#how do i make it through autumn without feeling like i have wasted her

[thisblogisaboutabook]

Rainy Season - Part 6

If You Told Me To

Azriel Eris x Reader

Eris has a little chat with Azriel. As Y/N braces herself to face her mate for the first time since leaving him - she calls in reinforcements. Eris calls in one of his own.

A/n: This is the second to last chapter of the series. Chapter 7 will be the final chapter followed by an epilogue. I have been excited to share this chapter as, lyrically, the song it’s titled after is one of my favorites. Enjoy!

Part 5 Part 7

Warnings: Language

The Shadowsinger sat chained in a cell beneath the Autumn Keep. Comfortably lit, temperature regulated, nothing egregious. There was a dark, selfish part of Eris that would not have minded a bit of suffering to befall the male, a little seemed fair given the hell he’d put Y/N through. But Eris couldn’t do that to her. Certainly there was a small part of the mating instinct that would have left her in pain to see her mate - a title he didn’t deserve - hurting.

Eris begrudgingly placed a glamour over her scent that clung to his skin like fine perfume, such a waste to cover it with his own autumnal blend. It was not his place to explain or unveil anything regarding the relationship between them, Eris would have to tread carefully in his questioning.

He almost, almost said “fuck the glamour” and let that intoxicating-as-hell summer storm scent of hers fill the air and marched straight to the dungeons in his sweats and a linen tee, let him see exactly what Eris had been up to all morning. The look on the Shadowsinger’s face would have been so damned satisfying.

Alas, he chose to play the part of pompous High Lord, dressing in the most lordly of attire.

“Well, well, well, what brings you to my humble abode, Shadowsinger? You could have just knocked.”

Azriel snarled through his gag, nose flaring. To put it lightly, he looked rough. His once golden skin paled, dark circles prominent beneath his eyes, and multiple large purple bruises littered his skin.

“Ah, right.” Eris cleared his throat, giving the tattered male before him a disapproving stare. With a quick flick of his wrist the gag disappeared.

“Just let me fucking talk to her.” Azriel growled, his shadows darkening the cell.

Eris inspected his cuticles, refusing to drop the air of irreverence he’d intentionally given off. “Who would you like to speak with, Shadowsinger?”

“You fucking know.” He growled, rage limning each word.

“Say her name.” Eris replied cooly. Needing to make a point to himself.

“Y/N.”

And in that moment Eris realized just how far gone he was in his desire for Y/N. It was dangerous, the fiery rage that burned through his chest at the sacrilege of her sacred name falling from his desecrated lips.

Though Eris refrained from any external display of that inferno blazing inside of him, the slight tick in his jaw must have given him away to the awaiting Spymaster.

Azriel pulled and jerked with all of his might against the chains and Eris was well aware of his power, the entire Autumn Court was. Eris had backup measures in place that - even with his contempt toward the male - he did not wish to use.

“Stop pulling on the chains, Azriel.” Eris commanded.

The use of his given name instead of Eris’ typical “Shadowsinger” caught Azriel’s attention and the look alone on the his face could have killed a lesser male as Azriel’s furious gaze met Eris’

“If you fucking hurt her, I will rip you apart limb by limb. I will make it slow-“

Eris cut him off. “Was it those theatrics that won her heart, Shadowsinger? Truly, you bore me.” Eris returned to examining his nails.

“Fuck you.” Azriel growled.

Eris would ask Y/N’s forgiveness later for what he was about to say. At least he’d made an honest effort to keep his feelings for her separate from the situation at hand.

Without missing a beat, the High Lord goaded, “Funny you should say that. Was it not your fucking around that put you in this position in the first place?”

Azriel lost it. Eris couldn’t recall a time in his centuries of living that he’d seen such display of rage. He yanked at the chains with all of his might, his centuries of strength training apparent as the sounds of the rage and the grinding of stone on metal filled the cell. His efforts nearly successful in ripping free from the wall.

“I’ve asked you once to quit pulling, Shadowsinger. You are in here with just cause and will answer as such. You can behave like a civil being or continue the brute act and I will be forced to take matters into my own hands.” With that, fire sparked and was contained within his palm.

Azriel banked slightly at the display and for a moment Eris felt a twinge of remorse as his eyes landed on those scarred hands.

“Spare me your pity, High Lord.” Azriel spat the title with venom.

Eris shook his head, pacing alongside the cell. “Oh but I do pity you, Shadowsinger. Not in the way I hold back my fire given your past circumstances, that is basic decency on my part.”

With a mock bow, he continued,

“What I pity is how you wage such concern over Y/N’s well-being within my palace walls while blatantly disregarding the fact that you are the one who broke her with your own two hands. And now that she has built herself back up shard by fractured shard into something far stronger, even more rare than the shining gem she already was, you appear like a thief in the night. What is your plan, Azriel? Are you here to break her again?

Eris stepped closer to the cell. Flame igniting those amber eyes as he crouched down face to face with the bound Shadowsinger, grounding out in a low, predatory tone. “Because you won’t this time. Diamonds don’t crush under pressure.”

And with that, Eris stood back up, placed his hands in his pockets, that casual irreverence once again masking his features. “And I find diamonds to be quite precious, so I’ll be sure to cherish mine with the tender, loving care that she deserves.”

Azriel seethed, shadows raging violently within the cell. And Eris wasn’t certain but he could have sworn that anger was directed at their master himself.

Eris waited for more violence, for the filth that would spill from his mouth but the Shadowsinger only hung his head low, and to Eris’ surprise, large, salty tears began falling from his face.

Eris said nothing as Azriel sobbed. Why kick the male when he’d already downed himself? So Eris stood and waited. Eventually Azriel looked up again, “Please, just let me talk to her.”

Eris paused, taking stock of the broken male before him.

Just when it appeared to Azriel that he’d deny him, Eris replied. “You are fortunate that your mate is far more benevolent than I, she has agreed to speak with you.”

Azriel let out a large, broken sigh of relief.

Eris only smirked. “But she has conditions.”

—————————

I don’t want to look back on these days, knowing all the things you’d never know if I never said a word and let you go.

“You don’t have to do this, Y/N.” Eris spoke softly.

“I do, Eris. What he did, it’s too much. Too far. If you weren’t the ruler that you are, this might have been treated as an act of war.”

Eris shook his head. “You’re right. What he did is not acceptable by any means. But you, you shouldn’t have to deal with this after all you’ve been through.”

“It’s the right thing to do.” She spoke firmly.

He pulled her in closely, resting his chin on her head, those warm arms wrapped tightly around her easing the bitter cold threatening to frost her heart. “He never deserved you.”

Eris knew a mask when he saw one. Knew them far too well. Beneath the strong exterior she was presenting, his brave girl was nervous as hell.

I don't want to steal you away or make you change the things that you believe.

Eris escorted Y/N to a large meeting space by a roaring fire, sitting her at the head of the table, he to her right. One with a lesser sense of hearing might have missed the increase of her heart rate. That mask beginning to slip.

“Look at me, minx.”

Her glassy eyes met his as he reached forward, his hands enveloping hers. “You owe nothing to anyone. Nobody. Not to the Night Court, to my Court, or even to the Summer Court beyond what Tarquin has contracted you to do, and you especially owe nothing to the Shadowsinger.”

Her lip quivered and he spared her the discomfort of replying right away by continuing, “If it is your choice to hear him out, I commend you. You are far more brave and strong than you realize, and the fact that you are giving him your time today is an act of kindness in itself. Do not feel that you are obligated to comfort him or give your forgiveness.”

Eris lightly placed a broad palm on her chest. “What’s in there points true. Follow your heart, little fox. Do not do or say anything for anyone’s benefit but your own.”

Eris gave her the time she needed to collect her thoughts. His thumb brushed soothing strokes over the back of her hand as she composed herself.

Her voice cracked only slightly when she asked, “Is what I’m doing wrong? Are my conditions too harsh?”

Eris took a moment. Her heart racing like the best of a hummingbird’s wings as she awaited his response. He didn’t want to steer her any particular direction. Obviously, he wanted her by his side. Hell, he needed her by his side, she was as essential as water to him at this point. But her happiness and well-being mattered more than his needs.

He didn’t want her to go back to the Night Court as he knew Azriel would try convincing her to do. A selfish part of him begged to take her hand and bow on his knees before her. He was at her will and would serve her for the rest of his days should she only ask. But she needed to make this choice for herself. She was a summer storm, his little fox, who was he to stop her from flowing whatever direction she willed its winds to take her.

So, he wouldn’t ask her to stay or think of him at all during this meeting with her mate. However, he would emphasize what she likely already knew, that he had already fallen in love with her. That he fell in love with her spirit the moment that filthy string of curses fell from her pretty mouth when they met that first day. He wouldn’t pressure her by speaking those words aloud just yet, but he could show her in the best way he knew how given the circumstances, by empowering her.

“Y/N,” he broke the silence. “I meant what I told you. What you are doing today is brave. You are strong. To face a male who has not earned your time or presence in front of his own family to hear out his side of things, or whatever it is he wishes to say - you are so much stronger than you realize. Do not worry about what he or anyone at this table will think or feel. You hear him out and you choose what is right for you. The only person owed anything today is you and what you’re owed is peace. You deserve the world, fox.”

Those shining eyes of hers welled up. He lifted her chin with a long finger, “No tears, little one. You go in there and you take your power back. I will be out there.” He nodded toward a corridor to the eastern wing of the keep. “If you need anything at all, I’ll be waiting for you.”

She placed a delicate hand on Eris’ muscled bicep. “Eris…”

“Yes, fox?”

“I don’t want to do this alone.”

I want to drink from the words you say and be everything you need.

The creak of an oak door captured their attention. A sentry entered the room, his steps echoing throughout. “High Lord, Lady, the guests are arriving.” The sentry looked to Eris, “along with the guest you personally requested.”

Y/N turned toward Eris, her brows furrowing in confusion.

“Bring her in.” He replied to the sentry, turning to face Y/N. “I thought you may want someone in your corner for this meeting.”

————-

Camila, Y/N’s sister, burst through the door, all bronze skin, bouncing black curls, and smiles. “Sister!!!” She squealed.

Y/N looked to Eris. Immense gratitude radiating from her lovely face. He nodded toward Camila, gesturing to go to her. The sisters ran to eachother, nearly tackling one another to the floor.

Camila giggled, gasping as she fought to catch her breath. “I saw a red-headed male outside with long hair, gorgeous tan skin, a wicked smile, and-“ she whispered not-so-subtly in her sisters ear “worship worthy thighs, handcrafted by the gods themselves.” She dropped the whisper act, continuing, “Oh my gods, Y/N, and a scar over his eye! Giving him that sexy mysterious look that you only ever read about in smutty novels.”

Eris choked as he realized who she was talking about, capturing the attention of Camila. “If I’d known what you were hiding here, High Lord, I’d have ventured over from the Summer Court much sooner.”

“I hate to disappoint you, Camila, but Lucien lives in the Day Court when he’s not at his apartment in Velaris.”

Camila’s mouth dropped into an “O” as she realized who the male was. “Well, onto the next one then. Who else are you hiding around here for me to fall in love with?”

The laughter was broken when the Oak Door opened again, a sentry announcing the next guests. “the High Lord of the Night Court and his general.”

Darkness suddenly overtook the room, and an instinctual part of Y/N caused her to pale. She’d very rarely seen Rhysand’s darkness so adamant, and it was never a good thing. Cassian kept a straight, stoic face, warrior’s stance on full display. This male, this was the Lord of Bloodshed and not the lovable giant she’d known for decades.

She remained frozen, Camila gasping in horror before deciding that she’d rather stare daggers at the brothers of the male who cheated on her little sister. Rhysand took in the room, paying no mind to Camila’s violent glare. When he realized Azriel was not in the room, his eyes landed on Y/N and the darkness immediately faded away. Rhys’ expression softened as he directed his footsteps toward her, opening his mouth to speak, but it was Cassian who yelled, “Y/N babygirl! Look at you!”

The giant male bound right past Rhys, running to her. Leaving no time for Y/N to brace herself as he whisked her up into a bone crushing hug, spinning her in circles. “Fuck, I’ve missed you. Never leave without saying goodbye again.”

As soon as Cassian said it, he faltered, gently setting her back down with his eyes downcast. “I had no idea, Y/N. We only found out the real reason why you left yesterday.”

Eris gave distance to the trio so she could speak with the males, Camila coming to his side. Eris couldn’t help smirking at the glare she gave to the Night Court’s High Lord and Cassian. He leaned in to her ear, his low voice barely a rumble, “I’d never admit this to them but while they are brutes, they’re not so bad.”

Camila only scoffed, waiving a dismissive hand in his direction.

It was true. Rhysand had given her space to heal but regularly sent check-in’s to the Summer and Autumn Court High Lords to ensure her well-being. Both Tarquin and Eris had to swear not to tell her, but Rhysand had contributed significantly to Y/N’s extremely generous salary as emissary between the courts. She didn’t know what emissary’s typically made so she never thought about it, but it certainly was not the substantial amount that she was being paid.

Once Cassian was finished fawning over his “favorite little ass-kicker” Rhys stepped forward.

“Y/N” he said. Eyes roaming up and down her body. She was more filled in and fit than she had been when he last saw her, the radiance had returned to her skin, the light in her eyes shone bright as the stars of Velaris. Gods, he’d forgotten the way his brother’s mate rivaled even the most vibrant of summer sunsets.

She held her chin high, meeting her former High Lord’s violet gaze. Rhys pulled her close and she melted into his arms. Not just her former High Lord but her friend. She knew this. And the warmth of his strong arms embracing her reminded her of exactly that.

That stinging rejection of Azriel’s betrayal had somewhat tainted her view of the Inner Circle’s love for her. They had accepted her into their little family immediately when she and Azriel mated and she thought they’d dismiss her just as quickly when she left.

His breaking of what they had did not change that the inner circle cared for her. Rhys held her close for nearly a minute, burying his face into the top of her head, whispering how sorry he was for not realizing just how awry things had gone with Azriel and Elain. She felt guilty for leaving them.

“Don’t you for one moment regret this, Y/N. You will always have a place in my home but there are bigger things in this world for you.” He nodded toward Eris briefly with a cheeky expression that felt a lot like understanding, approval even.

She swatted at him. “Get out of my head, busybody.”

“It was written all over your face, darling.” He shrugged.

Cassian cut in. “We wanted to come in first to assess the situation. Everyone else is in the entry hall. Are you sure about this, Y/N? You don’t have to see him if you’re not ready.”

Darkness flared around Rhys again as he nodded in agreement.

She stepped to Eris’ side with renewed confidence. “I’m ready.”

Eris commanded his sentries. “Go ahead and bring them in.”

Resisting the urge to press a parting kiss to her forehead, he gave a reassuring brush of his hand against hers and began to step away.

She grabbed his wrist. “Please, stay.”

Her pleading eyes spoke what she couldn’t “I can’t do this without you.”

So, he stayed by her side as they waited for the impending shit show to unfold.

I could be so good at loving you, but only if you told me to.

————————————————-

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#sarah j maas #acotar #azriel #a court of thorns and roses #a court of silver flames #a court of frost and starlight #a court of mist and fury #a court of wings and ruin #azriel shadowsinger #daddy eris #eris x reader #eris vandaddy #eris vanserra #acotar x hunter hayes #rainy season

[milliesdiary]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐓 𝐁𝐄𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐔𝐒

𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭; you’re a general's pants-wearing daughter: a skilled fighter, headstrong, and teased by others for not being feminine. during a sparring session with your friend, aemond, you two make a bet: if you win, he has to show you his eye. if he wins, you have to wear a dress — and kiss him.

𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐝𝐞𝐬; aemond being aemond, confessions, just some good old sweetness ✨

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞; thank you so much to the amazing person who asked for this :”) i hope i could do it justice! to be as inclusive as possible, i do not mention the reader’s father’s descent. i also do not specify her skin tone, body type, eye/hair color, or hair texture ♡ 

𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐀𝐑𝐄𝐍’𝐓 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐘𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐄𝐋𝐒𝐄.

Not like any other woman, at least. You’re strong-willed. Unshakeable. Not as naïve. 

As a child, you made mud pies, climbed trees, and kicked boys who made fun of you for acting unladylike. You would return to your parents with grime under your nails, grass stains on your pants, and a twinkle in your eyes. Blood never bothered you; you could get slashed open, bruised, and filthy, yet still make it home. 

Maybe it was because of your father — a stubborn general hardened by war, with a sharp way of speaking and a stern sentiment. He taught you the way of the sword at the age of 9, and instilled you with a sense of discipline. Not once did he try to force you into the stereotypes of being a woman; the fancy clothes, the manners, the expectation to give birth at any chance possible. 

That’s just not you. 

You're not the kind of girl who crumbles beneath the weight of insults, who loses her mind, who cries. You give the same treatment to those who hurt you. You are Bloody Mary, the venomous spider, the wicked snake. You are a creature that can wander through flames without getting burned.

So no, you are not like the other women.

And the townsfolk are always willing to remind you.

The second you step onto the training grounds, all eyes are on you, and there’s an intense discomfort at how they look you up and down.

They are taking in your appearance; your black flowy cape, leather pants, and the tunic cinched at your waist to match. It’s not the style they are used to seeing, comprised of silk dresses and chiffon gowns. 

People gossip about how you could steal the hearts of every man in Westeros if you just put on a skirt — if you sat with your legs crossed, prim and proper. If you smiled more often. 

“Such a waste of a pretty girl,” they whisper.

How stupid.

You shrug away their stares and try to focus on something else.

It’s a beautiful day, perfect for sparring; the November sunlight veils the world in a golden shawl, and the cool air is sweet as a mandarin. The temperature has risen enough so that you can train without getting numb or going home with an earache from the wind.

You’re more than ready for a fight, to get your hands soiled and feel sweat bead down your face. 

