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sunnybunnyy2 · 6 months

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Father Knows Best

Daryl Dixon x platonic!reader

Negan Smith x daughter!reader

WORD COUNT: 4.2k

TIME: season 7

Warnings: imprisonment, swearing, mentions of Daryl’s abuse, mentions of savours, transpires in season seven, spoilers for season seven of the walking dead, possible typos and bad writing

CHAPTER 3 to the Dark Cell Series

Not much Daryl in this one, sadly, but he will be in it much more next chapter!

Series Masterlist Official Masterlist

This one came out way quicker than the second and I’m sorry for that, but I am beginning to get into a regular posting times! So here it is!!

Your eyes were forced open when you heard the loud pounding of a fist consistently colliding against your door.

You let out a groan as your senses began to kick in, the once blackness that you were seeing behind your eyelids was replaced with the bright light that shined through the window that was meant to be covered by your curtain but you had been growing even more tired since your visits with Daryl.

It had made sense. Normally you would be asleep before the second night shift, so around 11 pm, but now you couldn't fall asleep until around 3 am, sometimes even 4.

That paired with the times that you had to wake up each morning had given you a maximum of four hours a night. Then you had to work all day and repeat the cycle again and again.

You couldn't risk falling asleep before you met Daryl, knowing that he would starve that night, and that thought alone kept your mind racing all day.

You constantly wondered how he was doing at the hands of your father. You wondered if he was being beaten, even if the old bruises on his face had started to fade you knew it wasn't long until they would reappear again.

You wondered what else Dwight was forcing him to do. You couldn't really put anything past him.

You used to admire how kind he was to others and how kindly he would treat his wife, Sherry, and her sister, Tina. But ever since Tina had been killed when they had escaped the sanctuary over a month ago and he had faced the wrath of her father, he hadn't been the same.

You knew it was because of his wife. Sherry had offered to become your father's wife to spare Dwight's life.

You didn't agree with your father having multiple wives especially so soon after your mother's death. It had been just over two years and he was pretending she didn't exist. He was coercing women into being his wife, in hopes of filling the dark that was left after your mother had taken her own life.

You could see how their presence in his life wasn't providing in the way he had hoped it would. You could see it in his eyes.

He was miserable. So he was bringing pain onto other people to make himself feel better. You didn't agree with his ways of coping but it's not like you could change his mind. He was a grown man and could certainly make his own choices.

He knew where you stood and what he chose to do with that was up to him, you supposed. He knew you weren't a fan of his 'marital' status so he kept it as far away from you as possible. Making sure that he never showed affection to them around you, making sure they stayed out of your way. But that wasn't the issue. You did like his wives, they were kind to you. Always making sure you were okay. Never talking about your father around you.

You had felt like his wives were a majority of your closest friends. When you pushed back the fact that they were sleeping with your father.

You tugged the sheets off of your body roughly as you jumped to your feet after realizing that the knocking wasn't getting any quieter.

You pulled your shirt down from where it had been yanked up in your sleep from your turning as you walked towards the door before jerking it open, causing the knocker to stumble slightly as they fell forward, making it clear that they were leaning against the door as they waited for a response.

"Jesus," she spoke your name as she caught herself from falling to the hard ground. "Your dad wants you. Said you had something you wanted to talk to him about." Laura informed you as she looked at you with a blank face but you knew her facial features well enough from the two years you had known her to tell that she was confused about what you had to talk to your father about. You had always confided in her about the way you felt about your father.

The disappointment and frustration but also about how you missed the old times between your family. About how you missed your old father and how you missed the comfort your mother had brought you before she died.

She had also spoken about how she missed her parents as well and even though her situation wasn't remotely the same, she still understood what it felt like to be a younger girl who just wanted her parent's love and affection.

"Yeah, yeah...um where is he?" You asked as you ran a hand through your hair in an attempt to smooth out some of the tangles.

"In his room. You better get ready, he ain't got all day." Laura sent a nod your way before sending you a half smile, clearly as tired as you as she was sent to do more work around the sanctuary. She never seemed to have time to rest. She was constantly either at Negan's aid or on watch somewhere around the sanctuary.

"Sir, yes sir." You saluted.

"You wish I was a sir?" She asked with raised eyebrows.

"Nah, you're just fine to look at now." You smiled slyly.

"Jesus, you're just like your father." She shook her head with a smirk.

"Damn, Laura. You wound me. Seriously that was so hurtful." You half-joked as you wiped away imaginary tears as you turned your head away from her.

"I take that back, you're way better." She shrugged as she spoke the truth that everyone at the sanctuary thought. Though you had always assumed some of the saviours had befriended you because of Negan wasn't entirely true. Sure some did in hopes of earning extra points for themselves and their families, but most just genuinely thought that you were one of the good ones. That you could possibly be able to persuade your father to change his ways.

"Alright. I forgive you, Laur. Even if you started my day off with a fucking headache." You spoke as you rubbed your temple, your words earning a very 'unladylike' snort from Laura as she started to back away from your room and down the hallway.

"My pleasure, Miss. Smith." She saluted before she turned around and quickened her pace to her shift which she was surely late from, leaving you to stare at the hallway wall as you mentally prepared yourself for the conversation you were about to have with your father, knowing it could go two ways. Well, which was the unlikely scenario or, Awful which you were leaning towards.

And that's how you ended up here. Sat at the table with your father as he settled in his seat after having poured himself a small glass of bourbon.

You watched as Potter, a worker in the sanctuary, placed two plates of eggs, home fries and some ham on top of the table for you two. You sent a smile his way as he nodded at you and your father before turning to make his exit, but your father's voice stopped him.

"Oh, Mr. Potter..." Your father spoke in a sing-song voice as tapped his fork on the table.

"Yes, Negan?" He asked as he turned back to the pair of you. A trail of sweat hastily coming down his brow, as his anxious eyes flicked between you and your father in hopes of getting a read on your body language.

"I think you forgot something." He pointed to his empty cup of water before snapping his fingers as if the second after he spoke lasted an hour. "Today." He rolled his eyes as the man rushed over to pick up the pitcher of water and pour it into his cup.

"Would you like some as well, ?" He spoke your name as he turned to look at you. Your father's glass now filled with ice water.

"Of course, she wants some. What do you think, she wants to eat your dry ass food without having something to wash it down with." Your father let out a laugh as if it was the funniest thing in the world all while glaring the poor man down, who was practically shaking in his boots.

"No thank you, Potter." You managed to smile softly at him as if to calm him. Your body lowered down slightly as your body inadvertent shrank into yourself in embarrassment at how your father was treating the kind man.

Your demeanour didn't seem to put the man at ease as he still looked as though he was about to stroke out, which apparently was hilarious to your father as he let out a booming chuckle from deep in his throat, his rough and deep voice spoke from behind his pearly white teeth.

"Jesus, man. I'm just joking. It's just a jokey, joke. Holy fuck," he spoke your name, "did you see his fucking face? He looked like he was going to piss his pants." He laughed before looking at the floor as though he was looking to see if the older man had done just that.

"That will be all, Potter. Thank you." You looked away from your father to face the middle-aged man before nodding to the door, not quite able to hide your anger well, causing him to look to Negan for permission.

Your father watched you with amusement glimmering in his big brown eyes, clearly finding your annoyance entertaining, before he nodded, still looking at you as he spoke. "Do you need her to tell you again? Leave. Now." Without wasting a second he scurried out of the room, probably to go cry in the corner somewhere. Your father seemed to always have that effect on people.

"Did you really have to scare him away? I was gonna get him to cut up my meat." He laughed.

"You're a grown-ass man. I think you can do it yourself just fine." You narrowed your eyes at him, watching as his eyes widened slightly before they were amused again, a small laugh leaving his lips.

"You really are my kid, ain't ya."

You guys sat in silence for a minute. You glaring at him and him trying to hide the merriment in his eyes.

"If you've got something to say, baby, just spit it out." He said as he crossed his arms while leaning back in his seat, eyes studying your face.

"What is wrong with you?" You asked with anger clear in your voice as you shook your head.

"Well, sweetheart, I have a lot of things wrong with me so you're gonna have to be more specific."

"You know what I'm talking about, Dad. That. How you treat people." You scoffed at his attempt at humour, normally you would laugh at his stupid attempts at making you laugh but now, when he humiliated people for a good laugh, your blood would quite literally boil in your skin.

"I was just having a little fun. He doesn't mind." He dismissed as he laughed, shaking his head before he began using the fork he was still gripping to take a substantial bite of his over-easy eggs.

"It's not a 'little fun', Dad. You scared him half to death. Does it not make you feel bad when you treat people like shit?" You shook your head in disbelief.

"No, it doesn't. I'm in charge. Im not treating anyone like shit here. Do you see all that I do for these people? What I provide for them." His face grew annoyed at your words.

"Yeah, Dad. I do. But you can help keep these people safe without treating them like shit. You don't need to make them fear you to keep them sa-" He cut you off before you could finish your sentence but you could tell by his tone that you got your point across.

"They need to fear me to stay in line. That's what I do. I keep them in line. How else do you think we're still standing? If I become buddy, buddy with them they'll think they can get away with shit they just can't get away with."

"You can be a decent person and still have loyal followers. I mean, shit, how do you think half the groups still alive are operating?" You tried to mile your tone down as you began cutting up your ham.

"You mean the groups we're gonna take over? They won't be operating like that for long." He shook his head in dismissal before wiping away the yellow egg yolk that had dropped into his pink lips.

"But why can't you form alliances with other groups? Instead of controlling them?" You tried to reason.

"Look, hunny. I love you, okay? But I don't tell you how to lead your little posey so don't fucking tell me how to lead mine." He said angrily before taking hold of his glass of bourbon and gulping down all of its contents.

"You do realize you just called you and your people pretentious, right? I do think it fits, though." You snorted as you took a small bite of your scrambled eggs.

"What did you want to talk to me about? I have things I need to get done." He rubbed a hand over his face in annoyance.

"Oh sorry, I didn't know having a conversation with your daughter was such a burden." You shook your head as you began to stand up but we're stopped when your father grabbed your arm.

You looked over expecting to see a look of anger on your father's face but sat back down when all you saw was remorse for his words that were obviously taken out of context but they had hurt you nonetheless, as that was what he hated the most. Hurting you.

"You know what I meant. I love talking to you, you know that, don't act like you don't. Tell me what you want to talk about, baby. Please." He pulled his and away and picked up his fork, signalling for you to speak.

"What is that community called?" You asked as you picked up the pitcher of water, not missing the look your father sent you that practically said, 'You should have just gotten Potter to do that' but you just brushed it off, knowing you were more than capable of pouring your own cup of water.

"Who am I? Fucking Professor X? You're going to have to be more-"

"That new community. The one you took a prisoner from." You specified, know that was his next word.

"How the hell do you know about that?" He asked with slight anger. He had tried to keep you as far away from his duties as much as he possibly could.

He had constantly restricted you from leaving the sanctuary in hopes of keeping you alive and blissfully unaware of his actions, knowing that he had shaped his men well enough that they knew they needed to die for you.

"Everyone knows about it. You don't exactly keep it under wraps. I can hear you boost about it from my room. Your voice travels." You studied him, wanting to make sure he wasn't going to try and keep something from you.

"Huh, so I've been told." He shrugged as he then began to study you, checking to see if he could notice any alternative motives. You could only hope he didn't.

"So?"

"Why do you wanna know anyway?" He questioned.

"I'm just curious. Sick of the gossip and rumours, just want to know what's going on. That's all." You attempted to play it off, hoping he didn't notice the slight quiver in your voice.

"I hate gossipers too. They seem to be everywhere, don't they." He replied as he squirted some ketchup onto his cooling grilled potatoes.

"Yeah, they do... so...?" You pressed, hoping he would stop beating around the bush and just reveal what you were wanting to know.

"Alexandria. It's a nice place but the people make it a fucking shit hole, their leader, Rick, is a joke. A fucking pussy if I've ever known one. Hell, I bet Potter could take him in a fight. Truly it's embarrassing." He ranted as he rolled his eyes, his fork scraping against his plate as if the sheer thought of Daryl's leader, Rick, had brought him so much rage that he had to take it out on the plate.

"So is there a lot of people there?" You asked, trying to sound casual.

"Two-hundred and thirty-four." He revealed causing her to tense.

"So we have more." It was a statement rather than a question.

"By a landslide, baby. We have five hundred and four through all of our outposts. In any way, we outrank them. You know what's hilarious? Their leader is so hellbent on killing me even though he knows my people could wipe his people out in a blink of an eye. Everything with that guy is a dick-measuring contest. But he should know by now that he's not gonna win in that department." He laughed once again forgetting that his daughter was sitting across from him.

Your eyes rolled as he once again found a way to boost about himself.

"Jesus, your daughter is right here!" You exclaimed as you rolled your eyes. Sometimes he was such a child, you thought. If your mother was here she would beat him with her shoe.

"Sorry, sorry. But hey, I want to show you something." He said as he wiped his mouth with a cotton napkin, before placing it on top of his now empty plate, the streaks of ketchup and yellow remained.

Your food on the other hand was still half full, but you knew your father would have somebody wrap it up for you to eat tomorrow as he knew that it took you at least an hour after waking up to be able to eat.

As you guys walked you caught sight of a man with long dark hair and a broad frame hunched over a mop. You didn't clue in until you saw Dwight roughly grab the man to make him continue his moping a little way ahead.

It was Daryl.

You didn't have much time to react before your father was speaking again, drawing their attention.

"Dwighty boy, what do we have here?" Your father said as he stopped beside Dwight, smirking down at Daryl as he watched him silently continue his task, his head angled downward.

"Just Daryl, doing what he's told," Dwight spoke with a slight smile while watching Daryl.

Your father let out a booming laugh and you could see Daryl pause his movements for a moment having to mentally restrain himself from physically pouncing on him.

You knew if he were to break loose you couldn't really blame him. Your father had put him through hell, but that's what he was. Your father. You couldn't let anything thing happen to him, no matter how much you understood how he was feeling.

"You missed a spot." Your father said as he watched the slightly shorter man conceal his anger with delight, clearly enjoying the inner battle that was going on inside of him. Your father kept his eyes on Daryl as he tipped his bourbon bottle on the floor, the dark liquor mashed with the newly clean floor. The half-drunken bottle now sized down a noticeable amount, he laughed again before he shoved the bottle into Dwight's chest. "Here, buddy. You deserve it." Your father tore his eyes away from Daryl before looking up at you, noticing the beyond-dirty look you were sending his way.

"Thanks, boss." Dwight nodded as he clutched the bottle.

"Get back to work, you mutt." Your father smiled at Daryl but you could tell it was forced as he roughly patted his shoulder in a condescending way before making his way back over to you, sensing your unease about what he was doing.

He nodded at you to follow him before he began to stroll back down the hallway. You followed but your eyes were still trained on Daryl.

Your heart pounded in your chest when he turned his head slightly, watching Negan go before his eyes found you.

They narrowed once he caught sight of you. You couldn't quite read the look that took over his emotionless face but you knew he didn't feel joy in seeing you with Negan.

You saw flashes of rage, confusion and a flash of fear?

Your eyes were locked on each other before Dwight harshly shoved Daryl back to his task which he complied with but at a slower pace, as if his mind was processing the fact that he had seen you outside of his cell with Negan of all people.

You waited a moment before you turned back around, and in that moment you saw Dwight studying the two of you in confusion.

You hurriedly turned forward to look at your father's back as you turned the corner finally making your way into the kitchen. The one you had found yourself in more often than ever.

"Ta-da," your father said in an overdramatic voice, a wide smile on his face as he waved a hand towards a big a machine that was shaking as it operated, the small, shiny window was wet with condensation.

"Holy-shit! Is that what I think it is?" You exclaimed in an excited tone as you practically hopped over to the machine in pure astonishment.

"Well, I sure as shit hope I didn't have seven of my men working themselves into the ground carrying this piece of shit back here all for it not to be the fucking ice cream machine that I've been askin' for, for a fuckin' year?" He spoke as you leaned back slightly as if to amplify his words.

You let out a yell of excitement as you ran into your father's arms, his arms wrapping around your upper back as you tucked your head into his chest. You could feel his smile as he rested his forehead on top of your scalp.

It was moments like these that you missed. The pure moments of a father and daughter showing care for one another. Sure you were still angry with him for what he did to Daryl just minutes ago and for all the bad he was doing, but you couldn't spoil this moment.

The moment that your inner child craved to have.

The moment you were robbed of one too many times.

You wondered if the sadness could be shown in your eyes. The longing for the love of your parents.

You knew that Laura could see it. Just as you could see your sadness as well. It was like an understanding for the two of you. You both didn't get to experience much love from your parents, her from way before the outbreak and you, after.

You knew that your mother wasn't at fault for not being there for you. You knew that if she could be here, she would. That's just who she was. She would never miss any of your important achievements and even your minor ones, she always made sure to show up, no matter how much shit she would get at work. She would take all the yelling from her boss just to see your smile when you noticed she was there.

