blocked him with a quick side-step, and drove him back the other way... towards the darkness of the cage, hoping to blind him and take his head.

The knight gave ground until he felt the shadows dancing on his back. A quick glance over his shoulder showed him what was way behind, and that recklessness almost cost him his head, when Aemond began his attacks anew.

One hit over his legs by (Y/N)'s dagger sent the Prince tumbling on his back, but he surged his way on his feet again with a rash counter-attack. He let out a wild roar, and his cold steel plowed into Ser Cain's flesh, where his shoulder joined his neck, stopping at the knight's breastbone.

The blood came rushing out in a hot, black gush - Ser Cain's knees folded slowly, as if for prayer, and when he opened up his mouth, only blood came out.

"NO!" The girl yelled out in a blood curling shriek, and she tumbled forward, trying to get a hold of the knight's bloodied cape.

With his last ounce of strenght, Ser Cain pushed the girl aside and slashed his sword up in the air - but Aemond spun like a turret, and blocked his mindless hack with a teasing smile on his face, discarding his sword to the side.

"I hope your God's a sweet one, Waters bastard." Aemond hummed through his hooded eyes, "For you're going to meet him shortly."

Wincing from the pain that was now licking at his opened flesh, Ser Cain spat over Aemond's boots, while gripping his shoulder to stop the endless rivers of blood, that were being eaten by the dirt.

Unamused, though still smirking, the One Eyed Prince raised his sword in the air, to deliver that one, final cut.

"STOP!" The Lady's voice rang through the tiny cave, grasping Aemond's attention.

Standing tall, she gripped Cain's sword in her own stilled hands, and brought it back to her own stomach.

"If you kill Cain now, I'll run this blade right through my insides!"

As if fallen under a spell, Aemond spat a low curse out, and rested his sword back on his hip. Wordless still, he pushed the knight down with the end of his Achile's heel, but raised his hands up in quiet surrender.

"I mean it!" She sobbed into the open space, her eyes never leaving Aemond's. "We'll see then what kind of support you'll receive from the Riverlords for your usurper kin!"

As if to accentuate her words, she pressed the sword deeper into her scorching heat, applying enough pressure to draw out a little cove of blood.

"Let him go. Let him live, and you can bring me back to Harrenhal, yeah?" The girl asked the Targaryen Prince tentatively.

"Hmm."

So very slowly, Aemond's feet carried him to (Y/N)'s direction. With one hand still raised in the air, he lowered the hilt of Cain's sword, pushing the tip away from her convulsing body.

His lonesome eye trailed low, enough to meet the poke of her clothes, and Viserys' second son let out a disappointed sigh.

His hand reached to cup the girl's jaw, and he gingerly turned it from side to side - inspecting it, just as he'd done when they first clashed wits in her prison cell.

"You've lost weight." He remarked through a furrowed brow.

Suddenly, his hand trailed lower still, all the way down to her neck, which he gripped gently, possessively.

"You are in no position to make demands. Do you think he won't come after you again if I let him live?"

"You all but severed his right hand - he will never fight again." The girl begged him with logic and fact, whilst swallowing thickly, as her heart hammered out of her chest.

"Let him live." Her hand ghosted above his tightening grip, her eyes frantically searching for his. "If you do so, I won't put up a fight ever again."

The final words of her vow caused a pleasant shiver run down Aemond's back. He falthered his grip on her throat, and moved both hands to cage her in between his body and the cold stones.

"Keep your... fucking hands... away from her." Cain hissed from his laying place, trying his hardest to get back up on his feet again.

Aemond's body tensed again, but, before he could move away from (Y/N) and do anything, the girl gripped his cheeks with both hands and brought his eye on her again.

"Stop it, Cain." She preleened through a shaky breath. "It's done."

Aemond's throat rumbled out in a purr of satisfaction, and he harshly grabbed the woman to bring her outside with him.

The monstrous Vhagar awaited them with open wings - and an open jaw -, which made the girl stop on her tracks and plant her feet into the grimy ground.

"I can't get on top of that-!" She uttered pleadingly, shooting Aemond down with a jaded look.

"You will watch your tongue, churl. That is Vhagar. And you will be riding her tonight." He pulled the woman near him and approached his dragon with four swift steps.

'The bond between a dragon and their rider it's a sacred thing.' Jacaerys' voice rang out in her ears.'The dragon always knows what the rider is feeling... Sometimes even better than the man himself.'

"You should be honoured." Aemond disrupted her trail of thought with an assertive remark, "Very few have been introduced to the Queen of the Dragons before."

His touch made her nauseous. Her head was swirling with a hundred unanswered questions, and the way Vhagar looked at them both only stirred her along more.

As Aemond reached for (Y/N)'s hand, the she-dragon let out a disapproving roar.

"Sagon gīda, Vhagar." He hushed gently, as if sharing a sensual secret with an old lover. "Rības issa udra. Umbagon nykeēdrosa."

His rough palm clutched the girl's one tightly, and he jerked her hand forward to touch the dragon's scales.

Restless, Vhagar tried to move away, rejecting the touch of the woman she didn't deem safe for Aemond.

'Dragons have a way of knowing how we all feel. If you wanted me dead now, Vermax wouldn't be so keen to please you.' Jacaerys laughed inside her ear.

But (Y/N) wanted Aemond dead. And of course, Vhagar knew that.

It came to no surprise that she was declining her touch. Still, Aemond persisted.

He moved behind the girl's small frame, and pressed his body against hers so harshly, that she tumbled forward, coming into full contact with Vhagar's scarred belly.

"Gīda, Vhagar." He whispered again, "Dohaeragon issa. Rȳbagon se rības."

Slowly, yet surely, the weary groans of the she-dragon ceased, as Aemond kept reassuring her.

When the Prince felt the bond satisfactory enough, he threw the woman over his shoulder, and began climbing to his dragon's saddle.

(Y/N) let out a disparaging heave, and she had to repeatedly remind herself just how close she was to a dragon's jaws, as to not hit Aemond over the head with all her strenght.

Once they reached the top, Aemond gently lowered her onto the saddle, making fast work on the belts around them.

His hand ghosted between her legs, in a feigned attempt to check the bindings, and the lady shot him a disapproving frown.

Whilst letting out a dangerous chuckle, Aemond shook his head and mounted himself behind her. "Are you ready?" He murmured into her left year.

Not even waiting for an answer, he rose his head and commanded clearly;

"Sōvegon!"

Thoughout the whole ride, the girl kept her eyes closed, despite Aemond's numerous attempts to make her open them.

They reached Harrenhall not even twenty minutes later, and the lady had to stiffle a bitter laugh as she dismounted the glorious beast.

If only her and Cain could have travelled faster; then nothing bad would have ever happened.

Cain...

She turned to glance at the ground, and closed her eyes for a quick prayer.

Though she believed not in the Old Gods or the New, her heart beckoned her to hope for his safety.

She let Aemond carry her back inside, not even paying attention to her surroundings.

He lost a lot of blood, her psyche echoed back to her, But there is a chance he made it out there.

The light click of doors closing grounded her back to her harsh reality. Peeling them from the ground, Lady Tully turned her eyes to the decour of the room, and took a step back once she realised this wasn't her old tower.

"You'll be sleeping with me from now on, My Lady." Aemond's velvety voice fell upon her deafened ears. "We won't have any other shameful accidents - not as long as you're under my protection."

The woman felt as if she could gag at any given moment. If Aemond thought, just for a second, that she'd bed him or become his whore, he'd be unpleasantly surprised.

She'd rather sleep on the floor. Or see herself rot back in the Dungeons.

Almost as if he could read her mind, Aemond let out a low hum.

He came before her, and scooted closer. His hand reached up, resting above her collarbones, and his breath hitched in his throat.

Timidly, his fingers came down to gently carress them, and the One Eyed Prince had to bite back a deep moan.

The contrast between his rough fingertips and her soft skin felt exquisite, and so, so right.

For a second, he thought about the kinds of sounds that might come from her haughty mouth as he slowly entered her. How her face would twist in pleasure, as he gradually, gently, taught her the art of the bedroom.

His lustful thoughts came to an end when he noticed how her face contorted in disgust and displeasure.

Familiar anger flared within him.

She was a whore. A lowly girl who, no doubt, spent every day spreading her legs to his bastard nephiew before, taking him into her sacred depths whenever he so wished to.

So why was she resisting him?

Did she not feel his touch as electrifying as hers was for him?

"Don't be scared. I will not bed you." He uttered near her swollen lips. "I take no pleasure in claiming what's not freely given."

An arrogant smirk tugged at the ends of his upturned lips.

He brought his thumb to brush over her lower lip, toying with it until he forced himself to let it go.

"But it's in a whore's nature to be begging for cock. And you will be pleading for mine before the Spring's end, I can promise you that."

Taglist:

@ohitsthemaster @bellameshipper

Translations:

"Sagon gīda, Vhagar." = Be calm, Vhagar;

"Rības issa udra. Umbagon nykeēdrosa." = Obey my words. Stay still;

"Gīda, Vhagar." = Calm, Vhagar;

"Dohaeragon issa. Rȳbagon se rības." = Serve me. Listen and obey;

"Sōvegon!" = Fly;

#aemond targaryen #aemond x reader #aemond fanfiction #aemond imagine #jacaerys x reader #jacaerys strong #house of the dragon #jacaerys valaryon #the harshest winters #dark aemond #Spotify

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bimrsadler · 10 months

Note

For something nasty? Low Honor!Arthur with an F!reader in a scenario that leads to either dub-con or con-nonconsent (your choice) because she's physically ill somehow? Maybe vulnerable to Arthur due to a bad showdown/gunshot or just wrong place wrong time? Sounds weird I bet dfjblg but if you do do this, ty!!

In A Bind

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x female reader

Word count: 3,000

Warnings/tags: nsft, con-noncon, lots of dirty talk, d/s themes with bratty reader, rough oral (m receiving), rough sex, unprotected piv, creampie, light degradation, LH Arthur, established relationship/consent

Summary: after a failed robbery lands you in a Rhodes jail cell, Arthur comes to spring you but finds he can kill two birds with one stone in the process

Notes: this is just 3k words of smut basically lol, also my first time writing cnc so I kept it on the lighter side (plus even LH Arthur would never go further than that imo) but that being said if cnc of any kind is an ick for you - don’t read

Twiddling your thumbs in the quiet jail cell, you watched shadows from the trees outside as they danced on the wall — wishing desperately you hadn’t gotten yourself into this mess.

Arthur would no doubt be unbearable about it, with his sarcastic tsk tsks and I told ya so’s as he stood tall with his hands on his gunbelt, shit-eating grin wide and proud on his face. But dear God, as much as he could drive you crazy, he charmed you to death as he did.

It had been some time now since Sheriff Gray stumbled outside on “business,” clearly drunk on the moonshine the boys had recently recovered.

Unfortunately he had been sober enough to chase you down after a stagecoach robbery gone south the day before.

The bullet he fired grazed your leg and spooked your horse, stirrup catching around your ankle and twisting it as you hit the ground hard enough to knock the air from your lungs.

You were given cloth to tie around it and you’d seen worse, but it would put you out of commission for a few days.

Eventually the heavy footfall of boots on the wood floor broke the silence as Arthur came into view. Sauntering over with that stupid grin and familiar stance — he stopped in front of your cell and laughed.

“Well, well…quite a predicament you got yerself in missy,” after a pause and lazy scratch of his short beard he continued condescendingly. “I told ya not to go pokin’ ‘round where ya ain’t ‘sposed to.”

“I’ll poke around wherever I goddamn please, Mr. Morgan,” you stated unabashedly.

He raised his eyebrows and scoffed (smug taunt), “and look where that’s got ya.”

“I saw an opening and I took it. Care to tell me how many times Hosea and Dutch have rescued you over the years?”

“Lotta tough talk from a little lady stuck in a jail cell, don’tcha think?”

Arthur leaned closer to the bars and lowered his voice, “way I see it, you oughta choose yer next words carefully seein’ as I’m the only one who can help.”

Ignoring his vague threat you gestured towards his chest, “I think that silly little badge you’ve been wearing is going to your head. I can take care of myself.”

“That so? You ain’t foolin’ me. I could see that little shiver when I walked in, and yer still breathin’ fast. From where I’m standin’?”

Arthur reached through the bars to caress your cheek, a gesture in stark contrast to his deep and rough drawl. “Ya look like a rabbit caught in a trap.”

He slowly moved his hand along the growing length in his jeans, palming languidly at the sight of you sweating. “Now…what’re ya gonna do fer me if I let ya out? Seems fair don’t it?”

Astounded with his audacity you scoffed, “my leg’s hurt, the hell do you expect me to be able to do?”

Arthur responded without missing a beat, “ya can kneel right? Yer mouth ain’t hurt is it?”

“Pig,” you sneered as you crossed your arms in protest.

He chuckled darkly at your insult, rubbing himself harder. “Ya can lie down and open them pretty legs for me can’tcha?”

“I think you’re all talk, tough guy. Why don’t you come in here and make me?”

Arthurs eyes studied your face as you tried not to break your showing of defiance. You were going to make him fight for it as long as you could.

He was surprisingly agile for such a large man, giving you no time to react before your wrist was trapped in his much larger, much more powerful hand.

“C’mon asshole, knock it off.” Swearing under your breath and trying to pull away did nothing as he tied your wrists around the cool metal bars with his bandana.

“Quit squirmin’ and get on yer knees.”

You leaned in as close to the outlaws face as you could against the bars and spoke in a daring whisper, “ya deaf? I said, you’re gonna have to make me.”

Arthur placed a powerful hand on the shoulder opposite of your hurt leg and pushed. Even at his gentlest he was exceptionally strong, barely needing to use any of his strength to urge you down.

Freeing himself from the confines of his pants, he stroked his twitching cock inches from your face and thumbed your lower lip with his other hand.

You turned your head away from him defiantly, contempt clear on your face.

“Ah ah, what’s the matter princess? Too good for this? You’ll be cryin’ my name in no time, that’s a promise.”

“You wish.”