Walking over to a table where swords and blades of all kinds are spread along the surface, you feel that familiar rush of excitement. You’re about to grab a dagger until you hear someone call your name. 

It’s Ser Criston. He walks over, armor clicking with every stride and gleaming in the autumn sun, only to stop beside you. “I was waiting for when I would see you again. Have you come to train?” 

“Of course,” you say simply. “Did you expect any less?”

“Maybe not,” the knight replies, an accepting expression on his face. He knows that you enjoy playing dirty. 

Luckily, you and Ser Cristin get along. He is outside a lot of the time helping to train the others, so it was not unusual that you both talked from time to time. You aren’t sure if he is bothered by your lack of femininity, but he never mentions it, so you do not mind him.

You focus your attention back to the blades, picking up a particularly sharp sword. You weigh it in your hands; the grey metal is dense and heavy, brand new. Your reflection stares back at you in the steel. Ser Criston catches your hum of satisfaction. 

“That sword was gilded just days ago. A work of art,” He nods.

“Indeed it is,” you agree. Then you smile knowingly at him. “Is there anyone I can spar with?”

Ser Criston responds with a curt nod. Admiration dances in his brown eyes; he’s definitely not like the others. “Plenty.” 

Eager, you follow Ser Criston to the patch of land reserved for sword fighting. People are gathered in a circle around two men who are already sparring; the crowd cheers, made up of men who are desperate to make a good impression and women who have come to watch.

You glance at the pair of individuals who are currently engaged in a duel, following their sharp steps as they parry each other’s hits. You remain near the back of the crowd, bringing the tip of your sword to the ground and resting both hands on the hilt. 

You’re trying to act casual — but you’re actually itching for your turn. Impatient.

The fight turns out to be pretty boring. You’re able to guess every move before it’s done and correct every miscalculated block inside your head. It might be unfair to judge them so harshly; you’re a skilled fighter and have trained for years. The advantage is yours. 

But you also can’t bring yourself to care. These are the same men who boast about their power despite being weak.

You’re genuinely relieved when one of the men knocks the other down, leveling their sword at their opponent’s face. The people around you clap for awhile, and then the crowd slowly breaks apart as some leave to continue their duties. 

It’s fine; you don’t need the validation of a crowd during a match.

“Alright,” you say gruffly, ripping your sword from the dirt and skirting through the gaps of people, stepping onto the sandy soil of the sparring area. You turn to face a few of the trainees’ expectant faces. They are waiting for you to choose someone, though all of them seem pathetic. Might as well get it over with.

“Would you like to duel?” You finally ask a man toward the front.

For a second, he remains still. And then he smiles; fucking smirks like he’s a serpent and you’re a lamb ensnared between its teeth. He thinks you’re an easy opponent, all because you’re a woman. 

Beating him is going to feel good, you think. Beating all of them.

Balancing the sword in a hand, you spit into the dirt just to spite him — which is successful in making multiple people cringe. Good. You have to bite back a smile and prepare yourself for your opponent’s first strike. 

And you were right, of course.

They’re all useless, each more powerless than the last. There’s no challenge, no threat. Not even child’s play with any of them. You have more than half of your competitors on their asses before they even get an opportunity to attack, making every clang of your sword against another seem meaningless.

You ought to take pride in it, thinking back to their breathy chuckles as they whispered about how deluded you were. How unwomanly.

But you don’t. You don't feel prideful, self satisfied, or any emotion of fulfillment. It’s too easy. 

The blows from your adversary are repetitive, almost as if he is rehearsing a list of strategies. The movements are easy to predict, giving you the upper hand. It’s not difficult to knock him on the ground, sweeping his legs out from beneath him with a blow that you wish he would have jumped over.

There is someone who definitely would have dodged it, though.

The enigma, the cunning raven, the Prince — Aemond Targaryen. The one man who doesn’t judge you or stare condescendingly. The only person who you consider an equal, an acquaintance. 

Aemond is a man of honor. His eye is the shade of lavender, and every syllable that falls from his tongue is sliced apart by the sharp quirk of his lips. High cheekbones, fair skin, an eyepatch making a home over a scar that sits where his eyelid once was. 

A dark serpent. 

Just as you struggle with your identity, he does, too. You are aware of Aemond’s lack of restraint, lack of faith, lack of fear, and his internal conflict. You know why the man is the way he is.

Aemond had told you what happened once, after you had finished having a nice conversation with his nephews. It’s tragic: when a person doesn't feel valued as a member of a family, they develop a sort of outcast mentality. Childhood experiences of neglect paves the way for lifelong isolation, and as a result, Aemond withdrew. He started spending time alone.

But out of every person in the world, he chose to keep a spot open for you. It’s an honor, really.

The man you are sparring with gives in, standing to his feet with a grunt of humiliation and shooting you a glare. You return it with one of your own, ready to pick another opponent, and then—

“You have been busy, I see,” A familiar voice says.

You turn toward the sound of it, the lull and the accent — only to be met with Aemond standing in the front of the crowd. You size him up, sword dangling at your side. 

Aemond’s arms are crossed behind his back in a casual fashion, head held high with interest. His white hair is in a half-up half-down style, the ends flowing over his broad shoulders like a silk scarf.

“My Prince.” There’s no stopping the grin that blooms on your lips. As embarrassing as it is to admit, you always find excitement in his presence. “Dare I ask how long you have been watching?” 

“Long enough.” Aemond is silent as he scans you up and down; there’s not a single streak of dirt on you, nor a single cut. He takes notice. “Pray tell: how many men have you made fools of?” 

“I don’t know,” you dramatically sigh, acting indifferent. You retreat from the center of the sparring ground to stand in front of him. “I have not had the luxury to count. I was too busy winning.”

Aemond exhales a sharp breath from his nose — his way of conveying amusement — and slightly tilts his head. “It seems that they have not prepared themselves for a woman of your caliber.” 

It’s a compliment; a bit cheeky, yes, but a compliment nonetheless. It has you rocking back and forth on your heels in anticipation. “A woman of my caliber? I must say, My Prince, I am flattered.” 

“I would not say it unless it were true.” 

“Well, if it is of any comfort, you are not like any man I have ever known," you jibe. "You're like a character in a folktale. Someone from a history book.”  

"The prince, I presume." 

"No, you're the dragon. A magnificently evil dragon." Your tone becomes teasing. “How could anyone lead a regular life with a beast like you?”

“I should inquire the same, My Lady.”

“You just don’t understand a woman that dares to be different, that’s all.”

Aemond lets out a simple ‘hmm’ at that. You slap him in the arm playfully and he doesn’t flinch. He only graces you with the tiniest smirk.

The prince does not enjoy being touched, though the aversion seems to disappear when it comes to you. He can tell; he knows by how he does not scowl at the idea of your hand on his shoulder, or cringe at the feeling of your arm brushing against his. You do not give off negative energy. 

Perhaps this is why you have remained in contact with each other; you don’t judge one another for the things you are and for the things you can’t be. Somewhere, deep down, you both think the same thing: take me as I am, or watch my back as I go.

You know of Aemond’s true nature, and he realizes yours.

Much like him, you cannot be picked and thrown away like a flower or an old manuscript. You are a hurricane: ferocious, unflinching, and authentic. A dagger that will slice through the flesh of anyone who dares to cross you.

Though he will not publicly admit it, your spunkiness delights him.

“Come then,” Aemond says. 

You’re confused at his words — unsure of what he’s talking about — before he saunters to the center of the sparring circle. He brandishes his sword from a holster wrapped around his hip, the metal screeching into the air. “We have yet to train together. Demonstrate your skills to me.” 

It’s true. In the years you’ve known him, you have never once challenged each other. You know what Aemond is capable of though, so it’s intimidating. It’s probably the main reason you have never asked to spar. 

Maybe it’s time to change that; you’re not about to back down from a fight. It would hurt your pride too much. 

“Fine,” you agree, slinking forward to stand before him in the training area.

There’s so much you want to know about Aemond, you notice. So much that you’d like to learn. Your gaze is focused on his face, and his eye, and then that eyepatch — and you realize that he has never showed you what’s underneath the leather.

You’ve heard the rumors: how the socket has been replaced by a sapphire, a deep, saturated blue that reflects the light at every angle. You wish so badly to see it. For him to trust you with the imperfect parts of him. 

It gives you an idea.

“I will spar with you,” you begin, maintaining a serious tone in your voice. “But only if we make a bet.” 

The look on Aemond's face changes from being neutral to intrigued. He slices the earth open by shoving his sword into the soil. “And what would that be, My Lady?”

“If I win,” you quip, “you must show me your eye.”

The silence is deafening.

Aemond frowns then. You’re scared for a second; scared that you went too far and bit off more than you could chew.

Looking back on the past can be very frustrating. You have to let it go, you want to tell his younger self, clapping him on the back. If you did that, he might get angry. Or maybe cry. Maybe you would, too. 

You open your mouth to revoke the words, yet close it just as quick, unable to get a single syllable out. 

But then he speaks.

“Then it shall be,” Aemond says firmly. He leans his weight on his sword, crossing one ankle over the other. You aren’t sure if he actually doesn’t care or if he’s just hiding his anger. He’s always been an expert at keeping his emotions at bay. “If that is what you wish.” 

Relief is a godsend in that moment. You fix your surprised expression into one that is more calm. “…And if you win?”

Aemond seems to think it over.

Finally, he decides on something; with the mischief that glints in that one eye, you know it’s going to be less than satisfactory. “I propose you wear a dress for an entire day.”  

“What? There’s no way—“

“And kiss me.”

Your mouth drops open in surprise. 

Is this how he plans on winning? By threatening you with something so strange in the hopes that you will give up before you started? Like hell you’re going to kiss him. Fuck that. “You cannot be serious.”

“But I am,” he says coolly. Taunting. 

In that moment, you consider your options. One, you could retreat. Two, you could fight him and win, effectively seeing the thing he hides most. Third, you could lose, and have to wear a dress, and…

The thought has you reeling. But, at the same time, you do not want to run away from a challenge. You never have. And never, ever will. 

You’ll just have to win.

“It is settled then,” you nod, trying to remain composed. Your voice wavers a bit; if Aemond notices, he does not comment on it.

Aemond’s mouth creeps into the slightest smile. He tears his sword from the earth and spins it in the air with a flick of his wrist. “Whenever you are ready, then,” he deadpans.

“I have been ready,” you tease, stepping sideways as you both begin to circle each other. Your footsteps are light and airy in a silent prowl, a show of the expertise your father passed to you. “Are you?” 

“The first to hold the other at sword-point wins,” Aemond states, ignoring your question. There’s a sharpness to his words as he tries to draw a reaction from you. Provoke you. “I hope you do not hold back.”

“You must think lowly of me, My Prince,” You retort. “I would never do such a thing. Are you worried that I am going to beat you at your own game?”

Aemond licks his lips, fixing you with a predatory stare; it looks as if he wants to use his canines to rip apart the air, the world, your body that stands before him.

It urges you into action.

You lunge with your sword, but Aemond knocks it to the side with ease, spinning his own in a hand and making a swipe at you.

You don’t hesitate to deflect it — once, twice, three times — before parrying another of his blows. You manage to hit Aemond’s sword particularly hard the fourth time, and you catch a glint of surprise in his eye.

You take a quick step back, before confidently transferring your blade from one hand to the other without breaking eye contact. Your head is buzzing with exhilaration.

“Did you think it would be that simple?” You grin arrogantly. “As a man who studies the way of the sword, I thought you would be more of a challenge.”

To your chagrin, Aemond doesn’t gift you with a reaction. His profile remains composed, although there is a fire in his eye; he has finally found someone who tests him. 

You are about to say something else before he lunges for you.

Aemond is fast and skilled, the swiftness of his steps impressive, with a strength in his arms that could send you to the ground if you gave him an opening. With every clash of your swords, you know he’s evaluating your endurance, your attacks, the likelihood of you slashing him with your blade.

However, Aemond is not attempting to boast his power; not like the other trainees who argue like idiots about whose sword is the sharpest or who has the best balance. That’s what you like about him.

Aemond’s jaw is set and confidence keeps his chin held high, even as you deliver another strike to his blade. Your attention is drawn to the way his knuckles are white from the grip on his sword; veins protrude from the pretty skin of his hands, emphasizing the slender length of his fingers.

Focus.

Strike. Block. Dodge. Slash again. You score another hit, but Aemond follows it immediately with a jab at your chest, which has you losing your balance. You respond with a stab at his side, though he dodges it. 

This dance of blades feels like it lasts forever; if it were anyone else, you probably would have won by now. Every second feels like a minute, each one longer than the last. 

Just before a leap, Aemond tightens his grip on the weapon’s hilt. Before you can react and fix your stance, the sword swings towards your feet, his speed and skill working together to knock you off-balance. You land on your back in the dirt, your blade flying somewhere.

You’re fast, yes. But he is faster.

Quickly you try lift yourself up and grapple for it, but suddenly Aemond pushes you back down. He straddles you, careful not to place his entire weight on your body, and then the pointed edge of his blade is at your throat.

You’ve lost.

Aemond lets out a breathy pant, a wicked grin on his lips — it sends a chill branching down your spine, all the way to your feet. Spite coils in your chest, your nerves trembling with adrenaline, and you see the thrill of the fight reflected in Aemond’s eye.

You are both the same in that way.

“You do put up quite a fight,” Aemond jests, his tone low and deep. You let both arms lay flat across the ground, every breath labored as your heart punches the inside of your ribcage. “Though I am afraid it was not enough.”

You've never experienced energy like this before. You’re trapped underneath him which is exciting in a strange way. You respond with sarcasm in an attempt to hide your embarrassment.

“You offer to spar with a woman only to fling her into the dirt,” you pant. “How polite of you.”

“And you spar with a dragon.” Up close, Aemond’s iris is a startling violet, and the pupil reflects streaks of shadow and light. He’s agonizingly gorgeous. It makes you feel warm. “Is that not what you called me?”

“You are a man of the most preposterous kind.”

“And yet you still wallow in my company.”

There’s nothing you can really say about that. In a final act of defiance, you stare him down as long as possible; in this small way, you feel undefeated. “You can release me now.”

Aemond hums in acknowledgment, letting his sword hang at his side and slowly standing. In a rare act, the prince offers a hand for you to take, but you slap it away. He is entertained by your glare. “You never fail to reject kindness when it is given.”

“Kindness does not serve me.”

Aemond is amused at your annoyance. He spins his sword between his fingers before sheathing it back into its holster, and you pick up your sword to pass it to an observing knight. When you turn back around, Aemond is staring at you. “What?”

“You owe me a debt.”

There was the bet; you’d almost forgot. Gods, you were going to have to wear a dress for a day, and — and…  

“Regretting your choices now?” The taught line of Aemond’s mouth evolves into a smile, coy and demure.

“No — no, of course not,” you snap. The words don’t come out as calm as you need them to, and it’s all because of him; he has a way of being frustrating. Always doing something to make you tighten your fists. But as much as you would like to blame him, it was your idea. You reap what you sow. “I never break a promise.”

“Good,” comes Aemond’s response. You both stare at each other for a bit, and then you realize: he’s waiting for you to kiss him. For real. Right here, right now.

“What is wrong, little bird?” He teases. “Do not fly away from me now.”

“I—“ you start, unsure of what to do. A split-second decision is made. “I am not doing this here.” 

Before Aemond can say anything, you are grabbing him by the arm and tugging him along. You pull him past clusters of townsfolk, ignoring their curious stares and keeping your gaze forward. He does not resist you.

After peering around an empty alley and inspecting it for any stragglers, you drag him into the stony darkness and nearly slam him against the wall. It’s not on purpose; you’re just reacting to the aftershocks of adrenaline. 

You need to be alone to do something like this. 

You’re so close to Aemond now that you’re breathing the same air as him, nearly pressed against his chest. You can smell his jasmine shampoo, can feel the warmth radiating from his body. You try to slow your breathing: in and out, to clear your head and push every doubt away.

When you find the courage to look straight at Aemond, you find that he’s already gazing at you. 

The light is dim, though you can still make out his profile. You expect his violet eye to be full of mirth, akin to a wild animal staring back at its prey — but what Aemond offers you is righteous and noble. It causes you to prickle with eagerness and anxiety. 

“Do not look at me like that,” you mumble.

“In what way?”

“That way.” You don’t even know what you’re referring to. You just want him to stop staring; it’s burning you up from the inside. “You always act like this when you feel like you have won.”

Aemond’s smirk grows before your eyes. His gaze flickers to the sliver of space between you, and then back to your face. “Sometimes I feel that you know me better than I know myself.” 

You would let out a sneer if you weren’t so terrified; you need to uphold your side of the bet. You know it. And you definitely don’t want to give him the chance to tease you for your hesitation. 

“Maybe I do,” you breathe. Then, grappling with every single piece of boldness you can find, you press your lips upon Aemond’s. 

The kiss is resolute — there’s no way you were going to half-ass it — and you fall into him roughly, slamming each emotion you feel onto his mouth. He tenses a little, but then his hands rise to your arms, thumbs pressing into the sleeves of your tunic.

And then it’s over. 

You break away from Aemond, almost shocked at yourself. Did that really just happen? Your blood pressure is through the roof, pulse thumping like a war drum.

You stare at him, and he stares right on back, both of you saying nothing. You can't look away, as frightened as you are. His expression is soft. So soft that it scares you, yet his eye darkens with interest.

You try to make a joke out of it, to rid yourself of this awkward feeling.

“With the way you are looking at me, My Prince, I would assume you actually like me,” you jest. It doesn’t work. Your brain is mush and the words are flimsy. Gods, you feel overheated. 

Aemond only blinks, those silver lashes fluttering against his cheeks. It seems like he has come to a realization, and you don’t know what that is. He’s testing the waters; waiting to see if you will run away.

“And what then, My Lady?” he finally replies.