Your father tried his hardest to be there but most of the time something else was always more important. You were always left having to deal with his half-ass excuses as to why he couldn't show up; only to find out that he was too busy fucking your godmother aka your mother's best friend.

You weren't sure how your mother could forgive him after all the stress he had caused her in the early stages of her cancer, but you knew it was most likely because of how much she loved him.

You had never quite seen someone treat their significant other as well as your father did when he found out about your mother's diagnosis.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you!" You chanted pulling away from your father to look at the grey and blue machine again causing your father to laugh at you, even though he was feeling elated at the fact that you had enjoyed his little present.

"So, you want to take it for a spin?" Negan asked with a grin, knowing that he was gonna get a taste of the treat that he had also been craving.

"Do Andie and Ben end up together in 'How to lose a guy in 10 days?' " You asked with a raised eyebrow, a smile on your face.

"Uh, I don't know, do they?" He asked in confusion, not quite realizing the reference.

"Yes!" You exclaimed before rushing to the ice cream machine, your father hot on your tail.

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absurdthirst · 1 year

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Joel's Children {Joel Miller x F!Reader}

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 6.3k

Warnings: Unprotected sex, shower sex, vaginal sex, pregnancy, vomiting, angst, mentions of medical procedures, murder, Joel being ruthless for those he loves.

Comments: One night together in Jackson leads to the discovery that Joel is going to be a father again, right as he lets Ellie back into his heart. Only for that to be threatened when you all meet up with the Fireflies again.

A/N: Remember that ruthlessly sexy scene where Joel plows through the hospital determined to get to Ellie? Thots remember....It's us, we're thots.

Co-written with @storiesofthefandomlovers

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|| MasterList || Joel Miller MasterList ||

Click Keep Reading only if you have read the Rating and Warnings and understand the warnings may not be complete to avoid listing spoilers. As AO3 says 'creator chooses not to use warnings'. You also agree that you're the right age to be consuming anything here.

It’s been days, weeks, since you’ve been able to scrub yourself clean. The long walk across the midwest had proved difficult, tiring. Joel’s boots had given out near Cheyenne and it had been lucky that you had found a hardware store that had several rolls of duct tape. Apparently there hadn’t been enough people to loot through all the supplies in Wyoming. Or maybe you had just hit a small patch of luck on an otherwise unlucky journey.

Now in Jackson, you are getting your first taste of civilization again. The steam is already curling up from the shower as you drop the dirty clothes on the ground. You’ll pick them up later, but you want to feel warm, clean. To watch the dirt and dried blood swirl down the drain while you wait to see if Joel will join you like he had promised he would. It wouldn’t be the first time he had pulled away from the attraction between you, but you hope that he comes.

Joel can’t hold back anymore. It’s been a stressful journey to try and get to Wyoming and he’s struggling to reconcile the fact that he has imagined his brother was in danger, possibly dead. He’s been frantic with worry, only to find out that he’s been living it up in a post-apocalyptic paradise with his wife. It kills him inside, knowing that he’s fought hard to make it to his brother, to save him, and he couldn’t communicate that he was safe the entire time. It makes him pent up and that’s what brings him to the shower where he can hear the water running. Stripping off methodically, he steps into the bathroom and moves behind you, your body tensing until he says “it’s me, baby.” You relax and his hands find your waist, pulling you back against him and he rests his head on yours, breathing you in for a moment.

“You came.” Closing your eyes, you shiver, the heat having nothing to do with the way your gooseflesh rises. The weight of his hand and the feeling of him touching you already has you on edge, needy. Joel sighs behind you and slowly you turn in his arms, sliding your hands up his arms to loop around his neck. “Do you want to get clean?” You offer, suddenly shy now that everything you want is right in the little 2x4 section of the shower. “Do you want me to wash you?” You know he’s fighting his emotions, despite trying to hide it. His eyes are more expressive than he would like and you’ve gotten good at reading him.

He can’t say a word so he nods, not wanting to start spilling his guts about how much he fucking loves you and he doesn’t want to lose you. He’s lost too much, too many people. He’d die if he lost you. Ellie is better off without him, she needs to get to Colorado, to find the Fireflies. She doesn’t need him. You do. You’ve always been a little dependent on him and he likes that, feeling wanted and needed despite him not willing to give away his heart. It happened though, it’s yours even if you don’t know it. You grab the body wash and start to clean him off, his eyes fluttering closed at the feeling of your hands on his body, washing away the dirt but no one can wash away the sins that stain his skin. “Baby.” He murmurs after you wrap your fingers around his hardening cock, digits soapy and he can’t help the groan that escapes him. “You’re - you don’t - we don’t have to do that.” He tells you, knowing you must be tired.

“I’ve wanted to do this for nearly a thousand miles.” You laugh quietly, sure that it was around Lincoln where you had started falling in love with Joel Miller. Despite his angry and tough facade, you were and will always be grateful for him saving you in Kansas City, deciding to follow them out west when there was nothing left for you in the ruins of the cordyceps getting to the surface. You know he’s lost, you’ve seen it in his eyes and Ellie has spoken to you about a woman named Tess, but you want this, you want him. Slowly pumping his cock, you press your lips to his shoulder and then his collar bone, grazing his chin and finally pressing a soft kiss to his lips. “I want you to fuck me, Joel.”

He groans, soft and low, and reaches for you. His hands find your ass to pull you close while his lips press harder against yours. His grunt into your mouth is desperate and you eagerly open to allow his tongue to slide against yours. “Need you.” He confesses, hand sliding around your hip until he caresses the curls at the apex of your thighs, sliding lower until his calloused finger finds your clit.

It’s like a drug, hearing that he needs you. Him touching you. It’s more than you had ever imagined on those nights where you had to slip your hand into your pants in your sleeping bag. Or, Joel’s sleeping bag. Moaning softly, you are happy that you had already washed before he had joined you, wanting this time to be undeterred by the need to clean up. “Joel.” You whimper his name, clinging to him as he presses a finger past your clit and into your cunt.

He loves hearing you whimper and he’s quick to add a second finger, pushing them inside of you and letting his palm push against your clit. “Goddamn. You’re - you’re tight.” He pants, your fingers squeezing his cock and he kisses your face wherever he can reach.

Closing your eyes, your hips rock forward and chase his fingers as he pulls them back. “Haven’t been f-fucked in a long time.” You pant quietly, continuing to pump his cock. “Please, oh god, it would feel so good to have you inside me.”

He nods, grabbing your wrist to pull your hand off of his cock. “Turn around.” He rasps and you follow his order. He presses you against the cold tile, helping you arch your back, and he grips his cock. Positioning himself at your entrance, he pushes inside of you. He’s not rough but he’s not soft either, his need for you making him desperate to have you.

“Joel!” You cry out, cheek pressed up against the wall and you clench down around him. “O-oh god. It’s so good. Fuck.” You whine when he grinds deep, loving how he feels like he’s in your guts.

He can’t stop himself from trying to get as deep as possible. Grinding into you like he’s trying to mold your bodies together. “Fuck baby. You- you feel like heaven.” He sighs, pressing his head against your neck.

Preening at his praise, you push back and groan his name when he reaches up and cups your tits. “Oh shit.” You whine softly. “Fuck me, Joel. I need you to make me cum.” Your hand slides off the tiles and you reach between your thighs to start rubbing your clit.

He groans, not wanting you to be the reason you cum, so he knocks your hand away to replace it with his own. Rubbing your clit in harsh circles and he pushes deep, making your tits push against the cold tile. “So good.” He murmurs into your neck.

Your breathing and the quiet moans are all that can be heard in the small shower. The push of his hips against your ass is absorbed by the smack against the tile and you love how steady his rhythm follows his fingers. “Fuck Joel, fuck.” You pant, closing your eyes and enjoying the ride. You’re guess that he would be good at fucking was proving correct.

He needs you to cum, months of pent up tension between you has him on the edge and he needs you to cum first. “Cum for me baby. Cum for me sweet girl. Right now. You can do it. Just - just cum for me.” He pleads, pushing deep while he rubs your clit like it’s the last damn thing he will ever do.

Shuddering, your head tilts back and rests against his shoulder and you cry out silently. Walls clenching down around him as you soak him in a torrent of cum.

“Fuck.” Joel hisses through gritted teeth, glad that you’ve found your pleasure, and his hands grip your waist, keeping you pinned so he can push into you with a groan. “Fuck baby. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.” His words are clipped until he groans out, biting down on your shoulder while his cock pulses inside of you. He knows he shouldn’t have cum but he couldn’t help it. He wanted to consume you, possess you, make you belong to him. He couldn’t have pulled out if he tried and his cum is hot as it paints your walls.

The warmth of his seed fills you and your eyes flutter closed, enjoying the feel of it. “Fuck.” You pant quietly. “I’m going to sleep good tonight.” Sex always helps you sleep and it was an orgasm that wasn’t by your own hand. The ache between your thighs is one that will linger. Turning your head, you kiss his jaw. “Good for you, baby?”

He hums, turning your head so he can properly kiss you. He wants to spend the night in bed with you, savor every second of this time together. “So good. Come on, let’s dry off and get into bed.” He orders, turning off the water and stepping out to find a towel to dry you with. Once you’re both dry, he guides you to the bed and pulls you close, lifting your leg over his hip so he can curl around you. “I can’t say it but I want you to know I mean it.” He murmurs, hoping you know what he means.

****

The next morning, Joel manages to slip out from your arms without waking you, getting dressed and making his way to the stables. He knows you wouldn’t stay here without him and he desperately wants to take you with him but he can’t be selfish. You’ll have a better life here. One he cannot provide and one he has not earned the place to enjoy. He doesn’t fit in here, Maria made that clear and it’s best if he just leaves.

Tommy coming up the stairs wakes you and your eyes flutter open, the small smile on your face disappearing when you find the bed beside you completely empty. “Fuck!” You hiss, jumping up to dress so you can find Joel and give him a piece of your mind.

Joel is saddling up the horse when Tommy and Ellie enter the stables, and you come storming in behind them, overtaking them. He barely turns towards you before your hand comes up to slap his cheek. Combined with the cold air, he hisses and feels his stomach twist at the hurt he sees in your eyes. He can’t say anything, knowing that he’s a bastard who left you in bed without saying goodbye.

“You fucking asshole!” You hiss, not caring about the audience behind you. Joel brought this on himself. “You were just gonna leave? Without even a goodbye or fuck you?” Angry tears pool in your eyes and you want to smack him again, but you don’t. Unbelievably hurt that he would allude to loving you and then slip from the bed like a thief in the night.

He deserves that but he knows you wouldn’t understand his reasoning. “I want you to stay here. I need to go. I- I want to give Ellie a choice.” He looks towards the teenager. “Do you want to go with Tommy or you wanna go with me?” He asks her and she shoves her pack at him, “let’s go.” Joel’s heart thumps and he looks towards you, “you wanna stay?” He asks, stomach twisting as he gives you the choice like he should have done this morning.

“You wanted to give Ellie a choice but didn’t afford me the same damn thing?” You shake your head and scowl at him. “Saddle another fucking horse.” You demand, not willing to stay behind while the two people you care about most leave. “No offense to your brother, Jackson seems lovely.” Your eyes flicker over to the brother and then back to Joel. “But I said I love you and I meant it. I’m going with you.”

Ellie’s eyes widen as she looks between you and Joel, surprised that he finally gave in to those puppy dog eyes he gives you when he thinks no one is looking. Joel nods, biting his lip to suppress the smile that appears on his face. Tommy nods, saddling another horse for you and he slaps his brother on the shoulder. “You’re welcome back here anytime.” Tommy says and Joel nods, helping Ellie up onto the horse before he walks over to you. “I wanted to keep you safe.” He murmurs, knowing it’s pointless now but he had good intentions.

“You have a fucked up way of going about it, Miller.” You huff, shaking your head but you can understand why he thought he was doing what was best. Reaching out, you caress the cheek you had slapped. “We’ll keep each other safe.” You murmur, looking over at Ellie. “All of us.” You care about the feisty girl and you know Joel must be as protective of her as he is.

****

Ellie has been quiet since what happened with David and Joel is concerned. He got up from his death bed to save you both, knowing that you and Ellie were in danger had him pushing through the pain. He has been trying to reconnect with you both since heading to Salt Lake City. “You feelin’ okay?” He asks when you stop yet again to throw up. Flu isn’t really a concern in the new world, there’s no virus that is worse than the one that ended the world but maybe you’ve picked something up.

Groaning, you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand and stand straight. “Yeah, fuck, I’m -“ you stop, feeling another wave of bile rise but you manage to suppress it. “I don’t know what’s going on.” Your hand presses against your stomach and you sigh as the nausea passes. “I’m okay.” You assure him with a weak smile.

Joel frowns, watching you, and he hands you the rag he has in his jean pocket. “Here, baby.” He says and hands it to you and that’s when you freeze.

“Baby.” You murmur, trying to figure out when you last had your period. Joel tilts his head, watching you freeze and Ellie stands there, jaw dropping as she figures out what’s wrong with you.

“Holy shit, you’re pregnant!” She cries out, her eyes wide and for the first time in forever, a real smile breaks out across her face. Leaping forward to crowd you excitedly. “You have to be, you’re getting sick now, but you don’t have a fever. You guys totally fucked, and that’s how you make babies.” She teases. Your eyes dart over to Joel, trying to figure out how he is going to take the idea of you being pregnant

Joel’s stomach drops as Ellie is the one who puts it all together and he swears his heart is about to pound out of his chest. One time was all it took and you’re pregnant. A veritable death sentence in this new world, and it’s all his fault. “Shit.” He murmurs, blinking several times as he watches you absorb the news. “Are you- do you think-?” Joel stammers, unsure of what to say to you.

You frown, shaking your head. “No- I- I’m just sick.” You insist, not liking the panicked look on Joel’s face. It’s not like you’ve been together since that one time, there’s no privacy for it. One of you staying awake to keep watch at night. You look down at your stomach and shake your head. “No, that can’t be it.”

Joel has accepted that you are, knowing that you haven’t complained about how uncomfortable the me still cup is like Ellie has done since you left Tommy’s. He’s not stupid, he knows you’ve complained about your jeans being a little tighter and you certainly haven’t been indulging when all you have is what he can hunt or find. It kills him inside, hearing he’s gonna be a dad again and all he can do is think of when he found out about Sarah. He was so young then. He was shitting himself but that was with the comforts afforded to him then, things like formula and a crib. What the fuck would become of a child in this world? Would he be able to provide? His breathing gets short and his vision goes blurry as he starts to panic, his chest tightening.

“Joel?” Your eyes widen and you rush over to him. Touching his shoulder as he bends over at the waist. “Joel, it’s okay, I’m not- we can-“ you swallow harshly and you know that any words of comfort will be nothing but platitudes. There’s no reassurance in this world. “Just breathe.”

Ellie walks up on his other side and pats his back awkwardly. “It’ll be alright. You aren’t that old. And she’s younger than you.”

The words sound muffled to Joel as his thoughts come hard and fast, imagining a world with a baby. Then he thinks about you as a mother, how good you’ve been with Ellie, and how you looked at the kids at Tommy’s, the longing in your eyes when you saw a family. He imagines you holding the baby, safe at Tommy’s, a proper home. A second chance. The thought makes his breathing slow and he closes his eyes when you rub his back. “I’m here, baby.” You promise and he stands up straight, dragging you into his chest to hold you, his face in your hair to breathe you in.

“I’m sorry. So fuckin’ sorry, sweet girl. I- I did this and I- we are gonna get back to Tommy’s and you’re gonna be such a good mama.” He promises, cupping your cheeks so he can look into your eyes, silently letting you know that he’s all in.

You weren’t expecting that response and you immediately tear up. Choking out a sob as you try to nod in his hands and lean forward. Needing a hug and reassurance that everything will be okay. You know that this world is rough but you need Joel with you. Maybe this baby can have a life that is close to what used to be, Ellie giving the world a cure.

****

“Ellie!” Joel growls when Ellie lets the ladder clatter to the level above. “Goddamnit.” He growls and reaches for the ladder. “You can’t go up it.” Joel shakes his head at you as you step towards it, five months pregnant. You are showing and Joel spends each night just holding you, rubbing your belly. In awe of the baby growing inside of you.

You wait until Joel is up the ladder and chasing after Ellie, shouting her name before you slowly start to climb the ladder. Not willing to stay below if there is some kind of issue or danger. You don’t think there is, not with the way that Ellie had sounded right before she had taken off. Slowly making your way up, you groan when you manage to pull yourself up and start following after them. “Joel? Ellie?”

Joel looks at the giraffe, in awe of the gentle beast, and he looks around when you call his name, eyes wide. Joel holds his hand out towards you, unable to reprimand you for coming up the ladder when this was the view. “Come here.” Joel grabs a branch and hands it to Ellie before he hands another one to you.

