#trigger i owe you my life forever
Text
sweet child o' mine | pt. iv
to @mrsmando - without whom this insane story would never have happened in the first place. i love you i love you i love you
thank you all so much for coming on this journey with me - it has been a blast. i hope you like where we turn out! love you guys always n forever x
pairing: neighbor!joel x fem!reader
summary: you're a mom. it's time to get your shit together.
warnings: bon jovi mention straight out the gate, labor/delivery [i have never given birth. those of you who have are nothing short of remarkable. please forgive if some of this is a little inaccurate or vague], use of pain medication during birth, description of pain and post-birth recovery, super emotional reader, unprotected piv, oral, alcohol consumption.
DISCLAIMER: this series covers some issues which i know may be sensitive and possibly triggering to some. warnings will always be as thorough as possible, but if there’s ever anything you feel i’ve missed, please let me know. feel free to drop by my inbox anytime.
word count: 12k
pt. i / series masterlist | main masterlist | playlist | follow @macfroglets w notifs on to be the first to hear when i post 🩵
It’s September twenty-third.
Well, by now, it’s probably the twenty-fourth. You’ve been a little distracted, rolling between the sheets with your next-door neighbor for the last couple hours.
The wedding’s still going strong downstairs. The same Bon Jovi song has played three times over. Tommy has called Joel to ask where he is so much that Joel’s phone is now switched off and shoved to the bottom of his bag.
You’re slouched on the toilet in a sliver of moonlight. A fistful of tissue, panties loose around your ankles. Rolling your forehead side to side along the cool tile, heartbeat hammering between your temples.
Joel Miller – Joel fucking Miller – is in your bed. Naked, sweating, cock probably still half-hard.
This morning, the very idea of the man was an eyeroll. Stood in your mirror, promising yourself that this time tomorrow, it’ll all be over with.
This time in a month, it’ll be a foggy memory.
This time in a year, it –
His voice is muffled through the bathroom door. “Did you fall in, or somethin’?”
You snort. The milky moon blurs across your vision when you pull yourself upright. You swipe between your legs and stand, flushing the toilet.
“I needed a fucking breather,” you tease, tiptoeing back across the room.
Joel’s stretched out; a worked arm draped along the headboard. Sun-kissed to the middle of his bicep, paler across his shoulder. One leg bare on the mattress, the other under the sheets. They only just cover his modesty – dark hair trailing beneath light silk just in time.
He’s so big. It’s like you never really noticed until now. He takes up half the bed, laying like this. And sure, you’re halfway to fucked, but – has he always been so handsome?
You flop down beside him with a sigh, curling up in the burrow of sheets at his side. Your eyes trail up his body – the sheen of sweat up his side, the dark, damp hair under his arm. All the parts of him you’ve never seen before, will never see again.
You gulp. Quit fucking staring.
He doesn’t notice, anyway. He’s rubbing circles into his temples, grumbling. “How many goddamn times are they gonna play It’s My Life?”
“…for Tommy and Gina…” you nudge him, “…who never backed down…”
Joel chuckles, pulling his hand down his beard. “Twenty bucks says he’s changing that to Maria.”
“Oh, for sure. I ain’t going back down to listen to it, though.”
He hums in agreement, reaching over for his beer. His Adam’s apple bobs as he drinks.
“You owe me, by the way. This is my room, remember? My fucking minibar.”
He pauses, the bottle against his bottom lip. His eyes linger south of your chin before he answers, “I’m paying for the damn room.”
“Then I want a drink from yours. Make it even.”
He clicks his teeth and drinks again. “It’s one beer. Call it an early birthday gift.”
You frown. “When the hell’s your birthday?”
“Tuesday.”
“Bullshit.”
“Serious. The twenty-sixth.”
You push yourself up onto your elbows; chest bare and on display. And it’s a strange feeling, how little you care. Twelve hours ago, you didn’t know how close to sit next to him at the ceremony. How many times you could accidentally bump knees or brush elbows and it not be weird.
But in the last two hours, he’s made you come more times than you can count. More times than anyone you’ve ever been with before – that’s for sure. And you’ve repaid the favor: the proof is still dribbling out of you. Still dripping between your legs, all pearlescent and warm. You’re soaked, swollen, still sore from the size of him.
It’s a fucking strange feeling, that you don’t mind at all.
“How old are you turning?” you ask.
Joel swallows. He settles the beer on his sternum, thumbing the corner of the label. Sucks in a deep breath and says, “Forty-eight.”
“Jesus,” you mutter, eyes wide.
He turns slowly, glaring at you. “Hilarious,” he drawls, bumping the bottle against your tummy.
You hiss at the sudden chill. Wiping cold droplets from your skin, you swipe it from his grasp.
Joel pushes himself from the bed with a quiet groan and pads across the room. His cock sways with each step, an arrowhead of thick hair at its base.
He doesn’t seem to mind, either.
You tip your chin back, taking a hefty swig.
The pulsing bass is heavier, guitar squeal sharper, when he cracks open the window. Cool air sweeps past the scent of sex and settles softly on your skin.
The mattress dips again as Joel settles back into bed. He pulls the sheet over himself, silk falling over the stubborn shape against his thigh.
“Well,” you pass him the bottle, “happy birthday, old man. Here’s to forty-eight.”
“Here’s to forty-eight,” Joel echoes, staring off into space, “and whatever the hell it has in store.”
1:29. 1:29. 1:30.
It’s blurring across your vision. The pain and the panic and the blinking of your fucking alarm clock.
Your stomach is still tensed in the aftermath of the contraction; an ache like the slow sway of the ocean, a wave rolling off into the distance. You’re hunched over the edge of the bed – knee bouncing, palms kneading your round belly.
“We’re okay,” you whisper, blowing into the still night. “We’re fine. Maybe it isn’t labor, right? Maybe it’s just those…Braxton…shit…Hicks.”
The cicadas laugh as your uterus swings again.
Another kick of pain; a bolt that winds you, piercing from your stomach down between your legs. So slow it feels fucking personal.
Your back curls, nails digging into the mattress. You grit your teeth until it passes, then push yourself to your feet, reaching for your phone.
You think of Joel: the flecks of gold in his eyes, the rough surface of his palms. The fresh, woodsy scent woven into every thread on his shirt, seeping from every pore on his skin.
The way he’d pull you under his arm and walk you to his truck. Play more Eagles or whatever shit he has to take your mind off the pain – tell you he knows, he knows as you whimper in agony. The way he’d hold your thigh the entire ride, loosening it only to weave his fingers through yours.
He’s in Houston, though. He’s something like three hours away. There’s nothing he could do, even if you did call – even if he did pick up. Even if he got in his truck right this second.
Shit. Shit fuck shit. How are you in labor right now, on this fucking night? All your teasing, all your taunting the universe. You really think that’s gonna happen? You think your kid’s that much of an asshole?
Yeah. They’re half you.
You’re on your own. It’s nothing new; you’ve been on your own for most of your life. You drove yourself to college, worked your ass off, and sold your graduation guest tickets to your roommate. You found a job by yourself, moved back to Austin and turned it into home by yourself.
You haven’t needed anyone or anything, since you were eighteen.
But – oh, Jesus, fuck it. This was a two-man job from the start. Some things you figure you can let slide – and having a kid seems like a pretty decent excuse.
Fuck it.
You move, hunched and hobbling, to the bathroom door. Slumped against the wooden frame, you cup a hand between your legs.
Sure enough, your underwear is soaked. The fluid trickles down the seam of your thigh, warm and thin. It glistens in the moonlight when you lift your fingers.
“Shit,” you whisper. “Goddamn it, Duck.”
Body tingling and almost numb with pain, you scroll through your contacts to J. You stumble into the bathroom, wet fingers slipping around the sink. A weight begins to pull low between your hips.
Two rings and the tone cuts, his voice instantly spilling a cool comfort down your spine.
There’s no hello, no double checking that you haven’t accidentally dialed him in your sleep. Only that trademark drawl, that flat tone you’d swear sounded bored, if it weren’t for the haste with which Joel asks, “You okay?” the second he answers.
As if he were awake anyway, just waiting for your call.
“Yeah,” you choke, rubbing the nape of your neck. “I just called at one in the morning to…to say hi.”
He sighs, the crackle of breath echoed by the tinkle of wind chimes. The creak of wood as he settles into a chair on Vanessa’s parents’ porch. “Alright, smartass. What is it?”
“I’m…I’m in labor.”
“Mhm. That sure is funny, baby. Good one.”
You groan. “No, Joel, I swear – I swear, I just went into labor.”
He pauses. The chimes titter in the background. “You’re…You ain’t kidding me?”
The sharp peak of pain swipes the air clean from your lungs. The phone hits the sink with a clatter, drowning out your cry.
This kid is beating the ever-loving shit out of you. You’d be embarrassed if you had the energy to think about it.
“Baby?” Joel yells, loud enough that the sound loops around the bowl. His voice lifts to an octave you didn’t know it could reach. “Talk to me. Please, talk to me.”
Your fingers clamp around the phone. “I’m f-fine. It’s fine. I just gotta…gotta change my fuckin’ sheets, Joel, my waters broke while I was sleeping –”
“Oh, Christ,” he growls. The door squeals as he storms back into Vanessa’s family home. “The sh…Change the goddamn sheets? You gotta get to a hospital, darlin’!”
You laugh, head tipping back. “It’s fine,” you tell him. “Feels like the kid’s trying to kill me, but I can – shit, I can take ‘em.”
There’s the jangle of keys, the ruffle of a shirt being thrown over his head. “Yeah?” Joel says.“You can take childbirth, all on your own? Do me a favor and call a damn ambulance, baby.”
“An ambulance,” you repeat, laughing again.
“Yes, an ambulance. Call 9-1-1 right now. You want me to call ‘em? Let me go grab the landline –”
“Joel, do not call an ambulance –”
And if you thought you’d heard him at breaking point before – plucking your underwear from his lawn, dragging you around Home Depot, paling in your room with a pregnancy test in his hands – you know you have, now.
“You gotta get to a goddamn hospital now, baby!”
His voice trembles at its end, quivers like the pluck of a guitar string. A high-pitched echo, a nervous vibration.
Joel’s panicking.
It’s the second thing in less than five minutes that you never knew he could do.
“I can’t afford a f-fucking ambulance, Joel,” you yelp, sitting back on the edge of the bathtub.
“I will pay for it,” he pleads, “I’ll pay. Just – you gotta call them. You gotta…” He sighs again, breath wavering. “You’re in labor, and you’re alone. If anything happened to you, I –”
A hushed voice interrupts him. Follows him through the house, knotting her nightgown around her waist and twisting her dark tresses into a ponytail.
“She’s in labor,” Joel tells her. “I can’t stay. I’m going back for her.”
The porch door slams shut before Vanessa can reply, and Joel’s back outside again. Gravel crunching beneath his boots, crickets screaming in the background. “Still with me?” he asks.
“Still here,” you breathe, tracing your nails along your leg. “Duckie says hi, I guess.”
He hums. “Hi, Duckie. You little shit.”
You rock back and forth, eyes closed. Breathing between contractions, your head low between your shoulders. “How long will you be?”
The truck door creaks open. “I’m leaving right now. I’ll be…Fuck, I’ll be a couple hours, at least. I’m on my way, alright?”
Tears drip onto your bare thighs, the salt spilling into your mouth. “Joel,” you shake your head, “I don’t think I can do this.”
“Yes, you can,” he says. “Are you kidding? Got us this far ‘n now you want to bail? That ain’t you, baby. Come on, now.”
“I wanna bail,” you insist. You slump to the floor, head lolling over the rim of the bathtub. Weeping like a little kid. “I’m scared, Joel. I’m so scared.”
“I know you are. Lord knows I’m scared, too – scared as hell. But –” the engine roars to life, “– I can’t wait to finally meet this kid. Our kid. Can’t wait to hold ‘em. Can’t wait to see you become a mom, and me become a dad.”
“Mom and Dad,” you whisper, sniffling.
“Mom and Dad, right? Yeah. You can do this. I know you can.”
The bathroom blurs behind your tears. You close your eyes, replacing the pale night with warmer dawn. Replacing it with images of tiny hands and feet; missing front teeth and a love-worn teddy tucked safely into bed.
Joel’s voice is softer, kinder. Calmer, now that he’s closing the hundred and fifty miles between the two of you.
“Just – don’t let the kid give you any shit, alright?”
The fear boils into determination. Something more irritating than it is terrifying. You inhale, blowing a heavy, shuddered breath to the ceiling. “Whatever, Miller.”
“Attagirl,” he says. “That’s the spirit. Now, call a damn ambulance.”
With a scoff, you push yourself to your feet, waddling towards the foot of your bed. You sway back and forth, holding your bump and listening to the hum of Joel’s truck.
And then you hear it.
Three sharp raps, from downstairs.
You wander to the hallway, squinting in the dark. “Joel?”
“Hm?”
“Are you…?”
The sound grows louder the nearer you draw. Quick knuckles against your front door.
“Am I what, darlin’?”
You lower yourself down the stairs, fist tight around the rail.
It’s August again. Sun’s encore blazing through your kitchen windows, bleeding golden through your living room. Everything shining, everything new and untouched.
Knock knock knock.
Light satin, duck egg blue; string lights and a diamond-encrusted necklace. The bones of your wardrobe propped against your porch. A rattling toolbox hanging from his fist, a positive pregnancy test in yours.
The knocking halts when you flick the porch light on. She calls your name once, old voice quivering.
Your phone is still glued to your ear as you pull the door open. “Al…?”
She squints at you and lifts a hand to shield from the light. She’s still in her pajamas – green dressing gown loose and lifting in the breeze.
Her eyes drop to the tee draped over your bump, the silver stream of fluid down the inside of your thigh. As she opens her mouth to speak, your hand slams into the doorpost.
“Oh, fuck,” you groan, and Alice Brown steps straight over the threshold.
“Are you in labor? Oh, sweetie. Sit down, sit.”
She backs you towards the stairs. One bony, trembling hand around yours – squeezing as tight as you are. She rubs up and down your spine, shushing until the pain subsides.
You blink up at her glowing figure, haloed by the porch light outside. “How did you…?”
She hushes you with a finger in the air. “I’m up most nights. I heard you from the window. Have you called 9-1-1?”
You shake your head, beginning to cry again.
Alice just nods, dismissing your bullshit. “Where’s your overnight bag, sweetheart?”
You toss a thumb over your shoulder. “It’s up in the nursery. I can go grab it –”
She holds you still with a hand on your shoulder. “Stay.” Another curt nod, then, “Get your shoes, get yourself over to my car. Do you need pants? You need pants. My car, right now.”
“Alice, you really don’t have to –”
“Get in the car,” she insists, climbing past you. “I’m right behind you!”
You watch her figure dissolve into the dim upstairs, and lift the phone back to your ear. “Did you…hear all that?”
“Alice Brown,” Joel replies, and you can hear the smirk in his voice. “What’d I tell ya? That woman doesn’t miss a goddamn thing in this neighborhood.”
“Three centimeters,” the obstetrician says, covering your legs with the sheet. “Still a little ways to go.”
The suite is hushed and still. Walls an unoffending shade of oatmeal; decorated only with oak paneling and a framed painting of some lilies.
A nurse tilts the shades, averting the twinkling city lights in the distance. She turns and smiles – the same fucking smile everyone’s been giving you since you set foot in the place. Head tilted, brows arched.
Sympathy that you want to chew up and spit back out at their feet.
You force yourself to smile in return, and she floats back out to the bustling reception.
“Will he make it?” Alice asks. She’s still in her pajamas; the floral print goes well with the interior of the room. “The father, I mean. Joel.”
The obstetrician peels the gloves from her hands. She shrugs as she drops them into a wastebin. “I don’t see why not,” she says. “Things are moving a little quickly, but I don’t see you having your baby in the next couple hours.”
“You don’t know this kid like I do,” you groan, shifting in the bed.
She lifts the cardiotocograph reading, scanning the jagged lines. “You’re doing great,” she says. “I’ll be back in a little while. Just holler if you need anything.” She strolls off, letting the door sweep shut behind her.
Alice adjusts your pillow and squeezes your shoulder. She holds out a cup of water, guiding the straw to your lips. “He’ll be here,” she whispers.
You take a sip and settle back. “I don’t think I’m that lucky. I told him I hoped he’d get a flat on the ride there. This feels like karma.”
“Well, if it’s anyone’s karma –” she wiggles her fingers, “– it’s his. Going to Houston was ridiculous in the first place. Hell, you two not being together is ridiculous.”
You scoff, shaking your head. “Just because we’re having a kid doesn’t mean we should be together. You shouldn’t be with someone for the sake of a baby who won’t even know any different.”
“Right, right,” Alice agrees, turning away. “You should only be with someone if you love them.”
“Exactly. And me and Joel – we’re not in love.”
She murmurs to herself. She lowers into a chair by the window, crossing her arms. “I’m seventy-three,” she says. “I’m not a damn fool.”
Something twists awkwardly between your hips. You wince, clutching your bump.
Duckie’s heartbeat pulses through the room. Muffled little bubbles of noise, popping one after the other. Strong and steady as hell – a determined little thing, the doctor said.
Don’t I fucking know it, you thought.
You reach for the silicone mask and cup it over your mouth. The gas is cold and funny when you inhale, feeling it shoot straight for the back of your skull. It does little more than dull the spiking pain, but still – you tip your head back, eyes rolling closed.
You let yourself fade from the suite – its yellow lamplight and hushed chatter outside – to somewhere warmer. Somewhere brighter.
Birdsong high overhead, and the whispering leaves on the oak trees in your yard. The sweet breeze on your skin, soothing the sting of the sun. Prickling wood on your fingertips, the gentle strum of a guitar somewhere beyond the fence.
Peering between the slats, catching glimpses of him like watching a film reel. His head nodding, his foot tapping. The concentration tight on his face; the perfect pick and pluck of his fingers on each string.
Half-hoping that he’ll spot you, scold you for spying and storm back into his house. That he might bring it up later – And another thing, while he whips his newspaper from your grasp, ignoring your cackling.
Half-hoping that he won’t. That he’ll sit there at his back door, bottle of beer at his feet, playing to his audience of sparrows.
And you’ll stand here, wishing you could ask the name of each song he hums.
The contraction splits your daydream in two.
In two hours, you dilate almost three centimeters.
You pace back and forth across the suite, pausing only when your womb clenches like a fist. The contractions are lasting longer, swinging lower, and punching harder. They’re giving you less recovery time; less of a chance to get back on your feet.
It’s a fucking nightmare.
Joel’s still not here. Last you heard, he’d just hit Travis County. Twenty minutes, baby, I promise. That was half an hour ago.
It might be for the better that he hasn’t gotten here. You’ve warned Alice three times already that you might just beat the shit out of him, whenever he walks through that door.
And you know what, sweetheart? She chuckled. I bet you could beat the shit out of him, sore as you are.
“Fuck,” you cry out, collapsing onto the bed. You stretch out forward, head hanging between your shoulders, and gulp back more of the laughing gas. The ache barrels from your stomach to your hips, peaking in the very center.
Alice rubs circles into the small of your back. It’s not helping, but you let her do it anyways. Gives her something to tell the neighbors that isn’t damaging to your reputation.
“That’s it,” she coos. “A little longer, just a little…”
The door clicks open just as the tense band begins to loosen.
Your head is spinning. The mask slips from your fingers.
Alice’s hand pauses. “…a little longer…” she repeats, voice drifting. Her weight leaves your back, replaced by something heavier, stronger.
Safer.
Someone grounding, someone smelling of pine and sweet spice.
He sits on the bed at your back and curves around your body. Lips to your shoulder like the sun in your backyard. His beard scratches against your hot skin.
You blink your eyes open.
Joel’s watch face winks back at you. His hands are over yours – bigger, wider. His fists swallow yours whole. They turn, slipping beneath your palms, and your fingers lace together.
“Joel…” you breathe, face turning in to his neck.
“Hi, sweet girl,” he says, wiping sweat from your brow.
You fall limp against his chest. “Holy shit.”
He looks exhausted. Gray, almost translucent. Looks like he’s just driven a couple hundred miles, half asleep and wholly panicked.
But – he’s here. He made it.
The sight of him, the feel of him holding you upright, melts away any anger or resolve to fight back. For now, at least. Picking an argument can wait until there isn’t a human splitting you in two.
He’s here. You’re not doing this alone.
“Holy shit,” Joel repeats. “You okay?”
“How did you get here so –?”
“Ninety-five the entire way.”
You frown. “Only ninety-five?”
“Trunk’s a hunk a’ shit,” he admits. “Couldn’t break a hundred.”
Alice scoffs, somewhere across the room.
He cradles you, his lips to your forehead. “Where we at?” he asks, staring at the paper churning from the cardiotocograph.
“Five, almost s–shit – six centimeters.” You clamp down on his hands, your uterus winding again.
Joel holds the mask back to your lips and you suck another chemical breath in. “Six? Jesus,” he gapes at Alice, “ain’t that…ain’t that real fast? For – for your first?”
Your fingers are weak and shaky, resting on his knuckles. “Your kid has a sick sense of humor,” you mutter into the silicone.
“That ain’t from me,” he says. “That’s all you, maestro.”
You turn closer into his shirt with a groan. He’s solid as a rock, swaying you through it. He’s here.
Alice swipes her coat from a hook by the door. She shakes her head, pulling it over her shoulders. “Ninety-five, Joel? Sweet Lord.”
He rolls his eyes. His hand curves around your bump. “Had a little bit of an emergency, Alice,” he says, watching your face twist with pain.
“And what if you’d had an accident?”
“I didn’t, Alice.”
“You could’ve, goin’ that damn fast. You’re lucky you’re even here.”
Joel finally looks up. “It’s four in the mornin’,” he protests, like a teenager. “Lucky if I passed five cars.”
You give him a weak smile, lowering the mask. You won’t win, you mouth.
He presses his lips to your head. “’s too much fun,” he murmurs, and you snort.
“Oh!” Alice throws a hand up. “I’m glad you find it funny!” She buttons her coat and glares back at both of you, hands on her hips.
She’s a busybody – has been since before you even moved in. She showed up on your doorstep on your first night with a casserole in hand, and made sure to get a good look at your living room before she shuffled back to her own place.
Always watching, always listening.
You never thought you’d see the day when you’d actually be thankful for her snoopiness.
“Thank you, Alice,” you say, head tilting. “For getting me here, for holding my hand…Thank you.”
Her expression thaws, eyes gleaming. With a sniff, she composes herself – and then points to Joel. “You call me as soon as that baby arrives. I won’t sleep, Joel, until you call.”
“I’ll call,” he assures.
She looks back at you. Balls her crepe paper fists, gives them a hearty shake. “Good luck, Mom,” she says, and with one last glance, slips out of the room.
Joel turns back to you, an eyebrow raised. “Take it she was out tendin’ to her tulips again?”
“Yeah,” you snicker, “one in the morning, those fuckers had to be watered.”
He chuckles. “You feelin’ okay?”
“Better now,” you tell him.
“I’m so sorry, darlin’,” he says, shaking his head. “I should’ve been here. A goddamn idiot, headin’ off like that. So damn stupid.”
“Shh, you’re here now.” You wipe the tears from the corners of his eyes. “I just needed you to be here.”
He nods. “I’m here, whatever you need. Tell me what I can do.”
You take a deep breath. “I need…”
Joel straightens – bracing, ready to jump at your first request.
“…I need a fucking break, Joel. I’m so tired, and this fucking kid –”
“Alright,” he sighs, shifting from behind you. “You and your goddamn jokes.”
You smirk, looking over your shoulder. “You missed me.”
“Hm,” he fixes the neckline of your gown, “I missed you. I really did.”
Born at 07:43. It’s a girl.
It’s like being broken open. Like splitting at the seams; your old self falling from you like shards of fruit. Separating, rolling apart; making way for someone older, wiser. Someone with all of the answers in the palm of her hand.
Mom.
You finally get it. She turns to you, finally glances over her shoulder. And she’s no stranger – no one you haven’t known your entire life. I know you, you whisper, nail trailing her smile lines and the pimples along her jaw.
I see you every time I look in the mirror.
Duckie is pulled from your body with a scream like bloody murder – a scream which matches the whimper you let out in shock, if not in volume.
The kid can scream. Jesus Christ, she can scream. It pierces the dull room; deafens you for a couple seconds the first time you hear it.
You’ve never heard a sound so fucking beautiful.
She wails as they lift her from your body. All curled-up, wriggling in the midwife’s arms. She wails as they slot her beneath your chin, as they wipe the blood and amniotic fluid from her.
She wails until the moment her skin meets yours, and as though it’s all you’ve ever known, you begin shushing her cries. Your arms close around her body, rocking her until she settles.
Her tiny hand grabs for something, for someone, for –
You.
Her mom.
“Joel,” you gasp, watching her tiny, pruned fingers clasp tight around just one of yours. “She’s…she’s so small…”
He sniffs in reply, lifting his hand from your shoulder to wipe his face.
You turn to look up at him.
He looks as broken open as you feel. Eyes bloodshot and soaking, tears streaming into his thick beard. A sob in his throat which chokes and silences him, until he catches your eye and he can’t help but laugh with elation.
“Look at her,” he weeps, all torn up by the little girl in your arms. He presses his lips to your forehead in a crash of a kiss: wet, soaking wet on your skin.
You beam up at him when he pulls away. “We did it,” you whisper.
Joel shakes his head. He runs a thumb across the damp print left on your head. “You did it, honey,” he mutters. “I was nothin’ but a spectator.”
“You almost missed the game,” you quip, and he laughs again.
Your body throbs; nearly numb with pain, heavy with fatigue and emotion. But as long as she’s here, this tiny tornado of a girl, you don’t feel a thing.
Clenching and then unclenching her fist around your finger – so delicate compared to the punches she was throwing at your ribs just six hours ago. She’s worth every fucking second of it.
You finally fucking get it.
She fits so perfectly in the crook of your arm. It feels as though your body was made just to hold her – the very shape of you, designed especially for the very shape of her.
You wonder whether it was the same for your mom. Whether you came along and made her feel whole, for the first time in her life.
Duckie’s eyes open – all glossy and brand new, blinking up at the both of you like she needed no introduction. She already knows you, from the inside out. Her dad’s graying beard, the threads of silver around his temples. Her mom’s tear-stained cheeks, eyes red and bleary with sleeplessness and pure love.
You’re Mom, you’re Dad.
It’s all she’s ever known.
The pillow sighs as you lean back into it. The doctor begins repairing the damage done between your legs; threading and knitting your body back together.
You’re caught between a state of bliss and shock. Your brain is doing much the same work to itself as the woman between your knees is. Patching over all the bloody parts: the screams which tore your skin, the pain which cracked your teeth.
None of it holds a candle to the weight of her in your arms. No matter how tired you are, you can’t take your eyes off her. Her puffy cheeks, the little creases between her brows. No matter how sore, you never want to let go of her.
Joel runs a finger down Duckie’s cheek. “Ain’t she the most beautiful thing in the world?”
“I love her,” you say, bubbling again. “I love her more than anything.”
An hour old, and she’s already a daddy’s girl.
Joel ambles back and forth at the foot of your bed in the recovery suite, bouncing Duck in his arms. He’s never looked so relaxed, so natural at something. He’s never seemed so content, so peaceful.
Everything he’s ever made with his hands – structures and framework and your goddamn closet – and yet this, this tiny accident, this baby girl you were so sure you’d dreamt up right up until an hour ago –
This is the thing he’s proudest of.
Morning lifts through the windows, all soft and vanilla. It floats around him, sunlight spilling across his skin and breathing life and color into him.
Sunlight – or his daughter. They’re the same thing, anyway.
You pull apart a slice of toast, watching. Just watching. Sweet strawberry jam on your tongue, the flavor of everything sharper, fresher. The colors brighter, more vivid.
