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procrastinatingsoicanreadfanfics · 1 year ago

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snowfall

summary: when she’s young and in between foster families, she meets a scrawny kid named Simon. Simon sits to the side while the other kids play, and she gives him her sandwich. When he leaves, forced to go back to his dad, she feels bad for him.

Then, when she gets older, she realizes that Simon was the lucky one. He made it out.

notes: based on the song snowfall, bc I’ve been listening to it and thinking about this fic a lot lately

warnings: mentions of abuse, human trafficking and childhood trauma. Violence. Allusions to smut? Afab!reader

taglist: @majesticwren @obsessiveformiyatwins (hmu to be added to any taglist!)

masterlist | requests are OPEN!

You’re back to square one, where you always end up when a foster family lets you go. A big, grey house that was built in the sixties and not once painted afterwards, that’s square one. Makeshift beds and damp rooms, showers that smell of piss and food that has the consistency of cardboard.

The house is so terrible on the inside that everyone flees into the parking lot, a barely better place to be. In the dirt-poor areas of Manchester, it’s all anyone can ask for. The younger kids play with chalk or run around, chasing each other, while the ones your age pass cigarettes and other stuff to each other.

None of you know each other’s names, but you’ve all seen each other in passing. Kids that were left on their own, that don’t trust easy won’t talk to each other either. Not really.

It’s rare to see a new face, so the teen sitting off to the side while the others talk catches you by surprise.

He’s massively tall already, but scrawny as hell, his hair in the awkward stage between short and being grown out. His eyes flit around, meeting no one else’s.

“Haven’t seen you before.” You greet, and he barely looks up. You offer him your name, and he pauses before he responds.

“Simon.” He says finally. There’s a short silence, broken by his rumbling stomach, and you hand him your sandwich without thinking twice. You’re not a big fan of tomatoes. He hesitates, inspecting it before he takes a bite. He barely nods as you tell him you don’t like tomatoes, and you doubt he even heard you.

“What are you doing here? Never seen you before.” You attempt, trying to make conversation. He shrugs in response, and you don’t pry further.

Simon sticks to you like glue in the days afterwards, a silent shadow that towers over you. Timmy, a kid that joined a gang after feeling overly confident, tries to approach you twice, but apparently, Simon’s glower is more intimidating than his stature.

After a week and a half, a social worker interrupts a game of Uno between you and Simon, pulling him away for a conversation. That usually means one of two things: going home, or going to a family of strangers.

You never get to find out which one it is, because Simon doesn’t say goodbye. You tell yourself that he made it home, or at least made it out. He seems like the type.

***

Against your hopes, and in line with all odds, you don’t make it out. Bouncing between foster families leaves you frustrated, angry and alone. A recipe for disaster, and you know it. Two years after Simon left the grey house that smelled like a germaphobe’s nightmare, you did as well.

Barely eighteen, with no one to back you up and not a single penny on your name, that went to shit quicker than you might have thought, and you found yourself exactly where you did not want to end up: the crime scene of Manchester.

It started off with little favors. Timmy convinced you. He said it wasn’t hard to sell drugs. That you’d only have to do it a few times, and then you’d have enough money to start yourself off with a real job. Something honest.

Something that would finally get you some real security. A sense of permanence.

Over the years, little favors turned into bigger favors.

Timmy, of course, didn’t know batshit about anything, and he certainly did not care to look into things more than he had to for you. And by the time your idiot, barely not-adolescent brain realized that, you were in too deep.

You’d done everything wrong, because selling drugs for a few days ‘wouldn’t hurt anyone’.

That was how you ended up as the cliché character of anti-everything prevention movies they showed you, back in the grey house. Abused, beaten-up, trafficked, sold, and not even out of your twenties.

Each time you thought about it, you wanted to laugh at yourself, to try and stop yourself from missing the gray house and the exhausted social workers that weren’t paid enough to care for any of you.

Just this time, you couldn’t go back to the gray house. You weren’t a child anymore. This time, people came for you to make sure that you’d pay them back what you owed them. Technically, what Timmy owed them.

They, whoever they were, took you away from Manchester, the only semblance of home you’d ever known. You found yourself in an abandoned cargo hall, freezing cold. From what you could see, it was snowing outside, the chill creeping inside. The girl next to you was out like a light, either from drugs, exhaustion, the cold, or a combination of all three.

You could make peace with the fact that you would never get out. You could just accept it, like you’d accepted everything else in your life. A voice in your head screamed that it wasn’t fair, and it felt like that scream was becoming more and more real. There was a ridiculous notion in the back of your mind, telling you to get up.

It bled into the screech from the gates of the cargo hall, protesting as they were opened. Your captors pointed their guns, but thick, white smoke filled the building, and you felt yourself become suddenly sleepy.

The last thing you saw were shadowy figures storming the hall, gunfire ringing out, smoke filling your nose and mouth.

***

When you came to, the smoke had dissipated, but you were still in the cargo hall. A group of men in camouflage walked around the hall, checking the men that were lying on the floor. One of them approached you and the others.

Almost automatically, you slinked backwards, out of his reach, but he gave you a soft smile.

He was young, too young to be in a place like this, with a sweet expression on his face that felt too saccharine to belong in the midst of this violence.

“I’m Gaz.” He said. “I’m with the British army, and we’re here to take you home. Are you hurt?”

Varying reactions came from the people around you, and you felt yourself numbly nodding. Home. Had a God heard your prayer and then decided to turn it into a joke?

The doctors arrived a while later, taking a look at everyone that had been with you. Some of the girls around you were drug addicts, and going into withdrawal was never pretty. The cargo hall quickly filled with the stench of vomit and cold sweat, but it meant that you got the time to look at the men that had stormed the hall. A gruff man with sideburns, a Scot with a mohawk that was chattering away with Gaz and-

He was hulking, a mountain that wore a skull instead of a face. You’d never met someone like him in your life, but he paused when he saw you, and you knew that he’d seen you before, this behemoth of a man.

***

It takes two more days before you’re back in England, but it doesn’t feel like a homecoming. Some of the girls have people waiting for them, parents, children, boyfriends, girlfriends to run into their arms and hold. Some are like you. No one comes, and they leave on their own.

You want to follow them. You can’t go back to Manchester. You’ll only return for your papers, if those still exist, and then you’ll leave.

You’re about to finally lift your feet from the cold, concrete floor when you feel a pair of eyes burning into your back.

Turning around, you see it’s the one they call Ghost. He’s standing off to the side, and it reminds you of something. You can’t figure out what it is, even though you try so so hard to just remember.

“Thank you for getting us out of there.” You blurt out, and he looks like he wants to say something, his jaw almost cramping together as he makes a tiny movement. You think it’s towards you.

“I owed you for the sandwich.” He says. The shrug looks forced, and you know that he can’t bring himself to say something more honest. “No tomatoes, of course.”