Your body gets hotter in an instant. The implications behind his words are enthralling, holding you in a death grip and making it impossible to speak. You’re searching for something to say, anything, but come up empty handed. Part of you is glad when he fills the silence. 

“I must admit,” Aemond says slowly. “There is a certain quality to you. You seem unbreakable.” 

“You know that’s not true,” you whisper.

“Perhaps,” he says. “Though there are times where I am not so certain.”

“Aemond…” 

“Tell me: what do you think of me?” Aemond suddenly asks. It’s not commanding, not a demand. It just feels…personal. You’re not sure how else to describe it, the sound of him speaking so softly. Your ears are accustomed to your father's stern instructions and peoples’ jeers of your boyish antics. His tone sultry, he asks, “Do I make you nervous?” 

“No—you don’t make me nervous,” you stutter. It’s hard to look him in the eye as the lie comes from your lips. “I do not really think of you much, honestly.”

“Hm.” Whether or not Aemond knows you’re lying, you have no idea. “You would be astonished then if you knew the ways I have thought about you.” 

“What do you mean?”

Aemond takes in your expression, gaze flitting down to your mouth and then back up to your eyes. “Would you like to know?”

“Yes,” you say automatically. You’re not sure why you’re hoping for something more — something other than just empty insults and jests. Almost as if he knows what you’re thinking, Aemond leans in. His lips brush against your ear as he speaks.

“You are alluring when you ache for chaos. The flesh of your opponents are beneath your nails and their blood stains your teeth, and I can see you are a woman on fire.” His voice just above a whisper, breath hot against your cheek. “We are both made of flame. You have stolen my attention, my love.”

My love. He has never called you that before.

And it’s in this very second that you have an epiphany. How could you not have noticed it earlier? Felt it? How did you ignore the passion whenever this man talked, the warmth he conjured within you, how grateful you were that he treated you differently than others? 

Aemond has feelings for you. And judging by how you are instantly filled with a massive amount of satisfaction, happiness, and excitement, you hold affections for him too.

But what is love, anyway? It must be the imprints someone creates inside of you—bruises, scars, gashes. Maybe he had maimed you in the same way, except you turned a blind eye to it. Truthfully, you never even thought you would experience something like this. 

After all, love makes humans do terrible things, and you do not consider yourself to be that bloodthirsty. So much of it is violent; there’s the desire to be split apart, defiled, twisted, and reinvented by another person. 

You have seen lovers approach one another in a wolflike manner, ravenous and feral for their attention. People who challenge their love get dragged in between them and flayed open without mercy. It’s terrifying, though it’s not watching the wolves tear others apart that scares you. 

It’s knowing that you would do that for him.

Aemond boldly stares you down. “You are unaware to the extent I defend myself and my sentiments. How you manage to get the truth from me is rather peculiar.”

He suddenly reaches out and touches your cheek; he does it slowly, almost as if you are a beast trapped in a snare and he might scare you away. 

Then Aemond moves his thumb to the corner of your mouth, before skimming it over your bottom lip and pulling it down slightly. He stares down at the inside of your lip — the sensitive, shiny flesh — wishing that he could brand his name there. If anyone tried to entertain you after, you could simply tug your lip down and show them who you belonged to.

This is not a simple bet anymore. 

The urge to kiss Aemond again breaks free from within your system. Against your control, the impulse expresses itself in dirty thoughts that invade the most intimate parts of your body.

Quickly, you grab Aemond’s wrist and tug his hand away so you can press your lips to his once more.

“I hate you,” you breathe against him, holding his face between your hands as your noses brush together. “I hate you so much.” 

Aemond retaliates accordingly; the way he licks into your mouth sends a shiver that ricochets throughout your body. He’s hot. So, so hot. His fingers cup the back of your neck to keep you close as your hands fly away from his face to hold every inch of him possible. 

Aemond’s chest is warm, and his lips are scorching when he trails them over the corner of your mouth and then down your throat. You let your fingers roam to his hair, exploring the softness of each strand that drapes over his shoulder blades.

Aemond knows he’s getting a reaction out of you, that you are starting to feel the prickle of lust. It’s humiliating. You refuse to give him the satisfaction of knowing you can be riled up so easily. It is not like Aemond would give in to your primal desires anyway; he cares too much about duty, about honor. The man follows house tradition — marriage comes before anything else. He is just toying with you now.

You break apart from him, something he surprisingly allows. You want to tell him that you love him, just so he knows. If only you had the ability to articulate such things. 

“Is this all you wanted?” You ask instead. “A kiss from me?”

Aemond places his hands on your elbows to coax you back a bit further; he wishes to see you entirely. His hand then rises to your cheek, where his thumb strokes at the underside of your jaw. “I did not want just a kiss, darling,” he reassures. 

“And for how long have you been thinking like this?” You steel yourself and continue more quietly. “How long have you loved me?”

“Since the boar hunt,” Aemond says without hesitation. “You begged your mother to let you join, and a girl said you might as well be a townsboy. You tackled her to the ground.”

“But that was the day we met.”

“It was.”

“…That is…quite a long time.”

Aemond only hums at that. The confession makes your heart flutter and threaten it to stop; you swallow down his words, grateful, and then try to collect yourself. You clear your throat. “My Prince—”

“Aemond,” he corrects. 

“Aemond. I need you to know something.” 

“And what is that, my love?”

“You can’t sweet talk me into wearing a dress. I will not do it.”  

“You will.” 

Damn it. He is really not going to give this up.

“I hope you burn in the Seven Hells,” you mutter. It’s a joke, of course. You can’t really be mad at him. 

Aemond’s lips threaten to twitch into a smile. An emotion akin to pride rests in his eye. “I shall only go if you accompany me there.”

And maybe, just maybe, you were meant to burn together. Whatever your destiny is, one thing becomes very clear:

You will ruin him, and he will love you for it.

#aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond x reader #hotd imagines #house of the dragon fanfic #aemond targaryen x y/n #aemond targaryen x you #aemond x y/n #aemond x you #millie’s works — 📓

[netherfeildren]

Someone's Wife in the Boat of Someone's Husband .7

Series Masterlist : Moodboard

(Joel Miller x F!Reader)

Content Warnings: Angst, Discussions of child abandonment, Discussions of child neglect; Family dynamics; Mention of abortion; Jealousy; Possessive behavior

Rating: Explicit 18+

A/N: There are much happier times ahead after this, I promise. I hope you enjoy <3

Word Count: 6.8K

Read on AO3

.7

Grief is different. Grief has no distance. Grief comes in waves, paroxysms, sudden apprehensions that weaken the knees and blind the eyes and obliterate the dailiness of life. 

Joan Didion, The Year of Magical Thinking

As the turn of the season marches its way into the city, the leaves bloom the crisp, bright colors of autumn. Austin comes alive with the burning colors of fall: reds and oranges and yellows, so beautiful. It makes you feel nothing. You usually love the change of the weather into the colder months, but this year it all feels – meaningless. Empty – like you. 

And yet, life continues, work continues, and at the end of October you and your fellow art teacher plan a field trip to one of the city's parks for the children to paint the colors of the changing leaves. It should be something to look forward to, despite the stress of having to organize a group of twenty first graders and wrangle them in a large, open space, you usually look forward to things like this. You love your job, it’s always made you happy, but somewhere along with the part of you that he’d stolen away, you’d slowly gone by losing other smaller parts of yourself, discarding them in the wake of your grief. Your ability to smile, to enjoy the things that had always previously made you happy, all gone away with him. All you can focus on now is how much you miss him. How much you hate all the decisions you’ve ever made, and how much you resent your history, your parents, for leaving you this broken, wanting thing that could not seem to find happiness – that would not let yourself be happy. No matter how hard you try.

But above the wailing cacophony of your grief, your longing for him ringing in your ears, there is the overwhelming resounding cry of your past screaming at you: you can’t let this go, you can’t let this go, you can’t let us go. Your parents, their history, the tragedy of their demise, the painful solitude of your childhood, the sight of your father wasting away for years and years and you, a child, unable to do anything, unable to help him, to save him, to bring her back so that he could be okay. 

But you also can’t let him go. It was, you now knew, an impossibility. As futile as forgetting your own name, how to breathe, how to be alive. Holding on to him now is an intrinsic part of you that you’re sure you’ll live with for the rest of your life. 

And so, the real question now is, what are you more willing to hold on to? But no, that isn’t right either, the better question is: what do you have to hold on to? What do you need to survive? What can you not live without? What would leave you only half a person if you were to let it go – the past or him?

You’re sure you know the answer, but are only too afraid to admit that all you’d put the two of you through throughout all this, had been pointless. So pointless and so needlessly painful. 

All you want now is to talk to him. No, you don’t even have to talk. If you could just get the chance to see him, even if from a distance, it would make everything better. You just want to see that he’s okay, that he’s not as miserable as you are. That he hasn’t been left as desolate as you seem to have ended up. 

The day is gorgeous, despite your mood, and the class has been good so far, calm and cooperative. The kids all sitting across picnic blankets you’d spread out on the grass amongst the fallen leaves. They’re all chattering and painting, engrossed in their task, when you hear your name being shouted from across the park in a high pitched little voice, and like a fucking revelation from above or your worst nightmare, your deepest desire come alive from the bottom of your heart – there they are. Sarah, running at full speed towards you from the far side of the park. Joel stalking a few paces behind her – his face like stone. You start to move towards them in a daze. 

You take in the sight of him from afar – massive, so tall, and so beautiful. His hair is longer, his dark curls brushing the back of his collar and curling along his temples. Weeks since you’d last seen him, since he’d last touched you, since that horrible moment in that restaurant bathroom. Your cunt clenches, empty and desperate, around nothing, just at the sight of him. He has on a dark green flannel that brings out the warmth in his eyes, you can see it, even from all the way over here. He looks so big, so strong, and you have a sudden, savage vision of him forcing you to the ground right here, in the middle of the park, and taking you for himself, forcing your legs open and ravishing you. Your head goes slightly woozy, dizzy, at the intensity of it, and you stumble, holding your hand out towards Sarah. You can see his eyes tracking your movements, your unsteadiness. His cheeks are bright red, flushed with the crisp autumn air, or perhaps, with anger. 

She squeals your name as she runs towards you, throwing herself into your legs, wrapping her arms around you when she slams into you. Your breath whooshes out of you at the impact, and you’re forced to take a step back as her body rocks into yours. Careful, Sarah. Be gentle, he calls.

 “Sarah,” you gasp, “Hi, baby. How are you?”

“I missed you,” she says, and her face is so sincere, so full of genuine happiness at seeing you, despite the fact that she’d only met you a couple times, that it brings tears to your eyes now, but you aren’t sure what kind of tears they are. Perhaps, from the pain of seeing your past self reflected in her fervor. The devastation of being confronted with him again. The most sublime elation because look at this little girl and how special and wonderful she is, and she’s happy to see you. She’s so in need of the attention and comfort of a maternal figure, and she reminds you very, very much of yourself at her age. It breaks your heart to feel her innocent desperation. You cannot even consider looking up at her father, you know that if you do, you’ll break down entirely, sobbing at his feet, begging him to forgive you, to love you back as much as you love him. “We– we should go play in the water again. I liked it so much when we did that. I had so much fun.” There’s such earnest pleading in her voice, but it gets just the tiniest bit smaller and quieter when she says the last part, as if she’s unsure if you’ll feel the same, if you’ll reciprocate her feelings. You close your eyes and take a deep breath in through your nose and let it out through your mouth as you hug her closer to you.

When you open your eyes again and look down at her upturned face your voice is slightly steadier, “We can go whenever you want, sweet pea. I had so much fun, too,” but you lose the battle at the end, voice cracking slightly. You can feel his hovering presence at your periphery like a blazing inferno, demanding attention, and you finally look up at him.  He has a slightly unhinged look in his eyes, taking you in from head to toe, gaze manically roving your form, like a man starved, parched – desperate and ravenous. 

“I had to go to the doctor,” Sarah says. “Look,” she shows you a bandaid on her little bicep, “I got a Sailor Moon sticky, but it hurt really bad.”  She pouts and you rub her hair, cooing at the small hurt. 

You look back up at him then, “Joel,” you croak. He doesn’t say anything, and you can see a slight tremble in the lines of his arms. He turns his face away from you, looking across the park, and you watch the ripple of muscles in his throat as he swallows several times, the flare of his nostrils as he takes his own set of deep, calming breaths. “Please, say something,” you beg. 

You hate the look in his eyes, you hate it, you hate that you’re the reason he looks like this right now. He doesn’t deserve this. He deserves your love. He deserves to be loved. He’d told you once that you weren’t some secret to be kept, hidden, that you deserved to be cherished out in the open, you realize, in this instant, that he deserves the same, and that what you’re doing to him is wrong. But how to stop it? How to change the most integral part of your mind, of your belief system, and that which it all hinges on, your past, your history? An impossible feat. 

“What are you doing here?” he finally says. His voice is rough and deep, and the mere sound of it makes everything deep in your tummy clench painfully. 

You’re still hugging Sarah to yourself, and she tightens her arms around you, looking up between the two of you as if she can tell that something isn’t right. “Field trip.” You hook your thumb back towards where your kids are still being watched over by the other chaperones. 

He finally turns back to look at you, and the fire in his eyes is terrible for all the desperation and pain you recognize in it. “It’s been weeks,” he whispers.

“I know.” You rub Sarah’s shoulders gently, feel her nuzzle into your thighs. 

“I went to look for you at the school.”

“I know.” Your voice sounds almost like a cry. Despite everything, despite telling you that this was hurting him, he’d still come to look for you again. He hadn’t given up on you, no matter how many times you’d pushed him away.

“I knew you’d seen me,” and he looks so hurt as he says it, that it sends a spear of fire through your chest. You can tell he’s holding on to his control by tenterhooks, trying his best not to let his anger out and scare you or Sarah. An irrational part of you wishes he’d lose control, throw you over his shoulder and force you to go with him. 

“Daddy?” Sarah’s little voice.

“Are we just never going to speak again? Is this the way you want it to stay?”

“No,” you croak, “I don’t– I don’t know,” a violent shake of your head, “I mean– yes, of course we are. I just can’t do this right now.” Your kids are waiting for you. You’re supposed to be working right now, not watching the rest of your future crumble brick by brick before your eyes, the only thing you’ve ever truly wanted for yourself angry beyond words at you. He scoffs, runs a shaking palm over his mouth and beard. 

You hear the other teacher call your name from behind, and as he comes up next to you, he puts a hand on your shoulder, perhaps sensing the tension or a fight brewing. “Everything alright over here?” he asks you gently, not sparing a glance at Joel. 

The entire right side of Joel’s face spasms furiously. “We’re in the middle of a fucking conversation here,” he spits, taking an aggressive step forward, eyes zeroed in on the hand touching you. You shrug it off immediately.

“Joel–” you warn, at the same time that Sarah’s high, anxious voice cries, “Daddy, why are you mad?” Her voice seems to snap him out of it, he looks down to her, his eyes going slightly wider for a second before he squeezes them shut and shakes his head once, quick. 

“I’m not, baby. I’m sorry–”

“I’m fine, thanks,” you murmur to your coworker. “Can you give us a minute? I’ll be right there.”

As he retreats, you say again, “I can’t do this now, Joel. But maybe–”

He shakes his head, ignoring you, crouching down to Sarah’s level. “Let’s go home, baby.” He places a gentle palm on her slight back. You can see the tremble of his hand, and it makes a sharp pain start up behind your left eyeball. 

“No, I don’t want to go with you!” she says muffled into your thighs.

“Sarah, baby, please. We need to go home,” he begs her. 

“Joel–” He continues to ignore you. 

“I don’t want to go yet,” she looks up at you, her little face pleading, “I want to stay with you, please.” Her eyes are starting to fill with tears. “Don’t you want me to stay with you? You said you had fun with me.” The tears start to fall, your own pool in your eyes.

“Sarah, it’s okay, baby. We’ll play another time,” there’s a begging lilt in your voice too. What are you doing? This is all your fault, you’re hurting the both of them. 

Joel stands to his full height now, finally meeting your eyes again, and his voice is hard and angry, patience come to an end as he says, “Sarah, it’s time to go. Say goodbye. I’m not gonna ask you again.”

“No! I don’t want to go with you! You’re being mean!” She turns her tear streaked face to him now, pulling on your clothes as if trying to scramble up your body. “Please, Daddy, please, I want to stay here.”

He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, “Sarah, please.”

“Why do I never get to play with girls? Where’s mommy? Why hasn’t she come back? I’m tired of just being with you, Daddy!”

He flinches at that. If you hadn’t been watching him so closely, you’d have missed it. If you hadn’t memorized his face so well, you wouldn’t have seen the muscle under his left eye twitch. He freezes as she starts to sob loudly, and you’re at a loss, writhing in agony for the both of them. 

He crouches down again at the sound of her very real and anguished sobs, and his voice is gentle and coaxing again, when he says, “Let’s go home, baby girl. It’s alright, come on. I’ll get you an ice cream. How does that sound? With the rainbow sprinkles we like, okay?” He pries her off you gently, not turning to look at your face again, taking extra care to not touch you even a little bit, but you feel the heat of his hand against your thigh as he grabs her, and it has a jagged shock moving through you. You desperately wish he’d take you with him too.

He wraps her in his arms and picks her up, “I’m sorry, Daddy,” you hear her sniffle as she hides her face in his neck, a safe place. You wish you could hide from the world there too. 

“I know, baby.” He rubs soothing strokes along her back as she wraps her little arms around him to clutch at his hair. 

“When’s mommy coming back?” she mumbles as they walk away. He does not turn back to you. 

-

The encounter in the park makes everything worse. Much, much worse. Like your heart had been ripped clean out of your chest that day and had gone off with Sarah and Joel, leaving you behind to float in the rotten pool of your misery. 