“Oh my god.” You breathe out in wonder as Ellie steps forward with the leaves. You watch as the giraffe takes the offered food and the girl giggles. “Hey there.” Joel watches, a soft smile on his face as you step up beside Ellie to hand her the leaves. She’s enjoying herself and you won’t take that away from her, not when she’s been so locked inside her own head after the run in with David. “So fucking cool.” Both you and Joel look at each other, your love for the girl evident and you know that you want to go back to Jackson, make your little family safe, you, Joel, Ellie and the baby.

After admiring the giraffe, Joel helps you down and you’re moving through the city when Ellie mentions his scar. “I, uh, it was me. I’m the guy who missed.” He reveals, knowing he’s never spoken to you about this. This was his secret, the shame he carried since he failed. He was barely living after they stitched him back up. Physically he was recovering, emotionally, he was never the same. Until he met you and Ellie.

Your hand covers your stomach protectively, knowing that if he had succeeded, your baby wouldn’t be here. You wouldn’t be here, you would have died in Kansas City. Sighing softly, all you can do is watch as he takes the rifle off his shoulder and leans against an old concrete barrier, obviously wanting to get it off his chest. “There’s no story.” He tells you as Ellie sits beside him, you on his other side. “Sarah died and I couldn’t see the point anymore. Simple as that. And I wasn’t scared either. I was ready.” He looks off, not making eye contact with either of you and you know he’s reliving the past. “I couldn’t have been more ready. When I-“ he pauses, ducking his head down and looking back up. “When I….” He gestures towards his head with his fingers pointed like a gun and your heart breaks, imaging the pain he had been in. “-went to pull the trigger, I-I flinched.” He looks slightly shocked that he had. “Still don’t know why.” Tears slip down your face and you want to tell him that you know why he flinched, he wasn’t done living yet.

“Well I'm glad you didn’t do…that.” Ellie offers Joel with a small smile and Joel nods, “me too.” He sighs and looks over at you, his eyes dropping down to your stomach. Ellie bites her lip, “I guess time heals all wounds.”

Joel shakes his head, his eyes meeting hers, “it wasn’t time that did it.” His eyes are watery and your heart breaks.

Reaching out, you brush his hair back and lean in, pressing your lips to his scar softly before you pull away. “I’m glad that you did heal.” You murmur softly.

Joel reaches for your hand, squeezing it, and he lets his face say what his mouth cannot. Knowing you’ll know what he means. “Come on.” He pats his knees and stands up, taking your hand to help you stand. “You know what I’m in the mood for? Some shitty puns.” He says and squeezes your hand as he looks at Ellie who is eagerly pulling the book from her backpack.

You watch as she opens the book and starts the read. “People are making jokes about the apocalypse like there’s no tomorrow.” Joel frowns slightly and Ellie grins. “Too soon?” She asks and he shakes his head, “no, it’s topical.”

She laughs, “oh I love this one.” She bends down and then pops back up. “Moon rocks taste better than Earth rocks. Why?” Joel doesn’t answer but he scratches his head. “‘Cause their meteor.” You groan alongside Joel. “Oh that’s terrible.”

“Zero out of ten.” Joel snorts, bringing your hand up to swing it between you. That’s when the grenade is thrown and Ellie shouts “Joel!” He spins, pushing you behind him to protect you and you’re both thrown back by the explosion. Joel shouts your name through the smoke and he’s trying to protect you and Ellie when the gun comes down on the back of his head and it all goes dark.

****

Groaning, you open your eyes slowly, lids fluttering and you wince at the pain in the back of your skull. “Easy.” Turning, you see a woman, darker skin with a sharp gaze about her. Eyeing you intensely and she seems relieved that you are awake.

“Where-“ you croak, “Joel? Ellie.”

Marlene steps forward, holding a glass of water for you. “They’re fine. Ellie is being prepped for surgery and Joel is with her. My name is Marlene. I - Joel wanted me to be here when you woke up.” She says, offering you the cup of water after you sit up. Her eyes drop down to your bump and back to your face. “How- how far along are you?” She asks, stepping back once you have the glass of water.

“Around five months.” You take a sip of the water, relieved at the cool liquid as it goes down your throat. You wish that Joel was here, but being with Ellie is his priority. Just like she needs to be right now. You look back at Marlene. “It’s Joel’s.” You offer quietly, rubbing your stomach. “The baby.”

Marlene’s eyes widen slightly, having known that Joel did not like making connections and that’s possibly the biggest connection two humans could have. “Congratulations.” Marlene says, “I’ll go find Joel but in the meantime, I have a nurse who’s going to take some blood and she has vitamins to give you that you can take.” Marlene offers and you nod, grateful for the care. “I’ll go see how Ellie and Joel are getting along.” Marlene says and walks out of the room.

“Do you think she will work?” Jackie, the nurse asks once she follows Marlene out of the room.

“She’s our back up plan.” Marlene confirms and makes her way to Joel’s room. He wakes up just as she arrives and he winces as he tries to sit up.

“Welcome to the fireflies.” Marlene tells him, making him quickly roll over. “Easy. Ya got hit pretty hard.” Her hands are folded over her stomach and she smirks. “Patrol didn’t know who you were.”

Joel groans quietly and looks over at her. “Where’s Ellie?”

Marlene answers quickly. “She wasn’t hurt. Not even a scratch.” She sounds impressed, she is impressed. “She’s mostly worried about you.”

His head is throbbing and he sits up on the gurney. “Where is she?” He says your name, worried that he can’t see you either.

“We lost half our crew crossing the country. I had five men whose only job was to protect me. I still almost got killed. How’d you do it? With a pregnant woman too?” Marlene snorts and Joel grips the side of the bed, shaking his head.

“It was all her.” He says truthfully, knowing he couldn’t have made it without you. “Ellie fought like hell to get here.”

Marlene shakes her head, “she would’ve been dead on day one. You are the one person I never wanted to be in debt to. But I owe you. We all owe you.”

Joel shakes his head, “just take me to them. I need to see them.”

Marlene stares at him for a moment, “I can’t. Ellie’s being prepped for surgery and-” She says your name, “she’s having her blood drawn for testing for the baby.”

Joel frowns, “what surgery?”

Marlene bites her lip, “our doctor, he thinks that the Cordyceps in Ellie has grown with her since birth-” Joel interrupts her, “why is she in surgery?”

Marlene continues, “it produces a kind of chemical messenger. It makes normal Cordyceps thinks that she’s Cordyceps. It’s why she’s immune. He’s gonna remove it from her, multiply the cells in a lab, produce those chemical messengers, and then we can give it to everyone. He thinks it could be a cure, Joel. We think that it happened when her mother was bitten while Ellie was still attached to her umbilical cord. We - we want to see if it’s possible that we could recreate that in case-”

Joel cuts her off, his jaw clenched, “in case what?” He is hearing that they want you to be bit after you give birth to his child.

“A cure.” Marlene reminds him but he shakes his head, “Cordyceps grow inside the brain.”

Marlene nods, “it does.”

Joel shakes his head, “find someone else. Find anyone else. Not Ellie. Not the mother of my child.” He growls.

“There is no one else. We didn’t tell them. We didn’t cause them any fear. Your child will be safe. We will make sure the mother is well looked after until she gives birth.”

Joel shakes his head and stands up, “no. No, you take me to her. You take me to her right now!” He yells, desperate to see you, to save you and Ellie from this nightmare. The guard hits him in the stomach with the butt of his rifle and Joel falls down with a grunt.

“Please, you don’t understand.” Joel tries to reason with Marlene but she’s unsympathetic.

“I do. I was there when she was born, Joel. I promised her mother I would save her child. I promised.” She pauses. “So I do understand. I’m the only one who understands. I’m sorry. I have no other choice.” She wants this to be over, for the world to go back to what it was and Ellie, and your baby might be the cure. She will sacrifice anyone for a cure.

Joel looks up at her from the ground, worry and panic swirling in his gut. “I do.” He assures her, making Marlene realize she can’t leave Joel alive.

She nods and speaks to the guards, “walk him out to the Highway, leave him there with his pack.” Her guards will know that she means for them to take him out of hearing range of the pediatric ward where you are being held and put a bullet in his brain. “Give him these.” She hands off the knife Ellie carried along with the necklace you wore and looks back at Joel. “If he tries anything, shoot him.”

Joel's heart pounds in his chest as he is led down the hall, his mind racing as he tries to figure out how he can save you and Ellie. His heart races and he imagines leaving you and his child, Ellie, here with the fireflies. He swallows harshly, stumbling and trying to slow down. "I didn't hear anyone say stop." The guard says when Joel looks at the sign, "which way?" He is pushed towards the stairwell and Joel imagines not being there for his children. He can't fail them. He can't fail you.

"The fuck are you doin'? Keep walking." The firefly orders and Joel snaps, unable to let you and Ellie be the burden of this so-called cure. He can't lose anyone else. "I said keep-" Joel spins, elbowing the prick and grabbing his gun, making quick work of shooting them and he grabs the knife and necklace, determined to save his girls.

“Hello?” It’s been a long time since you’ve had a bed and the hospital gurney is actually comfortable. One of the ones obviously used in the labor and delivery ward and for a moment, you imagine actually being in a hospital for the birth. The nurse had told you that she would be right back, going to get Joel and you are starting to worry. There’s muffled sounds from the floors below, and you can’t quite make it out but it’s making you uneasy. “Anyone there?”

Joel is ferocious in his efforts to get to you and Ellie. He knows he has to get to Ellie first, stop the surgery, and he shoots down anyone that gets in his way. When he enters the operating room, he quickly shoots the doctor and the nurses scream, “unhook her. Move!” He demands and the nurses hands shake. “Cover her arm. Fast.” The nurse nods and covers her arm. “Turn around.” He demands and he carries her in his arms as he shouts your name, needing to find you.

“Joel?” You hold your stomach as you heft your weight off the gurney, hearing Joel scream your name. He sounds panicked, like he does when he’s lost sight of you or Ellie when there is danger nearby. That’s never a good sound to hear from Joel. “Joel! I’m here.” You shout back, slipping into your shoes so you can walk to the door of the room you are in.

He hears your voice and he’s relieved, eyes softening when he sees you, but yours widen when you see him carrying Ellie. “What -?”

Joel shakes his head, “no time. We gotta go. Come on baby. Let’s go.” He demands and leads you towards the elevator.

You’ve learned that when Joel demands you move, you move. You don’t ask him again, instead you are right behind him, wondering what the hell is going on. You know how important this mission was to Ellie, to be able to ‘save the world’. So for Joel to be carrying her around in a surgical gown makes you wonder if the hospital is under attack.

“What happened?” You ask and Joel can’t speak yet, too overwhelmed and relieved that you’re alive. That Ellie is okay. He looks at Ellie, knowing he’s messed up her plans for his own selfish desires but he couldn’t let her die for this. He sees the car and rushes forward until he hears Marlene.

“You can’t keep them safe forever.” She says, aiming her gun towards him and he jerks his chin for you to get behind him. “No matter how hard you try, no matter how many people you kill, she’s gonna grow up Joel. And then you’ll die, she’ll leave. Your kid will be left without a father. Then what? How long until your kids are torn apart by infected or murdered by raiders? Because they live in a broken world that you could have saved.”

Joel stares at her, “maybe but it isn’t for you to decide.”

Marlene shakes her head, “or you. Your children had the chance to save the world. If Ellie died…we had the baby. A chance to try again.” Marlene says and you gasp, hand lowering to your stomach, unsure of what she means but you know it’s bad. “So what would Ellie decide? ‘Cause I think she’d wanna do what’s right.” Joel stares at the floor, unable to process this when Marlene says “and you know it. It’s not too late. Even now, even after what you’ve done. We have a second chance.” She looks towards you, “we can still find a way.” Joel looks down at Ellie before his eyes meet yours, knowing he couldn’t give this up. It’s his children. He couldn’t save Sarah but he can save Ellie, save you and his unborn child.

You watch Joel as he battles himself, looking down at Ellie and then over at you. You shake your head, knowing that anything that would lead to Ellie dying is not a choice you want to pick. His jaw ticks and he looks back at Marlene. Making you cry out in surprise when he pulls the trigger of the gun that he is holding under Ellie’s legs. “Get in the car.” Joel urges you as he turns and rushes towards the vehicle.

Marlene groans as she curls into herself and he lays Ellie down on the backseat. He strides back over to Marlene, pulling his gun out, and he aims it at her, “you’ll just come after her.” He says and shots her in the head.

Swallowing harshly, you look back at Ellie laying across the seats. Whatever happened was bad. Joel connects the battery and slams the hood of the car shut, making you jump in surprise before he climbs behind the wheel and turns the key. “What happened?” You ask quietly, needing to know what is happening. From what you understood, Marlene was important to Ellie and it was her that had tasted Joel with bringing Joel here.

Joel shakes his head, not able to talk about it just yet. He wants to get you out of here so he starts the car and makes his way out of the parking garage, eyes scanning for any more fireflies and he’s on edge. When he’s out on the highway and he reaches for your hand, lifting it to press a kiss to it. “Baby. Oh fuck. I- I thought I was gonna lose you all.”

You hear the way his voice shakes and you squeeze his hand. “You couldn’t lose us.” You promise him, even though you have no idea what was actually happening in that hospital. Craning your neck, you look back at Ellie, “we need to find her some clothes. For when she wakes up.”

He nods, tears stinging in his eyes, “baby. She - she told me - Ellie’s mom was bitten before she was born. It’s why Ellie is immune and they - they wanted to take Ellie’s brain out to find a cure and if that failed, they were gonna use you - they wanted to use our baby as a second chance.” He chokes, a tear sliding down his cheek as he imagines being unable to help Ellie and you.

“Shit.” You hiss, furious that they had been so cruel. You would have never consented to hurting your child or allowing Ellie to be killed in hopes of a cure. “Then I’m glad you shot her.” You snort. “A bullet is too good for her. That’s unethical.”

Joel squeezes your hand, “and you would’ve been killed. I- fuck- I love you. I love you, baby.” He confesses for the first time, squeezing the steering wheel with his other hand as he makes his way to Tommy’s in hope of having a life with his family.

#pedro pascal #joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller smut #joel miller imagine #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller fic #joel miller the last of us #joel miller tlou #joel miller thots

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the-sword-lesbian · 3 months

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Hello Locked Tomb fans!!

Today we’re going to talk about the ways in which Mercymorn is a walking domestic abuse/systemic domestic abuse allegory.

For a more comprehensive breakdown of some of themes of abuse in HtN you can check out this amazing post by Sophelstien

A lot of the glimpses of Mercy’s backstory have some pretty clear indicators of her perpetual abuse by John and her behaviors, especially towards Harrow and Ianthe just perpetuate the same abuse she suffered for years as she turns a mostly blind eye to what John is doing with them.

So let’s get started with all the things straight out of the domestic abuse playbook.

1. Isolation from loved ones:

In this instance he did this to all the Lyctors, not just Mercy. The OG Lyctors were already dependent on proximity to John for their very survival. But with the deaths of their Cavaliers they’ve now experienced a horrifying trauma that cemented that bond further. Their loved ones were gone, the ones they cared for the most, who supported them above all else. They were cone and never coming back. But it’s a good thing John was there for them. Good ole John would always be there for them, right?

You can(and probably will) argue that John himself didn’t do the isolating here(except in the case of Samael whom he definitely admits to killing). Especially in the case of Cristabel and Alfred. But John set up the system. The religious, fatherly but always your pal John at the top. And what better way to serve him, to help him, to be with him. Then to annihilate your support system.

So Cristabel is dead, Mercy’s brotherly icon in the form of Augustine has now become a perpetual antagonist towards her for something she didn’t do, and the only person she can seemingly lean on for comfort and support, is John.

2: Pressure to conform to uncomfortable situations and further self-isolation

Mercy always hated the sexy parties. This one should seem pretty self explanatory but there are other ways we can look at it as well.

So Mercy, now in a perpetually grieving state and entirely reliant on John and her fellow lyctors(who are also dealing with their own grief and trauma) is being pushed to attend what seems to be implied to be quite raucous events put on by her brothers and sisters. I’m sure a great many of them are also just doing it to cope with their own problems in the form of excess. Except John, who is the instigator of most of their traumas, who’s probably having a fantastic time.

Furthermore we see how this has long term shaped Mercy’s general attitude, and personality. She’s bitter, closed off, and a pretty significant shut in. She hardly ever leaves Mithraeum these days. She goes to collect John(and her new baby sister’s/children) from the Erebus and bring them home, to Mithraeum. And that whole scene is just dripping with imagery of a desperate wife/daughter pleading to get her husband/father to come home from the bar, overlooks his probable dalliances(Sarpedon) and his obsessive attention towards a younger subject(Harrow), and just begs him to come back.

And while we’re on the subject

3: Unhealthy attachment and willingness to overlook red flags.