“Quit stallin’ now or you’ll be stuck in here even longer.”

Placing his forefinger and thumb on your chin he moved you to face him, broad figure towering above you as he waited for your warm mouth.

Positioning himself between the bars in front of you, he prodded your lips apart with the head, urging his hips forward as you took him further.

Arthur let out a long, groaning sigh. “That’s it, take it darlin’.”

He was slow at first, pushing to the back of your throat gently as you adjusted your lips to his girth; twirling your tongue around the tip and hollowing your cheeks along the shaft.

Glancing up you saw Arthur’s arms extended above him, hands white-knuckling the bars and eyes sealed shut it bliss. Every light thrust he made was accompanied by a sharp breath or husky groan.

Feeling ashamed, you realized the sight and sensation made your pussy absolutely throb — it was already becoming difficult to pretend you didn’t want this.

Small moans traveled up your throat and vibrated around his cock as you bobbed your head eagerly; shifting on the floor and squeezing your knees together to accommodate the uncomfortable arousal.

Always keen on your body and its responses to him, Arthur grinned and sucked the air through his teeth. “See? I knew you wanted this, I bet yer soaking through to the floor just from suckin’ on me. That right?”

You were dangerously close to giving into your lust drunk stupor, to rambling and moaning with spit hanging off your chin; though you couldn’t give him the satisfaction without a fight just yet.

You pulled your head back and away to remove him from your mouth, looking up at him with raised eyebrows. “Lotta talk for someone who was about to come in ten more seconds.”

“We’ll see if yer still sassin’ me like this when ya can’t walk tomorrow. Now, I asked you a question woman.”

You batted your lashes and smirked, “that’s funny, I don’t recall hearing a question. All I could hear was you whimpering.”

Gathering a fistful of your hair Arthur pushed into your mouth and to the back of your throat, causing a gag as your nose met his chestnut curls. The thrusts were rough and sloppy now, his soft whines turning into primal, teeth gritting grunts.

“Tired a hearin’ you talk girl, yer mouth’s better at this anyway,” you looked up at his crooked smile, drool gathering at the corners of your mouth.

“Now…fuck — let’s try this again. I bet yer soaked just from havin’ my cock in yer mouth, ain’t that right?”

Arthur pulled out quickly to let you respond — and to catch your breath.

“Yes,” you mewled and panted, unable to stifle your dizzying lust. “I’m so goddamn wet right now.”

Arthur laughed smugly as he fished for something in his pocket, “that’s what I thought.” Revealing the cell keys he let himself in and closed the door behind him.

Still tied to the bars, Arthur circled around you slowly as his eyes traveled along every inch of you. For the first time you truly did feel like a rabbit caught in a trap.

“Can ya stand?”

Your replied nervously, “I think so…”

“Then do it…” His snarl was dark and harsh and sent a shockwave straight to your core.

He felt dangerous and you felt cornered.

Gently pulling yourself upright Arthur allowed you to test the waters. Putting pressure on your ankle, you found that the pain was a quiet whisper compared to the aching arousal between your legs.

He approached slowly, boots thudding next to you as the scent of leather and tobacco was carried with it. He opened the front of your dress forcefully to slip a hand inside, squeezing and massaging your breast with his cock twitching at your side.

“Can’t let an opportunity like this pass me up can I?” His pulling and pinching of the pert peak made your hips roll at the air.

Moving behind you, Arthur placed his hands on your hips and rutted his hardness against the soft fabric over your backside with shallow breaths.

You spoke in a breathy plead, “haven’t I given you enough yet Morgan?”

“Hardly. You think that pretty little mouth a yers was all I wanted?”

Pressing himself tight against you he dragged the flat of his hand along your mound possessively. “I deserve this tight cunt too don’t I?”

He tilted your head backward against his chest to look up at him, his other fingers tightening along your slit — pressing into the soaked undergarments. “Don’t I?”

You nodded with a lick of your lips, not wanting to say it out loud but left helpless to his appetite.

The outlaw brought his lips close enough to your ear that you felt the scratch of his stubble as he spoke, “good girl.”

Bending you forward, Arthur made your lower half bare to him, wetness glistening invitingly. Without warning he entered you with three of his sizable fingers, immediately motioning inside of you.

“So fuckin’ wet for me girl, thought you didn’t want this huh?”

All you could muster was a weak moan, focusing instead on the ebb and flow already increasing in your abdomen, the lewd sound of Arthur working your walls, the absolute debauchery and how good it made you feel.

“Got nothin’ to say now do ya? If you wanna come I better hear it.”

Arthur suddenly removed his fingers, leaving you desperate at the sudden hollowness.

The digits instead roughly penetrated your mouth, making you suck them clean of your juices. “Taste that? That’s what I do to ya girl, may as well jus’ admit it.”

“Now…beg for it.” he asserted harshly as you whined around his fingers. The palm of his other hand collided with your ass, leaving a hot sting. “Ain’t playin’ girl. Beg. Or I’ll take what’s mine and go.”

And this is what you wanted. For Arthur to tell you off and take you, to make you beg and turn you into jelly. The shame was merely an afterthought now that your carnal body had taken over.

“Please Arthur,” you swayed your ass and rolled your hips. “Please — let me come.”

Another playful slap landed on your backside as he stuffed his fingers inside of you once more, “yer lucky yer so goddamn gorgeous.”

You felt his other hand move to your sensitive bud, rolling in circles as he fingered you. “C’mon now, lemme feel how bad you want it.”

Obscene noise and filthy words filled the cell and ushered in your peak, waves of fluttering giving way to squeezing pulses around Arthur’s fingers.

Crying out your body fell forward, shaking and spent.

Giving you no time to recover, Arthur spread your swollen and sensitive lips as he entered you, flush with your ass and twitching in your core, a relieved groan escaped his lungs.

“Fuck…Arthur!”

“You can take it sweetheart…you can take it.”

As wet as you were — and as wet as he always made you; there was still a sweet sting as you adjusted to his girth. But Arthur was not patient today.

His iron grip on your waist was the only thing keeping you from collapsing as he pistoned in and out of you, pushing the air from your lungs with each thrust.

“Someone,” you fought through the stuttered breaths, “stop — someone could come in!”

“Oh but you’d like that wouldn’t you?” Arthur pulled your hair and rode harder. “You’d like the whole town to see what a little whore y’are, ain’t that right?”

Arthur slowed his pace to a long, languid grinding. “Let ’em watch, then they’ll know yer all mine.”

His substantial hand travelled slow down your spine, almost lovingly. You had a feeling this wasn’t part of the act.

“No one else gets to touch you like this — take you like this.”

Your breath hitched in your chest at Arthur’s words, injured ankle faltering slightly. Taking notice he untied you from the cell bars and laid you face down, flat on the cot.

Now that you were more comfortable, his demeanor snapped back to dominance.

Arthur’s hands pawed roughly at your ass, fingernails digging in as he rutted against your dripping slit.

You couldn’t help but grind your mound against the thin mattress and ass along the bottom of his shaft, the time for feigning disinterest long gone.

“Give it to me,” you pleaded against the thin pillow, losing all composure.

Keeping your legs together Arthur once again entered you, the sting no lesser in this tight position. “Look atcha, ain’t even hidin’ that ya want it anymore.”

Arthur’s broad torso encompassed you as he hovered above your back, repeatedly slamming into your heat with hot, wanton breaths against your ear.

Pressed into the mattress you listened to Arthur’s breathing become ragged and felt his body stiffen, all signs that he was close.

In one swift movement he pulled out to flip you on your back, pinning your wrists above your head as he plunged back into you.

“Wanna look at that pretty face while I fill you up. You want it?”

You turned your head to the side, feeling your body flush with heat from the intimacy of his words — of his future actions.

“Yeah you do,” Arthur leaned into your neck, sucking and biting at the tender flesh above your collarbone.

You couldn’t help but grind against him as he bucked into you, much to his delight. “Such a dirty girl, knew you wanted it. Coulda just enjoyed it sooner if ya weren’t such a goddamn brat.”

Lacing your fingers through the honey locks pressed against his forehead in sweat, you tugged gently while dragging the nails of your other hand down his back.

Arthur winced with a proud smile, “gonna empty myself inside ya.” He paused with a bite of his lip and groan, “I’ll be drippin’ down yer thighs and all over that nice dress…”

You could feel his cock flexing inside your heat, talking himself into a frenzy with each passing second.

Falling on top of you as his climax took over, Arthur moved in for a heated kiss; the first since he walked through the door.

Pressing deep inside you his hips moved in shallow jerks while painting your walls. A single, honest groan released from his mouth into yours, turning into whimpering shudders as his tongue roamed.

Arthur laid his forehead on the pillow beside you with a quiet expletive as you both took a moment to catch your breath.

Stirring slowly you felt his calloused hands running down your calf and toward your ankle. “Y’okay?” He gently ran his thumb over the swollen skin, “I can go take care of that bastard, don’t give a damn if he’s the Sheriff.”

“I’m okay, handsome.”

“Good. Ya know, ya didn’t need to get yerself arrested to get me to uh,” he grinned with a chuckle, “well…fuck ya like this.”

Playfully slapping his chest you exclaimed, “you know I didn’t do this on purpose!”

“I dunno, yer a pretty wild woman. I wouldn’t put it past ya.”

“Shut up,” you teased.

Arthur was rough around the edges but you trusted him. After many mornings of trying to keep quiet in the tent, humid nights shared at the Flat Iron lakeside, sweating and entwined with praises and whispers; you couldn’t help your lust drunk confessions. Wanting excitement and thrill, to do things the other hadn’t done with anyone else.

“So was it…thrillin’ enough for ya then?”

“That and then some, cowboy.” You ran your hand across his bulky chest. “What’d you think?”

“That it’s the hottest — and craziest thing I ever done,” he laughed and squeezed your ass playfully. “And on that note we should get goin’ ’fore anyone comes back.”

As the two of you began making sure you were decent, you inquired, “won’t Sheriff Gray put it together that it was you who broke me out?”

“He’s drunk as Uncle on a Saturday night sweetheart, he won’t even remember I was here.”

Arthur paused as his tone grew stern, “really though, what were you thinkin’? You gotta be more careful.”

He was right, but his pension for being overprotective and pushy in these situations felt unnecessary after an injury and arrest. “Most of the gang’s been in jail or tights spots at least once, comes with the territory.”

He taunted, “maybe, but what if I ain’t around to rescue ya next time?”

“I could’ve broken out myself. Wouldn’t be hard to seduce a nervous old deputy anyway,” you winked.

“Ain’t funny.”

“Well quit givin’ me a hard time then.”

“Alright alright, let’s get ya outta here.” Arthur wrapped his arm around your waist as he ushered you through the back of the jail, supporting you through your slight limp.

Before he helped you up on his horse you planted a quick kiss to his cheek, “thank you, Arthur.”

He shrugged dismissively in response but the rosey tint forming on his face didn’t go unnoticed. “C’mon now, let’s get you home and get that leg better.”

#nsft #arthur morgan #low honor arthur morgan #rdr2 #arthur morgan x female reader #arthur morgan x f!reader #arthur morgan x reader #red dead redemption #arthur morgan fanfiction #rdr2 fanfiction

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n0tamused · 1 year

Note

Hello, I have a request for Kazuha, idk if you write for him or not so if you don’t then feel free to ignore this, it can be a drabble or headcanons. Ok so you know how Kazuha had bandages on his hands? Do you think he’d let his S/O draw on them? Because I really want to draw dinosaurs on them. And if he did let you draw on his bandages, how would that interaction go? Basically just headcanons or a drabble where the reader asks Kazuha to draw on his bandaids and draws little dinosaurs if he lets them. That’s all, thank you for your time.

A/n: Hello! Thank you for your request. I did this one really quickly, it's such a sweet idea. This is my first time writing for Kazuha, however, so I do hope it turned out well enough <3 Enjoy. (Also, quick question, but if I opened up writing commissions, would anyone be interested?)

Genre: fluff, drabble

Word count: 462

Pairings: Kazuha x GN Reader,can be read as platonic too

“Please, hold still…” your voice calls out with a huff from your nose which is met with an amused chuckle.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to move so abruptly.. I hope I didn’t ruin your lines?” - Kazuha asked with care, tender tones of his smooth voice flowing in the breeze and quenching the small flick of irritation caught on from the stubborn bandages bleeding ink all over. Kazuha held a thin end of the bandage to tighten your canvas, aiding you in your persistent wish, all while he leaned back against the wooden wall of the sleeping ship. The salt air of Inazuma was peculiar, and familiar to you both - with a small swoosh of chattering treetops from the far shore, and the licking of languid waves at the hull of the Crux.

“It’s alright- I can still save this one. Just extend your hand over here so I can see it a bit better. Thank you-” you continuously mumbled, still thinking about the first lines of a dinosaur that turned out too oval when the ink bled out, it looked like a balloon, and the next one looked less of a dinosaur and more of a horse - but this one, yes, this one was the one.. You could see it under the combined light of the golden lamp and the silver rays of the moon above. Kazuha could only smile and chuckle, making a great effort to stay as still as a rock. The gentle smile was full of affection as he watched you, paying you much more attention than the little doodles you were leaving across his arms. He knew of their value, and how much he would cherish them until the ink was washed away with time, but right now, you were the most important thing of all.

“If you need some of my advice, I think this one could use a longer tail?” He suggested softly, carefully lifting his other arm that was still devoid of your little talent, and pointed at the dinosaur you were occupied at the moment with. ”And, perhaps, instead of drawing detailed eyes, just draw them closed? That way, if it ends up bleeding out, it won’t fuse with the rest of the body?”

You nod, without giving further response and do as he suggested, smiling when the tip paid of a million, and Kazuha’s own smile could only spread further across his cheeks until his eyes crinkled with mirth. With the hand he pointed with, he brushed hairs from your eyes that went astray, pinning them behind your ear with a hum.

There were several hours of night ahead, but he knew he would wish there were a couple of more, just so he could have his peace with you like this.