The world makes more sense like this, you think. Painted in shades of honey and ochre; a room in a corner of the world where time slows to a halt. A soft lullaby from his lips, and the little coos from hers.
The ache of love and labor lingers deep inside you, and nothing has ever made more sense.
You suck the sticky sweet from your fingertips.
Joel looks up, toying with Duckie’s hand. “You want her back?” he asks, a dumb grin on his face.
You shake your head. “I like watching you.”
He scrunches his nose, nuzzling it against his daughter’s, and whispers, “I wasn’t gonna give you back, anyways.” He sways in the early light, staring down at her. “Jesus,” he mutters, swiping at his eyes again, “I didn’t…I didn’t know I could love somethin’ this much.”
“Me, either.”
He drifts over, lowering himself slowly onto the edge of the bed. He extends his elbow, still cradling the baby, and helps you pull yourself upright.
You hiss, a not-so-subtle sting between your legs.
“You, uh…you think of a name yet?” Joel asks.
“Not yet,” you reply, hooked onto his shoulder. Duck blows a bubble and you wipe it with your knuckle. “I thought we were sticking with Duckie?”
His cheeks swell. The sun kisses the edges of his beard. “I thought of one,” he says softly. “Maybe. It’s your call.”
You yawn into his shirt, the warmth of him calm and soothing. “Alright, Miller. Hit me.”
He looks down at the baby nestled in his safe hands. The smallest thing either of you have ever seen.
The name must roll around his head a few times, the way he tilts to-and-fro – looking at her from one angle, then the next. Deciding, when he pulls back, that she suits it from every direction. Like it was her name long before he or even you knew it.
You watch his lips shape the name before you hear it.
Sarah.
And for what feels like forever, you just stare at him. The syllables lingering in the air like glistening specks of dust in a sunbeam. Your eyes follow them down to your daughter, now sleeping peacefully with two hands around one of her dad’s thumbs.
“Sarah,” you repeat, remembering whose name it was, whose name it is – whose name it has always been. “Sarah Miller.”
Joel’s shoulders lift. “What do you think? She look worthy of bein’ a Sarah?”
The rustle of tissue paper. Blue and green and purple tearing between your fingers. The funny fuzz of pom poms as your hands rummaged through the bag. Her hand swimming towards you, an orange foam fish riding the waves between her fingers. Bubbly sounds erupting from her lips.
Your girlish giggle. Her silly grin. Hopscotch along the sidewalk; stopping to look for cars before she’d walk you across the street. How much do I love you, baby girl?
More than the whole world, Mama.
“I love it,” you breathe, tears running to the corners of your mouth. “Sarah fucking Miller.”
“Sarah fuckin’ Miller,” Joel echoes; two wet lines the same as yours, curving down his cheeks. He shifts her into the crook of his arm.
You’re impossibly close. Your chin rests on his shoulder, foreheads brushing when you lean in to each other. His breath is hot on your lips, closer and closer and closer until –
He tastes like salt, rich with emotion. Salt, and then sweet when your tongue meets his. He lifts his free hand to cup your cheek, and your fingers link around his wrist.
And you know you shouldn’t be doing it – know this isn’t your man to be kissing. But in this room, where no one else can see – where it’s just you, him, and all the best parts of yourselves shaped into someone better – he feels like yours.
Just for a moment.
Joel takes the first week of Sarah’s life off work.
He spends a good twenty minutes on the phone to the contractor, talking more about the kid than he does the job. Her eyelashes, her fingernails, the way her legs scrunch anytime he lifts her up.
He’s besotted with the entire thing. And he tells everybody so.
He moves in with you both, stays in your guestroom. It’s a week of no sleep, no peace, and a total of three showers between you. Wearing the same clothes covered in spit-up and drool until one of you has the time or energy to do laundry.
It’s hard. It’s the hardest thing you’ve ever done. By your count, you’ve already cried three times to Joel – terrified you’re getting it all wrong.
But you’re doing it. Jesus God, you’re doing it.
You order takeout most nights. You can’t stand long enough to cook just yet, and you don’t trust Joel not to burn your fucking kitchen down – despite his protests. And it feels like, after everything your body’s given you, it deserves a greasy pizza and some chicken wings.
You rot on the couch together, watching shitty TV and arguing over reruns of Jeopardy! – until Sarah wakes and the whole thing begins again.
Joel loses the game of rock, paper, scissors tonight.
“Shh, baby girl. ‘s alright now, I gotcha,” he lulls, tucking her back in to her bassinet.
She fusses and stretches out; arms over her head, legs curled up. Her onesie is still a little too big – the socked feet all baggy, the sleeves rolled up her wrists.
He lingers for a moment as she drifts off, a hand stroking her tummy. Watching, always watching her. The rise and fall of her stomach, the puffs of breath from her nostrils, her lips still suckling away in her sleep.
“I swear I have a baby photo that looks just like her,” you say. “Same nose and everything.”
Joel clicks his teeth. “Got her looks from her mom. Lucky thing.”
“Low-hanging fruit,” you snort.
He drifts back over, sinking into the couch at your side. “Doin’ okay?” he asks, and you nod.
Every muscle in your body still feels like a ton weight. Your stomach is still swollen; there are still stitches between your legs. There are moments you can’t tell if you’re crying because of hormones, exhaustion, or joy.
Every time, it’s a combination of all three.
Life before feels so long ago – and it hasn’t even been a fortnight. But then you held her for the first time, and now – your arm misses the weight of her when she’s not in it. Your house feels eerily quiet when she’s not laughing, or whimpering, or screaming the fucking roof down.
You can feel your daughter growing up already, and she’s only ten days old.
On the mantelpiece, safe in a stippled gold frame, your mom beams down over her. The photo at least twenty years old, the memory even older. Laughing, the way she always was; nothing quite so funny as a joke frozen in time.
Joel prods you with his elbow. “She’d be proud of you, you know. Your mom.”
“Oh,” you scoff, “no, she’d be like, Holy shit. This kid totally kicked your ass.”
He chuckles. “Sure she did,” he shrugs, “she’s your kid.”
The TV babbles to itself across the room. In its glow, Joel meets your eye. A tiny, pearly fleck swimming in deep honey.
It’s familiar – each shade of bronze in his eyes, each thread of silver through his hair. Like you’ve mapped each and every line on his skin, collecting them like the sleepless hours between you.
Everything about him feels so normal. Burnt toast in the morning, a spoon clinking around a mug of coffee. The rustle of the newspaper, the sizzle of eggs in the pan, the baby snoring on your chest.
Everything – and yet nothing you’ve ever known.
“I miss her,” you whisper. “I miss my mom.”
His hand finds yours instantly. “I know, baby. I know you do.”
You slouch down, leaning on his shoulder, and close your eyes. Joel presses his lips to the crown of your head, his thumb looping around your knuckles.
Sarah gurgles in her sleep. She sighs – a satisfied little sound. Nothing has ever made more sense.
His voice rumbles against your skull. “Who sent the lilies?”
Your eyes flutter open. “Hm?”
Joel flicks his finger towards the window, towards a sprawl of speckled, cream flowers. “The lilies? They weren’t there this morning.”
“Oh…” You turn to look up at him, cringing.
He sees the flicker of her behind your eyes. Her lustrous curtain of hair, her perfect almond nails.
“Really?” Joel asks, mirroring your expression.
You nod, trying not to laugh. “From her and Kate. You were upstairs with Sarah when she came by. I offered to call you down, but – she just wanted to drop ‘em and go.”
“What did she…? Did she say anything?”
Your head shakes. “She just…she said congratulations, said she hoped we were okay. Then she got in her car and she left. I kinda figured things weren’t sunshine and roses, anyway. You haven’t fuckin’ seen her since Houston.”
He snorts, fingers massaging his eyes. “I was goin’ to tell you,” he mumbles into his palms, “I just…Honey, I don’t even know what day of the week it is right now. I’m sorry.”
“You don’t have to tell me anything,” you mutter.
“Yes, I do,” he insists. His eyes flit over to Sarah, then back to you. “We haven’t really talked it through yet, me ‘n her. I called her a few days ago, we agreed it’s time. It – it’s past time. I shoulda called it months ago.”
“I guess,” you sigh. “Are you okay?”
Joel’s brow furrows. “’course I am. I got the most beautiful baby girl in the world,” and then, rolling his eyes, “you’re here.”
“Oh, fuck you,” you clip, batting his arm. “Vanessa could do way better, anyways.”
“I don’t doubt it.”
You squeeze his fingers, softly adding, “I’m sorry it didn’t work out, Joel.”
He stares down at your clasped hands. He looks tired, worn out. You figure it’s not just from the newborn. But he takes a deep breath, something the color of relief dawning on his skin, and looks you dead in the eye.
“I’m not.”
“Hey, Duckie – can you say, Happy birthday, Daddy?”
A vinyl wobbles on the turntable – some acoustic record from when Joel was a teenager. There’s wrapping paper still crumpled beneath the coffee table; four plates with more crumbs than cake left, dotted around the room.
Tommy leans in, a lopsided party hat on his head, and tickles Sarah’s chin.
She blinks at him, unamused, then scrunches her little nose and turns back into your chest.
He sighs, straightening. “She don’t like her uncle Tommy all that much,” he grumbles, sulking back over to the couch. Maria puts a consoling arm around his shoulder.
You rest your lips on Sarah’s head, breathing in her sweet scent. Swaying back and forth, you tease, “She don’t like anyone all that much, not unless they’re her daddy.”
Joel’s head lifts and he smiles, eyes glistening. He watches you and Sarah dance; laughs when you twirl her around and she tips her head back, flashing a gummy grin.
“She’ll come around to ya,” he tells Tommy, wandering over to your side. “We all learned to, eventually.”
Tommy scoffs. “Very funny, old man. Jesus.”
Joel stoops down to let Sarah run her small hands through his beard. He catches her fingertips between his lips and pretends to nibble on them.
She giggles, squirming in your arms. Her fingers find the sweeps of hair on his forehead and, taking a fistful, she tugs.
“Christ,” Joel hisses, pulling back.
“That was on you this time,” you chuckle, pointing a finger. “You know she does that, and you still fall for it.”
Maria glances down at her watch. “Is that the time?” she asks, turning to Tommy. “We should really turn in.”
“Oh – right, right.” Tommy tips the last of his beer into his mouth. “We’re takin’ Mom to brunch tomorrow. Better get some goddamn rest.”
Joel hums, still massaging his hairline. “Hey,” he whispers, elbowing you. “Maybe I should take her over. She’s getting sleepy – ain’t you, little Duck?”
“Oh, yeah.”
Tommy stands and holds a hand out. “Why don’t you let Maria and I take her? We’ll tuck her in, keep an eye on her. We weren’t half bad the other day, while y’all were at work. And if she’s stayin’ at Joel’s tonight anyway…”
You glance to Joel, who shrugs. Something shaped like Sure.
“As long as you don’t mind,” you reply, bouncing the baby slowly. “Let me go grab her things.”
Joel’s hand slips across the small of your back as you pass, making for the stairs. He lingers at the bottom, watching until you turn into the nursery with Sarah in the crook of your arm.
You set her down in her crib and gather some of her favorites: a yellow blanket, a duck comforter, a rattle shaped like an elephant. She watches contentedly as you shuffle back and forth, staring when you lean over the wooden rail.
“You know how much I love you?” you whisper, curling a finger inside her fist. She squeezes, and you say, “More than the whole world.”
She grabs at the chain dangling from your neck, the letter S catching the light. Instead, she lifts your finger to her mouth. Her nails scratch light as a feather across your skin. Her gums are tiny and soft around your knuckle.
Everything about her is tiny and soft. Her sweeping eyelashes, her plushy cheeks. Her round tummy, and the squeals she lets free as you dot kisses and blow raspberries all over it. No matter how much she’s grown in three months, she’s still so tiny.
She’ll always be the smallest, sweetest thing you’ve ever known. And she’s all yours.
“Jesus, kid,” you sniff, swiping at your tears. You slip your hands around her back and prop her on your hip. “Alright, let’s go. Quit making your mom cry.”
The bag over your shoulder, you carry her out of the room and into the dark hallway. It’s quiet downstairs; nothing but the crackle of the record player, the distant chink of dishes in the kitchen.
That – and hushed voices in the living room.
“Joel,” Tommy says, over and over again. He’s trying to cut in between his brother’s rambling. Joel – listen to me. Just listen, for one second –”
You linger on the bottom step, trying to split Joel’s voice from Tommy’s. Trying to pluck the words out, over Maria’s humming from the next room.
“…and it ain’t that simple, Tommy it’s –”
“What ain’t simple about it? You have a –” Tommy says it through his teeth, “– you have a kid together, Joel. You really think she’s gonna –”
Sarah grabs the charm around your neck and shakes suddenly, rattling the chain.
You close your hand around hers, losing your balance. “Shhhhit, Duckie, you –”
Joel’s eyes snap to your figure as you step down. He clears his throat, leaning away from Tommy. “Hey – hey, darlin’.”
“Hey,” you reply. Bright. Chipper. Unclenching your fist to let your daughter shake your necklace some more.
She squeals with delight when she spots Joel across the room.
“She ready to go?” he asks, slinging a quick – telling – look at Tommy.
You look between the brothers, browns quirking. They look as guilty as each other: scratching their beards, staring at the furniture instead of you. “Uhuh,” you reply, tongue against your teeth. “Everything…everything okay?”
Tommy slaps his thighs as he stands. “Everything’s great, sweetheart. Sure as shit. Joel – you, uh…you got a key on ya?”
“Oh, yep.” Joel reaches into his pocket. He unhooks a silver key from the chain and drops it into his brother’s open palm.
Tommy calls for Maria. He sidesteps around you, face flushed and smiling.
She floats through from the kitchen, drying her palms on her jeans. “Where’s my baby duck?” she sings, reaching for Sarah.
You pass her over and she melts into her aunt’s arms, curling up into a little pink lump on her chest. “She just had a feed, like, twenty minutes ago, so – she should go down pretty well. And there are more bottles in Joel’s fridge, if you need ‘em.”
Maria nods, wrapping Sarah’s blanket around her. She lifts the bag strap from your shoulder and hands it to Tommy. “I’ll text you as soon as she’s down. Come on, Duckie, let’s get you to bed.”
Tommy leans over and squeezes your arm, winking as he follows his wife. He calls goodnight to Joel, lifting a pointed finger over his head, and closes the door behind them.
Things could not have gone smoother.
It’s suspicious as shit.
You turn when you hear Joel shifting.
“C’mon,” he utters, a pile of plates in one hand. “I ain’t leavin’ you with this mess.” He heads through to the kitchen, broad figure swaying.
The plates spill into the sink, water trickling over them. Joel hums to himself as he gets to work with a sponge in hand.
You linger in the living room.
Things have been good lately – peaceful. You’re in as much of a routine as Sarah will allow: a steady pattern of dropping her off and picking her back up, patchwork family dinners, daytrips whenever both of you can make them.
Your body is healing, pulling itself back together. You don’t have to think about being Mom anymore – she walks in stride with you. The world is painted a new shade of normal – one where you can do anything with a baby on your hip, one where love becomes your first language.
One where you swallow back the ache in your heart, for better or for worse. The only piece of you still fractured. The only wound left open.
Joel’s birthday cards lie flat on the coffee table. You pluck them up one by one – his parents’, Tommy and Maria’s, yours – and Sarah’s.
A messy splotch of a handprint, bright yellow paint smeared across half the fucking card (she hasn’t quite mastered self-control yet). A googly eye plastered to the bird’s chest; orange crayon for the beak and legs.
Sure, you took charge for most of the project – but when he opened it and saw his daughter’s little masterpiece, you caught him swiping his knuckle at the corner of his eye. He snuggled into her, perched on his lap, and whispered, Thank you, little Duckie.
You prop them along your mantelpiece, dotted around your mom’s photo. When you step back, looking from son to brother to…a good friend, you could almost pretend.
Almost pretend that they belong here, on this mantelpiece. There is no yours and his. Just one of everything; nothing doubled nor halved.
Almost pretend that he won’t collect them as he leaves, break into another teary laugh at the sight of the duck painting, and then kiss your cheek goodnight. Promise to have your daughter back in time to go swimming tomorrow morning.
Almost.
“Hey,” Joel calls, “did you, uh – did you hear Tommy talkin’ about Jackson?”
You slip into the kitchen, side by side with him at the sink. “Uh, yeah,” you reply, lifting a towel. “Moose, pine trees. Yep.”
“It sounds beautiful. You think we should take a trip up there sometime? Could be Sarah’s first vacation.”
“You mean the three of us?”
He shrugs, scrubbing a bowl in the water. “Sure. I don’t think Duckie would let one of us stay behind, do you? She’d scream the damn airport down,” he chuckles, looking back to the twinkling bubbles.
You hum. “Maybe.”
“You don’t feel like it?”
“No, I do. I just – I don’t know. Maybe someday.”
“Okay,” Joel says, nodding. “Put a pin in it.”
He passes you a dripping plate and you drag the towel over it, circling the pattern until the suds are wiped clean. And another, and another.
It feels awkward. It feels stiff. There’s something hanging between you, heavy on both your shoulders. A weight you haven’t felt around Joel in over a year.
You turn to him as he stacks the last plate on the draining board. “Is that what you were talking to Tommy about?”
Joel pauses. “You heard that, huh?”
“Only the part about having a kid. It’s none of my business, I know, I just –”
“Actually,” he clears his throat, “it’s plenty your business.”
He leans back against the counter and crosses his arms. A deep breath, cheeks puffing as he exhales. His grip on the dish towel whitens his knuckles.
He’s…nervous. The same shade of gray he wore the night you went into labor.
He takes another unsteady breath.
“Joel?” you ask, head tilting. “Whatever it is, you can say it. I got whiskey, if that’ll make it easier. Probably tastes like shit, but…”
His expression cracks. His eyes twinkle, and he smiles. Only a little, but enough. Enough to let the words slip through.
“You know, that night at Tommy’s wedding was one of the best nights of my life.”
Your heartbeat thuds a bassline in your ears; the rush of your blood the squealing guitar. Skin tacky, moans caught between teeth. Laughter and lust tangling together in the air.
“Yeah?” you ask.
Joel nods. “Yeah. Lying there – talking, laughing, messin’ around. I don’t think I’ve ever laughed that hard in all my life. I could’ve stayed in that room with you forever.”
Your eyes start to sting. You look away.
“I thought I would regret it. I thought I should regret it. And I never did. But then,” he takes a deep breath, “the next day, I look out front, and my newspaper’s sittin’ on my lawn. And for two weeks straight, I kept checking – and there it was. I thought, Sure as shit, she regrets the whole thing. I thought you never wanted to see me again.”
You shake your head. “I wanted to see you again. I missed – I missed you. Missed pissin’ you off.”
He laughs. “I missed you pissin’ me off. Missed that annoying as hell thud on my porch.”
“I didn’t know if you wanted me to – you know,” you admit, and Joel nods.
“We got pretty good at avoidin’ each other,” he grumbles. “And then – with Vanessa, I thought I’d be doin’ you a favor. Letting you off light.”
“You…you took her number to do me a favor?”
“Naw,” Joel says. “I took her number ‘cause her brother in-law has a lumber company, and I had a closet to build. I was drunk, I was an idiot, and I brought it up to her at the wedding. By the time I thought it through, you ‘n I weren’t speakin’.”
You stare at him, jaw slack. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
He shakes his head. He edges closer to you. Voice low, he says, “I shouldn’t’ve gone out on that first date with her. I shouldn’t’ve done any of it. I should’ve talked to you about what I was feeling.”
“Well, maybe we both should’ve,” you mutter, wringing your hands. “I wasn’t exactly the best at it, either.”
His head tips, considering. “Can I tell you now?”
You glance over to him. “Tell me what, Miller?”
“Tell you…tell you that I love you,” he whispers.
It steals the breath from your lungs. One clean swipe.
He nods to himself, then – certain of it – and says it again. “I do, darlin’. I love you.”
Your heart begins to hammer. Tears spill over onto your cheeks, dripping from your jaw.
“And, look –” Joel takes your wrists, “– I got no right to say any of that, I know. I put you through a hell of a lot, these last few months – and that kills me. But if you’ll let me, I swear to you – I’ll make it up to you. I’ll take care of you for the rest of my life.”
You look up. His cheeks are dappled, too – glistening with tears. “Joel…” you weep.
He cups your jaw. “Listen to me. What we’ve had, the last three months – I want it all the time. I want you, and I want Duck. I want the three of us under one roof. I want to sleep in the same bed as you.”
You breathe a shuddered laugh. Your hands fall over his wrists. Keep talking, you mouth, bottom lip trembling.
“I want to get married, or not,” Joel says. “I want to show up to Tommy and Maria’s anniversary party late, ‘cause Duck couldn’t pick which shoes she wanted to wear. I want to have more kids, take ‘em on vacation.”
“Wyoming?” you sniff.
“Wyoming,” he repeats. “I want…I want all of it, baby. You ‘n me. I want you ‘n me, more than anything in the world. And if I’m too late, then you can tell me. Tell me, and I swear on my life I will never mention it again.”
Your hands curve over his. His strong knuckles, worked and weathered and worn by his years. Down to his wrists – the tatty strap on his ages-old watch, the dark hair peppered along his arms.
“I love you so much, baby. So much that it drives me insane. You drive me…fuckin’ insane.”
“Oh, fuck you,” you whisper, balling your fists against his chest.
Joel laughs, nose brushing against yours. “Yeah,” he sniffs, “I figured you’d say som’ like that.”
“I love you, too,” you mumble, linking your arms around his neck. “Shit, I love you.”
“Ain’t that a thing?” he says, and his lips are on yours.
It’s been a year. A year since the first time you felt him – lips soft as velvet, sweet with alcohol and something stronger. His tongue and yours, his teeth and yours. Every part of you clashing with every part of him.
And goddamn, you’ve missed it.
Joel follows you upstairs, pinning you to the wall by your bedroom door. White heat flooding through your veins, he kneels before you and pulls you onto his tongue.
He’s hungry.
He laps at you as though you’ll be gone in the morning. As though he won’t wake up tangled in you, breathing in your scent, lips on your skin.
Dusk seeps in at the edges of your vision; daylight draining from the sky. It’s dark, too dark to see him clearly, but you feel him fucking everywhere.
His beard grazes the inside of your thigh. He kisses where he scratches your skin. He holds your hips steady, tongue dipping in and out.
“You know how fuckin’ sweet you taste?” he growls, slipping inside again.
He looks so good between your legs. Like he was made for it – made for you. All yours, in ways you never really understood until now.
He brings you to the edge with his tongue flat against your clit. Holding your hips firm against his mouth, groaning with you as you fall.
You come with a broken moan. Hips stutter to a halt, legs fall wide open. The warmth in your belly spills over and rushes to every corner of your body.
Joel moans, tongue still lapping as your cunt pulses all over him. “Good fuckin’ girl,” he slurs, watching you come undone.
He stands, a chaste kiss to your lips, and then parts them with his tongue. “Taste good?” he mumbles, kissing you gently.
Yeah, you think, moaning against him, it tastes fucking good.
He spreads you out on your mattress and kisses what feels like every square inch of your body. You giggle at the feeling of his lips behind your ear; moan when they close around your nipple.
Your back arches; little lightning bolts as he pulls the buds to a peak. Your fingers knot through his hair; hissing at the meeting of pain and pleasure between Joel’s lips.
“I love you,” you whisper, when he settles between your legs. You don’t know that you’ve felt something so true in all your life.
He smiles. Your fingers trace the lines at his eyes.
“Come here,” he says, and pulls your hips to meet his.
You curve a hand around his neck, glancing down at your open legs. “Looks a little different to the last time you saw her.”
Joel shakes his head, licking his lips. “Beautiful, baby. She looks so goddamn beautiful.”
Each movement is careful, deliberate. He notches his tip at your hole and pauses until you’re looking at him again.
And then he pushes in.
He slips an arm under your head; the other holding your thigh on his waist. He kisses you as you stretch around him. He still tastes like salt and slick.
You gasp, teeth gritting around a hiss. “Fuck,” you whimper, turning in to his chest.
“Easy, easy,” Joel coos, voice rumbling against your temple. “Catch your breath. Doin’ so good.”
“It’s not sore,” you tell him, nodding for him to move again. “It’s…it’s just…different.”
“Tighter,” he groans, eyes on your cunt as it draws his cock in.
You agree, “Tighter.”
He catches you in another kiss, his tongue slipping between your lips. “Feel so good, sweet girl. Breathe. ‘m right here.”
It’s never felt like this before. This gentle, this tender.
You have never felt like this before. Broken open, stitched back together. Your heart split into two – whole again each time his body meets yours.
Joel catches your moans on his tongue. He steadies his pace; rocking into you over and over. Laughing against your lips; your fingers intertwined with his.
“Feel good?” he pants.
Your head rolls back. “Mhm.”
“Take it, baby. Such a tight little thing.”
“Joel,” you cry, “I’m close.”
His teeth nip at your neck. “Shit,” his hips jump, “attagirl. Just like that.” He thrusts into you harder, bleeding the color from your vision.
You pull his lips to yours, foreheads tacky. Joel’s eyes gloss over.
I love you, he breathes.
And the world whitens.
He pulls you against his chest when you come back around. Shifts up the headboard, skin all sticky and warm. He kisses your temples, kisses your shoulders, kisses your knuckles.
You melt into his grasp, turning to look up at him. You run your fingers over his lips, through his damp hair. Just staring. Drinking him all in.
“You were right next door, the entire time,” you whisper.
He runs a thumb across your cheek. “Yep.”
“Do you think we wasted too much time?”
Joel’s lip turns. “Nah,” he says. “We found our way.”
“Needed a little help, though.”
He scoffs, tongue between his teeth. “I’m sure she’ll hold it against us forever.”
You think of that evening in August. The last bow of the sun before your world changed forever. Of deals struck and promises made. Of satin on your fingertips – newspaper ink and duck egg silk.
You think of that photograph on your mantelpiece. Bright eyes watching every second of it. A smile on her face the entire time.
You laugh to yourself. Joel looks down and kisses your swollen cheek.
“We should go,” he taps your thigh, “got a little duck who’ll be wonderin’ where her mama and daddy are.”
The church tower rings out twice as the truck purrs between graves.
Joel pulls up under the shade of a sycamore, tires rolling to a halt. Sarah kicks her feet, her heels thudding against her car seat.
“Mama,” she presses a sticky finger to the back window, “flowers.”
“Yeah, baby,” you call over your shoulder, hugging your own graveside gift a little tighter in your arms. “Lots of ‘em, huh?”
“Yeah,” your daughter quietly considers, then kicks her seat again.
Joel waits patiently for you to give him the go ahead. He slips a hand around your knee, looking ahead at the rows of headstones. So patient, so gentle.
Your chest swells, a deep breath filling your lungs, and you nod. “Alright.”
“Sure?” he asks. “Take as long as you want, darlin’.”
But if you wait any longer, you’ll never leave. The paper wrap crinkles in your arms. “You take Duck,” you reply, “I’ll take…”
Joel lifts your hand, placing a soft kiss between your knuckles. “You got it. We’ll walk on.”
He leaves you in the truck to collect yourself. He unbuckles Sarah and sets her loose, following her across the grass with his hands in his pockets.
Her light-up sneakers flash as she sprints; head tossed back, toothless smile pointed to the sun. She turns back to her dad, her little hand fitting perfectly into his.
Made for each other.
You hook your fingers around the handle and leave the truck.
Their grave is a short walk down a grassy slope, sheltered by another towering tree. Its leaves flutter down around you as you near the stone; stray petals which catch in the breeze and lead the way.
You kneel down, the grass dry and prickly through your jeans. “Hi, Mom,” you whisper, sweeping some dust from the base of the grave. “Hi, Dad.”
Your grandma picked this spot. She’s long gone – laid to rest elsewhere with a grandfather you never met – so you try to visit as often as you can. Freshen the flowers, brighten up the stone.