The seconds it takes you to understand seem to tick by outside of your brain, like a clock hammering with each moment passed. Then, your jaw falls slack.

“Simon?” you ask, too loudly, and the Scot named Soap snaps his head around to stare at you.

He doesn’t reply, and he doesn’t have to. You recognize his height, his eyes, the awkward standing off to the side so suddenly that it hits you like a fucking train. How couldn’t you see it before?

This is Simon. The kid that-

“You left without saying fucking anything!” you accuse, and you’re sure the others think you’re exes.

He just nods, and that almost infuriates you. But he made it out. He made something of himself, and you have to respect that. It’s all you want, always slipping away from your grasp, and Simon got it. Carved it out for himself, by the looks of it.

And finally, after an eternity, Simon steps forward and holds out a bag with the yellow-and-green subway logo on it.

“Hope you like it.” He mumbles, and it’s an almost adorable gesture. There’s no tomatoes, as he promised. Someone remembered something from your childhood.

You take the bag, and then you take the step separating you and hug him tightly. Are you overstepping a boundary? Is he going to push you off roughly?

He doesn’t hug you back, but he does allow you to wrap your arms around him (or, as much as you can do that with his new size).

His teammates stare, but you don’t let go. Not for a while.

“You got a place to stay?” he asks, when the others have gotten over the shock of your interaction. There’s genuine concern in his eyes, and a part of you hopes that you’re special in this, because you helped him too. Somehow.

“McDonalds is always open, and I’ve got…” you reach into your pocket, finding a crumpled note. “Enough for a large drink.”

He shakes his head. He offers his apartment, his home up to you and you should say no because he could traffic you, or rape you, or hurt you just enough to make you drag yourself back to Timmy.

You get into the car with him, and your mind screams danger. Your gut’s feeling alright though, so you ignore it.

The first change beyond the obvious of his massive frame that you notice is that he’s gotten even quieter. While you drag yourself up the dark staircase with some effort, he stays true to his name, not a single scrape coming from his combat boots.

In the apartment, he switches on the light, and you take in the spartan interior. A small kitchen, a sofa, a TV, a coffeetable with a mug still on it. No dinnertable, but three pictures on the refrigerator.

A young boy, a woman that reminds you of the younger Simon (maybe his mother?) and his teammates. Gaz, Soap, the older guy, two men that you don’t recognize, standing in scenery that looks almost tropical.

He lets you stare, before he quietly shows you the bathroom. You let the lock click behind you, even though you know that wouldn’t make much of an obstacle for the person he’s become.

You shower as quickly as you can, slipping back into your underwear. You hesitate for a moment, and then you grab the big, fluffy bathrobe hanging over the towel rack. Someone had vomited on your shirt, and you refused to put it on again.

The robe was too big for you, black with white skulls on it, and you highly doubted that Simon had bought it for himself. Maybe the Scot that cracked jokes with, or rather at him, had bought it for him and he’d caved to using it.

When you walked out, Simon was pulling clean sheets over the bed in his bedroom. He lifted his head when he heard you, and even through the balaclava, you knew he was lifting a brow at you.

“You’re wearing Soap’s bathrobe.” He commented.

“Someone vomited on my shirt.”

Simon did not reply, but he did turn around to rummage in his closet, throwing you one of his old shirts. You went back into the bathroom to put it on, and decided to not comment on the fact that it looked like a midi dress on you.

He closed the door behind him when he went to sleep, and the click of the lock felt a little insulting to you. Yet, you couldn’t expect him to trust you.

Sleep did not come easy to you, and when it did, you only had nightmares.

After a particularly bad one, you woke up with a start, only to find yourself face-to-face with one of your captors, face hid behind a balaclava, and you screamed.

Only after a few moments did you realize that it was Simon.

Between your panicked apologizing, and his nervous tea-making, it took a while for either of you to speak.

“I’m sorry for not telling you I was leaving.” He said finally, sitting across from you on the sofa, and still managing to take up three fourths of it.

“You didn’t have to. You didn’t know me.” You replied.

“I clung to you.” He said under his breath, as if it was an admittance of weakness.

“I liked it. Made me feel less alone.”

Your hands found each other in the dark, his fingers curling around yours and you swore that you could feel his heart hammer in his wrist.

“I don’t want to go to Manchester alone.” You whispered. It was an admittance of defeat.

“I’ll go with you.” Simon replied. He had no incentive to.

In the dark, it didn’t feel as preposterous or dangerous to move closer to him. He stilled when your knee bumped against his leg, and you held your breath, waiting for his rejection.

It didn’t come, only a shaky breath from Simon that gave the smallest of hints about how he was feeling. His hand was still holding yours, warm and a little rough, but it felt real. It made you move closer, to try and lean into his touch.

His hand slipped from yours, and for a moment, you thought that you’d done something wrong, but then you felt it on your waist, and Simon pulled you onto his lap. Your hands flew to his chest to steady yourself, and you could feel his hammering heart beating under his shirt.

Simon was so massive that he engulfed you, drowned out everything around you, and you loved it. There was nothing but him, and that didn’t scare you. It made you feel unfathomably safe.

He hugged you suddenly, a mirror gesture to what you’d done at the airport, his thick arms wrapping around you, pulling you even closer, until your lips were almost on his and he looked up at you with something in his eyes that you couldn’t place, because no one had ever looked at you like that.

You couldn’t help kissing him. Slowly, asking, almost begging, you peeled up the lower half of his balaclava, waiting for him to tell you to stop. Instead, even in the darkness, you knew that the stubble on his jaw was blonde, because it was impossible to forget someone like him. Your lips found his and it felt so right that your hands snaked up to his jaw, cradling his face in the hope that he’d know you cared for him.

Simon returned your kiss equally as hungry, demanding the air you breathed from you, his embrace swallowing you, and you wanted to give it all to him. Your hands shook as you reached to slip them over the band of his sweats, still unsure if he’d reject you, or let you do it.

Cautiously, your hands slipped under his t-shirt first, his skin feeling like it was burning in comparison to your cold fingers, warm to the touch, and safe.

“I thought about you a lot.” You admitted between kisses. “Wanted to know what happened to you.”

Simon stilled at that, his gaze shifting, warping from one unreadable expression to another.

“Nothin’ good.” He replied finally. You felt like an idiot. Like you’d just ruined the moment.

“I’m sorry.” You said, because you had no idea what else to say. His hand found yours, and you felt like whatever was going to happen to you, it was going to be okay.

#simon riley #simon riley x you #simon riley x reader #ghost #ghost x reader #ghost x you #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x you #simon ghost riley x reader #simon 'ghost' riley x reader #simon 'ghost' riley x you #cod: mwii #cod x reader #cod mw2 #ghost cod #ghost cod x reader #ghost cod x you

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jamethinks · 3 months ago

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Latest chapter reaffirmed my point that Yor wants peace. Shes not as invested in the war as Loid. She enjoys silence and serenity. To her the news lacking any “important” news is a good thing but to him it’s concerning. They both grew up in hostile chaotic environments but the differences in their lives make them cope differently with the trauma.