#Kazuha x reader #Kaedehara kazuha #kazuha #kazuha x you #kazuha x gn reader #kaedehara kazuha x reader #kazuha imagine #kaedehara kazuha imagine #kazuha drabble #-n0tamused.drabble #genshin x you #genshin impact x reader #genshin x reader #genshin x gnreader #gn reader #beidou

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frstcorinthians · 3 months

Text

; angels that have no place

summary: “Must be nice to have your own room now, then,” she replied, then immediately tensed, worried she’d misstepped. They were both here because of tragedy – for all she knew, that crewmate was dead now, blown to bits up in the wide open sky. He sighed, stretching out his legs and tilting his head. “To be honest, I kind of miss it.” His voice didn’t sound upset or angry. Looks like she’d dodged a bullet once again. Vera always said her lack of tact was going to get her in trouble one day, and she kind of liked this Robert Rosenthal. Or at least, she didn’t mind having his company in the kennels. wc: just a tidy 1.3k notes: so i know i said i wasn't going to write for mota until it was all said and done. but that one line in e6 made my brain start firing away and it wouldn't stop until i did this. i don't know if this is going to become a whole Thing but knowing me i wouldn't be surprised. anyways enjoy!!!! its also on ao3 if you prefer that

“We have all the sports and activities you can ask for. Tennis, bicycles, croquet, riding with hounds, the list goes on. Relaxation is the order of the day here.”

“Riding with hounds” sounded like the stupidest thing Anna Marie could imagine, but she could be grateful for the upside-down minds of the British if it meant the Flakhouse had a kennel. She could curl up here, among the snuffling noses and velvety ears of the dogs, and not think about Cora or Ruby or Vera or any of the girls on the Morning Ride. These dogs – foxhounds, the woman who brought her in had told her – weren’t the same as her hounds back home, but their eyes were sweet and they bayed the same once she got them riled up. Anna Marie couldn’t find it in her to dress up and trot along on a horse, but she had come to enjoy going through the woods on foot, trying to keep up with the pack of dogs let loose on the forest. Aside from the people who worked here, she was one of the only ones who came to visit the dogs. So when she came down one night and saw an unfamiliar man knelt down, petting Goose, she almost stopped in her tracks.

She could hear him talking quietly to the dog. “You are the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen, aren’t you?” His voice was soft and singsong-y, a universal tone for talking to pets. He scratched Goose behind one ear and Anna Marie felt her mouth curve up at the scene. It had been a long time since she’d had a reason to smile.

“Goose is sweet,” she finally managed to find her voice. The man jumped at the sound of her voice, spinning around to face her, surprisingly coordinated. Hardly a curl was out of place, despite her sneaking up on him and the late hour. His eyes were very blue in the low light. “He likes when you scratch him at the base of his tail.”

“I’m surprised he let me pet him at all. I’m not great with dogs.” He forced a laugh out, trying to stay casual. Anna Marie could see the shadows under his eyes. She’d bet he’d been sleeping about as much as her, which is to say, not at all.

“What are you doing down here, then?” She stepped carefully over the mass of sleepy hounds, heading for her favorite spot. She’d been here long enough that the dogs knew to leave her a space against the wall where she could prop herself up and bore herself to sleep with one of the doctor’s dense medical texts. Cora would have gotten a kick out of seeing her read through it.

Anna Marie boxed that thought up nice and neat and punted it to the back of her mind.

“Went out for a late night stroll, realized I never saw the kennels,” he turned to follow her progress across the room, looking amused at how she picked across the space. “You?”

She shrugged, pushing someone’s rump out of the way of her legs as she sat down. “I like it here. Reminds me of home.”

“Where are you from that you have this many dogs?” His eyebrows furrowed and he looked dubiously around the kennel.

“I don’t have quite this many, but we hunt with ‘em back home.” Anna Marie couldn’t bring herself to crack the textbook open now. She was surprised at how much she liked talking to this man, whoever he was.

“Man,” he rocked back on his heels. “The biggest dog we had back home was my aunt’s terrier. She used to terrorize the corner store, nipped at the owner’s ankles when he didn’t give her a treat.”

Anna Marie laughed. The sound was rusty, punching out from deep in her chest. It felt like something was coming unstuck inside her. She absently fidgeted with one of the dog’s ears, rubbing it between her fingers. The man shimmied over closer to her, finding an unoccupied spot between Goose and another dog. “I should introduce myself. Robert Rosenthal.” He stuck out his hand, waiting for her to shake.

She accepted. “Anna Marie McDowell.” His name was familiar, though she couldn’t place it at first. She kicked it to the same place as her other boxes, decided she’d worry about it at a later date. “What was your aunt’s dog named?”

“Rigatoni,” he replied, fidgeting with a spare leaf. Anna Marie laughed again, pushing her fist in her mouth to keep from startling the dogs. “He was shaped like a noodle, so the name stuck.” His smile was bright as he laughed along with her, even in the dim room.

“My favorite dog back home is named Sawyer,” she offered up, once her laughter had quit. “He snores like you wouldn’t believe.”

“Sounds like one of my crewmates,” he said. “I love him but, man does that sound keep me awake.”

“Must be nice to have your own room now, then,” she replied, then immediately tensed, worried she’d misstepped. They were both here because of tragedy – for all she knew, that crewmate was dead now, blown to bits up in the wide open sky.

He sighed, stretching out his legs and tilting his head. “To be honest, I kind of miss it.” His voice didn’t sound upset or angry. Looks like she’d dodged a bullet once again. Vera always said her lack of tact was going to get her in trouble one day, and she kind of liked this Robert Rosenthal. Or at least, she didn’t mind having his company in the kennels.

They were dancing around the topic now, the reasons both of them were here. Even Anna Marie wasn’t so bull-headed as to come right out and ask. If someone did that to her, she’d probably take a swing at them. She didn’t want to talk about her girls, she just wanted to go, to get back at it, up in the sky. She was meant to be up there; her fingers itched to adjust the dials, to keep the wings of her craft steady, to chat with Ruby about where she’d take them if she could. And instead she was stuck here, in some ridiculous dress-up fantasy house where they could all pretend nothing was wrong.

Her mother’s voice came to her now, drifting through her head: quit acting ugly, Anna Marie. Her mama was right, as always. She was being ungrateful, like a spoiled little kid. She should be basking in the sun, playing tennis with some handsome pilot or chatting about this-or-that with the other girls. But she was never one for small talk, and tennis was for rich people up north. An image came to her mind unbidden, her and Rosenthal in crisp white polos, laughing and gently batting their rackets back and forth. It was so out of character she couldn’t help but snort.

Rosenthal heard her, smiling softly when she caught his eye. “Do you spend time with the dogs during the day, too? I don’t think I’ve seen you around playing croquet.”

“I do. I usually let ‘em run through the woods, see if I can keep up.”

“Mind if I join you sometime? I’m sick to death of sitting around.” His expression seemed hesitant, like he was worried he’d overstepped some boundary. “I promise I won’t come dressed for fox hunting.”

“Sure,” she answered, leftover laughter still coloring her tone. He brought out a levity in her she hadn’t realized had been missing so long. “Come down one morning.”

“Alright,” he nodded, hauling himself up to his feet. Goose snuffled at the disturbance, before rolling over to take up the spot. “It was nice to meet you, Anna.”

“Anna Marie,” she corrected reflexively. Rosenthal gave a small wave and left, off to sleep or, more likely, explore another part of this endless home of leisure activity. Anna Marie finally opened the textbook to a section on the femur, falling asleep before she’d even gotten two paragraphs in.

#masters of the air #robert rosenthal #mota #mota oc #anna marie mcdowell #aleks.docx #im addicted to naming my ocs after counties in north carolina #theres 100 of em though so ive got plenty to work with

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ughgoaway · 1 year

Text

i hate matty healy- chapter 1

content warnings; no direct smut but theres build up, swearing, drinking, creepy men and my first attempt at writing anything!! word count- 2500-ish

a/n: here we go again! here's chapter 1, this was my first time writing anything so keep that in mind whilst reading lol. I just hit 200 notes on the original like 2 days before tumblr deleted my account so thanks again tumblr!! I'll stop being bitter soon I promise...

next chapter

You hate Matthew Healy. Specifically, you hate his hands, which are currently desperately groping you wherever he can reach. His hips that you usually stare at on stage and roll your eyes at their gyration are pushed up against you, grinding, trying to get any friction between the two of you. You also hate his hair, the mop of unruly curly you have currently between tight fights gripping and forcing his lips to yours. That's another thing you hate. His lips. Even though they are furiously kissing yours, you try to reassure yourself you hate them. You absolutely categorically hate everything about Matty Healy, apart from the fact that you don't hate him. Not even a little bit. Not at all. But you don't know that yet.

This “hatred” began at a house party in Wilmslow. Your very sad, very grey, very English hometown. You were in some massive country house staring at a room of teenagers grinding against each other. Whilst they might all be technically adults, they certainly don't look like them whilst giggling and swaying their hips to some awful house music. Large paintings of deer and horses decorate the wall as well as an oil portrait of the family that owns the house hanging over the fireplace that is currently filled with empty bottles of liquor. An interesting interior design choice you thought. The bass of some EDM tune is vibrating through you making you more uncomfortable than you already are surrounded by drunk people from school. You thought the guys you interacted with on a daily basis couldn't get any worse, and then you interacted with them once they had a bottle of vodka in them.

Right now you were cornered by Josh Brown by the entryway and desperately trying to escape the presence of the, frankly, concerningly sweaty boy. In your head you vowed to never be a good sister again, the only reason you were at this scummy party in the first place is to support your brother Ross. Ross had formed a band a few years ago, from what you've heard they're alright but you had made a promise to yourself to never meet them or see them perform live.

You didn't want to meet anyone who had any desire to form a band as generally, they are the worst kind of people. Always somehow insecure and full of ego at the same time. As for not seeing them live, there were many reasons but mainly because you knew how girls react to a guy in a band and the last way you wanted to spend your Saturdays was seeing fit girls fawn over your brother. It was bad enough hearing “Oh my god you're Ross’ sister? No way! Can you introduce me?!” every day at secondary school and you just knew it would be worse now that he's 19 years old, in a band and is sporting an impressive beard (not that you would ever tell him that.) But Ross has insisted that you come to this show, apparently, they've finally perfected some new songs and you just needed to hear them, so you broke your rule. “Never again,” you thought whilst Josh somehow got closer.

Suddenly you heard “Josh bugger off mate cant you see she's physically moving away from you? Take the hint and move on” It was not a voice you recognised but a nice one nonetheless. Josh turned around suddenly and accidentally gave you a quick flash of your saviour before the stupid oaf blocked your view again. All you saw was a head of crazy curls and a leather jacket. “how cliché” you thought- coming to a house party in a cool leather jacket and saving a damsel in distress. Not that you were a damsel, you were however in distress but, to be fair, so is everyone within 10 feet of Josh due to the impressive odour he gave off. “Oh shove off Healy, you don't know what you're talking about. Does he love?” you vaguely recognise the name Josh angrily spits off but can't place it.

your brain was ticking and you were soon lost in your thoughts you hadn't realised that had Josh turned around and directed the last part of his statement at you. Once you realised he was actually talking to you, you glanced into his eyes and saw he was clearly hoping you were going to try and be polite and lie. You don't lie. As quickly as you can you respond with, “Oh no he definitely does, please don't come near me again. Or near anyone frankly. You are 19 years old, how have you not grown the fuck up enough to know when a girl wants absolutely nothing to do with you?” expecting a violent response you tighten your fists to prepare yourself to punch this asshole in the face. Ross had taught you how to throw a punch properly when you were 13 and had discovered that men suck. But, much to your surprise all he does is scoff and scuttle away standing slightly less tall than when he first came to speak to you.

Once Josh is finally out of view you turn to face the guy who managed to get him to leave you alone. You are faced with someone you were certainly not expecting. From bottom to top you scanned him taking in his outfit and then his face. He had black doc martens on his feet but had missed a few holes when lacing them up leaving them looking slightly askew. Black skinny jeans adorned his legs followed by a baggy white t-shirt with the Chanel logo on it. You made the assumption that it was in fact not real Chanel. Covering the shirt slightly was the aforementioned black leather jacket. Clearly vintage and too big for him but he pulled it off anyway. Lastly, you looked at his face. Chestnut brown eyes stared back in yours and he had a lazy smirk on his face.

“No need to thank me love” he began to say “No one should have to be in the presence of that dickhead for any longer than absolutely necessary” he had a remarkably average voice by any definition but you picked up on the slight scratchiness of it, you guessed he was a smoker. “Thanks for your help but I really would have been fine, I can deal with people like Josh,” you said back trying to keep any nervousness out of your voice as you don't want to give him the satisfaction of knowing he helped you. You were petty like that. “Alright well since you're so fine on your own I guess I won't ask if you want a drink” he said cheekily whilst leaning on the wall behind you getting a little bit closer. This made you snort and take a deeper look at the man. You guess you could say he was attractive. Actually, the longer you looked you decided he definitely was attractive. Very attractive. Maybe you would enjoy this scummy party after all.

This illusion was soon shattered when you heard a familiar booming voice behind you say “Matty why are you anywhere near my little sister, you're gonna give her an STD from breathing too close.” You then felt an arm sling over your shoulders, after a second of shock you quickly connected the dots and realised it was Ross. Well maybe it was longer than a second of shock, you had drunk a fair amount of jack daniels at this point. Ross chuckled at your clearly tipsy state causing your whole body to shake due to the sheer size of your brother, at well over six feet he towered over you- even in the platform boots you were wearing. “Ah well Ross I was just doing my civilian duty by saving her from Josh Brown, he has somehow gotten sweatier since leaving school you'll be happy to know” the man you now know as Matty rebutted.

