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joelsgreys · 11 months

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to hell and back l one

Post Outbreak! Joel Miller x Female Reader

series masterlist l main masterlist l next chapter

summary: After escaping a group of brutal slavers, you are left with permanent physical and emotional scars. Unwilling to put your trust in another human being ever again, you spend a year fighting for survival alone in the post outbreak world. But when you choose to save the life of a man named Joel Miller, the wall that you’ve built to protect yourself slowly begins to crumble.

warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY MINORS DNI. canon violence, canon language, brief mentions of slavers, brutality, torture, assault, guns, reader is an archer, mentions of hunting, animal death, injured/unconscious Joel, very minor mentions of blood, age gap (reader is 30, Joel is 56) very brief mention of scars, reader does not/cannot speak at times, a lot of internal dialogue from reader, at one point reader does try to speak to Joel but she is unable. *please be advised that no specific diagnosis is used or will be mentioned, i’m writing the series with the idea that reader herself cannot fully comprehend her inability to speak at times. basically the gist of it is we have a very traumatized person who does not realize just how traumatized she is.

word count: 8.2k (good lord I am so sorry)

a/n: not a whole lot to say except for that this is...different. at least i think it is, i could be wrong lmao. this is by far one of the most challenging things i have ever decided to write, but hopefully it turned out okay

California l Fall, 2023

You’d been on the run since dawn.

It was several hours later now and nightfall was approaching—and it was approaching a hell of a lot fucking faster than you could have even anticipated. The darkness was quickly closing in, falling around you like a velvet black curtain. However, stumbling around blindly in the dark was currently the very least of your worries.

Your feet were raw, both completely blistered and bleeding through your socks inside of your worn out, muddied white canvas sneakers. Your sore, aching legs screamed out for mercy and your knees trembled violently, threatening to buckle out from underneath the weight of your body at any given moment.

In the week and a half leading up to your escape from captivity, you’d been deprived of both food and water—it had been your punishment for closing your eyes and turning your head away after you’d been instructed by the slavers to watch their brutal assault of the young teenaged girl that you had been sharing a cage with. She’d been unable to keep up with her work duties, and they had decided to make an example out of her.

Despite still having been forced to witness the horrendous, unspeakable things they’d done to that poor girl, your initial resistance resulted in you being beaten and then starved for several days. Occasionally, one of the late night guards would try and bribe you, offering a small piece of jerky or a couple of stale crackers in exchange for a blowjob. At first, you told him you’d rather cut your own tongue out with a rusty blade than suck his dick, but when he proposed the disgusting, vile trade again just a couple of nights later, you’d accepted it—because him pulling you out of that fucking cage after hours and removing the tight shackles from your wrists when no one else was around would give you the chance to finally make a run for it.

You swung yourself around the nearest redwood tree, slumping back against its thick, wide trunk. You covered your mouth with your two hands in an attempt to silence the sound of your heavy panting.

Besides being in pain, malnourished and severely dehydrated, the exhaustion was starting to set in too. The adrenaline pumping through your veins had brought you this far, but exactly how much farther could it take you? How much longer could it possibly keep you going before your tired body decided to give up and give out?

Somewhere behind you, you could hear the men calling out cheerfully.

One sang out, “Come out, come out, wherever you are!”

“Come out and plaaaaay,” a second taunted.

The third shouted, “We’re gonna get you!”

Their giddiness made you want to vomit. If your stomach hadn’t been empty, you would have.

Those sick, twisted fucks weren’t letting up.

They’d been on your heels for hours.

The large group of slavers in California were over two hundred strong and had dozens of prisoners chained up in their human cages—they had more than enough people to force into labor. There was no need for them to waste their time and efforts going after you, but after spending the last eight months witnessing firsthand how these sadistic bastards operated, it occurred to you that their desire to recapture you wasn’t out of a need for labor. It was for their entertainment.

They were hunting you down for sport.

This was their idea of fun.

“Fuck,” you whispered underneath your breath, your hands falling down to your sides.

Something had to give.

Your legs, your body, your will to live.

Perhaps all of the above.

You couldn’t keep on running for much longer.

And even if you could, where the hell were you supposed to go? How were you supposed to get there?

You had no food, no water, and no weapon.

Just the torn, tattered clothes on your back.

You were defenseless against whatever else was out there and you couldn’t see yourself surviving longer than a couple of days at most.

There was a part of you that wanted to give up and surrender. If you could be absolutely certain that they would shoot you dead on the spot, you would actually consider it and step out from behind the tree—hell, you would happily let them put a bullet between your eyes and put you out of your misery once and for all. But they wouldn’t be so generous. You knew they would have their way with you here in the middle of this forest and only after they were done would they take you back to their settlement where they’d put you right back in shackles so the real torture could begin. Just like that teenaged girl, the slavers would make an example out of you so that nobody else in their right mind would even think about running away.

They would be sure to make your death as slow and as agonizing as possible.

No. If you were going to die, then you were going to die. But fucking not like that.

Hearing them draw closer towards where you’d been hiding, you pushed yourself away from the redwood and willed yourself to keep on going.

Wyoming l Fall 2024

Your eyes softly flutter open.

Bright, early morning sunlight filters in through the ripped, white lace curtains that hang over the small, square shaped window right above your head.

Blinking the sleep away, you prop yourself up slightly on your elbows and take a glance around at your surroundings. The old, abandoned cabin that you’d stumbled across just a couple of days ago is tiny, cramped, and crumbling. It also reeks—it smells damp, musty, and earthy, like rotting wood. But beggars can’t be choosers and you are certainly in no position to be a chooser right now. It’s not what you consider to be ideal, but it’s four walls and a roof, which is more than anyone can ask for. It’s sparsely furnished with a table and two chairs, an old wood burning stove you had been too afraid to light because you didn’t want to risk setting the place on fire, and there’s even a small, twin sized bed for you to sleep on. Well, perhaps calling it a bed was a tad bit too generous. It’s really just a mattress sitting on four large concrete blocks. It’s rough, dirty, and torn with rusted springs and bits of fluff sticking out from every corner. Still, it sure as fuck beat the hell out of sleeping outside in the dirt and using a rock as a pillow.

Besides the luxury of having something close to a proper roof to sleep under, there’s also a lake just two and a half miles north of the cabin where you had been able to fill your canteen with fresh water. Not to mention, you’d also been able to bathe and wash your clothes for the first time in a couple of weeks. You had been on your own for about a year now, and this was the luckiest you’ve gotten in terms of finding a decent place to stay.

Whether or not it’s safe, it was still too early to tell.

Sure, you were out somewhere in the middle of bumfuck nowhere and hadn’t seen a single soul, living or dead, in a couple of months now. But that still didn’t mean that running into the infected or other people wasn’t a possibility. Letting your guard down was risky. Too risky.

You swing your legs over the side of the mattress and sit up, slipping on your pair of warm, wool socks before tugging on your boots—you’d found them over the summer and even though they had been about one size too small for you, you’d managed to break them in since then and the supple brown leather now molds almost perfectly to your feet. You stand up and lift your arms up above your head while simultaneously twisting your stiff, sore back in a painful, but much needed stretch. You’re only just a couple of months shy of turning thirty years old, but lately, your bones snap, crackle and pop with each and every movement, making you feel twice your actual age.

The thought of it makes you snort in amusement. You should be so lucky to stay alive long enough to see the age of sixty. Hell, you’re still unable to fathom how you’d even made it this close to seeing thirty.

Dropping your arms back down to your sides, you make your way over to your khaki colored pack and pull out your aluminum canteen from one of the side pockets. You twist off the cap and gulp back a long, cool drink of water, hoping to get rid of the dryness in your mouth and the cracks in your chapped lips. As soon as the liquid makes it all the way down to the pit of your stomach, the hollow, muscular organ grumbles loudly, demanding food. You’d had some decent luck while out hunting the previous morning, capturing two wild rabbits—you had eagerly skinned, cleaned and cooked them both, devouring one right after the other so fast that it had nearly made you sick. It had been a pretty decent meal, but not nearly enough to completely satisfy your ravenous hunger. Prior to finding the cabin and settling in, you had been living off of a couple handfuls of nuts and berries for three days while on the move. You were still fucking starving and all you could do was pray that you’d find more rabbits today.

Maybe you’d get even luckier and spot a pheasant. It was their season, after all.

You drink some more water and set your canteen aside. You’d planned to return to the lake later in the afternoon to refill it as well as to have another bath. You pull on your faded, black denim jacket over your hoodie and pick up the wooden bow and brown leather quiver of arrows sitting beside your pack. You’d found the weapon in some hunting shop back in Utah that had already been picked clean to the bone over the last couple of decades. However, no one had even bothered with taking the bow. It hadn’t really surprised you, though. In the post outbreak world, a bow and arrow would do absolutely nothing to protect against the infected runners and stalkers—and it would do much less to protect against clickers unless your aim was flawless.

Still, a bow was useful in its own right.

It was perfect for hunting game. It was silent, keeping you and your location concealed from potential passersby at all times. Most importantly, you could reuse your arrows so long as you were careful and didn’t break them while removing them from your kills—and in the event that you did happen to snap an arrow, all you had to do was salvage what you could from the damaged projectile and make a new one. Simple as that.

Your father had taught you how before he’d died.

“Why bother with a bow? What about a gun?” you had asked him.

“Might not always be able to get your hands on a gun,” he’d replied as he sharpened an edge of the small, thumb sized rock in his hand. “Or bullets. It doesn’t hurt to have alternatives in the event that you can’t get your hands on either of those things, kiddo.” Despite being in your mid twenties at the time, he’d still always call you kiddo. “Always have a backup weapon, alright?”

He’d been wise to give you that advice.

You did have a firearm, a colt pistol that you hardly have ammunition for. There were ten rounds left in the clip and with no luck in finding any more in the last couple of months, you’d decided to preserve them, saving what little bullets you had left for a real emergency. You kept the gun tucked into the waistband of your jeans at all times, along with the sharp switchblade that you used to gut and skin game. As far as weapons go, you sure as hell could’ve been a lot worse off. But if you happened to stumble upon more ammunition for your gun, you certainly wouldn’t complain about it.

Slinging your bow and the quiver of arrows over your shoulder, you grab the dark gray foraging bag that you used to collect and carry your kills in and leave the cabin, feeling somewhat confident enough to leave the remainder of your belongings behind instead of hauling them all along with you like you had the morning before. It wasn’t that you feared someone would come along and steal them. There wasn’t really anything for anyone to steal, anyway. Rather, you’d gotten so damn used to the instability and the constant moving around—you never stayed in one place for too long and were always prepared to run. But today, you decide to leave your things in the cabin, feeling certain that you would return in just a couple of hours.

You step out onto the creaking, three step porch that’s so old it buckles slightly under your weight and a gentle breeze nips at your cheeks and nose. It’s the middle of autumn in Wyoming and the air outside is fresh, cool and crisp. Winter was looming right around the corner like a dark shadow, and although you’d somehow managed to make it through the previous year’s brutal snow season, that didn’t do much to stop you from being nervous about the one that was to come. If all went according to your plan, you’d be holing yourself up in that shoddy little cabin until the worst of winter was over and then you would move along.

To where?

You didn’t have the slightest fucking clue.