Twilight felt helpless and constantly seeks to be in control, he also grew up in total instability and fought for his entire life, even now with a house and some sense of stability he still seeks chaos because that’s all he knows. Yor is the different, she knew peace and had it taken from her and was forced into a life of chaos so peace is more nostalgic and actually comforting.

It’s good to remember the approximate age difference between the both of them when their parents passed. As adults those few years seem minor but for kids those ages can drastically change their knowledge and memories. For context, when Twilight’s parents died he still had an underdeveloped kidney(or bladder i don’t remember). Seems insignificant but consider how he would be more likely to wet the bed than Yor, ie he would need more help than she would. (Granted he probably wasn’t wetting the bed since he had no bed)

Then of course there’s the difference in responsibilities. Twilight was alone but Yor also had a brother. That gave her an added level of responsibility along with caring for herself. That would have made her life more chaotic and anxiety inducing, constantly having to worry about her brother and his well being. For her a big news story could mean her brother was in danger or something could further complicate her life.

It’s a small detail but it really stood out to me. I’ve always considered what makes them different and how their childhoods shapes their current identity. As much as im not completely ecstatic about Yor’s characterization, there are still a few moments where they ace that difference and it’s perfect.

#spy x family #sxf #loid forger #twilight #yor forger #analysis #sxf chapter 103 #sxf spoilers

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joelscruff · 1 year ago

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wait (boyfriend's dad!joel x f!reader) 18+

first and foremost! this is part of my boyfriend's dad!joel series and takes place after "words". this won't really make sense if you haven't read that one! it's so crazy to me how this started out as a silly little smutty drabble and somehow became this. this one's kind of heavy (read the warnings!!) but i promise that things won't stay this angsty forever. at its root this story is supposed to be smutty and fun and i promise there will be more of that in the future. i hope you enjoy it and here's my kofi if you'd like to leave a tip 💕 summary: it's been a month since your boyfriend discovered your relationship with his father and a month since you've seen joel. it's starting to take its toll. rating: 18+ explicit warnings: daddy kink, unprotected p in v sex, sexting, comeplay, angst, allusions to past trauma, shitty family dynamics (addiction & verbal abuse), panic attacks word count: 3.2k

i miss you

it's the only thing you've thought about texting him for about a month, a text you always type out and then erase a few moments later. it's something you swore to yourself that you wouldn't do no matter how lonely you got. he'd said he needed time, and you want to give it to him. and yet here you are, leaning against the window of your bus home from community college with tears in your eyes, phone in hand, wanting nothing more than to see him. selfish.

it's been one of the loneliest periods of your life. you've known loneliness, felt it throughout most of your childhood, through your adolescence, it's nothing new. but with joel you'd finally begun to feel whole again, like you actually mattered to someone. he looked forward to seeing you, to holding you, being with you. you'd never felt so desired and loved and protected in your whole life.

now you're back to having nothing, no one. it's a harsh reality you're forcing yourself to accept. you still haven't heard anything from your boyfriend - now ex, of course, though there was never any official breakup - and even that's a punch to the gut, an added depth to a loss that you caused.

he's hurting, i hurt him, joel's words repeat in your head. it breaks your heart that he's feeling so guilty, that he feels that he caused this entire thing when it's really your fault. if you weren't such a mess of a person, such a broken human being, the whole thing wouldn't have even happened to begin with. what kind of person sleeps with their boyfriend's father? starts a relationship with him? calls him daddy?

you know you caused this and yet you can't help but miss him so much. it's like he's ingrained himself into your bones somehow, his touch tattooed into your skin. he's all you think about, dream about. you miss being in his embrace, being held by him, whispering daddy in his ear and feeling understood, not judged. you miss his gentle kisses to your nose, the safety of his lap, his arms around your trembling form while he fucked you, took you, made you his.

you stare at the unsent text message and inevitably find yourself scrolling back up to a previous conversation from a few months back, short and simple. texting was never a frequent medium for the two of you, more-so used for you to send him dirty pictures every so often to tease him a bit. you briefly look at the picture, a close-up shot of your bare pussy with some of his come leaking out; absolutely filthy.

still have u inside me daddy

oh baby, so messy. what am I gonna do with you?

you smile at the silliness of it all, the filthiness, but it quickly fades when you remember the reality of the situation again, the fact that your boyfriend had read joel's messages, had definitely seen these texts in particular. he'd called joel a sick man. you don't agree, but you can understand why; if you'd seen a text interaction like this between your own father and a girl half his age... you'd probably have a similar reaction - though the concept of your father showing a woman any affection in the first place is alien in itself.

your bus pulls up to the stop near your house and you get off, slipping your phone back into your pocket and hiking your backpack over your shoulder as you go. it's only a short walk to your house, no more than three minutes, though you usually try to make it a bit longer to delay the inevitable disaster of your home life.

you take it one step at a time, slowly walking down the darkening street with fresh tears in your eyes. god, you're so lonely. you don't want to go home, don't want to be accosted by your alcoholic father and avoidant mother, your asshole brother who never gives you a break. it's so damn depressing in that house; when you'd first gotten together with your boyfriend you'd been so relieved to finally have somewhere else to go that wasn't school or home, another reason you'd stayed with him for so long despite the relationship being doomed. you should have known it couldn't last.

you'd told joel everything. it's hard to believe sometimes that the connection you shared was strong enough for you to trust him with some of your darkest secrets, the worst things from your past. he knows all about your family, all about what you've been through, had listened to you quietly and earnestly as you cried into his shoulder about the hand life had dealt you. he'd rubbed your back, kissed your forehead, whispered it's okay, and i'm here now, and i'm gonna take care of you, sweetheart. and he did. he did take care of you. he'd done everything right and somehow you still managed to fuck it up.

the lights are on in the house when you arrive at the front gate, though the car is missing from the driveway; this only means that your mother is out late tonight, probably staying with a friend or a lover or whoever she turns to when shit gets bad. you can't blame her - you'd done the exact same thing when you'd actually had somewhere to go - but part of you still aches for that little girl inside you that needs her, wishes she was inside waiting for you, though it's not like she'd do much to help.

your father is definitely home, probably your brother as well. you stand at the gate, gripping the strap of your backpack and deliberating even bothering to go inside. you know you'll be accosted at the front door by either a drunken tirade or bitter argument. it's a no-win situation no matter how you look at it. your phone buzzes in your pocket and you pull it out, grateful for one last brief distraction.

i miss you too, angel. so much.

your eyes go wide, heart stuttering in your chest as you stare at the words.