It fucking sucks, but someone’s gotta do it.
You peel the brown paper from the bouquet, exposing the soft colors Sarah picked back in the florist. They fit perfectly on the stone, right beneath the words Devoted parents.
Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, a feeling that wraps itself around your throat and steals any other words – until a flash of pink catches your attention.
“Duckie,” Joel calls, following her between graves. “Hey. This is a cem…Hey, Duck, listen – this is a cemetery, we gotta be – Sarah!”
You stifle a laugh, watching him jog after the hoodie tied around her waist. He swipes for her hand and she dodges him, ducking between graves faster than his mid-fifties joints can turn him.
There’s no one else here – it’s only you. And it’s a quiet enough place as it is, so – you let her laugh. Let him chase her, and let her sneakers light the place in pink. What else is there to do?
“Sorry it’s been a little while,” you tell your parents, eyes still on your man.
He’s kneeling now, Sarah on his thigh, in front of a tall, cross-shaped stone. They’re pointing at the words on the stone, her inquisitive eyes studying each one.
“I know I said I’d come visit for Dad’s birthday, but I guess things got busy – what with the move and all. We’re still living out of boxes. But the girls’ rooms are almost done – we just gotta paint ‘em.”
You look back down to the stone. Your mom’s name carved deep into spotted marble, your dad’s underneath. One awful date to tie them both together.
Dad probably heard Duck’s first squeal and turned away; gone back to whatever boring activity he might get up to in the afterlife. But your mom, you know for certain, is sat with her chin on the heel of her palm. Watching her mini-me trace the shapes of words, squirming when Joel presses his lips to her temple and whispers hints to her.
She’s probably smiling, making some comment about how big Sarah’s getting. How smart she is, how funny. How she must keep you and Joel on your toes – and goddamn, she’s right.
“Joel’s been working on the kitchen,” you continue. “I left my phone in the truck, but you should see it, Mom. He got these marble countertops, these little brushed-gold handles. He wrote our names on the wall before he tiled it, so whoever remodels after we’re gone will find that. The four of us.”
“M-meh-mem-orr-mem-or-ree?” Sarah tilts her head.
Joel nods. “Memory, yeah. Good job, Duck.”
“Duckie’s good,” you tell your mom. “She’s top of her class in – well, everything. Really wiping the floor with all the other first-graders. She’d have been your favorite – I know that much. And you’d have been hers.
“She’s gonna be some kind of lawyer, we think. Social justice and all that. She likes to be a woman of the people. Always talkin’ back to Joel – she hardly cuts him any slack, these days,” you laugh.
“He’s good, too – Joel. Working hard, as usual. Tommy and Maria visited last week – they brought Buckley, and now Duck won’t stop goin’ on about us getting a dog.”
You chance a glance over the stone, making sure the pair are out of earshot when you add, “Don’t tell her, but we called the pound last night. We’re heading there tomorrow while she’s at school to pick one out for her birthday. Joel’s giddier than I think Sarah’s gonna be.”
Joel’s carrying Duck now, wandering down a wobbly row of graves.
She halts him by pointing to one. “N-eh-v-eh-never…fff-or-g-for–”
He stares at her, a grin breaking across his lips. “Sound it out, that’s it. ‘s a big word, baby girl. You got it.”
The world seems to blur around them. The birds sing, a light melody from overhead. The green trees sway across the blue of the sky; the straight soar of cars on the highway. It all fades into the background, behind the two of them – wandering from shade into brilliant sun.
Your family. Your man, your blood – and everything in between. The little girl who brought it all together in the end – leading her dad by hand over knolls and broken stone, chasing butterflies, and asking what eh-teh-err-nal means.
“Means forever,” Joel says, kneeling beside her. “’s how long I’m gonna love you for.”
“And Nel?”
“And Nel.”
“And Mama?”
“And Mama.”
Sarah runs her hands through his beard, swaying side to side. “But me the most,” she concludes, nodding.
Joel hms, biting back a laugh. He lifts his chin, asks the little girl whether or not he’s going gray.
She has the same ridiculous laugh you do. The same snort you used to find so embarrassing, until you heard it come from her.
Just watching them stokes the already burning fire in your ribcage – the warmth flooding around your heart. He’s so good at it – being a dad.
Was he ever anything else, before he was a father? You can’t remember a time you didn’t wake up next to him, wrapped up in his arms, or with one of his kids burrowed between your bodies. It all feels so long ago, now.
He wanted to do everything. He’d lie with you between his legs, holding your half-sleeping form upright while you fed her. He’d race home after work specially to bathe her. He picked up any and every single duck-themed thing that he came across.
And what were you? Mom felt like such a fucking longshot. So out of your reach that you couldn’t understand the meaning of the word.
But there are days when she says it – Sarah, looking up at you with Joel’s twinkling eyes and a smirk which matches yours – and it’s like you’ve been waiting your whole life to hear it. Like you’ve been waiting your whole life for her.
Well. Her, and her little sister.
“And, uh – another thing,” you say, reaching for the plastic handle of a car seat. “I brought somebody for you to meet.”
A clumsy fist shoots up to shake a speckled dinosaur toy – the brown spheres of its eyes catching the sunlight. She squeals with delight when you unbuckle her, kicks her legs the same way her sister always did.
“She’s a little nervous, ain’t you, Nel?” you whisper, laughing at her gummy smile and tiny, socked feet. “She spit up on herself on the way here, but – I think you’re gonna love her.”
You perch the baby on your thigh, same as Joel did with Sarah, and she wraps her fingers around one of yours. You wiggle it – waving to your mom’s name, to the petals gently fluttering in the breeze.
“Mom,” you sniff, “this is Ellie.”
#joel miller#joel miller fic#joel miller x reader#joel miller smut#the last of us#tlou#macfrog#neighbor!joel miller#babydaddy!joel miller#tw pregnancy
1K notes
·
View notes
Text
"Isn't she gorgeous?"
Natasha Romanoff x Reader
Requested
Warnings: 18+ content, breast sucking, fingering (R receiving), orgasm denial, strap-on use (R receiving), cock-sucking, vaginal sex, degrading, praising, profanity
Summary: Your husband, Steve Rogers, has been romantically and sexually starving you ever since he became an Avenger. After borrowing money from notorious crime leader, Natasha Romanoff, she breaks into your house to get what she's owed. However, when she finds you, his gorgeous wife innocently asleep next to him, you catch her interest and her plans change instantly.
Pairings: top dom!Natasha Romanoff x bottom sub!reader, Steve Rogers x Reader (nothing romantic or sexual happens)
Trigger Warnings: blood, gun wound, reference to implied SA (blink and you'll miss it).
“Y/n?” you nearly sent the plate in your hand flying to the floor, dropping it into the washing bowl before spinning around to see your husband in the doorway. You shook your head, sure that your eyes were deceiving you. He was never here even when he promised, never mind three weeks early.
“Steve,” you said, drying your hands and rushing over to him but before you could pull him into a hug, he caught a hold of your shoulders to stop you. His touch sent a stab of pain into your chest and you were snapped back to reality, falling away from the lingers of a past moment you had momentarily forgotten wasn’t your present. You straightened your figure and took a step back, looking up at the man that had once been the light of your life, a guide in the darkness, someone special to share all the good with but now, he could’ve been a stranger.
You had been married for three years, together for five and the first few years would be the most treasured moments of your life. But ever since he had become an Avenger, it had consumed his sole purpose.
Steve was always out fighting, carving his mark, making the world proud of his heroism while you stayed at home doing chores and completing mindless activities to pass the time. There was once a time where you could’ve sworn you saw Universes in his eyes. Now, his skin had been drained of colour and his eyes were rimmed with red as if he were a ghost that was forever cursed to haunt his loved ones. “What are you doing here?” you quizzed.
“I’m sorry," he said, bowing his head, “I’ve got into a bit of trouble, I wanted to make sure you were safe.” You frowned.
“What trouble?” you questioned, “is there a villain after you? Can’t the Avengers help you?” You didn’t even bother hiding the bitterness in my voice. They were clearly everything he ever needed, what use were you to him? He sighed.
“Not exactly,” he said, “we should probably sit down.” You followed him into the dining room with caution in your steps, not taking your eyes off him. The walls were a fading, off-white, elaborate flowers twisted between leaves and detailed patterns, wooden panelling running along across the bottom. The light fixture in the centre was brass with three upturned light bulbs, the dining tables and chairs a polished rosewood. Steve had wanted the room like this because it reminded him of his Grandmother. It was awkward to clean and there was always a build of dust in here. You took a seat opposite him.
“What’s going on?” you said. He scratched the back of his neck.
“I know what you’re going to think but… alright I’ll just tell you. I took out a loan from someone a bit dodgy and I haven’t quite paid them back.” You raised an eyebrow.
“What’s ‘haven’t quite’ supposed to mean?” you said, raising your voice.
“I haven’t paid them back, okay?” he exclaimed, “look, all I wanted to do was buy you a new house, I wanted to make you happy since you hate this one so much. I don’t see anything wrong with wanting to spoil my girl.” Generosity – the easiest attainable remedy for guilt.
“Well, I see something wrong with borrowing money you can’t pay back, especially from somebody that can put you and other people in danger,” you said, pushing yourself onto your feet, “what were you thinking Steve?” He slammed his fists onto the table and you jumped, your heart thumping against your ribcage.
“Listen, I thought I would have the money by now. It’s not my fault I can’t see into the future, you know I wouldn’t have even thought about it if I knew.” You closed your eyes, exhaling a long breath, trying to keep your composure. There were a hundred things you wanted to say to him right now but it wasn’t worth it. You either lived in peace or chaos; either way, nothing changed.
“I thought I knew a lot of things about you but they turned out to all be wrong,” you said, “so I don’t know anymore. Nothing you do surprises me.” You stormed back into the kitchen, not wanting him to waste anymore of your time. You had dishes to do and by now, the water would’ve gone cold.
“Y/n, come on. You haven’t seen me in three months and this is how you’re going to treat me?”
“I have dishes to do,” you said, picking up the plate you had dropped before, polishing it until it shone in the dim light peeking through the curtains, “someone has to keep the house clean.” And clearly, it wasn’t going to him. You felt a firm hand on my shoulder and all the muscles in your body tensed.
“I know you’re mad at me.” You scoffed. Mad wasn’t the right word – it was an array of messy emotions tangled together that had been fraying for years. There was more than just anger here, that was just an old friend that had withered and grown back into something much more cruel now. “Just please… let me make it up to you. I could die on a mission one day you know, you never know when one of these moments could be our last.” He had tried guilt tripping you before – it was a simple yet effective way of shifting blame onto the other person to ease your conscience. These games were getting so predictable.
“And I’d be the last one to know,” you said, “maybe if I was lucky, I’d see it on the news.” You placed the last plate on the drying rack, emptying the washing-up bowl before walking away to leave him standing in the kitchen, alone.
..........................................................................
You had avoided Steve as if he were the plague for the rest of the evening, only tolerating him in the same room as you when you went to give him his dinner. If you were nothing but his little housewife, you may as well play the part and poke it in his face. While you were getting ready for bed, you had paused by his chest of drawers, remembering the divorce papers you had hidden beneath the shirts he had outgrown or didn’t like anymore. Most of them had been bought by you and you could recall a memory with your husband in every single one. Maybe another day.
You couldn’t sleep but you kept your eyes tight shut when you heard him enter and move around the bedroom. Why didn’t you just sleep in the living room?, you thought as he slipped under the covers beside you. You figured he’d probably leave before you were awake so in his mind, you wouldn't even know. Dickhead. You didn’t know how much time had passed but you must’ve fallen asleep because the next thing you see is blinding white.
“Steve, turn the lights off…” You let out a scream when a gunshot sounded through the room, colliding with your husband’s cry of pain. Your eyes flew open and immediately fell on the figure standing at the end of your bed, her ravishing, blood-soaked hair curled onto her shoulder, her eyes glittering with shattered pieces of jade. Your heart seemed to freeze in your chest. Natasha Romanoff – the most notorious leader of crime in the world. And she was here, in your bedroom.
You turned to Steve and let out a strangled sob, the sight of scarlet soaking into the bed sheets making you dizzy. You heard the click of heels behind you and Natasha took a fistful of your nightgown before you could even process what was happening, pulling you away from him as if you were a mere feather. You screamed again and if it wasn’t for her strong grip on you, you would’ve collapsed to the ground.
She waited until you were steady enough to stand on your own two feet, gripping your hips and pulling you flush against her body. She was wearing a dress that emphasised all her curves and showcased most of her skin, your body flooding with dread. This woman was able to shoot Captain America without any protective clothing like it was nothing. There was no way out of this situation. We were doomed. I felt something hard in her crotch area, confused as to why she was carrying such a bulky item in her pockets.
“Leave her alone,” Steve whispered, his voice faint and overshadowed by anguish.
“Get on the floor and don’t say another word unless I ask you a question or she’ll have to watch you die,” she snapped, “neither of us want that to happen, do we?” With resentment, he hobbled away from the bed, stumbling over to the wall and sliding himself down it, his hand clutched to the gun wound in his stomach. “Good.” She ran a finger down your cheek before beginning to trace your features, her head tilted to the side. “You didn’t tell anyone you had a wife, Rogers. Isn’t she gorgeous?” You shivered in her hold, her voice low and seductive. “What’s your name, pretty?”
“Y-Y/n,” you trembled, wishing you could strangle the butterflies in your stomach that her touch had provoked. This was insanity – she had just shot your husband and she was threatening to murder him yet she was making you nervous, in a romantic way. God, if only Natasha wasn’t so beautiful, this would be a whole lot easier.
“Y/n Rogers?” she said, giving you a fake pout, “that doesn’t sound very nice, does it? Y/n Romanoff has a much nicer ring to it.” A crease formed between your eyebrows. What the hell was she implying? “Rogers, I’m willing to strike up a deal with you. But first, I’m going to fuck your wife until the only name she’ll remember is mine.” His eyes widened in horror and you let out a cry.
“Natasha, that’s assault. You can’t,” Steve said. She smirked.
“Oh there won’t be any need for that,” she said, “it won’t take much for her to beg me for more.” She pushed you down onto the bed and straddled your lap, a pool of wetness already forming between your legs. This was so fucked up. “Give me consent and I’ll make you feel so good baby, better than you’ve ever felt. All you have to do is say the word.”
You considered all your options but it didn’t take you long to decide since you only had two. You either let Natasha fuck you or you watched Steve die. You could treat it like a one night stand, you thought. You had never experienced one yourself but you’d read it in books so surely you would be able to do it.
Though you knew deep down, part of you wanted this. You were desperately touch starved and the thought of Natasha fucking you made you groan, heat rushing to your cheeks as the sound escape your mouth. You nodded and she gripped your jaw.
“Words bitch.”
“Yes,” you said, looking away from her in shame but she forced you to look back at her.
“Good girl,” Natasha said, lowering herself onto you and colliding her lips with yours, setting all your nerves alight. Her lips felt like velvet against your own, melting against you and setting a slow pace, letting you get used to the sensation. You couldn’t remember the last time Steve had kissed you, never mind like this.
When your hand moved to her chest, she knew she’d won and she began kissing you with more passion, her teeth sinking into your bottom lip. You gasped and she took the opportunity to slip her tongue between the gap in your teeth. You didn’t even bother fighting against her, wanting Natasha to take full control and use you however she pleased.
She separated your lips and began kissing your neck, her teeth ruthless against your skin as she began to mark you, leaving a trail of garnet blotches that would be seen by everyone. “Tell him how much you like this.” As much as you wished it wasn’t true, you were very much enjoying this. It was a terrible thing to admit to your husband but you had to remind yourself that his life was at stake here.
“I love it, I love being marked by you,” you said, “please don’t stop.” She pulled away when she reached your chest, reaching down and taking hold of your nightgown.
“Can I take this off angel?”
“Please,” you said, ignoring that Steve was in the same room as you. You wanted this, you needed this, you hadn’t had sex in so long. Too long. She lifted herself off your waist for a few moments so she could discard you of your nightgown before continuing her path down your chest, stopping right before she reached your breasts.
“So beautiful,” Natasha said before taking one of your nipples between her fingers and rolling it, earning her your loudest groan yet. She began to fondle the other roughly and the pain was soon replaced with pleasure that went straight in between your legs. You were a moaning mess beneath her, your forehead glistening with sweat and your breaths loud and sharp. “Listen to that, Rogers. Does she make these sweet, sweet noises for you? Do you Y/n? Tell me.”
“No,” I said, “only for you.” She tutted.
“Oh sweetheart, he doesn’t deserve you,” she said, “it’s okay, I’m going to take care of you now.” She ran her hands down your stomach and attached her mouth to your hardened nipple, your mind unable to decide what to concentrate on. She slipped her fingers beneath your panties and began snapping it against your skin, causing you to start bucking your hips into her.
“I need you,” you said. You expected her to make you wait but her expression softened as she began sliding your panties down your legs, throwing them in Steve’s direction. “Look how she ruined them for me. If you weren’t so neglectful, this could’ve been you, Rogers. Don’t you ever forget that.” You gasped as the palm of her hand pressed against your cunt, brushing against your swollen clint. “So wet.”
“Natasha, please…”
“Beg,” she said, running her fingers through your folds and collecting your arousal, “let him hear you.”
“Please Natasha,” you said, “I need you to fuck me so bad. I need you inside of me, please make me cum.” Your words made her groan and you whimpered as you felt her push two fingers inside of you, giving you only a few seconds to adjust before she began thrusting in and out of you at a quickened pace. You felt a burning sting, grabbing her wrist to try and slow her down. “Nat, it’s too much, it hurts.”
“What do you mean sweetie? Does he have a small cock?” There was a cruel glint in her eye when the realisation dawned on her. “He hasn’t fucked you in a longtime has he? How long has it been?” You were struggling to form coherent sentences at this point.
“Six months,” you admitted. He visited so little and he was always exhausted when he did, hardly even giving you any affection, never mind fulfilling your physical needs. You had shamefully been trying to fuck yourself for over a year now but you were either too embarrassed to keep at it for long or you were eventually forced to give up, too inexperienced to make yourself cum. You had never used more than one finger so you weren’t used to the stretch at all.
“You’re telling me your husband had access to this cunt anytime he wanted but he chose not to fuck you for half a year?” What a waste of such a perfect pussy,” she said, “shh, it’s okay, it’ll feel so good in a minute.” As if to prove her point, porn-worthy moans began to spill from your mouth as you were drowned in overwhelming bliss. She knew she had found that one spot inside of you when your noises became more intense and more wetness gushed from your entrance, the squelches of your arousal echoing around the room. You took fistfuls of the duvet beneath you in your hands, your walls began to clench around her fingers. But just before you reached your high, Natasha slipped her fingers out of you.
“No,” you cried, “I was so close.” She placed a kiss on your forehead.
“Not just yet,” she said, “I want you to cum on my cock.” You blinked up at her in confusion, not understanding what she meant. Was she perhaps intersex? “Get on your knees.” You scrambled to obey her command, your thighs glistening with white and she smirked. “Such an obedient thing. Open your mouth and stick out your tongue.” You did so without hesitation and she lifted up her dress and threw it on the floor, leaving her in a lacey bra and boxers. Your eyes fell onto her breasts that were full and sat perfectly, wondering how they’d feel in your hands and in your mouth. You were too distracted to pay attention to Natasha pulling down her boxers until a large, red strapon sprung into your face.
You were sheltered and didn’t have many friends so your knowledge on how two women had sex was low. You had accidentally come across some brief information about strapons while scrolling through social media, closing the app immediately and uninstalling it. You had never told anyone you liked women so any mentions of the topic made you panic and run in the opposite direction. Natasha noticed your hesitation.
“It’s just like sucking a cock,” she said, “you’ve done that, right?” You shook your head. Steve was a very traditional man so you’d never done anything outside of the very basics. You had always wanted to explore more interesting options but you were too ashamed to ask or discuss any of your preferences with him. “God, so vanilla. Once I show you what you’ve been missing you’ll never want to go back. Do you want to try симпатичный (pretty)?” Her Russian Nickname for you sent a lustful thrum through your body despite the words being foreign and unknown to you. You knew there was only one correct answer to her question but you liked being able to show Natasha how much you desired to follow her orders.
“I’d love to try,” you said, “anything to please you.”
“Good girl,” she husked, nudging your mouth with the strap-on. Her other hand dug into your shoulder as she pushed it inside of your gaping mouth, your eyes rolling to the back of your head.
Natasha kept going even when you started choking, tears slipping from your eyes and smearing your makeup. The sight of you, a perfect housewife she had ruined and made a mess of, only made her thrust the toy into your mouth faster, desperately turned on. When she was satisfied that you’d wet it enough, she pulled out, showing enough mercy to let you catch your breath. “You’re already such a good cock-sucker.” She ran her thumb over your plump lips. “Aren’t you glad I put these lips to good use, hmm?”
“Yes,” you gasped, “thank you Natasha.” She placed a kiss on your forehead.
“So polite. Get on all fours and look at your husband.” You hesitated a little this time, suddenly remembering Steve’s presence. You turned around and followed her commands, your gaze meeting with his. Steve’s pupils were drowned in pain and clouded his emotions so you couldn’t identify them, blood still gushing from his gun wound.
“Natasha, I think he’s going to die,” I said, “his stomach…” She looked over and saw that he was on the verge of passing out, his blood loss now critical.
“I fear you’re right,” she said, “I thought we’d have more time with him, shame. Don’t worry милый (darling), he’ll be alright soon.” You heard footsteps thundering up the stairs before the door was flung open and several men dressed head to toe in black burst into the bedroom. You wondered how she had summoned them so quickly but you were too horny to dwell on the thought for long.
You tried to cover your exposed body, feeling vulnerable all of a sudden but Natasha slapped your hands away. “They won’t look my angel, they wouldn’t even dare. Don’t let them distract you.” You felt something prodding your entrance and you whimpered.
“Please,” you breathed as she circled your entrance with the toy, collecting your arousal.
“You’re somehow even wetter,” she cooed, “did you really love your face being fucked that much?” Before you could answer she began to push the tip inside, your soaked walls showing no resistance. She didn’t give you anytime to get used to the stretch, pulling out before slamming back into you seconds later. The pain only lasted a few moments before it dissolved into pure pleasure as Natasha pounded into you like a wild animal. You arched your bark, the dirtiest sounds you had ever produced spilling from your mouth and echoing through the room. You somehow managed to lift an arm and point it towards Steve’s shirt drawer.
“There’s divorce paper,” you strung together between gasps, “in that drawer. I already signed them.” The men followed your finger and moved towards them, aimlessly throwing Steve’s shirts onto the floor. You saw a pang of hurt in Steve’s expression but you didn’t care. He should’ve seen this coming and even if he didn’t, it was his fault anyway.
As the divorce papers and Steve were dragged away, you moved your hips in rhythm with Natasha’s to try and get the strap-on deeper into you, every brush against your walls sending electricity through your body. She gripped your hips, encouraging your movements, grunting each time you slammed back against her. Your groans changed when she found your g-spot again and after that, she made sure to keep hitting it, a knot beginning to tighten in your stomach for the second time that night.
“I need to cum,” you said, “can I this time, please?”
“Such a slut,” she said, “soak my dick baby. Go on.” You screamed her name as you released all over her cock, stars blinding your eyes as your body shook with bliss, each new wave stronger than the last. After the longest orgasm of your life, you finally finished cumming, liquid staining your thighs. But Natasha didn’t stop, moving her hands up to your ass and massaging your cheeks.
“Natasha, I’ve already cummed,” you said, expecting her to finally pull out but instead, she tutted.
“We’re not finished yet,” she said, “If I wanted to, I could have you cumming all over this cock all night. We’re done when I say we are. You are all mine after all, gorgeous.” After the initial discomfort faded away, you were soaring back up to cloud nine, ready to do whatever Natasha wanted.
“Of course,” you said, “I’m all yours now.”
#black widow#natasha romanoff#natasha romanoff smut#natasha romanoff x reader#natasha romanov#natasha x you#natasha romanoff x y/n#natasha x y/n#marvel#marvel cinematic universe#mcu#marvel mcu#marvel smut#mcu x reader#mcu x you#mcu x y/n
2K notes
·
View notes
Text
summary: in which jungkook’s new lip piercing makes you want to cry, and he can’t live without you.
> established relationship, fluff / word count: 1.4k
> warnings: mention of or*l (f. receiving)
> in which masterlist!
note: heh surprise :D my impulsive, jungkook lover brain couldn’t resist so here’s a little something 🥲
—
“why are you looking at me like that?” jungkook nervously asks as the excited beam lighting him up gradually fades. “do you not like it?”
you remain speechless with an unreadable expression written on your face. dumbly staring at the lower right corner of his lips, it is adorned with yet another piercing that makes your boyfriend appear more enchantingly attractive in your eyes — which are, by the way, currently blurry and dazed. your brain is still fuzzy around the edges, short circuiting the longer you observe the silver stud.
it infuriates you, almost, how he still manages to effortlessly drive you crazier for him five years later.
it’s extremely rare for you to fall asleep before 10pm, and to be frank, you hate him for waking you up because you know you won’t be able to go back to sleep until 3am no matter how tired you are. and you’re still not quite certain if you’ve already registered that your consciousness has been rudely pulled back into reality; because then again, you’ve always been obsessed with his lip ring, maybe unhealthily so, and it wouldn’t be a stretch to assume that you’d dream of him surprising you with a new piercing just beside it.
however, there is a particular reason that holds you back from strongly wishing for that to come true.
“but you loved the ring, even the eyebrow ones… did i pick an ugly placement this time?” he wonders out loud with a frown, confused that his surprise didn’t receive the type of reaction he expected.
when he tries hard enough, he can picture them vivid enough to draw from memory… your eyes glittering with awe and adoration each time he presented himself with a new piercing or tattoo. you, showering him with love and praises that erased every ounce of anxiety he had about his life-altering decisions that usually came in the aftermath. what others would call impulsiveness, you named his fearless self-expression.
“ow- ouch- baby! what the hell? what was that for?”
with doe eyes struck by headlights, he gapes at you in surprise as he rubs his poor shoulder that was slapped without warning.
“why did you get it there? we’re not allowed to make out again until it’s healed!” you pettily complain with a drawn-out whine, knees bumping against his thighs as you bounce your crossed legs in bitter vexation.
“oh, shit.”
in real time, you witness the realization comically dawn on jungkook’s face, flabbergasted that in the thick haze of his excitement, he forgot about this excruciating restriction during the extended healing process. in his defense, it’s been forever since he got his first lip piercing.
oh, he’s in so much trouble.
he stares back at you, frozen and unblinking as he slowly speaks with a guilty wince. “ahh, you’re right… i must be out of my mind… i can’t eat you out, too… fuck, how did i survive this back then?”
the genuine innocence lacing his voice only fuels your urge to curl into a ball and cry in frustration. yearning for his touch while he’s not physically present is one thing, but this is much, much worse.
“stop talking.” you glare at him, angry eyebrows contrasting the puffiness of your face caused by sleep.
“you’re so adorable.” the endearing sight elicits a breathy chuckle from him, followed by a small whimper triggered by the pain that spreads on the lower part of his face immediately after. he brushes it off without care, muttering quietly- “come here.”
he carefully guides you to sit on his lap, sinking further into the soft mattress with your weight added on top of him. and for tonight, you allow him to manhandle you as he likes, not having the energy to jokingly pretend to argue with him. you wrap your arms around his neck to pull yourself closer to him, only realizing how much you’ve missed him now that you’re skin-to-skin.
“don’t be upset, baby. i’m sorry.” he sweetly coaxes you into a better mood. “i will make it up to you after. i promise. i always do, right?”
with drowsy eyes still trained on the new jewelry that shines from the light of the night lamp, you sniffle and pout at him.