You make a short trek about two miles south, going in the opposite direction of the lake and finding yourself closer to the thick forest trees that surrounded the base of the mountain range out in the distance instead. There’s a dried, grassy clearing just feet from the entrance of the forest—finding a single, decently sized boulder in the middle of the wide, open space, you decide that behind it is the perfect spot for you to set up and hope for the best. Carefully setting your things down on the ground, you pull out a pair of old, cracked binoculars from your bag. You lean your body over the smooth, round top of the rock and lift them up to your face, peeking through the lenses. You hope to spot something right away because it sure would be fucking nice to eat something sooner rather than later. Otherwise you might just start gnawing at your own arm.

Diligently, you scan your surroundings for any and all signs of wildlife.

That’s when you see it, standing near the edge of the woods.

You gasp softly as your sights fall upon the deer.

Pulling your face away from your binoculars, you blink furiously before taking another look just to be sure that your eyes hadn’t been playing tricks on you. It’s not a hallucination. It’s a white tailed deer, a female, and from the look of her, she has to be at least about a hundred pounds. At least.

You try to not get too far ahead of yourself, but it’s far too late. The thought of finding some herbs and making a hot, venison stew for supper makes your mouth water. The rest of the meat could be dried out and made into a batch of jerky that could feed you for months. Months.

Then, you suddenly remember you’ve never even attempted to bring down an animal of that size before and you’re slapped back into reality.

You think about your father, who would bring home a deer every weekend after going on his hunting trips with some of his old college buddies. “You want to aim for the heart or the lungs,” he’d say as you and your siblings would watch him dress the carcass, much to your mother’s chagrin. “Look between the shoulder blade and the last rib,” he would tell you and your brothers. You’d also had an older sister, but she had always been incredibly squeamish and had a soul that was much too sweet and caring for hunting. She would always want to bring home every animal your father shot and nurse it back to health. “Somewhere between those two lies everything you need to hit in order to do the job and do it well. And for the love of god, don’t you ever aim directly for the shoulder. Behind it, kiddos, always aim behind it. You got it?”

“Yes Papa,” you’d all chime out together.

Setting down the binoculars in your hands, you reach for your bow and pluck an arrow from your quiver before stepping out from behind the boulder. You’re careful to be as silent as possible as you take a few steps closer towards the unsuspecting grazing animal. You position yourself and stand perpendicular to the deer, placing your feet shoulder width apart—you’re a little farther from your target than you would have preferred, but you don’t want to risk going any closer and scaring her off, so it would have to do. Once you feel comfortable enough with your stance, you nock the arrow and set it on the string. You then hold the string and steady your grip on the bow, relaxing your shoulders before drawing it and pulling your arm back until you’ve reached your anchor point, which is always the corner of your mouth.

Breathe, you remind yourself calmly as you aim at the delicate spot behind her shoulder blade. Nice and slow. Breathe.

Just as you’re about to release the arrow and take your shot, the deer whips her head back towards the trees and her ears prick forward—a split second later, she darts off, zooming across the field in the opposite direction of where you’d been standing.

Your mouth falls open in disbelief.

“Are you fucking shitting me?” you mutter under your breath.

Frustrated, you lower your weapon and just as you start to contemplate whether or not it’s even worth it to try and hunt her down on foot, you suddenly hear something—it isn’t until the noise draws closer to where you’re standing that you realize it’s the sound of a galloping horse.

Perplexed, you squint over in the direction of where you think it’s coming from, right near the edge of the trees. Then, just a moment later, a brown stallion emerges from the woods with a dark haired man riding in his saddle. He holds a rifle in one hand and clutches the reins tightly in the other.

Gasping, you whirl around on the heel of your boot and immediately make a beeline back to the boulder. You swing around the rock and crouch down, ducking out of his sight. You couldn’t be too sure if he’d seen you or not, but it doesn’t matter—a wave of sheer panic washes over you and you can physically feel your own body preparing itself to go into fight or flight mode. Despite having your gun tucked into the waistband of your jeans, you still haven’t reached for it and continue to clutch your bow and arrow in your hands instead.

Swallowing dryly, you turn and carefully lift yourself up just enough so that you can glimpse over the top of the boulder. That’s when you see a second man emerge from the woods. This one is blond and he is on foot instead of a horse. He’s also armed, carrying a shotgun.

“You’re mine you fucking son of a bitch!” he shouts. He lifts his weapon, aims, and then squeezes the trigger, shooting the horse in the side and bringing him down instantly. His rider goes flying off and he hits the ground several feet away from the dead animal, landing so painfully hard that even from a distance you’d manage to hear the loud, cracking sound his body had made upon impact.

You momentarily freeze.

Your heart anxiously jumps up into your throat as you watch the shooter begin to approach him. The attacker moves slowly and with no haste seeing as his helpless victim is lying there motionless on the ground with his eyes closed and no idea that he’s about to die. The blond man comes to a halt just a few feet away from him, grinning as he lifts his shotgun once again and points the barrel of it at the other man’s head. His index finger hovers over the trigger.

Before your mind and body can even make the connection, you rise to your feet and aim your bow, swiftly sending an arrow straight through the blond man’s neck. He crumples, falling to the ground writhing and squirming as he bleeds out in less than sixty seconds.

You wait it out for another minute, refusing to move another muscle until his body finally goes limp and you are certain he’s dead. Taking a look around, you make sure the coast is clear and grab your belongings, slinging them over your shoulder before you make your way over to the scene. Unsure of whether or not there could be others heading in this direction, your plan was to pick off their guns and any other useful supplies before making a run for it back to the cabin. You crouch down beside the man you’d shot and killed, carefully pulling your arrow out of his neck. It makes a loud, horrid squelching sound as you remove it and blood from his jugular splatters your blue jeans. You then pick up his shotgun and check the chamber for ammunition.

Just like the pistol tucked away in your waistband, there’s hardly any rounds left, making it all but useless. Rolling your eyes, you carelessly drop the gun on top of his chest and move on in search of the rifle. You spot it right beside the dark haired man.

Apprehensive, you cautiously make your way over towards him. With how still he had been lying, you could have sworn he was gone—perhaps the fall off of his horse alone had killed him. But just to be sure, you decide to give his side a harsh nudge with the toe of your boot.

He groans and his head rolls to the side.

He’s still alive.

You effortlessly string the bloodied arrow in your hand and aim it right at his chest.

Move again and you’re dead, motherfucker.

“Ellie,” the man mumbles, his eyes still closed.

Ellie?

You slowly lower your bow.

Without realizing it, a little bit of your guard lowers along with it.

Carefully, you sink down onto one knee next to the man and get a better look at him. He’s much older than yourself, somewhere in his fifties if you had to guess. He has harsh forehead lines, deep creases in between his eyebrows, a patchy beard that is speckled with many, many grays, and wild waves of thick hair that look soft to the touch. Though some of his features are a little worse for wear due to his age, he’s still quite a handsome man from what you can see. He also appears to be in decent shape, clean and well fed, and you detect the light scent of laundry soap on his clothes. Surely, he had to have been part of some kind of group, and judging by the leather trimmed saddle on his horse, this group was one that was very well off in this post outbreak world.

You hesitate, but then lift a slightly trembling hand and take the side of his face, cupping it in your palm as you turn his head towards you.

There’s blood on his right temple and your fingers reach up to touch what you had assumed was the source of the bleeding—but then you realize it was a scar, maybe an inch or two in length at most and completely healed. Your fingers trail up even further and venture into his hair which, as it turned out, is in fact just as soft as one would imagine. You find a small gash on his scalp and your fingers become coated in the man’s blood.

Must’ve hit himself on a rock or something.

Your hand leaves his hair and you place it on his broad chest as you begin checking him over for any other potential injuries or wounds. Slipping your opposite hand inside of his brown jacket, you lift the hem of the dark green thermal henley he’s wearing and you discover the scar on his temple isn’t the only one he possesses—he has several more, way too many for you to count on one hand alone. You’re so preoccupied with inspecting the remainder of his abdomen that you don’t even notice the way one of his hands is slowly reaching for yours, the hand that’s still resting on his chest, right over his heartbeat.

Semiconscious, the man takes your hand in his so damn gently that it startles you and takes you by surprise, but it doesn’t frighten you. Weakly, he laces his fingers together with your own and he speaks again, uttering softly, “Babygirl.”

Puzzled, your eyebrows knit together.

It almost sounds like he’s pleading.

For what—for who? For Ellie?

Is she the babygirl he’s referring to?

Your other hand moves up to his shoulder and you give it a violent shake.

Hey, you’ve got to get up now.

“H—” You try to speak the words, but can’t. They’re formed in your mind and it feels like they are right there on the very tip of your tongue, but when you open your mouth, they refuse to come out. You frown.

It’s happened before.

In the spring, you’d stumbled across a small group of people while out hunting in Idaho—it was the first time you had seen other human beings since leaving California in the fall. There had been both men and women and they even had children with them, but that did nothing to stop you from panicking when they’d approached you. One of the women cornered you, trying to tell you that they were traveling across the country to the east coast. “It’s okay,” she’d tried to tell you, holding up her hands. “We’re not bad people, I promise. We’re just trying to get to the quarantine zone in Boston. I think you should come with us, honey.”

You’d been so terrified that when you’d tried to tell her that you didn’t want to join them, you couldn’t push the words out. It felt like your voice had gotten stuck in the back of your throat. That’s how afraid you’d been.

Technically, you can speak.

You’d talk to yourself often when you were feeling lonely. You would read the books you carried in your pack out loud. Hell, you even liked to sing.

But whenever you became stressed, anxious, or scared, it would happen. You’d lose your ability to speak and to communicate—not that you had anyone to communicate with except for yourself, but that’s besides the point. No matter how hard you tried to force your vocal cords, all you could get out were quiet, strangled noises. It was as if your own fears chased your voice away and during periods when you were under extreme distress, it would take several days for you to find it again. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that, whenever you used your voice back in California, it only led to the harshest of punishments.

A gunshot sounds off in the distance, snapping you out of your train of thought.

You shake the man again, harder this time.

Come on, get up! They could be coming this way!

It’s useless. He’s losing complete consciousness.

You hear another gunshot and this one sounds like it’s coming from the base of the mountain range on the other side of the trees, not all too far from where you are. For all you know, it could very well be members of his own group who are firing those weapons out there. But whether it was his group or the other man’s group, it doesn’t really fucking matter. You don’t want to run into either one of them, regardless of who were the good guys and who were the bad guys. In your eyes, everyone’s a fucking bad guy.

Yanking your hand out of his, you get to your feet and prepare to make a run for it. But just as you’re about to take off, the man mumbles one last time. It’s incoherent and barely audible, but you manage to catch that name again. Ellie.

Ellie, Ellie, Ellie.

For some reason you can’t quite explain, that sweet little name bounces around in the inside of your skull.

You chew the inside of your cheek anxiously.

If it’s his group out there, they’ll save him.

If it’s the other man’s group, they’ll kill him.

Normally, you’d have no problem with the idea of leaving another person to die.

After everything that happened in California, you had lost your sense of humanity. Your ability to empathize and actually give a shit about other people had been long gone—or so you’d thought. But you had just saved this man’s life and now you find yourself unwilling to run the risk of leaving him for dead. And you don’t have the slightest fucking clue as to why. He’s a stranger. He shouldn’t matter to you.

You exhale a heavy sigh of defeat.