"fuck," you breathe, "fuck, fuck fuck," you quickly scroll up to confirm your fears - the i miss you text, the one you always erase, the one you make sure to never send - you'd somehow sent it this time, entirely by mistake.

tears are stinging your eyes as you turn on the spot and start walking back and forth in front of your house, running your hand through your hair in disbelief while you stare at joel's text. you fucking idiot. what the fuck have you done? what happened to giving him space? you stupid fucking bitch. you absolute loser. you're suddenly berating yourself the exact same way you know your father and brother will berate you if you go in the house now. you can already picture it - them seeing your tear stained cheeks, the puffiness of your eyes, the words they'll throw at you to hurt you even more, make you feel small.

fucking bitch. fucking loser. fucking idiot.

your breathing is becoming more and more erratic the longer you pace. you can't go in now, not after this, not after seeing that he misses you too and being so fucking close yet so far away. all you can suddenly think about is all those wasted moments at his house, spending so much time with your asshole boyfriend when you could have been with joel, been loved instead of tossed aside like garbage.

god, if you could only hear his voice. if you could just talk to him for one minute before you have to go into this godforsaken hellhole.

before you even fully understand what you're doing, you're hitting the call button and bringing the phone up to your ear.

he answers on the first ring.

"h-"

"i can't do this anymore," you gasp out through a sob, not even bothering to let him say anything, "joel, i can't do it, i miss you so fucking much it hurts."

"babygirl," he breathes, voice rough and deep and gorgeous and familiar, sweet like honey in your ear, "where are you? are you okay?"

and that's enough to break you.

you feel the tears begin to stream down your face, hot and unrelenting. you shake your head even though he can't see you, throat bobbing through repetitive gasps, "no, i'm not okay," you blubber, "da- fuck, joel, i- i can't do this, i can't be by myself anymore. i'm - " you don't even know where this is coming from, voice muddled, "i'm so lonely. i can't do it anymore, i can't. please, i can't."

he makes a devastating sound at your words, something between a sob and a gasp, "where are you?" he repeats, voice full of concern, "where are you, baby? i'm gonna come get you."

"the bus stop by my house," you manage to tell him through your tears, reaching the little bench and situating yourself on it without an ounce of hesitation, "i was- i was gonna go home but," another sob rips through your throat, "but they're home and i- i can't- i can't take it anymore, joel. i don't wanna be there anymore, i can't be there."

"you stay where you are, you hear me?" you can hear movement on the other line, the rattle of keys, footsteps, "don't go home, babygirl, i'm comin'. i'll be there in ten minutes."

"okay," you whisper, trying to catch your breath, "okay."

"deep breaths, baby, remember?" and you do remember; he'd taught you some exercises to help in situations like this, when you feel like the world is falling apart around you and you're just getting smaller and smaller, disappearing into nothingness. he'd held your hands while you'd sat in his lap, eyes closed as you both matched each other's breathing, melted into one another. "in and out, babygirl, that's it. real slow, count for me."

"i r-remember," you manage to hiccup, squeezing your chest with your other hand and trying to ground yourself.

the wait is excruciating, no matter how short, and no matter the fact that joel is on the other end trying to calm you. you sit on the bench with a hand on your heart and the other on your stomach, listening to joel count to five over and over, phone upturned on your thigh.

"big breath in. one...two...three...four...five," he says through the muffled sounds of traffic and wind, "big breath out. one...two...three...four...five." over and over and over again, "i'm turnin' the corner, baby, i'm almost there," he says after about ten minutes of this, "you see me, honey?"

you look up to find his headlights, getting brighter and brighter as they approach. you shakily sit up from the bench, breath coming out much less erratic now, "y-yes," you whisper.

seconds later the car is pulling up in front of you and he's jumping out, not even bothering to shut the door behind him as he dashes around it. it's been so long since you've seen him that it's jarring to suddenly have him in front of you, sprinting toward your small and shaking form with his jacket undone, shoes mismatched, glasses askew. you catch a glimpse of his expression, concerned and upset - are those tears? - before he scoops you up into his arms and pulls you in close to him.

"i'm here," he tells you, voice rumbling through his chest against your cheek, solid and warm, "i'm here now, babygirl, you're okay. you're okay."

and somehow you are.

"i'm sorry," is all you can say to him as he drives you to his house, hand holding yours tightly the whole way, "i'm such an idiot, i'm so sorry."

"stop saying that," he repeats for maybe the fourth time, shaking his head and squeezing your hand even more firmly, "you're not an idiot and you have nothing to be sorry about."

you really are okay now, breaths calm and tears not even flowing anymore. instead the guilt and shame and humiliation have taken over, sinking into your skin as you lean back in the passenger seat with your hood pulled up, hiding your face from him.

"i was giving you space," you mutter, "i didn't even mean to text you, it was an accident. i was being stupid, as usual."

"stop it," he says again, "stop being mean to yourself."

you close your eyes and face away from him, "easier said than done."

the two of you drive in silence for a few moments, that is until he asks, "have you eaten?" and you say, "no."

he buys you mcdonalds and doesn't let go of your hand.

the house hasn't changed. you hadn't really expected it to; it's not like it's been that long since you were last here. you don't bother even sneaking a peek at your ex boyfriend's bedroom as joel leads you upstairs, curiosity nonexistent.

you're not sure why you expect him to take you into his office, maybe sit on the couch with you and talk. to your surprise he leads you straight past the door, down the hallway to what you can only assume is his bedroom - a place you've never been in all your months of being with him.

"sit down," he tells you softly as he opens the door, pulling you slowly inside and nodding toward the queen sized bed, "i'll get you something to wear."

"okay," you breathe, barely looking at him as you examine the room in front of you, large but cozy, cool colors but a warm atmosphere, framed music posters and blueprints covering the walls - exactly what you'd expect from someone like joel. you shuffle forward and drop your bag at the end of his bed, sitting on the edge of it while he goes to his dresser.

you end up in one of his sleep shirts and a pair of his underwear, loving the feeling of being his again, even if neither of you have actually talked about what exactly this means for your relationship. he helps you change, tugging off your worn-out jeans and the same shirt you've worn for three days in a row, pressing a kiss to your forehead as he pulls off your panties and replaces them with his boxers. it's not sexual, but part of you still longs to pull him on top of you, just feel his weight, smell his cologne.

he pulls back the duvet and helps you climb inside onto your stomach, rubbing your arms and shoulders and releasing some of the tension you've been feeling for the past month. you feel him press another kiss to the back of your neck, pushing your hair out of the way and stroking it gently, giving you all the care and attention you've been aching for. his hands are so big, so comforting and safe, touching you everywhere without any expectations or underlying motive.

"i missed you, daddy," you whisper against his pillow, not sure if he can even hear you, even more unsure whether it's okay to use that word anymore.

he doesn't reply right away, still kneading his thumbs into the base of your back and massaging you gently. you hear him inhale and exhale deeply a few times, like he's biding time while he figures out what to say.

"sorry," you wince, "joel."

he releases you then, helps you turn over so you're on your back and peering up at him with uncertainty. he sits on the edge of the bed and reaches down to thumb your cheek, eyes sad and tired.