Suddenly a third voice deeper than the other two joined in, “Does your civilian duty require you to be standing that close and leaning in so far you could see down her top?” This comment made you spin and glare at the voice, it came from a man somehow even taller than your brother with a pile of dirty blonde hair on the top of his head that had been scraped into a bun. “Can we all stop perving on my baby sister, please? This is not the introduction I wanted” Ross then turned to look into your eyes “Y/n these are two of the boys from the band, the blonde giant is George but we all call him G- he plays the drums. The short-" Matty's voice cut in “Hey!-” he was cut off quickly by Ross who only reaffirmed what he said “Ahem” he glared at Matty as he fake cleared his voice “As I was saying the extremely short curly dickhead is matty, our “charismatic” front man” his voice dripped with sarcasm as he did air quotes with his hands around the word charismatic. “And our final member Hann, well technically Adam but no one calls him that, hasn't arrived yet” You completely missed that last sentence as you were only thinking about Matty, something that you didn't know would become a staple in your life.

You then start to really think about the situation, and it all becomes painfully clear. The random attractive stranger only helped because he knows Ross. Of course. You obviously cannot have a life separate from your older brother. Even the seemingly kind strangers who you're attracted to have to know him. Not even just know him, they have to be one of his best mates. Any thoughts you had of getting a quick shag tonight from the hot stranger dissipated quickly as you realised Matty was not just being nice and was in fact teasing you by talking to you. Just doing it knowing it would piss off Ross. Great. You love being the pawn in their immature games.

Then and there you decided you hate matty healy. This hatred stuck for all the years that followed. It stuck through them getting their first song on the radio. Getting their first album out. The first tour. The first award ceremony. Through it all you hated Matty Healy. Even 10 years later you still hated matty healy. Which circles your thoughts back to his hands on you. You considered maybe you didn't hate Matty like you thought. Maybe this whole time you have done nothing but desire him. But you push that thought far far away.

The day began with you being awoken by a clanging in the kitchen and you knew it was Matty. Everyone else tried to be respectful on the tour bus, and keep quiet. Especially if you had all been drinking the night before like you all had last night. So when you heard the kettle click off and the loud banging of mugs together you knew it was no one other than Matthew Healy. There wasn't anyone else on the bus, they left earlier in search of pancakes. So it was the perfect opportunity to berate him with no backlash from his friends, in a state of anger you rolled out of your bunk to go and do just that.

However, as you walked into the bus kitchen your angry words died in your mouth as you caught him standing there in nothing but a pair of low-hanging grey jogging bottoms trying to make a cup of tea. As he turned to face you, you snapped back to reality and you made your face as stoic as you could manage. He didn't need to see you gawk over him. He might be attractive but you knew he didn't need to hear it. If his ego got any bigger you think he would be a danger to society.

“What,” he said, staring at you with disdain in his eyes. Due to all your years of hating Matty, he hated you just as much. In the 10 years you have known him you've never laughed a joke, complimented him or given him any idea that you actually like him. In fact, you've done quite the opposite by constantly saying you hate him. This infuriated Matty to no end due to his incredible ego so he hated you too. Mutually assured destruction was the best way to describe your relationship. “Do you have to make the most amount of noise possible at all times Matthew?” you angrily said between clenched teeth. You saw his jaw tick with anger at the use of Matthew. You never called him Matty to his face, in your head you did but never to him. Anything you could do to make his life marginally worse you would do. Hence the heavy use of Matthew. Normally he would rebut with something equally snarky but something was different this morning, he was obviously at the end of his rope.

“Oh my god. I'm done. What the fuck is your issue with me?” he stated angrily in a raised voice. “Oh Matthew we don't have enough time to detail all my issues with me, you have a show tonight!” You snarkily replied. That wasn't good enough this morning. “No. Not today. I'm being serious y/n what did I do to you that means you have done nothing but despise me for the past decade?” you scoffed signifying to him that you weren't going to dignify him with a response. This angered him further and he started to walk closer to you, “are you seriously not going to respond?” he said, you opened your mouth trying to speak but he interrupted you throwing his hands up and saying “That's fine actually because we all know why you really “hate” me” he put air quotes around the word.

“Oh, really Matthew?” You said starting to stand taller and walking closer to him like he had to you earlier, “please enlighten me then why do I hate you? Share with the class.” you replied sarcastically. “You really want to know?” he replied in a scarily calm voice getting closer to you once again.

After one final step forward by you, you were face to face as you whispered angrily “Yes.”. You stared at each other for half a second before you both shot forward and crashed your lips together in a fit of fury. This isn't your typical first kiss. There was no gentle start and gradual deepening. No. it was hard, dirty and full of anger. He quickly started groping you which was easy because you had been sleeping in nothing but a long shirt and some skimpy sleep shorts. You groaned and grabbed his hair and his hips started to grind into you. Teeth clashed as you forced yourself as close to him as you could while he pushed you against the wall of the bus kitchen.

After you physically had to pull away for air all you did was stare at each other, after a few seconds all Matty said was “Bed?” and you quickly replied, “Bed.” You then both began to stumble into the hallway desperately grasping at each other and going to the large bedroom at the back of the bus with no thoughts other than of each other.

(note- this is a repost, tumblr deleted my old account so this is a new one! I'll add this note on each reposted chapter)

#matty healy #matty healy fanfiction #the 1975 #matty healy x reader #matty healy fanfic #i hate matty healy series #i hate having to repost everything lol

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attackfish · 1 year

Text

Ozai, Azula, and Enmeshment: a Character Study

I have chosen to put this essay under a cut, because it got really really long. Also, below lies frank discussion of child abuse and its effects. Reader discretion is advised.

I love Zuko Alone. This episode is a masterclass in writing flashbacks and weaving them into the narrative. None of these flashbacks are flashy, or too on the nose, and we have a good reason for Zuko to be flashing back. He is alone and failing to handle the present, and getting drawn into his memories of the past. And each of the flashbacks is mundane, and realistic, and builds on the one before, and paints a subtle and tragic picture of a deeply abusive family.

The flashbacks never feel like an exposition dump, or like a cheat to let us know things we otherwise couldn't, and yet it's exactly there to give us an intimate picture of the Fire Nation Royal Family, and just how completely screwed up it was, and how this will contextualize both Zuko and Azula's actions throughout the rest of the show. Almost everything we know about the Fire Nation Royal Family, we learn right here. It's efficient, engaging storytelling, and it's done with tremendous subtlety.

As with all subtle storytelling, it relies on the audience to put the pieces together for themselves, which is both beautiful, and deeply frustrating. Deeply frustrating, because a story that requires an audience to put the pieces together for themselves is always going to have some members of that audience decide to ram the pieces together in the way they want to. I have seen some absolutely terrible takes on this episode, and I have talked about them at length. For this essay, I want to stay away from what I think this episode doesn't show, and talk about what it does, specifically what a specific scene, a favorite hobby horse for people writing terrible takes, the scene where Zuko and Azula receive gifts from Iroh, who is besieging Ba Sing Se, shows us.

The scene opens with Ursa and her children reading a letter from Iroh, He talks about the magnificence of Ba Sing Se, and talks about the possibility of burning it to the ground. We see a smoking hole in Ba Sing Se's outer wall, and Iroh's voiceover, reading the letter laughs. As the scene comes into focus on Ursa and the children, they are laughing too.

This scene is a gut punch, set as it is in an episode where Zuko wanders through a war torn Earth Kingdom, and because of how it contrasts with the Iroh we have met so far over the course of the series, an Iroh who would never laugh at burning a city to the ground.

After this, Ursa reads out the gifts Iroh has sent to his niece and nephew. Zuko gets a knife, which he likes, and Azula gets a doll, which she does not. After making a face, Azula says cheerfully:

"If Uncle doesn't make it back from war, then Dad will be next in line for Fire Lord, wouldn't he?"

After both her mother and brother express horror at this idea, she finishes with:

"I still think our dad would make a much better Fire Lord than His Royal Tea-Loving Kookiness."

It's only after this exchange that she sets the doll on fire, an explicit rejection not only of her uncle's gift, but of her uncle himself.

I've talked before about how the doll and knife reinforce the picture this scene give of how Iroh used to view the Fire Nation imperial project: [Link], but looking at this scene, especially the gifts and Zuko and Azula's reactions, solely for what it tells us about Iroh, misses a lot of the substance of this scene.

Most obviously, this scene tells us about how Zuko and Azula see their uncle, Zuko affectionately, and Azula with scorn, something that will have profound effects on how they will respond to Iroh in the future, including how much or how little he can influence them: [Link]. But it also, more subtly, expresses volumes about Azula's relationship with her father. Because those are not Azula's own opinions that Azula is voicing here. Those are Ozai's.

How do we know those are Ozai's opinions? There are two ways. The first is that Azula has absolutely no reason to come up with this opinion on her own. Not only is this not the kind of opinion any child, no matter how clever or ruthless, would come up with on her own, but this scene starts by showing us Iroh at the height of his glory, the Dragon of the West, on the cusp of conquering Ba Sing Se. There is probably no one in the entire world, other than his jealous little brother, who sees Iroh as his royal tea-loving kookiness. Even Ozai's cronies probably have a very different take on Iroh than that of Ozai, recognizing him as powerful and dangerous. But Ozai, the disfavored younger son to his father's perfect Prince Iroh, has a lot of jealousy toward his brother, and a lot of resentment. He has a strong psychological incentive to be saying to himself, "Iroh isn't even that great anyway, he's just a kooky tea lover. It would be better for everyone if I were the heir."

Ozai as the source for Azula's view of her uncle is backed up when later in the episode, Ozai makes a similar, if less obviously nasty, argument to his father as to why he should be the heir to the throne in place of his older brother.

Just as a side note, Azulon's reaction to this argument does a fabulous job of implying years of abuse on Azulon's part toward Ozai, showing that he learned how to be an abusive father who plays favorites from his own father, and that he had been the unfavorite. This episode does so much heavy lifting with regards to characterizing the Fire Nation royal family.

But anyway, when Ozai makes this argument, it clues the audience in to where Azula got her opinions on Iroh, and tells us to expect to hear Ozai's words coming out of Azula's mouth. This is in fact actually a reenforcement of a moment in the first episode she is introduced, where she throws Ozai's opinion of Zuko in his face to hurt him after he has seen through her attempt to deceive him into becoming her captive. This allows the writers to characterize Ozai through Azula's words, without him needing to be onscreen.

But I want to talk about what this means for Azula, psychologically. Because along with the narrative utility of being able to use Azula to characterize Ozai, this scene speaks volumes about Azula's relationship with her father, and what he's doing to her.

And it occurs to me that this is an extremely long time for me to get to the point. I don't care. This is all necessary background information. It's important to know how we know something.

One of the things that we see in this episode very clearly is that he is sharing these things with Azula that he is not sharing with Ursa or Zuko. This indicates two things, one, he is not willy nilly saying these things to anyone, two, he specifically chose Azula as the person with whom he wants to share his thoughts and feelings. He specifically chose a small child as his confidant. Adults who choose children as confidants and intimate companions do so because for some reason, adults are unavailable for the purpose. Sometimes this is because social or societal or family forces make it so that the adults seeking a companion can't get an adult companion, but sometimes adults are unavailable for the purpose because they are unsuitable, because what the adult wants in a companion and confidant is someone under their control. Ozai picked Azula because she was his child, and he had control both over her, and over her perceptions of him. She wasn't coming to the table with baggage, context that might help her understand what he was telling her, and he could fill her head with his own ideas in peace.

In short, as a child, Azula lacked the kind of perspective that would help her understand that the confidences Ozai was sharing with her we're based in resentment and insecurity, and that what he wanted from her was to reflect his own self aggrandizing lies back at him, to be his mirror, to give him reinforcement and validation. The important thing to understand here is that Ozai doesn't even completely believe his own bullshit, consciously he does but unconsciously, he is deeply deeply insecure and afraid that he is worthless. So he desperately craves somebody to reinforce the worldview he created, in which he is actually better than everybody else, and his brother is stupid and weird, and his father is a demented old man, and it would be better if Ozai were the ruler anyway. As time went by, this worldview gained new facets, about Ursa being not good enough for him, about Zuko being worthless, about the place of the Firelord and their moral right to absolute power, But ultimately all of it is a castle of air, built out of the lies Ozai told himself to mask his own insecurity, all of which he relied on Azula to parrot back to him, so that they would feel more real, and he wouldn't have to face his fears.

Ozai chose Azula because of a complicated cocktail of his ability to identify with her, and her receptiveness to his self-aggrandizement. For one reason or another, Ozai deemed Zuko unsuitable for the role of mirror. Because of his insecurities and self-absorption, Ozai picked the child who best reflected what he wanted to see about himself, and then used her awe of him, and her childish trust to puff himself up.

Ozai did this with no regard to Azula's mental wellbeing, or even really her physical safety. People like Ozai are intuitively able to judge who they can use, and what they can use them for. While they might consciously believe their own self-aggrandizing lies, they understand, at least on an unconscious level, who they can share those lies with, who will respond positively to them, and who they need to guard against. But while this knowledge is unconscious and intuitive, it is still learned, and Azula as a young child has not learned any of it yet. We actually see her repeating her father's dangerous worldview in front of people who are most certainly not receptive to it. Fortunately for her, her mother and brother are not inclined to go tattling to her grandfather about her treasonous words, but this incident does an excellent job of highlighting just how little Azula understands of the context of her father's worldview, and what other people's reactions are likely to be. Ozai sharing it with her puts her in danger.

This isn't surprising, given that we are shown several times throughout the series that Ozai does not care about Azula any more than he cares about Zuko. He does after all send her to war at fourteen years old, and discards her as soon as she is no longer useful to him. But it's important to remember that even when he is seemingly very close to his daughter, letting her into his confidence, and giving her lots of positive attention as a child, all of this is because of how it benefits him, and if it hurts his daughter, so be it. He doesn't really care.

Nothing comes of this danger. Ozai takes power soon after, and Azula is a clever, observant child, who quickly develops the same kind of intuitive understanding of who she can use, and who she can tell what to. But it's important to remember that this danger did exist and Ozai didn't care.

This phenomenon, in which the natural process of a child's identity development is inhibited so that they can better serve the emotional needs of an adult, is unfortunately very common, including with parents and caretakers far less destructive, uncaring, and cruel than Ozai, and even with very loving and well-meaning parents. Because of this, it's a fairly well studied phenomenon, and in which we can describe some of the characteristics of children who have gone through it. It's also a phenomenon that has a name. Several, in fact.