Mercy loves John, and yes, a lot of that can be chalked up to soul permeability and Cristabel. But Mercy loves for him and cares about him as deeply as she can. We can see this in the resurrection beast meeting. Everyone deserves to die for mocking her. But John? John just needs to be locked up for a bit. It will do him some good. He is good, he just needs to learn. Surely there’s goodness inside of him. Surely she hasn’t just spent ten thousand years in service to a man who’s done nothing but torment her with a smile and a false family dynamic. She thinks about this often.

And speaking of overlooking red flags, Mercy’s barest protection of Harrow, only enough to survive. Because that’s what you do in this family. You survive. She doesn’t stop John from what he’s doing to Harrow, she knows what he’s doing surely. But she leaves Harrow to largely fend for herself. Because John isn’t bad, surely. She just needs to learn. Like Mercy did.

4: Plotting escape and the relief when it’s achieved

Mercy, with the help of others, has spent centuries planning John’s downfall. She and Augustine have tailored an incredibly long game plan to open the tomb and bring about John’s end. They got outside help to do it. They didn’t want it to come back at them. They didn’t want to face John’s consequences themselves. And really this couldn’t more obviously be an example of hiring someone to kill your abuser for you.

But the plan falls through, and that’s okay because Mercymorn, has a backup. She devoted thousands of years to a skill that Augustine flat out says would only be good for killing those like themselves. Those with power, and invisibility.

And the relief when it happens. The sheer joy and sadness and desperate exhaustion when she’s done it, and they’re finally free.

5: Retaliation

Mercy and Augustine were right to try and do it all as secretly as they could. They were right to fear a reprisal. Because the very second John comes back, he kills Mercymorn the first. He then attempts to use this display of violence as an intimidation tactic to try and sway the others.

“She made me do it, I had no choice. surely you all believe me? Surely you wouldn’t betray me all the same?”

How many thousands upon thousands of stories have there been throughout history, of abuse victims escaping, or attempting escape, only to be killed or maimed for their efforts.

She was free. They were all free. She’d saved everyone from him. They were safe. She was safe.

And then she wasn’t.

#the locked tomb #mercymorn the first #augustine the first #john gaius #harrow the ninth #harrow the ninth spoilers #tw domestic abuse #tw abuse #tlt meta

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 11 months

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Now I’m Covered In You [Chapter 10: Chronology] [Series Finale]

A/N: This is a fic that was never supposed to exist. It yanked me out of my (ridiculously short) retirement and I was SO NERVOUS about diving into another series so unexpectedly! Thank you for giving NICIY a chance. I go back and re-read old messages, comments, and reblogs ALL the time when I’m feeling doubtful about writing, and my fics are only made possible by the support of awesome people like you. 💜

Series summary: Aemond is a prince of England. You are married to his brother. The Wars of the Roses are about to begin, and you have failed to fulfill your one crucial responsibility: to give the Greens a line of legitimate heirs. Will you survive the demands of your family back in Navarre, the schemes of the Duke of Hightower, the scandals of your dissolute husband, the growing animosity of Daemon Targaryen…and your own realization of a forbidden love?

Series title is a lyric from: Ivy by Taylor Swift.

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+), dubious consent, miscarriage, pregnancy, childbirth, violence, warfare, murder, alcoholism, sexism, infidelity, illness, death, only vaguely historically accurate, lots of horses!

Word count: 6k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

Taglist: @borikenlove @myspotofcraziness @teenagecriminalmastermind @quartzs-posts @tclegane @poohxlove @narwhal-swimmingintheocean @chainsawsangel @itsabby15 @padfooteyes @arcielee @travelingmypassion @what-is-originality @burningcoffeetimetravel @randomdragonfires @aemcndtargaryen @jvpit3rs @sarcastic-halfling-princess @flowerpotmage @ladylannisterxo @thelittleswanao3 @libroparaiso @tinykryptonitewerewolf @girlwith-thepearlearring @minttea07 @trifoliumviridi @deltamoon666 @mariahossain @darkenchantress @doingfondue @atherverybest @namelesslosers @skythighs @moonlightfoxx @partypoison00 @bellameshipper @coffedraven @greenowlfactif

Rain from the sky, blood from the earth: skulls and femurs crush beneath Vhagar’s hooves. Daeron and Tessarion stride alongside Aemond, always on his left where he was blinded. Daeron is different now. He’s not broken, no—and Aemond would recognize it if he was—but there’s something older about him, something severe and world-weary. One of Aemond’s hands holds the reins while the other swings his sword, though his attackers grow few and penitent. The Greens and their allies have beaten back the usurpers. The field is strewn with dead Scots and Northern Englishmen. Behind Aemond are soldiers—from the South, Milan, Castile, the Holy Roman Empire, Navarre—bellowing triumphant howls that meld with the thunder. They strip enemy bodies of rings, necklaces, coins, swords and daggers. They slice off fingers and scraps of skin to bring home with them as keepsakes. Look, wife, here is a piece of a man who fought for Daemon and Rhaenyra. Look, son, see what becomes of those who align themselves with kinslayers.

Behind the Blacks’ forces, on horseback and shouting to each other in frantic words that Aemond cannot hear over the cannons and the storm, are Rhaenyra and King Corlys of Scotland. Corlys is shaking his head and pointing back towards the direction they came from. He is advising Rhaenyra to retreat, Aemond knows. He is impelling the stark realities upon her: that her soldiers are fleeing in great numbers, that her cause is lost, that she has nothing to gain by remaining here except more deaths. Jace and Vermax—a bay Marwari who has always been dutiful yet placid by nature—are galloping at a dizzying speed towards his mother to join her in the now inevitable withdraw from the field of battle. As the would-be prince evades sword-wielders and axmen, an arrow loosed by a Navarran archer pierces him through the throat. He sways drunkenly in the saddle and then tumbles to the mud where he is immediately descended upon by Green soldiers like vultures on carrion.

“No!” Aemond can hear Rhaenyra wail, a sound like the shattering of glass. She is stopped by Black loyalists when she attempts to ride to her eldest son’s body, an instinct that in the haze of her grief she cannot understand is suicidal. They eventually resort to dragging her off Syrax, throwing her into the back of a supply wagon, and ferrying her away from the battlefield as Corlys directs their remaining forces to fall back.

Aemond spies Luke—untalented and doomed, yet brave—on Arrax and stabbing Milanese men who are clawing at him like a cat guts mice. Aemond sheathes his sword, wheels Vhagar around, and races for Luke, calling for the soldiers to disperse. They run from Vhagar’s immense, drumming hooves. Too swift for Luke to resist, Aemond grabs him by one arm and wrenches him out of the saddle; he can hear the bone pop from its socket. Luke drops to the drenched earth and lies there muddy, condemned, his sword knocked from his grasp.

“Go, Arrax!” Luke commands his horse. Tears stream down his face, indistinguishable from the rain. Lightning flashes. But Arrax does not obey. The small dun Marwari stands over Luke, his head shielding his fallen rider, until Daeron and Tessarion—who easily outweighs Arrax by a thousand pounds—force him back.

Aemond dismounts from Vhagar, his boots sinking into deep mud. He walks to where Luke lies helplessly in a sea of rain and earth and blood.

“Mercy!” Luke cries, shielding his eyes from the torrents of rain that blow into him. His hair hangs in dark, sodden curls against his boyish face. “Please, Aemond! I’m sorry for what happened when we were children. I was wrong. I was trying to protect Jace and I struck out without thinking. I did not intend to maim you. But then it was too late to take it back. It’s not too late to stop this bloodshed now. I was wrong. I beg you to have mercy upon me, mercy that the Blacks never showed you. I want to live. I want to see my mother again. I want to marry Rhaena someday, as I have sworn to. As I have dreamt of more times than I could number. I beg you for mercy.”

Aemond looks to Daeron. And it takes several long, slow seconds for Daeron to understand why. He is being given the choice. He is the man who lost Nico. Daeron says softly: “He’s not the one who murdered her. I have no use for his blood.”

Aemond nods. And then, as the wind tears dripping, silver strands from his long braid, he offers his hand to Luke. Luke seizes it with his good arm, sobbing openly with relief.

“You were in London when the princesses were slain,” Aemond says.

“Yes,” Luke replies. “But I did not know it would happen, nor did I desire it. I swear to God, Aemond, I swear on every god men have ever believed in. None of us knew, my mother had forbidden harm to come to them—”

“And Jace was there too.”

“Yes,” Luke admits, weeping for his dead brother.

“You and Jace were in London with Daemon, and now you’re here on the battlefield. But that beast isn’t. Not that I’ve seen. So where’s Daemon?” Aemond asks Luke. “Where’s Daemon?”

“Aren’t you going to ask me to spare you?�� Daemon doesn’t move like a man. He stalks like a wolf, like a phantom, off-kilter, inhuman. He grins, white teeth and violent eyes. “Aren’t you going to beg for mercy?”

And for a moment, the words fill up in your mouth like blood in a wound: Please don’t hurt me. I’ll do anything you want. I’ll go back to Navarre and never return, you’ll never hear soldiers cheer for me, you’ll never see me again. Please, please, just let me go so the baby can live.

But Daemon would not be moved by your pleas. They would only give him wicked, ghastly pleasure, a high like the knowing touch of a lover. You cannot stomach the thought of it. You can only bring yourself to twist the allegorical knife deeper. “If you had taught Baela mercy, she would still be alive. If you had any within yourself, Rhaenyra would be winning this war.”

“Too proud,” Daemon says, but he doesn’t sound furious anymore. He sounds awed. And you realize that all along underneath that hatred had been something else too: a venomous admiration, a hunger that corrupts and burns. He lays the point of his sword against your throat. Rain flows down the length of the blade in cold, crystalline rivulets. You sob, unable to help it. Your mind is a tapestry of all the things you’ll never live to see. “Aegon is a nonentity. But you were different. I saw that from the start. Just a girl from a minor kingdom offered like a sacrifice to be neglected and violated by some drunken, ambitionless, catastrophically weak prince. Yet you didn’t seem to know it. You had that intractable, defiant ruthlessness. So much like Rhaenyra’s when she was younger. So much like Aemond’s. So much like mine. And I knew I could never call myself worthy of the throne without breaking you. Rhaenyra comforts herself with the notion that none of this is personal. That I would have had the same contempt for the Milanese girl or the Holy Roman Emperor’s daughter if either of them had been the one to marry Aegon. Rhaenyra feels sorry for you, I believe. She has a mother’s compassion. But this has always been personal for me. And now it’s finally over.”

There is a sound above you at the top of the gorge, huffing and stomping. Reflected in Daemon’s blade, you see Midnight, her legs and chest painted with blood from kicking through the walls of her stall and then the stable door. She takes a few tentative steps down the slope and then is forced to retreat. If she falls, she’ll shatter her legs or snap her neck and drown in the current of mud and rainwater. She can’t come to you. But if you can get to her…

Caraxes is dead. Daemon wouldn’t be able to catch me.

Time ticks by slowly, impossibly slowly; and you are reminded of all those nights you spent under Aegon waiting for him to finish, a long-clawed eternity lurking in the doorway between seconds. You are reminded of how each hour you spent pregnant felt like forever as the possibility of having a child of your own receded like a ship dropping over the edge of the horizon, and then farther, and then farther. You are reminded of how you counted the days until Kunigunde would marry Aemond and possess him in ways that you still have only dreamt of. Since your arrival in England almost two years ago, you have been a prisoner of time. Now—as you scavenge for a chance at a future almost too bright to imagine—you are grateful for it.

Too late, you think, but it’s not a statement. It’s a question. Too late?

“Do you know what, Navarre?” Daemon asks. He traces the point of his blade around the curve of your throat, drawing a half-moon of crimson as thin as a spider’s thread. Then he hooks his left hand into the white velvet of your gown—drenched with rain, stained with blood and earth—and wrenches you upright, devouring you with wild, wolfish eyes. You strike at him to no avail. “I think before I gut you, I’ll enjoy you in the way Aemond never could. That would hurt him best, wouldn’t it? He was always covered in it. That pitiful, dire hunger for you. Written on his ruined face as stark as ink. Now he can have whatever pieces of you are left when I’m done. Scraps, butcher’s cuts, your child, your eyes, your heart. If he’s still alive.”

Too late??

You don’t have a sword, you don’t have a dagger or a bow, you don’t have the physical strength to fight Daemon. You never have, even before your hand was crushed and shredded by his Scottish deerhound. At the crest of the gorge, Midnight paces and whinnies.

What DO I have? What the hell do I still have?

Suddenly you feel it, cool and unyielding against your chest: the ivy leaf necklace made of gold.

With your mangled hand, you rip it off you—destroying the clasp, drawing blood at the back of your neck—and stab at Daemon. He rocks his head back swiftly enough to save his eyes, but not his mouth; you shove your fist in as far as you can, pushing the jagged charm of the necklace down his throat to choke him. With your free hand, you cling to him like a lover so he cannot create enough space between you to swing his sword. He screams, and you do too, as the gashes in your hand are split wider and deeper by his teeth, as his jaws close around your wrist and he tries to bite through the flesh and into your veins; but you do not relent. The pain is dreadful but not disorienting. You’ve had time to learn how to think through it.

Daemon flings you away and—choking, retching, doubled over—tries to claw the necklace out of his throat. You bolt for the embankment and begin climbing up towards Midnight. You have to move quickly; each time you hesitate, the saturated earth begins to disintegrate beneath your palms and bare feet. Rain falls in stinging sheets. Rods of lightning break the sky in two. Midnight is stomping and snorting at the apex of the gorge, waiting for you. You are halfway to her when you realize you can hear Daemon behind you.

He’s wheezing and weighted down by his armor; when you glance back at him, there are tendrils of blood spilling from his mouth. Still, the insanity in his eyes is alight and glittering. You claw for the summit desperately. When you get close enough to reach out to her, Midnight lowers her head; you throw your arms around her vast neck and she drags you over the top of the gorge and onto flat, muddy ground. But there’s no time to catch your breath. You clamber to your feet and try to pull yourself onto Midnight’s back. It’s no use; she’s too tall, you’re too weak. She looks at you with her attentive volcanic-glass eyes and upright ears, and then she understands. With ungainly effort, she drops down to her knees so you can climb onto her back. When Midnight stands again, you steady yourself and twist your fingers into her mane, and then she charges towards the stone bridge—

There’s a shrill, glass-sharp roar and a hand on your gown. Daemon is yanking you off of her. Midnight is whirling and shrieking, trying to shake him. There’s not enough for you to hold onto, no reins, no saddle. Daemon drags you down to the earth. You hit hard, the breath knocked from your lungs, your vision stunned black. You can feel that Daemon is on top of you with his sword at your jugular; you scratch and shove blindly at him. And then Midnight is stomping and kicking and there is a new sound: a crack muffled by gelatinous flesh like the sheet around a corpse, a great fracturing like the world splitting in half. And Daemon is gone.

Your sight materializes: black to grey to color, shadows to shapes. When you haul yourself upright, the rain is slowing and Midnight is nudging your head with her velvet-soft muzzle. Daemon is ten feet away. He has propped himself up against the entranceway of the bridge, his legs splayed out in front of him. When you go to him and kneel down in the mud—thunder growling distantly, moving into the west—you see that his jaw has been broken from the impact of Midnight’s hoof. It hangs disjointedly, ruinously from his face. A moon-white dagger of bone juts from the torn flesh. His teeth are a garden of ivory shards and excavated pits. Blood pours down his throat and chest like a river, like a sea. He cannot speak. He can only gaze at you with glassy, vacant eyes, the knowledge dripping in slowly, piece by piece, like waking up from a dream: he’s dying. And it occurs to you that sometimes dying is the end, and sometimes it’s just killing the version of yourself that existed before, sacrifice, spring after frost, a blade born from a forge, resurrection.

You press your hands to the blood that hemorrhages from Daemon and then drag them down your face, palms and fingertips, coppery-tasting scarlet like wine, like rubies. “You once told me that I’d look better covered in red,” you say to him as the last vestiges of consciousness flicker in his eyes. “That was on Christmas, just before you murdered my son in the womb and I spent weeks bleeding fragments of him out of me. How do I look now, Prince Daemon? Now you’re the one who’s bleeding. Now you’re the one who will never grow old.”

He hears you. You can see that he hears you: horror, agony, disbelief, mourning.

“I want you to think about that as you lie here dying alone. I want you to think about all those things you wanted—those glorious, ruthless things—and how you stole them from yourself.”

You stagger to your feet. Daemon’s hand, weak like a whisper, juts out and grabs your muddied ankle. You rip free of him without looking back. You are the last person to ever see him alive.

Midnight follows you back to the palace. Your damaged hand hangs limply by your side; the other cups your belly. You wait for the cramping to begin, the razorlike severing, the blood. It seems unthinkable that your child could have survived, that Daemon could have departed this earth without stealing one last life from you. But for all the places where you hurt terribly, that isn’t one of them. When you reach the well, you brace yourself for what you’ll discover there. You grip the cool grey circle of stones and peer over the edge.

“Your Majesty?!” Criston exclaims, gaping at you. He’s wading in water up to his chest. “Oh, thank God! I heard the footsteps and thought it was Daemon!”