“I heard a strange rumor recently.” Your mother’s voice, soft but discerning, comes through the phone – first call in six months. It makes dread coil in your belly. Nothing good ever follows that tone. 

“Oh? What’s that?” She doesn’t call often, but when she does, it’s usually to ask for something, you’d already promised to send her a few hundred dollars, or to share news of a new boyfriend or trip or something equally self involved.

“You remember my friend Betty? From when you were growing up – she lived down the street from us. Well, she’s in Austin now too, has been for some time–” Fuck, “And you wouldn’t believe, but her daughter’s a doctor now, there in Austin too, very impressive.” She’d always hated that you’d become an art teacher – not glamorous enough for her. “Maybe you remember her, too? Little blonde thing, very cute… and well, she said she was at a birthday party recently,” No, no, no, no, please, no. “And she said she’s almost sure she saw you looking pretty cozy with some man, who she has on good authority, is married.” There is a sharp and cruel vein of satisfied glee in her voice, “And you know, I really couldn’t believe it when she said so, and I told Betty, ‘My daughter? She’d never get herself involved with a married man.’ I mean, you’ve always cast me as the worst sort of woman for leaving my own unhappy marriage for another man. So, how could it be that my saintly little girl has now fallen into my own footsteps? I guess the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, does it?” You’re shocked speechless. Of course, of course, she’s found some way to hear about this. She’s always had a way of finding out everything about you, as long as you’d go without speaking or seeing each other, she always finds a way of sniffing out the things in your life you want to keep hidden from her, as much as she claims she doesn’t care what you do or what becomes of you. “Nothing to say?” she croons.

“It–” your throat is tight, filled with tears already, confessing this to her will break you in a way you don’t think you’ll be able to recover from. “It’s not like that – it’s not like… you,” I’m not like you, I’m not, I’m not. “It wasn’t something– something done purposely,” you whisper. “It just happened.”

She laughs at that, long and loud, “Yes, well… it usually does happen like that. Unintentional. One doesn’t often set out to ruin a life, do they? Sometimes it just happens, I suppose, no? What do you think?”

“I haven’t – I haven’t ruined a life,” you blink furiously, shaking your head even though she can’t see you.

“Oh, no? You’ve always taken yourself to be so high and mighty – always so holier than thou, and now? What? You’ve ended up just like me. Brought low, down to my level, after you’ve always judged me so harshly. How does it feel? To have ended up just like me? Scum like mommy.”

“I didn’t ask to be this…” you cry, “This– this hideous thing I’ve turned myself into–” like a creature of cracked skin and painful faultlines, “But this is what you made me, this is all you left me with, an inability to escape you, an inability to have a normal relationship.” You know she can hear the tears in your voice, and that she’ll be all the worse for it, crueler for subjecting her to your weakness, but you can’t help it. She hates it when you cry, your tears have always reminded her of her own weaknesses.

“Baby girl, that’s just what you tell yourself to make yourself feel better. And sure, if it helps… if it works, go on. You tell yourself that. But you’ve made your own choices. I can’t be held at fault for what you do with your life.”

“I’ve never seen anything else but the wrong kind of love. A– a  painful kind of love–” you think of your past words to Joel – his worry that he and Eva had only ever given Sarah the wrong example of what it is to love, and your reassurance that the love he gave her was all that mattered. You’d never had that, you’d never had that sort of steady, reassuring presence that he was able to provide his daughter, and so how could you have turned out any way other than gnarled and wrong? And yet something in you rebelled at that thought, for you felt, deep inside, that despite the circumstance, the way you felt about Joel was anything but wrong. If anything, it was the only thing in your life that made sense, the only thing that was truly right. “How could I have turned out any other way…?”

She’s quiet for a moment after that, and when she speaks again, the venom in her voice is gone, and the mother you hold so sacredly in your memory, the one she only lets you see on occasion, makes a rare appearance. Her voice gentled now, she says: “I know… I know it wasn’t always right, that I wasn’t always right,” she huffs a breath of laughter and it sounds… almost sad, “But I did love you.” Did love – the past tense spears you through the heart and silent tears drip down your chin, “I’m sorry that I’ve made you believe otherwise, but I did.” And you know, part of you recognizes the truth in her words, despite the pain they bring, you know that she had loved you, she’d just never known how to show you – it was always the wrong way, the wrong kind of love, but it was love. The love of a mother who’d never really wanted to be a mother. 

“I know,” you tell her quietly. 

You were always fighting with her in your sleep. Unable to let the wound close. But you were so tired, you needed to let it go, you now thought. You needed to move on, couldn’t let it rule your life and your relationships anymore. 

You can’t help but think that a broken home is such a funny and strange thing that spits out equally funny and strange people. At once, fractured, disjointed, painful, but at the same time, still a family, still desperate for all those things that make a family, a family. Despite not really knowing what that truly means. Still held together by that obligation of blood, love, need, childhood. Something inescapable, and even yet, in many ways, unbreakable. For you can never truly break a thing like that. It would always live with you, in some manner. You would never be able to forget it, and even if you cast it away, left it behind, forgave, memory was not a thing so easily let go of. It would stay with you regardless of what you did or who you became. Keep its claws in you. But you didn’t think you had to let it rule you anymore, subjugate you. You could forgive your parents for their faults and their let downs, for being human, for being bad parents. If you could not forget, then you could forgive, let go, move on, stop letting their memory dictate you.

She was never a good mother, but she was still your mother, and you’d always known that despite everything, you’d always loved her anyways. You always would. 

You wonder what it was about some women who were able to find such comfort, purpose, stability in motherhood, as opposed to others who saw it only as a prison, a grave. Was it paradox, nature, nurture, personality, fate? Nothing meaningful at all, no reason, it just was? You wished there was a set equation that could tell you what you would be, who you would be, what kind of mother you would turn into, were you to become one. 

And then, in opposition – the plane of fatherhood and all it entailed. What was it that made a man a good and caring father, as opposed to one who drank themselves to death, and left their already very alone child, even more alone? What was it to have a good mother and a bad father or vice versa? To have both of the same? What were the implications, and what sort of creature would it turn you into once their influence had been wrought upon you?

What were the implications of having had bad parents, and then, when the time came for you to become one yourself, wanting desperately to be a good one? How did you do that when you’d had only poor examples? 

How did you escape faithlessness?

You had to wonder, would your father have always become what he had, even if she had never done what she did, if your mother had never left, never been unfaithful? You didn’t think that you could cast all the blame on her anymore. After all, a marriage was a strange and intimate thing, only looked upon in its true form by the two people within it. No one could turn a thing into something it was never meant to be. No one could turn you into someone you didn’t already have within you. This was true for yourself, as well. You supposed, the same could even be said for Joel and Eva. People were what they were. Nature versus nurture, again and again and again. 

You had been so staunchly stuck upon the fact that you couldn’t be the thing to break their marriage apart, when he’d told you, time and time again, that there was already nothing to be broken, that there had never been anything to break in the first place. The marriage, too, had always been what it was. Had you, in your fear and fractured history, tried to make it into something that it had never been for fear of it turning you into that very history you were so frightened of? There were different realities to category, different things held different significance and not everything was the same in perpetuity. 

Categories, labels, titles – husband, wife, lover, mother, father, daughter – was it all useless fodder people ascribed to a thing to be able to bend a person or a feeling to their will? You didn’t think you could tell anymore. The ideas that had always been so securely held in your mind seemed to have all been shifted askew by a man who, in his own right, was beyond category. A title did not make a thing real. But love – that was its own category, of this you were sure. That was a pillar all on its own, its own realm which opened up possibilities and necessities that you were now coming to realize were uncontainable. 

And so, what of you and Joel? Did that count for nothing merely because of a lack of category for what you two had? No. Impossible. Because in many ways, what existed between the two of you was a marrying of your very souls, a melding of them – as if he’d stolen it straight out of your chest. Its own category ascribed to its position in your reality, and thus directing all your actions for the simple fact that you were in love with him, and it could not be swallowed any longer. 

What is it to feel before category? 

Were the labels useless until there was feeling behind them?

All your life labels, titles, promises, promises, promises had never meant a single thing to anyone around you. Not your parents' promises to each other: husband, wife; not their promises to you: mother, father, daughter, family. None of it had ever meant anything, so how could you ever be expected to have faith in the promise of category? 

How did you escape faithlessness? How?

You and Joel loved each other – real. That was its own category, its own faith, in a way. The feeling behind category.

What was it to feel before category? Possibility.

What was it to feel after category? Promise.

There was a real sort of promise in love – no guarantee, surely, for love could be wrong, but intention, for it could also be right. Joel and Sarah and everything he’s done solely for her sake – committing himself to a marriage he’d not wanted, had known would never work. There was a promise in that. A father telling his daughter that he would do anything to give her what a child could need: a family, a home, togetherness, security. He’d sacrifice anything for that. 

You’d always known you recognized something in him, but what was that thing? You’d thought that you couldn’t say, or didn’t want to say, didn’t want to admit it, for too long. Part terror, definitely, part desire, unfortunately –  most horrifying of all, and that which had been your first realization where he was concerned: yourself, kindredness. You saw yourself in him – a great and unbearable knowing. The two of you were the same. And so, it was only then, love. And oh, there it was. Perhaps you could admit it after all. 

For at the end of everything, the simple reality you were now forced to accept was that to know was to love, and you’d known Joel from the first first moment you’d met him, as he’d known you. A thing was what it was, and no matter what category you tried to force it into, it would remain as it had been born as. Recognition was, you thought, what ascribed value, what made the decision in the end. 

-

“You’re cold, Joel. You push people away, hold them at arm's length.” Hours of this interminable back and forth between the two of them. His temples were throbbing. All he wanted to do was fall face first into bed and not resurface until tomorrow morning. But she was getting at something – restless and coiled all day – she was getting ready to make her decision. Eva was leaving.“What woman would ever want to stay for that? You aren’t unlovable… you just won’t let yourself be loved.” He shakes his head at that, not looking at her. Not true, he wants to say. Despite everything, he still thinks there’s a part of you that loves him, you love him, you love him, he knows it. Even if you can’t let yourself be with him, or don’t want to be with him. “And anyways,” she continues, “It was never supposed to be me. I was never supposed to be the one to love you, we both know that. It was never us. We never had a chance. We never loved each other.”

“Did we ever even like each other?” sardonic – and she laughs, high and rueful, at that. 

“You know what your real problem is?” Her voice takes on that especially vicious tone she likes to use sometimes, the one that makes his bones itch inside the confines of his skin. “You’re selfish, Joel. You– you just want me here–”

Now that makes him laugh.“I’ve told you many times… you’ve got no obligation to me, Eva.” He sits heavily on the sofa, elbows braced on his spread knees, staring unseeingly ahead. He thinks that his voice sounds so tired, so unlike the sort of man he wishes he was, a creature he hardly even recognizes anymore. “If you wanna go, then go. I won’t stop you. I won’t hold you back. I won’t resent you for it. I won’t turn our daughter against you afterwards. I’ll respect your decision.”

“That’s not true! You forced my obligation to the two of you when you let me come back. You should’ve never taken me back, you knew it wasn’t what I really wanted. I–”

He shakes his head, “You’re talkin’ nonsense. You can’t cast the blame of your guilt on me because I– I– what? Because I let you come back into our daughter’s life after you abandoned her? That makes no fuckin’ sense, and you know it.” He points a finger down the dark hall towards the room where Sarah sleeps, peaceful and unaware. “You will always have an obligation to that little girl – no matter how far you go or what you do or what you think of me. You will always have an obligation to her. Even if you don’t see it through… even if you leave – it’ll always be there, by virtue of the simple fact that you’re her mother, and no matter how badly you’d like to escape that, you never can.”

“You think I wanted to give up my freedom again? Once I’d gotten it back? But I– I, I felt so – like I was supposed to be here – like it’s what the world expected of me. So here I fucking am – miserable and stuck with you.”

“Evie, darlin’, I’ve never wanted you miserable,” he says softly, reverting back to that nickname he sometimes called her, when they were trying especially hard to get along, when things weren’t, in the rare occasion, so terribly fraught between them. “I told you from the very start of all this, that what happened would be up to you. The decisions were yours to make, and I’d support you in whatever you wanted. I never wanted to force you to do anything you didn’t want to.”

“Well, I didn’t want to have a baby with you!”

He clenches his jaw tight. “Then you shouldn’t have.” He is trying very, very hard to keep a controlled grip on his anger.

“So, what, I should’ve gotten an abortion? Is that what you would have preferred? Gotten rid of her?” He feels very close to rage, hearing her talk of Sarah like this, but he forces deep breaths in and out of his lungs. Tries to remain calm and rational. 

“If that’s what you wanted – I told you that if that was what you wanted I’d have supported you.”

She laughs, cruel and broken. “Please, you would’ve fucking hated me.”

“And?” That wipes the jagged smirk off her face. “I wouldn’t have – I would’ve understood, of course I would have – we were fucking strangers, but even if I did hate you – what the fuck does it matter? I didn’t even know you. What would it have mattered?”

She’s silent at that, almost stunned, for it’s the truth. They’d been complete strangers then. In many ways, they still were now, even after the birth of a child together, after three years of marriage. They didn’t really know each other, not in the intimate or tender ways that made up a real marriage. 

“That wasn’t an option for me.”

“I know. And I accepted that.”

“You should’ve never asked me to marry you.”

His eyes flutter shut, frustration surging again. “I felt it was the right thing to do at the time.”

“But now?”

“What do you want? You want to hear that I regret it? That this was the worst mistake of my life? You want me to tell you that I’ll stay with you forever? What do you want to hear? I don’t– I don’t know how to make this better for us anymore.” He is terrified that his most terrible and painful truth is that he would force himself to remain trapped in this purgatory with her, despite everything else, for Sarah. He is the man that he is, after all. One who is acutely aware that when you try to force yourself into a shape you were never meant to be, it turns you into an angry thing – embittered, cruel, despondent. It’s what they had done to each other. 

She goes quiet, almost deflates, “No. I’m miserable. You’re miserable. You’re in love with another woman.”

He can’t say anything at that – the mention of you in this terrible space they’re creating with their words and their anger feels wrong. You don’t belong here. Although, he has the sudden flash of a thought that part of him wishes very much that you were here right now anyways, sitting in that chair in the corner, if only so that he could turn to look at you, find comfort and strength in your warm gaze. All he can do is nod. 

Suddenly, all the fight and venom seems to leak out of her, and she says very quietly, very sadly: “I don’t want to be with you for the rest of my life, trapped here in this place I never should have ended up in, in the first place. I don’t want to be here at all.” 

He nods, “It’s your decision. I won’t condemn or judge you for it.”

“Wouldn’t you like to make any decisions for yourself? 

“I made my decisions. I’m living with them now.”

“You sound like you’re being punished.”

“Maybe in some ways I am.” You don’t want to be with him anyways, what difference does it make?

“Wouldn’t you like to decide to be with her? Because honey, with three of us it’s a sideshow. You think I don’t know how you feel about her? That I haven’t seen the way you look at her? I’ve known since the start, and I’m glad for you.” And he knows that despite all the rest, she is sincere in this. 

“Just three?” he laughs, ignores the rest. “Surely there’s more of us than that.”

“Oh, suddenly you’re funny?”

“You really think there’s anything about this I find funny?” he spits, anger surging up inside of him again, hot and bright. “I suppose it’s laughable. We sure have turned ourselves into one big fuckin’ joke. But I don’t think we’re the ones that should be laughing.”

“No… you’re right… we’ve turned each other into such sad and terrible creatures,” she says then. 

“Maybe. If so, I’m sorry for that. It’s not what I wanted.”

“No– me either. None of this was.” And he knows she means Sarah. She’d never wanted Sarah, but he can’t focus on that now or perhaps, ever. Sometimes it was just easier to not look at a thing, to swallow it and pretend it’d never existed. He closes his eyes and brings a shaking hand up to drag down his face. 

“This is a broken marriage,” she says. 

And he knows it is true. “Yes.”

“No true marriage at all.”

“No.”

“It is no great loss.”

“But it still hurts.” Also the truth. It hurts him for his daughter, for the breaking of a family – even theirs, as elusive or damaged as it was. 

“Only because you hate to fail at anything.” There is so much resentment in her eyes, and he can’t tell whether it’s for him or for herself or for the entire fractured thing. He so wishes that he could have done things differently, that things had happened differently. But then, if things had happened differently, he, perhaps, would not have Sarah now, and she was worth all of this, she had always been worth all of this.

He shakes his head. “Because we have a daughter together.” He feels so interminably sad for the both of them. For all they cannot and have not had. For all Sarah will not have.

“Was it really ever together? She’s yours. She’s always been more yours than she ever was mine. I don’t feel bad or wrong saying that. Some women aren’t meant to be mothers. Some women have children when they aren’t meant to be mothers. This is not a sin. I am not made evil by my lack of maternal instinct. I love her. I do. Despite whatever you may think, I do, I always have. But I was never supposed to have children. I was never supposed to be a mother. It was never in my nature. And anyways, it’s why she has you. She’s never needed me because she’s always had you.”

He looks down the dark hall towards his little girls room. They’d put up those glowing sticky stars on her bedroom ceiling this afternoon and construction paper butterflies they’d cut out together, hanging from fishing line between the stars. When she woke up tomorrow he didn’t think she’d have her mother here anymore, would not have her by her side, probably, for a very long time, if ever. How was he supposed to tell her that? How was he supposed to help her through that? He didn’t know if he had the strength, the intelligence, to navigate such a difficult thing. But he didn’t have a choice either. He’d have to find everything she needed from him somehow, somewhere – he would. 

“Every little girl needs her mom… but she also needs structure in her life, stability – she deserves to have that. You need to make a decision, a real one, for her sake. I won’t have her waiting by the phone, watching out the window for you for years and years.”