Okay, how the fuck do I do this?

Without much time left to waste, you gather up your belongings over your shoulder and pick up his rifle, slinging the brown leather strap across your chest so the gun rests comfortably against your backside. You walk around him, lean over, and hook your arms securely underneath his. Using every ounce of physical strength you have inside of you, you start dragging him back to the cabin as fast as you possibly can.

The pretty melody fills his ears as he comes to.

“Somewhere over the rainbow, way up high

there’s a land that I heard of once in a lullaby…”

Joel Miller isn’t all too sure if heaven is a real place that actually exists, but the very minute he hears the feminine voice singing, he can’t help but think he’s died and that’s exactly where he’s gone—because only an angel could possibly have a voice like that. So rich, so smooth, and oh so sickeningly sweet.

“Somewhere over the rainbow, skies are blue...”

The ballad being sung is all too familiar to him.

The Wizard of Oz had been Sarah’s favorite movie back when she had been a little girl, when she was seven years old and she still believed in princesses and fairy tales and faraway lands with yellow brick roads. Even when she grew older, his daughter continued to hold a soft spot for the film and Joel would watch it with her every Thanksgiving at his parents’ house right after their dinner—it would air on cable and Sarah would beg him to let her have her slice of pecan pie while sitting cross legged on the floor in front of his old man’s television set.

“So long as you don’t make a mess on Nana and PopPop’s carpet,” he’d warn her. “Deal?”

Sarah would beam at him and nod eagerly. “Deal!”

He’d grab his own slice of pie, park it right on the couch behind her, and together they would get lost in the whimsical world of Oz, although admittedly he’d usually fall deep into his food coma long before Dorothy had the chance to make it back home to Kansas.

“Where troubles melt like lemon drops

away above the chimney tops

that’s where you’ll find me...”

The words fade and the rest of the song is now being hummed.

Goddamn, he thinks.Even the humming is too fucking beautiful.

Joel feels a cold, damp cloth dabbing at his sore right temple.

Come to think of it, everything is fucking sore.

Once, when Joel had been in his mid twenties, he had been doing some under the table roofing job with his younger brother, Tommy. It had been the hottest day of the summer in Texas, and the two of them thought having a couple cold beers with their lunch to cool off would be a good idea. The pair of them went back to work and started fucking around, goofing off like the drunk idiots they were. While horsing around, Joel accidentally stumbled right over the edge of the roof and he had fallen about fifteen feet to the ground, landing on his back on Mrs. Adler’s lawn. Luckily, he’d been okay after the fall and hadn’t sustained any serious injuries or broken any bones, but he had spent the following three to four weeks feeling like he’d been hit by a fucking Greyhound.

That’s how he felt now.

Like he’d been hit by a fucking bus. Twice. There isn’t a single part of him that isn’t pulsating with pain—his back, his shoulders, and his head. Oh god, his head feels the worst. It’s fucking killing him.

Joel’s eyelids twitch and he cracks them open ever so slightly, just enough that he can see the silhouette of another person hovering over him. He feels a hand at the crown of his head as the other continues to dab at his temple with the cool cloth. It feels incredible against his warm skin and even sort of soothes the pain.

He lets out a small groan and the humming ceases.

Finally, he manages to force his eyes open.

Joel hears a little gasp and the bed he’s lying on squeaks and shifts. He then hears a loud thumping sound as if something, or someone had fallen to the floor.

Although he’s still disoriented and his entire body aches with even the slightest movement, Joel manages to push himself up into a sitting position. Blinking rapidly, his blurred vision steadies itself after a minute and he glances around. He’s in a small, single room wooden cabin that has seen better days in its lifetime. Looking down, he sees that he’s lying on a bare, worn out mattress with his own jacket draped over him like a blanket. He racks his mildly concussed brain, trying to recollect what had happened—it takes him a minute, but one by one, the memories start flooding back to him. Joel had been leading mid morning patrol with Tommy when they had been ambushed by a large group of hostile raiders. He remembers shouting at his brother, telling him that he’d try and lead some of them off, away from the direction of their community. He’d succeeded and managed to pick off a few of the bastards that had been tailing him with his rifle, all except for one. The very last thing that he remembered was the sound of a gunshot behind him before his horse went down and he’d been thrown off and knocked out.

Everything after that was nothing but a blur.

Joel takes another look around the cabin and that’s when he sees you.

You’re on the floor, backed up against the wall near the foot of the mattress. Your eyes are wide and round, like a deer caught in the headlights. Your chest heaves, rising and falling rapidly—you remind him of a helpless, frightened animal that had been cornered by a vicious predator. You clutch the handle of a switchblade up against your chest with the blade pointing downwards, holding it so tightly in your hand that Joel can see the skin stretching tightly over your knuckles.

“Who the hell are you?” He grimaces slightly, his own voice causing his head to throb.

You don’t reply.

Joel moves onto his next question. “Where am I?”

Again, no response.

He tries again. “Are you alone?”

Silence.

Joel takes a better look at you.

You’re young. You couldn’t have been older than your late twenties, perhaps even your early thirties although that might have been a bit of a stretch. You had that look about you, one that had become all but too familiar to him in the last two decades—the exhausted appearance of someone trying to survive in the post outbreak world. Your face is tired and worn, but somehow still soft and youthful at the same time. You might have looked a little rough around the edges, but you’re still the prettiest goddamn thing he’s seen in a long, long time.

Joel speaks again. “Who are you? Where the hell are we?” When he’s met with complete silence for the fourth time, he raises an eyebrow, feeling annoyed. “You gonna fuckin’ say somethin’ or what?”

You can only stare at him, your fingers wrapped around the handle of your knife in a vice-like grip.

Joel frowns.

Are you really that fucking terrified of him?

Or perhaps you can’t hear?

Only one way to find out, he thinks to himself.

He raises his voice, asking once again, “Who are you? Where are we?”

You wince, your features twisting in discomfort.

Oh, you could fucking hear him, alright.

Joel swings his legs over the side of the mattress, his movement causing you to shrink back further against the wall, almost as if you were trying to become a part of the old, rotted wood. He holds up his two hands, demonstrating that he has no plans to move another muscle towards you. “How long have I been out?”

He tries to show some patience and gives you a minute, gives you a chance to respond, but when you say nothing, he can’t help but sigh out in frustration. Just when he’s about to force himself to come to terms with the fact that he wouldn’t be getting any kind of answers out of you, you lift your free hand and hold up three trembling fingers.

His stomach sinks. “Three days? I’ve been out for three fuckin’ days?”

You give him a nod so tiny and so subtle that he would’ve missed it had he blinked.

“Fuck,” Joel curses, hanging his head. He begins to spiral.

What happened to Tommy? And the others?

Did they make it out alive?

And then Ellie’s face flashes in his mind, causing the blood in his veins to run ice cold.

What could she possibly be thinking right now after he’d been missing for three whole days? Who was taking care of her and looking after her while he wasn’t there?

He needed to get back to Jackson—he needed to get back to Ellie.

He wasn’t sure how he would be able to do that if you didn’t start talking soon and answering his goddamn questions.

Lifting his head, Joel looks over at you again.

“You all by yourself?”

You hesitate, but then nod in reply. Yes.

Joel sighs, his tense shoulders relaxing. That’s a start. “Listen, I’m gonna need a little help here, alright? I don’t remember much ‘bout what happened. I’m part of a community. I was out on patrol with my group when we were attacked by raiders. There were too many of them and I tried to lead some of them away,” he explains. He might not have known what had happened after he’d been thrown off of his horse, but the fact that he’s in your cabin and he’s alive help him piece at least one part of the puzzle together. “Wait a minute. Did you—did you save me out there?”

Sucking in your bottom lip, you nod again.

Stunned, Joel’s eyebrows raise up towards his hairline. “You fuckin’ serious?” he can’t help but question in complete and utter disbelief. Skeptically, he presses, “But how? What happened out there? How did you get me here all by yourself?” His queries spill from his lips one after the other despite knowing most of them, if not all of them, would go unanswered.

You look overwhelmed by them—by him.

Figuring it’s best to take it one slow step at a time, Joel stands up and he cautiously walks over towards you. He holds out his hand. “S’alright,” he assures you in the most gentle voice he can muster. “I ain’t gonna hurt you.”

You refuse to loosen your grip on your knife, but you accept his hand and allow him to help you up to your feet. Given that you didn’t lodge the blade straight through his chest, Joel would say some progress had been made.

He releases your hand and takes a step backwards to give you your space. He isn’t too sure if you can’t talk or simply don’t want to talk—still thinking you’d been the woman he’d heard singing when he had drifted back into consciousness, he guesses it’s probably the latter.

Joel tries to think of questions he knows you’ll be able to answer without having to speak.

“How long have you been by yourself?”

Shifting anxiously from one foot to the other, you hold up one finger.

“Sorry darlin’ but that don’t really help me much,” he mutters, shaking his head. “Are we talkin’ one week? One month?”

You make a gesture with your hand. Keep going.

“One year?” He doesn’t bother hiding his blatant skepticism. “You’ve been completely alone for one whole year?”

You point at him. That’s right.

Joel is beside himself. He’s almost in awe over the fact that you’ve survived on your own for so fucking long.

“You got any other weapons besides that knife?”

You nod over towards a bow and sheath of arrows next to your backpack.

“You’re kiddin’ me. That’s all you’ve got?”

You narrow your eyes at him.

Hey, it’s a good weapon and it saved your fucking life, thank you very much.

“Sorry. Just can’t imagine that thing would do much against a clicker. ‘Specially if your aim is shit,” Joel muses. He notices the offended expression on your face and quickly moves on. “You don’t have a gun at all?”

You reach behind yourself and pull out a colt pistol from the waistband of your jeans. You finally set down your knife and then show him that you’re low on ammunition and don’t have any more. Tucking the gun back into your jeans, you step around him and walk over to a corner where his rifle is propped up against the wall. You pick it up, make your way back over to him and hand it over.

I believe this belongs to you.

“Thank you,” he utters quietly, taking it from you. “And I ain’t talkin’ ‘bout the gun, either. I honestly don’t think I’d be standin’ here alive if you hadn’t done whatever it was you did out there.” His eyes try meeting yours. “I’m serious, darlin’. I owe you one. I really fuckin’ do.”

You shrug, too timid to meet his gaze.

“I’m Joel,” he says after a minute, setting his rifle down. “What’s your name?”

You simply stare at him.

“Oh that’s right,” Joel mumbles sheepishly. “You can’t—” He stops himself, but he’s sure you know what he’d meant to say.

You can’t talk.

“You got a pencil or somethin’ to write with?”

You snort and roll your eyes at him. No, sorry. Silly me totally forgot to pick up a pack of pencils while I was out scavenging for supplies the other day.

Joel chuckles and holds up his hands in defense. “Figured it was at least worth askin’,” he says. “It’d be kinda nice to know the name of the person who saved my fuckin’ ass, you know.” He clocks the way the corners of your mouth threaten to turn upwards into a tiny smile at his remark. “How ‘bout a map? You got one of those so you can show me where we are?”

You hold up a finger, as if telling him to give you a minute. Digging into one of the front pockets of your pack, you pull out a large map of the state of Wyoming. It’s severely creased, as if you’ve folded and unfolded it hundreds of times. You hand it over to him and as he holds it out for you, you point to your current location.