“He’s dead,” you reply in a voice that sounds very little like yours: cold like winter, hard like steel. The rain has faded to a misty drizzle.

Criston shakes his head, not understanding. “How did you…? What did you…?”

“I’ll find a way to get you out,” you say, and leave him.

You procure a length of rope from the stable and—with considerable difficulty, your wounded hand trembling and nearly useless—tie one end around Midnight like the harness of a plow. You toss the other end down to Criston. He emerges from the well with a broken leg but otherwise relatively unscathed. He limps, leaning against Midnight (an only semi-willing ally), to where Daemon’s body lies by the bridge.

“Oh my God,” Criston marvels, staring down at him: ruined face, empty hands. “He’s gone. He’s really gone. He was the greatest weapon the Blacks had, and he’s gone. What the hell will Rhaenyra do now?”

You pry your sword from Caraxes’ corpse and then return to Criston. “I need you to help me. My blade is too small, and even if it wasn’t, my sword hand is practically unusable. I can probably do the first part, but I’ll need you to chop through the spine.”

Criston is horrified. “What are you talking about? The spine…?!”

And then you tell him.

You have just finished when you hear the rumble of hooves approaching. Vhagar and Aemond are at the front of a detachment of cavalry. The cannon fire in the distance has stopped; Daeron and Alonzo are doubtlessly overseeing the clearing of the battlefield. Aemond leaps down from the saddle and rushes to where you stand to meet him on the bridge, his gaze flying from your ragged hand to the streaks of red on your gown and your face. Your other hand is hidden behind your back.

“Are you—?!”

“I’m alright,” you say. “The blood isn’t all mine.”

And then you throw Daemon’s head—clutching it by his long, white, Targaryen hair—out onto the grey stones for everyone to witness. It rolls several times before coming to rest face-up, the last raindrops falling into Daemon’s vacuous eyes as the sky begins to clear. Aemond grins, a fiercely proud, wonderous grin; and the soldiers’ cheers are carried on the calm, cool breeze: “The Queen from Navarre! The Queen from Navarre! The Queen from Navarre!”

A physician is fetched to set Sir Criston’s leg and to tend to your hand. It is scrubbed with boiling wine (excruciating) and then the deepest gashes are stitched closed with a needle and thread (even worse). The process takes several hours. You are offered strong wine for the pain, but you don’t want to risk harming the baby. Aemond stays with you. He knows exactly what this feels like: the serrated agony now, the scar tissue that will grow through the rubble like roots. It will pain you all your life. You will never be free of it.

Aemond cleans Daemon’s blood from your face and allows you to squeeze his hand until your fingernails leave crescent-moon indents in his palm. And then he begins to distract you. He brings his lips to the curve of your jaw as one arm hugs your waist, and as he dusts your skin with tantalizingly slow kisses and teasing nips, you are reminded of the February night when he touched you beneath your nightgown for the first time, when he showed you how hot desire could burn and how kindly it could treat you. As your flesh is mended like a torn tapestry—the physician’s head bent low over his work—Aemond nuzzles you and murmurs to you and traces his fingertips lightly over your throat, your collarbones, the nape of your neck.

Miraculously, after a while you barely notice the pain at all. After a while, you are covered in nothing but weightless, glimmering desire for him.

In the room of Castle Rising that has become your bedchamber: back to the wall, hands in his hair, loose and wild and silver. In the starlight that streams in through the open windows, it has an opalescent sheen like moonstone. He’s kissing you like fire consumes forests; he’s breathing you in like smoke. You can feel him growing through you, flames licking, ivy climbing the trellis of your ribs and vertebrae. He’s tearing off your gown—once white, now red, impure and unrepentant—as you undress him and litter the floor with all the leather and fabric that once separated you. As Aemond’s hands skate up your bare thighs, you remember other moments with him: in the royal stables on a July afternoon, your miscarriage after the Christmas feast, on the bearskin rug in February, his wedding night at the end of April, here in the bathtub before the battle.

“Please, Aemond,” you beg as his fingers slip between slick warm folds of needful flesh, circle the place that raises euphoria in you like the moon pulls the tides. “I need all of you.”

“No,” he pants between fevered kisses. The ruby of his missing eye glints hungrily. “You first. I’m not going to last, I know it. You have to go first.”

Your unbandaged hand knots in his hair, tugging him ever-closer; his tongue darts into your mouth; his bare chest and hips press insistently to yours. You can feel his hardness, his length against your inner thigh, and this time there is no trepidation that roils in your mind like the waves of the sea. You want him with everything you’re built of, every minute and mineral and memory. You could not silence your moans if you tried. You can feel your shoulder blades bruising against the wall, heavenly pressure, delicious bites of pain, trapped blood that tomorrow will be swimming with recollection.

“Aemond, it’s happening—”

“Good, good,” he purrs through your disheveled hair. He slides one finger into you, and then another, kissing the slope of your cheekbone as your hips rock with his rhythm. “Come for me, Ivy. You wanted me to be the one to have you and now I’m here, I’ll be here forever, I’ll be here until the world ends. Let me show you how good it will always feel.”

You cry out against him, shuddering and rapturous. You can feel the past slipping away like a dream you can’t recall in the morning, a flash here, a phrase there, but otherwise indistinct, shadowy, the jagged parts sanded down until they no longer sting.

“I love you,” Aemond whispers, his fingers still inside you, buried to the knuckles in your pulsing warmth, your wetness, relics of the pleasure only he showed you was possible.

And you reply with his own words, cradling his face in your palms, half-scarred and yet entirely beautiful: “I would love you anywhere and at any cost.”

He draws you to the bed. He’s on top of you, he’s touching you, he’s tasting you, he’s stroking you until you plead for him to give you everything. But Aemond wants to be sure you’re ready. When he finally eases himself into you, it is a smooth and gliding action, overwhelming and unfamiliar but in no way painful. You hear his promise—I won’t hurt you, I’ll never hurt you—and you know that he has kept it. The intense fullness is a sensation you’ve never known before, never even imagined. When he moves, very carefully at first, it hits at an angle that rekindles your lust, somehow deeper, less pointed, more total than the peaks you knew before. You can’t catch your breath; you feel like if the wave doesn’t break, it will kill you.

“Again?” Aemond murmurs, stunned yet ecstatic.

“Again,” you gasp helplessly. He threads his fingers through yours on your good hand and pins it above your head, thrusting more powerfully as he kisses you, bodies and souls alike tangled up together, inseparable, irrevocable. When you come, it is an indescribable high; it is a force that feels like it could snap ropes of muscle and break bones. Aemond, unable to wait a second longer, empties himself with a trembling, reverent moan of the name he gave you: Ivy, Ivy, Ivy. And he holds you—tightly, to his chest, to his heart—for a long time before he pulls himself away, as if he is afraid that the moment he lifts his hands from you you’ll vanish.

Gently, he pushes your thighs apart when you move to close them. “Let me look at you,” he says. And he sighs, transfixed, as he watches his seed spill out. He takes a corner of the sheet that you’ve torn from the mattress and whisks the pearl-white river away. Then he smiles, his gaze flicking playfully to yours. “One day this won’t go to waste.”

You bathe together in water murky with steam and herbs and rose petals, washing away the past, cleaning the slate for the future. And when you return exhausted to the bed remade with fresh linens, neither of you stare up at the ceiling and wonder at the cruelties of time. You fold into Aemond—your head on his chest, rounded belly pressed against him, an arm slung across his waist—and you are asleep before you can begin to count the beats of his heart.

As soon as you arrive back in London, you and Aemond marry in the small private chapel, not illuminated by candlelight but by the sun, radiant afternoon beams refracted by stained glass scenes of kings and saints, colors on your skin like gemstones: ruby, sapphire, amethyst, emerald, amber, ruby again, treasures from the earth born only from suffocating pressure and the passing of time.

Two years to the day after you first set foot on English soil, Aemond is officially invested as regent pending either your deliverance of a daughter or your son’s coming of age in eighteen years. During the feast that follows, Alicent tends fretfully to Sir Criston: feeding him morsels of bread and meat, asking after the pain in his still-mending leg, forbidding him from rising unnecessarily from his chair. She finds excuses to touch his hair and his hands, and you observe them—furtively, from behind sips of honeyed mead, trying not to intrude—with warm blood blossoming in your cheeks. You are happy for them. You know exactly what it feels like to taste passion after a lifetime without it. It is better than a paradise, an oasis, a port in the storm. It is magic. It is a spell.

You and Aemond traverse the Great Hall of Westminster Palace to thank the Southern nobles for their loyalty, their sacrifices, their dead sons and widowed daughters. You collect wary apologies from Northerners who must now somehow be rewoven into the fabric of English society. You are offered praise for your heroism, condolences for your dead husband, well wishes for your unborn child who might one day be the king. And when, suddenly, you gasp and grab at your belly with your scarred hand, Aemond reaches fearfully for you.

“What—?”

“He’s moving,” you say, incredulous, beaming. And then you lay Aemond’s palms on your bump so he can feel it too. “He’s alright. He’s alive.”

“Of course he’s alive,” Aemond says; but you can see on his face that only now does he truly believe it, and that all along he was so adamant only because he knew it was what you needed.

The nobility—Greens and reformed Blacks alike—try not to raise their eyebrows too much when you and Aemond announce that you wed immediately upon your return to London. Yet they accept it, and so do the kingdoms of the Continent, and—after some adept persuading by your father and Alonzo—so does the Pope in Rome. There are far greater sins still fresh in everyone’s memory. And no one can deny that Aemond was built for ruling. He is the best thing for England, for all of Europe. So are you. You are beloved by the people. The name they call you—the Queen from Navarre—lives in the same breath as martyrs and saints.

Daeron is rarely left alone. Even the Duke of Hightower has compassion for him. Aemond takes him hunting and sparring, you walk with him in the gardens where Nico once sat and wept as she read his letters. He does not forget her—not at all, not even a little bit, not ever—but he does learn to remember her with more affection than bitterness. Bitterness does not come naturally to Daeron; he sheds it more swiftly than other men could. Someday he will have to marry, of course, but he is allowed time to mourn. The promise of the child you carry grants him that. And Aemond asks you to sew a new banner for the Greens: two roses, one red and the other emerald, entangled on a field of golden yellow like the flags of Milan and the Holy Roman Empire. Yellow for Nico, yellow for Kunigunde. Yellow for the dawning future they helped pay for in blood.

As retribution for his daughter’s murder, the Holy Roman Emperor demands that Rhaenyra’s three children with Daemon be sent to him as wards…including her only girl. And so Aegon III, Viserys II, and Visenya—still young enough for the memories of their true parents to be essentially obliterated—are shipped off to the Continent, never to raise armies or enlist poisoners, never to marry into the illustrious families of Northern England, chess pieces removed from the board. Luke and Rhaena relocate permanently to Scotland where they will one day inherit the throne; Aemond corresponds with them regularly, seeking to establish a rapport that will spare both kingdoms from further bloodshed. Joffrey is raised by King Corlys and Queen Rhaenys. Rhaenyra is banished to an abbey on the irrelevant, dreary, windswept island of Iona off the west coast of Scotland. As long as she commits no treachery, she is permitted to have visitors there. But she may never leave without forfeiting the lives of her children held as perpetual hostages by the Holy Roman Empire.

In the bleak depths of November, your labor pains begin as you are visiting the royal stables, feeding Midnight and Vhagar and Tessarion knobby carrots from the gardens and handfuls of oats. The midwives and physicians are baffled by Aemond’s insistence upon staying with you during the birth. He is similarly baffled by their assumption that he would rather be off somewhere else: hunting, sparring, writing, politicking, gifts he possesses in equal measure. And mercifully, for all that you have suffered in pursuit of motherhood, this particular trial passes as unremarkably as possible. Your labor begins one afternoon and ends the next with the birth of a small yet healthy, living, white-haired son. The midwives let Aemond catch him, cut the umbilical cord, and place him on your chest, a weight you have waited nearly two and a half years to feel.

“You did it, Ivy,” Aemond whispers, kissing your temple with tears in his eye, as if he had no part in it at all. And the rest of your life suddenly lines up in front of you like stars in a constellation: teaching your children to walk, to read, to ride horses, to fight for themselves and their country if the fragile peace the Greens have brokered ever crumbles.

When Daeron comes to see you, you tell him as he cradles the baby in tentative arms: “We’ve named him after Nico.”

“Nicoloso?” Daeron replies, pleased yet rather amused. It is a ludicrous name for an English monarch.

“Nicholas.”

“Ah. Yes. Grandsire won’t hate that quite so much.”

Daeron studies the infant king, his tiny flailing hands, his drowsy yawns, and when Nicholas grips his thumb Daeron laughs for the first time that you can remember since Nico was alive. And you think as you watch them that maybe time is less like a wheel—something that crushes and repeats—and more like a vine that climbs ever-higher. Maybe chronology is less like a prison than an open door.

Tonight, Aemond is cross-legged on the bearskin rug and holding Nicholas, smoothing his downy silver hair in the amber firelight, telling him the same stories he once told you: King Arthur, Beowulf, Robin Hood, the Rollright Stones, Saint George and the slaying of dragons. On the wall hangs the tapestry that Aemond moved from his rooms to the bedchamber you now share. In the trunk at the foot of your bed are his poems, your sword, the letters that Aegon sends from Navarre. You are reading the most recent one now. It is—peculiarly—written in Spanish.

Wife,

I have endeavored to compose this letter in the language of your homeland. (I’ve begun taking lessons with Alonzo. Am I any good yet?)

No, he’s not; he’s made at least six grammatical errors and has confused the word patria (homeland) with patear (to kick).

I offer you my most heartfelt congratulations upon your safe deliverance of a son. I am sure it has brought you and Aemond immeasurable relief. The court here has celebrated with a feast of traditional English food (a crime! have I crossed the sea only to still be tormented by black pudding and salmon pie?) and plenty of dancing. But don’t grow too proud. They still gossip about your hasty second marriage to a man whose own wife was barely cold in the grave. You should be thankful for Rhaenyra’s brazen mating with her loathsome, deranged uncle. Your supposed transgressions seem mild in comparison. No one mourns me much. I suppose that is the mark of a life not properly lived. I’m hoping to remedy that. I really am.

You wrote that the baby looks a lot like me. That made me smile, although I’m not sure why. I’d like to meet him someday, once you have fully recovered and he is old enough to travel. Summers are beautiful here, as you well know. You and Aemond should visit in June. It will be the anniversary of my death. We can celebrate with rosado and lamb.

I had this thought recently that I can’t seem to shake. It feels too insightful to be mine. Sometimes endings are more like beginnings…don’t you think?

Whatever the color of his hair and eyes, I hope Nicholas is more like you than me.

I’ll be dreaming of you. Both of you.

With great affection,

The King in Navarre (and Sunfyre)

You re-fold the letter and place it in your trunk. Then you look to Aemond and the child he considers his own. “Navarre in June?” you say hopefully.

Aemond smiles, warm like embers. He ruby eye reflects the firelight: crimson comets, red stars. “Navarre in June,” he agrees. “It’s been too long already.” And then he touches his lips to Nicholas’ tiny, flawless forehead before laying him in the cradle.

Once, as golden afternoon light poured into the royal stables, Aemond had asked you what brought you happiness here in England. Everything, you would answer now if he asked you again.

Everything.

#aemond targaryen #aemond one eye #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond x you #aemond x y/n #aemond targaryen x you

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mhahaikyuus · 2 years

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Don’t scare me

tags:; Bakugo x reader, crying reader, hurt Bakugo, established relationship, reader is female, talk of injuries, hurt/comfort (kinda), mentions of death, Bakugo is a good bf

A/N: okay so I totally forgot to post…my bad guys. I read the manga and needed to process bc that ruined my life for a bit ngl. Anyways here’s a draft that I half edited but I hope you enjoy w my boy Bakugo

You got the call you always dreaded. It was apart of the deal when you signed on to love a pro hero. Rushing out in the dead of night to the hospital you were breaking every traffic law and fighting back tears trying to get there as fast as possible.

Running into the hospital, you headed straight for the receptionist.

“Bakugo Katsuki.” You said waiting for the room number.

The receptionist looked at you up and down, “Relation to the patient.”

You felt rage at this woman holding you up from knowing if he was okay. “Wife. What’s the room number.” You frowned.

She looked at your hand for a moment noticing it was the same ring that all the magazines had gushed over about a year ago. The paparazzi had zoomed in on your hand letting the public know that their number two was engaged.

“246”

Running down the hallway you burst into the room to see him.

He was sitting up with a heavily bandaged torso and bandaged hand, with a heavy scowl on his face.

You burst into tears in the doorway, “Oh my god you’re alive.”

His scowl softened at your sad face. “What are you doing here?”

You walked into the room and sat next to him with a sad look on your face, lips wobbly with tears. “I got a call and thought you were dead.” Tears starting to trail down your face with your voice cracking. “I saw you on the TV and that villain. I saw how that asshole hit you so hard. I thought you were okay but you disappeared and then I got the call.”