“and we can still do this, remember?”
the world becomes still and quiet, and the oxygen gets trapped in your lungs when jungkook holds your face in between his warm hands, crossing the short distance between you. your eyelids slowly flutter shut, lashes kissing your cheeks as his lips softly brush against yours. languid and tender, slightly sticky from your sleeping mask that smells like candy. he ends the blissful moment too soon with a gentle pucker of his lips, leaving you with a simple peck that will haunt your mind for the weeks to come, as if you’re a teenager who just had their first kiss in the middle of the dance floor.
“hmm, see, baby? not bad?” he says quietly, pads of his thumbs tenderly stroking the apple of your cheeks.
jungkook is too persuasive for his own good. the memories of you suffering last time are clouded with the new sweet memory he just orchestrated, and you’re almost convinced that it truly might not be that bad after all.
“but we need to be veeery careful like that for now, understand? so it’ll stop hurting and heal fast.”
and just like that, you’re a little more awake.
“does it hurt a lot? did you bleed a lot?”
hearing him say that he’s in pain made you worriedly react within a split second. his heart melts, and then breaks into two as he gathers all the self-control in his body not to pepper your face with kisses like he usually does.
“the piercer was good and quick, i didn’t feel a thing. but i’m definitely feeling something now.” he shakes his head, uttering the last sentence humorously.
“of course, it hurts now. you won’t stop moving… let me see.” you scold him with a roll of your eyes, slightly turning his head by the back of his ear to have a better view of the swollen flesh around the piercing.
“how is it doing?” he inquires after a few beats, curious and impatient with your silence.
and that’s when he sees that look on your face, the glittering eyes he was anticipating to meet since he finished his appointment the morning before. you grin from ear to ear, scrunching your nose cutely before giggles bubble from your chest. sheepish with your transparent delight, you hide your face in the crook of his neck, tickling him with your every exhale.
“my boyfriend is so cool, and so handsome. i’m so lucky and proud.”
that’s him. that could only be him.
jungkook, despite being elated by the compliments, can only muster a small shy smile. he carresses your hair lovingly, securing his tattooed arm around you as you threaten to slip off from his lap.
“really?”
“hm, i like it. so much…” you hum, planting a chaste kiss to the sensitive spot on his neck. “you’re always putting me through this, making me want to kiss you more all the time. this is so unfair.”
“baby, please. behave for me?” he mutters, squeezing his eyes shut as if he’s in unmaginable pain. in his dramatic mind, currently flooded with love chemicals, he is. “if you keep talking like that, i will really end up risking an infection.”
you lift up your head to show him a grimace of disgust. “ew, pull it together. i wouldn’t want to kiss you with that.”
“tsk, you’re such a brat.” he calls you out with a pointed look, lightly smacking your thigh, revealed by your shorts that has further ridden up, before kneading the soft flesh under his large palm to soothe it.
you teasingly stick out your tongue in response, breaking out into laughter. and not so subtly, you squeeze your thighs together, grasping his wrist in a futile attempt to control the frenzied butterflies fluttering in your stomach.
“have you cleaned it?”
“not yet.”
“then let’s do it. i’ll help you.” you climb off his lap as you eagerly tug at his arm, planting your feet firmly on the ground. “love, hurry- hurry. i want to see it in better lighting.”
exhausted after an eventful day, jungkook limply flops down, occupying the side of the bed that you’ve kindly warmed up. “you can go ahead. i’ll follow you after five minutes.”
“ugh, no, you won’t. you’ll fall asleep if you keep your eyes closed for another thirty seconds, and then i’ll have to wake you up.”
he pops one eye open, and then another, meeting your affectionate gaze with a silly grin because damn, you know him so well.
“i love you… don’t ever leave me. i think i’d seriously die without you.”
—
taglist in the reblogs! send an ask/dm if you want to be added (or removed) :D
—
#jungkook#jungkook fluff#jungkook drabble#jungkook scenario#jungkook imagine#jungkook one shot#jungkook fic#jungkook fanfic#jungkook au#jungkook x reader#jungkook x you#bts fluff#bts reaction#jungkook angst#jungkook smut
3K notes
·
View notes
Text
A warm hug to Non, or when are we going to stop demanding perfection from victims
It's been forever since I thought about making this post but I've finally decided to write the goddamn thing.
Three disclaimers : one, I haven't yet managed to get past the first third of episode 9, so this whole thing is based on episodes 1-8 at best. Two, I'll block on sight again if I see victim blaming on this post. Finally, I'm by no means an expert on the subject. It's complex, I might get things wrong and I'll have to oversimplify at times for clarity and brevity's sake, please don't kill me for it. It's probably gonna be long enough as it is. I've tried my best to organize my thoughts in a way that would make sense, but. Well. I hope it does.
Trigger warning for mention of suicide, bullying, grooming, sexual assault, rape
Non started as the poor little baby everyone wanted to protect -both the audience and Jin ; for all the shit he got after filming Non and Keng, there are a lot of parallels to draw between him and the audience. Then the dreaded episode 7 happened and all hell broke loose. I won't include screenshots of the disgusting things I read from some viewers about Non, but Jin's reaction is pretty telling already.
The easy explanation would be that he's mad Non isn't returning his feelings, but I think it has more to do with Non not fitting his 'good victim' role anymore. There's sadness on his face, but the dominants are anger and betrayal. Non tries to regain agency and gets crucified for it.
So what's a good victim ?
Non, basically
If you want an examplary blueprint of what society defines as a good victim and survivor, someone worth justice, defending and loving, just take a look at Non. I broke it down in four marks that need to be checked :
-Innocence : none of the person's action prompted the abuse
-Moral high ground : the person has values and displays kindness
-Helplessness : the person cannot do anything about the situation they're stuck in
-Accepting to be saved : self-explanatory. The person has to accept the help that's offered to them, traditionally by a love interest
Non is abused for being poor, something he's not responsible for. He's hardworking, honest, passionate about the things he loves and commits to his engagements. He's kind when talking with Jin. He's resilient in the face of the gang's bullying. None of what he could do or say would make it stop, neither can he help owing Por for a camera he hasn't broken nor get out of Tee's pyramid scheme. His mental illness only increases this impression of vulnerability. Jin doesn't have all these elements, but he's got more than enough to paint a very similar picture of Non as the audience.
As for accepting help, Jin repeatedly offers some -and Non finally lets him in during their conversation on the rooftop. What Jin offers may be little but it's still help ; Non smiles and even gives Jin a shove -what I think is the only time he initiates contact with Jin at all.
"Thank you so much, Jin, for helping me all along." "It's alright, I'm glad to. I just want to see you smile again, Non."
The audience gets even more of Non being happy and grateful to be saved : he calls his "♥" contact for help multiple times, smiles at the reminder to take his meds and, later on, clings to Phee for dear life after trying to kill himself. He doesn't fight him, he doesn't reach for the scattered pills. Hell, even accepting Tee's offer to make money could count as Non agreeing to be saved by everyone around him.
Non checks all the marks. Everyone in the audience is rooting for him, the other boys can all go get impaled on a branch, and Jin looks at him like he hung and lit all the stars in the sky.
Speaking of the other boys...
Tee and Por victims as well but don't get the same amount of sympathy, if any. Tee isn't responsible for being stuck in a criminal environment and can't get out of it ; no one has offered help, so he gets a pass. But he's been shown to be selfish, opportunist, often cowardly and sometimes gratuitously cruel.
As for Por, it's even worse : every actions he takes seems to confirm his dad's opinion of him. The only mark he ticks is accepting to be saved by his mother, which looks very bad taken on its own. I made a post about Por not too long ago if you want more.
The only way for them to redeem themselves and go from 'horrible people who should die' to 'maybe they don't suck they're my poor little meow meows' is penitence. Take Por ; he's the archetype of the rich son who gets abused by his dad and suffers from having so much money. Just like Kang in Dangerous Romance, or Tanthai in Laws of Attraction. Tee ? I don't have names from the top of my head, but he's that hardened jaded guy stuck in a mafiosi network who has to learn to love and be loved again (enters White). Yet the audience learnt to root for these characters.
Basically, nothing is set in stone. Your status as a good or bad victim can shift depending on your actions and the way they're framed. The usual narrative is to get those characters to grow into the acceptable victim pattern. DFF however is going for reverse development (Non, Jin) or stagnation (Por, Tee, Fluke). It makes for gritty yet very realistic storylines ; and while I'm the first to yell that the masked figures should get their ass stat, I also recognize that there's much more complexity to them than this. Except Top. I have yet to come up with a good explanation for what they're doing with Top, but I will at some point.
How did Non fall from grace if he's such a good example ?
Three points : Phee, the paradox of the demand for Non to seek agency but not too much, and his inacceptable betrayal.
Phee as a magnifying factor
I love this kid to bits but Phee's appearance in the flashbacks concurs with Non's flawless image being torn to shreds for a reason. He's a good, strong and caring person who loves and tries to protect Non -something the audience has wanted to do for weeks ; so we all gathered behind Phee and made him our emissary, carrying out the impossible task outsiders to the series' world couldn't : saving Non.
Since Phee voices the questions and concerns of the audience, we are Phee to an extent. Betraying Phee means betraying the hope and love and care the audience has for Non. Phee is the series' moral compass by that point. I'm sure you see where I'm going with this. If not, consider it's a surprise tool that will help us later. When Phee gets hurt by Non or decides he'd be better off lost and dead.
For the record, in this poll Phee gets even fewer votes than White
Seek agency, but not too much
Discontent starts to rise with the helplessness point first as viewers start to question why Non doesn't ditch the group. Why he's putting himself through such trouble. Non changes from being subjected to others' action to being the subject in a grammatical sense. Yet Non has hiw own reasons to stay (how much does the movie mean to him ? How many hours and sleepless nights on the script ? How long would it take for him to find another chance to get enough funding ? How big of a dream is it for him ?). It's the first occurence of the audience claiming to know best what's good for Non.
Complaints quiet down when Non does try to leave for good only to be stopped by Jin. We saw him try, we saw him fail, he really couldn't leave so he's off the hook.
Jin also makes sure Non remains a perfect victim by bringing him back into the group. I'm not accusing Jin of trying to make Non suffer on purpose ; he's a good guy at heart, come fight me to death on this hill. But the only way for him to exist in Non's life is to remain a savior of sorts. If Non leaves, there's nothing to save him from. Which brings us to my next point.
Non must try to solve things by himself, sure. But not too much. Because when you thrash to regain control of your life, you might break a few things in the process. Especially if you have to wrest it away from well-intentioned but firm hands.
He rejected Jin's offers to help numerous times. He looked anything but thrilled when Phee put himself in danger to clear his name. He refused to change schools at first, only to begrudgingly agree when Phee insisted. This insistence is the heart of the matter : Phee is sure he knows best, so he bulldozes through Non's objections and hesitation : he doesn't consult him before asking his dad for help, he speaks in his place when Non doesn't answer his proposal, he puts the bracelet on his wrist. He asks him if he's taken his meds, just in case.
Phee has the audience's benediction in doing so. Part of it stems from our knowledge of future events : we know it's going to end bad for Non. We know he has to get the fuck out. We know whatever decision he makes will be a bad one. Kids and teenagers as a whole are often deemed unable, or not mature enough to make informed decisions anyway. Just look at Non's mother telling him to prioritize his studies so he can go abroad like his brother. Multiply it tenfold for people with mental illnesses ; they get babied on a daily basis. So Non cannot, I can't emphasize it enough, cannot do anything.
All of the above end with Phee getting his way. Non can't win against him, so he chooses to lie instead.
Aside from willing to be in charge of his own life, Non's refusal to let Phee help is also rooted in love and fear. While Phee would offer him an easy way out as he did for the bank accounts, it would most likely only be easy for Non and put Phee in danger. Both their survivals are held in that curt 'no'.
He's already straight up refused help, and now he loses the moral highground by lying (to his perfect holy savior Phee of all people). From here on out, any action he takes will be his -which is what Non wanted ; it's his life, and he won't be a bystander in it. But it also means that he jumped off the pedestal he'd been put on to land on thin ice.
And guess what, Non is a multi-dimentional character in a difficult situation who weighs more than a poor little damsel in distress. Of course said ice cracks. And the Non hate train gets started.
The betrayal
Lying and refusing help to go get it from the worst place he could have had was bad enough. But sleeping with his teacher while he had a boyfriend (Phee, for heaven's sake) ? Unforgivable. Cheating is the BL equivalent of every cardinal sin, the worst of the worst, and no matter the circumstances you'll get roasted for it.
And yet there are circumstances. One, especially, and it's called motherfucking grooming. I won't elaborate on this point cause I've done it over and over already, but Non was groomed by an adult. Does he see things that way ? Probably not. In his mind he's in control of the situation. He can lie to Phee about it because there's no reason for it to backfire. He does what he has to if he wants to save himself, using he one weapon he has : his body. It's cheating, but cheating in a game rigged for you to lose.
Society has two opinions about sex. It's either holy or gross. Take Jin, for instance.
See the look on his face. He's heartbroken, he's sad, he'll live through it. Witnessing Non having sex with his teacher when he has a boyfriend ? Now that's another story. That's a betrayal.
A betrayal of what, exactly ?
Of this goddamn image Jin had painted of Non. The same the audience was given to see prior to these events : Non was perfect and loveable and worth defending, an innocent, pure, helpless baby in need of saving. So when the illusion shatters in what society and especially BL culture hold as the worst action possible, people feel fooled. Stupid, if you will. And they turn their hatred to Non. Non lied to us ! He pretended to be good, dear god, to think I loved such filth ! My heart is so dirty now, ew.
But Non didn't lie. He lied to Phee, but that's it. Everything else was expectations and assumptions. Fail to meet them and suddenly everything is your fault. It's Non's fault for refusing to be dragged along in his own life anymore, Non's fault for lying in order to get some control, Non's fault for lying again not to lose Phee when caught by surprise, Non's fault for listening to Jin, Non's fault for resorting to use his only weapon to get out of a situation he was cornered in, Non's fault for being tricked into thinking any of the decisions he made regarding Keng were his own, Non's fault for everything.
He wanted to claim his life back and made a mistake, yes. He doubled-down on it when he realized it was too much for him to handle. He clung to it and did his best to keep it together. He dared not to be the perfect victim he was supposed to be ; to try when everyone knew he was bound to fail. And you know what, sometimes there's stuff that's someone's fault, consequences they didn't foresee, things they said, slips and falls, and they're still victims, just as much as they were before.
I believe that dealing with his debt himself is as important to Non as finishing the movie is. He's ready to be used and abused (by Keng in the former, the group for the latter) and to break his own heart, values, pride and sanity. He's the most resilient and dedicated character in the show to me.
But the world doesn't necessarily see it that way. So when Non realizes the mess he's made of everything, he fights Keng (who represents his desperate and violent search for complete independence) to reach for the bracelet he got from Phee. He wants help. He needs it. But he's not a victim anymore and any help is denied.
Both Phee and Jin later manage to reconcile their broken image of Non with the man he actually is. Too late to save him, but they still did. I have a hunch that things would have been different if Phee had beat up Keng and taken a crying Non in his arms, holding him tight while whispering none of it was his fault. But our moral compass fucked up, like the hurt kid he is.
What some people did by blaming and hating on Non is closer to the hateful comments he got on the video than Phee or Jin's reactions. They're far worse.
That's the big takeout. What if we stopped stigmatizing or idealizing sex ? What if we stopped demanding perfection and so-called purity for someone's trauma and status as a human being not to be negated ?
Anyway, here's a hug to Non and every victim who live in the paralyzing fear of a single slip. You can make mistakes just like the rest of us. You don't owe anyone perfection.
I'll end this rant on a bright, happy smile. I don't see a good ending for Non, but god knows he'd deserve it.
#I tried to structure it a bit#key word is try#I was angrily typing it and working with a word salad#I hope I didn't lose sight of my point halfway through#but whether I rambled on or not I needed to write it#cause I'm tired of people sorting victims out and choosing who gets respect and justice#and who doesn't#dead friend forever#dff the series#I spent too long on this gotta go shower now
92 notes
·
View notes
Text
Cry.
Warnings: mentions of violence, attempted s/a, gore and blood, descriptions of ptsd and trauma. Do not read if these things trigger you.
word count: 3.3k
A Daryl Dixon x reader comfort/angst fic that is void of pointless plot [except for backstory] and is based off of two things:
The song Cry. by Cigarettes After Sex, and this.
[all credit is given to ms. genna dixon, her work creating this audio inspired me to write this, and i hope she enjoys reading this fic as well!]
a/n: This fic has been sitting in my drafts collecting dust and I thought, with the help of madi, that it should finally be given to the fanfic world. I hope you all enjoy, and I'm sorry for whatever feelings arise from reading this. I'm also just really fucking proud of this fic and I really hope everyone enjoys.
Stepping outside, the chilled air from battering rainfall hits your skin, pouring down upon familiar streets. It's about that time of year for cold rain and harsher temperatures, before warmer ones commenced, flipping the forever rain into sunshine.
Pulled away finally from the events going on indoors, the fresh air immediately fills your chest, inhaling until you couldn't anymore. Boots creak under the wooden deck as you saunter closer to the ceaseless precipitation before you back away.
The wooden picnic table a certain archer built was the first thing you spot, up against the wall of the house. You sit, pulling the jean-covered legs in to your chest, to comfort yourself and the way you felt. The pressure of your body scrunched together was relieving for a bit, but it just wasn't working as well as you wanted it to.
Gaze focused on the gravel in the street, a hand rests across your forehead, head reliving a certain memory, one that's kept you sleeping on the couch at night, instead of in bed with your partner. One whom you shared this very house with.
In the moment, it's difficult to distinguish what's real life or imaginary, and the next thing you know, your eyes are squeezed shut to try and shake the images from your mind.
It fails, the man's face already burned into the backs of your eyelids, whether you wanted it to be, or not.
He’s glaring into you, the same way a predator takes notice of it's prey.
With a half-cocked ego and a group of men that listen to his rules, he'd been ruthless.
Your throat dries up, chin trembling with the vulnerability that painted your now shivering body in restless dread. The vile laugh he’d let out reverberated in your mind, pit in your stomach already deepening, the familiar fucking feeling returning to your chest like it was happening all over again.
Though, that could never happen, because the same man whose face had been taunting your sleep ended up on the ground with his throat bitten out by one Rick Grimes.
You owed it to him for saving your lives that night. so much so, that Daryl got more than a little jealous sometimes.
Oh yeah, Daryl.
Your Daryl.
The one you'd fallen for ever since he’d been in the camp, risking his life constantly for the benefit of your group, getting close enough to call you all his family. Especially you.
Daryl, your person, soulmate, best friend, lover, family. He was the only man you saw yourself next to in a world plagued with the dead.
He was there that night, as well. The night of the claimers.
That day the prison fell was one you spent all day and night running with Daryl and Beth to save your lives.
Out of nowhere, Beth was gone, taken in a white car with a cross on the back. You and Daryl ran in the direction the car sped off down for what felt like hours, even after the sun came up.
The powerful sprint the both of you had started off at slowed to a jog, stopping every few minutes until it turned into a walk. You continued going until your bodies downright collapsed on each other's, in the middle of a random road with no idea as to where you were. Your breath wasn't even caught yet before you heard a group of footsteps in the surrounding area.
That's when they came out of the woods and fucked everything up.
The moment they finally came into view, there was something more about the looks on their face that gave away this was premeditated. You figured after a while that they had waited and watched for you both to get worn down from running, that way you didn't have the strength to fight back, even if you wanted to. They moseyed around the both of you, creating a circle of men with no escape.
Which should have been your first sign.
For the next few days, you and Daryl rolled with this group of men that called themselves the claimers, in order to get by on the road before you found your people again. It was part of surviving, making it day to day after the prison fell, determined to find your family again. Daryl thought differently, losing hope in ever finding them, especially after Beth had gone missing.
You stayed extra close to Daryl those days, in fear of what would happen to you if one of the men caught you alone.
The timid act was only to protect yourself, a front you put up so that the men didn't actually speak to or threaten you. When you were spoken to though, you answered to avoid being ‘dropped several times over’, the groups code for being beaten either nearly, or fully to death.
One night, you wondered why there weren't any women in their group, though sooner or later you had figured out why there probably shouldn't be.
Their name is the fucking claimers, what did you expect. It's the way they claim ownership over something, or god forbid.. someone.
All they did when the men realized you two were together was laugh astonishingly loud, calling you a fair share of misogynistic names. Though, nothing changed the way they looked at you.
They didn't back off away from you, either. Only kept staring at you, when you pretended they weren't, muttering sick shit under their breath to entertain the other men.
Daryl came to your defense, threatening each of the men that even stepped too close to you. Those were the nights you were held so close to him, you could've sworn you were part of him now. In a way, you were. But it was one that Daryl wanted to keep for himself, and nobody else.
Daryl was so hell-bent on protecting you those days, he would've done anything. He came as close as starting a fight with one of the men when they wouldn't stop badgering you.
The men didn't back off until Daryl figured out the way to get all of them to leave you and him alone. It was something Joe had said about how the group works, to which Daryl himself said he wouldn't do.
Though he knew in that moment, it was the only way.
"She's claimed."
Most days, you think about what could have happened in that situation way too often. They reoccur in your nightmares, bombarding your brain every time you were finally shut your eyes at night.
Then, it echoes through your head throughout the day, during passing moments when your every being wasn't occupied with some other responsibility.
You had taken up a lot more of those recently, to keep your mind off the whole thing. You had to admit, it was wearing your body out, and the effect of your trauma didn't help at all.
Sure, you had seen every person in your group kill people before, but never the way Rick had that night.
Crimson painted across his face, practically dying his skin with its thickness. There's some on the fur of his jacket, you remember. Recalling the sheer look of terror you held, figure frozen in it's overwhelmed, cathartic state.
At this point in the world, you didn't know if living through a traumatic event as brutal as that one was worse than surviving every day after it, the whole thing reverberating in your head day in and day out.
The most horrific part of it, you think, wasn't the things they said to you days before, and it wasn't the unsettling feeling you got hearing Joe's voice.
It was the moment you hear, "Look, it's the guy who killed Lou."
One of the men in the group speaks out loud, running ahead with some of the group, while you and Daryl trail behind Joe as he catches up with them as well.
Joe had told Daryl about who Lou was a day or so ago, how some guy strangled him in a bathroom. Not curious about why he did it or who the guy was, you'd only listened to him go on about it from afar, aching pit in your stomach again.
The figures of three people camped out in the street were visible, not coming into your eyesight until you follow Daryl into the clearing.
Your eyes finally peel over to the people they've surrounded, and there was Rick and Michonne in the street, weapons aimed at them. There's a car in the road as well, one you realize Carl had been sleeping inside, one of them tapping on the passenger side window with a knife.
The way all three of them looked was terrified, but changed to disbelief when they saw you and Daryl, who pleaded for you to stay back, as he advanced towards Joe.
These people, you're gonna let 'em go. These are good people.
Daryl's words echoed in your head the moment he'd began bargaining with Joe, the nasty feeling you got earlier returning in the form of a racing heart and sweaty palms.
You want blood, I get it. Take it from me, man.
"Daryl, no.." The whisper you speak with is barely loud enough for you to hear over the shakiness of your breath. The only thing you focus on are the words Joe's saying, with the same dreaded feeling in your gut.
"This man killed our friend. You say he's good people. Now that right there, is a lie."
Rick yells out at the same time you do, as one man clocks Daryl in the gut, knocking the fucking wind out of him, another man restraining him as he gets dragged backwards.
Before you can move another foot, you hear the words, 'Teach him boys, teach him all the way.'
They were going to beat Daryl to death, and there was nothing you could do that wouldn't guarantee you wouldn't get the same beating. Backing away as the two men hauled him towards where you'd been standing, a shrill gasp left your chest, covering your mouth in surprise, tear rolling down your cheek.
It wasn't until you get to the other side of the car that you realize Carl's being taken out of it, as you stand at the rear end of the vehicle. As the man noticed you with Carl in his arms, he mutters something under his breath as he reaches for you with a gloved hand.
Feet dragging on the ground, he pulls you both into the clearing lit by the moon against the lanky trees that seemed to tower over the area.
Trying to pull the grown man off of him, you plead endlessly for him to hurt you over the boy. Before you realize he did more to push you off of him than he did to harm you, you'd been shoved to the dirt ground, next to Michonne.
Turning to the woman, your eyes locked in similar terror. These men were nothing like you'd ever met before. Any hope left inside you was washing away with each word out of Joe's mouth.
It isn't long before his cliché comes out, revealing his plan of what his men are going to do to each of you. Joe's talking into Rick's ear, but the tone of voice he used made it feel more like he was explaining to everyone about what was going to happen.
"First we're gonna beat Daryl to death, then we'll have the girls.. then the boy. Then I'm gonna shoot you.. and then we'll be square."
The only thing ringing in your ears was that fucking laugh of his.
Weak eyes pan over to the grunts coming from Daryl as he tries to fight off the two men who have been beating the life out of him for what felt like ages.
Each blow they landed on his torso, legs, face and back was like one to your own body, psyche shattering as Daryl cries out in pain.
"Let him go.."
Rick's hoarse voice speaks, gaze still on the two men beating up his best friend. It isn't until Rick repeats himself, a desperate, dry tone in his voice, that makes you rip your eyes away.
Your vision blurred for a moment before focusing your eyes on Rick again, his dilated pupils filling with rage. In one action, he jolts his head back into Joe's nose, the gun in his hand firing right by his ear.
The shot makes your stomach drop, instinctively flinching, watching him jump up from the ground and finally get a hit on him.
Though, Joe only retaliates with one, two, three blows to the sides of his torso, letting him roll around on the ground before he picks him up off of it. Rick wouldn't have been able to stand without Joe holding him, since beating the hell out of him.
"What the hell are you gonna do about it now, sport?"
You start to hear the same laugh again, before a second passes by and you realize it's stopped. The squelch of flesh rings out, and you realize what Rick's done.
You look up to see his face, drenched in the man's blood, spitting whatever he bit into out of his mouth. The moment settles and he's dropping him to the ground. Then, he goes for the man on top of his son. It isn't long until Rick's brutally stabbing him in the neck over and over, retaliation for hurting his people.
A few more shots fire out as you look over to Michonne taking down the man in front of her and one of the ones on Daryl, before he's punching the other one in the jaw and running to you, pleading to himself that they hadn't done anything to hurt you.
Before you know it, the archer's arms are wrapped around your body, bracing your back, one of his hands caressing the back of your head as well. It isn't until you pull back from his embrace to see the aftermath of being beat on that you break out into tears, his beautiful face bloody and bruised.
"Oh, Daryl.. your face.." your voice breaks on the last word, palms of his hands cupping your face softly, eyes shifting over your face to look for any blood or cuts. A hand wraps around his forearm as his hands cup your face, shushing you quietly.
Michonne holds her arms around Carl's head, and before you know it, Daryl's holding you the same way, one hand rubbing up and down your back.
Though your thoughts run ramped, you take a deep breath, slowly exhaling as the cool air in your lungs calms you the slightest bit.
You've been outside for a while now, long enough to have gotten caught in that traumatic memory. Being in your head for so long blinds you from the fact that Daryl's standing in front of you on the porch now.
Head still dropped, you see the boots he always wears a few feet away from where you were.
"Hey," his gruff voice calls out, your eyes slowly lifting to him, not getting farther than a glance to the side. He can immediately see the state you're in, pupils dilated and glossy from tears leaking down your face.
Eyes glancing back down, not daring to make eye contact, you aren't aware of where the archer is, focusing on the wood porch again.
You know Daryl's seen you like this before, but you only shy away because the event was too overwhelming.
“You alright?” he asks, the low drawl of his voice the first words you’ve heard in a while except for the sound of rain. He’s been sitting by your side, and you haven’t said a word.
Trying to speak, the lump at your throat prevents you from doing so, tongue choking back all the intrusive thoughts that tortured your mind. Your voice breaks in any attempt you had, stopping yourself.