"i wanna be that for you, sweetheart," he murmurs, brow furrowing, "i do. i want it more than you even realize," he takes a breath, biting down on his lip briefly, "i just... i need you to tell me somethin'. be honest with me now."

your heart skips a beat, "what?"

"when you said you loved me..." his voice breaks a bit and you ache to reach for him, cup his cheek and hold him close, "was it because of what we've been doin'?" he seems to reassess his words, shaking his head slightly, "i mean, did it...did you actually mean it? or was it... was it just part of the game?"

you stare at him for a few seconds, lips parting and eyes going slightly wide. without a second thought you do exactly what you'd just been thinking about, reaching up to place your hand against his face, feeling his scruff beneath your palm. he leans in and takes a breath, peering into your eyes with a yearning you can't describe, can only feel.

you shake your head slowly, "joel," you whisper, "it's never been a game."

his eyes close, stuttering out another breath when your thumb strokes his cheek soothingly. unable to hold back anymore, you lean up to capture his mouth in a soft kiss, sweet and tender and familiar. his hand finds the back of your head, pulls you closer, claims you again.

he fucks you slow.

it's never been like this, never has he fucked you the way he fucks you now. you barely speak, just moan and whimper and sigh and melt into each other the way you've never truly been able to, not without prying ears and a time limit hanging over your heads. your hands tangle in his hair while he hits that deep spot inside you, holds you close, buries his face in your neck and breathes you in, pounds into you relentlessly like you'll both come apart at the seams if he lets go.

you're biting it back, trying not to say it as much as you desperately want to, still unsure if this is really want he wants. just tell me what to do and i'll do it. i don't care, i'm yours. he looks into your eyes and you can't help but start crying again, overwhelmed by the warmth of him, the safety. he thumbs your tears and kisses them away.

"say it," he murmurs to you as you both near your inevitable release, the tension building and building as he grabs your face with both hands and fucks you with purpose, with passion, "say it, babygirl, tell me."

you shake your head, suddenly self conscious, suddenly afraid. the feelings from earlier tonight rise back in your chest, making a home in the back of your throat as a sob threatens to rip through it.

"it's okay," he whispers, voice trembling with the speed of his thrusts, "it's okay, honey, i wanna hear you say it," he furrows his brow and releases a groan, so close to the edge, "please, baby, say it. need you to say it."

you pull him close, grip his back, press your lips to his ear, "daddy."

he groans, dark and rough, "that's it," he murmurs, "that's it baby, i'm your daddy. that's right." he pulls back to look at you, eyes meeting yours in a passionate gaze that lasts forever, "say it again."

"daddy," you whine, unable to unlock your eyes from his, lip trembling as you submit entirely to him, "feels so good, daddy."

there's something in his expression you can't place, something in his words that reverberates in your brain like a pinball. say it again... you realize it means more than you'd initially thought. he's not just asking you to say one word - he's asking for three.

"i love you," you cry out just as he presses his thumb to your clit, pushes you over the edge, "i love you."

he comes just as you do, an animalistic sound tearing from his throat as your fingers scramble for purchase at his back, holding him impossibly close to the point where his entire body weight is on top of you, but you don't care. all you can feel is the way his heart beats against your chest, the way his gasps match yours, finding the same rhythm.

you lay there still for what feels like eternity, joel laying on top of you with his cock still deep inside and his forehead pressed against your shoulder. your tears have stopped but you feel the dampness of his own on your skin, hear the gasp he lets out as he sets his emotions free.

"i love you too," he whispers in your ear, breath hot and quick, voice wrecked, "god, i love you so much."

for the first time, you stay the night.

#joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #*#fic: bd!joel

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shesjustanothergeek · 4 months ago

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The Gods We Can Touch Chapter Four: Before the Storm

|Aemond Targaryen x Strong!Reader|

Masterlist of Series

Summary: The older twin of Prince Jacaerys Velaryon, you were a picture of the maiden, untouched and untainted by man's sins. At least, that was what Alicent Hightower believed when she held you in her arms moments after her old friend's labors. You were her shining light, her dream. Though you were never hers, she believed you were meant to be.

What will become of you as time passes and the Queen's shining light grows within the blackened darkness? Will her eldest son's morbid fascination with the light burn the realm? Or will her second son's obsession with the only daughter of Rhaenyra Targaryen change the course of the Seven Kingdoms as we know it?

Author's Note: Hello everyone! How are we doing after the last chapter? I went on a vacay and enjoyed some time with my family and dog, but now we're back to business. I wanted to say that I'm not a literary genius. Later in this chapter Helaena says some lines from a piece of work by Hélène Cixous called Love of the Wolf. I'm not taking credit for her work by any means, but I couldn't help myself not to add it. It was just too perfect. Well, anyways, thank you for reading!

Chapter Warnings: mentions of childhood SA and trauma related to it, sexism, bullying.

Birdsong accompanied you in your daily lessons with Septa Marlow, her parchment-thin flesh wrapped over her shaking bones as she pointed to the large map of what you assumed was Westeros. It wasn’t that you couldn’t identify the outline of your own country. You didn’t care. The tiny sparrow that decided to make its nest on the branch of an oak tree outside the tutor room window was far more interesting.

You could hear the sounds of swords clashing outside over the creature’s call, an added instrument into the melody of the Red Keep. There was no doubt your brothers and uncles were practicing their swordplay, Ser Criston teaching the pairs of children. How you longed to be out there with them, with your family, with your twin, learning of things much more exciting than what region of the country produced the most red wine.

You only wanted to see them and to be entertained. It wasn’t that you wanted to learn the sword, though you wouldn’t say no should someone ask.

But this resulted from the actions from the previous day when you disobeyed the Dragonkeeper’s commands. It surprised you when your mother failed to mention how your brothers and Aegon gave Aemond a pig, but you weren’t planning to go out of your way to tell on yourself and receive any more repercussions. You were already confined to the castle walls and forbidden from seeing your dragon for the next sennight. You couldn’t imagine what your mother would have done in response if she knew.

“Princess, pay attention,” the old crone’s wavering voice commanded, causing you to jolt.

You attempted to follow her instructions, rattling off the names of Houses and their most profitable exports, but metal clanging stole you from your duties once more. Why couldn’t you be with your brothers and uncles? You understood that today’s extra lessons were a punishment, but why couldn’t you join them? You and Jace were the same age, though you were a few moments older, and Luke was younger.

You could comprehend the importance of learning such knowledge, but your brothers were able to understand this and swordsmanship. Why could you not? Seeing as your mother had not learned it, you did not believe it was a skill you needed. This was the only thing that separated you from Jace, and you hated it.

Suddenly, everything went silent. The birds, the clang of steel, your mind halted into a noiseless silence, leaving the only sound of Septa Marlow’s droning, shaky voice. Screams you knew belonged to Aegon and the shrieks of your younger brother, Jace, briefly sounded, causing your feet to twitch in the direction of the sound. You knew your brother. That was not a noise of happiness but one of determination and fear, but once again, it plummeted into silence.