He leaned over with his good arm and started wiping tears, “I’m fine they shouldn’t have called you.” Using his thumb to wipe your wet cheeks.

“You’re all hurt what do you mean they shouldn’t have called me.” You tearfully ask trying to calm your breathing.

“Come here,” He sighed pulling you into the bed with him.

“I can’t lay on you with you’re hurt.” You resisted his touch staring at his injuries.

“Baby you’re more hurt than me, come here.” He pressed you into his side as you cried slowly trying to calm yourself. Even just a moment ago you were resisting you sunk into his hold as you always did.

Bakugo felt bad whenever he saw your tears, trying to soothe you.

“You can’t leave me Kats,” You whispered holding onto him, fingers digging into the hospital gown on his chest, “I know you’re a pro hero and it’s apart of the job, but I don’t know what I would do without you.”

“I’m not leaving you anytime soon baby.” He reassured you rubbing your back for comfort. Your hand scratching at his nape of blonde hair to calm both of you in the bed.

“Good because if you do I’ll kill you and myself.” You threatened.

“There’s my girl.” He laughed. After a moment of silence he said “You know you’re wearing pajamas and mismatched shoes right?”

Looking down you saw at your outfit. You were wearing one of Bakugo’s large t shirts and shorts, with one flip flop and one slide on each foot.

You rolled your puffy eyes. Of course your husband had to bring up your outfit while you were crying over him. “I was losing my mind okay, I didn’t have time to think about shoes. I thought I was going to coming to identify a body or find you in a coma.”

“Sorry gorgeous I didn’t mean to scare you.” He said into your hairline giving you small kisses to relax you. He could feel your racing heart against him and your shaky breaths.

“All that matters is that you’re okay.” You sighed sinking into his firm hold grateful you got to spend one more day with him.

#mha imagines #my hero academia #mha #mha scenarios #mha x reader #bakugo x you #bakugo x y/n #bakugou katuski x reader #mha bakugo #bakugo imagines #bakugo scenarios #bakugo katsuki #bakugo comfort #bakugo fluff #bnha bakugo katsuki

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jedi-enthusiast · 3 months

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Similar Stories, Different Treatments: Anakin Skywalker and Abijah Fowler

Ok, so recently I've been re-watching 'Blue Eye Samauri' on Netflix and last night it dawned on me that, generally speaking, Abijah Fowler and Anakin Skywalker have very similar stories and actions...and yet their respective fandoms react to the two of them very differently.

So, here's my long ass post analyzing the two of them and why people react to them so differently.

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First, comparing the two characters...

So, assuming that y'all know me for my Star Wars content, you probably know Anakin's story but, for the sake of this post, I'll explain it briefly.

Anakin was born into slavery and lived as a slave for 9 years. Then one day he and his mother met two Jedi and a handmaiden, and his mother asked the Jedi to take Anakin and train him---which they agreed to do, so Anakin had to leave his mother. At 19 he had nightmares about and then witnessed his mother's death when he went back to Tatooine before being promptly drafted into war along with the rest of the Jedi by the Senate. After a harrowing 3 years of war and having his worst behaviors enabled/encouraged by the villain and his wife, Anakin begins to have nightmares about his pregnant wife dying. He then tries to prevent her dying, even though she's in perfect health.

We know a little less about Abijah Fowler's past, but we do know an integral part of it from this monologue:

"My country's history is one of manufactured suffering. I was a boy when the Tudors burned any food the rebels under O'Neill might think to eat. We starved. Everyone starved. Mouths on the dead stained green from chewing nettles---you get resourceful in a famine. My parents died early, left me and my sister catching rats. The rats ran out quick. Fed my sister on my blood, it kept her alive an extra two weeks. I didn't sleep for three days to protect her body from the starving 'til the ground thawed. I cut out her kidneys and buried her, fat cap on them like a pea. I haven't eaten a single meal since my mind didn't go to that bite. It was the last thing I ever did because I had to. I control my life now, every bite."

-----

From my point of view, Anakin and Abijah are very similar in their motivations.

Both of them started out as, assumedly, sweet and kind and caring young boys. You don't harm yourself to feed your sister and then cause more harm to yourself to protect her after she's already dead, if you're not. Similarly, you don't bring three complete strangers into your home because you're worried about them and then risk your life to help them, if you're not.

Both of them then went through great tragedies and likely felt completely powerless because of these tragedies and the circumstances they found themselves in.

For Abijah it was growing up during a famine, witnessing the horrors of famine and what people had to do during it, witnessing the deaths of his parents, being unable to stop the death of his sister, and being forced into cannibalism---of his sister and likely parents, no less---to prevent himself from starving. For Anakin it was growing up as a slave, having to leave his mother at a young age, witnessing his mother's death, and then being thrust into a war and witnessing the horrors of that.

Because of that powerlessness, both Anakin and Abijah hate the idea of them being powerless and their actions are made from a mix of anger at whoever they blame for what has happened---whether they're actually to blame, or whether they've done nothing---and refusal to ever be powerless again, or at least accept that they're powerless.

These motivations led them both to commit- (Anakin) -or attempt to commit- (Abijah) -mass murder, *genocide, **cultural genocide, and murder of their female main character counterpart.

*Abijah wasn't necessarily setting out to commit physical genocide, but he was willing to do so if the people of Japan weren't willing to go along with his plans.

**I do consider Abijah's plans as including cultural genocide, since he has a whole monologue about the people of Japan being "godless" and how he'd force them into Christianity- (Catholicism?) -if he succeeded in killing the Shogunate.

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Now, comparing fandom's reaction to the two...

For Anakin, he succeeds in causing Padme's death, destroying the Republic aka the only democracy in the galaxy, committing cultural and physical genocide against the Jedi, murdering an entire village of Tuskens including the children, and going on to oppress and enslave the rest of the galaxy for decades...

...in contrast, Abijah only succeeds in committing mass murder and fails in all of his other plans---and his success in committing mass murder is partially due to the Shogun's sons and wife locking people inside the burning palace.

But, despite all of this, if you look into how their respective fandoms treat them, you'd assume that it was the opposite.

Anakin is lifted up as this good person who had no agency in any of his actions or, if he did, then the people he murdered "deserved it"---he's loved by most of the fandom and everywhere you look you see think pieces about how Anakin was really a victim, how his actions were justified, how he's not to blame for anything.

Meanwhile Abijah is hated and his actions are labeled by the fandom as bad. He's a terrible person and he's seen as such. I've never seen a single post justifying his actions or trying to say he isn't to blame for his actions.

Now, this is not me saying that the Blue Eye Samauri fandom is wrong to view Abijah this way---on the contrary, I agree that his actions are heinous and he's a terrible person, there's nothing there that I don't agree with.

However, I do think it's interesting how differently both characters are treated when one of them is, unequivocally, worse than the other.

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Why is this?

Now, I'm going to preface this section with the disclaimer that part of it is because Anakin is the main character of his media and Abijah is not---however, I believe that this has a very small effect on how fandom treats them since, as we've seen with other characters, screentime doesn't really matter that much when it comes to whether fandom likes a character or not.

Moving on-

-----

I think a lot of it is just that Anakin is conventionally attractive and Abijah isn't.

Anakin and Abijah are both selfish, misogynistic, racist, have violent responses to most things, and have committed atrocities in the name of personal gain. The only difference between them---besides the obvious differences that come with the medias they're in---is that Anakin is pretty to look at and Abijah isn't.

It'd be even worse if Abijah was a POC or a woman, even if he was conventionally attractive---as proven by other Star Wars characters.

Mace Windu? Fandom hates him and makes him out to be a villain.

Saw Gerrera? Same thing.

Rey Skywalker? People hate her and say she's "unrealistic" or "too OP."

Reva Sevander? People fucking CRUCIFIED her!

None of these people even come near Anakin's level of "I'm a terrible person and I do heinous things because why not!" Mace and Rey never did anything wrong, and Saw and Reva did the things they did because of trauma/revenge and/or working to take down a greater evil---and even then, neither of them do anything near as bad as Anakin!

Yet they're hated and held to a higher standard and crucified in a way that Anakin isn't.

-----

Another reason is that people can project onto Anakin in a way they can't project onto Abijah.

With Anakin, they can twist the Jedi's actions to fit whatever trauma they personally relate to, they can shove characters like Obi-Wan, Ahsoka, Mace, Yoda, etc. into whatever archetype they want to fit their story, they can excuse away every atrocity Anakin commits because he's doing it out of attachment and they think attachment means love, etc.

Meanwhile it's hard for people to project onto Abijah because everything and everyone around him is harder to change to fit his narrative.

There's no one really around him that you can say manipulated, abused, or otherwise forced him into doing the things he did. The other characters don't really interact with him, so people can't say the characters "deserved" what he did to them. And he openly admits that he's doing things out of greed, whereas Anakin says he's doing things out of love when he's really not.

----------

In conclusion, Abijah Fowler and Anakin Skywalker are both people that experienced tragedy and became terrible people that did heinous things because of it---but people only justify one of their actions because they think he's pretty and project onto him.

They're the same person in different medias 🤷‍♀️

#fandom meta #star wars #sw prequels #blue eye samurai #anakin skywalker critical #anti anakin apologists #abijah fowler

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shurislover · 5 months

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daydream

- this is sad y’all don’t jump me.

- btw queen ramonda is still alive in this

“ you’re so pretty ma “ - Riri blushed

“ you’ve told me 6 times today baby.” - you smiled

“ i will tell you another 30 times if i have to.”- Riri added

“ I’m glad I came to MIT if i didn’t i would’ve never met the love of my life, and now 5 years later i’m married and expecting our first baby in a couple months.”- You sighed

“ I am forever grateful we met baby. I’ll never forget meeting for the first time and you couldn’t stop laughing because of how nervous you were to talk to me, till this day you still get nervous around me.”- Riri laughed as she kissed your swollen belly

“ It’s because you’re just so beautiful to look at , and I just love how you care about me. You make me feel so special baby.”-

“ You’ll always be special to me my love “- Riri smiled

“ Mommy ?”- You jumped at the small voice bringing you out your daze

“ Hi baby boy “- You smiled

“ You’re daydreaming again”- Your 8 year old whispered

“ Y/n it’s time.”- Shuri sighed

You brought your eyes up to your wife’s best friend who softly smiled at you and nodded

“ I- I c- can’t do it “- You stuttered

“ Riley and I will be right beside you. I made a promise to Riri that i will not only watch over you but Riley too. Your wife would want you to see how beautiful she looks.”- Shuri nodded

She locked her arm in with yours and your son grabbed your hand and kissed it. All three walked through the doors & all you could stare at was the brown checkered carpet under your feet. The room quiet and still. You felt all eyes on you as you kept walking until your feet connected with something…..

There your wife laid so beautiful in the all white bedding. She had her braids freshly done, your favorite mascara on which made her lashes “ extra long “ as she would say. She had on her favorite graphic t-shirt which stated “ i survived my trip to wakanda “ She just looked so peaceful and beautiful. You softly smiled and rubbed your thumb across her cheek.

In an instant all the memories flooded in causing your emotions to be everywhere

“ baby please wake up.”- You whispered

“ I - I need you to wake up right now, please”- You sobbed as you felt Shuri rubbing your back

your sentences broke up and hot tears streamed down your face. At this point you couldn’t even look at her, you slid down the front of her casket and squeezed your eyelids shut , hoping this was all a dream. You felt your chest starting to tighten and your throat closing making it very hard to breathe

You felt a warm pair of hands wipe the tears on both sides of your cheeks. “ In and out mommy “

You opened your eyes and there sat your beautiful baby boy. In reality you’re supposed to be consoling him but here he was making sure you were okay

“ In”

*breathes in *

“ out “

*breathes out *

You both sat there and did it 4 more times and you felt a bit more at ease.

“ You’re an amazing little boy you know that ?”- You smiled as you kissed his forehead

“ I get it from you and mama. But do you know what Queen Mother said to Shuri ?”- He asked

“ No baby what did she say “- You sniffled

“ She said T'Challa is dead, but that doesn’t mean he’s gone. For us mama may be dead but it doesn’t mean she’s gone, she’s forever with us. Here in our hearts. Queen Mother also said she felt T’challa in the breeze. We will feel mama in the breeze too , no matter what she will be with us.” - Riley smiled

“ He’s around my mother too much but I will admit he’s very smart and Riri would be so proud”- Shuri smiled as she wiped a tear from her eye

Your son is right, no matter what Riri will always be with you both. Watching over you make sure you’re safe and making sure Riley is safe.

She’s in your heart

forever

and

always.

———

read an ellie story similar to this @phantombriide posted it ! credits to them 100% . i decided to do it for my lil baby Riri Williams.

#vees recs #riri imagine #riri x you #riri black panther #riri williams x black reader #riri x reader #riri williams #riri williams x reader

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jordifaedia · 1 month

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oh yeah, pluma operation record analysis time. let's go.

content warnings: spoilers for la pluma's oprec; general lore about pluma, dossoles holiday. this will be divided into two sections, because read the header for this post, also pluma is referred to as 'pluma' instead of 'la pluma' or 'rafaela' throughout this post if you even care.

I. the la pluma analysis

there are multiple things you learn about la pluma in her operation record; she's a daughter of many (not blood related), she dislikes trouble, and she and pancho have a more seemingly closer bond than pancho does with tequila.

the general summary of the operation record is that la pluma is at dossoles, there's a couple people who want to break her dad out of jail, and she has to try and stop that before candela's guards well.. you know, kill them or try to imprison them.

"why can't she just let them go break her father out of jail?" while la pluma is extremely close to her father, and i personally think that even if she loves him deeply and wishes he was probably by her side.. that doesn't mean she wants him to be broken out of prison! listen, you can love your family members as much as you want but when you know they're in trouble for something. you know they have to pay the consequences for it. also, a free dad at the cost of dead true bolivarian soldiers? yeah no, not worth it (in pluma's eyes, in which it's pretty implied that the bolivarian soldiers are close to her. see photos below)

right, so what makes la pluma's operation record different from, i don't know, everything else about her?

in her operation record you learn that this takes place a little after, or shortly after (like hours, maybe) tequila's own oprec. so there's a timeframe for you.

in order to understand tequila, you have to understand one thing. do. not. seperate. the. dossoles. siblings. like, not even in a "they're a duo so cute!" way, no like there's a crap ton of lore about tequila in la pluma's oprec and his family, and there's lore in tequila's file about la pluma. in order to understand one character, you have to go to the other. that's how deeply connected they are. even if you want to like one character solely out of the duo, you're going to have to go to the other persons file and find information about them that you can't find through their sole file/oprec. because yes, that's how much they care about each other.

you learn that the flower that was pinned on pancho's wife's chest was a lilac, which i already talked about it's significance in another post. you also find out small quirks about pluma, like that she can still make some pretty damn good food, and that she's just genuinely kind-hearted despite you know.. being apart of the salas family.. having to kill others. all that jazz.

pluma manages to show kindness towards everyone in the oprec, despite the fact that yes, they're trying to break her papa out of prision. and she doesn't want that to happen obviously, yet it's clear that she still.. cares for everyone that's trying to go through the stupid plan. she doesn't want them to get hurt, she doesn't want them to come home dead. we don't know if tio, or the other soldier have a family back at home (though, i wouldn't be surprised if they do) and for them to give up their lives for said family would be heart wrenching.

pluma, despite being considered 'aloof' by most, is smart. she knows that if they go ahead with this plan, they'll end up just making pancho pay the price even more. candela is keeping a close eye on pluma anyways, since she kept talking to the true bolivarian soldiers, which had already settled as a red flag in her eyes. pluma knows that candela doesn't really trust her after the events of dossoles holiday. you know, where candela basically found out pancho including his children plotted to blow up a fucking city behind her back, and they could of gotten away with it almost. sort of. not really.

i'm not the best at explaining things, so i have to bring up a major point to follow smaller points. so here, i'll go with a big point. it is a massive misconception that pluma is "air-headed" like, only filled of pure air. and that is solely because of poor writing in dossoles holiday, as well as the fact in her voicelines.. it's just unironically doctorbait for those who go goo goo ga ga heart eyes at her. which yeah, i don't mind that. pretty women deserve to be loved, but people don't really understand her character beyond that point. luckily, pluma's oprec helps clear up some of these misconceptions. and provides a bigger view on pluma as a whole instead.

you learn about the things i've already told you, she's the emotional bandage between the rip that was left by mrs. salas's death, she's a daughter, a sister, and a good caretaker at that too. she genuinely cares for those around her, and does not like the idea of resorting to criminal acts (most likely because of dossoles holiday, and the bad association with them.) and oh boy, does she make this clear to the reader.

pluma has a strong connection to her family, after all this entire oprec is mostly centered around her family if you haven't noticed. she wants to be involved in family affairs, she wants to be understood. however, most of the time people undermine her consistently and just assume "she's a little girl", and that "she doesn't know what she's doing" basically, even though.. like i said before, that's not true. she's smart, she knows what she's doing. and there's always a reason why she does the things she does. this is one of her major conflicts as a character, is the fact that everyone wants to continue thinking of pluma as some sweet innocent angel who got dragged into war, when she isn't.