Daryl sees your hesitation, reading your highly unstable state like a book. He scoots closer, more so now that you can feel the heat of his body pursue yours.
“Tell me the truth.” he whispers, his hand rubbing up and down your back, comforting amongst remembering the pain. His touch slows your heart rate and brings you out of your overwhelming head for a moment. The hand on your back is warm, spreading the heat around your entire body.
“I-I can’t..” You choke back the first tears attempting to escape your eyes, trying again to build up the wall that Daryl has so beautifully destroyed, all while he was falling in love with you.
“It’s okay.” He sighs, opening his arms wide to you.
You look to him, another tear falling down your cheek, his thumb swiping it away before your eyes meet his.
“Is it? It doesn't fucking feel like it..” Your nose sniffles as you ask, and when he nods, it’s the most reassuring feeling in the world when he does.
Knowing that everything you're thinking now wont matter one day, grounds you to Earth again. It pulls you from your thoughts, and you try to focus on the man in front of you, wanting to cry into his shoulder as much as you wanted to pepper his face with kisses.
“Come here.” He beckons you towards his body, the warmth of his chest radiating off of him. You climb into his lap, arms wrapping around his neck. Your breath hitches against his chest, and he feels it too, the final push of your walls breaking down around him.
For the first time, you feel free. You feel seen, and you feel loved.
“I know.” He can't fathom the thoughts running through your head, nor what he could do to make sure you never felt this way again.
Daryl has his fair share of trauma from his life experiences before he met you, but after what you've experienced on this constant road together, you find yourselves closer than ever. You and Daryl are both connected through this, intensely and irrevocably.
“Daryl, please dont leave.” You sniffle again, trying to hide the fact that your resolve is breaking and the desire to hide how you really feel diminishes like the crush of an egg shell. It's now that you realize you can’t hide it from him anymore.
“I'm right here.” It’s then your resolve breaks, a muffled sob escaping you as tears drench the cloth of his dark shirt. Your quivering voice fill his ears, one sob after another, making it difficult to breathe at how much you're hyperventilating. Your hands grip at his clothing, palms turning white with how hard you squeeze, nails pressing into your skin to feel something again. Something other than this.
In a moment, Daryl’s touch soothes you in a way you never knew was possible. Nothing else mattered in this moment, other than him being there to comfort you.
All the love and care you had for him were a couple of the reasons your walls that had once been built up began to crack.
“Yeah?” you choke back another sob, and his soft blue eyes meet yours. They're like a deep sea, and with the first glance, you're lost in them all over again. Each time you get caught in his eyes, it's like you're diving into his deep blues like a bottomless pool.
“Yeah.” his hand caresses your cheek softly, palm warm to your touch still, after being in the cold rain.
“Always.” he starts to wipe the tears from your face and you know in that moment he sees you as you truly are. A smile comes easier after a moment of letting yourself feel everything you'd been holding back for what felt like weeks.
“I love you.” He presses a kiss to your hair and you look up at him.
“I love you, Daryl.” Your lips press to his in a delicate kiss, the softness lingering even after you pull away.
“I’ll be here as long as ya need.” Pushing up against his body, the weight of yours lies against him as the rain continued to pour.
a/n: likes + reblogs are appreciated!! it lets me know how much everyone enjoys my writing & sharing to others is a generous thing to do. check out my masterlist
#daryl dixon x reader#comfort#angst#daryl dixon fanfiction#daryl x reader#daryl dixon fanfic#twd fanfic#daryl dixon / reader#daryl / reader#daryl dixon x you#daryl x you#daryl dixon / you#daryl / you#twd#the walking dead#norman reedus#twd oneshot#twd imagine#daryl dixon oneshot#daryl dixon imagine#twd daryl#daryl dixon comfort#Spotify
754 notes
·
View notes
Text
One of my old texts from YouTube arguments about Astarion endings
I am not that invested in this discourse nowadays because I lost hope to change anyone's opinion and also, I am simply tired from dealing with toxic bs that I am getting as a response to some of my old comments on YT to this day. My favourites are those who will reply to my every comment to say how delulu I am and I probably just dreaming about being in a toxic relationships myself, while being unable to understand that people have their own ways to heal through art and that throwing poison on people like that is not helpful at all.
I will leave it there and funny enough, I am not even so much of AA fan, I just don't like people being ignorant and rude.
And I like writing essays, so here it is.
So, what this dark romance fantasy is about for me personally,(even though i prefer spawn romance, i absolutely understand the appeal of asc Astarion because honestly, i was all about this kind of romance during my childhood and teenage years, hardocore the Phantom of the Opera girl is here, inside your head 💀), and why it's also healing route for some players,and no, it's not about kinky vampiric banging.
1)A lot of people feel extremely worthless and insecure, lonely, like no one really cares for them at all. It's a very deep wound that hurts and it's difficult to overcome even in perfectly loving, healthy and supportive relationship with a good partner,and even with therapy. So fantasy about a vampire, being obsessed with you so much that he is ready to do absolutely anything just to be with you for forever is really comforting. Also,you don't have to think too much about your imperfections, because for him you like a center of his vampire heart.
Besides, you sympathise with him - it's like a selfcomfort mirror, i love this monster despite everything, so in a way, i accept myself despite any flaws i see in me.
2) Safety. When the world around you feel like a wilderness, full of monsters, it feels like only the most terrifying loving monster can protect you from it. He is powerful and protective, and i am so precious to him, that he will set the world on fire just so i would be safe.
3) Responsibility. As you may see, this kind of relationship have daddy issues vibes and codependency, and in real life, you can't just fully submit safely to anyone, I don't think i have to explain why it's a dangerous idea to seek this kind of relationships in real life. You have to stay a grown up independent person and seek safety for yourself without expecting someone to come and heal all your wounds. But this is fantasy, so finally you can use this as a comfort fantasy with no fear about being taking advantage of, without shame to be called childish and etc.
4) Independence. Spawn ending is very terrifying for anyone who has issues with feeling safe and independent, because some of us prefer violent power fantasies over "we have each other and that's all that matters", second of all, this ending also has some shady co-dependency undertone to it that can be triggering for some people. I love Spawn Astarion a little bit more more than Asc and yet my heart stayed absolutely broken after running away from the sun scene, and i hate that he is so dependent on Tav. Larian owes me some emotional refund after this.
5)SA trauma: it wasn't even seen as a possibility for healing way by writer, but it is for some.Asc Astarion feels like he is the most powerful creature in the world,and he is fully controlling everything that happens between him and Tav,so finally, it's a kind of situation where there is no chance of him being abused again. It's one of the reasons why some people become Doms in BDSM dynamic relationships: finally, full control of the process and a partner, who trusts then enough to fully submit, trust issues is also big deal in Astarion story of healing. I find idea that that only Subs can enjoy Asc Astarion a little bit naive. Because,well, some news for you: Doms like it too because they understand why he is so eager to be a top :D
Unrealistic, not the healthiest way? Probably! But this man and this love is not real anyway.
Yes, i think many of us, especially folks who went through therapy and a lot of self reflecting are already aware that it's basically romanticized version of narcissistic obsession and in real life this is creepy, but it's not real, it's a fantasy. People use BDSM to heal, romance books and all other forms of art to deal with their inner demons and it's absolutely normal. Even if someone is blind to see what is wrong with Asc Astarion, I highly doubt that toxic bucket of shame and aggression are able to help see anyone problematic side of things. Do you know who is usually up to romanticize toxic dynamic in romance? Victims of abuse. In real life, if you just scream and yell at any poor girl/boy/whatever about how stupid they are for believing that their abusive partner really loves them, people will either break down and cry or tell you to f#ck off and they will have every right to do so, but they won't see what's wrong with their partner,in whom quite often victims of abuse see their only source of love and safety in life.
Hells, I am so sick and tired from this "white cloak knight saviour from cycle of abuse" toxic flood in this fandom. If you really want to educate people - do it with extreme care and compassion. Real life healing is not working like it's with Astarion in the game,few right dialogs and boom, dude is on the right path.
It takes enormous amount of patience and love, be kind to one another, and stay safe, darlings. Being toxic on Asc fans you are not helping anyone, you just hitting your superiority complex button in your ass.
#astarion#ascended astarion#astarion bg3#bg3 astarion#bg3 discourse#also I passionately hate modern fandom culture and politics around liking the bad guy#and surface level twitter psychology that is so popular right now#Spotify#fandom discourse
20 notes
·
View notes
Note
Hi my I request HTTYD Stoick with read who became a nunny for hiccups after Valka was taken by dragons.
Sure! I left it vague on if Valka actually died or not in this. Takes place sometime befopre dragons were befriended on Berk. Nanny is used as a Gender-Neutral term in this. Not sure how to write Stoick for the life of me so I hope this works ^^
Yandere! Stoick The Vast with Nanny! Darling
Pairing: Romantic
Possible Trigger Warnings: Gender-Neutral Darling, Implied character death, Grief, Delusional behavior, Overprotective behavior, Manipulation, Forced/Dubious relationship, Mentioned marriage.
You used to be a good friend of Valka.
It devastated you when you heard of her being taken away by a dragon.
You heard it from her husband, Stoick himself.
Stoick cares deeply for his wife and son.
You found it admirable how much he cared for his young son, Hiccup.
You knew with the grieving chief you should help him somehow.
Which is when you offered to help take care of Hiccup for him.
You explained it was the least you could do for your late friend.
She was a wonderful woman and you only wish her child lives a good life even without her.
Your offer was one of kindness.
Although it turns out it may only hurt you instead of help.
The thing is with Stoick as a yandere, he's slow to obsess.
This can be a good trait.
It gives you enough time to sense out the red flags he exhibits.
He's slow to obsess as he is still in love with Valka.
Stoick will take a long time to get over Valka.
He's hesitant on allowing you to help with Hiccup at first.
He's stubborn and feels he should be the only one to take care of his son.
He wants to do it for Valka... he can't lose his son like he did her.
You have to convince him that allowing your help is what his wife... your friend... would've wanted.
Otherwise he'd wear himself out.
Stoick is responsible yet he acts very stubborn and independent.
He doesn't want to feel like he owes you for allowing your help.
You assure him he owes you nothing.
Stoick would take years to obsess over a darling.
Even if you are around him all the time to take care of Hiccup he still takes forever.
It's when he sees you act as a parental figure towards Hiccup that he starts to wonder.
The boy sees you as another parent... maybe this is what Valka would've wanted?
You are her closest friend... and you've done so much...
Maybe he should move on?
Stoick's obsession speed allows you time to keep your distance yet there's a good chance it flies under the radar too.
After Stoick realizes he may have some sort of romantic attraction to you, a reflection of his supposedly late wife, that's when his attitude changes.
You'll notice Stoick looks at you and Hiccup in a new light.
He comments on how caring you are towards his son.
He thanks you for choosing to help him through his grief.
He breaks through his stubborn and stoic attitude to show care and respect towards you.
It doesn't sound that bad.
After all, you see Stoick as a close friend like Valka.
His behavior doesn't sound dangerous.
Until he makes passing comments that allude to the idea of a relationship.
You are wary about the idea of this.
Stoick claims that Hiccup has grown close to you like he would Valka.
You also connect with the boy easier than he does.
Surely you understand what he means, right?
Stoick tries to explain himself when he eventually does make a move on you.
He tries to convince you it's what Valka would've wanted if she was gone.
He tries to use Hiccup against you... saying the boy loves you just as much as he would any other parent.
Stoick promises he'll protect you... even if he failed Valka.
The dragons won't hurt you if he protects you.
He promises to be a better man... for you and his son!
Stoick is straightforward, he wants to be engaged.
He manipulates you into thinking it would be the best thing to do.
He's stubborn yet more persistent than actually forceful.
He'd wear you down... showering you in gifts of appreciation and tries to warm you up to the idea of marriage.
You may not even love him like that, it feels wrong even if Valka is gone, yet you're getting exhausted.
He doesn't threaten you, in fact he'll be patient.
Although... at some point you'll cave.
Perhaps he does have a point?
Hiccup does need two parents his life, doesn't he?
So... maybe you'll give in.
Maybe you'll accept Stoick's offer and try to heal his broken heart.
This relationship is wrong and most likely forced... but at the same time he's so caring.
He promises to protect you and care for you like you have done for his son.
He manipulates you with twisted encouragement to make you comply with this relationship.
The origin of his obsession may just be him being selfish... a futile attempt to fill the hole in his heart with a substitute.
Despite Stoick claiming this is the best for all of you... you, his son, and he himself...
You have a feeling he's just making you love him for his own twisted desires.
86 notes
·
View notes
Text
Kraglin can start another riot!
A/n: Hi, this is just a story that my strange mind has created. It takes place in the second Guardians movie. I proofread it all, but if you find any mistakes, please let me know. (I don't pay for therapy for anyone). Good reading!
WARNING: Mention of rape, foul language, high level of triggers, deaths and murder. IF YOU DON'T FEEL COMFORTABLE, DON'T READ!
🦋female reader🦋
*♡*
You won't soon forget. The day started like any other. Yondu's ship landed on Contraxia, so that the captain and the boys could "relax". Yondu went up to the room with one of those robot whores, and the others got drunk and had a good time.You sat at the bar, massaging your temples. His head throbbed. "Same as usual, dear?" You murmured a low yes to the attendant. A big green alien with tentacles and a filthy apron. You smiled at him. He brought your drink, which you immediately started drinking. Almost desperate. You needed it. Drink until you don't even remember your name. Maybe that would help him forget about the sleepless night.You stayed up all night. You tossed and turned in bed, but you couldn't sleep.
knew very well that something bad was about to happen. Something really bad.It had been a long time since you had been kidnapped from Earth to serve as a sex slave. Yondu rescued you shortly afterwards, and so you live near the captain.It's not like you guys are intimate. But you loved those boys. You feel safe around them. Especially close to Yondu. You owe him your life. And would be forever grateful for that.The Ravagers spent a lot of time in Contraxia.
Since always. Lately, everyone has had a lot of work to do. So finally a little rest would do us all good.You should be very happy for the well-deserved rest. But, I couldn't help but feel that something was wrong.Every time Yondu's ship lands on the frozen planet, you take the same route, to your favorite bar, and stay there drinking like crazy, and making small talk with the kind and pleasant bartender.You had met so many times and spent so many hours together that you were almost best friends. If this position didn't belong to Kraglin.It wasn't mean, you loved Kraglin with all your heart.
He was your best friend and a brother to you. They told each other everything, and defended themselves tooth and nail.But there was no way she could be near him while they were in Contraxia. You didn't really like being around the whores there. Mainly, didn't like to see them rubbing up against his best friend. It was worse when it came to Yondu. Do you feel… jealous? For sure.
You love Yondu.
It's very different from how you feel about Kraglin. Kraglin is his brother. Yondu is the man you would want to spend the rest of your life with. But he doesn't know that.He's cold, and his dates are professional at all times.He's never touched you, and he doesn't get too close. He's the captain, you're just the subordinate who's in love with him.
The attendant stopped. He looked at you with great curiosity. Maybe he sensed her nervousness."Is everything okay, dear?" You lifted your eyes to him. She bit her lip so hard that a trickle of blood ran from the corner of her mouth. And then you started to cry.You were exhausted.You love Yondu, and you hated the thought of him up there in the room with another woman.
Even though I knew it was just a stupid robot. You love Yondu and he will never return what you feel.His head throbbed hard, as if something was pressing down on both sides of his head with all its might.You were exhausted.Had worked all week without being able to rest properly. You barely saw Yondu, and you couldn't even talk to Kraglin properly these past few days. He worked so hard that he barely had time to eat. S/n was simply exhausted.She tipped the bottle once more. Consuming all the liquid inside, before wiping the tears away and asking for another drink bottle."You didn't answer my question… Y/n, is everything okay?" He knew about your feelings for Captain Ravager. When he gave the bottle to your hand, you took a long drink. "I've been really tired…" her eyes stung. You won't cry, not again. The attendant placed one of his tentacles on her arm and with another caressed her head. "Whatever you're going through right now, I want you to know that you're strong enough to get through this! Don't worry, it's going to be okay in the end, honey, I promise!"She gave him the sweetest, most genuine of smiles. "Thank you, you know that means a lot to me!" The attendant smiled and walked away to attend to someone else.
You raised the bottle to your lips once more. Before she could actually drink his precious drink, heard Tulk call out to Yondu. Apparently he was already drunk. You see the captain coming down the stairs. Immediately looks at the attendant. With a suggestive smile on his face and beckons you to go.
*♡*
You stop next to Kraglin, dodging so the "girls" with him don't touch you. He flashes you a smile, and ruffles your hair. "Is it over yet?" You nodded, then pointed at Yondu, who was walking by without looking at anything but Stakar. He gave a wan smile. Kraglin obviously knows how you feel about the captain. Once, when he was drunk, you had to beg him not to say anything.Yondu walked past you, and his eyes glued to your back.You felt a punch in the pit of your stomach as he and Stakar started yelling at each other.
You squeezed Kraglin's shoulder and he took your hand. The boys had told you about Stakar's relationship with Yondu.
She knew that was important to him. Felt Kraglin squeeze his hand.Taserface said something to insult Yondu. He had been doing this ever since the captain pardoned Peter. But he never said anything to the captain's face. -Disgusting coward- you thought. His eyes were still on Yondu. Kraglin was squeezing his hand. He defended the captain. You saw when Stakar left with his group, leaving Yondu behind in the heavy atmosphere.
You're still holding hands with Kraglin when a golden woman comes up to him.-Sovereign-. You thought.
*♡*
Back on the ship, you were heading towards the guardians. The golden woman wanted to kill them. Rocket, you thought. A smile escaped her lips. "I wonder what you got up to this time?" For a moment you even forgot the bad feeling that walked with you.Yondu was too quiet. He shouted an order here, another there and closed himself in his corner.You wanted to run to him, wrap him in your arms and give him a comforting kiss. But you held back.
Kraglin and the others were busy making some necessary repairs. From time to time, you would still hear Taserface badmouth Yondu behind his back. "Your time is near, my dear! I want to have the honor of witnessing your death!" You told him with a smirk. He rolled his eyes and left.Taserface wasn't man enough to touch you. Yondu said he would kill anyone who tried. It was the first time for a woman on the ship. Some rules have been established.
*♡*
You were alone in your room when the door opened.You thought you were going to die when you saw Yondu enter. "we arrived ?" Yondu nodded his head. "I want you to know something." You shook hands. The nervousness returned to her body. "I have no plans to hand over the guardians." You sighed. You already knew that. Yondu loved the guardians. He would never betray them. "I'll betray the arrogant golden woman instead. Steal the batteries and sell them on the black market." You nodded. "Do the others know?" Yondu said no. They wouldn't react well. You both knew that. "Why did you come to tell me that?".He turned away before answering. "You have more maturity than those idiots." And then he left. Leaving you alone with the feeling that something bad is going to happen.
*♡*
Everything happened way too fast. You went to the guardians' ship. They saw no sign of Gamora, Drax or Quill.You held your breath when Kraglin spoke out against Yondu. It wasn't a good demonstration. But it was enough to get all shit started.You felt your body shake when Taserface proposed mutiny, and you had to fight not to fall when Nebula shot Yondu.
Rocket and Groot were taken to the ship.
*♡*
Taserface was humiliating him. Making sure he saw his friends being murdered. "You killed these men. Why are you weak!" You were close to Kraglin.At that moment, you wanted to kill him. But when you looked into his eyes, you saw that he didn't want that to happen.
Taserface hit Yondu. The others laughed as they waved at the lifeless bodies floating in space.You clung tightly to Kraglin's arm. He returned the gesture grabbing her shirt.You didn't have a choice.Helping Yondu at that moment, or even saying they were in his favor, means death.Kraglin didn't want to die. Taserface hit Yondu. You didn't want to die. Taserface hit once more. And others. Yondu didn't even bother to lift his head. Defeated. You can see the sadness in her eyes. Once again. And another.His fists clench. Taserface lands a punch to its captain's chin. He lets out a painful sigh. His red eyes glued to the ground. You clench your teeth.Another painful sigh.
Kraglin understands what you want to do. He holds you tight.You let go of him.You're not even thinking about it when your fists slam into Taserface, hitting his nose with all the strength you have.The ugly man takes two steps back.
Cold sweat trickles down Kraglin's forehead.You place yourself in front of Yondu.
The laughter in the ship ceases. All eyes are on you.The captain finally looks up. You quickly turn to face him. You see a mixture of many emotions in his eyes, his beautiful red eyes. You never had the right to be this close to him. Those seconds seem to turn into hours.
You see hate, fear, sadness, disappointment, humiliation, relief, pride and despair in their eyes.
Before you can look forward again, the Taserface grabs you by the wrist, injuring you in the process. He lifts you off the ground, bringing you into his eyes.
A scream catches in Kraglin's throat.
Yondu looks down again. He doesn't want to see you get killed."You are very abused, little girl!" You hear the laughter start up again. "What should I do with Udonta's hot girlfriend?" The free hand goes to your neck, still lifting you in the air.Rocket who was just making small jokes, is now completely silent, bright eyes wide open staring at you, breathing fast and desperately. "Don't hurt her!" he whispers. Groot is clinging to the bars of his cage.Taserface smiles at the raccoon, before squeezing its neck. "I'm not going to kill him. I'm just going to…play with him! And then I'm going to sell him to the slave traders who wanted him in the first place." Yondu looks at you.You wave your feet in the air. Breathless.Kraglin closes his eyes with all his might - it's my fault, she will be a slave because of me! The captain will die because of me, my fault! - He wanted to help. All of you though, fear paralyzes your skinny body. He cannot move.
Nebula was in a dark corner. Waiting to intervene in case those stinking idiots try to kill their wares. You weren't very important to her anyway.Taserface throws you to the ground. And immediately you go close to Yondu, ignoring the pain and shortness of breath. You breathe desperately to fill your lungs with air. His hands left huge purple marks on her neck. You look at Yondu. Something in his eyes says you're the dumbest, bravest human he knows. Is he… sad for you? You hug his neck."Ownnn, they are so cute!" Someone yelled. And then another session of giggles began. Rocket lowered his eyes. Groot let out a scream.
Taserface grabs you by the hair.
*♡*
You were on the cold floor of the ship. Naked.
Doesn't know how long the torture lasted. Doesn't know where Yondu or Kraglin is. Doesn't know what they did to Rocket and Groot.
You choke on your tears.Remembers seeing Yondu lower his head, remembers hearing Kraglin scream. It was so noisy there that no one even noticed. Only you.
You didn't even bother to get up. You flinched in an attempt to hide your intimacies.Cry low.The ship has been silent since Taserface threw you in the cell.Her skin burned. Dishonor. Disgrace. Your damn habit of wanting to play heroine.Suddenly you heard footsteps and laughter. You cringed, knowing they were close. again. And then Rocket and Yondu were thrown into the same cell as you.They avoided looking at you at first. You sat on your thighs, and hid your breasts with your arms. Yondu took off his coat and threw it at you without looking at you.
"I'm sorry girl! I couldn't protect you out there."Your eyes filled with tears.
You sat next to him. Huddled inside her coat.
*♡*
In the end, Kraglin ended up helping you anyway.All the rest of the crew were killed by you, Yondu, Rocket and Groot.Soon after you went to Ego. Save Peter from his father.And then they got an indefinite ride until Yondu got a new ship. After all, yours was blown up.
No words were exchanged.You spent a lot of time alone.You avoided Kraglin, and barely looked at Yondu. Tried to have as little contact as possible with the guardians.When they got the new ship, you installed yourself in what would become your new room. And spent most of the time on it.Kraglin got tired of being ignored by you and left you alone. Yondu was barely looking for you.
*♡*
You gathered enough courage to go to Yondu.He was seated, in front of the panel, which opened directly into the space. You went to him."You have to stop ignoring Kraglin, he's going crazy. I can't stand hearing him complain anymore!" You faked a smile.
After all, Yondu couldn't sleep.
He almost died after saving Peter from his father.
You went to him."Seriously, you need to stop!"You noticed the nervousness in his voice as he approached. You stopped beside him. It cost him to look at you. You caressed his face.
You were also having a really hard time sleeping since everything happened. He went rigid under her touch. He cocked his head in her direction. You let him relax his head on your chest. Stroking her face, her head and her shoulder. He wrapped his arms around her waist. He pressed you against his body. "You need a new crew, captain. "His grip tightened. And then he cried softly in her arms. He let himself be beaten again, this time in a much nicer way. "Damn it, I know, girl!"
*♡*
Kraglin had told him about his feelings. You heard him tell. And for some reason, his reaction was different than you imagined. You talked more. They spent more time together. They stayed together.
You and Kraglin were there when Yondu recruited more men to form a new Ravager team."Watch out, captain! Kraglin might start another mutiny!" You wrapped your arms around his waist. Yondu laughed. Kraglin snorted. "I already told you it wasn't on purpose!"
You both laughed.
#yondu x reader#yondu udonta x reader#kraglin obfonteri#kraglin x reader#gotg#gotg2#michael rooker#yondu udonta#rocket raccoon#peter quill#gamora#baby groot#ravagers#michael rooker x reader
58 notes
·
View notes
Text
ᴇʟᴅᴇʀ ʙʀᴏᴛʜᴇʀ!ꜱᴇᴠᴇɴᴛᴇᴇɴ
HYUNG LINE
MAKNAE LINE
a/n: part 2 of the abomination i posted 4 (?) weeks ago
pairing: elder brother!svt x reader
genre: headcanons, fluff, crack, comfort
word count: same as before, around 1050-ish
warnings: mentions of food, mention of fire, a couple curse words, mention of harassing (dw nothing srs), idk what can be a trigger help a girl out here 😭
ʟᴇᴇ ꜱᴇᴏᴋᴍɪɴ
LOUD™
(dolby? who's that? i only know dk ��🏻)
coddles you with love
clingy
no concept of personal space
unexpectedly protective
your room is practically his now
puppy eyes at you for everything
as if he's the younger one and not you
randomly starts singing
*soul left your body* even though you've heard him do it your entire life
despises it when you're sad
gets adorably angry at whoever or whatever made you sad— just to see you giggle
innocent babie
(protecc him pls)
aka you're more dirty minded than he is
might be the elder but you're stuck taking care of him
elaborate skits in the middle of the night
you don't tell him but you enjoy them as much as he does
ᴋɪᴍ ᴍɪɴɢʏᴜ
puppy personified
practically a giant
you often wonder if he took your share of tall genes
25/8 teasing you about your height
"want help shorty?" annoying smirk
"i'm not short you bitch, you're tall" angry pout
*cue giggles*
picks you up randomly and scares you shitless
always ends up cooking for you though
y'all have a very playful relationship
affectionate insults are as plentiful as his clothes
a giant dork basically
gets sad when you're sad
envelops you in his arms and holds you as long as you need
so so easy to prank
and so annoying because he knows every girl you know has a crush on him
flirts with your friends to annoy you
likes to cuddle
wakes up in your room 5 days out of 7
roleplays as your blanket and refuses to move
xᴜ ᴍɪɴɢʜᴀᴏ
you're his princess
the apple of his eye
he's very very soft for you
but you're the person he's fights with the most
Savage™
The sassy siblings ✨
y'all are more twins than anything
similar fashion styles
both martial artists
both self-assured
and really good looking 👀
pretty much a package deal atp
your friends are his friends, and his are yours
you're his forever priority
forces you to meditate lol
as in wakes you up early every morning and makes you sit and meditate with him
will not let you go back to sleep
safe to say he's the only person who's seen your whiny side
ʙᴏᴏ ꜱᴇᴜɴɢᴋᴡᴀɴ
dramatic
bickering
a lot of it
even bickers with your best friend 💀
does favours for you unprompted
"stop looking at me like that, i did it out of the goodness of my heart and this is the thanks i get, hmph"
*dramatically gets mad*
while you're there looking at him like •_• -_- •_•
later uses it as leverage
"remember that one time i brought you a glass of water? you owe me!" "i didn't aSK YOU TO DO IT!!"
embodiment of getting second hand embarrassment
no kidding, pretends he doesn't know you at anything remotely embarrassing you do
✨MaTeRiAl GwOrL✨
hallabong full of sass
only and only He can bully you
you have a problem? hold his americano, he's ready to throw hands
squishy lil tangerine
ᴄʜᴡᴇ ʜᴀɴꜱᴏʟ
chill asf
takes you to movies every weekend
sends you random songs he likes or songs that remind him of you
unbothered king
comfortable silences
hang outs include not speaking and listening to music
while chilling like starfishes on the floor and staring at the ceiling
strange lil guy
except you definitely take after him
down to the style of walking
bad dad jokes
never understands the good ones 💀
occasionally loud enough to rouse the entire neighbourhood
cluelessly cute
does silly things when you're sad
like sit upside down on the sofa
or just wear one of his out-of-this-world 'outfits'
he's secretly offended you're laughing but at least mission accomplished?