“Jackson’s ‘bout fifteen miles south from here,” Joel murmurs as he scans the map. Suddenly, his dark brown eyes flicker over your wrist—the long sleeve of your thin gray shirt had hiked up, exposing severe discoloration and scarring that went all the way around, marking your skin.

Noticing where his gaze had wandered off to, you quickly retract your hand away from the map and tug your sleeve down back into place. But it’d been much too late. He had seen the mark, clear as fucking day.

Joel awkwardly clears his throat and for the sake of not causing you any discomfort, he pretends he hadn’t seen a goddamn thing. He turns his attention back to the map. “Remember how I told you I’m a part of a community? It’s in Jackson and it ain’t all too far from here,” he states, peering up at you from over the top of the map. “The town’s gated and it’s secure. You’ll be safe there. If we head out right now, we can make it there by nightfall—”

You back away from him, shaking your head.

I’m not going with you.

He cocks an eyebrow at you. “Look darlin’, I don’t mean to offend, but you ain’t gonna last a whole lot longer out here on your own, especially not in a place like this with winter right around the corner. If you don’t starve to death, then you’ll fuckin’ freeze to death.”

You glare at him and lift your chin.

I’ve been doing just fine on my own, thanks.

Having read your mind, Joel sighs. “Alright, fair enough. You’ve gotten this far by yourself, but that don’t mean you gotta turn down an offer for some help. Just come with me to Jackson—”

You shake your head even harder.

The last time that you had agreed to go back with a stranger to their camp, you’d been imprisoned. Tortured.

Joel observes you, and it doesn’t take him very long to connect the dots between the scars around your wrists and your refusal to leave with him. His hard, stony face softens. “Listen sweetheart, I ain’t all too sure ‘bout what’s happened to you,” he says, choosing his words carefully. “But I can assure you that you ain’t gotta worry ‘bout a thing this time around. Just come with me and I’ll prove it to you.”

You toss him a skeptical look.

“Jackson is a safe place,” he swears. “My brother runs it along with his wife and a small council. There’s families, lots of children—hell I’ve got a kid myself. Teenager. Her name is Ellie and she’s fifteen years old.”

Your lips part slightly and your eyes glimmer with something that looks a lot like recognition, though Joel can’t be too sure what had prompted it. Perhaps you’d known someone with that name once in your life.

“There’s plenty of food, running water, electricity,” he lists off in an attempt to sway you. “It’d be a shot at a normal life. Wouldn’t you like that?”

Crossing your arms, you lift your chin again.

You’d heard that before.

Why the hell should I even trust you? Why should I trust this place is what you say it is?

Joel bites back another frustrated sigh.

Normally, he wouldn’t bother to put up with such stubbornness. He wasn’t one to plead or beg and part of him almost wanted to give up so he could be on his way, but you had saved him from being killed. He owed you his fucking life. He had to get you to go with him. He wouldn’t give up until you agreed to go to Jackson with him.

“I’ll let you carry your weapons,” he offers as a compromise. “Hell, you can even walk behind me with your gun pointed at the back of my fuckin’ head if that’s gonna make you feel safest.”

You squint at him. Really?

“Or that bow of yours,” he adds, chuckling softly. “It’s your pick, darlin’. Whatever’s gonna make you feel comfortable. I’ll trust you not to shoot an arrow through the back of my skull—all I ask in return is that you at least make an attempt to trust me too. I think that’s a fair enough deal. Don’t you?”

You bite your bottom lip.

I don’t know about this.

“I really don’t wanna leave you out here all alone,” Joel says, taking a step closer towards you. He finds himself feeling surprised that it hadn’t startled you and he only hopes that means that, to some degree, you trust him already. “Please. You saved my life—and I know you probably don’t need me savin’ yours, but at least let me take you to Jackson so you can see for yourself what we’ve got goin’ on there. If you don’t like it and you don’t wanna stay, then we’ll load up your pack with food and supplies. We’ll put you on a horse and you can be on your way. You can choose to leave and no one will lift a finger to stop you, I’ll make sure of it. How does that sound?”

He waits, giving you a chance to think it over.

Finally, after a minute, you sigh and reluctantly nodd your head.

Okay. I’m gonna try and trust you.

“Good,” Joel says, softly. “Now get your stuff and let’s head out before we start losin’ daylight.”

#joel miller series #joel miller story #joel miller #joel miller x female reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x y/n #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x oc #joel miller angst #joel miller pedro pascal #joel miller fic #joel miller fanfiction #pedro pascal characters #joel miller imagine #the last of us fanfiction #fic: to hell and back

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fox-guardian · 1 year

Text

I am still thinking so hard about artist Jon.

Like. It's a hobby for him, purely, he doesn't plan to make money off of it. It's just for fun. He doodled a bit in his free time and then took life drawing classes in uni because Georgie insisted he needed to get out and do something more than studying so he. Kept studying. But just art this time.

He would describe his style as a kind of realism, but its definitely stylized in colors at least, as he's impatient and goes for bolder colors for lighting pretty early in his process so he doesn't lose the feeling of the piece, especially if it never gets finished. He wants to keep the vibes, just in case he wants to go back to it, so he doesn't forget.

He kinda falls of drawing after he starts at the institute, but I think during season 4 he picks it up again to cope with. Everything. He's not using his fancy drawing supplies since he doesn't have them anymore, just office pens and pencils. It's a lot of Martin, of course. But also Tim. He wishes he could ask Melanie to describe Sasha for him so he could try to draw her too, but he figures that wouldn't go down very well. Besides, telling his coworkers he draws is too much vulnerability anyway. Sometimes he even draws The Admiral, but he doesn't often draw animals so it never does him justice in his eyes.

Then at the safehouse, he works up the nerve and asks if Martin could sit for him for a bit. He doesn't need to pose or anything, just stay right there, Martin, keep reading that book, just don't move too much for a while, the lighting is perfect, he needs to capture it. He needs to map it with pen and paper. His phone camera could never catch the golden light on Martin's hair, and besides, the photo could lie to him later. But muscle memory and scratches in paper are harder to change, surely. He needs to record the moment like this. Hold it to his heart. Feel it in his wrist as he swipes strands of hair across the page, in his shoulder as his arm arcs down the curve of Martin's stomach, in his fingertips as he smudges the pigment he bought from the local craft supply shop to form a reddened cheek.

And Martin's cheeks are red. After everything that's happened, all the distance, his heart wasn't prepared for the intimacy of sitting before the man he loves being lovingly analyzed and having his likeness put to paper. It's exciting and agonizing at the same time, feeling eyes on him for hours as Jon stares down every curve, maps out every freckle, mole, and blemish. And when Martin sees the final image as Jon sheepishly presents it to him, he cries. He remembers feeling the fear of statement givers as he read their stories, living it through the words written. It was kind of like that, only instead of fear, he felt the overwhelming love pressed into every line on the page. Every stroke, every smudge, even tucked into the negative space, filling him up until it couldn't be contained, and he burst into tears. (Which worried Jon greatly until Martin reassured him with a hug and a kiss.)

He doesn't ask Jon to stop drawing him. How could he, when it was always with such love behind it? Not to mention Jon was getting back in the swing of it, oiling his rusty skills, and he was so happy doing it. But he will admit it was mildly mortifying seeing their home fill up with so many portraits of him, steadily increasing in their flattering composition. Jon was drawing from his imagination now that he had memorized most of Martin's form, and it was getting out of hand. He once caught a glimpse of a work in progress of Martin lounging and being fed grapes by cherubs. Good lord.

#ramblings with major #the magnus archives #tma #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #jonmartin #jmart #artist!jon #this got out of hand. its fine. akdjsksjs

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landwriter · 1 year

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Sandman prompt: Dreamling roadtrip

"Remind me why I am allowing this," says Dream.

Hob casts a sidelong glance at him. Dream, in his car. Dream, stuck in the crawl of London traffic with him. Imagine that.

He reels off Dream's succession of unfortunate choices with poorly smothered glee. "Because your sister said you should spend more time among us humans, which you mentioned in passing to Matthew yesterday, who suggested a road trip, then had to explain to you that a road trip meant 'Just driving somewhere for a while', and you apparently you said-," Hob pauses to pitch his voice as low and poncy as possible, "'Ah, a pilgrimage, then. A journey for self-knowledge.' And Matthew said 'That's right, boss' and you said you would, in fact, be curious about such an experience."

"False pretenses," says Dream, darkly, under his breath.

"Indeed," says Hob, who thinks he loves false pretenses now. Matthew had shown up at his flat laughing so hard he couldn't even speak. When he finally recounted the conversation (after Hob had gotten very concerned and asked if Matthew needed a human counselor or an animal vet, and Matthew had shaken his head and wheezed 'No, a driver', before falling into fits of laughter again), Hob had immediately agreed.

"And then I canceled my plans for the weekend because I'm the only human you know who has a car, it turns out," (A reliable and bright red Vauxhall Corsa, thank you for asking.) "And because I'm a very good friend," he adds. He still relishes the new-word feel of it. It had only been four months since Dream had shown up at The New Inn. Hob was skiving off marking midterm papers for this, actually.

"Yes," says Dream. Hob realizes he'd skive off the whole term for this.

How could he turn down the prospect? His friend, literally strapped into the Corsa for at least the next several hours. Assuming Dream didn't leap out and flee on foot down the M1 - which seemed so thoroughly undignified for a being of Dream's station that Hob felt utterly assured of his company. It had all rather gone to his head.

"This will be fun," he promises. "Feel the grass under your feet, and that."

Dream looks out the window bitterly as a lorry overtakes them. Hob has never been the fastest of drivers. Never really took to it, to be honest. Bit of the medieval peasant in him, he thinks, can't quite make himself go over fifty miles per hour. But he's very safe. Hardly any accidents. Mostly minor rear-end damage.

"I see no grass," says Dream.

"Surely the Lord of Stories is familiar with figurative speech," says Hob, and glows under the heat of Dream's glare in reply.

"Anyways," he continues, "We're getting to that bit. Literally. In, uh, six hours or so? It's a great spot. But in the mean time, this is part of it too." Hob takes a hand off the wheel to gesture with a flourish at the sea of sensible hatchbacks and work vans around them, swimming like fish in the asphalt rivers of London's outer burbs. "Humanity," he pronounces, and the car drifts a little into the next lane. Humanity honks rudely at him and then accelerates safely out of Hob's radius.

Dream's sulking seems to have pushed him fully into the realm of catatonia, because Hob's passengers are usually more animated when he does exciting little things like that. Hob looks over in concern and this time the car barely follows with him.

"Bit rusty," he offers.

Dream deigns to snort softly at that. "My sister is far worse," he says.

Hob raises his eyebrows. It was hard to imagine Death bad at anything, frankly. Dream must see his look because he clarifies.

"Another sister. Delirium. An official of the carriageway stopped us. He would not have us continue our passage. So she gave him delusion of bugs crawling across his skin. Forever."

"Well, that's one way to get out of a ticket," says Hob, and makes a mental note to ask Death for a complete list of siblings and how to avoid angering them.

"He was being rude," adds Dream. He suddenly sounds very much like an older brother.

"Oh, fair play, then," says Hob affably. He'd had little sisters once. He understood.

They drive in silence for a few minutes. Hob thinks about putting on a playlist, and has just decided that nineties Britpop is perfect for this occasion when they pass a junction sign and he exclaims in recognition.