“I won’t be coming back this time,” and although he was expecting it, already knew, he still flinches, like a bullet punching through the space in his heart where he holds Sarah. He nods anyway. “I do– please, I do want you to know that I’m sorry. That I wish it was different. Please, tell her that, tell her to forgive me.”

He wonders why it is, that in the equation of crime and absolution, forgiveness is always the faction that is most readily expected – demanded even? Despite the hurt being something so, so terrible. But he promises that he will, anyway. 

Eva’s gone the next morning. 

Two weeks later, he gets divorce papers in the mail, and he tells Sarah that her mother will not be returning this time – cradles her little body in his arms with equal measures of as much gentleness and strength as he can muster while she cries.

Chapter .8

Netherfeildren's Masterlist

#someone's fic #joel miller #the last of us #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller fic #joel miller imagine #joel miller angst #the last of us fanfiction #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters

[virtualreader]

a new ally

daryldixonxfem!reader

summary: after her father's death, the reader wanders the woods of Virginia for a while. she survived by collecting food and supplies from abandoned cabins. when her resources ran out and her end seemed to be near, a certain archer finds her just in time to save her.

word count: 1k.

warnings: blood, gore (twd typical stuff)

a/n: i wanted to remember y'all that my requests are open, don't hesitate to send yours and i'll do my best to write it!

blood covered your hands as you stood frozen in the middle of the room. your pulse was high, heart felt like it was going to jump out of your chest. there you stood, right hand still gripping firmly the small dagger, in front of the lifeless body of your dad.

he had protected you since the beginning of the apocalypse, finding food and shelter to keep you both alive. he had become your only ally in a world that had turned against you. but you knew you had to do it; it was inevitable. the fever had already settled in when you had found him, and the virus quickly took him away from you.

you took a deep breath before stabbing the sharp instrument into your father’s skull.

the dry leaves crunched under your feet as you walked through the woods looking for your next meal. to be honest, hunting was not exactly your thing. you would manage to catch some rabbits from time to time, but it was not enough to feed you properly.

if you kept up this pace, you doubted you would not make it through the autumn. you had run out of canned food two weeks ago, which forced you to use the little knowledge you had on hunting.

you sighed as the deer you had been tracking for two hours ran away. with your attempts to find something to eat proving useless, you returned to the small cabin you were staying in. you didn't want to waste any more time or the little energy you had left. at this point, you had gone three days without eating anything.

as you continued walking, you suddenly heard a sound behind you. you turned around quickly, only to find a crossbow aimed at your head. "don't move or I'll shoot an arrow to your skull!" a voice said. you slowly raised your hands, heart racing with fear.

“drop your weapon” the long-haired man demanded, ready to press the trigger if you tried anything.

as you released your grip on the bow, you felt it slip through your fingers and hit the ground with a loud thud. your legs were shaking so badly, it felt like they were made of jelly. you knew that your weakness was due to the malnutrition that had been plaguing you for weeks. you had been surviving on very little food, and it was starting to take its toll on your body.

"please don't kill me,” you said, your voice shaking with fear. “I was just looking for something to hunt." your knees finally gave up, leaving you kneeled in front of the stranger.

“any other weapons on ya that I should know of?” inquired the man as he kicked the bow away from you so you couldn't reach it. you shook your head to this, hoping he would believe you.

"you look awfully pale," the man said, lowering the crossbow. "what's your name?"

you hesitated for a moment, wondering if you could trust him. but you didn't really have a choice. "y/n," you answered, still feeling weak and dizzy. he seemed to sense your vulnerability and lowered his guard a bit.

"name’s Daryl," he said, offering you a hand to help you stand up. “ya on your own?”

“yes, yes I am.”

"when did ya last eat somethin’?”

“i don’t really remember,” your brow furrowed in concentration as you tried to recall the events of the past few days, but your mind was too foggy. “a couple of days ago, maybe three.”

Daryl looked at you with concern. "c’mon," he said, "let's get you something to eat." he led you back to his campsite, where he had a small fire going and some food cooking. as you sat down and started to eat, you couldn't believe how good it felt to have a hot meal in your stomach.

as you sat by the fire with Daryl, you found yourself opening up to him about the events that led you to the woods. you told him about your father and how you had to put him down when he turned into a walker. tears streamed down your face as you spoke, and Daryl just sat there quietly, listening to you.

when you finished, he put a hand on your shoulder and said, "it's not your fault." his words brought you a sense of comfort that you hadn't felt in a long time.

you spent the next few days recovering in Daryl's camp. he had been kind enough to share his food and supplies with you, and you couldn't thank him enough.

as you started to regain your strength, you found yourself drawn to him. there was something about him that made you feel safe and protected, and you couldn't help but wonder what it would be like to stay with him longer. however, you knew that the apocalypse was not a place for romance, so you forced yourself to push those thoughts out of your head.

you stayed with Daryl for a week, and during that time, he taught you how to hunt and track. he also showed you how to defend yourself against walkers and other threats. you were grateful for everything he had done for you, but you knew you couldn't stay with him forever.

one morning, as you were packing your things, Daryl approached you. "listen, I know you gotta go," he said, "but I just wanted to say...you're a good ally." you smiled at him, feeling a sense of warmth in your chest. "thanks," you said, "you're a good ally too."

with that, you said your goodbyes and headed back into the woods. as you walked away, you couldn't help but feel a sense of sadness. you had grown attached to Daryl, and you knew you would miss him. but you also knew that you had to keep moving forward, one step at a time.

#daryl dixon imagine #daryldixon #daryldixonxreader #twd #twdxreader #twd x reader #thewalkingdead #the walking dead #amc #norman reedus

[cardicoven]

hi!! could you share any of your experiences interacting with persephone? or how has it felt to communicate with her? or even just fun anecdotes. ive given her an offering and im so happy to worship her... but god theres so little info or people talking about her!!!

Hey! So thanks for the lovely question, its great to hear that your reaching out to Persephone and are looking into worshipping her. I've been working with Persephone for around 3 years, giving weekly (often daily) offering and have maintained an altar space for her throughout that time. I say this not to boast or seem all knowing on the topic but to give some small context on my practice with her. Like many others my practice and worship of Persephone varies with the seasons, I feel her most strongly in Spring and Summer. During this time when light her candle I feel her presence, almost in that way when a Parent/Mentor/Guardian looks in your direction and you feel their eyes on you. When I leave offering during these months, I often experience feedback sometimes emotional, rarely I'll hear an affirmation, 'Thank you' or 'how thoughtful' kinda thing. When I call for her assistance in ritual I feel her behind me, sometimes guiding my hand, or I'll smell/taste something she advises for the ritual, only for the feeling to pass when I lay my hands on the herb/oil/item suggested. When it comes to divination she a dedicated card in my Tarot the 10 of Pentacles (which in my deck is the Pomegranate 10 of Crops, I use the Bottanical Deck link) and in my experience she's always happy to make it appear when she has something to say during Divination. In Autumn and Winter my experiences with her is very different, she feels distant, less patient, she's in the Underworld and has stuff to do. I don't feel her when I light my candles or leave small offerings. Only when I Invoke her and ask for her help in ritual do I feel her presence, its powerful, not stern per se but business esc, she's there to help and her time is not to be wasted. During this time I only invoke her when I really need her, most often in death work, or partially important banishings/protections and I always have a sizable offering at this time. That's not to say Persephone is not comforting or compassionate towards me in the colder months, her attention is elsewhere, and her responsibilities are with the dead.

That's all little heavy so here's a fun Anecdote. A few Years ago, myself and some witchy friends had a Party, there was plenty of drinking and debauchery (we were celebrating a friends bad break up). During a lull in the evening we pulled some cards and did some Tarot, nothing serious just good fun freaking out a few non-witchy friends, nevertheless Persephone had a word or two to share on the breakup, and while I don't remember much of it, it consisted of pointing out the Guys flaws and highlighting my friends strengths. After we put the cards away my friend asked how she should thank Persephone for her insight, I said leave her a wee offering, pour a shot out for her outside. My friend did so and said the following 'Thank for your wisdom Lady Pomegranate', before going back inside and passing out. I guess it's the thought that's counts.

Just gonna finish this off with a small list of recommended Reading since Anon is just starting out, and hopefully it might be useful. I'll link to Goodreads, but you should be able to find copies of these online somewhere if you try to. o Persephone's Pathway by Jennifer Heather: link : a wonderful exploration of Persephone from a modern pagan perspective but not without flaw. (my review) o Greek Religion by Walter Burkert: link : Currently making my way through this, it's academic and a heavy read but so far enlightening. o Old Stones, New Temples by Drew Campbell: link : an older book about Hellenic reconstructionism, reading it atm, so far its heavy but good. o Underworld Gods in Ancient Greek Religion by Ellie Mackin Roberts: link : On my reading list, 'This volume presents a case for how and why people in archaic and classical Greece worshipped Underworld gods.' o Hellenic Polytheism: Household Worship by LABRYS: link : I haven't got around to this yet but it's comes highly recommended. Hope this helps, and thanks again for the ask.

#persephone #persephone deity #persephone goddess #persephone devotee #paganism #witchblr #witchcraft

[magnuficent76]

The Earth Loved The Dark.

The Earth loved The Dark as much as one could love one thing. Earth saw beauty in Dark's vast emptiness, in how her eyes were deep as entire oceans, yet still so full of stars.

The Dark loved The Earth, loved them like a shadow loves the light, depends on it, envelops it. She loved them like a tree loves the soil, rich and dark, and so, so full of life.

Earth saw beauty in Dark's abyss, in her destruction, the order of it all. Death, most of all, fascinated them. The cycles of existence were thanks to Dark, to her decay. They got to make everything because Dark was willing to make nothing.

Dark saw hope in Earth's life, in her balance. Everything had a purpose, a meaningful chance of existing, before succumbing back to her. A kind of chaos that never ended, even when it did.

The Earth and The Dark could not coexist.

Earth would wilt away with every second spent near Dark, and both of them knew of it. A terrible curse, a condition of existence. Every time, their energy would be depleted a little more. Every time, their flowers would look a little more dead. The Earth could not stay with The Dark. That is how things were, how they will continue to be. Each day, their encounters got shorter, the waiting getting longer, the worries digging in….

And yet, every time, they would come back for more anyway.

"Go away," spat Dark, embittered, in sorrow. "You deserve to thrive, to keep on living. Why would you waste yourself with one such as I?"

The Earth would not budge.

"You deserve light. You deserve somebody. I'm an absence, a nothing, an abyss." She says, eyes sparkling with tears, "I am fine on my own. I have been fine since time has begun, and I don't need you to destroy yourself in pity for me."

"Pity?" Earth questioned "My love, among all my feelings, I do not pity you. You are not broken, you are not wrong."

"Then why?! Why be here? Why keep hurting yourself to come here, for my enjoyment? For me, of all people! A nonbeing! DEATH!" She screamed, shrinking back in the shadows, backing away from Earth's gaze.

The Earth thought, and thought, and thought a little more, before delivering her final answer,

"My love, I do not hurt, for it's through you I keep living. My flowers are not as lively, and my roots are not as strong, but every second spent with you makes me feel immortal."

The Dark was silent, silent as ever, but The Earth could still feel her never ending gaze upon hers.

"It is dictated I may never be able to be with you, but I will never be without you either, for Life is not Life without Death to claim its soul back." They walked through the darkness unafraid, reaching for their lover's face with cold hands and darkening fingertips. "You are not broken. You are not wrong. And I love you."

The Dark could only weep, and so she did. Each tear warm as the last few beams of sun as autumn came for spring. She envelops her lover with the darkness around them, holding them close, scared to lose them in her own vastness. Her glistening tears ripped holes through the darkness, each one forming another little dot in the blanket of her darkness.

"Beloved Earth," She cries, "I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry I cannot love you in some other way. I love you so much, I yearn to love you more, yet I can't seem to be able to without hurting, without killing you."

The Earth, so comfortable in her embrace, starts drifting into soft slumber. But first, she whispers, "That's not true, Dark. You've proportioned me with the greatest of experiences, the true meaning of my existence as I am."

"How?"

They smile, their cheeks still rosy, their eyes still bright, even as their greenery wilts into dust.

"Life is not life without Death, dear. And I would not be without you."

#turns your stupid scientific theories into doomed yuri cutely #anyway I was in a mood last night. heres a thing #original art #my art #artists on tumblr #my writing #writers on tumblr #lesbian #queer writing #flash fiction #fantasy writing #original writing #poem #poetry

[eloisegrant]

The Unbinding

Angst.

Summary: What was once a dream, ripped apart at it’s seams.

Pairings: Steven Grant x F!Reader, implied Marc Spector x Layla el Faouly

Warnings: Angst. Mentions of alcohol.

Just like a rainstorm, strong, mighty and quick— they disappeared without a trace. These droplets on the ground, they were confusing. Were they rain? Were they your tears? You weren’t quite sure.

All you knew was the terrible realization of what the situation between you and Steven ended up as. It was Autumn and the leaves were falling all around. He pulled you close and promised you that there was nothing in the world that would matter, except for right there and then. Why would you question such a picturesque scene?

Sure, your boyfriend’s hectic schedule left a hole in your heart. Especially if he didn’t make it on dates after you spent the whole day preparing to look like an absolute dream. But hey, you were used to it. You were used to him.

All of his antics, his obsessions, his fascinations, his hobbies, how he breathes, how he sleeps, how he prefers his tea, how he feels, how he speaks– all of it.

“Darling you are the one true dream, I have.”

Right. Of course. The truest thing he desires and the truest thing he kept close. You’d marry him, you constantly reminded yourself. Wouldn’t let a moment pass because you couldn’t imagine him with anyone else. You just couldn’t bare the idea of another person holding your Steven close. Running their hands through his gorgeous lock. Grabbing him close while his eyes gaze lovingly. No, it just wasn’t a possibility.

Until it was. You thought you were dreaming. You honestly thought you were in an episode of some weird psychedelic sci-fi series. But you weren’t. As you knocked on Steven’s flat, a woman with the prettiest, most angelic features opens the door.

“Hi! What can I do for you?” Her voice was as sweet as a snow cone in the middle of summer. You swore your heart stopped beating. Maybe you got the wrong flat? But a quick glance to the door number breaks your spirit a little bit more. It’s as if your body forgets to do subconscious activities such as breathing or pumping blood. You could physically feel yourself turning pale.

“I umm- I was looking for-“ You were cut off when you saw Steven snake his hands around the woman, lovingly cooing into her ear as a soft smile spreads across her face. Yeah no, this was not the best situation to be in. You were silently praying this was a dream, that you were so worried about this exact situation that you ended up dreaming about it. However, as Steven’s eyes meet yours, he halts in his loving pleas to the woman’s ear and almost freezes.

“Oh sorry, who were you looking for?” Her cheeks perk up at you. In your thoughts you were going to strangle both of them right now. But you simply stood there and shook your head. Sucking up the tears that were welling up from behind your eyes. The lump in your throat wasn’t helping either.

“Sorry I- I- I appear to have the wrong flat.” An awkward sniffle of a laugh escapes your lips, “And wrong floor…” You adjusted your coat and waved off to the pair. She tells you something about having a nice day anyway as the door shuts to their muffled laughter and kissing.

No amount of liquor, chocolate, ice cream and rom-coms could fix your stance. No amount of chamomile tea could calm your soul. No amount of tears could clear your way of thinking. It was just empty. Empty wasted potential.

Steven rang you several times. Through the doorbell and through the phone. But you never lifted an eyebrow or gave a flying fuck.

“Darling please! Open the door! Let me explain!”

“It’s not what it looked like!”

“I am never going to stop reaching you, (your name). Never.”

Until one of those days he caught you just outside of your apartment building. You couldn’t have seen him coming since he was hidden behind one of the big plants to the entrance.

Next thing you knew you were in the lobby being grabbed from behind. “Darling- please… please just let me explain….” He spun you around quick, keeping you in one place by grabbing both of your shoulders.

You stood there, uneasy filled with tears that were about to burst any moment now. The moment constantly replaying in your head. These same hands probably explored the woman’s body, held her near as he kissed her dearly.

“That was not me.” Steven’s distraught voice was painfully obvious. You had already known about his sleeping disorder, but the way his face seemed to just drop at every angle was telling. He wasn’t okay.

You were taken aback by his words. Not him? What is that even supposed to mean? He has a twin? Some sort of weird lookalike? “What do you mean?” It was the first time you properly used your voice for the past week and it came out hoarse.

“Darling I- well- listen carefully…” He let’s go of your shoulders and tries to form a cohesive response in his brain. You know that sort of look. A look that was formulating. Maybe the truth, or maybe a lie.

The tense situation took a few seconds and you were honestly too broken to stay and wait so you turn back around towards the lifts but Steven abruptly pulls you by the arm. “(your name), it was me but it wasn’t me because…” you were visibly confused, a bit disgusted to be honest, as well.

The nonsense in his words were making you uncomfortable, you were angry but tired. So when you spoke with venom, it came out soft. “Were you bored?” Your tone was minuscule, almost like a whisper. But it was enough to get his attention.

“Bored? Love, never-“

“Because I was genuinely in love with you, Steven. I could never get bored of you.” There the tears were. Sliding slowly from the inner corners of your eyes, framing your cheeks with its reflection.

He stood there, hands together looking at you. Yet you were looking anywhere else. “If you wanted someone else. You could have just told me…” With all the strength within you, you pushed yourself up to his lips. One final kiss to seal the departure.

His soft, plump lips felt just how they did. You couldn’t help hut feel your heart drop at the thought that they were on her neck instead of just yours. But here you were, making a personal statement and getting ready to leave him. “Please just-“ The tears were constant, they were reaching you neck. He was silent, you could have sworn some tears were by his cheeks.

“Please just, stop trying to reach me.” Your hand gently grabs his chest. “Goodbye, Steven.”