Then, it erupted. Shouts and thick, repeated thumps of what could only be skin on skin replaced the dull thudding of swords, only this time, it was of grown men.

Disregarding your Septa’s scolds of disobedience, you stood, rushing from the creaky wooden desk and chair with a soft wince from the pain between your legs. You ran to the window, face pressed against the glass, to see the situation unfold.

Ser Harwin kneeled over a man in polished armor you couldn’t see as he drove punch after punch into the man’s face. It was a member of the Kingsguard, judging by his attire as onlookers gathered around the two of them, attempting to remove Harwin from his victim.

Why would Ser Harwin be attacking a Kingsguard?

You pressed your face closer to the glass, fogging it with your breath. Soon, your mother’s protector was thrown off, revealing a bloodied, smug Ser Criston Cole, a proud smirk on his tan face as he spat viscous scarlet liquid. Ser Harwin spewed words of anger you couldn’t hear as you observed with wide eyes from above.

“Princess!” Marlow shouted, stomping her slippered foot in exasperation. “Return to your seat at once.”

“Ser Harwin is attacking Ser Criston!” you countered with a whine as you disregarded her demands. Without thinking of the consequences, you ran for the exit only to be met with the face of your sworn shield, halting you from seeing the commotion.

You were stuck. These were the repercussions of your actions, and now you had to sit in dull solitude with a Septa so old that your mother had her as wild possibilities ran through your head as to why Ser Harwin Strong attacked Ser Criston Cole.

Finding where your uncle Aemond spent most of his time was effortless. He was unlike the rest of you, who loved to be outside in the dirt, running about the gardens as you and your brothers played any game you could think of. Aegon and the trio of you teased Aemond for the fact that he was different in this way, your eldest uncle impressing the idea that his brother’s likes of science, math, history, and philosophy were weird for a child. You also enjoyed subjects similar to your uncle’s, thirsting for knowledge of everything related to herbs, flowers, and other plants, but you never brought it up. Aegon would undoubtedly tease you for it if he knew.

Aemond’s interests weren’t typical, but you didn’t see it as something to look down on him for. But since Aegon did, you had no choice but to agree.

The library in the Red Keep was a lonely and shadowy place, rarely visited by anyone, not even the servants. The absence of lit candles or a crackling fire contributed to the eerie atmosphere, creating a sensation of fear that seemed to grip your very core as you stepped inside, as though you were venturing into an endless void of darkness. Despite the unsettling ambiance, you summoned your bravery, clutching your cherished collection of fairy tales for comfort, and gained the strength to push open the library doors. The sound of metal clanging echoed in the silence.

Motes of dust swirled in the beams of light pouring through the windows as you combed through the towering wooden bookcases. Your search was targeted and honed on a particular individual who, besides Lord Lyonel Strong and the rest of the council members, was known to make regular visits to this room. It was just a matter of time before you laid eyes on him.

After the sixth tall hickory bookshelf, you found Aemond resting on a window seat filled with lush fabric cushions, the sunbeams casting him in a yellow glow. You took a step forward, hesitating as you thought about how your uncle would react to your goodwill gesture. Despite anticipating his initial skepticism and harsh words, you held onto hope that persistence and authenticity would eventually make him see you for who you are.

You wished for it to be true.

“Have you come to mock me again, niece?” Aemond asked, interrupting your indecision with his nose still in the pages.

You swallowed as your mouth became dry, stepping out to reveal yourself fully. “No, Aemond. I came to read,” you replied, taking a gasp of air and summoning courage, “with you.”

Your uncle’s attempt to mask his surprise was unsuccessful as his eyes widened in astonishment. He quickly glanced at you and returned to his book, hoping to conceal his reaction.

His usual scowl deepened, pulling down at his freckled cheeks as he interrogated. “Why?”

A lopsided grin scrunched your plump cheeks upwards to crinkle your eyes as you shrugged. “Because I want to.”

Aemond flipped onto the next page with a skeptical face, yet his violet orbs never moved from the same spot. You had his attention. Hiding a victorious grin, you stepped towards him before he could protest, plopping onto the pillows beside Aemond. He quickly recoiled in exaggerated disgust, as if you were no more than an annoying fly that landed on his arm as he slammed the tome shut and briskly left.

This was an expected outcome, and you hurriedly chased after him, your shorter legs struggling to keep up with your uncle’s pace as he fled around a corner from your attempted act of bonding. You understood this was not a simple task and already built the mental stamina to outlast Aemond’s antics as he jumped down the stone steps of the Keep two at a time.

Eventually, he managed to escape you, his notable mane of blonde hair disappearing before a crowd of courtiers in the courtyard.

You huffed a sigh as you observed the sea of people, sweat stinging your privy part, but you ignored it, standing on the tips of your toes to peer over the wall of the pale redstone landing above the yard.

Suddenly, you spotted him at the far end as he caught your gaze, violet eyes widening in horror as if he saw one of the monsters from your stories. He turned away. His confident walk soon turned to a worried jog as you ran as fast as your limbs could carry you, shoving your way through the throng of people. You were used to playing chase with your brothers. Doing it with your uncle was the same, if not more manageable, with the help of his iconic hair and green garbs.

As you reached the area where you spotted your uncle, he was nowhere to be found, and you turned, looking across the vast meadow of the court that ebbed and flowed like the swaying of a wheat field, focused on their afternoon destinations. None of them paid any attention to the two dragon royals, both more than a head shorter and too self-absorbed to care.

With a sharp yelp, you fell to the ground, soiling your gown and dropping your book on the packed dirt as you caught yourself with your palms. They ached at the impact, tiny rocks embedding into your soft skin as you swiftly turned to the person who shoved you and saw no other than your uncle Aemond staring over you with rose-dusted cheeks. His arms securely bound his book to his chest as he looked down upon you with his nose, catching his breath and taking three paces back before you righted yourself.

“Why are you following me?” your uncle shouted down at you as he attempted to make his voice sound like a grown man.

You huffed as you swiped the dirt from your turquoise dress, gritting your teeth to control your frustration. This was one of your nice ones! Of course, Aemond would ruin it. Your mother would surely scold you when she found out.

“I told you I only wanted to read!” you screeched with a stomp of your foot as your arms flew into the air, flailing wildly. “And now you’ve ruined my favorite collection! The spine is loose and the pages are dirty!”

Aemond said nothing as you studied the now-tattered book before you. Every night, Ser Harwin or your father read a short story from this as you sat atop their laps, drifting off into a restful sleep filled with dreams of nymphs playing in a forest creek. Your book, too, was ruined—another consequence of wanting to be kind to your uncle.