"The M25! Funny story, I know just the loveliest antiquarian book dealer who says his partner - uh, I'm assuming there, but if you heard the way he talks about him - anyways, his partner designed it. Some kind of high-flying civil engineer, I reckon."

"Really," says Dream. "A...high-flying...civil engineer." He sounds fascinated.

Hob hadn't expected Dream to be interested in road design.

"Something like that, definitely," he says, looking over to see Dream, staring at him, rapt. He looks back and brakes just in time to avoid hitting the car in front of him as it turns off onto the motorway in question. "Sorry. Saw him once in passing, actually. Dresses like you. Very fancy and dark."

"Perhaps you should keep your focus on the road, Hob," says Dream, but he sounds like he's smiling.

"Oh, we're not for a while yet," says Hob. Half truth, half optimism.

"Where are we going?" asks Dream. Hob beams. He's just won a bet with Matthew.

"It's a surprise" he says. "Now, have you heard of this band called Oasis?"

#asks #the sandman #dreamling #dream of the endless #hob gadling #prompt fill #my writing #road trip fic is a timeless genre #hob is making it up as he goes #hob def has multiple routes in mind depending on how long dream is willing to abscond with him #hey fellas is it gay to want to drive across the country with your best friend #(hey fellas is it gay to hope you'll have to stay the night at a village inn and be mistaken for a couple)

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itgirlgyu · 1 year

Text

MARMALADE MEMORIES

pairing : huening kai x fem! reader.

genre : best friend to lovers, mutual pining, idiots in love, fluff.

synopsis: under the melting sun of a nameless summer, you find out that the person who you call your best friend, and whom you once had fallen in love with , didn't in fact want your prized acorn paper weight, but your heart.

wc: 3.9k+

warning: huening kai is referred as a sadist and bastard multiple times, there is mention of a threat concerning a plastic fork and hyuka's nose, hyuka mentions his own balls, beomgyu, reader gets a concussion, hospital and bad example of physics.

a/n! heh my first one shot! stay tuned for the next one next year (jk) or am i

The swing still squeaked like it did every evening of those idyllic years of past; perhaps even more now, only a few years later. The shrill sound melting into the last breath of the light of the day, mixing itself with the palette of sunset, one that you both had savored together years later. Oddly wistful, if you had to put a word to that feeling. The buzzing warmth warbled at the pit of the stomach would definitely conquer the one of the diminishing bright star above. Although it's quite unclear to you whether it was the nostalgia of the ear-splitting noise of the unoiled metal clanging together that made you feel this way, or it was your best friend’s laughter that was one pitch away from over taking the invincible of swing that has been here since the buttcrack of 90’s.

“Never thought this old, rusty swing would bring so many memories,” Huening Kai exclaimed, eyes turning into the crescent’s that mirrored the one in the sky. Like a kid he had been clutching onto the metal grips of the swing, trying to get himself to sway as much as he could despite now being double the size of the swing set himself.

“Push me!” He added in with urgency, feets swinging in a childish tempo instantaneously teleporting him to the early years of his life when this very place was one of his daily commutes, despite all the jumbled brew of all sort of emotion a teenage boy can go through at the common playground of the society, only the sweeter of the bunch displayed on the apple of his rosy cheeks, and the lowkey questionable giggle that gurgled out of his mouth. All in the name of good nostalgia, you hoped.

"Fine!" You got up, wiping your hands onto the fabric of the skirt you were wearing, "Me next, though." You quickly threw in the condition.

The man kept his mouth shut, pretending to not hear what his best friend had said, earning a tug on his ear.

"Sure, sure!" Huening Kai winced in pain, prying your fingers off his ear, praying to his lord that none of your fingernails would catch onto his piercings and tug a few out; It had always been his biggest fear, once he got them pierced a few weeks ago.

You narrowed your eyes, but quietly took the place behind the man, placing your hands onto the metal chain attaching the seat to the pole, just above his fists, which tightened in anticipation.

"You know after all this time I thought you'd calm your violent outbursts a little." Huening Kai raised his feet above the ground to increase the velocity of the push, meanwhile you closed the proximity between the two of you as you brought your face next to his, trying to look at him in the eyes from standing behind him, nearing the stage of becoming cross eyed just to show the seriousness of the demand of the next turn being yours.

Huening Kai stopped breathing for a second at the interaction, the warmth from his cheeks radiating to his ear, urging him into deluding himself with the idea of the recent tugging of his ear being the cause of its turning into an embarrassing shade of red rather than having his best friend so close to him; he could have turned to his side just a little to close that shy little gap between them, which is exactly why he started to getting a cramp on his neck from the fear of moving at any direction and causing the unthinkable.

"I will push you too! No need to threaten me, geez!" He pulled his head in front of him, he might have looked like a duck but it was better than whatever the other options were.

"Good boy." You patted the top of his head, and pulled him back with all your might while stumbling backwards, making Huening Kai chortle joyfully like a kid in a toy store.

"Do you remember the time you chased me to this playground with a fork in your hand—STAND BACK! FAR!" Huening Kai yelled out, cautioning to get away in order to avoid the hit of the swing if he swung too far, hardly thinking it would, but both of you hadn't been the best at physics nor math and it would just be better for everyone if they maintained a safe distance.

You stepped a few feet away and sighed.

"That happened?" you lied confidently, trying to sound shocked and waver him off as you pulled back the seat, Huening Kai advised that it would give you better grip for a higher swing, and let go once again.

It had been only a few days since the two of you had met, acquainted, and fought when the murder attempt was made, and it was merely because he had taken your homework with him and went away for a get away with his parents which resulted in quite some trouble for you. And for that reason to this day, you do not regret threatening the man with that plastic fork which you said you would have generously shoved up one of his nostrils, and fetch it back from the other one.

Plus it started their beautiful friendship that transcended all those years.

"YES!" Huening Kai exclaimed, turning back to look at your face from high above the ground, "It was a plastic fork though."

"Don't really remember." You murmured, avoiding eye contact with the victim of the heinous crime. Huening Kai chuckled and shook his head, and turned back before whining to go a little bit faster.

"Do you remember the time when I wanted your acorn paper weight?" He asked quietly, playing the entire scenario of how it took place in the hallway of their school.

"And then we met here to trade."

You nodded even though Huening Kai had no way of seeing your non verbal confirmation, " I was so surprised when you asked for it, like it was a paper weight." laughter bubbled at the back of your throat as you rewinded the memory of an awkwardly tall, sheepish boy eyeing the acorn paper weight with such determination.

"It was pretty…"

"And that sticker book!" You gasped, leaning on one of the handles Huening Kai had been holding onto, "It had all my favorite animes!"

You giggled triumphantly, the years old exultation still making you giddy to this day, "I think I got a better end of the deal than you and your sad acorn!"

"Loser!" You added with an exaggerated evil laugher.

Huening Kai carelessly nodded, soaking in all of the fervorous cadence you offered, blissfully unaware of the eyes that were fixated on you; the movement long forgotten as Huening Kai opened the box of nostalgia. Handpicking each and every story that was made in this playground, and replaying it in front of them like a movie of a lifetime.

Oblivious to himself, he had been smiling up to you; the marmalade sunset melting the brown into his eyes and trickling like honey onto his cheeks, staining them oh so sweet.

"Do you remember the time you gave me a rose?" He pondered out loud.

"What a way to crash the nostalgia train, shithead."

Of course You remember, who could forget their first confession no matter how bad it went. Especially when it went inexplicably bad; the worst! But what was even more worse than worst, if that is possible (It was in this case), was the fact it had been Huening Kai, who you had confessed to. It sends you cold shivers that you still remember that day as clear as a sunny day.

"Sure I called you a loser," You sighed, "You didn't have to repay me with that blow."

You wondered whether her best friend had been a closeted sadist all these while.

"I didn't murder anything nor did I blow you with anything," He reasoned, turning his bottom into the seat to face you a little bit more, the inane smile had been replaced by a dinky frown, "I just asked you whether you remember it or not."

"Woah," You wheezed, "You're so cold hearted."

Huening Kai rolled his eyes waiting for you to get over the drama and reply to him, which you did, "Yeah."

"You're such a bastard, you want me to talk about it, don't you?" You put your hand on his head and yanked a fistful in rage, but let go soon enough when you saw a few of his bleached hair coming out; you didn't wanna be known as a the crazy lady who made a hole into her crush's head after he had rejected her years prior.

Huening Kai's hands flew to his crown in a panicked rush as early hair loss flashed before his eyes, letting out a sigh of relief when he did not see a patch of his yellow hair on your hands. He relaxed his shoulders, and leaned back on the other handle.

"Yes please," He pleaded with a smirk, "Tell me all about it."

One demonic shriek and three earth shattering convulsions later, you were ready to indulge into the revelatory experience you had at the beginning of your teenage years, and be done with the ridiculous life experience that haunted every night of those ripe years full of opportunities.

"I confessed to you," You murmured quickly, flitting your eyes everywhere except for the pair that were gazing into hers with a minuscule citrusy smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. You hated that dumb face he made; You despised the actuality of the little beat that your heart skipped in that moment.

You found him smiling up at you when the shame died down just a bit, "I didn't quite catch you, can you repeat that?"

"The only thing you'd be catching is," You held up a clenched fist, "this."

Huening Kai's cautiously touched the knuckled of your closed fist pushed it down as if he were testing the water, his gaze cavorting from your deadpanned eyes to your tiny fist that is now at half the height you had raised it at first without any visible scratches on him: always a good sign to go on.

"You heard me,"

"No, I did not."

"You-" You calmed yourself, snatching your fist away from the tip of his fingers that had been lingering on your knuckles despite the danger being out of question, you pointed your index finger at him, and then put it down. Your cheeks turning into the rouge of the rose you had shoved into his hands and left a few summers before.

"Anyway, whatever!" You explained, your hands capering around in the air, as Huening Kai watched with an amused smile that only increased in sizes as the second keys in the clock ticked away, "So I liked you!"

"Only a little," You clarified.

"Pfft," Huening Kai snickered, sitting up properly, further diminishing the distance between you two. He could see himself in your eyes, "You're lying."

"You shoved a single rose in my hand, muttered something like, I like you I guess and just booked it." He explained, reciting it exactly as it happened, word to word. Which meant only one thing, he remembered everything. Sure, he hadn't comically been hit by a car and lost his memories but You hadn't expected him to remember it as vividly as you did, that too from the perspective of the person who had not embarrassed himself in front of a person they had a crush on.

"Don't remind me," You slipped further onto the chain, somehow mimicking an otter pop in the summer heat after being in the hands of an hyperactive toddler for more than five minutes, " You never answered me back either."

"That's because I didn't get a single word that you told me, until I spent some time on the way your lips moved and what sounds that you made could be translated into words." Huening Kai chuckled, the memories of a younger him trying to impersonate his best friend and make those sounds to figure out what you had said was still as fresh as it had been yesterday.

"Still not an excuse," You sulked, "We had school together."

Huening Kai nodded in agreement, with his lips pursed and his eyebrows bunched together to come up with a feasible fib, "we did,"

"Perhaps I was shy?"

You rolled your eyes the exact moment an abrupt gush of wind gently brushed the silken web of dark hair away from your face, the sheen of burning sun shining onto your cheeks.