innocent? no. angelic? far from it, she assisted helping tequila and pancho attempt to blow up a city. sweet? yeah, that's pretty true. even so, she was a child soldier. of course she was innocent back then, what do you expect children to be like? but even so, she went into dossoles holiday with a clear mind, knowing what to do. she wanted to help her papa, and her brother, and help the true bolivarians with their victory. there is no "she's the damsel in distress", because she never was in distress in the first place. in her files, she literally says she wanted to be apart of the plan because she kept getting pissed off that she was being left out practically.

in the best words possible, she is a hard shell to break. she doesn't give up, and when she knows what's best for her, she will keep pushing through until she reaches her goal. most people are under the impression that la pluma doesn't have a single clue on what's she's doing, and that she's just some airheaded little sister (which feeds into the mischaracterization of pluma that is already rapid across the fandom.) she's not, hope this helps!

also to note, candela also knows that pluma is not some "sweet behaved" girl that her brother (tequila) seemingly told her, which should say enough by itself.

but even despite the fact she's aware of the consequences of helping her brother, for continuing to affiliate with the true bolivarians past dossoles holiday, and just.. i don't know, existing? she's still a girl.

la pluma's operation record provides answers to unanswered questions, (ex. what flower is pinned on mrs. salas' chest, what is pluma's relationship with her father, what happened after pancho went to jail, etc) but it also still manages to not be purely about pluma's family. because as much as she's associated with them, and they're a pretty big portion of her character.. she's still her own being.

la pluma has emotions. she gets sad, mad, happy, all of the above or some other feeling i didn't list. she's still human despite the fact people see her as a hardworking woman on the battlefield, protecting herself and her brother. or whether people still think she's some aloof cute scythegirl, she's much more under the surface.

when she defeats pancho's soldiers, it is obviously stated in the above image that she was crying. sobbing? no, just a couple tears. it's clear to the reader that pluma had no intentions of wanting to hurt tio, or people she considered close to her. in fact, it seems like that thought entirely probably was a thought she never wanted to conclude to.

she could of let them attempt to save pancho from jail, possibly get injured or even worse die, but she doesn't. she wants to keep them alive, and hope they eventually change their ways (obviously this doesn't happen, as they try to keep going with the plan yet fail miserably due to pluma probably hurting them herself.) pluma knows the only way despite her internal feelings is to either:

as you can tell, she picked option b. while we don't know what exactly caused her to cry, we can assume one thing. it was most likely because she felt bad for hurting them, or just doing a 'bad' act (not the best wording, trust me on this one)

a) try to resolve this through conversation (doesn't work)

b) step in yourself and even if it hurts them, stop them (works)

she doesn't want to be, i suppose, 'the bad guy'. but when push comes to shove, she has to do whats right. even if it contains hurting those around her. however, it's not like that'll have no consequences on herself.

between the dossoles siblings, you can safely say pluma can be considered the more emotional one out of the two. while tequila does in fact have his own emotional moments, he masks it all under this "happy-go-lucky" mask, compared to pluma who doesn't really repress what she's feeling. she is more empathetic, at least.

under tequila's mask is a more hardened, blunt soul compared to pluma, who i'd like to say is like slime. she's solid, unlike water, yet she can still be meshed around. just like her emotions, she can be tough while maintaining her true feelings about situations. sometimes, those feelings will arise.

i wouldn't say pluma hates violence in its entirety because that would be wrong. what she hates is people being a threat to her family, or hurting those close to her.

"but she hurt tio, as well as another soldier." when people you love are doing stupid shit and are too far deep in for conversation, and trying to get them out of said shit peacefully doesn't work, it's okay to be a little mean. it's okay to raise your sword. sometimes, you need to be a little harsh on an individual so they can get it through their head.

as nearing the finality of the oprec, the themes of family grow louder and louder. it becomes clear to the viewer that the assumption people have from a skim in pluma's files begins to become.. something else. she's confident, and knows what she's doing. and you get to see her care for her family even more than she already has during the final scene of her oprec, in which she purchases lilacs for her family, the same flowers that were associated with tequila's mother's death.

III. final thoughts/conclusion (misc thoughts)

a must-read, pluma's oprec is a read you have to read in order to understand both tequila a little more, but especially pluma on. the amount of screentime she got in dossoles holiday was humiliating, and did her so dirty that people can't even seem to understand her correctly. luckily, pluma's oprec attempts to amend those poor writing tatics used in dossoles holiday, and make it much clearer that she has a bigger impact on tequila and his father than expected.

they're not going to rewrite dossoles holiday and release it as a 'rerun of a rerun' as much as i want that medal set, and better characterization of pluma, plus many more factors. so, you have to make do with what you have.

pluma in general, is a lovely character. her design is unique, and isn't too complex that it becomes an eyesore. the color pallete choice is wonderful, pleasing on my eyes, and her personality itself is very adorable. and i really like how family-associated she is. i really do wish more people liked her, and i know most of the time people are quick to brush her under as 'fanservice for the doctor' or 'tequila's little sister', but she's seriously interesting.

so yeah. go read her oprec.

#arknights #arknightsposting #la pluma arknights #arknights la pluma #la pluma

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teaberrii · 8 months

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Chapter 21: The Final Trigger

You've been Cupid for as long as you can remember. You've brought countless soulmates together, yet you've never found love.

When you're assigned to bring two childhood friends back together, it should be simple until you unexpectedly catch feelings for the mysterious and cold Ph.D. student, Dan Heng, the man with a soulmate… the man with answers to your past.

Dan Heng/You

Notes:

Cross-posted on Ao3

Female reader

Chapter index at the end of chapter one

Luocha couldn’t sleep.

He’d been tossing and turning for hours, unable to forget what happened earlier. As promised, he tried using magic to see into the maid’s memories. Why did she suddenly attack Jing Yuan’s wife? What happened before that? However, no matter what Luocha tried, he came up empty. After many hours, he dismissed her, trying to keep the frustration out of his voice. It was discouraging enough that he couldn’t determine what happened to the king. Now, the pattern was repeating itself.

The king was dead, yet alive. That was the best way Luocha could explain the king’s current state. His father was no longer himself; he was a shell of the person he used to be.

Jing Yuan was also getting increasingly impatient. His wife was getting worse. Not only was she strangely losing a lot of weight, but the added stress was causing her hair to fall out. Luocha hadn’t seen her in weeks. Not because he didn’t want to, but because she had begun locking herself in her shared room with Jing Yuan. She refused to see anyone, believing she’d become a “monster.”

Luocha sat up. Perhaps a quiet, early morning walk would calm his nerves.

The doctor was welcomed by a cool breeze when he stepped out of his room. As he headed toward the garden, he looked up at the moon… and he suddenly thought of you.

Where were you now? Were you eating well? Did you find a new life? Then, Luocha began thinking about the past. Would things have turned out differently if he had told you why Young had to die? Would you have understood?

“...You tricked her?” Luocha had asked.

“It was the only way,” Jing Yuan said. “My mother believes the princess is dead. She’ll leave her alone.”

“Regardless, what you did was… it was beyond what was necessary. You didn’t kill Young. You… slaughtered him.”

Jing Yuan’s gaze hardened. “What’s your point?”

“I didn’t think you hated him this much.” Luocha leaned against the wall. “You really were in love with my sister… and you couldn’t bear that she was in love with your half-brother, the man who also grew up with your mother’s love.”

Luocha’s eyes widened when he felt a sudden gust of air near his cheek. He slowly looked to the side and saw a knife that narrowly missed his face.

“Are we done here?” Jing Yuan asked.

Luocha pushed himself off the wall and left the room.

That was all in the past. It was too late.

When Luocha reached the garden, he saw Jing Yuan’s handmaiden sitting on the small wooden bench beside the pond. Luocha stared from afar, not knowing the woman he was looking at was you.

He approached you, and by the time he was close enough, you asked, “Are the demons keeping you awake?” It was a question that took Luocha off guard. But, before he answered, he glanced at the empty seat beside you. As if reading his mind, you said, “Go ahead.”

“I could ask you the same thing,” Luocha said, sitting next to you. “Why are you awake at this hour?"

"To get a little peace and quiet. The king... Jing Yuan's wife... They are on the lips of everyone at the palace. It's almost impossible not to hear about them."

Luocha glanced at the koi swimming up to him. "You're a little different from everyone else.”

“Excuse me?”

“I mean that in a good way. You seem much more educated than the other maids.”

“I didn’t know you were paying so much attention to me.”

“It was Jing Yuan who noticed it first.”

Luocha saw your gaze harden as you said, “Oh? Is that so?”

“...Who were you before you came to the palace?”

You slightly smiled. “Me? Just a woman… living a simple life in the village.”

“No family?”

“No.”

“...Have you… ever heard anything about the princess?”

A slight pause.

“No."

“I see…” Luocha sadly smiled. “I… I miss her. My sister.”

Another pause.

“Have you tried looking for her?”

“Even if I did, things wouldn’t be the same. She wouldn’t want to see me.” When you remained silent, Luocha cleared his throat. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make things awkward.”

“I’m sure she’s well,” you said, without looking at him. “Women nowadays are learning to stand up for themselves… and becoming independent.”

“Yes, that’s true. Though, I would say my sister paved the way. I still occasionally hear the maids talking about her. Some always witnessed her studying and doing things outside of what women were allowed to do. She inspired them.”

No response.

So, Luocha said, “Well, I must be off.”

“Are you going to see the king?”

“...Yes. How did you know?”

You looked at him. "Call it a hunch. Your face looks like you're carrying the world on your shoulders." You stood. “Good luck… Master Luocha. I hope you find out what’s wrong before it’s too late.”

Luocha watched you walk away, your words echoing in his mind. Soon, he, too, was on his way, walking in the opposite direction. He was almost to the king’s quarters when someone came running around the corner and knocked into him. Luocha caught himself, but the guard did not and struggled to get up. Then, Luocha saw a wound on the guard's arm. It looked like a bite mark.

The guard quickly stood. “M-Master Luocha! What are you doing here?”

“Your arm…” Luocha stepped toward him, but the guard pulled down his sleeve in an attempt to hide it.

“Are you going to see the king?” But before Luocha could reply, the guard said, “He’s… He’s in a rather bad mood right now.”

“Did he attack you?”

“Um, well, that’s…”

Another guard appeared from behind the corner. He was panting as he said, “Master Luocha! P-Please come immediately!”

When Luocha arrived at his father’s room, the door was open.

“He… He’s in his room,” the guard behind Luocha said as the doctor cautiously entered his father’s messy quarters.

Everything was in disarray. Bloody fingerprints were on the floor, walls, and the furniture. The closer Luocha got to his father’s room, he heard mumbling and flesh being torn apart.

“...I’ll teach them a lesson.”

Luocha carefully looked through the crack in the door, and his face went pale when he saw his father tearing a piece of flesh from a guard’s unconscious body.

“This will teach them,” his father muttered. “This will teach them… not to mess with the king.”

“M-Master Luocha—”

Luocha didn’t have time to shush the guard when he saw his father turn around and lunge at them.

It’s morning, but Luocha hasn’t been able to enjoy his daily coffee like he always does. He can’t stop thinking about how monstrous his father looked. His messy and frizzy hair, foggy eyes, and bloodstained face. Luocha believes that was the moment the king was truly gone.

Then, Luocha remembers the woman by the pond. He might’ve not realized it the first time, but the woman must've been you. Were you waiting for things to spiral out of control? Did he ever find out who you were? The more he sees, the hungrier he gets. He wants all of the answers, but it’s as if the curse is forcing him to wait.

“You look well.”

Startled, Luocha turns around and sees Lan sitting on his couch.

“Are you switching targets?” Luocha asks. “Haunting me instead of Jing Yuan?”

“If I had a choice, I wouldn’t choose either of you.” Lan turns to the doctor. “Cupid, Dan Heng, and Pom are with Jing Yuan.”

Luocha thinks back to his conversation with Jing Yuan earlier. What’s he planning? “More the merrier to try to rekindle an old friendship, I suppose.”

“Nanook and I have been looking into The Withering. The curse now is supposed to drive the infected crazy as you slowly get your memories back. But, there’s a final trigger.”

“...A final trigger… Like what?”

Lan snaps his fingers, and the report that Nanook put together appears in his hand. “Nanook put this together that explains a lot about the curse. We all know that The Withering ended up being a grudge meant to infect the same people over and over again.” Lan puts the report on the table. “If the curse is meant to drive all of you crazy now… we think there has to be a final trigger.

“It could be an action. Maybe one of you killed someone you weren’t supposed to. Another could be the feeling that you lost something you value. Everyone is different and cares about different things.” Lan notices how Luocha is anxiously tapping his fingers against the counter. “When you remember that feeling or whatever you did… the consequences could be horrific.”

“In other words… the curse latched on to what we cared about and either took it away from us or… we took it away ourselves because we were infected.” Luocha almost laughs. “My dear sister was quite sadistic, wasn’t she?”

“If we can find out what that was before you remember it, it could help ease the stress and the pain. We’re trying to keep you sane by finding things out before they happen.”

Luocha sighs. “...Well, I haven’t the slightest idea of what I could’ve done. What about Caelus?”

Lan shakes his head.

Luocha suddenly remembers the strange things he heard his father say in his dream.

“This will teach them. This will teach them… not to mess with the king.”

“...I can’t believe I didn’t notice it sooner.”

“Notice what?” Lan asks.

“My father. I”—Luocha stiffens—”My father was the king. But because of the disease, we confined him. His freedom was stripped away from him. The Withering turned them into zombies. Perhaps that was the sign that they finally lost their minds.”

“If it’s any reassurance, you won’t turn into something like that in the present.”

“But the curse evolves.”

“...Do you know something.”

“I told Cupid I withheld a lot of information," Luocha says. "The deaths… that’s something I didn’t tell anyone about. Both my father and Jing Yuan’s fianceé… they tried taking their lives before they died.”

◆◆◆

You were sitting by the pond, mulling over your thoughts as you waited until it was time for you to meet Pom. Earlier, you were carrying a tray of food to Jing Yuan’s room as ordered. You were about to knock when you heard something smash against the floor.

“I can’t! I can’t take this anymore!”

You peeked through the small crack and saw Jing Yuan’s wife attempting to gouge her eyes out before Jing Yuan stopped her.

“You’re still the same!” he insisted.

“How?” Her voice almost sounded distorted. “I look like a monster. I can't think straight. I... I'm losing everything!" She glared at him. " Your attempts at making me feel better are pathetic, Jing Yuan.”

“We’ll… We’ll find out who did this.”

The desperation in his voice made you smile until…

“I saw a woman,” his wife said, almost trembling. “...In a dream. Yesterday night. I don’t know who she is, but… I can’t shake the feeling she has something to do with all of this.”

“A woman…?”

Your smile slowly began to fade when the woman his wife began describing was... you. How was this possible? You’d never met her with your real appearance. This had to be an eerie coincidence. But then it hit you. Was this a side effect of the curse?

“...Side effects?” you had asked.

Pom nodded. “Curses as strong as this come with a side effect. I wish I could tell you what… but I’ve never created something this strong before. Are you sure you want to do this?”

“Will we be in danger?”

“I don’t think so… but it’s hard to say.”

“...The woman you just described was the princess," Jing Yuan said, dragging you back to the present.

“The one you exiled?” Jing Yuan’s wife crossed her arms over her chest, and her robe nearly fell off. “The woman you loved?”

Jing Yuan frowned. “Was that necessary?”

His wife walked past him. “Why do you always tense up when I mention her, hm?” She stopped and turned around. “What if she’s here? Would you kill her for what she did?”

“You’ve lost your mind,” Jing Yuan spat.

His wife scoffed loudly. “I can’t believe it. You… You’re still in love with her?”

“I am not.”

“Then, you wouldn’t kill her for what she’s done to me? To the king?” She walked up to him. “Who am I to you?” Then, desperately, “...Tell me I’m enough, Jing Yuan. Tell me that you love me.”

You knocked on the door.

When Jing Yuan slid it open, his wife went into hiding.

“...Put it on the table,” he said, not looking at you.

You stepped inside and put it where he’d asked. It wasn’t until you stood upright that you suddenly saw his wife a few feet away. She was glaring at you. Startled, you took a step back, but she lunged at you and forced you to the floor.

“It’s you…!”

You easily dodged her attempts at clawing at your face before Jing Yuan easily pulled her away from you. You quickly got to your feet.

“Stop! What’s gotten—”

“Can’t you see her?” she screamed.

Jing Yuan looked over his shoulder at you. Then, he looked back. “See what?”

“You’ve gone mad,” you said. Then, you bowed once. “I’ll be taking my leave.” You quickly walked out before anyone could say anything else.