He didn’t stop you this time. He didn’t reach out to you and pull you in again. You didn’t dare look back as you stepped in the lift. But if you did, you would have seen your dearest Steven there, mouth tightly shut, tears covering his eyes while his hand gently tried to reach you. “…come back.” ~~~~~

#moon knight fanfiction #angst #moon knight angst #steven grant #steven grant x you #steven grant x reader #steven grant angst

[feroluce]

Of A Cyclical Nature

I have Awoken and am Choosing Violence, so I’m putting this blankshipping writing under a read more because of past offscreen major character death with no happy ending, my favorite type of submas angst, and anyway:

Ingo working hard, like really really hard, in pursuit of his lost memories. He chases down leads, he explores every distortion bubble he can get to, he battles Akari every moment she's available to try and knock loose a few more recollections. And it works! It takes time, and effort, and nearly running himself into the ground, but it works! Ingo can finally put a name to his Man in White! He finally knows who Emmet is!

Ingo feels so horrible that he ever forgot him, because they were partners, in every sense and meaning of the word, how on earth did he live alone for so long without Emmet?

Dialga and Palkia prove to be useless, so Ingo borrows the Azure Flute from Akari to speak with Arceus. Akari gives him a strange look, then sighs and tells him not to misplace it this time. Ingo has no idea why Akari would think he's the one doing anything with her Flute, she's the one who keeps accidentally leaving it in his hut, but he's too eager to stop and bicker about it. Maybe Arceus can send him back to his first home, and even unlock the rest of his memories!

So Ingo hauls ass to the wrecked Temple of Sinnoh, and plays the Azure Flute, and is granted audience. And he politely kneels and bows his head before the towering form before him and asks that Arceus might let him go back where he came from, to Unova and Nimbasa City and Gear Station with all of the depot agents and Elesa and with Emmet. And Arceus refuses.

Ingo isn't sure if something was lost in communication somewhere, so he asks again. Arceus refuses again.

And Ingo starts to get pissed, because why not? This is a god we're talking about. If Arceus is really as almighty as the people of Hisui say, and as gracious and kind, then this should be something easy for It to do, so why the hell not?

Ingo raises up off his knees, back to his full height, grits his teeth and pulls out Gliscor's pokeball. Arceus looks down Its nose at him like a bug.

"Do you truly want to remember?"

"I do."

Arceus makes a sound almost like a sigh. Ingo bristles. And then-

and then his head is so full, he sees Emmet next to him with their hands joined between them, he sees Nimbasa City lit up in the night, he sees Lostlorn Forest and a wild Zoroark that looks so so different from the ones he knows here, Chandelure and Eelektross guarding their eggs together in their nest, Cloud corralling the depot agents, Elesa laughing at him over a drink, Emmet and Elesa telling him to hurry up, Emmet bright and excited after a battle, Emmet whistling at the stove while he cooks breakfast, Emmet telling him that he loves him, Emmet Emmet Emmet-

Memorial. Gravestone. Offered flowers he doesn't want to see. Offered food he doesn't want to eat.

Ingo feels like he might be sick.

He opens his eyes without realizing he'd screwed them shut. His forehead is on the ground. His throat is raw. He feels like he can barely breathe.

"Do you remember now?" 

He does. An accident. Emmet had taken his shift.

It should have been him.

"Your place now is here, to help guide the people toward a united future- that was our agreement, so long as I took your memories." 

Ingo curls into himself. It was a waste, all of it. All of his efforts had been for nothing. He can't go home, because home is gone, home went before its time and left him behind, alone. Ingo sees himself in a graveyard, hollow shell, empty husk, stepping through the offered rift next to two plots, only one of them empty as a broken promise. Sees himself at the Temple of Sinnoh with the Azure Flute, but it's wrong, this is autumn now, his memories speak of springtime.

"I've...I've done this before, haven't I?" Every word drags like sandpaper through his throat.

Arceus sighs again. It doesn't sound as rude or dismissive as the first time. 

"You have, yes; many times."

He doesn't want to get up. Ingo doesn't want to move ever again. He wants to lay here until the world ends.

"Have you reached the same decision this time as well?"

Ingo can only nod. He's a coward. He'll take the emptiness. He'll take anything but this.

Some invisible force wrenches his head up, Ingo blinking spots and stars and dampness out of his eyes to see again. There's a bright spot right in front of him, the Halo of Arceus fanned out around it. It’s aimed like a bullet right between his eyes.

"Very well then. Until next time."

Ingo wakes up in his bed, jolted out of a dead sleep by someone knocking at his door. Gods, his hip is killing him, the hell did he do, sleep on a damn rock? Ingo roots around in his pockets- he must have really worn himself out doing...something, to have fallen asleep in all his clothes- and pulls out some weird blue wooden instrument that he recognizes as Akari's. Ingo is going to start making her check all her pockets before she departs, if she keeps leaving this thing here with him.

Ingo yells to the door that he'll be there in just a moment, and fumbles around until he finds his hat. It's too bright out and he's barely awake, he wants to hide his eyes under the shade of it for a while longer.

Ingo drags himself to the door and opens it, and Irida is on the other side, all but bouncing in place, eyes and smile bright. Ingo is instantly in a better mood and happy for her- whatever just happened must have been really good. He hasn't seen her quite so excited since Palina and Iscan's daughter had been born. Irida happily tells him that she got his message yesterday- she got here as soon as she could, and she's so happy for him! She wants to hear about everything he remembers! She especially wants to hear about Emmet!!

And Ingo looks at Irida for a long moment. Scrunches his brow. Cocks his head.

"Who is Emmet?"

#blankshipping #submas #pla ingo #pokemon ingo #legends arceus ingo #I love you fruitless endeavors #I love you wasted effort and worthless rewards #I love you bookends #I love you stories that never end but instead just begin over and over and over- #god though I'd been thinking about this ever since Bell posted a video game horror short for submastober #and I thought of the horror video game Amnesia #and I have been Gone ever since #(plus Bell did that EXCELLENT fic with the bookends- #-where Emmet sees visions of Ingo in the subway tunnels but can't do anything about it and HNNNNNNNNGH) #feels nice to finally put it in words #purge it from the system #Ingo has done this before #Ingo will do this again #and so the cycle begins anew #ingo #warden ingo #emmet #akari #irida #arceus #my fics #of a cyclical nature

[snowbellewells]

Self-Promo Sunday: “Dark Swan, Hot Chocolate”

Well friends, I’m a little late getting this posted this week, but I wanted to revisit this little early 5a one shot - a missing Swan Believer moment that I would have loved to see when they returned from Camelot to Storybrooke. There’s art now too, so hopefully the whole product will bring a bit of warmth and a little smile. It can still be found as a chapter in my collection of various one shots, “Of Swans and Swords and Hopeful Hearts”, on either AO3 or ff.net, if that is your preference. There are numerous other fics where this came from in that collection. 

Summary: Standing alone outside Granny’s Diner, while all of those she loves are gathering inside without her, Emma feels the true weight of what taking on the Darkness has cost her. But there’s one special person who can still bring an offering that reaches her, no matter how dark and cold the night might feel...

“Dark Swan, Hot Chocolate”

by: @snowbellewells

She stands alone outside the packed diner, huddled into the long, black duster she wears over her equally dark dress, futilely trying to ward off the chill autumn air. Unfortunately, the effort is wasted when the cold comes from within her as well, wrapping subtly around her heart. Cozy, bright lights and the hum of chatter from her gathered family, former friends and allies, emanate in a soft glow from the windows of the little inn and restaurant, piercing the night.

The woman once known as Emma Swan, now the self-proclaimed Dark One, impassively watches those within mingling, laughing, and embracing. If a person didn’t know the tiniest nuance of her face, she would look unaffected, waiting for the best time to make her next move. However, as her thin frame, buffeted by the wind at her back, leans forward slightly, a hint of the yearning within her peeps through the harsh, immovable veneer. The former lost girl who had almost – finally ¬– found her home nearly shows through the frosted, severe hair and barely glimmering pale skin for a moment, aching desperately to take a step closer, to be back inside, within the warmth of love and light, once more a part of something.

The Darkness slides back in smoothly, quickly, before Emma’s human longing can fully take hold, purring with the thrilling tingle of so much magic at her fingertips, whispering that she does not need any of them. ‘Look at them, going right on without you…’ the insidious voice in her head reminds, until Emma finally recedes once more and it is the icy, impervious new magical villain who turns and begins to walk away – a solitary black shape against the backdrop of the dark, deserted street.

Suddenly, she stiffens at the sound of the bell above Granny’s door jangling, a slam as it hits the frame again, and footsteps pounding down the steps, onto the pavement, seemingly running after her. She pauses, body taut and vibrating with barely contained power, fingers clenched in tightly until her nails dig into her palms, forcing herself not to spin and immediately blast the newcomer off his or her feet.

Waiting, she is still and unchanging as stone until a small, light hand falls gently on her arm, and Henry speaks in the voice that pierced her impenetrable heart four years ago when he showed up at her door in Boston, and refuses to leave her, even now. “Mom!” Henry pleads, voice roughly cracking with emotion as he clutches her elbow. “Wait, please…”

No matter how the beast within roars and tries to surge up in retaliation at her hesitation, Emma fights through it enough to turn and look on her son, a young man now but still beseeching her to listen and believe in him. Henry’s mop of brown hair ruffles in the breeze as his eyes search her face, hope somehow still directed at her, his faith causing a lump to rise in the back of her throat where nothing else has penetrated.

“Here,” Henry offers, holding up a to-go cup from Granny’s that she hadn’t noticed until then. “I know you like it with cinnamon…like I do. You must miss the hot chocolate.” He tries a mischievous, knowing little smile, and Emma somehow feels a tiny echo of her own inching her own lips up at the corners.

Giving the barest of nods, Emma extends her hand to take his offering, careful not to let her fingers brush his – not wanting the chill that has taken her over to infect his warm heart and generous spirit. “Thanks, Kid,” she rasps, struggling to force the words past a tightened throat and make them heard.

He shrugs, “No problem” his easy reply. They share a moment that is nearly casual, coming close to the easy camaraderie they have always had. But his earnest face sobers quickly as he catches her wrist before she can distance herself again and stares into her eyes unflinchingly. “I – I know you’re angry…at Gramps and Grandma, my other mom…everyone. And you’re hurt. You feel like it’s too late…this is who you are now, and that they should have to pay. It isn’t true though! I’m not giving up on you – and I’m not the only one, either.”

She shakes her head, starting to protest, but Henry interrupts, not letting her deny his hope and his love…his Charming optimism. “I miss you, Mom,” he adds wistfully, then plows on, “but I know you’ll be back. Until then, enjoy the hot chocolate.” With that, he gives her one last quick smile and dashes back the way he came, back into the warmth and light of the gathered citizens of Storybrooke.

Emma turns and continues the walk to her house alone. Raising the cup to her lips though, she finds one tiny tendril of warmth and comfort at first sip; the chocolate, milk, and spice of the cinnamon greet her tongue with happy nostalgia and sweetness. It solves nothing – and yet, for the briefest of moments, it thaws a bit of the ice that has encased her from the inside out. Maybe the real Emma is still in there somewhere, anxious to savor something as simple as a favorite drink, and maybe – just maybe – find her way back out.

Tagging: @searchingwardrobes @kmomof4 @whimsicallyenchantedrose @laschatzi @jrob64 @apiratewhopines @cosette141 @zaharadessert @elizabeethan @donteattheappleshook @teamhook @revanmeetra87 @spartanguard @therooksshiningknight @tiganasummertree @anmylica @xsajx @ilovemesomekillianjones​ @thislassishooked​ @optomisticgirl​ @sotangledupinit​ 

#self promo sunday #cs missing moment one shot #ouat 5a canon divergent #ouat divergent ff #dark swan hot chocolate #swan believer fic #emma swan #henry mills

[shiningwonderland]

Tokiya Ichinose (Repeat)

Translator: Koto (twitter: kotowari16)

Proofreader: Mimi (twitter: _mimisaurora) QA: Raz (twitter: agnadance)

November - Tremolo of winter

(*Tremolo = vibrating)

Otoya: “Oh. Good morning. Nanami! Thanks for your hard work the other day.”

Haruka: “Good morning. Thank you so much for what you did during the performance.”

Otoya: “Aah, don’t worry about it. By the way… How did it end with Tokiya? Did he actually show up?”

Haruka: “Yeah… Though he didn’t make it in time for the performance, he did come rushing in.”

Otoya: “I see. That guy always seems busy somehow, doesn’t he? It’s often already midnight when he returns.

In the morning he’s also up really early. At 4am he’s already left. Just when does he sleep…?”

Ah…. I see, it’s because there’s the recording of Ohayaho News…. He has no choice but to wake up early.

Otoya: “Wont it be a problem for you if you’re partner is so busy you can’t practice all that much?”

Haruka: “No… that’s…”

Otoya: “Ah, well... I would have been glad if I could have been your partner. That way we could always be together.

I really do love your songs a lot! When I hear Tokiya listening to them on his side of our room, I always seem to get a jealous.”

Tokiya: “Otoya… Could you please not make a pass at someone else’s partner?”

Otoya: “Ah, Tokiya, morning!”

Haruka: “Good morning.”

Otoya: “’Making a pass’, I wasn’t really… Besides, isn’t she wasted on you? I would never make her feel lonely.”

Haruka: “A… ehm…”

I somehow felt like the situation had turned dangerous.

Tokiya: “I am doing my best.”

Somehow, Ichinose-san seemed more angry than usual… Why?

Otoya: “But, you’re not too concerned about it, are you? Like during the performance, she did her best all by herself and I felt for her.

You too, it would be better if you just said what you want to say without holding back. This guy’s super thick-headed. If you don’t say it clearly, it won’t get through.”

Select the phrase!

Haruka: "If we were together more...." (+20 Love, +5 Music) (もう少し一緒に・・・・・。）

Haruka: “I was also wondering … if we’d be able to practice a bit more together. Ah. But it’s alright. Being busy is a good thing.

Ichinose-san will continue to grow more popular from now on. He’ll definitely be busier than he is now.

That’s why… I can’t just selfishly speak up. I just got to do my best a-….”

Tokiya: “You don’t have to hold back. If you feel like we don’t get enough practice, I will take care of it properly.”

Haruka: “REALLY!? T-Thank you very much!”

Otoya: “Pfuh. You’re nicer than I thought. I’m a bit relieved. Sorry for saying those rude things.

You know… I really wanted to hear your song as well, I got a bit frustrated… Seems like I was taking out my anger on you now, so don’t worry about it.”

Tokiya: “I have never been concerned about your opinion.”

Otoya: “Uwah. Rude.”

While they were saying that, both of them were laughing. Friendship between guys is nice, isn’t it…

Haruka: “Ah, it’s already this late.”

*ZOOM* (tv turns on)

HAYATO: “OHAYAHO~! How are all the ten million HAYATO fans all over the country doing nya?

We have decided that today’s theme will be “autumn colours”. The colourful leaves are very beautiful, aren’t they?

That said, I’ll be going to Mount Takao later today!” 

HAYATO-sama…. No. Ichinose-san… you’re working hard today as well.

That’s right… I am HAYATO-sama’s partner.

*badum badum badum*

…………………….

A, ah… Somehow …. Once that realization kicked in, my heart suddenly started pounding.

Oh no... I'm not sure if I can look at him directly anymore....

Ichinose-san… He’s cool after all, isn’t he…?

Tokiya: “…What is it?”

Haruka: “Ah…. No. Erm… Today HAYATO-sama was really wonderful as well.”

Tokiya: “Is… that so….”

Ichinose-san turned away with a sullen look on his face.

Hm…? Did I say something I shouldn’t have?

Tokiya: “You prefer guys like HAYATO after all, don’t you?”

Haruka: “???”

HAYATO-sama and Ichinose-san are the same person, so I thought HAYATO-sama was a side of Ichinose-san…

Tokiya: “… You also seemed to have a lot of fun when you were talking to HAYATO before.

You wore an expression that you usually don’t show me when you were with HAYATO, …”

What? I-I guess so. Though I thought that I for sure was making a fuss… 

Tokiya: “By the way, you were acting close with Otoya just now, weren’t you? Since when did you become friends?”

Haruka: “I wouldn’t go as far as to say we’re close… But since the school festival when….”

Select the phrase!

Haruka: “He helped me out…” (+10 Love) (助けていただいて・・・・・。）

Tokiya: “Helped? You? Don’t tell me that Otoya sang your-…”

With a grim expression, Ichinose-san raised his brows in worry.

Haruka: “No… he just happened to be the MC at that time, and he was making the talk before the performances exciting.”

Tokiya: “Is that… so… (huff) That was rude of me…. Your song belongs to you, not me….

Even though it should be okay if that song is sung by anyone….  After we debut and this song is added to the karaoke database, people in the entire country will end up singing that song.

Though I understand it in my head….  When I thought about Otoya singing that song, I somehow couldn’t control my emotions.

Otoya resembles HAYATO a bit, doesn’t he?”

Haruka: “…You think so?”

Tokiya: “Yeah. I’m sure that if Otoya was made to act a bit more artificial, he would become someone closely resembling HAYATO.

When I saw Otoya for the first time, I was surprised. I’m sure that if HAYATO was real, he’d be like that….

Bright, unrestrained and free, can’t help but to attract people. Almost like the complete opposite of me.”

Haruka: “But... I think you also have a charm that attracts people.”

Tokiya: “Then, I ask you, what is my charm?  Is it my skill? My looks? What do I have that he doesn’t?”

Haruka: “…”

He kept asking questions in rapid succession and I was at a loss for words.

Even though I know that Ichinose-san has oh-so-many good qualities… I couldn’t put it into words very well.

Haruka: “Erm… How about trying to sing like HAYATO-sama, once…?”

Tokiya: “…Why?”

Haruka: “HAYATO-sama and Ittoki-kun are different. But Ichinose-san and HAYATO-sama possess the same thing.