“You and shy?” You cocked your head to the side and leaned in closer. Huening Kai’s oxygen intake was immediately endangered when the nearness between your heads was less than mere five inches. Huening Kai blinked; once, twice. He had hoped providing a few seconds might remind you of the unseen boundary of friendship you had crossed, once again. Just as bravely done as you had done four years ago.

“Stop kidding me,” You broke the silence, finally retreating your head. Huening Kai was awfully confused: you sighed, and went to sit in the swing adjacent to his, Huening Kai’s eyes never leaving you.

“ You probably thought it was a joke or something,” You drawled, “and it’s okay you know?”

Huening Kai knows it's not okay. He could tell that from the way your eyebrows were furrowed together, and that etch of frown that marred your glow. Huening Kai hoped it wasn't okay. It was selfish of him to wish that but the boyish feelings he had harbored for you way before yours even began to flutter, turned him into one of those emerald tactless monsters.

“It's okay if you didn't like me back.”

Huening Kai internally groaned: he was going insane. The soft, pitiful tone you spoke in only added fuel to the hell fire that was already burning inside of his heart. He couldn’t blame it on the fried oreo Beomgyu had stuffed down his throat anymore. He might have been a coward years ago, but now his balls were all grown and ready to be used.

“Not true,” Huening Kai murmured, dragging himself across the steel seat to face the front.

“Very true,” You snapped back.

“You couldn’t have been further from the truth,’ Huening Kai snorted, avoiding your flaming eyes, sending you more death threats than a wounded fan at their bias’s wedding.

“Okay so you were madly in love with me? Ooh you would've died for me," You mocked him, but as though Huening Kai was hell bent on embarrassing the shit out of you, that bastard nodded at the ridiculous rumor you made up on that spot.

“Now that’s some good ol’ truth.”

“Nobody talks like that old guy!” You were mad; You were furious, your nostrils were flaring as though they had a life of their own and those lives were very stressful. It might have been years since you got ditched, but that was still your first actual in person crush, which remained unclear and now the offender of that deplorable act is sitting beside you and committing perjury. You could break his skull open.

Without a word, Huening Kai turned around meeting your accusatory eyes. His ones were serene, melting like candle wax, shimmering like the reflection of moon in a constant wavering lake, meanwhile yours were smokey, cautious and hurt clouding the pupil in iridescent droplets. You opened your mouth to plead, but nothing came out.

‘Don’t look at me like that,’ was what you wanted to say.

It was bizarre; insane actually how some gymnastic that snuck into your stomach was doing somersaults, like a whole butterfly convention letting all of them out in your gut. It was weird, because you had this exact torture executed on you years ago, on the command of this exact man.

“I wanted to tell you something that day,” Huening Kai began, breaking the harrowing eye contact that immured you, allowing you to breathe at last.

“I liked you,” Huening Kai confessed, letting out a breath of relief. The tingling sensation that erupted beneath his skin, electrifying him to the core. Despite the fear that laundered his entirety, it was freeing at last.

Although the same couldn’t have been said for you..

“I probably liked you before you did,” Huening Kai chuckled, throwing a side glance towards you, briefly catching the blanched appearance you adapted.

“You're pulling my leg.” You stated in a shaken tone, but it was just as quickly refuted by Huening Kai who shook his head.

“Do you think I’ve watched an episode of cardcaptor sakura in my life?” Huening Kai questioned, “Or inuyasha?”

Huening Kai was right: It had always been you who was a big fan of all those shows in that book. You didn't even know whether Huening Kai was even remotely aware of them except you mentioning them once in a while,yet the sticker book was filled with the obsessions you had rambled away to your heart's content.

It wasn't good, it wasn't good at all. The way Huening Kai looked at you; it made your heart skip beats like the first time you had figured out your irrational behavior, and palpitations were because of him. As though someone had turned back the clock, and they were back in the year and your biggest wish was for him to love you back.

You shook your head, "But you," you murmured, closing your eyes to collect yourself, "But I thought you wanted my acorn!"

Huening Kai was beside you in silence, trying to process what his best friend, and allegedly (according to you, it was still alleged) crush had said, before erupting in a fit of hysterical laughter. He pulled his head backwards, flinging his black locks along with him, clutching onto the metal chains to prevent himself from toppling over, all while you stared at him as if he had just smoked some green leaves.

"You really are dense," He sputtered out in difficulty through his laughter, "I wanted a reason, not your acorn!"

You opened your mouth to defend but closed it realizing you had nothing to put forth as evidence while blissfully ignoring the biggest lead for you to win the case. You slumped onto your uncomfortable metal plate of the swing, which was starting to hurt your tailbone, while slowly soaking in the new information from years prior that could have, frankly, changed the trajectory of your life.

Your first love could have been fulfilled.

"Why didn't you answer me back when I said I liked you?" You questioned, springing up from your slouched position, pointing an accusatory finger at Huening Kai.

"I-" Huening Kai stammered; at this age, he had no idea why he had just ignored that completely despite sharing those feelings. A look of defeat washed over his features, his head lolling downwards in a wave of shame that washed over him upon remembering what a candy-ass he had been in front of you.

"I am sorry," He apologized, "I guess, I was taken aback."

"So you're saying we could have dated in school?" You wondered out loud, pushing kicking the ground to swing yourself as high as you could. It felt funny in your gut knowing that your one sided high school love affair wasn't as bad as you had cursed it for so long, although quite a bit unfortunate. No one ever told you that discovering that your old crush, with whom you had no luck getting together with now, was actually interested in you too.

"It's kinda weird now, don't you think?" You added, turning to look at Huening Kai who never stopped staring at the soaring girl; glowing brighter than the moon that had embraced the navy sky.

“Why weird?” Huening Kai queried, stretching his arms before standing up and walking behind you, hoping to return the favor he had promised you.

“It’s just,” You paused when Huening Kai’s hands grabbed onto your shoulders to prevent you from crashing into him. Myriad of stars detonated behind your closed eyes; Heart racing as though it is being chased by something that would guarantee it from ever beating, thumping against the rib cage at a brush of his hand.

Huening Kai murmured a quick apology, moving his hands onto the metal chains. The downside of his closed palms slightly touching your closed fists: an action that wouldn’t have affected you anyway, just ten minutes ago, but now it was a whole different conversation. Huening Kai just broke open Pandora's box, and you were the one suffering.

You were only one step, one innocent touch, away from experiencing all nine stages of grief in front of your ex-cush and current best friend, “Do you think we would have still been together?”

“I would hope so,” Huening Kai answered truthfully, he let go of the swing when felt it was a safe enough distance,”But your boyfriend might not like that idea.”

An impish smile decorated Huening Kai’s lips: he was aware of the fact that you currently had no boyfriend; a fact which you had no idea of. Truthfully he’s just testing the waters.

“I have no boyfriend!” You yelled out from above. Huening Kai smirked, quickly doing a congratulatory fist pump, and fixed his posture, pushing you back up when you came down. Thankfully, he was standing behind you so he didn't have to hide his grin and appear as if someone injected anesthesia into his lips while trying to hide it.

“Do you want one?”

If your heart skimped on doing it’s only one job which essentially runs your body, you might just admit yourself in a cardiac specialized clinic, and stamp the bill onto Huening Kai’s forehead. This time, before he could push you again, you screamed for him to stop and turned back to get a better look at the man.

And that bastard looked as though he was enjoying this. You were now sure that your ex crush and current best friend is in fact a sadist.

Huening Kai bent down to look you in the eyes,

"Do you want one?” He repeated his question; this time a little bit slower, a bit more earnest and an amped up sexual appeal which his 16 year self never could even if he plucked up the courage.

You were the first one to break eye contact, as you narrowed your eyes. You got up and stood in front of him, now looking up at him with your arms crossed, before booking it and running out of the playing ground. But in a comical turn of events, you hadn’t noticed the pull up bar in the dark and fell back within a second. If the pain wasn’t enough, the embarrassment was enough reason for you to dig a hole into the ground and bury yourself into it.

“Hey you okay?!”

“You couldn’t wait till I got discharged?” You deadpanned, touching the bandage on your forehead that you had acquired from last night’s mishap.

“No,” Huening Kai quickly responded before pouting his lips to blow onto the spoonful of soup and took it towards you—which you consumed without any words. He had a content smile on his face, pulling his personal handkerchief out and wiping the corner of your lips.

“I think for our first date,” Huening Kai looked around, acknowledging the romantic setting of a plain hospital room, “This is pretty iconic.”

#txt x reader #txt imagines #txt one shot #txt fanfic #txt scenarios #txt fluff #txt funny #txt drabble #huening kai x reader #huening kai fluff #huening kai imagines #huening kai scenarios #huening kai drabbles #huening kai fic #huening kai one shot #huening kai funny

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ventiswampwater · 4 months

Note

38 for mister stinky bo……i am not on my hands and knees don’t even worry abt it

38. if you do what you're told, you'll get a reward.

afab!fem!reader x bo sinclair (kinda lmao) word count: 542 You get the upper hand on Mr. Fake Mechanic. Warnings for: suggestive content, non-consensual bondage (Bo receiving for a change), and canon-typical violence. Left open-ended if you're gonna kill him or fuck him. Maybe both! You decide! LMAO

“You’re screwed.” Bo states plainly. “So fuckin’ screwed.”

“I wouldn’t be threatening me if I were you.” You reply. “Don’t you remember what I said? If you do what you’re told, you’ll get a reward.”

Sweat shines on his skin, plastering his hair to his forehead. If the knot at the back of his head isn’t already pulsing with pain, you’re sure it’s only a matter of time until it does. You’d gotten him pretty damn good. God, you could've killed him.

“Can’t get something for nothing, right?” You murmur.

It’s strange. You feel as if you’re running on some unstoppable internal motor. Bo's keys are on the counter, and he should be dead right now, but he isn’t. He’s very much alive, bloodying his wrists as he tugs on the straps of the chair.

“Lord knows where you’ve been keepin’ all this fire, huh?” Jutting his chin forward defiantly, he levels a cold smile at you. “You been holdin’ out on me, girl?”

You remember reading a news story once about a group of tigers that escaped a roadside zoo. They'd gone running free, darting through traffic, clamoring into suburban yards. They'd died clawing against white picket fences, pumped full of lead. That was the answer, when you got too wild. When you were past rehabilitation.

You only hit him once so you could see him pretty like this. Alive, one last time. You wonder, looking at him, if this was what it felt to look down the barrel of the gun.

“Surprise.” You say dryly, matching his stare with one of your own.

“You think you’re real hot shit, don’tcha?” He grunts. “Won’t be actin’ so fuckin' smug when I get out of this. Trust me."

“That’s if you get out.” You counter briskly. “Don’t really see that happening.”

“Wanna bet on it, girl?” He spits out, his upper lip pulling up into a sneer.

You smooth out the wrinkles in your skirt. It’s one of the prettiest things you’ve managed to amass in your time in Ambrose. That isn’t really saying much—but that's just how it is in this town. It’s the little things that matter here.

You scrape out what you can, and you turn it into something you can use. He’d agree with you on that, you’re sure. Using has always been an important part of this relationship. It’s nice to keep the tradition going, even if you had to mix it up this time. After all, his blood looks better on this dress than yours ever could.