ʟᴇᴇ ᴄʜᴀɴ
the only remotely normal one
often complains that you're weird
and he's lucky that he got the better genes
constant fights over who looks better
often drags you to dance with him
whines for you to cook for him
even though his cooking is perfectly fine
once felt generous and decided to help you make dinner in high school
your parents came back home to smoke in the house and the fire alarm going off
don't think he doesn't notice you going soft when he laughs
often acts like the most typical 'oppa'
then both of you cringe and laugh together
sneaks out with you every friday
weirdly mature when the situation calls for it
once punched a guy in the face because he thought he was harassing you
had to awkwardly apologise because that wasn't the case. at all.
very very common and very very petty fights
#sky writes!!#svt#caratsland#seventeen#svt headcanons#seventeen headcanons#fluff#soft#cute#maknae line#svt maknae line#seventeen maknae line#dk#dokyeom#seokmin#lee dokyeom#lee seokmin#mingyu#kim mingyu#minghao#the8#xu minghao#myungho#seo myungho#seungkwan#boo seungkwan#lee chan#chan#dino
49 notes
·
View notes
Text
raindrops on windows - court gentry x reader
Plot: In the aftermath of another agent's betrayal. Y/N and Court rethink their feelings for one another.
Pairing: Court Gentry/Sierra Six x Agent!Female!Reader
Warnings: Mentions of death/reader almost dying, violence (nothing graphic though), reader and Court doubting themselves and their feelings. As always, if I miss any triggers, please let me know!
Notes: I swear I've been listening to Ryan singing I'm Just Ken at the Oscars on repeat since it happened, so it somehow led to...this. But I also missed writing for Court :)
Not beta'd, so any mistakes are my own.
Apart from the rain pelting down outside. Y/N rests her head on the window, watching as the raindrops race each other down the window. She’s only just calmed down after the horrible events of the night, since she came face to face with death. Sniffling, she rubs her eyes.
How could she have been so stupid?
How could she not have known?
“You alright?” Court’s husky voice asks as he gets in beside her, the sound making her jump. “Shit, sorry.”
“It’s okay. And yeah, I’m fine.” She lies. He raises a brow.
“You know I can tell when you’re lying.” Dammit. He’s good. Court sighs. “You almost got killed by a double agent tonight, Y/N. Nobody expects you to be fine. You don’t need to pretend, least of all to me.” Usually, Court teases her about how he knows her better than anyone. Most of the time, it’s about his constant snarky and sarcastic comments at her expense, and how much he knows she likes them, despite her insisting otherwise.
But this time… she notices there isn’t any snark or a sarcastic comment building.
No. Court Gentry genuinely cares about her feelings for the first time in well… forever.
“I know. I don’t need the reminder.” She snaps, a little harsher than intended. Each time she closes her eyes, the agent’s face looms, poised to take her life. At the last second, Court came in and rescued her, beating the agent to a pulp. She owes her life to him, yet here she is, snapping at him when he’s being nice to her for once. “Shit, sorry, just…. It’s been a horrible night.” She sighs, and Court nods.
“It’s alright.” He smiles.
“No, it’s not. If it weren't for you, I would have been killed. You really saved my ass, and I should be more grateful.” Y/N sighs. “So, thank you for saving my life. Really.” He cracks a grin at that, one which drives her crazy.
“Let me take you home.” He suggests, and she nods, glad to not be alone right now. Although there’s not really another alternative, save for Court dragging her back to the car the second she tries to leave. So, the drive continues in silence. Court glances at Y/N every so often, concern filling his gut. This isn’t what he’s supposed to do. Care for someone else. Or at least, it’s not what Court does. He works alone, he always has. He can’t let anyone else into his life.
Especially not Y/N. The agent he just loves to tease, the one he frequently snarks at. And the one who snarks right back at him, too.
The one he’s so irrevocably in love with. Honestly, he probably has been in love with her for a long time, but tonight was the first time he actually realised it.
When he found out she was in danger, he almost ripped the door to the warehouse off its hinges to get to her in time. That agent was lucky the others got to him before Court. Because Court would have killed him for daring to hurt a hair on Y/N's head. Honestly, he’d burn the world down for her, and she doesn’t even know it.
But he’s always such a pain in the ass to her, annoying her when she’s just trying to do her job. If he told her the truth, how much he loves her… she’d probably just think it’s a joke, or tell him to fuck off. And maybe he deserves it, after the shit he’s been through in this life. Another bad thing to add to the many he’s already experienced. He glances over at Y/N, who's still avoiding his gaze.
Yet, he saved Y/N. That’s one good thing he’s done.
In fact, in Court’s eyes… That's the best thing he’s ever done.
“It’s not your fault.” He murmurs. Y/N shakes her head, not even looking at him, still watching the raindrops as they batter the car. He hates seeing her like this. Usually, she’s so outgoing, ready to take his sarcastic, witty remarks and fire them right back. He’s never seen her so quiet before, so upset.
And it scares him to death.
“Yes, it is. I worked right next to him. I should’ve seen something was wrong. I could’ve stopped this!” she insists. “I’m smarter than this.” Court shakes his head.
“I met him too, remember? We all did. And none of us spotted him.” He points out. “Stop beating yourself up. Please.” His voice carries a hint of begging, an urging she’s never experienced from him before. It’s strange, realising he cares so much about her. But…she likes it.
“I’ll…I’ll try not to.” She says, and Court nods, going back to driving. Y/N looks over at him. He’s focused on the car in front of them at the stop sign, so he doesn’t notice her staring. The street lights illuminate him slightly, and her breath catches in her throat.
God, he's so handsome.
The silence continues, but this time, it’s more awkward, with each person suddenly realising that the feelings they hid for so long, the ones they ignored, might actually mean something different. Y/N gulps. What would happen, if she laid her heart on the line, admitted that she might be falling for the Sierra Six himself? She opens her mouth, wanting to speak.
“I think you should take some time off for a while.” Court says.
“Yeah, but-”
“No buts.” He cuts her off. Y/N sighs, deciding it’s best to stay quiet than argue with Court.
And besides, if she does, she doesn’t trust herself not to admit that she might be falling in love with him. And that’s not a chance she’s prepared to take, to admit everything. After all, maybe she only feels that way because he saved her life? Surely she doesn’t actually love him…
Yet, she can’t ignore the way her heart twinges when she thinks that.
Court soon pulls up outside her apartment, turning to say goodbye. In an instant, the scent of Court’s cologne, mixed with his sweat, hits her nostrils as he leans in closer, and it sends her senses ablaze. “Think you’ll be alright? Want me to walk you inside?” He asks, his voice husky. Y/N’s cheeks heat up. Court raises a brow at her, something else that sends her heart into a frenzy. “Hm?” He asks.
“Y-Yeah. I’ll be okay.” She murmurs. “Thanks again.” He looks her up and down, and she gulps. Now her heart is beating so much she swears it could break free from her chest.
Just tell him. What’s the worst that could happen?
Everything could crash down around you. That’s what.
“Night Court.” She murmurs. For a moment, his face falls. But before she can dwell on it, wonder if it’s because of her and if he feels the same way about her, his smile is back, and he nods.
“Night Y/N.” Y/N reaches for her door handle. A strange feeling builds in her gut, as if she wants him to tell her to stay. But she pushes it down and opens her door, stepping out into the night. With one last wave, he drives away.
And Y/N is alone.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Please follow @onceuponastory-library and turn on notifications to be notified when I next post!
#court gentry x y/n#court gentry x reader#court gentry#sierra six x y/n#sierra six x you#sierra six x reader#sierra six#the gray man fanfic#the gray man#the gray man fanfiction#the grey man#fanfiction#fanfic#fic
14 notes
·
View notes
Note
Hey, love!
I just wanted to say that I absolutely love that you write for Emily because she's my favorite, and you write her so well.
There's this idea I think you'd be AMAZING at.
Emily finally comes back from the dead' and is back with reader in their shared home, and the Doyle case is done with but the reader still gets nightmares of her death.
Maybe the reader took place of Derek and she was the one with Emily before the ambulance took her to the hospital, so the nightmares are her dealing with that all over again.
Free reign to do anything and everything you’d like to!
Thanks, love! You’re doing amazing and you’re so talented! ❤️❤️❤️
It felt real
*Authors note~I'm so excited to write this I feel like it's a valid reaction that's not spoken of enough*
Trigger warnings~ mentions of death nightmares
Prompt~ see ask^^^^^
You'll never get over the memory burned into your brain of your girlfriend on the floor bleeding out with a stake in her stomach. You had her blood on your hands as you attempted to put pressure on the bleed. "Baby! Please Emmy let me see those beautiful eyes please" you begged trying to keep the tears from your voice. "Let me go" she murmured going in and out of consciousness. "Stay with me baby! Emily don't you leave me. You promised forever please em squeeze my hand" you begged her to just hold on. The medics would be here soon, they would. "That's it babe!" You encouraged her weak squeeze as the medics came bursting in.
It's a blur, one minute your there and she's in and out of life with her blood covering your shaking hands to being in the hospital waiting room as JJ informed everyone she never made it off the table. Sometimes that's where the nightmares end, other times your transported back to watching Doyle and Serbrus beat your girlfriend over and over till she dances on the inch of life before the squash that last speck of life from her body as you are tied and forced to watch her die knowing you didn't save her. You knew it wasn't factual but it always felt so real.
You'd had these dreams since that night, even though your girlfriend had actually survived and had to hide out in Paris till Doyle was captured, which he had been just three days ago, now your lover was back getting ready to sleep next to you for the first time in seven months. You saw her brand, you kissed over every inch of it while reassuring her it changed nothing, she was still as beautiful as ever and that part of her body contained the most precious jewel, her heart.
Truly you didn't tell Emily because you didn't want to worry her, after all she'd been the one to die, not you. So you both feel asleep in each others arms for what you hoped would be a nightmare free sleep now she was home. You were wrong, you knew that it was foolish to think it would disappear so quickly.
Your legs and arms flailing around, sweat soaking your body and sheets as you watched your girlfriend die again. "Emily, Emmy no please wake up" you sobbed which caused the other woman to wake up after your left hand hit her breast. "Ow? What the-" she was cut off by another wail, "no no no fuck you JJ she's not she's alive fuck you" you sobbed tears steaming down your cheeks as you remained stuck in that vivid dream. Emily felt her heart drop, you thought she was dead? And you blamed JJ? But why? JJ was following orders and wasn't able to even tell will that she was alive. Of course she understood your upset but she made a mental note to but JJ some of her favourite wine due to everyone blaming her.
"Shhh, angel? I'm here. It's your Emmy" she murmured hesitantly reaching out to dry your tears only to by your body bolting up right as your gasped for air. Bleary eyes and in the throes of a panic attack you attempted to come back to earth. "Don't touch me! Don't fucking touch me" you sobbed still thinking you were there where the team tried to console you but you could focus on was the sentence repeating in your brain. Your Emily was dead. Gone.
"Oh angel, I'm sorry I'm so so sorry my love. I'm here I'm safe. Your safe, we are safe me you and serg" she mumbled to you in a hope of breaking through the haze. You rapidly blinked and whimpered, "em?"
"That's right baby I'm here" she murmured to you causing you to throw yourself at the raven haired women and sob. All the pain, frustration, confusion and blame of the last seven months overwhelming you. "It's okay sweetheart, you let it all out. I'm right here I promise" she murmured shifting you on her her lap and rocking you soothingly. She guided your hand to rest over her heart, "feel that angel?"
You nodded through your tears, "it beats for you baby. I'm still here and alive because of you" she whispered as you calmed down in her lap, "I love you baby" which you murmured the same back before Sergio felt a little left out and tried to squeeze himself between the two of you in an attempt to steal some attention, "oh serg" you chuckled causing Emily to smile at you. "Mom is back huh? You missed her too hm? I'm not gonna be the favourite am I?" You muttered to the black cat as he tried to nuzzle close to his mom. You pouted at Sergio secretly loving seeing your girlfriend with her cat again. A little yawn escaped you, Emily immediately shifted for you to lay on her chest with serigo tucked in between the pair of your legs. This is what was real, right now the love between you and your little family was real.
Word count~ 1017
#anon answered#v3nusxsky answers#fanfic#emily prentiss x y/n#emily prentiss x you#emily prentiss#emily prentiss x reader#emily prentiss x fem!reader#emily prentiss fanfiction#ssa emily prentiss#criminal minds fanfic#criminal minds#anon request
87 notes
·
View notes
Text
Bloom
Pairing: Din Djarin x F!Reader
Summary: Mando offers a lesson in restraint. And blasters.
Word Count: 4k
Warnings: Explicit, 18+ MINORS DNI, grinding, descriptions of male and female bodies, allusions to sexual acts, female masturbation, descriptions of PiV sex, we’re fantasizing about one (1) sexy space dad in this house.
Notes: Don’t we all just love some weapons training? Someone explain to me why it is so attractive when Mando does it, because I have never found it sexy in real life. I’m also dedicating this installment to my Star Wars sister @amywritesthings because we just keep yelling at each other about how much this trope worms into our brains and I feel like she’s owed this as a treat.
Takes place directly after A Sweet Response to Tragedy. Like literally the next day.
Cross-posted on AO3
I Think of You Series Masterlist
The blaster in your hand is warm, sweaty along the grip and sticking to your palm. Your wrists are tired, your trigger finger stiff, but you raise the barrel to aim again before firing a bolt.
Zzzst!
“Miss,” Mando says, and you sigh comically, dropping the blaster from its durasteel target and tilting your head up to the sky.
“I don’t think this is a ‘practice makes perfect’ situation, Mando,” you huff, looking over at him. He’s sitting on a fallen tree, one elbow on his knee as the child stomps around in the dirt.
Earlier you’d been distracted by a, “Hey, kid, no-'' and caught Mando pulling a fat earthworm out of the child’s hands. The scowl of displeasure on the child’s face preceded one of the funniest things you’d ever seen the pair do. The child lifted his hand and squinted, met with a shake of the helmet, but much to your surprise he managed to get the worm back from Mando, plunging it right into his mouth. You’re not sure how, seeing him smacking his lips with pride, and it obviously baffled Mando too. He slapped his thighs and made a noise that sounded like a confused massiff, which made you double over laughing long enough that he threatened to leave you behind.
Now his posture is more languid, twirling a piece of grass between his fingers and watching the child searching for more snacks.
“Am I performing this feat for no one?” you ask, waving the blaster wildly. That gets Mando’s attention.
“Kriff…don’t do that,” he straightens up, looking like he’s going to give you another talking-to about blaster safety.
(not like you’re already so cautious you almost threw up the first time you touched it)
True to his word after that one evening on the Crest, Mando opened up the artillery cabinet and brought out a small blaster pistol, approaching you like a skittish loth-cat. The weight of yesterday’s market trip was still on your mind, but you’d coached yourself to breathe through the twinges of rejection you felt.
(not right now, but not forever)
The Crest was still parked on the dense forest planet, Mando waiting on a part to upgrade the cabin climate system. He’d stood in front of you, the blaster looking tiny nestled into the folds of his gloves, as you stared at it with the same pit in your stomach as before.
“Would you like to try again?” he asked. His posture was open, not pushing, offering a part of himself up to you.
(you knew you had to take it)
“Okay,” you sighed, gathering up the child from the cot and settling him in the crook of your arm. “Be warned, it’s not going to go much better than last time.”
Mando sidled up to you, his helmet tilting as he pressed a button to lower the ramp.
“I don’t have any complaints about last time,” he murmured, and you were hit with a blast of heat to your face as you remembered what exactly “last time” entailed.
(you straddling his lap, his hand on your face, rolling to pin you beneath him, hands clasped above your head)
(dampened by echoes of his words - I don’t know how to give you this)
“Cheeky,” you threw back, trying to calm yourself as the ramp lowered. “Are we at least far away from anything I could possibly hit?”
“We will be,” Mando replied, coming to stand beside you as the ramp lowered. Sunlight cut through the seal of the ship, painting you golden as it drifted down your body. You felt Mando’s hand skim past your elbow, turning your head to look at him. The light gilded his beskar, the shine almost too bright for you so you squinted against it. The child cooed and you tossed your head at Mando.
“Check out you dad, Bean, he’s so shiny he could be used as a spaceport beacon,” you joked. The child turned his head and smiled at Mando, who then watched you both for a long moment even though the ramp had long since touched earth. His hand came up to cup the child’s cheek as he squinted against the glove. The visor lingered on the child, then turned to you. It was often impassive, but the ghost of his touch told you what emotions were running through him.
(fondness)
(conflict)
“Let’s go,” he said, stepping back from you both a little quick, as if he’d caught himself in a thought he shouldn’t be having. You followed him down the ramp, bouncing the child a little to watch his big ears flap.
“Alright Bean, I’m sure you’ll find this entertaining.”
It hadn’t gone nearly as bad as the first time. Mando was quieter with you, slower and more cautious. The blaster was loaded this time, but a much smaller and less powerful model than the one he keeps on his hip. It fit easier in your hand and you were getting the hang of aiming, the noise of the bolts still a little too loud for your nerves.
You’ll admit you let the frustration that permeated the first blaster training taint the beginning of this one. After struggling to aim the pistol yet again, a few exasperated huffs from Mando egging you on, you finally spun around to face him.
“How old were you the first time someone held a weapon at you?”
He took a half step back, stunned at the outburst. You were gritting your teeth, angry at the world for making you have to learn this and taking it out on the only person who was trying to help. It curled shame in your stomach, that you said those words to him, and it only soured you more when he answered.
“A child.”
You both stood and stared at each other, letting the outburst blur the edges of your vision. You nodded, taking a deep breath.
“Me too.”
Mando nodded back, and you scrubbed a hand over your mouth, rolling your shoulders.
“I’m sorry. I’m just…upset that I’m upset. I know I shouldn’t be, and I’m angry that I haven’t unlearned it yet.” It was a mouthful of words but the truth, and somehow saying it out loud makes the monster so much smaller. Mando didn’t say anything, but he came closer to you and put his hand on your shoulder. You leaned into his touch as you watched the toes of his boots come to rest by yours. The understanding that you both were children of violence (probably very different kinds of violence) made the lesson less like a teacher to a student and more like allies.
The shooting space Mando chose was a small clearing within a tightly wooded forest, the canopy of trees letting the light dapple in. The dirt and dead leaves on the ground crunch and shuffle pleasantly underfoot, and the air holds the pleasant smell of forest rot that ushers in rebirth. You think after this practice it would be nice to lie down and watch the branches shift in the breeze, the kid climbing over you, Mando sitting quietly nearby.
(If only you could hit the kriffing target.)
You’d been at it for over an hour, changing your stance, which eye you used to aim, holding the blaster at a variety of angles while Mando called out encouragement from several feet away. Your frustration is back to boiling over, and Mando can surely feel it coming off you in waves. He leaves the kid hunting under rocks to come by your side, looking out at the makeshift target field he put together with a few pieces of durasteel scrap.
“Don’t you dare say anything snarky,” you warn him, overly nervous at this perfect marksman, deadly hunter surveying the scene. You’ve left some scorch marks on the landscape, but nothing of significance on the actual targets. Letting the blaster hang at your side, you pointedly don’t look at Mando.
(told you this was a lost cause)
“Okay, show me,” he says, and you go through the motions of getting into position, lifting the blaster, lining up the shot, until he steps so close behind you it almost makes you misfire.
“Hold,” he says, his voice close to your ear. You keep the blaster aimed as he leans over your shoulder. His chest is pressed lightly against your back, and in an exciting development he extends his arm along the length of yours, fingers coming to rest on your hand. He doesn’t have to lengthen his arm, could have taken a half step back and reached just fine, but the way he’s curling himself around you, molding his practiced form around your inexperienced one, is easing some of the tension from you.
(and growing another kind of tension)
“Fire,” he says, and you tug gently on the trigger. The bolt flies wide even though you swear you have the target in your sights. Mando hums and wraps his hand around yours.
“You’re losing form right when you pull the trigger. Try to keep the position for a second longer.” He stiffens his arm, the other hand coming to your hip to offer a grounding weight. “Again.”
You squeeze off another round and it’s closer now. Your mouth drops open.
“Kriff, that’s an actual improvement.” The surprise in your voice reverberates a chuckle from Mando’s chest into your spine, and you have to fight not to push back against him.
“Still a little loose at the end,” he says, (you have no idea Mando) shuffling closer to you to press the length of his body up yours.
(Kriffing Maker, you’re not going to be able to concentrate like this)
You swallow hard and line up the target, beskar surrounding you as if you were the true Mandalorian, and you fire a shot.
Ping!
You’re stunned for a moment before the wonder bubbles up.
“I hit it.” A nervous laugh barks out of your chest. “Maker, I actually hit something.” You leaned back into Mando’s chest and the hand on your hip snakes across your stomach. Your elation ramps up a dizzying amount as he pulls you into him, his hand pushing the blaster down to your side as he lets you lean back. The helmet brushes against your hair as you hear his own soft chuckle.
“That you did. How are you feeling?”
You ponder the sensation running through you. Excitement at completing a task. A low-level of dread at the idea of having a person in your sights.
“Conflicted,” is the best you can come up with.
“That’s appropriate,” Mando says, and you think you’d be able to concentrate better if you couldn't feel how warm and solid he is behind you.
(Maker-damned sexy mountain)
As if he heard your thoughts, the hand around your waist slides back, the gloves tracing along the fabric of your waistband. The middle finger takes an extra moment to circle the button of your pants before resting back on your hip, and with a step back you’re left without his reassuring pressure against you.
“Again, no cheating this time.” You throw a dirty look over your shoulder.
“Not cheating, learning,” you throw back, but the strength of those words is weakened by seeing him stand with his hip cocked, hand on his belt with his helmet tipped far to one side.
(he knows he looks good like that)
“Then show me what you’ve learned,” he drawls out and you roll your eyes, turning back to the makeshift targets.
(hold a second longer than you think)
You will your muscles to commit this to memory, the same as everything else done in defense of your life, as you lift and fire the blaster again.
Ping!
You shouldn’t be enjoying this but you’re feeling accomplished, and a little more confident. You’re not hitting bullseyes, nor are you wildly accurate, but you’re hitting a target the size of a man and that’s good enough for you.
(you should never need to learn more)
You shift to another target, taking the breath, firming your stance before firing.
Ping!
(is Mando closer to you?)
You swivel on your heels, trying to add speed to your arsenal.
Zzzst!
You tut to yourself, not used to firing while moving, but you re-center and try again.
Ping!
It’s close to the edge but still a hit. You lower the pistol and start turning towards Mando but he’s on you with the silent stalk of his profession.
You stifle a gasp as Mando pulls you tight against his hips, feeling the thick length of his cock press against your ass. Both hands fly to your waistband, deftly unbuttoning them. You have a moment to recognize his right hand is bare before he’s sliding it into your pants, cupping you over your underwear.
“Kneel,” he growls behind you and you drop, his body following you fluidly. He’s got you caged in between his legs, wrapping his arm around you to pull you back against him. His fingers stroke against your clothed cunt, pressing lightly to tease at your clit.
“Fuck, Mando,” you gasp, hearing his wrecked breaths behind you. “Did that…turn you on?”
“Can’t you tell, Mesh’la?” he teases, his voice deep and raked over gravel. His hips roll against your ass, the helmet resting against your shoulder. “Makes me want to fuck you here in the dirt, take your pretty little cunt, looking so beautiful, kotyc, Mesh'la…” Mando loses his train of thought as he searches for your breast under your shirt, dragging his thumb over your nipple to harden under his touch. You haven’t had Mando’s hands on you in ten years. Not like this, not hot and possessive. It’s just as intoxicating as the first time.
“M-mando, the kid…” you gasp, wrenching your head back over your shoulder.
“Kid’s too busy looking for bugs,” he groans, “Need to feel you.”
(well that’s a pair of underwear wrecked)
He pushes against your back and you can’t help but fall forward on your hands and knees, fingers digging into the leaves and silt of the forest floor. Mando folds over you, hand coming down into the dirt beside yours and draping his body over you. The cape flutters over your silhouettes, and if anyone stumbled upon this glen it would look like the Mandalorian was searching for his dropped reading glasses.
He’s not, of course, he’s backing his hand up to slide his fingers into your underwear, maneuvering you back into his folded hips so you can feel his achingly hard length. He’s palming you, not sunken into your core yet but dangerously close. Your arousal must be slicking his palm, those thick talented fingers so close to where you need him. You close your eyes, the bliss of being enveloped by him fighting against how dangerous this could be.
(anyone could find you here)
But he’s so close and breathing so quickly next to you, it makes your head spin. You look down at your hands, planted in the dirt side by side, and you slide your fingers over his gloved ones. There’s debris and bits of grit between you, but to touch him even if it wasn’t ideal was the constant in your life.
“Kriff, do you think you can take me if I put it in right now?” He says, voice dark and chocolatey smearing across your shoulders. You gasp at the image; Mando ripping down your pants and filling you, just the wetness of your arousal guiding him in. You whine, knowing how he’ll stretch you, the burn of his cock with no foreplay, and you grind back against him.
(Want it want it want it)
(Maker you can't and you hate that you know it)
“Mando, fuck, we can’t, not right here with…”
Mando lifts up on his knees, tearing his hand from your pants (no wait come back) and wrapping both around your hips, gasping in a few deep lungfuls of breath.
“Dank farrik, you’re…Kriff, I’m sorry, I know,” he stumbles over his words, hands rubbing frantic circles on your hips. You huff out a laugh and look over your shoulder at him. The sunlight flecks him in gold, his chest rising and falling as he tips the helmet down from the canopy back to your face.
“Mesh’la, you don’t know what you do to me.”
You stifle a moan at his hazy confession, but your eyes search for the child.
(where is…where is the child?)
“Mando, I don’t see him,” you stutter.
“What?” he slurs out, voice sounding drunk on the heady feeling of arousal.
“Where’s the kid?” you say more forcefully, and the edge of fear in your voice seems to snap Mando to attention. He pulls you up to standing with him, the casual strength of it making you dizzy.
“Kid?” he calls out, tearing himself from you and leaving you standing with a rucked-up shirt and open pants in the forest. You could care less though, because you’re also calling out for the little green gremlin.
“Bean? Where’d you go?” you shout, buttoning yourself up and trying not to sound too scared.
It takes three heart-pounding minutes before Mando thinks to look into the hollow at the end of the log he was sitting on. The child raises his hands and chirps in the universal sign of “found me!” You slump down in the dirt as Mando fishes the kid out.
“I just taught him hide and seek,” you groan, a hand against your forehead as you will your heart to stop pounding. Stealing a glance at Mando you see him shaking his head, but in the exasperated way that makes you think he’s smiling under the beskar.
“Lesson’s over, time to head back,” he says, and your heart drops but also thumps heavily.
(what just happened there?)
You don’t say anything as you walk back to the Crest, watching Mando out of the corner of your eye. He’s stiffer now (maybe still a little stiff from your activities) and you can feel awkwardness wafting off him like heat from a turbine.