“What’s it about?” he suddenly asked, prompting your watery eyes to move to him. The blush that covered Aemond’s face deepened, now traveling to his ears and throat as he dug his nails into the leatherback of his tome. He looked almost pained to inquire about anything that had to do with you.

Your first instinct was to bite with sharpened fangs of hurt, but you stopped, remembering your goal as you batted your watery lashes in disregard. “It was a volume of different stories,” you sighed with disappointment, afraid that if you showed any other emotions, you would revert to your old ways.

“I see.”

You stared at Aemond expectantly, waiting longer than what was proper for him to continue any sentence or explanation. Still, he did not, only observing you with a calculating expression. The low murmur of bustling court members filled the long silence, the occasional gust of wind and rattling metal low in the background. When your uncle refused to proceed with the conversation, you opened your mouth to do it for him, but much to your chagrin, he turned away before you could, not speaking a word as he kicked pebbles with his boots.

You scoffed in response, stunned and appalled by his actions. For a brief moment, one that didn’t last longer than a blink, Aemond showed kindness to you. You felt like an idiot for believing in that small part that thought last night changed your standing with Aemond, yet a ray of hope still lingered in your chest like the flame of a burnt wick on a dwindling candle.

You sighed in frustration as you looked over the worn and tattered pages of the stories. The determination you once had dwindled, and you couldn’t shake off the feeling that you deserved this. Memories of mocking Aemond’s odd behavior of the pig and making fun of him with your brothers and Aegon weighed heavily on you, intensifying the shame. A soft sigh of defeat escaped your lips as you reflected on your actions.

Ser Harwin was leaving you. After his fight with Ser Criston in the training yard, he was stripped of his title as Commander of the City Watch and was sent back to Harrenhal the next day. You were devastated, fat tears running down your hot cheeks as he said farewell to you, Jace, Luke, and Joffrey before sleep.

Harwin had been with you since before you were born. He was there to help sort out quarrels between you and your brothers whenever one stole toys and refused to share. Harwin accompanied you to your lessons when your brothers were learning the art of swords or hunting. He taught you how to ride a horse when your father was out at sea with your grandfather Corlys and dried your tears whenever Aegon and Aemond were harsh. Ser Harwin was family as far as you were concerned, and returning to the Riverlands was akin to losing a member because Ser Criston claimed he cared too much about you and your brothers only to be a sworn protector.

You weren’t blind to the rumors surrounding your parentage and the resemblance to the Commander of the City Watch. It was all your uncles could do not to bring it up each moment they laid their Valyrian eyes on you. The word bastard haunted the now four of you wherever you went, a cloak of shame that threatened to devour your girlish body whole.

Jace often raised concerns about who your birth father was, but he was never brave enough to ask your mother about it. It was an open question of uncertainty that never seemed to find the correct answer, yet, no matter what, you knew that even if you were not of Laenor Velaryon’s blood, they could never deny that you were your mother’s. You were a Targaryen, just like your aunt and uncles, and that was something that could never change.

“Be good to your mother. I’ll visit when I can,” Ser Harwin said tenderly, kneeling before you, Jace, and Luke as your mother cradled Joffrey. He stood with a grunt as he observed the four of you, a misty look in his eyes that you could mistake for tears. “But that may be some time.”

Sobs stained the white cotton sleeves of your nightgown gray, sniffling as you wiped away more snot and salty water. You would miss Ser Harwin terribly, and he knew that, but that did not make this any less painful as you clung to Jace’s side and he, your mother.

“I will return. I promise,” Harwin expressed with a gravelly voice as he tenderly brushed loose strands of your hair that hid your wet eyes. You listened to the same voice as you sat on his lap, resting your head upon his chest as he read you and your brother’s fairy tales before bed.

Harwin would tell no more stories in that deep, rumbling tone that soothed your soul beyond measure, and you felt your heart crack more at the thought.

Harwin moved to say his final farewell to Joffrey and your mother, kissing the babe’s forehead as you buried your face in your brother’s neck. “You will be a stranger when we meet again,” he said to the bundle of fabric that cooed in your mother’s arms.

And that was true, not just for Joffrey, but for all of you.

Ser Harwin bid goodbye to your mother with a simple “princess” as they shared a long, meaningful glance with layers of emotion and scores of history behind them. He said no more and gathered his sword, swinging it over his shoulder as you released a cry, running to the comforting embrace of your mother’s bed. You could no longer watch Harwin as he left your life, a new wave of sobs taking over as you shoved your face into her feather pillows. It smelled of her, home, and happiness—fresh lavender and sage on expensive cotton sheets.

Despite your mother’s reassurance that you would see Ser Harwin again someday, you could not help but feel like this was a death sentence. As if you stood in front of his coffin and buried him beneath the dirt and worms yourself. He would no longer be the sworn shield he was when he left at this very moment, as you heard the sound of hurried footfalls exiting the room.

Luke followed you to the wide bed, tucking himself into your side and resting his temple on your chest as you both cried in an agonizing yet loving embrace. You could hear Jace talking to your mother outside the doorway, little Joffrey babbling as she softly bounced him in her arms. Whether it was to comfort your babe brother or her, you did not know.

“Is Harwin Strong my father? Am I a bastard?” you heard Jace ask. His fierce and unwavering inquiry only made you sadder. On instinct, you covered Luke’s ears as he hiccuped into your chest. He did not need to have doubt burrow into his mind at such a young age.

Your mother was silent. The only sounds coming were from you, the soft crackles of the fire in the hearth, and your little brother’s heaving breaths as you struggled to cope with the loss.

“You are a Targaryen. That is all that matters,” she finally answered, tone strong. Her words were rehearsed and practiced, and they did not quell the thirst for the truth in either you or Jace.

Your barely younger brother returned to the room. His thin lips downturned, and his head hung low as he sat on one of the plush settees littering the area. You could tell he was unsatisfied with your mother’s response, as were you, but he understood he would get the same reply should he push the matter. Your mother followed in soon after, observing the three of you with tired yet loving eyes.

The same question was on your lips, threatening to break free at any moment, lilac orbs landing on your brown ones as she stared at you with your newest brother still in her arms. She was not inclined to answer, and yet you knew. It was written plainly in the fine lines of her face, the slope of her nose, and how tears lined her lashes as your mother inhaled a fierce, shuddering breath. Much like her, you refused to say the words aloud, electing to bask in the grief-stricken sadness that enveloped your family.

The hour of the owl was upon you before you finally went to your chambers, unable to find rest in your kin’s arms. Your brothers choose to stay with your mother inside hers as their tiny bodies pressed against each other after the tears have long dried.

The halls and corridors of the Red Keep were noiseless as you trekked through them with keen eyes. The portraits of your ancestors you passed daily seemed to follow you with their purple gazes, their accusing stares boring shame into your soul and setting your hair alight.

Alicent’s warning rang through your head as the squeak of a rat sounded, her rich voice echoing inside until it was all you could hear. The end could not come fast enough as you shut the large wooden doors to your, Jace’s, and Luke’s shared quarters, swiftly hiding under your blue bed sheets, heart hammering in your chest.