“Sure. Let’s.” Grabbing a roll of duct table off the shelf, you brandish it in front of him. “I bet you’ll make real pretty noises with this over your mouth.”

if u wanna help me shake my EONS-long writer's block........pls feel free to send me a prompt + a character!! it'll probably be p crap bc I'm RUSTY. but I'll write u a lil smthn smthn lol

#writer's block begone: bitesize fic edition #bo sinclair x reader #<-KINDA hdfjhfdjshdsfj lmao #luv u brook jsdfhjfdshjdfshj sorry this is unhinged #I just was like. I gotta tie him up & bully him #he gets too much fictional pussy. gotta bonk him in the head like I'm playin whack-a-mole from time-to-time

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two-white-butterflies · 2 years

Text

coaxed you into paradise

Chapter Ten: The Whites Description: Saera Targaryen was her father's forgotten daughter. Years following her marriage with Ser Harwin Strong, she catches him in an affair with her sister and seeks solace in the arms of her uncle. Not realizing that the consequence of their affair is just as dire as her sister's.

masterlist

previous chapter <<

HE TAKES THE GOBLET OF BLOOD, and damps her forehead with their family's motto. "Fire" he wrote as she took the cup from his hand, gently inserting her finger and tapping its sides lightly. She places her fingers in his forehead and writes "Blood" in return.

He smiles, feeling a heavy weight lifted from off his shoulders. It had taken a decade of longing for them to finally be with each other. She smiles back at him as she takes another goblet from the officiator, bringing it to her lips and tasting the rusty taste of blood.

She smiles back at him, offering him the goblet and raising it to his lips. He takes a long gulp, and she chuckles lightly as she sees his blood stained mouth.

She wipes the crimson from his lips and brings her thumb to her mouth, tasting the iron of his tongue. "One soul, and one cause." he spoke for the first time as he looks behind her. Carefully watching as his children stared at the interaction.

"The winds will never hurt our backs," she replied as she leans closer and kisses his lips. His hands snaked towards her waist as he pulls her closer.

A thunder occurs from the skies and they both look up. Feeling the rain piercing both of their skins. He grasps her forearm and leans closer once more, tasting the ichor that she previously drank.

They both pull away, as the skies poured harder. He chuckles remembering their family's traditions. They say that when it rains during your wedding it means that the Gods have approved such match. It rained the day of Aegon and Rhaenys' marriage, and it has rained during Daemon and Saera's.

It was clear that the gods favored them. "You and I will rewarded in due time," he promised as he leans forward and gently pecks her lips. "To fire and blood." she toasted and he kisses the back of her hand. "To the promise of spring," he replied.

SAERA AND DAEMON STOOD WEARING THEIR WEDDING ATTIRES, with the eyes of Viserys' court piercing the both of them. And despite everyone looking at them with shame, she couldn't find it in herself to look down. Instead she kept her head raised, and her pride on her sleeves.

Viserys sits on his throne, reminding his brother and daughter that he was here as king and not as a family member. "Can you both explain to me, how this situation occurred?" he questioned intently as he kept his disappointed stare on his brother.

Saera and Daemon were birds of a feather — both were The King's headache, and both were rash and reckless. "It is nothing but pure love, brother." Daemon defended his judgement as Viserys' eyes narrowed in anger.

"I am your king. You shall address me as such," his booming voice commanded as Daemon kept his arm firmly supplanted on his wife's. "We married in the sights of our god, and the tradition of House Targaryen, your grace." Saera broke her vow of silence as The King frowned.

"Might I remind you that you are already married, Saera? To Ser Harwin, who has been kind to you." Viserys scolded as she chuckled bitterly. Not recognizing every word that dripped from her father's tongue.

Lord Lyonel clears his throat as he walked down the steps of the throne. He bore respect for his good-daughter and wasn't expecting such betrayal. "It is a grotesque misalliance, your grace. But things have been put to right now," she answered shyly but kept her chin up.

"Put to right, my princess? I do not understand your grievances when you have betrayed your husband and the faith of the seven. What you put forth is blasphemy to the highest regard!" Lyonel exclaimed as he tried to ignore Daemon's piercing glare.

The Rogue Prince takes a step forward, and flexes The Dark Sister. "Efforts to besmirch my wife's reputation will not be taken lightly." he threatened as the lord takes a step back. Saera rests her hand on her husband's shoulder, and glares at her good-father.

"We have done no wrong. It is my right to take as much spouses as I wish. It is what Aegon The Conqueror did with his sister-wives." she argued as her father presses a hand to his forehead. Already feeling a migraine forming.

The doors burst open behind them. She turns to look at the unlucky intruder and realizes that it's Ser Harwin and Princess Rhaenyra. "Come to join the feast?" Daemon smirks as he wraps his arms around Saera.

Harwin was red with fury. Anger was evident in his face and movement. But what he couldn't deny was the pang in his chest that told him that something wasn't right.

Viserys' eyes hardened, understanding that none of them would go down without a fight. "Is it true what I hear of?" Harwin interrogates as he walks towards his wife. Pulling at her arm, and ignoring her Valyrian wedding attire.

She frees herself from his grasp, as Daemon points his sword at the unfaithful man. "I do not owe you an explanation," she asserts as his eyebrow began to bump into each other.

"I am your husband," he pointed his finger at her as Daemon points at his sword. "And so am I." he replies as he keeps the woman behind her. "I do not understand!" he exclaims as he stares at his father.

Lord Lyonel walks towards his son and whispers a few sentences in his ears. With every word, Harwin became redder and redder, until it had grown too much to bear. He drawed his sword and aimed it at The Rogue Prince. Only for the Kingsguard to pull him down.

King Viserys stands up, and everyones eyes turn back to him. "My daughter is right, we are the blood of Old Valyria and the laws of men will never apply to us. Their marriage is legitimate, but I suppose that there are a few things only the three of you can decide upon." he interpolated and Saera squeezes her uncles hands.

It didn't matter if it brought great shame upon them, all that matters was that their marriage was legitimate and true. "This is unjust, your grace!" Harwin begged to differ but his good-father's decision was already set in stone.

Viserys raises his hands and calls for his maester to dismiss everyone.

Harwin turns towards his wife, and reaches for her hands. "This is not right, Saera, and you know it." he beseeched but she only frees herself from his grasp. "I do not intend to dwell on something unchangeable. I know things — things that will bring shame upon my sister's line. But I will not speak about it, for I bare respect for her and for our house." she stated as she fiddled with her necklace and walked hand-in-hand with her new husband.

Reminding everyone that Dragons were unstable and unpredictable. That Saera and Daemon were dragons, and their enemies would never succeed against them.

next chapter >>

taglist: @sweetybuzz25 @newtsniffles @loveandlewis-reads @lovecleastrange @julkaamazing @mirandastuckinthe80s @duhitzdae @schniiipsel @areaderinlove @i-yam-awesome @ladystardvsts @brezzybfan @rockerchick05 @flawroses @joygirlmelii @princessmiaelicia @prettybiching @sweetybuzz25 @saraandthejets1 @naturallyspontaneous @hnybitches @lxdyred @inpraizeof @claudie-080102 @wallace02sblog @teenagephilosophersandwich @1-800-isabellapotter @my-dark-prince @mamamooqa @3wwn @uniquenightsheep @23victoria @curiouser-an-curiouser @queenofshinigamis @alexisabirdie @fulla02 @kindaslightlyacidic @dearpetal

#daemon targaryen #daemon targaryen x oc #ser harwin strong #harwin strong x oc

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nateofgreat · 2 months

Text

I've got to say, Ahsoka's cultivated the most excuses for anything she does over the course of her story. And by excuses, I don't mean valid and logical explanations, just the fandom picking up on the way the meta justifies everything she does and doing the same thing in turn.

-Ahsoka acts rude throughout the Clone Wars.

"She's so young and inexperienced. She doesn't know any better!" :(

-Forty-something Ahsoka acting the same way.

"She's been through so much!" :(

-Ahsoka makes herself look super guilty and thus draws the Jedi Council's suspicion during the Wrong Jedi Arc?

"What else was she supposed to do? NOBODY (Except Anakin and the Council initially) trusted her!!!" >:(

-Ahsoka loses all personality and becomes as a dull as rock.

"The Jedi Order BETRAYED HER! How can we expect that to have not wiped out her personality for thirty years?" :(

-Ahsoka forgives Anakin for slaughtering the Jedi, becoming a tyrannical Sith Lord, and trying to kill her. While refusing to forgive the Jedi and implying they deserved their genocide?

"She's completely right! The Jedi didn't trust her one time! So they had it coming!" >:(

-Ahsoka abandons the Rebellion to go off and do her own thing, something that's never specified?

"She had good reason to ditch the Rebellion unlike those stinky old Jedi!" >:(

-Ahsoka encounters and survives every threat in her lifetime? Be it Grievous, Ventress, Cad Bane (I'll give her this one), Sidious, Vader, Maul, Baylan, and even knocking Anakin and Obi-Wan around in the Mortis arc. Either by extraordinary luck or literal magical intervention in the form of the World-Between-Worlds?

"She was trained by the Chosen One! And she's really good for her age." :D

-Ahsoka kills an Inquisitor in one move after lazing around on a farm for years, letting her skills get rusty. After having only received about three years of battle training?

"Awesome!" :D

-Ahsoka holds a spark of the Goddess of Light's power within herself and is followed around by her pet bird despite constantly acting out of passion, fear, rage, etc?

"She's the purest of all Jedi and what they should really be!" :D

At this point, Ahsoka could appear in a pillar of light in the middle of Return of the Jedi and scream; "I AM YOUR GODDESS NOW!" kill Sidious, and rearrange the cosmos into her image and people would find an excuse for it.

Obviously, I'm not referring to normal fans of the character and I honestly don't blame the superfans either. This is just how Dave Filoni's written her and its rubbed off on the fandom.

#Star Wars #anti Ahsoka #anti Ahsoka Tano #Ahsoka Tano critical #Ahsoka critical #Dave Filoni critical

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kentdreaming · 1 year

Text

Ribs: a Roy Kent story

Series: Ribs

Pairing: Roy Kent x OC

Summary: Natalia's past is now quickly becoming her present. Might as well try to make light of it all.

Word Count: 2.3k

Warnings: swearing but that's about it

A/N: I'm so so so grateful for all of the love already for the first chapter! I'm pretty rusty in the writing world, so be patient as I get my footing again. I just love Roy Kent so much, yall. Also, yes I used an old Lorde song for the title of this series in the year 2023, nature is healing

gif from @winterscaptain

Chapter 2

His eyes were so dark. A deep warm brown bore hard into her sharp green for a moment. Natalia blinked hard, hoping, wondering, if this was a dream. A glimmer ghosted across his eyes before it disappeared behind some furrowed and bushy eyebrows. “Natalia,” He nodded quickly. She opened her mouth to speak, but before she could even utter a sound, Roy had pushed past her and quickly through the photographers giving them obscene gestures and a slew of “Fuck off”s. Natalia scoffed, dumbfounded. She quickly shook it off and squared her shoulders before stepping onto the red carpet. The cameras and reporters roared when she stepped into frame. “Talia, Talia, who are you wearing!?” “Talia, over here!” “Talia–”

She squirmed under the flashing lights and cacophony of sound. Talia tried her best to soothe herself in the moment, playing it off with her hard rocker energy and striking a few poses to appease the cameras. After a pose with devil horns and her tongue out, she began her descent toward the ballroom.