It's also important to remember that though this danger passed, the harm Ozai was doing to his daughter did not. What Ozai was looking for in Azula was someone who would absorb and reflect back his own self-serving worldview, and to ensure she continues to do that, to hold his lies as true, he has to control her and sabotage any chances she has to start building her own separate identity. He needs, in other words, to erode the borders between herself and him.

When I first entered this fandom over a decade ago in my Livejournal days when I first talked over what I saw in Azula in comments and private conversations with friends, the favorite term for this phenomenon, or at least the one that had most thoroughly permeated a popular layperson's understanding of the phenomenon, was emotional or covert incest. The idea was that the parents involved were treating their children as surrogate spouses and the term seemed especially useful because many of the effects of parental incest seem to line up well with the effects of this kind of sabotaging of a child's identity. This is probably because an adult molesting a child is by definition using a child to fulfill their sexual and usually also psychological needs, so the process is going to necessitate the same kind of eroding of psychological boundaries of identity.

It's perhaps fitting that this is the picture of the phenomenon, and the language I had to talk about it, when I first started trying to tease out Azula's character, since at the time, it was common for particular fans of Azula to assert that Ozai must be molesting her, as a means of making her more sympathetic, and often, explicitly, as a way for Azula to outcompete Zuko in a suffering contest. I found this extremely annoying at the time, though in retrospect I like it better than what replaced it, (mostly accusations that Ursa, Iroh, Zuko, etc. abused Azula) because at least it credits the proper person with Azula's suffering, i.e. Ozai. I have always found it worth an eye-roll when people go looking for some hidden reason for why Azula, when, as I have been arguing since the first day I stepped into this fandom, what we see on screen of her relationship with Ozai and his treatment of her is more than enough to explain her behavior throughout the show, and her subsequent mental breakdown: [Link].

The terms emotional and covert incest, extremely loaded as they are, fell out of fashion, when a new theory of it was popularized in lay circles, in which it was supposed that these adults are particularly immature and looking for a parent in their own child, and this was dubbed parentification, a term that has since gained a second meaning, to when a child finds themselves in the role of parent to another child, usually a younger sibling.

Now there is a widening understanding that the adult may have many motives, and many emotional needs, that they are using a child to fulfill. The important part is that they are using a child to fill emotional needs that the child is not equipped to handle, and they are eroding the borders of identity between themselves and the child. This phenomenon is now generally called enmeshment.

Children who are enmeshed in a parent or caregiver reflect what that parent or caregiver wants out of them, but common behaviors to exhibit are unexpectedly adult mannerisms, and seeming maturity, often coupled with and utter lack of experience with people their own age, and the social skills needed to interact with their peers. This is because the adult using them doesn't want to be constantly reminded of the fact that they are a child, and because they are too busy looking after the emotional needs of the adult using them, to practice socializing with their peers. They also are frequently obsessive perfectionists, focused on meeting the standards of the adult living through them, and are often painfully anxious, secretly very insecure, and lack a self-awareness of their own emotions, because they're too busy managing the emotions of the adult they are enmeshed with.

I don't know about you but that sounds a lot like Azula to me. Her adult mannerisms throughout the show mask her terrible social awkwardness with her peers and outside of a command structure until the episode "The Beach". She is introduced to us by asserting that: "almost [perfect] isn't good enough," and her deeply held insecurity, that she is unable to acknowledge to herself, is what leads to her mental breakdown.

The process of enmeshment in this case is shown mostly through implication, through the way Azula talks about her father, and the way Zuko talks about them both. This is to be expected, because Ozai just does not have all that much screen time, much less with Azula. But again, "Zuko Alone" gives us a scene in which Ozai performs some of the process for us. In the family audience with Firelord Azulon, Azula performs some impressive firebending before her grandfather. Ozai tells his father that she is a true prodigy, just like her grandfather.

The explicit implication that both Azulon in the story, and the audience are supposed to pick up on, is that to Ozai, Azula is a prodigy because of him, that her talent showcases his greatness. This ties her identity to his, and tells her that everything she is, is because of Ozai. And it shows she gets praise and affirmation when she does something useful to her father, something that makes him feel good. And this praise is structured in such a way that Ozai is also praising himself.

This ties Azula's identity to Ozai's. She is worthy because Ozai is worthy. She is special because Ozai is special. It's also, in the simplest terms, praise, and praise feels good. And Ozai makes himself a reliable supply of praise for Azula... so long as she keeps performing, keeps identifying herself with her father, and keeps making him feel good by proxy. This keeps her coming back for more, and deepens that identification further. This becomes a self-perpetuating cycle.

The best thing an abuser or abusive system can do to maintain control over a victim, is to become simultaneously the source of their anxiety and pain, and their source of reassurance and comfort. You see this with individual abusers, as well as in larger groups, such as high control groups (also known as cults) and hate groups. By feeding Azula a steady diet of self-serving praise and affirmation, Ozai makes himself her source for reassurance, and by expecting Azula to manage his emotions, and feed him affirmation and confirmation of his worldview, he makes himself the source of her anxiety. So when he makes her anxious, she works all the harder to please him and manage his own anxieties, so that he will give her the praise and reassurance she so desperately needs.

What this does is put Azula on the emotional equivalent of a roller coaster. The highs of not only relief, but elation, when she successfully pleases her father are followed inevitably by the lows of anxiety and dread of having to do it again. But this is complicated further by the fact that because Ozai has tied Azula's identity to his so thoroughly, she can't ever admit to herself that she's afraid. If she acknowledges her fear, that means she has to face the danger she's in, face the fact that she might fail, that she isn't necessarily a perfect reflection of her father's glory, that she might not always be worthy in his eyes. She can't face that fact, both because being her father's perfect worthy daughter is entirely foundational to any sense of identity she has, and because her father has shown her through his treatment of Zuko what happens to children of his who aren't worthy. She is terrified, and can't ever admit it, especially not her herself.

It's impossible to overstate just how afraid Azula is, just how insecure she feels, because it's this fear and insecurity, which she cannot admit to herself that leads ultimately to her breakdown and psychotic episode in the finale.

So how does Azula cope with this? With the constant strain of it all? How does she hold back that fear that she can't possibly face? She spreads the pain. She finds herself two victims, who she can coerce into helping her maintain a sense of control.

People who abuse others don't do it because they are bad evil abusers. They abuse other people because it gets them something, often something psychological, often something the abuser desperately needs, and sees no other way to get it. This means that many abusers have incredibly sympathetic motivations. They are trying to assuage a terrible pain, or cope with a terrible fear. But none of that negates the damage they are doing to their victims, and that pain and fear doesn't give them the right to use somebody else to manage that fear and pain for them. Azula's own pain and fear arises out of her father's use of her to manage his own pain and fear, and in doing so, he "gifts" her both that pain and fear, and a means of managing it, by finding victims of her own.

We see this process play out in the first and second episode of Book Two. After Azula fails to capture her brother and uncle, she seeks out and establishes frankly brutal control over her two childhood victims, Mai and Ty Lee. As we will see later in Book Three, failing against Zuko hits very close to the core of Azula's hidden insecurities, so when Zuko and Iroh escape her, she looks for a way to reassure herself she is perfectly in control.

There is some complication to the abusive system Ozai has taught Azula to function within and to perpetuate herself. Ozai has more than one kind of victim. Azula is useful to him, because, as described above, she reflects his self-serving worldview back at him, while his other victims, his wife, brother, and son, serve a different purpose. They function as blame sinks, people whose perceived incompetence or malice serves as a justification when something goes wrong. This is how Iroh becomes his Royal Tea-Loving Kookiness, for example.

This doesn't of course hold up if you think about it from more than a second, but it doesn't have to. That's the point. The only person Ozai has to convince is himself. And of course, Azula, but for Azula, he imparts his views to her beginning when she is far too young to question them, and by the time she is old enough to have that kind of cognitive ability, they are already too deeply embedded in the way she views the world for her to even think they need to be considered.

Ozai would have first developed his use of blame sinks as a way to deal with his father's constant favoring of Iroh. He didn't deserve to be treated the way he was being treated by his father, he was as good as Iroh. No he was better than Iroh. He was the better prince, the worthy prince, worthy of being Firelord. But if he was superior, why did he keep failing? Why indeed? It was because of his brother. His brother was lucky, and he doesn't deserve that luck, and he's holding Ozai down, and it's his fault no one can see Ozai's innate superiority. It's all Iroh's fault.

Iroh is Ozai's first blame sink, and the one he patterns all his future blame sinks onto. This accounts for some of his more obviously stupid choices, as I argue here: [Link]. However, it also means we can use Ozai's treatment of Iroh, and one of his future blame sinks, Zuko, to draw some conclusions about how he treats the third of the blame sinks, Ursa. With both Zuko and Iroh, we hear Azula repeating her father's scornful pronouncements about them: His Royal Tea-Loving Kookiness, for example, or in this quote from Book Two, episode one, "The Avatar State:

"You know, Father blames Uncle for the loss of the North Pole, and he considers you a miserable failure for not finding the Avatar. Why would he want you back home, except to lock you up where you can no longer embarrass him?"

From this we can surmise that Ozai would speak similarly about Ursa. But for Ozai, Ursa is merely his unwanted former wife, while for Azula, Ursa is her mother. This leads to one of Ozai's most profound incidental cruelties with regards to his daughter.

When Azula was young, and Ursa was still around, Ozai's dismissal of his wife as unimportant and unworthy, served not only the psychological function all of Ozai's blame sinks did, but also helped separate Azula from her mother, thereby making it easier for Ozai to be the only shaper of his daughter's mind. However, after he banished Ursa, Ozai is hardly likely to let up on his scorn and denigration of Ursa. Perversely, the fact that she was responsible for putting him on the throne, would have made him even more vociferous in his resentment of her. For someone like Ozai, the fact that he owed his position to someone he considered so unworthy, and who shared the same opinion about him, would have been intolerable to think about, and so his resentment would grow, and with it, his attempts to verbally cut her down to size in front of his daughter.

Her daughter as well of course. The castigations of Ursa must have poured out of him and into their daughter's ears. She didn't understand his vision. She couldn't comprehend their greatness. She valued worthless things, like kindness and compassion, and worthless people like Zuko. She thought they were monsters. She was pathetic and unworthy of them.

Even if Ozai never used the words "we" or "us" with regards to how Ursa viewed him, Azula, so enmeshed in her father, and so completely identifying with him, would have heard them anyway. And so, without her mother there to contradict such an idea, it took root so deep into Azula, that it became simply a fact of the universe to her, that: "[her] own mother thought [she] was a monster."

Ozai doubtless didn't notice the pain he had caused his daughter, or that she had internalized this belief so thoroughly, but he also doubtless wouldn't have cared.

But if Ozai's choice of one of his blame sinks damaged Azula because she had an entirely different relationship to her, it was the choice of another of Ozai's blame sinks that would ultimately spell Azula's downfall: her brother. There are many and complex reasons for profound effects of this choice on Azula's psyche, and its contribution toward her eventual breakdown, much of which I discuss at length in my three pillars theory of Azula essay: [Link]. In brief, Ozai's use of Zuko in this way would have shown Azula that this was a role open to a child of Ozai's, which she might potentially fall into, that it was the price of failure in her father's eyes. This was a prospect that as discussed above, terrified Azula, and which she was far too scared of to even admit the prospect, or her fear of it, as a possibility.

The other reason for the fateful consequences for Azula or Zuko's status as blame sink, is that unlike her uncle or her mother, Azula could have power over her brother. Indeed, with Ozai's approval, Azula was able to wield considerable power over Zuko, to bully and belittle him, much as their father did: [Link]. Azula's tendency to parrot her father's views is on full display here, in her relationship with her brother. And because Ozai holds Azula up as perfect and worthy, in contrast to unworthy imperfect Zuko, Azula is none-too-subtly encouraged to use Zuko as her own blame sink. And boy does she need one, with the intense psychological pressure she is under to be perfect, both in her father's eyes and in her own. Having someone around on whom both she and her father can blame any and all imperfections, is really really useful to her. And if Ozai learned growing up that having his blame sink far away made it much easier to make up a version of them that was useful to him: [Link], Azula learned that having her and her father's mutual blame sink around, meant it was a lot easier to remind herself and her father how worthy she was in contrast to Zuko. So ultimately, if Ozai keeps banishing his blame sinks, Azula wants to keep hers close at hand.

After failing first to capture her brother, and then on several occasions, to capture the Avatar, something for which, by Azula's own admission, Ozai considers Zuko a "miserable failure", Azula needs not only her "friends", Mai and Ty Lee, and the affirmations and sense of control they give her, but also Zuko, to soak up their father's displeasure and her own insecurity. And to get him home, she lies to Ozai.

When Ozai finds out about this lie, he discards her. I think we can say it's not Azula's misjudgement or failure that causes Ozai to cast her aside, but the fact that she lied to him. She has become a threat.

And here is the last sting in the tail of Ozai's relationship with his daughter. This moment was inevitable from the beginning. Ozai was always going to throw Azula away. He cultivated a relationship with her initially, because as a young child, she didn't have the experience and context to see through the self-serving lies he told himself, and she could, through her belief of them, reinforce his fragile self image. But no matter how much damage he did to Azula's ability to build an independent identity for herself, she was still a separate person, and she was always going to grow up. And when she did so, she was always going to move from perfect little mirror of Ozai's greatness, to threat. And whatever individual event was going to be the catalyst, this change was always going to happen before Azula was ready for it, because Ozai was always going to discard her at the first stirrings of independence. And for Azula, thoroughly enmeshed in her father, this rejection by him was always going to shatter the foundations of her whole world.

#azula #ozai #uncle iroh #zuko #atla ursa #avatar the last airbender #posts i created #azula needs her own warning #noodle lord ozai #mother bear ursa #i ship iroh/tea #zuko is a dweeby little turtleduck #mai doesn't hate you #circus freak is a compliment

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theinquisitxor · 5 months

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December 2023 Reading Wrap Up

I read 11 books in December, and it was a great reading month to finish the year. I read 4 audiobooks, and 7 physical books.