I don’t think that HAYATO-sama is an artificial being. You deny him too much…

I want you to bring out his charm more, it does exist within you …”

Tokiya: “The HAYATO within me…?”

Haruka: “…Yes.”

Tokiya: “I’m sorry…. Let’s stop here for today. Even if I sing now, I’m sure it won’t turn into something good with how I’m feeling now.”

Haruka: “…Alright.”

Ichinose-san was frowning deeply again…

I was wondering if I ended up saying some things that I shouldn’t have…

I didn’t feel like returning to the dorm, so I was working on the arrangement in the classroom by myself.

I knew that Ichinose-san was HAYATO-sama, and l knew of the charm that Ichinose-san had been desperately hiding until now.

I just wanted to pull that out, no matter what.

I am absolutely certain, however that he was trying with all his might to hide it so that it wouldn’t be found that he was HAYATO-sama.

Haruka: “I wonder if Ichinose-san hates HAYATO-sama.…”

Kuppuru: “Meow.”

Haruka: “Ah… Kuppuru… You shouldn’t enter the classroom.”

Kuppuru: “…Meow meow!”

Kuppuru just shook its head sideways in denial.

That’s weird.

Even though it’s always such an obedient little one….

Haruka: “Then… just for today, okay?”

I put Kuppuru on my lap and patted his head.

Kuppuru: “Meow.”

Haruka: “Say, Kuppuru… I wonder if I’ve made a mistake…”

Kuppuru: “Meow?”

Haruka: “Ah, I’m sorry. You don't understand what I'm talking about. What happened was…”

I told Kuppuru about what happened today.

I’m the only one who knows that Ichinose-san and HAYATO-sama are one and the same, and I can’t consult anyone about it either…

But talking to Kuppuru about it should be okay, right?

And so, I continued talking to Kuppuru until nightfall.

…

……

…………

Hm? I fell asleep?

*woosh*

???: “Good morning, Little Princess.”

…Who?

In front of me stood a man I had never seen before.

Glossy hair, tanned skin and well-carved facial features…

He almost looked like a prince who escaped from Arabian Nights…

Haruka: “E…. erm…. May I ask who you are?”

Cecil: “Please call me Cecil. My Lady…”

*chu*

… He kissed the back of my hand. 

His behaviour was also like that of a prince…

Cecil: “I have come to save you from a lake of tears.”

Haruka: “What…?”

Cecil: “You are finding yourself amidst the darkness of confusion which is called uncertainty.

It is a sin to not reach out when one is capable of doing so…. And in the name of the gods, I cannot sin.

And therefore, tonight, I will be the apostle who will save you.”

W-What should I do? Even though he’s speaking Japanese, I don’t understand at all.

Cecil: “I can see the light.”

All of a sudden, Cecil-san drew closer to my face and looked into my eyes from a very close distance.

Cecil: “There are stella shining brightly within your eyes. Those are the lights of hope that will guide starving travelers to the oasis.

You have nothing to worry about.”

Haruka: “Erm…. What does that…”

Cecil: “You love the song of the person you love, don’t you?”

Select the phrase!

Haruka: “…I do.” (+20 Love) (・・・・・はい。）

Cecil: “In that case, you have nothing to worry about.”

Haruka: “Is that… so…?  What if I do something wrong…?”

Cecil: “No. Your eyes are directly looking at him. There is no way those eyes could have made a mistake.”

Haruka: “I wonder what was up with that guy yesterday?”

After I took my eyes off him for a split second, Cecil-san disappeared.

Could it be that I was hallucinating?

Haruka: “Anyhow, I’ll try talking to Ichinose-san properly one more time during today’s practice.”

I was walking through the backyard with such things on my mind, when I saw Hyuuga-sensei and Ichinose-san.

Haruka: “Ichinose-sa…”

Hyuuga: “So, Nanami… I wouldn’t have thought… I see, that’s why you’ve been feeling bad recently….”

Eh…? Me?

I hesitated calling out to them the moment I heard my own name.

Tokiya: “… I’m sorry. I caused you to worry about me, teacher.”

Ryuuya: “Nah, taking care of our students’ mental health is also part of a teacher’s duty, don’t worry about it….

But I gotta say, I thought you were the type of guy who absolutely wouldn’t fall in love. It’s unexpected. You’re all grown up as a man, aren’t ya?”

Tokiya: “…I’m also human. I fall in love as much as everyone else. …However, I do not intend to break the no-love rule established by Saotome-san.

Cost what it costs, I want to… I want to debut as Ichinose Tokiya.

Not as HAYATO… Not as that fabricated thing which behaves according to a prepared scenario… but as my own self….

For that I have no choice but to seal my love away. I am still… capable of doing so.”

Ryuuya: “…Serious, aren’t we? Well, I’m not telling you this as your teacher, but you can still date in secret.

But if you do, you’ll have to completely deceive the eyes of the teachers and that president….”

Tokiya: “…Aah, it’s impossible, isn’t it? … It’s probably the first time I’ve falling in love with a person.

She’s a composer. In the future, with her talent... she’ll charm a lot of people with her music.”

What? Could it be that he’s talking... about me? 

That he was thinking about me in that way…

Tokiya: “I don’t want to take away her future because of a temporary emotion. I want to keep listening to the songs she makes….

And I want to continue singing for as long as I can. For that, I will overcome a few pains like this.

If I have no choice but to discard my feelings for us to be together, then I will do so.  That is my resolve.”

Ichinose-san…. You were thinking that much of me….

What should I do? I love this man so much.

I want to meet his expectations. And I want to bring out his charm that only I know of.

And for that reason...

Select the phrase!

I have to like him more. (+10 Love, +5 Music) (好きにならないと。）

More…. I will make a lot more songs with as much love as possible.

I left that place with neither of them noticing me.

Tokiya: “I’m sorry. I’m late.”

Haruka: “Don’t worry… I just got here myself. Say… Ichinose-san.”

Select the phrase!

Haruka: “Let’s make a great song, shall we?” (+20 Love, +5 Music) (いい歌にしましょうね。）

Tokiya: “Yeah. Of course. I’m the only one who’s able to express your song for a 100%. I take pride in that.”

Haruka: “I also think that I’m the only one who can make a song that will bring out Ichinose-san’s charm.”

I love this person. I want to debut with this person.

For that, I have no choice but to abandon my “love”.

The feelings I realized for the first time. I really wanted to cherish them… However.

Let’s lock my heart for now, and seal away these feelings.

Regardless of what I have to do, regardless of what sacrifices I have to make, I want Ichinose-san to debut.

Mini Game

Ryuuya: “We’re gonna do an unannounced test today, first time in a while.  Get your textbook.

If you get a low score, you’re taking supplementary classes for a week! Do your best and aim for the perfect score!

The format is the same as before, but I think you have learned and gathered some knowledge as well. The level of difficulty of the questions will also be higher than before. Get ready!

Choose the answer you think is right from the options! Alright, it’s time. START!”

S Rank

It seems like I can aim for any height when I’m with you.

Happy that I managed to get a good score, I showed my score sheet to Ichinose-san the next day.

Tokiya: “You’re a hard worker, aren’t you? Continuing to work hard is also a talent. Please have faith in yourself.”

Haruka: “I will! Thank you!” 

Let’s continue to work hard from now on as well.

Chapter End

#tokiya ichinose #tokiya repeat #utapri

[writingonesdreams]

For whichever tears of iron you're feeling from it c;

❝  could you just…talk to me?  it doesn’t have to be anything important.  i just like listening to your voice.  it calms me.  ❞

@bloodlessheirbyjacques ✨

Author's note: Thank you for sending this, Fiery!💕 I felt like writing and wasn't sure what, and then this clicked and became very satisfactory. The aimless urge to write acquired a purpose again. Prompt from this list.

Summary: Skye's struggle to be present in reality. Hal isn't much help, having the same issue.

When you aren't here

Skye doesn't feel up for company tonight. Zephyr isn't here, and that's alright, cause he can't be here all the time and no, she won't call him and demand attention like a small child.

It's stupid and it doesn't deserve attention. These feelings won't get any space in her mind.

It's stupid. The purpose of her day, the comfort level of her free time, the satisfaction of her interests can't depend on one person being there or not. Unacceptable.

And absolutely terrifying. She has to get rid of this nonsense before it roots itself too deep.

It's a weird mood. Nothing cheers her up, nothing from her usual comforts brings her joy. Books are too exhausting to read, the pen feels too heavy to hold, the phone seems too intimidating to dial.

So she roams around the island like a ghost, hating she doesn't understand, that she isn't happy when there isn't a reason to be sad.

It's like she spend all her energy caring too much and now she can't make herself care at all. Worse, she can't even make herself pretend.

Do I need him so much to pull myself together and act like a capable young adult?

Her steps lead her to the sunflower field. It's an out of place corner, between forests and mountains, suddenly a straight smooth plane with sunflowers and a narrow road running through the middle.

It came to be after the days she spend thinking about her family home and how she used to walk a field like this with her dog every day. Then she dreamed about it a few nights in a row and the next week she found the field here, behind the academy. Like a snowflake in autumn orange leaves, it doesn't fit there at all, but she knows who it is for.

She walks and walks and walks, and it's terrible, because she hates movement, without having something to think about. Physical activity has always felt like giant waste of time, no matter what natural biological benefits have been proven in its favour.

Maybe that's what fascinates her so much about Zephyr, that movement is so easy for him. So fun and natural. And yet it doesn't make him any less worthy as an intellectual opponent, his enjoyment of it doesn't make him stupid or limited or simple.

That's her own prejudice to tackle. Her own reason that if she hates something so many love, there must be something wrong with them and not her.

What a stupid human reasoning, trying to blame it on others.

But here she is and walking feels like pulling nails and health benefits don't make it easier at all.

Finding an inviting place on the edge between grass and sunflowers, she kneels in the grass, blue dress tucked neatly beneath her. Don't glance at the clock, girl. Feel the nature. Feel the world around you.

All she feels is the wild magic, overwhelming strings of power running through the place. The inviting zing of it. She could reach out with her mind. She could forget the place around her and follow it around, explore the island, talk with some dragons, check on the students.

But that all would be cheating, taking her from the moment she hates.

She doesn't hate it so much, when Zephyr is there. Grounding her attention, her senses, encouraging her to breathe, feel and hear.

She has to be able to do it without him. That's the goal, the point, the necessity. There won't be a single thing she couldn't do without him. Even if he makes it easier.

She shuts her mind off to the singing magic. Focuses on little details, like the broken blades of the grass. The scary looking bee clawing at the sunflower next to her. The blinding sunrise on the horizon, the play of light over the field.

Maybe that's why she doesn't feel him come, although his magical trace is unmistakable. Magnificent, unique, familiar.

Hal's ever present black cloak rustles besides her. His black bangs falling in his face, white porcelain skin almost tranaculant in the sunlight. Eyes as deep dark wells, unyielding black smooth mirrors, staring back.

His intense unblinking stare intimidates people on the first meeting. She has become used to it by now, knowing it's not a reaction or a behaviour he chooses. It's just how he is.

Another mind reaches out to her, searching, concerned. Answering with gates of her own mind firmly shutting down, she forces herself to look away.

Hal has a similar struggle to stay present in this reality. Doesn't make for good company, when she is tethering on the edge like this.

At the same time, the thought of him leaving leaves her freezing in the summer sunset.

"Could you just…talk to me? It doesn’t have to be anything important. I just like listening to your voice. It calms me."

It's an offer made for the moment. A cover story. A challenge, training, what he needs to do more. Skye has long suspected Hal seeked her out more, because her mind reading experience made it easier for him to communicate. Human interaction wasn't something he indulged in unless absolutely necessary.

By pushing, she was risking him feeling uncomfortable. Maybe enough to leave or to limit his time with her. It clenched her stomach to consider it.

She liked being special. She liked being wanted. She liked being the first and only one he went to see.

They wait in silence, her punishment for those selfish thoughts being keeping herself uninformed of his state on purpose.

The coat rustles closer as he sits down next to her. He starts to describe the scenery, the colours he would use to pain the picture, the angles, the possibilities, the speed, the style.

That's his grounding technique. Making himself draw, to look at the world through art, through sensations, making something tangible and lasting after it.

So she listens. Even allows herself to lean on his shoulder a tiny bit. He stiffens and halts for a tense beat, then continues.

She might have suggested it for him, but it wasn't a lie.

#writeblr #writers on tumblr #writeblr community #my writing #original writing #wip: tears of iron

[chocobothis]

👻 What is your wildest headcanon?

✍️ What’s your ideal writing setup?

🚀 Do you like to outline your fic first or create as you go?

🎁 Have a piece of a WIP you want to share?

🏷 Is there a tag you like to search for when looking for fanfics to read?

👻 What is your wildest headcanon?

At this point, I think its anything to do with Pre Vizsla. I've added to his backstory, personality, hobbies, etc. It's wild because there's maybe seven people who like him. But, here I am full of adoration.

-

✍️ What’s your ideal writing setup?

The house is cool, I've got a warm drink, a blanket in my lap, and music playing. It's also an autumn thunderstorm or winter snowstorm.

-

🚀 Do you like to outline your fic first or create as you go?

It depends what kind of fic its going to be. Things that feel like they're gonna be short are written off the cuff. If it's going to be longer then I want to have at least a basic outline. Having a "task list" makes it easier to keep track of what's happening.

-

🎁 Have a piece of a WIP you want to share?

Master Kenobi stood in front of her with his lips moving a great deal. She supposed he was speaking to her. All she heard was muffled noise that her brain parsed out to be maybe Basic. Or, it could be Vratix. She was sure some of the vibrasse in her ear were singed off.

Her fingers felt clumsy as she tried to pull the towel from her shoulders to her head. Until someone saw fit to turn down the kriffing lights it would be a cowl. What kind of inept infrimary kept the lights this bright? Reliving birth was a piss poor way to start dry healing. She preferred to provide dark lenses when waking up.

A nurse approached from the front with an aspirator. If she had to guess it was to suction the lingering bacta from her ears. But, what did she know about medical things a medic? They could be here to clean her burning eyeballs.

He brushed aside the towel to inspect her ears before bringing the aspirator up to clear them out. She was benevolent enough not to claw out his eyes. To human ears the sound registered as a gentle hum. Except she was three-quarters Sephi with essentially full Sephi biology; it sounded like running marble through a garbage disposal but plugged directly into her skull. A manual aspirator would have been the better option.

But that means they'd have to acknowledge more than humans around.

"How are you feeling, Solly?" He moved in closer, blocking some of the light, while speaking in a low tone. "Everyone's been worried about you."

"I've survived worse." Her tongue poked gracelessly around her mouth focusing on molars and fangs. "Even kept all of my teeth this time."

Without prompting he poured a glass of water for her. He was such an intuitive, caring man at his core. For all of his martial skill he was wasted there. Diplomacy or healing would have suited him better.

"I do apologize that one of your lightsabers were as we escaped."

"Why?" The glass was drained in one swallow. "It was the broken one. The mission is still safe."

His hand came to rest on his chin. "You're very attuned to your sabers. It's truly impressive for one so young."

"Kyber sings for me. I know their songs." She tilted her head to match him. "I know their silence."

-

🏷 Is there a tag you like to search for when looking for fanfics to read?

I love to look for friends to lovers things and sometimes AUs. Usually, it's more about me using tags to filter things out.

Fanfic Writer Ask Game

#meme answers #me #pre vizsla #solus vetra

[mercadoro]

the ruin in the city

The ruin in the city

The earth in the city

The ancient in the city

The craft in the city

Pottery in the city of today

What does it mean

To be, to dwell within these concrete cubicles

How does this shape our lives

Progress and modernity

have led us to this moment

Inhuman transgression

disconnected from nature

Living together

stress and decay

Technology and hierarchy

To bring the clay into the city

as an outsider element

To go up to the hill

as a distant observation

To relate

inside

and outside.

What is far?

And what is close?

What is urban?

and what isnt?

And what should be protected?

How many wetlands

How many hills and territories

should be taken care of?

How many places will be destroyed

by building companies?

How many parks and hills will decrease their nature

because of human greed?

How do we rethink craft

and in which way

shall we protect

rescue

transform

The soil breathes

It makes the earth and the trees breathe

Soil is never waste

It nourishes the muddy forests filled with flowers.

How do we save our hills from drying and dying?

How do we discover matter? Without grabbing all of it?

We shall be cautious.

We shall investigate different territories.

By  gathering different clays

we would be investigating difference.

Where will this reflection and discovery lead us?

And to create, in which sense?

To ramble is to feel diversity. Meticulous diversity.

The colors that we find, how do they speak?

What do they say?

Sounds of mud,

voices of clay.

Each clay will have a different sound

when is becomes ceramics.

Maybe we could feel the sound of ceramics

in different territories, like little paths

coming together.

What does it mean to find our own material?

To grab one must first give thanks. To ask permission.

To be transformed in the process.

To turn the soil into something that will join us, somehow.

How do we colectivize processes?

Now I know

clay may exist everywhere,

in each path I walk.

In each crack I see  through the concrete.

There it is. 

Cities could be made out of clay.

We have to go up the hills.

To walk a little bit more.

To get out of the plain.

To become an outsider.

To bring the mud into the city.

Or to inhabit the mud in its own place.

How does mud gets burnt? And why?

What is ceramics? And what is it for?

How do we build?

How do we ritualize?

How do we dwell?

How do we coexist with nature?

How do I take roots with the craft?

How do I separate, expand, or link?

What has Architecture to do with all of this?

Spaciality, body.

Bioconstruction. 

Organic, sustainable methodologies.

Permaculture.

Ecopolitics.

Sustainable design methodologies.

Research and archive methodologies.

A record of territories and nature.

Cartographies of cities and nature.

The significance of the hills.

Cycles.

To go out to the field means to go down on nature.

To submerge into distances and times of yore.