“Is it true you’re now a minority owner of AFC Richmond!?” A reporter yelled. She stopped, flipping her hair over her shoulder for one final money shot with the response, “Yes, darling. It is true. But I must be off to donate to children in need, toodles!”

Natalia stomped into the ballroom and was quickly overwhelmed with the crowds. Not wanting to bother Rebecca as she was clearly in her own groove, she found Ted at the bar. “I’ll have the same as him, love,” Natalia rapped on the bar beside Ted as she heard him order a triple of whiskey. “Well I’ll be,” Ted smiled, quickly admiring her outfit, “You sure do clean up nicely!”

“Thank you, Ted,” Natalia smiled, leaning over to fix his tie. Quickly she felt eyes on her from somewhere else in the room. “Everything alright, Mr. Triple shot?” “Oh y’know when you just see through someone?” Ted shrugged. “Ah, I see you met Rupert,” Natalia nodded as their two drinks were delivered. “You know him?”

“It’s hard not to know him in these circles, but I only know him to be particularly fucking disgusting. You ever heard how Rebecca found out about his cheating?”

“Mm mmm,” Ted shook his head as he drained his whiskey. Natalia raised her eyebrows, taking a long slow sip, not breaking eye contact with the American. Ted took a moment to register what she meant. She felt the eyes again, but she ignored it.

“You?” Ted finally put two and two together.

“Yup,” Natalia nodded, knocking the bar and ordering another round, “He extended me an exclusive invite to Bones and Honey, thinking he could win me over that way… Little did he know I’m already a fuckin’ member. So, I promptly showed up, squashed a morsel of that ego of his and then quickly left to find Rebecca.” “Well, I sure am happy you made that call,” Ted smiled, clinking his glass with yours, “otherwise I never woulda had this opportunity. So I s’pose I have you to thank then.” Natalia smiled, relaxed for the first time all day and patted Ted on the shoulder, “Pleasure is all mine, Ted.” The two enjoyed some chit chat at the bar and seemed to be having a good time. Roy Kent, however, was not. Not only was he sitting at the table with Jamie fucking Tartt, but everytime he had glanced in Natalia’s direction, she seemed to have been getting closer and closer to the gaffer. His hands clenched into hard fists under the table. He hadn’t seen her in decades and there she is chatting up that annoying American. He couldn’t understand why he was getting so angry. But then he saw her and Ted rise from their spots at the bar and make their way toward the table, just as he was getting ushered off to be brought up on stage.

Natalia reached the table as Keeley Jones was making her way back. A small squeal emitted from both the small women, the two quickly hugged each other.

“Talia! You looking fucking incredible, babes!” Keeley squealed, running her way to her in her golden gown. She kissed Natalia’s cheeks and ogled her.

“Your tits are fucking fantastic,” Keeley breathed staring at the deep cut V in the front of her dress. Natalia just laughed, rocking her head back.

Keeley quickly dismissed the young woman named Bex before having a quiet but heated discussion with Jamie. Roy was the next player to be auctioned off. It soon became clear that Keeley was now playing Jamie’s game from earlier at the auction. Frankly, Natalia was sick of it. Sick of seeing Roy being in the middle of it all. Plus, she wanted to have fun anyway. Right before Rupert auctioned off Roy to an old bitty who was promising to make his night one to remember, Natalia stood up with a paddle. “10,000 pounds,” Natalia proclaimed, the crowd quickly filled with commotion and whispers. Roy’s eyes widened underneath the spotlight. “Well, well,” Rupert smiled, a hint of distaste in his features as he realized who it was that bid, “Sold! To Miss Talia Forrest! Just a couple of Sunderland natives out on the town, then? Tell me, what does £10,000 unlock in the Roy Kent Dating Package?”

“Who knows, but what else is a ‘washed up rockstar’ to do with all this royalty money? For the children, right Rupert?” Natalia quipped back, eliciting a scattering of chuckles in the audience, a challenge in her eyes, “Plus, Roy’s been put through enough having to consider a night with Cheryl over here. Hi there, Cheryl, darling.”

“Natalia Forrest, everybody,” Rupert announced, “Don’t you hurt his ego too much,” gesturing to Roy to exit the stage. Roy promptly rushed off stage, moving at bullet speed, he stormed past the crowd as the auction came to a close. Without much acknowledgement, he grabbed Natalia by her arm, dragging her along with him. “Whoa, Roy–” Natalia stammered as he dragged her off to the quiet area of the abandoned sidebar.

“Don’t fucking do that again,” Roy growled.

Natalia’s eyes widened in shock, “Roy— I was just—“

“Between Keeley using me as some stupid fucking jealousy game with that prick and you auctioning out of fucking pity— I fucking hate it.” he bit out.

“I-“ Natalia started, ready to be defensive. Instead she just looked at him. She hadn’t seen him in so long, and even though she wanted nothing more than to wrap him in a hug, she sighed, “I’m really sorry, Roy. I was just sick of Jamie and Keeley’s stupid fucking game.”

Roy took a moment, his eyes searching hers for any sign of deceit. But all he saw were big, apologetic soft green eyes staring back up at him. With heels, she only stood about 5’5”, but there was a time he remembered where they were roughly the same height. A pang of sadness pulled in his chest.

“Thank you,” he nodded.

As he turned to leave, Natalia caught his arm, “Roy wait.”

He paused, turning around to face her again, the feeling of her hand on his arm sent a long forgotten shock through his body.

“You owe me a £10,000 date,” Natalia said smirking up at him, “So you better make it fucking worth it.”

He gave a soft growl and stormed away. Natalia’s heart sank into her gut again as he disappeared. She was quickly distracted by the sound of Rebecca introducing a very last minute musical guest, a street busker, and she was immediately blown away by the young man’s performance. Natalia rushed into the crowd and bounced around to the music with who she was assuming was her team, and by the description Rebecca had given her earlier, danced hard with Coach Beard.

As the night wound to a close, Rebecca found Natalia speaking with Cam Cole, Ted, and Beard. Talia had just finished handing Cam a few business cards and took a photo with him for her personal social platforms to promote the performer when Rebecca approached.

“Hello gentlemen,” Rebecca smiled nervously, “Natalia, I was- uhm- wondering if you would care to join me and–”

“I’m fuckin’ in,” Talia responded.

“I didn’t even finish–”

“I will do anything with you,” Natalia reassured, “Plus, something tells me Keeley is involved.” Glancing over Rebecca’s shoulder to see Keeley trying to wave with two champagne bottles cradled in her arms.

Natalia turned back to the three men, “My chariot awaits gentlemen. It’s been a fuckin’ blast. Cam, please do give me a call, I see a lot of fucking potential in you.”

“Jeez louise, Nat,” Ted laughed, “You swear just like Roy. Hey, have you met Roy?”

“I have, Ted,” Natalia said a bit sharper than she meant, recovering, “I bid on him, remember?”

Beard gave Talia a pointed look and a feeling went down her spine. He seemed to know something “Anyways, see you lot around, yeah?” Natalia asked, hugging and leaving a kiss on each man’s cheek.

“Don’t be a stranger,” Ted beamed, “It’d be fun to have you around more.”

With that, Natalia dashed over to the increasingly impatient women and they found their way to a bike taxi where they squeezed close together and drank the night away. Once they had made it to Rebecca’s flat (which was one hell of a workout for that poor bicyclist), Natalia left him enough money to pay rent twice over and the three stumbled inside. “Get these bloody fucking things off me,” Rebecca groaned as she kicked off her heels, giving her ankles a soft rub. Keeley and Natalia soon follow.

“Shit I forgot how tiny you both are,” Rebecca laughed, “like a couple of elves.”

“Oi!” Keeley and Natalia yelled together. Immediately the two started cackling.

Once the women had settled down, they drank away at the wine and all cozied up on Rebecca’s couch, which was somehow even more comfortable than the one in her office. In true teenage-girl-sleepover fashion, they all huddled around and turned on a movie that was quickly discarded for immediate gossip of the night.

“God, Rupert is such a dick,” Keeley groaned, throwing her head back.

“Amen,” Natalia drunkenly lifted her glass in agreement.

“Say,” Keeley swiveled, her big eyes a bit droopy, “What’s the deal with the $10,000 bid tonight.”

Natalia was taken aback by the sudden switch in topic. “For the children?” She mumbled unconvincingly.

“Oh bullshit,” Rebecca rolled her eyes, “£10,000?”

“Rebecca, when have I not thrown money out for donations?”

“Natalia,” Rebecca lightly challenged, a knowing look, and a raised brow, “Only when it benefits you.”

Fuck. Keeley gasped, “You wanna shag Roy!”

She couldn’t tell which was the culprit, but between the sudden and drunken interrogation, and the obscene amount of alcohol running through her, she couldn’t help the faint blush that tinged the tip of her nose and ears. Keeley and Rebecca let out a couple of squeals jumping in their seats. Natalia quickly rolled her eyes, giving her the best scowl she could muster. After a moment, however, she softened, her fingers lighting dancing around the rim of her wine glass, eyes intently looking at her own movements.

“It’s not like that,” she mumbled, a soft smile on her lips. God, why do I go so soft around these two? Both other women noticed Natalia’s shift in demeanor. They also immediately scooted closer, worried but aching to know more. Talia gave a quick glance up to two pairs of very expectant eyes. With a sigh and a slight roll of her eyes, Natalia finally responded.

“Roy and I grew up together,” she admitted. It felt good to let someone else know. Their eyes widened at the new knowledge. Natalia continued, the liquor prompting the words, “Grew up in the same, shitty and rundown flats– the community would always joke that no matter how poor we all were, the place was magic to be able to produce two famous kids."

At this, Natalia let out a soft chuckle, mind a million miles away as she rambled on, “Due to both of us being just wee kids, we were expected to continue on in schooling. We were both put into the same tutoring system.”

“Oh my god, childhood sweethearts!” Keeley squealed gently, earning a side look from Rebecca.

Natalia responded with a dry laugh, “Hardly. A few years past and we were closer than ever,” she explained, “but then between Roy’s hard fuckin’ work paying off in the football clubs, and my music career exploding into my first tour, we drifted apart. I haven’t seen him since I was 16 during his debut game. The next time I saw him was today.”

Rebecca and Keeley sat dumbfounded, and grateful that she was so open with them. They stared at Natalia dreamy-eyed with the childhood nostalgia. “But that ain’t the Roy Kent I fuckin’ know,” Talia stated. A deep sadness tugged at her gut, as she finished the rest of her wine. She shook her head, “Nah. The Roy I know was soft, and gentle, and always tried to make me laugh.”

After a beat, Talia shrugged, looking at the time. Rebecca and Keeley had eventually received the message and they all proceeded to get ready for bed as they all managed to sleep quite comfortably in Rebecca’s bed.

Roy laid in his bed, staring at the ceiling. He couldn’t fucking sleep. Anytime he’d close his eyes, she should pop up behind his closed eyes. It was driving him fucking crazy. He growled, reaching over for his phone. He pulled her name up from his contacts and started to draft a message. He had tried and failed multiple times writing out something simple.

“Fuck it,” he growled, slamming his phone back onto the nightstand before rolling over and tried to force himself to sleep. Trainin’ is going to be a fucking bitch tomorrow.

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