1.The Lost Metal (Mistborn 7) by Brandon Sanderson 4/5 stars. I’m glad I read this series, and reading on audio was definitely the way to go for me. I enjoyed this last installment in the series, and I loved how this book flung the doors wide open for the Cosmere and relations to other books. Adult High Fantasy, read on audio.

2. A Strange and Stubborn Endurance by Foz Meadows, 5/5 stars. I reread this favorite in anticipation for the sequel. This book has a lot of what I enjoy-- a character driven political fantasy romance with plenty of representation and a good dose of drama. I enjoyed my reread just about as much as the first. Adult Fantasy Romance, Queer

3.All the Hidden Paths by Foz Meadows, 4/5 stars. This was a good follow up adventure following our two main characters from book 1. There were some tropes/elements I didn't enjoy as much, but it was still a gripping and engaging as the first book. Adult Fantasy Romance, Queer

4. Howl's Moving Castle by Diana Wynne Jones, 5/5 stars. When people ask me "what's your favorite book?" this is the answer I give. I like to reread this every other year or so, especially around the holidays. Middle Grade fantasy

5.Castle in the Air by Diana Wynne Jones, 3/5 stars. Despite HMC being my favorite, I've never actually read the 2 follow up books. I finally told myself I would read these before the end of the year. This was a fun enjoyable story that takes us to another part of this fantasy land that DWJ created, with new and old characters. It's not nearly on the same level as HMC, but I enjoyed reading it and getting more of the classic DWJ wit and narration. middle grade fantasy

6. House of Many Ways by Diana Wynne Jones, 4/5 stars. Diana Wynne Jones was so clever, and that really shines through in this story. I think part of the reason why I put off reading the two sequels to HMC for years was because I never wanted the story to end and be "done". This was one of the last books DWJ ever wrote, and it really feels like saying goodbye. middle grade fantasy

7. Index, A History of the: A Bookish Adventure from Medieval Manuscripts to the Digital Age by Dennis Duncan. If you enjoy book history and diving deep into a niche topic, then I think this is a great book. It's amazing how the concept of the 'index' has existed in some form since humans began writing. Nonfiction, read on audio.

8. The Dark Is Rising by Susan Cooper, 4/5 stars. I reread this via the BBC Radio production, while listening to the corresponding days for each segment. I really enjoyed this production, with different voices for each characters, and background noises as well. Gave a very cinematic experience.

9. Gathering Moss: A Natural and Cultural History of Mosses by Robin Wall Kimmerer, 5/5 stars. I loved this book narrated by the author herself. I loved learning more about moss, while also getting essays about the authors life, work, and natural world around us. I very much recommend this one. Nonfiction, read on audio.

10. The Blue Sword (Damar #1) by Robin McKinley, 5/5 stars. I really enjoyed my time reading this book and this was a good reminder of what makes classic fantasy so great. This novel is also proof that you can have a fully realized fantasy story with great characters, lore, and plot, and have it all under 300 pages. This is one I can see myself rereading.

11. The Hero and the Crown (Damar 2) by Robin McKinley, 4/5 stars. A good prequel to book 1 and exploration of some of the myths/stories from book 1. This is very much a Girl + Horse + Magical Sword go on an adventure and save the kingdom type story.

That's it for December! It was a strong finish to the end of the year, and pushed me over 100 books for 2023. Here's to 2024 and another good reading year! 🥂

January TBR:

A Winter's Promise (Mirror Visitor series) by Christelle Dabos + book 2?

A Fragile Enchantment by Allison Saft

Realm Breaker by Victoria Aveyard + book 2?

The Atlas Complex by Olivie Blake

Mislaid in Parts Half-Known by Seanan McGuire (audio)

Emily Wilde's Map of the Otherlands by Heather Fawcett

Beartown by Frederik Backman + book 2?

Braiding Sweetgrass by Robin Wall Kimmerer (audio)

#December reading wrap up #2023 reading wrap up #the lost metal #a strange and stubborn endurance #all the hidden paths #damar robin mckinley #the blue sword #the hero and the crown #howls moving castle #diana wynne jones #robin wall kimmerer

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popcornforone · 1 year

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Refreshing

A Fan Fic based on Silva

Well this wasn’t planned at all & then someone in our group chat said after the trailer dropped “aren’t you writing about Silva at the moment?” So behold a Silva fic for you all to indulge in.

Synopsis: while on your ranch Silva approaches in the midday heat in a hurray & needs your help desperately

Word count: 1.6k

Warnings: smut from the past insinuated but nothing graphically described, teasing, anger, seduction, kissing, mentions of weapons, pain

Also the reader is gender neutral. So please read them however you want to read them, there is no description of the reader. Obviously in the film Silva is gay, but this is your mind people you pick what the reader will be.

Thanks for the read peoples, all feedback is welcome

The sun is baking as you tend to your sheep on your ranch, trying to organise them for sheering later this afternoon. As much as it would be a good idea to sheer them now, the midday sun is approaching & you will definitely melt away. You need to cool off slightly & take a break inside before you do this. That’s when you hear the whines of a horse in the distance. Someone is approaching your ranch. It’s rare that people do, you’re off the beaten track a little. Only those that know you or you sell to come to visit & you were not expecting any visitors today.

You look long into the haze & instantly recognise the green jacket on top of the horse, Broad & intimidated. That Jacket you would spot anywhere. It’s Silva. His own ranch is 10miles away but he is galloping from the horizon to you at such a speed, that he will be with you in the next couple of minutes. Your hand reached into your back pocket to draw your gun, but you slowly leave it in there & wait for his imminent arrival. His is a friend not foe, even if it’s been several months since you last saw him. Whatever he is here for must be serious, you don’t think you’ve ever seen a horse move so fast.

The horse gallops up past you & he puts the breaks on “wooooo there calm calm it’s okay we’re here we’re here now” he leaps off the horse & removes his large black cowboy hat, his hair & face are dripping with sweat, bright crimson & puffy looking back at you. He looks you directly in the eyes. It doesn’t matter what state he’s, how tired he looks, how much pain he’s in, in those eyes entrance you & it make you feel like the world stops “sorry I hate turning up without calling in advance, but something major has happened & I need to use your phone, is that okay” he asks. His lips quivering looking at you pleading for this favour. “Certainly Silva, in the hall on the left hand wall.” He just nods silently & rushes into the house. His scent is intoxicating as always as it brushes past your nostrils.

You tie his horse up who is about to trot off & offer it some oats, eating out of your hands as you stroke its mane calming it down. It’s panting & you know Silva has ridden the hell out of it. You know Silva can ride fast & hard in all respects.

His voice is corse & aggravated down the phone that you can hear from outside. Whatever has happened he’s not happy about it & he is enraged. “I’m trying to understand but that’s not good enough” is the one that makes you jump & move nearer to the door way of your ranch on the porch. You briefly make eye contact & he realises he’s not in his own place or Jake’s, he should be respectful of where he is. He tones it down & continues his discussion. He puts the phone down, you were expecting a slam, but he doesn’t. He rubs his hand through his greying hair, scratching his patches in his beard in frustration. Those large hands cover a vast area. His jacket is off slung over the chair in the hall way, you can see the sweat patches on his red plaid shirt from where he had ridden so fast in the midday sun. His body is shaking almost trying to reject whatever stress he is going through & the fact that he is over heating.

You see him wobble slightly, & you just about catch him before he collapses. “Silva,” you say voice full of concern, worried about your friend who clearly once again has overdone it. He always puts too much pressure on himself, but he wants to be perfect. He wants to be the man everyone wants to be, the man everyone relies on. he stares back at you & mouths”water” it’s barely audible, but you go. You sit him on the chair, getting rid of that jacket that he’s just thrown on it, & you rush to kitchen. 4 glasses are already sitting on the side & you fill 3 of them to take to your friend. You give him 2 as the 3rd fills but he has downed 1 instantly. “Bloody hell Silva” you shout coming back with a 3rd & now 4th glass & you refill the other 2. “Did no one ever tell you to hydrate & not push yourself too much?” His long muscular neck gulps down the water, some of it trickles out of his mouth, turning into steam the second it hits his skin.

“We need to get some layers off me” Silva moans failing to undo his buttons in his weary haze, but you step back “oooh I’ve been down this road with you before Silva, this isn’t happening” “what!” He says startled “that was years ago” he states “& I will over heat & have heat stroke if you don’t help, please” his eyes gleam back at you, those rich caramels so inviting which have everyone under their spell, age gender or sexuality doesn’t matter. once you’ve looked into those puppy dog pleading eyes for more than 5 seconds you are lost. You help him with his buttons & remove his shirt. He takes off his under layers too. “I’ve got a shower upstairs if you really…” “No I just need a minute to calm down, actually a jug of water would be good for the horse” he says. His chest is heaving & gleaming with sweat, the silver hairs trailing from there to his tummy getting it all caught up. It’s so tempting to go back to how you once were with him right now, but you don’t. You don’t think he’s noticed that you’re staring at him, his mind has 1000 things on it, with what he needs to do. You snap out of your trance when you hear the horse, & remember the jug of water.

You leave Silva for about 15 mins as you attend to his horse & the sheep that you were dealing with a few minutes ago, suddenly feeling like a distant memory. You cool the horse off with the jug of water & give it some more oats before heading back in. Silva is no longer on the chair in the hall. You hear sighing from the kitchen, happy sighs of delight. You walk in & his head is in your sink, the cold tap flowing as he drinks from the filling basin & cools off. He’s not heard you come in at all. This gives you a chance to stare at his arse for old time sake. He still keeps bloody good care of his body, after all these years.

“Okay so..” you say like you’re just walking back in & hadn’t seen this sight until that exact moment & he removes his head from the sink in a gasp & turns around to face you quickly. Water dropping from his now drenched hair, across his chiselled face, through the beard & landing on his chest. It’s the perfect sight & your lips part. “I…I…” you stutter & he’s frozen on the spot “I mean you’ve seen this all before, it’s nothing” “but you haven’t changed at all Silva” you interrupt spluttering, composure leaving you “you’ve aged gracefully & got even more handsome with age, while the rest of us don’t” he doesn’t respond to your compliment, “guess I could have used the shower saved your embarrassment” is all he says, no flattery back. He grabs a water bottle, completely unphased by your reaction to him, that is yours & fills it up “so I stay hydrated” he nods & he puts his plaid shirt back on & walks past you in the kitchen back to the hall way to pick up his hat & jacket. He almost grazes your hand with his.

“Thank you” he says as he leaves & starts uniting the horse, “you asked no questions of me & just accepted I needed help, it makes you a truly wonderful person & loyal friend after all these years.” You chuckle “well next time there’s an emergency, just don’t kill yourself in the midday sun okay Silva?” A smirk comes across his face. He ties his jacket to the back of the saddle & goes to get on but pauses. His mind in over drive. He gets off the stirrup & takes the 10 paces towards you. Before you’ve even registered what’s happening his lips are on yours. Warm from the heat of the sun & his radiating body. Passionate & round as you easily allow him to glide his tongue over your teeth & gracefully dance yours with it. Thousands of memories come back like it was yesterday. You remove his cowboy hat to feel his still damp hair & dare to drag him even closer into you but he stops you with a harsh breakaway.

“That’s our little secret, do you understand, I know we’re both single at the moment but it complicates things if we do anything more than that.” Silvas eyes flicker open & are stern as he says this, he means every word. “Okay i understand, I think” his smile is soft & he has once small peck left for your lips. & then he about turns & leaves, riding off in the heat again, back to where-ever he needed to be next.

It’s only as you cook dinner later that evening that you find his under shirt under the kitchen table. You hadn’t even realised he hadn’t put it on. You pick it up & see there’s a note with it. simple & to the point & it makes your heart race.

*I’ll be back in 3 days to pick this up, if everything has gone to plan & I’ve had the courage to do what I know I should do, we can continue from where we have left off

You smile & sniff it, inhaling his stale sweaty scent, knowing full well that Silva after all these years still deep down, has some feelings for you. It just needed a little refreshing in both your minds.

#smutt #my fics #fanfic #minifics #pedro pascal #fluff #silva #silva strange way of life #silva fic #strange way of life #fan fiction #fan fic #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal cinematic universe #pedro pascal fanfiction

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thegodovereverything · 7 months

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TMNTober

prompt: Mutant

Gen: Rise

Crossover with: King Arthur and Her Knights by K.M Shea

ao3 link

@tmntober-2023

You don't need to have read the book series to get a lot of this, but I'll place all needed info here (spoilers ahead for the book series) Britt was brought into the past by a spell Merlin cast on the sword in the stone, and now she has to become King Arthur. Only Merlins trusted men, the lady of the lake, and some other people know about her gender. This is set in book four, a little after Merlin found out Britt had a crush on him and was a complete ass about telling her she's going to become some calf-eyed girl blinded by love now.

Characters: Sir Ywain and Griflet (young knights who are following Britt around due to some recent assassination attempts) Sir Kay (her foster brother. He is aware of where she is from and her gender) Sir Ulfius (her chamberlain, which means he's in charge of rooms and stuff. Also aware of her gender) King Leodegrance (a king who is very greedy, morally dubious, and has no backbone. He sent some of his knights to stay at Camelot, along with Guinevere and the Round Table)

-------------------------------

The day was brisk and windy, a storm brewing in the horizon. Sir Griflet and Sir Ywain lurked by Britt’s side as she made her rounds. First she checked on Sir Kay, who was scribbling something into that log book of his. She still has yet to be able to decipher Old English writing. Then she popped her head into the main hall, but instantly turned around. Lancelot was holding court, but she was in no mood to entertain him. Almost by habit she poked her head into Merlin’s study, stopping herself just in time. She still didn’t forgive him for being a misogynistic asshole.

She ended her patrol at the stables, where she found her horses staring somewhat distrustfully at a stranger in the shadows. They were an odd shadow, as if half of their head didn’t exist, their shoulders strangely curved. They were also quite small, only reaching around Britt’s kneecaps.