To get out of the city.

It means to submerge into the deep silence.

Outside of mechanical noise.

To live in the trees.

To listen to the clouds moving.

But you can still hear the city from afar.

I went to Quilpué with Paz, we went down to the route of El Retiro.

We walked through the estuary of Quilpué.

Then we started walking up to the hill.

A mound between houses, dissapearing behind the cliffs.

bycicle routes. Rocks filled with graffitis. Machines.

Abandoned trucks. A crack on the hill was the first thing I saw.

And a sign that read: Private property. Do not cross.

To the side, an upward path.

We walked 10 minutes and arrived to a cave of hawthorns.

We hid from the sun and ate oranges.

We sat and I noticed right there was the cracked mud.

I was standing on the very clay. And many dry leaves.

The autumn was ending. Almost no rain. Everything was dry.

My friend started singing to the waters. Giving thanks the Pacha.

There she was, on the dry mud. We kept going up. I saw orange curves.

I started recording her, walking barefoot. She did come here a few times before,

now she wanted to express herself through her body. We found a vein and my friend 

submerged herself through the crack on the land, sliding across. Inside the land.

There it was, the clay. Tactile matter. So dry, so rough, but sensitive.

After this profound greeting, inside and outside, I submerged and greeted too.

I asked for permission to the land, and grabbed what I could.

Maybe I will come back, to touch the soil once again.

My friend and I walked until midnight and glanced at the city from up the hill.

We saw the light, we felt a calm darkness. The songs walked with us. The rattle of the hoof.

We gave thanks to the dusk and the being.

#ceramic #clay #art #matter #inside #deriva #drift #motion #emotion #sensibility #across #earth #land #territory #territorio #sur

[whatkarajoleighsaid]

Not a Recipe for Creamy Roasted Butternut Squash Soup

Is it just me, or is there something about a cool breeze and red and yellow and orange leaves that makes me crave a warm bowl of soup? And what screams autumn! more than squash? Today, I’m sharing with you a recipe that my mother gave to me, written on a waterlogged index card that her own mother gave to her and, presumably, so forth. My mother is such a sweet woman. She was always very patient, and never yelled at me for drawing on the walls or spilling food. That’s why I know she would understand that I had to do what I did, for her, no matter what the consequences will be. Making this soup is simply so nostalgic, and I hope it does the same for you all! 

I can remember sitting on the porch with my mother on a sunny autumn day, the leaves just starting to change, enjoying a warm bowl of soup with squash from the garden, alongside a swiss grilled cheese and a hot cup of tea. My father would come out and yell at her for making something that he didn’t like. “Can’t you cook a goddamn steak every once in a while for your husband?” he would yell, and strike her face. But my mother stayed strong. She stayed strong when he went missing, too. Can I get a hell yeah! for all my strong, independent women out there? 

The hallmark of this recipe is the roasted garlic, onions, and squash, that really bring out the complex flavors in the ingredients that you just don’t get from the stovetop; plus, you get the bonus of a kitchen that smells like a Yankee candle. Smells much better than a body burning in the woods on a cool autumn night--or is that just me? 

Here are the ingredients you’ll need! 

Butternut squash: The star of the dish! Pick one that’s about the size of a middle aged man’s decapitated head. 

Olive oil: Just enough to cover the inside of the halved butternut squash. 

Butter: One of my many deep, dark secrets that I’ll let you in on in this recipe. Butter yields a creamier and lighter soup than heavy cream does. (You can substitute olive oil or coconut milk for vegan/dairy-free soup!) 

Shallot:  I prefer shallots to onions for this soup because I want to let the roasted squash flavor shine through. You can substitute yellow onion if you prefer a stronger flavor. 

Garlic: I used four cloves of garlic, but I won’t tell anyone if you put more. We all have our secrets. 

Vegetable broth: Fun fact! You can save some of your veggie scraps and skins in the freezer and boil them to make your own no-waste vegetable broth. As always, store bought paste is fine, and my omnivore readers can substitute any broth they have on hand. 

Maple syrup: Adds a little bit of sweetness. Sweet like the feeling of watching your father realize he will die at the hands of his own daughter. Offers  complexity to an otherwise savory soup. Yum! 

Spices: Add nutmeg and thyme to really channel the autumn flavors! 

My favorite thing about this soup is that it’s surprisingly easy to throw together, much like how surprisingly easy it is to overpower a man who’s much larger than you, as long as you catch him off guard and scare him with a pistol. People are funny--they’ll do anything you ask them to, if you have a gun. Take it from me.

All you have to do is roughly chop the squash and onions, peel your garlic, and put it on a baking sheet lined with foil or parchment paper, because we all like an easy cleanup, if you know what I mean. Toss with a generous amount of olive oil and salt and pepper to taste, and bake on 425 until beautifully browned. Transfer the ingredients to a blender with the vegetable broth, softened butter, and spices, and blend until creamy. Transfer to a bowl and garnish! Easy as throwing a lit match onto a pile of body parts and dry leaves, and makes for a comforting soup that’s simply to die for. 

Garnish is optional, but I like to put fresh ground pepper and pepitas for crunch. Enjoy your soup on the porch with your mother, safe with the knowledge that next autumn will be better without him. 

#creative writing #fiction #recipe #butternut squash #not a recipe #not a confession #absolutely fiction #this is fiction #author #writing #small business

[fatummortem]

@fiddlingonthetympanic asked: 

[I changed the title of this book a bit because this is an ask and I Do What I Want.]

On a cold, blustery day--wow, time sure seems to be moving quickly!--in autumn, the Xavier Library waits for the attentions of avid readers. Various students lounge about doing more talking than actual studying, but the occasional teenager floats along the ceilings reaching for top-shelf books while telekinetic "hands" rifle their way through a variety of reprinted Nineties Fear Street titles.

Hank McCoy is doing... something in a big comfy chair by a window. Smart, scientific bookworm things.

But hey! What a great foreign language section, if Daken doesn't mind dealing with people for a couple of minutes. Or Tess, who abandons her spot at a nearby table, coolly brushing past him. There's an instant where she hesitates, as if debating whether or not to go back and get something, but just that: an instant. She vanishes around a corner of shelves, scaling a shelf ladder.

(Book hunt!)

The book she left on her "study" table is open, front and back cover facing up.  Staring up at the Likely Disinterested Daken is a copy of  The Elusive Orgasm: A Mutant Vagina-Haver's Guide to Why They Can't and How They Can Orgasm.

(By Vivian Cass.) Accepting Random Novels

(She’s your muse, do what ya want :P)

       Daken hardly notices the cold upon the air, in fact it doesn’t bother him in the least as he strolls through the X-mansions halls with a form fitting pair of trousers on, thankfully pleasingly fashioned for his body. There was no shirt on him to be found, he might even specifically gone without one just for the sheer reason of rubbing it into any & all of the mutants that felt the chill upon the air.

      He had no better reason for it other than he was bored. Bored enough that he’d abandoned his usual book & made himself go into the library while awaiting his sisters. He really should wait until they called when they had a planned meetings. There’s only so much he can get away with when every mutant is waiting for him to amuse himself by their torment in one fashion or another. It wasn’t even worth it to open his mouth & tell them what they were feeling was something of the past, he’d rather save his breath than end up in one of those discussions.

      Even then... it would be so much easier if he’d use his pheromones just to make them relax. Sounds like wasted effort.

      Course when the little feral brushes past him, he doesn’t even shift out of her way. letting her bump into him on her way. Wherever that may be. Not that that decision stopped him from pausing to look at the book at the table she’d left. A dark brow quirking upwards in curiosity.

      With an ease of grace, Daken takes over her abandoned chair. lazily sinking into it as he stretches his legs out crossing them casually at the ankle as he lifts up her book. Lightly tisking at her mistreatment of the book. 

                  & she thought him heartless.

      Shifting more comfortably in the chair, so he can rest his head lazily against the back of it, he flips to the beginning, barely even remembering to save her page & silently starts to read. Not even trying to hide the fact he was there, sitting in her chair, reading a book about a problem he could easily fix with his own pheromones. With a hilarious name like this he just had to. Who could resist the Elusive Orgasm. He may not have a vagina or even a lack of getting partners off, but still it had its own entertainment value.

      It almost, almost makes him wonder if there’s one for Dick-Havers too, or if it was just another feminist thing where Dick-Havers of any gender had to suffer because everyone thought they had ' a hair-trigger release'.

#fiddlingonthetympanic #daken ask #daken asks #cw suggestive #well not really #it's just a title #y'know when you messaged me asking for permission i was envisioning something drastically more naughty

[ducknotinarow]

All Of The OC Questions For: Nina

| OC Questions

🩸 - Does your OC believe in blood being thicker than water? (meaning family relationships and loyalties are the most important) "I was ditch as a babe so can't be sayin' I'm all for the "blood is thicker than wa-ta" Bull shit here. Instead, I gotta say I have found my family without ta blood being what brought us together. Like my sis and pop's we may not have an ounce of the same blood fuck we ain't even the same typings yet were thick as thieves the three of us." Nina, was going to be put up for adoption by her mother. Her father kept her however but never got his act together to really be there for her so Nina was put through the foster system and well it didn't do her any good. Nina's true family came for her though when Steve took her under his 'wing' and soon adopted her as his kid. Which led to her becoming pretty much adopted by the whole team. She doesn't call them aunt and uncles herself but they are family. Of course she also gets her sister Brooklyn as well.

✂️ - What kind of thing would have your OC cut someone out of their life? How likely are they to let someone back in?

"Being a fuckin' dick comes to mind"

Nina wouldn't need much convincing to cut someone out she is in general a bit mistrusting of others in the first place. It's rare when she isn't like with her sister Brook she trusted them right away. Nina cut her biological father out her life due to how bad a parent he was and what that cost her in her life growing up. She will never let him in on her life. In short you have had to hurt her or someone she loves and Ninas not much for second chances because of her abandonment issues. Seeing how she is Chill with her friendenmy and Drac though you really need to have crossed a line with her

🎭 - Does your OC show different sides of themselves to different people?

"Why would I? I'm awesome all the time take it or leave it cause you get what you get." Growing up Nina had trouble learning who she was due to moving all the time it was hard to settle in enough to do that. So she was reserved and mostly hiding behind her anger, but once she got that home she was seeking all the time? She has been pretty much genuine with who she is. Nina doesn't see a reason not to. She is loud, chaotic, lively, and friendly generally. She sees no reasons not to be herself no holding back you're getting her at full Nina all the time. The only expectations would be Autumn her wife, they get a bit more of Nina's loving side as a couple. And Brooklyn her sister/ best friend. Nina is more willing to be open with Brook on her own and hangs up at times.

🩺 - Does your OC accept help easily? Are they willing to admit when they need help? "Nah, I can handle a lot on my own no need ta get into a fuss over me just chill I got this I'm supergirl after ta all." In other words no she really does not even down to simple tasks like bringing in the shopping bags she grabbed them all in one go u_u she's even worse when ill or having a more mental thing going on. She much rather handles things on her own because well for years she only had herself to rely on. Even with the family and knowing she can rely on and trust them, Nina just has gotten used to being this way. When she lost her arm it made it worse she felt like people saw her as unable to do simple things even when they were simply just trying to be there for her. When she returned back from her leave she has gotten worse about this all feel she has to prove being an arm down means nothing to her.

💡 - How does your OC enact plans? Do they plan down to the smallest details, or do the wing it?

"Look ya can't waste time with a plan ya gotta make it as you go, never know what you run into. Maybe a street is closed for example so it's best to think on ya feet. Even more when in a fight or on a mission things can go wrong FAST so you gotta keep your mind sharp, clear, and ready always. " But, yeah Wing it is the best way to answer. Nina never goes into anything with a plan persay. Nina is very good at thinking on her feet, once she gets an idea she'll run through it which can both be good and bad. Because she doesn't take the time to second guess she just goes through with the first thought that buzzed into her thoughts. This makes her very observant she's good about scanning her surroundings, planning out exits and such is just a normal trait for her. In a fight, it helps that she can take in her surroundings so fast that she can take advantage of them. But this also can make her short-sighted cause she isn't thinking long-term which has gotten her into trouble.

🌋 - What’s your OCs temper like? Are they a slow boil, or an instant explosion?

"Look it ain't my fault people don't know how to keep thier mouths shut. I may be a fucking amazon in height but my temper is short than Brook." Nina is known for her temper she can be on par with Bruce with how fast she can be quick to anger, it is often used against her as well she has obvious high points bad guys can go for. Her short-sightedness gets worse when she is mad because she goes from thinking to I just wanna shut you up and has landed her into some bad pinches cause of this. She has gotten better about her temper and learning to not let her anger get the better of her but she still has that fuse.

⏰ - What is your OC like at timekeeping? Are they punctual, or always running late?

"I uh well ya see Einstein said time was relative soo I would just like to say at the end of the daily does it matters? If one of the smartest folks to ever live says so then I think it makes sense to follow that" No she's awful with timekeeping. Nina kind of works on her own time clock she is always a little late for everything.

🎁 - What kind of gift-giver are they? Do they give thoughtful gifts? Expensive gifts? Practical gifts?

"Eh sometimes the stores ain't got what I'm looking for everything the same and boring I rather personalize the stuff I give to others in I'm being honest ya see." Nina likes to add personal touches to the gifts she hands out. Either she made it herself, or she alters something. She just feels it's got more thought into it if she can do this. Like binding up personalized notebooks for Brooklyn. For Steve, she knows he's likely to enjoy something with a practical use but she adds a family photo to it.

📎 - How organised is your OC? Do they keep on top of responsibilities, or leave things to the last minute? "I have my own system of orgizing" Ninas room and own lab look like a storm let lose in it, funny enough through she knows where everything is she can direct you to the exact placement of a pen in her mess, a very kept together mess kind of person. But if she were to tidy it up she would have no idea where anything is. She keeps her mess to her personal areas at least so just trend carefully shes at least mindful out those places. Partly why she still has a room at the tower even when married to her wife she needs a place for her mess after all. Aumutn is very thankful for it XD

🧸 - On a scale of 1 - 10, how ‘soft’ is your OC? 1 being the edgiest of edges and 10 being a literal teddy bear that cries at everything? (Bonus questions, where on the scale would your OC place themselves, and where would they like to be on the scale?)

"I'm from New York, we aint soft here." Nina comes off hard and tough city girl but she's a softie I set her at like a 5 a good mid point. She has her soft spots of course but she isn't the softest out there still. She is a bit more hardened and cynical but she's pretty positive on top of it. However, around her wife, she can cave and she tends to give in to her sister as well. Not to mention when it comes to Cooper or dogs in general? she mush she loves them.

💬 - Is your OC much of a talker? Do they only speak when spoken to? (Or not even then?) Do they ever talk over others?

"Look when I got somethin' ta say I'mma say it rather I should or shouldn't sides how else you gonna make friends and whatever else? also good when trying to track down some crook running the street never know what someone saw can pay off." Nina is a talker she can talk for days as well, she talks so much that she often talks fast without meaning to. It worse when she breaks into spangilsh. Nina is someone who can enter a room and make friends with someone in two seconds. She also never shuts up when fighting depending on the course. Loves to rile up someone she's fighting to mess with them cause it makes taking them out of the fight easy. If you want a moment of peace stay away from Nina she doesn't know how to stay quiet for long.

🌅 - What is your OCs favourite time of day? Are they a morning person or a night owl? "Ahh that's hard I like waking early to join pops for runs, but I like night caused I can spend time watching movies or dumb videos with my sis? I like to go out as well and there's more to do at night but the daytime got like a food fest to hit up and such. And best to be up early for some of that? I'm sorry what was I answering?"

I don't think Nina favors any point in the day, she does like to be up early on a normal day for exercising and such but she's a big foodie and sometimes she has to get up and about early to hint up new places. There's a lot to do in the middle of the day as well she also likes to enjoy the nightlife either by heading out or staying up with her sister. She always has something to be doing no matter the time with how active she is.

🥦 - Does your OC eat healthily or live off junk food?

"Food is love and I love me some good food." Overall yes Nina is good about her eating habits having a high metabolism she can just abuse it a bit more and since she often goes off to try new food and such she does in the least have an expanded pallet she is getting a lot of overall good food in her daily but shes not gonna shy away from the junk either which is where she abuses her boosted metabolism the most. Seeing how as a kid she had some families who were very restrictive with food this is why she wants to try anything, anything that isn't cursed that is look shes eats some interesting things but she ain't trying no tomato cake or pilk.

🍹 - Does your OC drink? If so, what’s their drink of choice?

"I mean I ain't gonna get a buzz less I'm getting that firefly wine that stuff is the shit! but yeah I drink. My favorite drinks are mostly cocktails and margaritas I like em sweet, I mean I am gay after all. Margaritas I prefer frozen, cocktails my go to is made like this. Take sweeten cocktail cranberry juice, raspberry vodka, sprite, coconut cocktail mix, then you dip the top of the cup in syrup and covered that with red. white and blue sprinkles..for uh reasons red and blue just looked nice I guess"

With how social Nina is she is a social drinker, she won't just drink on her own much mostly cause it doesn't affect her unless she is getting the strong stuff from Asgard where her sister-in-law Astrid can get her favorite firefly wine. When she dose drink she doesn't for beer her cocktail of choice is the Captian America Cocktail, but has a lot of parts in it that she would favor.

🍺 - What kind of drunk are they? (e.g. talkative, sleepy, flirty etc.)

"Ya know I'm not sure the few times I got drunk I don't recall once I'm at the point." Nina is likely a happy drunk or a reckless drunk. She becomes even more outgoing than she is already but she also losses her impulse control. Gets into fights (or starts them) and leaves the bar to go pull some dumb stunts basically your gonna need to keep an eye on her.

#muse| nina rogers #madamkezzie #aflockoffeathers #meme anaswers #stayed qeued #muse bio: nina rogers