The last person you were expecting to see was your brother. After that conversation, you were walking toward the maids’ living quarters until you quietly snapped your fingers when you turned the corner. One minute you were there. The next, you were gone. Or… so one thought.

You eventually head toward a small, old gate, leading to the palace's outskirts and the forest entrance. This had been the exit you frequently took as a kid to sneak out. As you got older, it had also been your exit to meet Young. But, now it was sealed off.

You put a hand on the gate when you saw a black and white cat with bright blue eyes walking along the top of the wall. The feline lay down and used his paw to clean his face. Then, he looked at you as if waiting in anticipation.

You muttered something under your breath. You blinked once, and you were on the other side looking at Pom who was leaning against a large tree trunk.

“...You’ll never believe what just happened,” you said.

Jing Yuan is lying on the couch when Pom leans over and squints, examining the hole in Jing Yuan’s chest.

“You really got him good, Cupid.”

Jing Yuan frowns. “That’s it? That’s all you have to say?”

“It's a miracle that you lived!”

Jing Yuan rolls his eyes. “Don’t tell me you came all this way just to tell me I’m one lucky bastard.” Then, he sighs. “Or, is this about Lan telling you I wanted to apologize?”

“I’m here to give two options,” you say to Jing Yuan, sitting next to Dan Heng. “You can wait and let the wound heal on its own. The process won’t be as painful. Or”—you frown—“you can cry while I stitch you back together.”

Jing Yuan narrows his eyes. “Why? You tried to murder me the last two times… I doubt you’d forgive me this quickly. There’s a catch.”

“You can thank Dan Heng then,” Pom says.

Before coming to Jing Yuan's place, you and Pom had come to Dan Heng’s apartment for breakfast. Pom and Gepard had gone out to get some groceries while you and Dan Heng had just finished setting the table. Dan Heng took your hand, and soon, your back was against the counter. His hands went to your shoulders.

“...You want me to what?” you asked. “I… I don’t want to.”

“I don’t blame you,” Dan Heng said. “But… let’s try talking to him. Lan did say he wanted to apologize, didn’t he?”

“Yeah, well, I doubt how genuine that would be,” you muttered.

Dan Heng kisses your forehead. “At least we can say we gave it a shot. If we didn’t, we would be part of the problem.”

You sighed. “...Yeah, you’re right.”

Dan Heng hugged you while you leaned into him and eventually put your arms around him. Your head was against his chest when you heard him say, “I wouldn’t do anything to hurt you.”

Then, you looked up as one of his hands went around your head. He leaned forward, and his soft lips touched yours—

“Spare me the details,” Jing Yuan says sarcastically.

When Pom catches you and Dan Heng giving him a deadpan look, he says, “I swear we didn’t see anything else!”

“Anyway,” Jing Yuan says, looking at Dan Heng. “I’m glad someone has a voice of reason.” Then, Jing Yuan turns to you. “Will this be quick, Sweetheart?”

“That depends,” you deadpan. “If you continue with those ridiculous nicknames, I'll make every stitch burn.”

“Did someone say burn? Who or what are we burnin’, huh?”

Jing Yuan rolls his eyes. “I should’ve known I was getting one more babysitter.”

The God of Destruction is leaning against the archway leading into the living room. “Well, General, unfortunately, I’m not here to be anyone’s playmate.” As Nanook walks in, he says, “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but you need to speed up on the whole getting-my-memories-back-and-lets-all-be-friends thing.”

“Did something happen?” Dan Heng asks.

After Nanook tells you about the final trigger theory, he says, “...Caelus is close.”

“What else did he remember?” Pom asks.

“...Nothing that can lead us to determine what he might’ve done. But... he remembers Stelle. There were a lot of fights between them,” Nanook continues. Then, he looks at Jing Yuan. “Apparently, they were because of you.”

Jing Yuan groans as Pom asks, “Why is it when trouble happens, it’s always you?”

“I wish I could tell you,” Jing Yuan mutters. “Truly, I do.”

“Caelus helped Jing Yuan kill Young,” Dan Heng says, and everyone looks at him. “But before that… Young met Stelle. At least, he saved her.”

“Oh… Now here’s an interesting development,” Nanook says with a smile. “Don’t tell me we have a love triangle happenin’ here.”

“We have enough drama to deal with,” Pom says.

Nanook scoffs. “You make it sound like you’re the one dealing with it, Rabbit.”

“Have you talked to Stelle?” Dan Heng asks.

“That’s my next stop,” Nanook says. “But… I’d rather have a… normal introduction than popping in and scaring her half to death."

“...Doing that is more complicated than you think,” you say quietly.

Dan Heng agrees. “Yes… We’ll have to tell her everything that’s going on.”

“We don’t even know if Stelle is Caelus’s”—Jing Yuan makes air quotation with his hands—”’final trigger’. It might not even be worth getting her involved in this.”

“Wow,” Pom says. “Someone has a heart.”

Jing Yuan gives him a deadpan look. “Guess almost losin’ it made me want to use it a little more.”

“Anyway,” Nanook says, “Lan and I will continue keeping an eye on Caelus.”

“I’ll go see him tomorrow,” Dan Heng says. “...Perhaps Stelle tried convincing him not to kill Young.”

Pom crosses one leg over the other. “Y’know… I just had the wildest thought.”

“Well, don’t keep it all to yourself,” Jing Yuan says. “Enlighten us.”

“What if… What if Stelle fell in love with Young?”

“From meeting him once?” Nanook asks. “Girl falls in love too fast.”

“It’s just speculation,” you say. “Let’s focus on the facts.”

“Aw, don’t tell me someone’s jealous.”

You glare at him. “I’m not.”

Jing Yuan also smiles. “Why so defensive, Sweetheart?”

“Stop with the nicknames.”

Nanook and Jing Yuan start laughing as Pom looks from you to Dan Heng. “Should I even be surprised at their synchronicity anymore?”

“Well, if she ain’t jealous”—Nanook smiles—”she wouldn’t be frowning so much.”

You almost throw a pillow at him just as Dan Heng puts his hand on yours.

◆◆◆

“Quarantine her?” Jing Yuan asked, baffled.

Luocha had come to see him late in the night. But before Jing Yuan could ask about the bloodstains on his shirt, the doctor had asked about his wife.

“I just came from my father’s room,” Luocha said, panting slightly. “He’s officially lost his mind.”

“Where is he now?”

“...In the dungeon.”

Jing Yuan couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “The… dungeon?”

“He was eating someone, Jing Yuan.” Luocha barged in. “Where’s your wife?”

“...She went out.”

Luocha quickly turned around. “You let her out?”

“She looked miserable and hadn’t gone out in days! Of course, I’m going to let—”

A scream pierced through the air. Luocha and Jing Yuan wasted no time rushing toward where it came from. Just behind a pavilion, they saw Jing Yuan's wife hunched over a maid. Another one was backing away, unable to tear her eyes away from the horrific scene. Luocha grabbed the maid's wrist, and she gasped.

“M-Master Luocha!”

Luocha put a finger to his lips as he gently pushed her behind him. Jing Yuan was cautiously approaching his wife. He was trembling as he saw the maid was already dead. Her hair had been torn out, and the skin on her face was almost ripped off. Before his wife could claw at her eyes, Jing Yuan said her name.

His wife turned, and Jing Yuan saw her cloudy eyes were starting to return to normal. “I…” she began to say as she slowly looked at her hands stained with blood.

“She attacked her,” the maid behind Luocha said quietly. He looked over his shoulder as the maid tore her gaze away from her dead friend. “...She was criticizing her.”

Jing Yuan’s wife fell to her knees, but Luocha grabbed Jing Yuan’s arm before he could get closer.

You were watching the entire scene unfold from behind a nearby pavilion. Pom, as a cat, had been watching while sitting on top of a wall. You had seen Jing Yuan’s wife lunge at the maid who was gossiping about her to the other maid. From her looks to her intelligence… clearly, the maid was not fond of her. Words could kill, but they could also be a person's ultimate demise.

“...Tell me about your fianceé.”

Jing Yuan glanced at you who had your hand over his wound that was slowly and painfully stitching itself back together. Still, he’s handling the pain well. But, you see how tightly he’s holding that pillow.

“Why do you want to know about her?” he asks.

“Or, we could sit in silence as I watch you struggle with the pain.”

“Whose fault is that?”

You curve your fingers, and Jing Yuan suddenly screams in pain.

“What’s going on?”

Jing Yuan glares at you before looking at Dan Heng and Pom who’d come out of the kitchen. “Tell your girlfriend to be more gentle, would you?”

“He’s exaggerating,” you deadpan.

Pom slowly goes back to the kitchen, but when he sees Dan Heng still looking at you and Jing Yuan, Pom comes up behind him. “Something wrong?”

There’s a small silence before Dan Heng says, “...It’s nothing.” Then, he walks back into Jing Yuan’s kitchen with Pom trailing behind.

“So, you want to know about my fianceé?” Jing Yuan asks. “It’s not every day a murderer is interested in learning about their victims.” He catches your glare and sighs. “Okay, bad joke.”

“...I remember why I cursed her in the past.”

Jing Yuan looks at you but you’re focused on his wound.

“Why?” he asks.

“She was an intelligent woman. She knew about magic… more than the average person.”

“So, you killed her to stop her.” You glance at him. When you say nothing, Jing Yuan says, “My fianceé was working in academia. You’re right. She was an intelligent woman.” He smirks. “She would’ve caught you.”

“How did you meet?”

“Connections.” You raise a brow. “Love at first sight. The minute I saw her, I knew I wanted to marry her.”

"How romantic."

“I don’t waste time.”

A short silence passes as you focus on healing the wound.

“...Hey.” You look up just as Jing Yuan asks, “What are you going to do after you get your memories back? Are you… going to stay here?”

“...Where am I supposed to go?”

“What if you were given a choice?” Jing Yuan glances at the kitchen. “...To stay here with Dan Heng or… be with Young.” Before you can say anything, Jing Yuan continues, “Don’t tell me you think Young is really gone.” He looks at the pendant. “I bet he’s still somehow around.”

“...I’d rather focus on what we need to get done first.”

“Right… you still need to forgive me for all my past shit. Well, aren’t we bonding right now?”

“Sounds like you’re forcing me to give you an answer,” you say, not looking at him. “Normal people… smart people will pick up on my hints.”

“You broke my heart once because you never truly loved me.” You slowly look at him as he sighs. “What I did was unforgivable. But now... you're free to decide what's more important to you. The past or the future."

You turn back to Jing Yuan’s wound and say, “...It’s done.”

It’s then Dan Heng appears from the kitchen with some food he and Pom had prepared. But, unbeknownst to you, Dan Heng had heard the entire conversation.

Chapter 22

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#honkai dan heng #dan heng x reader #dan heng x you #dan heng #dan heng honkai star rail #honkai star rail dan heng #danheng x you #danheng x reader #danheng

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girlfriendsofthegalaxy · 21 days

Text

tuesday again 4/9/2023

the best photo i took this week

listening

i have not been keeping up with either the tuesdaypost spreadsheet or the tuesdaypost playlists so there's a strong possibility i have already talked about Joywave's It's A Trip! off the 2017 album Content. spotify

youtube

driving ten hours in one day is ideal for listening to albums and i listened to almost every joywave album on my way home from the eclipse. american indie rock band from rochester ny, i have loved them since early college. i think they were made in a lab to get to stuck in my head bc they tend toward lower register synthier tracks that deceptively amble cheerfully along and talk about dealing with fear. songs for a male protagonist to splash water on his face, look at himself in the mirror haunted by what he's seeing, linger in his children's bedroom doorways, and then drive off into the night for the finale.

i think i listened to this song for an hour on loop yesterday bc the chorus so perfectly got stuck in my brain

When you've gotten what you want (Maybe I should start over) There's nothing left to want (Up and at 'em again) You don't know what you want (Yeah, I'm thinking it over) Just tell me what to Want

they have spent a lot of time figuring out how to have longevity as a band: "The record kind of attempts to figure that out but it doesn’t end in a definitive place. For me personally, it’s just to create things that matter as long as I possibly can, and to make things that are going to outlive me that people can hang onto for at least five to six years after I’m dead." they are deeply cranky about virality/content churn, especially in this interview. i appreciate this in an artist.

could not tell you how i first found them. i think i would have to go back to the proto-tuesdayposts of 2018.

reading

when you're not sleeping well you can average a book a night!

Uprooted by Naomi Novik destroyed me. (image from here)

“Our Dragon doesn’t eat the girls he takes, no matter what stories they tell outside our valley. We hear them sometimes, from travelers passing through. They talk as though we were doing human sacrifice, and he were a real dragon. Of course that’s not true: he may be a wizard and immortal, but he’s still a man, and our fathers would band together and kill him if he wanted to eat one of us every ten years. He protects us against the Wood, and we’re grateful, but not that grateful.”

my best friend real-life influenced me into reading this book and i have since managed to convince four other people to read this book bc i won't shut up about it. the descriptions of the physicality of magic and how different kinds of magic and different families of spells Feel was only part of the coolest magical system ive ever read about. this is not a dark romance but it is a little brutal in a brothers grimm/this is how battles shake out sometime kind of way. i think a companion piece of media written from the Dragon's point of view would nicely parallel that post going around about how Howl's Moving Castle the movie is from Howl's point of view and Howl's Moving Castle the book is from Sophie's point of view. i would die for Agnieszka.

Spinning Silver by Naomi Novik (image from here)

Miryem is the daughter and granddaughter of moneylenders… but her father isn’t a very good one. Free to lend and reluctant to collect, he has loaned out most of his wife’s dowry and left the family on the edge of poverty–until Miryem steps in. Hardening her heart against her fellow villagers’ pleas, she sets out to collect what is owed–and finds herself more than up to the task. When her grandfather loans her a pouch of silver pennies, she brings it back full of gold. But having the reputation of being able to change silver to gold can be more trouble than it’s worth–especially when her fate becomes tangled with the cold creatures that haunt the wood, and whose king has learned of her reputation and wants to exploit it for reasons Miryem cannot understand.

i don't know if i've ever read a book with seven points of view before? i think it was well handled, but it required significantly more brainpower than screaming through three of kingfisher's light fantasy/romances in two days and it threw me a little. saying this book is about debts cheapens it a little, i think. it is concerned with debts but also safety, and it is very much about cost in a very fairytale way and in the horrible everyday calculus of survival way.

Swordheart, Paladin's Hope, and Paladin's Strength by T. Kingfisher. god these go down So smooth. kingfisher has a niche and i respect that. i am reading the Saint of Steel tetralogy out of order bc even four library systems can only do so much, and i don't think you particularly need to read them in order.

i'm a bit cranky that the terfs took feminist fantasy from me, bc when the protagonist got her period in Paladin's Strength a little alarm bell went off in my head and i had to put it down and google some stuff (the answer is no btw). there is a way to write female-focused lightly historical fantasy without being terfy and kingfisher does it, but it's so rare that i was genuinely expecting some sort of. weird agenda to be at play.

these were all fun, fast reads and i don't have much else to say about them! not that they are better or worse than novik's books but they will not live in my head quite as long. there are fewer tantalizing hints about systems of magic that make me want to graph things out u kno

watching

kanopy has Animation April as their focus this month which is how i saw The King and the Mockingbird (1980, dir. Paul Grimault) which is a longer piece adapted from something he'd been working on since the 40s.

youtube

This animated fantasy tale follows the romance between a lovely shepherdess and a handsome chimney sweep. The land's imperious king falls for the beautiful woman and tries to thwart her relationship, but a kind mockingbird assists the lovers in evading the ruler. At the king's command, the chimney sweep and his bird friend are imprisoned, and they must escape in order to rescue the young man's true love.

GOD the animation in this. there are so many references to early animation and silent film. there are so so so many gadgets and methods of conveyance in an absolutely architecturally dizzying castle. there is a ROYAL MECH that plays its own theme music. the backgrounds have a very Chuck Jones quality in that they are exactly as detailed as they need to be for the gag to work. the castle is lush and beautiful but not dizzyingly, overwhelmingly lush. there is a clear vision to every shot and a clear path your eye is meant to travel, which i appreciate very much. i think a lot of technically impressive animation (i am specifically thinking of the Nimh movies) muddies itself by trying to jam too much on the screen. just a fucking delight of a film. a delicious confection

playing

nothing specific to say about genshin this week ur welcome

making

painted a frame (it was a dead basic michaels frame i got at a yard sale and it was giving little boy's room) and framed a thing. this is a poster that came as a freebie with a 1997 album, and i actually bought this CD case without the CD inside bc i was so delighted with the poster. scuff sanded the frame with 120 grit, i went with a matte black acrylic bc i felt that disguised how the poster did not quite fit the frame a little better? and also bc it was what i had in the house.

i did not bother with a mat, i just used the lining paper with the stock photo and painted the back of that. do not do this with particularly valuable or beloved pieces. i do not think this is necessarily acid free and there is some danger that the paint may transfer to the back of the poster over time.

#tuesday again #tuesday again no problem #Youtube

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