(hope he doesn’t regret it)
Back on the Crest, Mando puts the blaster back in the armory, locking it up. You open some ration packs for dinner, eyes lingering on the fresher foods you’d obtained, but you’re feeling too sapped of energy to try cooking.
(another day)
Eating in silence, Mando is still antsier than you expected. It’s not like you hadn’t had his fingers (amongst other things) between your legs before. And the words whispered in the cockpit not a day earlier made you think he wanted you.
(at least as a lover if not something more)
Maybe this was a step too far for him, a desire he wasn’t prepared to indulge. Maybe he was embarrassed that a Mandalorian should feel a need this heavy.
You hoped not.
After the soreness of the day, your new bed is a welcome respite. The child is still riled up from the earlier excitement, but after several minutes of chattering and playing with the silver ball he still adores above all else, you see him start to fade. You know you should put him in his hammock but you’re warm and settled into your bed, and the child has plenty of room. You decide to let him crash with you for the night, but just as your eyelids pull with sleep Mando’s knuckles rap quietly on the wall.
“He’s almost out,” you whisper, and Mando pulls back your curtain partition. The helmet tilts down at the child curled on his side, his ear pillowed under his head and hands holding the ball tightly in sleep. For a little rabble rouser who always keeps you on your toes, he can sure tug at your heartstrings.
“I’ll put him up,” Mando whispers, gathering the sleeping body so carefully. It always touches you to see such a large, imposing man handle the small being with such care. He tucks him into the crook of his elbow with a long look at his face.
“He’s pretty cute when he’s not giving us heart attacks,” you say, and you almost choke on the us that comes so quickly to your lips.
(are we an us?)
Mando turns his head back to you, and the visor draws slashes of heat across your bare shoulders.
“I’m sorry…for today. I got carried away. I didn’t mean to…take it so far.” The confession furrows your brow.
“How far did you mean to take it?” you ask, and you’re surprised at the sultry tone you hear. Mando seems to be too, as his hand grips the partition cloth tighter.
“I…I’m not…I wasn’t…” he says, and you raise an eyebrow at him with a sleepy smirk.
“I thought we’d gotten to the point where we understood each other, Mando,” you ask with a teasing lilt, watching his thrumming silhouette.
(Maker, I want to fuck you)
(Kriff, Mando, wanted to for weeks)
“I know what I said, I just…” Mando murmurs, trying not to disturb the child. The hand gripping the cloth eases, his fingers rubbing against the weave in a way that broadcasts nervousness.
(always at war, even when there isn’t anything to fight)
“I don’t want you to feel like…you have to take what I give you. You can ask for things, and you can tell me off if I’m…being too forward.” The admission makes you chew on your lip, thinking for a moment as he stands in your gaze. It’s gentlemanly in a way, him wanting you to know you have agency and that you can deny him if what he offers is not enough. It’s also deferral, though, another way for him to deny what he wants. Another attempt to place distance between you that doesn’t need to be there.
“Mando, I would very much like to continue with this,” you purr out, turning onto your back so the visor can roam the swell of your breasts under your top, the drag of your hand to lie on your stomach. “Just not when the kid’s present.” You wink at the last statement.
(seducing Mando? Who are you?)
“I want you, Mando. I want this,” you say, with just a little less teasing, “Whatever it might turn out to be.” You hear an audible swallow and receive a short nod, which makes you close your eyes and stretch, arching your back. You fall back on the bed, blinking slowly as the hot stare of the black T rips up and down your body.
“Goodnight, Mando,” you say, the words releasing him as he steps back from your bed.
“Goodnight Mesh’la,” he returns, letting the blanket fall back to obscure your sleeping space. You hear him put the child to bed, shutter the door, then silence.
In the dark of your bed you let your hands drag into your underwear much in the same way Mando’s did. Closing your eyes and drifting back to that forest clearing, you construct the ending you wanted from that moment. Mando’s body heavy over yours, his cock buried inside you as he fucked you into the dirt, fingers teasing you to completion as he chases his release and yours. The image of him taking you like this, powerful and encompassing but with the soft reverence that got you addicted to him in the first place, makes you cum hard and fast.
Then, as you drift back down and into slumber, you contemplate how to court (your) the Mandalorian. The conflict he suffers is still half shrouded from you, but you hope that your words can offer him some clarity, or at least help him make a few decisions. For all of his stature and presence, you may need to be the grounding force in this cautious partnership. Maybe it’s just a matter of letting Mando ease into the idea that you want all of him, even if he can only imagine himself in your bed for now.
And in the morning, as the caf percolates and Mando passes you in the hallway, maybe the heaviness of his visor and the time he spends letting it wander makes you believe that not forever could be sooner than you hoped.
END
“this life
Has been
A landscape
Of pain
And still,
Flowers
Bloom in it.”
― Sanober Khan
The story continues in Episode 7: Ache
#din djarin x f!reader#din djarin x female reader#din djarin x you#din djarin x reader#din djarin#mando/reader#mando/you#mando/f!reader#the mandalorian fic#mandalorian fanfic#mandalorian fic#the mandalorian#the mandalorian x f!reader#the mandalorian x female reader#the mandalorian x reader#i think of you series#prolix fics
392 notes
·
View notes
Text
WIP Wednesday
Thanks for the tag @eridanidreams .
If you are reading and have a WIP you would like to share please do!
Tag!
my wip is the next installment of the Sam Coe x Doc Melody fic.
Here's the ao3 version
Words: 1,303
Contains spoilers for the UC Vanguard questline and early main story mission.
“I have just as much right to those maps as anyone else in the family,” Sam shouted at Jacob.
Cora sat at the table, munching on some candy Jacob gave her. Sam had asked her to let him handle it but Cora wasn’t one to stay quiet, “It’s important, Grandpa. There might be a huge scientific discovery in the Nest and we’ll only know if we get there.”
“You’re not going to the Empty Nest,” Jacob spun on her, “it’s too dangerous.”
“Of course she isn’t, Jacob. I’ll be going with Sam,” Jamie said with a smile.
“You are?” Sam looked over at her, trying not to look too shocked.
Jacob scoffed, “You may have been raised in Ashta country but you’ve been softened by decades of desk work. The fringe would eat you alive.”
“I see you’re still projecting your own insecurities on others?” Jamie tilted her head to one side, “my research takes me to corners of settled space infested with spacers, crimson fleet, and just plain cranky, trigger happy survivalists regularly. Not to mention the xeno plentiful planets I’ve surveyed. I may appear soft, but I’m more than capable in a fight.”
Jacob stared for a moment, looking her over and trying to gauge whether she was bluffing. “Ashta aren’t spacers.”
Jamie rolled her eyes, “No, they’re big, chitin covered stalker predators that sit at the top of the food chain on Akila. And I’ve been facing them with shotgun in hand since my Dad figured out I could fire one without falling over. Stop trying to paint me as some fragile desk sitter when I’m anything but.”
“I’m not handing over the maps.” Jacob crossed his arms, “I will not let you two plunder the family legacy for profits.”
“What profits?” Sam shouted once more, throwing up his hands, “we’re trying to see why the place is void of life.”
“It stands to reason there is something there. Something you’ll run off with and ruin the Empty Nest forever.” Jacob glared at Sam.
Jamie sighed and rubbed her temple. Sam went to yell some more but she held up a hand. She took a deep breath and looked at Jacob,
“You’re right, there is something hidden in the Empty Nest. And that thing is disruptive both to modern tech but also to the sensitive sensory organs of xenos like Ashta. That makes it incredibly dangerous for Akila City.”
Sam looked puzzled at her but held his tongue.
“It hasn’t hurt the city in 200 years,” Jacob said with a smug look.
She rolled her eyes, “I don’t mean directly. Use your head, Jacob. If the Empty Nest can’t be detected with tracking scanners and also isn’t full of Ashta then what might fill it’s walls?”
Jacob just stood there glaring.
“Sounds like a good place to hide things,” Cora said from the table with a wink, “maybe those dummies Dad talked down at Galbank were hiding there before coming to the City to rob it.”
“Exactly,” Jamie smiled, “smugglers already love caves. Finding a cave that can’t be traced is like natural shielded cargo. You can put whatever and do whatever you’d like.”
“Anything that is strong enough to deter Ashta would deter people,” Jacob insisted.
“Then how did Solomon find it?” Jamie asked. “Why doesn’t the story include him getting headaches or hiding the location due to dangers. No, he charted its location and talked about it openly because he wanted someone to follow-up on it. Sam is trying to do just that and you’re stonewalling him.”
“You aren’t getting the maps!” Jacob yelled.
“You owe me!” Jamie snapped back.
Jacob blinked. Then he shook his head.
“Yes, you do. And I kept the value estimates on those pieces I gave you. Maps or the full credit value.”
“You know I can’t…”
“Other option is I take up the matter with Leah. Let her know the arrangement and how you’re flaking out.”
“You wouldn’t dare, those where donated.” Jacob was losing color.
“I let you donate them under the agreement I would get something of equal value back.”
“You really think the maps are worth the old things you gave gramps?” Cora asked.
“I do,” Jamie didn’t break eye contact with the old man.
“The agreement was a favor. Like getting you access to a restricted site or…”
“Maps will do. Less work for you too, I know you’re getting up there in years and just want to kick back with a whiskey in hand.” Jamie was now the one looking smug.
Jacob looked like he was chewing his tongue, the silent tension suffocating the room. He reached into his suit pocket and threw a keycard at Sam, “for my office. Take the damn things and go. Cora stays here while you plunder the nest.”
“Was already the plan,” Sam caught the key and hurried to the office door.
“I don’t want to hear any whining about either of you getting hurt,” Jacob said to Jamie.
“Gramps, the Professor has fought terrormorphs, she can handle a few ashta.” Cora was walking over from the trash can as she spoke.
Sam stopped just outside the office doorway, the maps now in his hands, and stared slack jawed at his daughter. Jacob shared a similar look.
“It’s a whole section in her latest book on biological threats to humanity from ancient times to now. She fought her first terrormorph on Tau Ceti when she went out to a meet people at a meat processing plant in a tiny colony for other research. The whole colony was dead except for one guest, a xenobiologiest named Hadrian Sanon and—“
“We’ve heard the SSNN reports about Tau Ceti, sweetheart.” Jacob said, “they never mentioned Dr. Melody.”
“I personally requested anonymity during the ongoing crisis. SSNN and FC outlets aren’t known for giving space to instant celebrity and if Hardian and I wanted any chance at solving the puzzle when we needed them to steer clear. After it was over I got permissions from the UC cabinet and the amnesty board to write about my experiences.”
“In the book she wrote about how it felt to have a terrormorph try to hijack your mind. How it made her hear things and see things and at times seemed to pull at her limbs but she was able to resist like Major Sanon and put the monsters down. And one of the Terrormorph in Londinion summoned an ARMY of xenos that burrowed out from under the ruined spaceport and they had to activate this old radio towers to play a frequency to drive them off while also fighting the massive thing.” Cora pointed at her dad, “they had the body of that one on display in the MAST district for a while, remember? We went to see it with Noel and Barret. It was HUGE!”
“It was huge,” Jamie agreed as she closed her eyes a moment and breathed, “wasn’t immune to shotgun blasts.”
Cora let out a bubbling laugh, “No it wasn’t! Blam, Blam, Blam and down it went!”
Sam tripped on his words as he tried to steer the conversation away from thoughts that terrified him, “alright, I think we all now know Doc here can handle herself so lets us go and find the nest. You were right, by the way, it’s smack dab in Shaw territory so we’ll need to be ready for xeno and human resistance.”
“What?” Jacob looked insulted. Not at what Sam said but the idea that Shaw could be set up on perceived sacred ground.
“You heard me,” Sam growled, “Jamie was right.”
“Alright you two,” Jamie winked at Cora and then strolled up to Sam and tugged his arm, “Let’s swing by my ship so I can grab my equipment and then we’ll go empty the Nest.”
#atonalginger writes#sam coe#cora coe#sam coe x spacefarer#starfield fanfiction#starfield spoilers#wip wednesday
15 notes
·
View notes
Text
Voyage into the Unknown Pt.4
Master List
Pt.3 - Pt.4 - Pt.5
Trigger warning- Minor verbal sexual harassment, general violence,
The travelling days are long and tedious, however riding with the dwarf princes is at least entertaining. The two share fantastic stories of their otherworldly life. Stories of icy kingdoms embedded into blue mountains, conflicts with elves and goblins, and travelling great adventures across the world. It makes my simple life seem quite insignificant. Eight days finally pass and the town of Bree can finally be spotted through the trees. A large stone wall surrounds the village. As we pass through the tall wooden gate and down the cobblestone streets, many human folk give us questioning looks. Gandalf leads the company through some smaller back-alleys in order to avoid the townspeople's snooping, before stopping at a small open stable connected to a larger building. Securing the horses the company makes their way inside, the Inn is relatively empty aside from a few drunk men asleep at the bar. “How can I be of service?” A fat, jolly looking man behind the bar smiles warmly at the strange company. Gandalf steps forwards “We need around uh- sixteen beds, just for tonight” The man nods and pulls out a book covered in scribbled writing “Well we can do- My attention drifts away as I survey the room, the dwarves also wandering off to explore. I join Dwalin, Oin, and Gloin who have put some of the tables together to create one long sitting arrangement. Plopping down in a chair my bum and thighs ache from the constant horse riding, I groan in discomfort kicking my bag under the table while pouting like a sook. Bofur sits down beside me, patting me roughly on the shoulder “Ow” I cry out, “Oh stop it woman, I barely touched ya” He laughs rubbing the spot he hit. I lay my head on the table and let out a whine, closing my eyes “Leave the lass alone she’s probably never roughed it like this before” Dwalin chides him before sitting across from me “We’ll get some food in ya, you’ll feel right then” he says pulling out a metal smoking pipe. Bofur sits down on my left and Thorin on my right, of course at the head of the table. A tap on my right hand causes me to look over at him “Some complications have arisen, you and I will share a room whilst the rest of the company will be split amongst two others, is this alright with you?” Thorin speaks quietly and I nod in response “Alright, I will inform the others” He wanders away to speak to each dwarf individually.
It feels like forever before a young woman comes and begins placing plates of food on the table “Here you are, I’ll just go grab the rest” lifting my head I see that the four plates have already been claimed, huffing I place my head back down ‘This is going to take forever’.
A tap on my head breaks me out of my self-wallowing and I look up to see Kili pushing over his plate from across the table “Here, you should eat first” he says. Unbeknownst to me, the surrounding conversation quiets down as the company tunes in. “Are you sure?” I pout at the sentiment. Kili nods enthusiastically “Take it”. I hesitantly slide the plate in front of me “Thank you” I say and Kili smiles proudly. His brother patted him on the shoulder and Dwalin next to him nodded his head in approval. The stew is thick with juicy lamb and soft potatoes, smothered in a gravy like sauce. I sigh at the heavenly taste. As the company finally gets their meals and begins to dig in I just about finish mine, except for a small loaf of fresh bread and cheese.
Being completely stuffed, I pick up the loaf and cheese, and lean over the table shaking it at Kili. “You want it?” I offer, he looks up in surprise. “Me?” He points to himself and I roll my eyes “No, the other guy named Kili” He smiles widely, slightly red in the cheeks. He gently takes the food from me, rough hands brushing mine “Thank you” He says and I smile back. Loud cheers and laughter erupts from the company as they hit their jugs together, Fili smacking his brother’s shoulder roughly. The sudden loudness surprises me and I laugh along, pretending to understand as they begin to talk in another language around the table. I turn to Thorin giving him an awkward smile “I think I’d like to call it a night now” he gives me a raised brow before nodding and handing me the key ‘I’ll be up to join you shortly’. Getting up I grab my bag from under the table and head up the creaky wooden stairs, the drunken cheering can still be heard from the second floor. “Number 4?” I mutter to myself walking through the long hall. Finding the room I gently push open the door and peek inside. The room was small with two single beds next to each other. Across from the beds a small fireplace with a pile of wood on the side sits. A large empty metal drum sits in front of the fire. Before I can even wonder what it’s for the young curly haired woman from before bustles past me carrying a heavy bucket of water. “Sorry Miss can’t stop once I start” She says with a thick Welsh accent, pouring the water into the drum. “Nah s’alright mate, you need any help?” She nods, smiling gratefully “It’d save me the extra trip, come on, follow me then” She hurries past me down the other end of the hall. Quickly trotting after her, we walk down a small set of stairs and out a back door in the kitchen, grabbing an extra bucket on the way. The back streets are silent and dark, giving an eerie feeling to the atmosphere as we travel closer to the edge of town. “Here we are,” she says, coming to an old looking bore pump. “I’ll pump” I offer, placing the bucket underneath. “If you’re sure Miss, pump been giving me a hard time lately”. Grabbing the handle, and flexing my core, I pull it down heavily with my body weight, the old machine groaning as a blast of water falls out. Twice more and the first bucket is full. “Once more Miss, then I’ll set you free” she jokes, swapping the buckets out. Huffing from the exertion I grab the handle again, once, twice- “Evening ladies” a voice breaks the silence, causing the two of us to turn. Three tipsy men creep out of the shadows into the street's lantern lights. “Awfully cold to be out here by your lonesome, I’m sure we could find a way to warm yous up” He and his goon friends laugh, stumbling closer “Not interested mate” I snap firmly at them. The men ooh and laugh “This one’s got balls aye” He sauntered over to us “I’m sure I’ll be able to fix that though” He whispers, grasping my arm, the pungent smell of yeast flowing off his breath.
Swiftly, I grab his arm back, pulling him forward and bashing the top of my skull into his nose. Blood squirts violently from his nose as he clutches his face “Shit!” he yells, stumbling backwards. Pain spikes my head ‘Fuck that was a bad move’ I straighten myself out, blood dripping down my face. The greasy man picks himself up “You whore!” he yells, raising a lazy fist and charging. Side stepping out of the way, I grab his shirt and swing him into the metal pump with a loud crack, his body slumping onto the ground pathetically. Turning towards the other woman I smile at her triumphantly before an unexpected force hits the side of my head. Disoriented, I trip over, turning towards the other men. One stood in front, and the other younger one cowering behind him. The man swings his arm widely and I quickly duck underneath it before delivering an uppercut, throwing him on his ass. “Stay down!” I yell, before directing my attention to the last man standing, who hesitantly puts his fists up. I falsely charge at him, roaring as I hurl towards him angrily. He jumps back in fright before scampering away into the night. His friends, groaning and whining, pick eachother up off the ground and follow him, leaving me and the woman alone once again.
“By Gods that was impressive” she says, breaking me out of my trance. I turn to her, breathing heavily and heart pounding “I mean, are you alright Miss?” she smiles shamefully. I nod in response before grabbing the bore handle again and finally giving it one last pull, filling up the second bucket. “Let’s head inside before they come back” I say, the side of my face aches with a dull pain.
Making our way back into the room I thump the bucket down next to the drum, before walking over and flopping onto the furthest bed. “I’m sorry about what occurred tonight Miss, those wild folk can be a real nuisance when they come into town” “Wild folk?” I ask. “Yes, rangers Miss, they live in the wilds between towns, no laws out there” I hum in thought “I’ll keep that in mind”. The woman stands taking the two buckets with her “There, all ready for you Miss, you should wash up quick before your husband wants to hop in first”. I sit up to respond but she’s already left, closing the door behind her. Sighing, I stand and make my way over to the tub swishing my hand in the hot water. Quickly stripping off, I hop inside the drum, clearly not meant for bathing in, but maybe washing clothes in. I hastily rub the dirt off my body and rinse my hair, the developing bruise on my face and head aches. Once I’m more or less clean, I hop back out and dress in my long sleeve, cargo pants, and socks. A knock sounds from the door before it creaks open and Thorin enters “You left it unlocked?” he asks. “Apparently” I shrug, turning around and drying my hair, also hiding my bruised face. “The waters’ still hot if you want me to wait outside” I offer “That would be appreciated” He says.
As Thorin has his turn in the slightly too small tub, I sit on the ground across the door in the hall. Hiding my face behind my hand, as multiple company members walk past drunkenly and into their own room, giving me no mind. After some time, Thorin opens the door in a loose blue linen shirt and pants, he says nothing as I stand up and walk back inside, closing the door behind me and locking it. Thorin gently grasps my arm as I attempt to walk past him “You’re injured” he says, turning my hand over and inspecting my bruised and scabby knuckles. I laugh nervously “Ah, yeah, my hand slipped and I hit it into the- bedpost” I say, swinging my hair in front of my face. “Both hands?” he asks, definitely not believing me, “I’m clumsy?”
Thorin sighs, and gently touches my chin, turning my head to face him “Did your face slip also?” he asks unamused. I roll my eyes “I really don’t need your shit tonight Thorin” I huff, walking away and flopping on my bed. He follows, sitting at the end “At least let me inspect them”. I hesitate before sitting up. He scoots forwards, and takes my hands in his yet again. His rough fingers trace my knuckles gently “You won’t need stitches, but they should be wrapped to protect you from infection” he gets up and rummages through his pack before returning with two rolls of mostly white bandages and a smile vile. Thorin pours out some of the viscus liquid onto my knuckles, rubbing it in gently. The potion stings and smells strongly of honey and herbs. After wrapping both my hands, he directs his attention to my bruised temple and cheekbone, brushing my hair from my face. His hot breath fans across my face as he leans in to get a closer look. The lack of distance begins to make my cheeks burn, and my face feels hot. ‘Jesus I need help’ I think shamefully.
Before I can get too flustered, Thorin pulls back “Your face will heal fine, it’s just a bruise” I let out a heavy breath and nod in response. “Do you have any others?” He asks “I headbutted him” I stifle my grin. “Him?” he asks, concerned. I hum “Some ‘Wild-men’ harassed me and the owner's daughter, nothing I couldn’t handle though, you should’ve see them” I smile at him. He furrows his brows and nods in thought. “Let me look at your head” I tilt my head down in compliance, picking at my socks in boredom.
Thorin however, has come across an issue, touching your hair would be inappropriate given the nature of your relationship, but also given the obvious blooming affections his nephew has for you. And the apparent reciprocation of that interest by the mutual sharing of food. Thorin hesitantly lifts a section of hair, trying not to touch it as much as possible, and inspects the small bruise underneath. He continues to poke around the area, trying to get it done quickly.
“It seems you’ve gotten lucky this time” He states before rising from my bed “Next time you should take an escort however”. I look at him annoyed. “Luck has nothing to do with it, I’m just good at what I do” I praise myself, laying my head down on the squishy bed, and staring up at the ceiling. “And what is it that you do?” he asks inquisitively. I think about my wording before answering “I’ve trained in multiple forms of self-defense and hand-to-hand combat” I can hear him hum in approval “Good, we should still train you to use a proper weapon however, sword and bow” I yawn loudly “Yeah probably, but I think that’s tomorrow's issue aye” “Aye” he replies. I turn over and snuggle into the soft bed and scratchy blanket “Good night Thorin” “Good night” he mumbles back. I smiled to myself, ‘Perhaps he isn’t as big of a grumpy ass I thought he was’ I think to myself as I drift off into a deep slumber.
Master List
Pt.3 - Pt.4 - Pt.5
#the company x reader#the company of thorin oakenshield#thorin#the hobbit#kili x reader#kili durin#fili and kili
17 notes
·
View notes
Text
Can we please talk about the portrayal of domestic abuse in children's media?
Because it's fucked up.
Trigger Warning / Content Notion: I'm talking about my experience and trauma as a child abuse survivor, nothing graphic or drastic, no details about the abuse, but it is a bit bleak and might be upsetting, especially for people who have experienced abuse themselves and/or are very sensitive to other people's pain. There's some cursing.
A great example of this is Harry Potter (of course the TERF princess Jowling Kowling Rowling isn't the only one guilty of it, it's all over the place - which makes it even worse, because we're bombarded by this bullshit from everywhere, with almost no alternative).
The main character is abused by the family he's living with, socially isolated, bullied at school, has no support system, and the abuse is the only thing he knows. And then he goes to magical school, and BAM, he's making friends, he's assertive, confident, brave, sets boundaries, goes on to save the fucking world (yeah the surface-level understanding of oppression and bigotry in HP is a topic for another time).
I'll admit, relating to Harry when I was a kid did help me survive. But at the same time, it gave me very unrealistic expectations of what the trauma will do to me. I thought something is wrong with me, that I'm weak, because the abuse didn't make me stronger, it fucking destroyed me.
As you probably already know, and as I know now, that's what abuse does. It doesn't make you stronger, it doesn't build you up, it doesn't do anything good, it destroys you, sometimes forever. To grow as a person you need love, safety, support, good role models, space to learn and explore you interests.
I made myself strong. I'm cool, smart, interesting, kind, brave, caring, resilient and a good friend not because of the abuse, but despite it. I owe nothing to my abusive parents; every good thing I have in my life is there thanks to the people that helped me escape from them, protected me from them, made me feel safe and at ease, showed me love, compassion and understanding, gave me the space to be my hurt self, with all the good and bad, appreciated me, assured me that what I was put through was fucked up and nobody, especially a child, should ever be treated like this.
Yeah, I probably wouldn't be a very interesting action movie character, with my sleeping for days, crying, not leaving the house or showering for a week, not being able to make any friends, jumping at every sudden noise, not eating, nightmares, being barely conscious because I can't sleep and all the other fun stuff PTSD does to you. But maybe your hero doesn't have to go through abuse. Maybe losing your parents as a baby is tragic enough. Fuck, the Dursleys could even still try to isolate him from anything magical and oppose to Harry going to Hogwarts, not because of hatred, but because they would want to protect him from his parents' fate.
This narration is not just minimizing the impact, it's gloryfying abuse, trying to paint it as something with positive consequences. It doesn't have any. There's no "good damage". I could've been safe, happy and healthy for my whole life. Nothing good came out of my suffering. Maybe if I knew it, I would've asked for help earlier.
Children deserve to know the truth. Sometimes you need to simplify it a bit, but stories about heroes becoming good people because of their trauma are not simplification, they are lies, and they are further hurting people who are already hurt and vulnerable.
#harry potter#jowling kowling rowling#hogwarts legacy#hogwarts letter#harry potter fandom#hp fandom#fuck jkr#jk rowling#child abuse#bullying#literary analysis#protect trans kids#protect children#what doesn't kill you#what doesn't kill you right away will slowly suck the life out of you#survivor#powered by spite#cs survivor#child abuse survivor
64 notes
·
View notes
Text
Fire & Ice
Chapter 1 - A Political Affair
(Robb Stark x f!Targaryen!reader)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The reader hears voices brought on by magic. This may be triggering for people who experience psychosis. Please take care.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Synopsis: A ghost from your past returns, changing the course of your future forever.
Authors note: Oh boy back at the start! This is a fic Ive wanted to write since I first read the books at 14. Think of it as a “What if…” scenario. I’ve tried to abide by the rules of the world best I can. As always, comments are always welcome but be nice! Most importantly I hope you enjoy 💕
Tw: Physical/verbal abuse, kidnapping, hunting, blood
Tag list: @kittykylax , @winxschester , @mihrimahsultan03 , @stargaryenx , @the-desilittle-bird
Playlist
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Moat Cailin
The wind blows cold, prickling the hairs on Catelyn's neck. Winter was coming. The words hold meaning now, more than ever. Gloved hands clutch an envelope written in haste, any desire for perfection dissipating upon the arrival of urgent news an hour prior. Her husband was dead, the Lannister’s to blame, and with her daughters still in their clutches debts were owed to her. Debts that would not be repaid unless Robb bent the knee, but any notions of peace had vanished the moment the blade struck her husband's neck. Ned’s final note to her was the cause for her movements tonight, revealing a secret, a secret kept across the narrow sea for nearly twenty years. The information was too sensitive to share, and a decision was made without consultation. Better to ask for forgiveness. The frost crunches beneath her boots, the first breath of winter moving south with her son's siege. She jolts as hurried steps sound out on the old wooden wharf. Clutching a smaller dagger close to her chest, she turns towards the noise.