Sir Ywain acted first, stepping forwards, one arm protectively held in front of her, “Who are you? Reveal yourself before the mighty KING ARTHUR!”

The shadow jumped, curling slightly into themself. She gently pushed down the eager knight's arm, giving Ywain a reassuring smile, “I’ve got this, Sir Ywain, thank you.”

She walked a little closer to the shadow, raising her hands as though she was calming a horse.

“Hey, don’t worry, I’m not going to hurt you.”

Every step she took, the shadow took another one back, until their back hit the wall of the stables with a solid thunk. With a small sigh, Britt sat down, grabbing some of the horse's hay to fiddle with. She looked up at her knights, who were holding themselves ready for any reason to defend her. “Sir Griflet,” she said, the young knight perking up, “please fetch Sir Kay for me. Do not infer that I am in any danger.” That last sentence she made sure to emphasize, the full breadth of her command as King Arthur in her voice. Griflet gave a deep bow, before hurrying off to fetch her foster brother.

Sir Ywain stayed, still on guard.

“Alright,” she directed this to the shadow, “do you have a name? You don’t have to come out, but I’d rather not call you The Shadow in my mind for all of eternity.”

There was a pregnant pause, before the shadow stiltedly whispered their name, “Mikey.”

Her brow furrowed. She considered herself well versed in most names of medieval times, but that was not one she recognized. “Well, Mikey, my name is Arthur. It’s nice to meet you.”

There was another pause, before the child–now she had no doubt that the small shadow was a child, spoke again. “Are you going to dissect me?” His voice was tiny, scared.

Britt was pretty positive dissection wasn’t a word yet. “No, no one in Camelot will dissect you. Is that something you have to worry about frequently?”

The idea of someone threatening dissection on a child filled her with a nauseous feeling in her gut. Just what has this poor kid been through?

“Just from humans.” Mikey supplies, “Daddy says humans don’t understand us, and when they don’t understand something they get really scared. He said to be super safe and not to get caught by any humans ever . He said if we did too hide somewhere and stay there until he can find us. So I hid, but Daddy hasn’t come yet and it's been hours . This place is filled with humans, bunches of them! And they’re all dressed weird and there’s no TVs or comic books. But you’re super nice! So maybe you're different. I dunno. Donnie would. Do you know where my brothers are? Maybe they went through the portal too? That’d be nice… well, maybe not too nice. This place is scary…”

He trailed off, and Britt struggled to grapple with everything Mikey said. “Sir Ywain?”

“Yes, My Lord?”

“Leave us. Do not let anyone enter but Sir Kay or Sir Ector.”

“But–” Sir Ywain lifted his hand, hesitant to leave his king alone with the shadow.

“Leave.” Britt’s tone brooked no argument.

“Yes, My Lord,” Sir Ywain bowed, and Britt was left alone with the child. The kid from a different time. The child that has, just like her, been taken from his family against his will.

“Can I tell you a secret?” Mikey said nothing, so Britt took that as permission to continue. “I’m not from here either. I’m from America.” Mikey perked up at this.

“Me too!”

Britt smiled at the kid, who was still cloaked in shadows, “Really? That’s awesome!”

Mikey moved closer to Britt as she continued her tale. She talked about how, after touching the Sword in the Stone in some random graveyard in the future, she was pulled to the past. How Merlin told her about the actual King Arthur running off with a shepherdess, and the role she was going to be put in. She talked about her adventures as king, the friends she had made. She didn’t mention that there was no way back home.

As she talked, Mikey moved closer, until he was nearly out of the shadows. His leg was the first thing clearly visible and it caused Britt to stumble over her words. His leg was green and scaled, with two toes poking forwards and one in the back.

She forged onwards. She didn’t want to scare the kid, even if she was burning to know what he was. As she continued talking, Mikey moved closer to her. Slowly, he completely revealed himself. He was small and green, with orange spots peppering his face and splotching his shoulder. His shell raised to nearly half his face, explaining the high shoulder effect she noticed in his shadowed figure. An orange mask was tied back into a little bow, covering the middle of his face. He uncertainty moved until he was leaning against Britt’s leg, absolutely enraptured by her tale.

Sir Kay enters, around when Britt was talking about her sneaking into King Leodegrance’s castle to look at the round table. Mikey shoots up and scurries to Britt, hiding behind her shoulder as he stares up at her foster brother. Sir Kay frowns.

“I heard there was an intruder. Where are your guards?”

Britt rolled her eyes. “There was no intruder. Sir Kay, meet Mikey. Mikey, meet Sir Kay. Mikey’s like me.” Mikey gave a little wave from his hiding place.

Sir Kay stared at him blankly for a moment before abruptly turning around, “I’ll go fetch Merlin.”

“Wait–” He left as quickly as he came. Britt sighed.

“So,” she refocused on Mikey, lighting patting his head, “do you remember what happened before you got here?”

He moved out his hiding spot as he talked, moving back into his position by her legs.

“Well, it was my birthday, so I gotta buncha gifts ‘n stuff. Donnie n’ Leo were arguing over who gave me the better gift (It was Leo, by the way. He got me so many art stuff!), n’ Raph was trying to break them up. Daddy was having one of his bad times, so I went to my room cause I was getting bored and my room is always the funnest. But then there was this portal, like in Jupiter Jim: Portal to the Planet of the Lamas. It was even orange! And it was very glowy. But when I went through I came here and now I wanna go back. Maybe Merlin can take me back? He’s the super wizard dude, right?” He placed both of his green hands on her feet, excitably leaning forwards.

Britt didn’t know what to say. This kid has been completely separated from everything he knew, at such a young age. She opened her arms and Mikey rushed into her arms, nearly knocking her on her back. Outside of the shed, she heard the muffled protestations of Sir Ywain before he was silenced with a threatening “Let me through, or else.” Merlin came into the stable.

Britt hugged the kid closer, glaring dagger at the wizard. “Hello, Merlin,” She snarled his name, making it clear that she would only tolerate his presence for so long. Mikey perked up at the wizards name.

“Please, Arthur, just let me help.” Merlin entreated, holding both hands up in the sign of surrender. She didn’t trust him, but she had no choice. She had to see if there was even a tiny way to get the kid back home.

Her approval was given in a slight nod, followed by a bone weary sigh. Mikey bounded over to the wizard, tugging at his gandalf rip off cloak.

“Hi! My name's Mikey! King Britt told me you're a great wizard that can do anything !”

Merlin gave her a sharp look, “Can you understand him?”

His words cause MIkey to pause his excitement, confusion replacing it.

“You can’t?”

Merlin shook his head.

“Well, I guess that makes sense, what with him being from the future and stuff. Guess that means he’s from around my time period then. Or maybe the far future? I can’t imagine anthropomorphic turtles exist in my time,”

Mikey cocked his head to the side, “am-throw-porthoric turtles? What’s that? Daddy just calls us mutants.”

A mutant? Like from one of those comic books her sister loves so much? If Britt remembered correctly, a mutant was something painfully transformed by something radioactive. She winced at the imagery of a child being put through such a thing. It was best she just moved on entirely.

“Hey, Mikey, what year is it? That you and your brothers were in.”

The tot kicked his feet on the dusty ground, considering. “Mmph. Well, I’m six, so, whatever year I’m six! Daddy says I was born in 2005…” The kid frowned in concentration while Britt did the math. That would mean he was supposed to be in 2011… a full three years before her.

Britt shook her head. She didn’t want to consider this.

“Ok, we’re going to help you. We’re going to get you your own room, and you can eat whatever you want, ok?” She stood up, then reached down her hand for Mikey to grab it.

“Merlin,” the wizard looked up from his notebook, which he had been furiously scribbling on. “Huh, oh, right. Yes, yes, we shall provide for the… kid? Either way, they are probably faerie and it is best we treat them with respect.”

Britt didn’t bother to correct him, he’d learn soon enough. She led the kid to Sir Ulfius, the chamberlain. As they walked, Mikey drew closer to her, nervously observing her citizens and knights as they gathered around. Whispers bounced off the walls, echoing with words like “demon”, “faerie”, “brought the devil”, and other nonsense that made Britt happy Mikey couldn’t understand old english.

She knocked on Sir Ulfius’s door, “Sir Ulfus, I once again have another guest for you to prepare a room for.” She looked down at Miket, considered for a second, then, “One near mine, please.”

After they got Mikey settled into his new room (“Wow! Leo’s gonna be so jealous when he finds out about this!”), Britt bid the kid farewell, assigned a guard to babysitting duty, and went about the tiring task of damage control. She knew for this, she had to assure them personally. Merlin tried to offer his input, but Britt ignored him. She’s gotten really good at that lately.

Quickly, all her people that were able to be spared were gathered into the main hall. They whispered amongst themselves, but silenced almost instantly when Britt walked out onto the dais.

“I have brought another guest into our castle!” She started, “a child who is but six years of age. He is lost, and alone. He does not look like you or I, for he is not from our land, but beyond. He is what is called a ‘mutant’. He is not the devil or a demon coming to bring misfortune. Nor is he a faerie. He is but a child, who is stuck in a land different than his own, with none who speak his native tongue. I trust in all of you,” She locked eyes with some of her knights, driving the point home, “to treat him with kindness and respect. He will be under all our charge, so that we may ensure he is kept safe during his stay. If I find that any of you have not treated him chivalrously, I will cast you from Camelot.”

The room was uneasily silent. One of King Leodegrance’s knights came forth, his face red from anger. “You cannot believe we will tolerate this mutant, ” he spat out the new word, like it was a curse, “who knows what sort of devilry this thing could invite into these walls! Surely you cannot allow this!” He shrunk back under Britts icy gaze.

“If you are so offended by his presence, then you are free to leave.”

The knight blustered for a moment, before cowing under the weight of her gaze.

“I will not tolerate any of you making him feel unwelcome, no matter what status you may hold,” She directed this at Lancelot. She almost hoped he would break this rule so that she may have an excuse to cast him from her walls. However, she didn’t want Mikey to be mistreated, so that hope was an empty one.

“However, I know you all,” she looked amongst her knights and people, “and I trust that you will be as chivalrous as I know you to be. So, I ask you all: Is that trust warranted?”

Her people roared their approval, nearly bursting her eardrums. Britt smiled at them proudly.

With one last cheer, she departed from the dais, disappearing into one of the many secret hallways scattered about the castle. She was sure there would still be some adjustment and push back, but eventually he will be welcomed. She only hoped they could find a way to get him home, but she doubted it. Like Merlin said, it was easy to pull someone back, not so easy to push them forwards. She’ll wait a bit before telling the child, however. No need to inundate him with too much change when he was still adjusting.

#oh boy this is long #words exist #this is like the longest fic I have ever made #This prompt was a bit hard #But I do believe I am happy with the results #rottmnt #King Arthur and Her Knights #K.M Shea #tmntober 2023 #tmntober2023

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probablystupid · 15 days

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HELLO EVERYBODY LET ME TELL YOU ABOUT HOMESTUCK-

Four kids, best friends who have known eachother online for years, decide to start a new and still in Beta multi-player game called SBURB. It all starts with our main character John, who gets his package on his birthday. Little did these four freshly 13 year olds know that this game would end the world as soon as they entered. Now the mission is to complete the game and win the prize: a new world for them to shape. Along the way they meet some other players from another world, aliens called Trolls. And there's a few deadly glitches to be bugged out....

The first act is a lot of character introduction and buildup, aswell as early art style as it was being worked on by only one dude for a while. Impatient people don't get past the beginning unfortunately, but its absolutely worth the read, even the beginning! Quality jokes

Homestuck, A History;

Andrew Hussie, a person (now going by any pronouns) then known for various obscure things around the net, made an interactive reader-driven comic-type-thing called Jailbreak where he would draw panels demonstrating the events of the story as dictated by other posters in the thread, putting his favoured suggestions in the narration and responding in kind. The happenings and variables were influenced by his own strange brand of humor and set of fascinations, such as rap, the Starsky and Hutch movie and the cast thereof, horses, clowns, and H!rry P!tter as a cultural presence. He would eventually compile this, along with the unfinished followup, Bard Quest, on its own website.

The third installment of the so-called MS Paint Adventures, Problem Sleuth, was a massive step up in production value, featuring impressive art and output speed as well as evolutions such as some pages being flashing gifs. This sort of thing was considered to be one of the best demonstrations of the potential of the internet. It ran for about 1650 pages over the course of about a year.

Homestuck was the followup to that, running 8123 pages from April 13th 2009-2016 with numerous hiatuses in the latter half of that time. It featured such advancements as colored panels as default, videos with sound, small WASD-controlled computer games on various pages, and most importantly, actual conversations between characters, allowing them to become three-dimensional and truly sympathetic. (Hussie, it would soon be revealed, was heavily skilled at writing compelling and unique character voices and dialogue writing in general.)

Homestuck was definitely the most complex MPSA, with a grand overarching plot being integrated into the results of the actions of the readers. The plot revolved around an in-universe game called SBURB with the power to influence reality, sort of a Jumanji with time-travel mechanics that would soon be revealed to be the centerpiece of reality itself, a program that destroys the home planets of its players to motivate them to enter the world of the game and fulfill an unknown grand purpose, complete with millions of fully sentient NPCs.

Homestuck has been described as "a story that's also a puzzle", and this lens has gained authorial approval. This is the sort of story where the Author appears as a character to explain things to the audience, another character ends up changing the color of the site to his own scheme and narrating in his own voice, and the Author bursts through a literal fourth wall into the world of the story, hunts him down, and beats him with a broom. This is the sort of story where one specific person has killed another three times across multiple iterations of both themselves and the universe, and three of the killee are alive at the end, despite all of them being versions that were killed by the killer, who himself has one alive at the end, and both of those people have four-letter names, the first two letters of which are the same.

Eventually the suggestions from readers became so numerous and difficult that the suggestion boxes were closed near the end of the first year, but their influence carried on; one easy example is a character only seen from the top half initially being theorized on the official forums as using a wheelchair, a fact which would not only become Canon, but highly relevant.