“Were you followed?” she whispers urgently.
“No,” the man replies calmly, hood cloaking his identity. His hand reaches out causing Catelyn's gaze to flit down towards the open palm.
“This must be received by its recipient,” she stresses, “do you understand me? Protect it with your life, dock your ship, await their answer. If this succeeds you will be paid out in triple of what has already been given,”
“Money is not my influence, my Lady,” the man replies
“Most men say as much, until the correct price is offered,'' she replies, placing the letter firmly into his palm. Her husband's sigil stares back up at her, the running wolf illuminated by the moon, and she releases her grasp. “May the winds be with you,” she whispers.
“And the winter with you,” the man replies, bowing. She watches him stride down the dock, others appear from the shadows joining him, slipping seamlessly from the darkness onto the ship before them. She was told he was the fastest sailor in Braavos, one who held his own resentment towards the Lannisters, though those details he provided sparingly. She watches the vessel disappear over the horizon, leaving her alone with the moon. She prayed to the old gods and the new, that her words reached the intended ears. Her family's survival hung in the balance, the letter was their key to salvation. A salvation yet to be discussed with her eldest, but hesitation was a risk she was not willing to take, not with her daughter's lives on the line. If Ned's letter had been intercepted others will already be on their way to destroy what she sought. Robb was older now, more sure of himself, but she would force him on this path, it was the only way, and he would see that one way or another.
Norvos
A smile spreads across Visery Targaryens face, as his manicured nails rapp against the wood desk. He clutches the yellowed paper flimsily between his thin fingers. Across the sea, havoc reigned, he wondered how many more would declare themselves kings.
“One more at least,” He declares, looking into the cracked mirror. “Renly and Stannis Baratheon argue over rights, the Lannister’s clutch on with all the gold in the world boosting the inbred Joffrey, while the newly declared king in the north, moves further south each day. Yet to lose a battle, or so his mother would have me believe.” Visery scoffs. If what he read was true, he had an army awaiting him. The only caveat being his traitorous little sister. It should have been him leading the Dothraki towards the narrow sea, pillaging Westeros and reclaiming the iron throne in the name of his ancestors. But he had been unjustly banished by his sister's pompous husband Khal Drogo over nothing more than a petty squabble. An accidental blade and a ridiculous primitive custom that had led him to his current shit stained accommodation. He tilts the note closer to the light, the writing is rushed, but the wax seal is legitimate, the Starks insignia pressed into it, the letter was short, to the point, leaving no room for misunderstandings.
Catlynn Stark wanted a marriage, a fast alliance between two houses, securing both the north and the south under one roof. The benefits were clearly laid out, for the Starks, a legitimate claim to the throne, a way to rally those in King's Landing sick of the Lannisters domination and cruelty. For him nothing less than the seven kingdoms, or at least the six. The north would remain free in accordance with her demands, but that was a bridge easily burned when reached. A proclaimed king in the north would be easily taken down. The Northerners were brutes after all, easily distracted and easily pleased.
The timing of the request was nothing short of impeccable. News had spread of Khal Drogo's passing, killed by an infected blade no more than a year prior. Curious how those things happen. His child was born early, deformed and dead, rumours of a monster summoned by a witch, but Visery knew the truth. Drogo’s bloodline was evidently not strong enough to create a true Targaryen. Perhaps the king in the north would prove different. His sister was once again a fresh slate, a sow ready to be resold, all he needed to do was find her. His eyes turned to the small chest of coins he had saved precisely for this moment. Two sellswords should do the trick, the rest would follow with ease. You will not have forgotten your place, even after spending so much time amongst the Dothraki ranks. You were not a khaleesi, not a ruler, but you were a Targaryen, and he was your king by right of blood. He would make sure you remember that, and your duty to your family.
Vaes Dothrak
The sun rises over the great plains and you stare out across the grass fields, swaying as the sea breeze blows through them. You were closing in on the coast, the air saltier with each passing day. The dark blue sky turns to bright yellow as the sun rises in the east, its unchanging nature mocking you. Still each day you came and watched, waiting for a miracle. Mirri’s cackle followed you around, not even the sound of her screams as she burnt could replace the laugh that came before. No comfort to you was her death. Nor was the smell of charred flesh that filled the air as you watched the pyre burn through tear stained eyes. A warm breeze blows, and your hand absentmindedly rests on your stomach, gently running over what could have been. Time would not heal these wounds, but you could not yield yet. You had come too far to turn back now. Your ancestors' voices grew louder with each mile, they echoed from Dragonstone calling you home. The narrow sea was close, the Iron throne well within your grasp now a fully fledged khalasar stood behind you. Though whether they would brave the poisoned water was another question, one that would be answered by nightfall.
Khaleesi, yer hash yatholat. Jif anha afazhi ale eveth? * Khaleesi, you are up. Should I warm some water? * Irri states softly, having followed your trail out towards the ledge. You smile, as she rubs the sleep from her eyes.
“Vo anna hrazef, anha Fonas jin aena” *No get my horse, I hunt this morning* you reply.
“Yer hash haqe tat yer remekat” *You are tired, did you sleep?* she asks, hands tracing under your eyes before interlocking her hand with yours. Irri was your most trusted confidante. She had held you when Drogo had died and stood by you when others left, managing to convince one of his bloodriders to remain. Cohallo had placed you under his protection stating that Drogos final act was to cross the narrow sea, and that he would see that it was done for the blood of his blood. You hoped his promise still held true, but you sensed the mens nerves as you approached the coast. Jorah said there was no need to worry, the promise of greatness, gold and conquest would be enough to drive the Dothraki forward, though you were aware that their cooperation would come with contingencies. Jorah believed it would be asked that you marry Cohallo once King’s landing was seized. You doubted the seven kingdoms would bend to two foreigners, though with enough force even the strongest will could yield. A fact you had learnt on the battlefield as you became intimately familiar with the price of victory. You had become acquainted with the smell of death, and the havoc of a siege. You had lived it, eventually earning the mens respect by bleeding alongside them.
“Not well, I dreamt snow came to the plains. It rotted the crops and froze the young and old, and there was nothing I could do to stop it, no matter how much fire I made, the ice kept coming,” you reply, nodding to the horse handlers as you approach your mare.
“It cannot snow here khaleesi. This is known,” she states, lifting down your leather armour.
“I know, it just felt like a…” you hesitate for a moment, searching for the right word.
“Mel attirarido?” *Bad Dream* Irri offers, boosting you up onto the horses back.
“An omen,” You reply, looking down, feeling her fear, you offer a reassuring smile “but you’re right it's impossible,”
Sweat beads beneath the thick leather armour as Irri hands you your bow, engraved with a golden dragon. It had been given to you on your wedding day by your husband. You hear his voice carry in on the wind “Rakh ki tor laz addrivat ha hrazef save sekke laz yeri “ *Boys of four learn to kill, you can too *
“san athchomari yeraan” *thank you* you state fixing it across your chest, placing your arrows into their quiver.
“khaleesi, yer eth nakho ha jin mithri ki mahrazhi” *My Queen you must wait for the rest of the men* she relays.
“Anha tat vo jin qeshah, anha tih jin deer. Anha eth vo assilat me, astat jorah anha'll tikh irge hatif jin shekh” *I do not fear this land, I saw a deer. I do not wish to lose it, tell Jorah I will return before day break to plan on our next move*
You kick off into a canter, the wind stings your face as you ride towards where you had last seen the stag. You slow to a trott as the tracks come into view, etched into the dirt, hardened from a recent drought. Trees appear along a small stream, fighting against nature to survive. The dead wood creaks in the wind, barren but still growing upwards. Perhaps this was once a great forest, perhaps this is why the deer still came. You stall and drop down from your horse, quietly moving between the trees settling behind a patch of tall grass, the only thing able to survive the aridity. Your eyes follow the tracks forward until you see the herd standing in the distance. The grass sways in the wind covering the noise you make as you pull a quill from its carrier. The string creaks as you pull it back, waiting, eyes locked on the stag standing boldly amongst the herd. The breeze blows from behind you, you fire, striking it directly between the eyes. You thank the seven for the food as you stand, the rest of the herd bounding off, you lead your mare through the woods tying her to a tree as you begin processing the deer’s body. You hear a creak behind you, ignoring it until it grows louder, heavier, human like. Brandishing your knife you turn towards the noise, coming face to face with a ghost.
“Visery,” you murmur, the knife falling from your fingers.
“Hello sister, you look afraid to see me, perhaps you should be,” He replies, you note the two men standing behind him, swords in hand.
“You will be killed if you are found here you must leave,” you state, holding your voice level slowly backing towards where you had left your bow rested against a tree.
“I do not think I will be killed now that the Khal is dead. Or does the Queen of the sheepherders believe herself judge, jury and executioner in his stead,” he queeries following your footing.
“You did not think they were so common when you married me off to them on my 18th name day” you reply
“You are lucky I did not marry you off younger,” he spits “Your husband is dead, for what now almost a year? And what reason do you give for not bringing me back? Allowing me the army I bought with you,”
“He is not,” you begin
“Do not lie to me!” he shouts, eyes shutting in rage, allowing you to put a hand on your weapon “It’s never worked out for you,”
‘I am not the same little girl you left here,” you reply, taking your bow and aiming it at him, his eyes going black.
“Eddard Stark is dead. The Lannisters hold Kings Landing captive,” he effortlessly relays the information you had known for months, “the young wolf wages war from the north. He is the fourth person to declare himself a king. You, now widowed, will fulfil your duty to me, and our family by ensuring I take back the iron throne, and reinstate the greatest lineage westeros has ever seen,”
“And how shall I fulfil such a duty?” you spit, the arrow string pulling on your hand. “I have already procured my army, what else of mine would you try and take,”
“An army” he laughs “you would be lucky if half didn't die of fright on the passage over”
“They have more courage than you ever had,”
“Not enough to take back what I want, nor would they do it for me, No I need an army that fights for me, not you,”
“I will not leave my Khalasar behind, after everything? This is my…”
“Your home,” he mocks, but you keep your aim true “very well if you must be difficult, men,” he calls out, as another two sell swords appear with Irri bound.
“Irri” you whisper, dropping your bow,
“Khaleesi,” she cries out softly
“Let her go,” you threatened retaking your stance
“Her fate is in your hands my dear sister, drop your weapon and come with me now, and I will return this whore to your tribe,”
“What trust of mine have you earned,” you retort , fingers itching to release
“When have I ever lied to you,” Visery says sickeningly sweet , hand tracing along Irris cheek.
You lower your bow, as you hear the brush rustle behind you, something flies by grazing your neck. Your hand reaches up feeling a quil embedded in your skin, you bring your fingers into view a deep blue mixed with crimson, staining purple on your fingers. You look at Irri, her eyes are the last thing you see before dropping to the ground.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Water drips down splattering nearby, the dull thunk slowly rousing you from your dreamless sleep. Mould, salt and damp fill your senses, as the dryness of your mouth finally causes your eyes to open. The world is blurry as you push yourself up from the bed taking in your surroundings, a bucket in the corner, water speckling the floor, but no other indication as to where you were. You retch as you stand, but force the bile back down. Your legs wobble as you move towards the door, feeling the ground shift beneath you with each step the effects of the poison still coursing through your veins. You push open the door, only to be greeted by further darkness, cracks of light seeping out from the door at the top of the staircase guiding you forward. You grip a damp pillar as you shuffle towards the stairs. Each step you take breathes new life into a theory you prayed was not true. Your vision tunnels and your heart beats up into your ears as you push the door open.
Water breaks loudly against wood, the shouts of men follow, only to die out on the wind. You look up trying to steady your breath as the world around you spins. Lightning breaks between the clouds, rain falling down onto cracked lips, as the gulls cry out above. You return your gaze to the horizon, land was nowhere to be seen, everything consumed by the great blue vastness. You look around at the crew working to keep the vessel upright, lightning catches Viserys silver hair, as the thunder rumbles above. The sounds had never scared you, you were born from a storm. Lightning ran through your veins.
“Why?” you ask voice straining, as you turn him around to face you. The rain falling down your face mixing with the tears forming in your eyes.
“We are heading at this very moment to Westeros, sweet sister. Come now, this is the least you owe me after banishing me,’ he replies calmly, guiding you back down below the deck.
“They were going to kill you, I spared your life, was that not enough, or do I owe you mine as well?” You enunciate clearly. He raises his hand causing you to flinch, but he brings it down to caress your face.
“We're going home, where we belong, where our kingdom awaits us” he replies, you search for sense in his eyes, but delusions of grandeur masked reality.
“We are not safe in Westeros. Need I remind you dear brother that Robert Baratheon ordered us killed, and had Jorah not intervened I would be dead, poisoned by wine,” you relay, hoping he sees sense.
“Look at me sister everything has been leading to this very moment. Robert Baratheon, traitorous usurper he is, is dead and rumours grow that his bloodline is not his own, born of incest,”
“The Targaryens…”, you begin.
“Don’t lecture me on our family's history. That's not the point, do you know what is, or has being amongst the horse breeders made you dim?” He spits. Being amongst the Dothraki had left you more skilled, and more capable than ever. Readings of your youth had left you with a strategic ability that had helped Drogo with his conquests. His teaching you to ride and use a bow allowed you to fight alongside him, as your foremothers once had on dragon back. You were not the same child Visery pushed around two years prior. You knew of loss and grief and anguish. Of honour and power, and manipulation, of respect and how to command it. More importantly you had learnt how to survive in a world built for men.
“It means that we… that you are now the only person with a viable claim to the throne,”
“Exactly,” he replies smiling once again.
“Then why take me, I had an army I could have raised and fought for you across the sea,” He scoffs “You can hardly raise your husband from the dead,”
“Careful” you reply, fist clenching, you legs finally adjusted to the sea's movements.
“Or what?” He asks. Taking a step forward, and you calm yourself, “That's what I thought, you may not be a true dragon, but you can be married off as one,” he explains.
“Again,” you scoff, “I doubt anyone in Westeros has need for a used bride from a dying lineage”
“An ancestral lineage, a martyred lineage, but a forgotten lineage? No, that we are not. Those in King's Landing despise the Lannister’s, and with Robert no longer present they want them dead, gone, they want us on the throne,” he relays, blindly optimistic, unable to see the naivety in his beliefs.
“And you believe that, that they will rejoice for a family that burnt innocents, ” you question
“They love us,” he emphasises, the look in his eyes leaving no room for argument.
“And you wish to marry me to one of these supposed allies in King's Landing?” you press.
“Don’t be dense I received a letter two weeks back from lady Catelyn Stark,”
“The Starks” you laugh shaking your head, “who betrayed us in the war? Whose house was cut down by our father,”
“And who protected our lineage afterwards. Eddard Stark hid us, sent us here to be safe, he never told a soul of the hand he played in our escape until now upon his death. The recent attempt on your life, he tried to stop Robert and his small council, lest he allow the two children he risked his honour to save perish anyways,”
“How do you know this is true,” you ask as he hands you the letter
“I assume you remember how to read,”
“I spent most of my childhood reading for the maesters, it's not something you forget overnight,” you murmur, scanning the note, the seal was true, but broken. Perhaps you were the trading piece necessary for Lady Stark's daughter's return, the last of the Targaryens given to the Lannisters to finish the job started by the kingslayer.
“Eddard voted against our murder, Robert for them, and now both are dead. Those left behind are at war with each other. Fortunately it has presented us with a great opportunity to unite our house and seek revenge on the Lannister’s who have taken everything from us, and who threaten to take everything from them. The eldest, Robb Stark, wages war in honour of his father, and to regain his sister from the deadly claws of the lion and unlike the other kings at war, he remains unmarried,” Visery continues, as you look up from the letter.
“So you wish me to sail halfway across the world to try to entice him,” you remark.
“He need not be enticed. The letter confirms it, you will be married once you arrive so long as you are deemed fit. As such, there will be no mention of your life here, Drogo never existed, your child never existed. You will show no signs of the brutish activities of war that you have carelessly partaken in. You are to act pure, untouched do you understand me,” he asks, any gentleness, or mocking, had dissolved into vitriol. You meet his gaze, fury painted across your brow.
“So nothing of my life prior existed? Everything I accomplished, everything I was and am and everyone I love ceases to exist, and for what,” you pose.
“They were nothing, nothing important,” he soothes, “mere pawns in the grand scheme of things, You will forget them once I sit on the throne,” he states wiping the tear from your cheek, as you stare daggers at him. You would never forget them, not even in death. “Do not weep, I have allowed one thing from your past on board, third door to the right, don’t say I never do anything for you,” he shouts walking back up the stairs barking orders at the crew. You push the door open and Jorah looks up from his hands.
“Tell me you did not plot this behind my back,” you ask calmly, as he comes to kneel before you.
“Khaleesi, never in a thousand life times would I betray you. My loyalty to you runs thicker than any other. I was preparing for our meeting when my spies returned information of your brother's re-appearance. I went to the docks, but by the time I learnt of his intention It was too late, In that way I have failed you, but I have never plotted against you,” he relays eyes on the floor.
“You have never given me reason for doubt, rise Ser Mormont, what scene did you happen upon at the docks,” you ask and he stands,
“Four sell swords, two carried you, one kept Irri in chains, the other lead the path towards the boat, it was premeditated, and i was ill informed of his whereabouts,”
“Irri?” you question
“They were taking her to Slaver's Bay, but I managed to intervene, with luck she returned safely to the Khalasaar on your mare. Visery was adamant on you getting onto the boat. He told me to depart or to join, and I swore to protect you, until you sat on the iron throne. I remain loyal in that vow to you. I will not allow you to go into uncharted territories with no one but Visery to guide you. Though you need little guidance these days, and you are more a leader than he,”
“Do not let him hear that, best I remain helpless, less reason for my head on a spike. I am glad you are here with me Jorah,” you state taking his hands in yours “I will need at least one ally as I wander into the wilderness,” you finish dropping them gently. “What do you know of him, the self proclaimed king in the north,”
“I hear that he is anything but self- proclaimed that his men elected him, and that is he is undefeated in the battlefield. I have heard he rides a dire wolf to battle, and that if the timing is right, he himself can turn into one,” he replies, smiling as you laugh at the supposed mythos. “In truth, if the young wolf is anything like his father, he will be a strong ally, and a good man”
“Despite his banishing you,” you ask.
“I deserved the banishment, I deserved more than that, he could have sent me to the wall, or had my head,”
“He still does if you return, you understand the risk of coming here with me,”
“I know you will convince them to spare me, I trust you with my life Khaleesi,”
“Well it eases my mind at least that he has your approval, and what of the rest of the north's allies? I find it hard to believe we are not to be targeted the moment our feet hit the soil,”
“You were a target in Essos, you are a target anywhere Khaleesi. Anyone with a reliable claim to the throne is,”
“Robert Baratheon's bastards included?” you question
“I would say they take precedent in the Lannisters kill list considering the small council believes you dead,” he replies, a bitterness on hig tongue for the role he played in informing them of your survival, your movements and until the very last minute your death.
“At least for now,” you reply.
“I have something for you, from the market, I managed to retrieve them before we left,” he turns, pulling a set of five books, covered in light silvers and purple, bound in leather. “Three are the histories of the great houses in the north, one is of the dragon age, and the last is in ancient warfare. The strategies may help you gain footing with the king in the North, I have heard he appreciates a woman with an opinion,”
“For all our sakes, I hope that is true. I fear I won't last long in a docile role,” you reply, hands running over the indents of the titles. Jorah bows and you exit his room, books in hand. Planning on sharpening the only weapon you had left in hopes of impressing the Northerners.
White Harbour
Your boat sits in the harbour, cold air seeps through the wood, a cold you had not felt in your lifetime. Your blood ran warm, but even you shivered here. You had managed to read two of the books “Great Houses of the North,” and “Strategies of the First Age,” during the journey, currently reading the “Northern Myths, Religion and Customs”.
The luxury of language was a privilege many were not afforded. When you were under the care of the Maesters in Essos they had taught you to transcribe documents while Visery trained with a blade, a craft he had never managed to master, useless as he was at most things. Where he failed you had flourished, learning High Valyrian, Braavosi, Volanteen and myrish, along with the common tongue, it was one of the reasons Dothraki came so easily to you. Hours were spent learning histories of the land, every folk tale and true account, the great strategies and failed takeovers, instances of magic and fraud, all of it had passed your irises.
Learning was a habit you’d never quit even after Visery forced you to run away in the middle of the night with whispers of better things. You remember, the look in the Maesters eye as he watched you go, Visery threatening to kill you if he didn’t let you pass. He handed you a book titled “the dragon age,” whispering “Valar Morghulis” as Visery pulled you away into the night. Written in high valyrian Visery saw no use for it, and sold it before you could finish the history of your family. The money was enough to buy a ticket to Pentos where you lived with Illyrio Mopatis who groomed you for marriage and sold you to Drogo as soon as he could to secure Visery an army. An army that had turned to you. Your readings had helped you with Drogo, helped you show your usefulness besides a womb. Perhaps it would do the same for the king in the north.
You're deep in the history of Winterfell, reading the mythos of the old gods, and the children of the forest, you run your fingers over the paper, shadowed figures hiding between the trees that seemingly stare back at you unblinking, blue orbs for eyes that glow bright in the dark. You jump when the door opens, turning to see Visery.
“Cease your senseless readings, no amount of time with the words of intellectuals will make you as such. You should have spent more time making yourself look acceptable, but this will have to do,” Visery sighs as you painstakingly look up from your book.
“Is there any other reason for your pleasant company or did you drop in to hurl insults at me,” you query.
“She is here, awaiting you,” he states, gesturing for you to stand. You close your book, dropping it to the side allowing him to smooth the fabric of your dress. You follow him out up towards the main deck, the waters are calm now, the rain turned to a mist, fogging the limited light provided. His hand digs into your arm as you reach the last step, “do not fail me,” he whispers.
“When have I ever failed this family,” you retort, eyes meeting his, knowing his hand would not raise prior to such an important meeting. You shake free of his grasp and walk slowly towards a cloaked figure, who turns to face you. The lanterns' flames illuminate orange hair bright against the deep blue fabric of her cloak. Gloved hands reached up pulling down her hood, her head was held high despite the weight you felt pressing down on her, strength for her children wielding her on through sorrow. A sorrow you knew well enough to identify in others.
“Lady Stark” you curtsey “it is my great honour to be in your presence. Thank you for your hospitality and your courage. Welcoming us is a brave thing to do,” you state, rising to full height.
“Such times call for a risk. May I have a moment alone with her,” she asks, and her guards step out. Perhaps this was all a clever ploy, a way to pull the two remaining Targaryens from hiding, and finally be rid of them. She circles you, eyeing your every movement. You wonder if she hears your heart race.
“Well he cannot fault your beauty, and for most men that is enough, but I fear my son is not exhilarated at the notion of an arranged marriage,’ She replies, a smile tight on her lips.
‘I understand my lady,’ you state as she comes to stand before you again.
‘Do you?” she questions, brows knitting together.
“I have long been aware of the hardships of marriage, I know many are not made for love. Love is not what I expect,” you relay, watching for a reaction, any reaction, but she remains neutral.
“And what do you expect, Lady Targaryen?” she presses, this marriage was a critical step towards victory, but even so, she would not risk her son's life.
“Respect,” you state “I am capable my lady, in more ways than one, and I expect to be treated as an equal,”
“Capabilities, and what such talents do you possess?” She asks
“I am a capable horse rider, tracker and hunter. I am fluent in six languages, and have used these skills to study the history of our world. Most importantly the great strategists, just in case I ever longed to return to the west. Your late husband was amongst them. I am sorry for your loss from what my brother says he was a good man, and that we owe him our lives. I am only sorry I was too late to thank him in person,” you relay earnestly.
“He was a great man,” she corrects, emotion finally coming through, “strong, honourable, fiercely loyal and I will not have the Lannister’s paint him out to be anything but that,” she replies, a fury sparking beneath her words.
“Upon that we have common footing, the Lannisters have taken those we love from us Lady Stark, unjustly, and without retributions,” you reply
“If you succeed and the iron throne is won, what happens then?” She presses
“My brother will take his rightful place as ruler of the kingdoms, my Lady,”
“You do not want it for yourself?”
“Even if I did, he is the eldest male heir, it is not mine to lose. When we succeed I will return to the north and aid in any way I can as a repayment to your current kindness, and the kindness shown by your husband in saving my life,”
“Jorah Mormont, banished for a time by my husband now serves you,”
“I am aware of his previous misgivings, but he has changed in my opinion. I have witnessed him free many men and woman whilst in my presence, and his loyalty to me has proven unshakable, I would trust him with my life,”
“He is your responsibility,”
“One I do not take lightly, he is a reflection of me, I have no army to offer Lady Stark, no great riches, but I have a name, and that has often been enough for victory,”
“And what of the North?” She asks, eyes meeting yours.
“The North will remain free if that is what you wish, you have my word,” you relay.
“Guards,” She calls out, finally breaking eye contact with you “help lady Targaryen pack her things, and bring her some warm clothes, she’ll freeze in the gauze she’s wearing, escort her and her brother to the camp” she states, watching you curtsey once again, you movements exact, precise planned. There was a confidence behind your violet eyes, as was a sentiment of loss, and sorrow that had been cleverly masked by strength and an aura that captured a room. One she had noted by the change in her own guards posture as you walked out.
“Thank you my lady from myself and my brother,” you smile, turning to follow her guards below deck. Perhaps it was your natural ability to dictate a moving speech to her, or the skills you had listed, but she felt you were hiding behind something. Your walls were high, despite your apparent openness something lay beneath the surface, whether good or bad she had yet to decipher. Any unfounded doubts must be pushed aside, but kept under a watchful eye, this marriage must first be secured.
“Bring them at night, we don't want them to be seen just yet,” she whispers to a guard, looking over her shoulder to see Visery, whose sickly charming smile from earlier had faded to a scowl.
The night is dark as you wander across frosted grass towards your tent, illuminated in a faint glow by a circular hearth the sits beside a small bed. Visery barges in just as you enter.
“You cannot possibly be here to complain, considering the success of that meeting,” you relay, already tiring of his energy.
“Oh I have plenty to complain about, insolence was rife, I am shocked Lady Stark did not pick up on it. Though with each passing hour the northmen prove true to their description of wild beasts,” he spits
“You should not speak ill of those showing kindness, nor should you say it so freely and loudly with such ease,” you whisper pointedly.
“Oh they will be well convinced after your promise to maintain a free north,” he shoots back, the reason for his mood finally exposed.
“It was written in her letter I assumed it was agreed upon,” you argue calmly.
“Everything is agreed upon, until it is not,” he replies inches away from you now.
“I have been here for an hour and can see they will not relinquish their stronghold, they are far too proud for that,” you reply, eyes staring into the hearth, ignoring his proximity to you.
“Insolence against,” spittle hitting your face.
“A woman having sense is insolence,” you retorted, gaze finally meeting his.
“You made a promise on my behalf, it is my kingdom I make the rulings,” he shouts petulantly.
“She would not allow…”
“You have no right to state what is and is not allowed! I am the king,” he roars, grabbing you by the throat, and throwing you down to the ground. Perhaps you should have allowed Drogo to kill your brother when he had the chance. The thought pases through your mind as you turn back towards him, skin burning as you push up onto your elbows. “For twenty years we have remained hidden across the sea, kept a secret from Westeros while the man who murdered our entire lineage sat upon the iron throne ruling the seven kingdoms when it should have been me. I will not give up even one tree to the northmen when I have claimed what is mine, and you will stand by me, or you will burn,” he whispers viciously, pushing you back down and striding out of your tent, as you watch from the floor.
#robb stark x oc#robb stark fic#robb stark x reader#robb stark x you#robb stark x y/n#robb x reader#game of thrones fic#game of thrones fanfiction#robb stark au#robb stark fanfiction#robb stark
120 notes
·
View notes
Last Seen Blogs