The early MSPAs curated an audience through programming humor and 80s-90s film references as filtered through the styles of Terry Pratchett, Mark Twain, and Something Awful, but the audience for Homestuck, due to the nature of the characters, was markedly different, especially after the Trolls showed up.

You've probably seen them.

The Trolls, initially presented as some extremely odd and bothersome fellows on the internet, were soon shown to be a race of grey-skinned, orange-horned aliens that had undergone a SBURB Session that they claimed had been influenced by the lead human characters. Trolls possessed multicolored blood in both organized castes and clear deviations, psychic abilities, unique typing styles, incectoid traits as opposed to hominid, and near-univeral bisexuality.

I cannot express how perfect the Trolls were in terms of catching on. Tumblr loved these fuckers and it's not at all hard to see why.

It's also worth noting that this wasn't the only market-perfect part of Homestuck; Classpecting, the equivalent of Hogwarts Houses, featured a 144/168/288/336/384(depending on who you ask and what they count)-strong grid system of human personality traits that not only seemed eerily accurate as a personality mapper, but corresponded to what elemental powers one received in the game of SBURB.

So... yeah. Homestuck was an incredibly complex and engaging work in both plot and presentation, driven by a single incredibly talented and flawed creative voice above all, and which was perfectly made to attract a massive, unabashedly bizarre/proudly cringe, and notably largely queer fanbase across a younger internet. The style of presentation, art, and character writing was instantly recognizable and relatively easy to imitate, leading to fanfiction and even fanmade adventures galore, most of the latter hosted on MSPFA.com.

The main site for Homestuck is broken now-it's recommended that new readers download the Unofficial Homestuck Collection, and starting with Problem Sleuth to ease into the format and writing is a pretty popular choice. The ending is also considered generally quite poor in a number of ways, particularly regarding unfollowed forshadowing and blatant abandonment of character arcs, with some fans even making their own works as substitutions. Few speak of the epilogues. Fewer still speak of the sequel.

Content warnings for Homestuck include: blood, clowns, dicks-out furry art in the background of like ten pages, brief black-and-white nudity, swearing, the R-slur, a joke about an acronym organically forming the F-slur, child abuse, discussed child abuse and homophobia, mocking of the disabled (as an unsympathetic action), cartoonish levels of sexism (as an unsympathetic action), mocking of otherkin, minor characters being racial stereotypes of Black (Meenah) and Japanese (Damara) people, minor characters being stereotypes of disabled people (Meulin and Mituna), a controversial and prominent depiction of blindness, underage alcoholism, written depections of noncon (as an unsympathetic action), jokes about pedophilia, and child grooming (textually 100% non-sexual, but sexually-coded).

Also: when I said the Trolls type weird, I wasn't kidding. Every character gets at least one color for their speech text, plus a pattern for how they type, generally worse for the Trolls, ranging from "no caps" to "British" to "drunk" to "ebonics" to "aLtErNaTiNg" to WH4T3V3R TH3 FUCK K1ND OF L33TSP34K BS T3R3Z1 1S DO1NG. So that's worth a warning.

And that's as abridged as you can get when summing up Homestuck.

#homestuck #karkat vantas #explained #lefttumblrandsworetonevercomebackbutheyhereiamgoinginsanebecauseofthiswebcomicthanksandrew

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apocalypticavolition · 10 months

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Let's (re)Read The Eye of the World! Chapter 19: Shadow's Waiting

Hello and welcome back to my reread. Today we're doing chapter 19, SPOILERS Waiting. Spoilers for everything. Wheel of Time (1990-2013). Barbie (2023). Real Life (still in progress). Two of those are jokes, but if you don't want spoilers for this whole book series, run away! My tendrils of knowledge are trying to catch you!

This chapter has a pair of ravens! Since that usually refers to Darkfriends or the Seanchan, neither of which are here, I can only assume it's meant to refer to paranoia. The constant sensation of being watched and the fall of the city due to distrust. Eyes are everywhere but you can't see them.

More buildings had roofs fallen in than had them whole. Tumbled walls spilled fans of brick and stone into the streets. Towers stopped, abrupt and jagged, like broken sticks. Uneven rubble hills with a few stunted trees growing on their slopes could have been the remains of palaces or of entire blocks of the city.

Note that even in the time of the Ten Nations, architectural standards were really high. A lot of the stuff that's getting on 2,000 years old in temperate regions in real life is in way more disrepair than this unless we're actively maintaining it. Nature must find it harder to reclaim Ogier work; it's probably designed to grow into the city and reinforce it up to a point.

And I thought Baerlon was a city! Burn me, but Thom must have been laughing up his sleeve. Moiraine and Lan, too.

Rand is right, but actually Shadar Logoth is something of an over-correction. Most of the cities in his time period have huge and ornate areas, but they don't have every building covered in domes and fountains and spires at every intersection. Things are decaying and retreating.

She gave him a look from the corner of her eye. “The fact is, she needs my herbs, and so do you.” Her voice was acerbic to start, and grew more tart as she spoke. “The fact is, she can only do so much, even with her One Power, and she has done about as much as she can without collapsing. The fact is, your sword cannot help her now, Lord of the Seven Towers, but my herbs can.”

Love how Nynaeve picks up a fact about someone and immediately weaponizes it against them in mockery. She's only extra hurt because the one man she thought understood her is implying she'd be careless in her specialty.

“You going to take care of your horse?” Perrin said. He had already finished his own and was lifting the saddle from Mandarb. Strangely, the fierce-eyed stallion gave him no trouble at all, though he did watch Perrin.

I should make a note to pay attention for how animals in general treat Mr. Werewolf going forward.

“Well, you heard what Moiraine said. It’s as if some dead man was speaking with my mouth. I don’t like it.” His scowl grew deeper when Perrin chuckled. “Aemon’s warcry, she said—right? Maybe you’re Aemon come back again. The way you go on about how dull Emond’s Field is, I’d think you would like that—being a king and hero reborn.” “Don’t say that!” Thom drew a deep breath; everybody stared at him now. “That is dangerous talk, stupid talk. The dead can be reborn, or take a living body, and it is not something to speak of lightly.”

Not sure if this is evidence against my theory or a way that Thom is joining the Denial Gang. He's got to have an inkling about the possibility of the Dragon Reborn at this point, so having the boys proclaim themselves to be the dead come again is really dangerous territory in his eyes.

Also, Mat really doesn't like magic when it happens to him, even if it's not Aes Sedai stuff. He also wouldn't like being a hero reborn and canonically isn't, though I don't know if that was something Jordan himself specified or a detail Sanderson came up with - or, for that matter, if it was something Jordan knew at this point in the writing if it was his idea.

“Aren’t you forgetting the Trollocs?” Perrin said. Mat shook his head scornfully. “Lan said they wouldn’t come in here, remember? You need to listen to what people say.” “I remember,” Perrin said. “And I do listen. This city—Aridhol?—was an ally of Manetheren. See? I listen.”

Huh, this whole time I've been saying Mat's one of the only people in the world who don't think Perrin's stupid, but apparently not! Also, it's worth noting that at no point did anyone tell the boys that they shouldn't wander off, and you might think that it's implied, but since it's these three I'm going to say it's all Moiraine and Lan's fault for not remembering how to deal with idiots. And good lord, but Mat actually convinces Perrin first.

A palace was plainly a palace, but what was a huge building that was one round, white dome as big as a hill outside and one monstrous room inside? And a walled place, open to the sky and big enough to have held all of Emond’s Field, surrounded by row on row on row of stone benches?

Concert halls and sports arenas were canonically a part of the Ten Nations culture. Did they survive to Hawkwing's day, or were these the last hurrah of the Third Age?

“You can sleep anytime,” Mat said determinedly. “Look at where we are. A ruined city. Treasure.”

Honestly this feels really out of nowhere for Mat. He's not mentioned much about treasure before, and really he doesn't care too much about shinies afterward - he likes getting treasure obviously but it's not much of a motivation. What's his deal with this? Is Shadar Logoth itself pulling on him a little, unable to touch Rand and Perrin because of their latent supernatural abilities? He neglects the horses immediately, which is weird for the son of a horse trader.

Maybe it's just the love of looting just something that gets burned out of him with other memories? Did the mere mention of the ruby dagger as Min's viewing prime him to see himself as a treasure hunter?

“Who are you?” Rand thought the man’s accent sounded odd, even after Baerlon; some words he pronounced strangely, so Rand could barely understand them. “What are you doing here? We thought the city was empty.”

I've mentioned it before, but this is more evidence that whatever tongue Rand is actually speaking is actually much closer to the Old Tongue than English, since Mordeth's speech - from an era when the Old Tongue was still in use - is still intelligible, just really weird. Also, Mordeth's unfamiliarity with Caemlyn is a hint of when he's from as well.

“I told you there must be treasure in a place like this,” Mat exclaimed. He darted up the stairs. “We’ll help you carry it. Just take us to it.” He and Mordeth moved deeper into the shadows among the columns. Rand looked at Perrin. “We can’t leave him.” Perrin glanced at the sinking sun, and nodded.

Whatever the reason, Rand and Perrin are definitely not taking the bait. They only care about this because of Mat, not any hope of riches themselves.

Suddenly Rand realized what had been nagging at him about the man. The scattered torches in the hallway had given each of them a ring of shadows, just as the torches in the treasure room did. Only. . . . He was so shocked he said it out loud. “You don’t have a shadow.”

So this chapter firmly establishes that Rand is the smartest one out of the trio, being the last to want to come here and the only one to realize that they've stumbled into a hellscape.

Mat peered around the side of a treasure pile, clutching a dagger snatched from the trove.

Thanks for telling him to look for it, Min. You done fucked him up, didn't even talk to him, and in the Last Battle you're going to have the audacity to treat him like an old friend.

Mat just gestured to all the gold and jewels. Before he could say anything, though, Rand seized one of his arms and Perrin grabbed the other. They hustled him out of the room, Mat struggling and shouting about the treasure.

This whole thing really needed either some stronger foreshadowing of Mat's greed or something because again even knowing he's kind of the doofus of the group, this just comes out of nowhere.

The watchers followed them. Or else there were lots of watchers, lots of eyes staring out of almost every building. Rand could not see anything move, hard as he tried, but he could feel the eyes, eager, hungry. He did not know which would be worse. Thousands of eyes, or just a few, following them.

Do the others feel it too, or is this some twist of Rand's Shadow-sense, what with Shadar Logoth being so close to the Shadow even in its opposition?

Everyone except Lan was there, gathered around the flames, and their reactions varied considerably. Egwene, warming her hands at the fire, gave a start as the three burst into the room, clutching her hands to her throat; when she saw who it was, a relieved sigh spoiled her attempt at a withering look.

Aww, Egwene really does care. Odd place to grab herself though.

Everyone began in a different place. Mat started with finding the treasure, sounding almost as if he had done it alone, while Perrin began explaining why they had gone off in the first place without telling anyone. Rand jumped right to what he thought was important, meeting the stranger among the columns. But they were all so excited that nobody told anything in the order it happened; whenever one of them thought of something, he blurted it out with no regard for what came before or after, or for who was saying what. The watchers. They all babbled about the watchers.

This is why the three of them needed to be separated as quickly as possible, because Jordan knew that no matter how much the three of them grew as people, this is exactly how all their attempts to explain themselves would go.

“Apparently you did not think at all,” she said, coolly composed once more. “Anyone who thinks would be wary of a place that Trollocs are afraid to enter.” “Mat’s doing,” Nynaeve said, certainty in her voice. “He’s always talking some mischief or other, and the others lose the little wits they were born with when they’re around him.”

Places Moiraine thinks you should be wary of:

Shadar Logoth

The Aiel Waste

Tar Valon

The beach

Indoor swimming pools

Just saying Moiraine, you really shouldn't have counted on this being a logical connection even if the boys weren't... well, Nynaeve says it best.

“Mordeth alone was not consumed by Mashadar, but he was snared by it, and he, too, has waited within these walls through the long centuries. Others have seen him. Some he has influenced through gifts that twist the mind and taint the spirit, the taint waxing and waning until it rules . . . or kills. If ever he convinces someone to accompany him to the walls, to the boundary of Mashadar’s power, he will be able to consume the soul of that person. Mordeth will leave, wearing the body of the one he worse than killed, to wreak his evil on the world again.”

It's a mystery we'll never know the answer to, but I am dying to know exactly what kind of horrible things Mordeth did to become this. Did Aridhol have a stash of ter'angreal lying around that let him preserve his abhorrent will in the worst way possible? Was there some ancient evil from the end of the Age of Legends that combined with him to become so much worse? Like Fain who he'll infect, did he simply sidestep the Pattern somehow? Is that last concept really extra bullshit and stupid? I can't answer the first three questions, but the last one is a firm "yep".

Besides, I would know the minute of his death and the way of it, just as he would know mine.

I dunno Moiraine, I hear getting distracted with desk work can prevent an Aes Sedai from noticing the death of her Warder, especially if it's a political assassination leading to a coup. Be careful not to start filling out any paperwork or Lan could be gone before you know it!

He had no idea what had awakened him from his unpleasant dream. He had been a little boy again, carrying Tam’s sword and with a cradle strapped to his back, running through empty streets, pursued by Mordeth, who shouted that he only wanted his hand. And there had been an old man who watched them and cackled with mad laughter the whole time.

Regular stress dream, or Ba'alzamon again?

“Only this,” Lan said slowly. “The Myrddraal forced the Trollocs into the city. What forced the Myrddraal?”

He's definitely in the neighborhood, at least.

“Get to your horses,” Moiraine said. “We are not across the river yet.”

Moiraine is definitely trying to keep the plan (now discussed where the reader could see it) from being guaranteed to fail by upping the tension. Sadly, she's failed, though amusingly she did discuss the possibility of hailing a trader's boat. Regardless, this is the end of the chapter. Thanks for reading!

#let's read #wheel of time #wot #robert jordan #wheel of time spoilers #wot spoilers #rand al'thor #lan mandragoran #moiraine damodred #nynaeve al'meara #egwene al'vere #thom merrilin #perrin aybara #mat cauthon

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