Your bed was cold and safe, and your pulse calmed steadily. Now, more than ever, the uncertainty behind your birth was thrust before you.

It was always easier to deny the fact that you were most likely a bastard than it was to accept it. Those who accused you did not understand that they weren’t only saying your blood was not Laenor Velaryon but that you and your brothers were a sin, your very existence an insult to House Velaryon, the king, and to all those who dutifully suffered unkind marriages.

Bastards were not heirs. They were creations purely out of selfish lust and desire.

It called into question all four of your legitimacy of inheritance. None of you had claims to the thrones or titles you were set to receive upon the death of your parents, and no prospects would want to wed a bastard should you accept it.

You understood why your mother did not admit the words allowed in the confidence of the now four of you. If you spoke them into existence, it would only make them real. It left you no choice but to deny, deny, deny until your tongue withered and lips fell off. Living a life of refusal of admittance would be difficult. Still, it was the only way to ensure you and your brother’s places would be secured until the Stranger decided to take another companion.

The empty well of tears soon filled once more as you sighed deeply in surrender to the turbulent path ahead, tucking your hand underneath your pillow for the relief of rest, but unfortunately, it did not find you.

Your vanity mirror shined like a beacon in the darkness, reminding you of that night. You still needed to move it back to its original place and give your maids the excuse that you wanted to see what it would look like there. It was a lie.

The idea that Aegon knew of a passage into your rooms haunted you when you set foot into the space. You were scared, anxious, no… terrified that your eldest uncle would waltz into your bed chamber at any moment. The unknown was what frightened you—of what he would do. The notion that he could enter pushed you to rise from bed, planting the soles of your feet onto a maroon Myrish rug as you grabbed the legs of the vanity and pulled it back into place. You would have to think of another lie to tell your maids.

“Why is Uncle Aemond unkind to us?” a timid voice rang out into the once private space.

Nearly jumping out of your skin, you turned to see Luke with a wooden toy dragon curled into his tiny fist. It looked as if he had just awoken from sleep minutes ago, which you assumed was the case judging by his messy hair and crusted eyes. As you caught your breath, clutching the skirt of your pale gray nightgown, you disregarded any questions about why he was here instead of your mother’s room.

“I’m sure he doesn’t mean to be,” you answered as your racing heart calmed. “Why do you ask?”

“I saw him push you over in the courtyard,” he ardently explained, his dark brows rising against his pale skin. It reminded you of your father when he tried to speak earnestly with the three of you, yet Luke’s boyish voice had no similarities to his.

You sighed, recalling the now ruined book you hid in your trunk alongside your tattered dress. “He was angry.”

You did not want to tell Luke about Aemond’s rejection, as the embarrassment was still fresh. He would no doubt try to tell you how you were wrong for attempting to befriend him after the mean things he’d said to you all your life.

“He’s always angry, but we haven’t done anything,” Luke countered with a frown on his small lips, fiddling with his fingers at his sides.

You paused for a long moment, unsure of what to say. The three of you were not nearly as cruel to Aemond as Aegon was. Your mother raised you to be kind to your uncles and aunt no matter what they did to you, and while you were not perfect, any jokes or rude remarks were not made with the intent to hurt him. With a great sigh, you lead Luke in front of the gated fireplace, where a collection of your toys rests in the orange glow. He picked up a polished wooden horse, running his tiny thumbs over the varnish as you spoke.

“I think he believes we don’t belong here,” you said. The explanation was vague, and it irked you beyond measure. The truth of your words threatened to surface like an apple thrown into a barrel full of water.

“We live here. This is our family,” he replied in confusion, dark eyes so wide you could see the entire white. He wasn’t wrong, yet the truth of the matter clawed at your throat to become free.

“We don’t look like Targaryens. You must have noticed.” You could not stop the words from being said. You were such a good liar. Why was it impossible to lie about this?

“You mean our hair?” Luke questioned with a tilt of his head, scratching his scalp in confusion with one of the wooden toys.

You didn’t want to tell him and put the burden of knowledge onto your younger brother that you and Jace were cursed with, but it was something you understood would follow the now four of you for the rest of your lives.

Luke was still younger than you, yet his simple statement of your hair tested your last bit of resolve. “Our hair, eyes, and everything!” you exclaimed exasperated.

“But I have a crooked little finger like Mama,” he reasoned with the raise of his hand, showing his small digit. You deflated, sighing a drawn-out breath to calm your temper as you picked up one of your rag dolls from the pile.

“A crooked little finger isn’t enough,” you decided to say as you stroked the button eyes on your toy. Why couldn’t he comprehend that no matter how many similarities you had to your mother, the fact of who your father was remained uncertain?

“Well, if we aren’t Targaryens, where did we come from?” The sap inside the fire popped, startling you and your brother as you stared into the flames.

You were Targaryens. That much was obvious. You cannot fake exiting your mother’s womb. It was the matter of your father that sparked rumors, but you did not want to give Luke any more thoughts over the subject, coming to accept that he was not old enough to understand what your uncle was being mean about.

“We were born here. Mama is our mother, but there’s something else and Aemond knows it,” you answered obscurely, clutching your dolly into your chest as the night air howled outside the glass windows.

It felt like the Keep was listening to your conversation, the walls groaning in response to your words. The very castle you lived in understood the truth, and the pressure of it weighed heavily on your soul. Just like the paintings of your ancestors, the Red Keep knew of your shame.

“I do not wish to be different,” Luke confessed with dejection, too sad for your liking, as he stopped playing with the toys.

You didn’t want to cause anyone’s sadness, let alone your brother’s, and you frowned, taking Luke’s hand in yours and scooting across the floor to hug his side.

You loved your family more than words could describe as you held your younger brother closer. Jace, Luke, and now Joffrey did not deserve the torment they would face for the rest of their lives at the hands of your uncles and the court. As the eldest, it was your responsibility to protect them from things your parents could not, to take care of them and dry their tears, not to burden your mother or father, but this was something you understood you could not fix, yet it did not deter you from trying.

“Nor do I,” you finally spoke, holding Luke close to your heart and kissing him on his cherubic cheek. “So let us be good children and please those who love us so they may forget what we lack. Come. It’s time for bed.” Your mother would say that as you took your brother by the hand and led him to your bed.

If you couldn’t change what people said, you could at least change the contents they discussed.

You would excel in your place as the unspoken heir and accept your duties no matter what with your shoulders back and your chin held high. You would learn the history of your ancestors, the politics of your country, and whatever else you believed was dutiful to prepare yourself for the responsibility you would inherit after your mother. Not feeling the same fear you did earlier, now with your younger brother at your side, you pulled the covers over both of you as Luke snuggled into your side’s comforting embrace.

Aemond felt he lacked something compared to his siblings, niece, and nephews. Some of him believed that if a dragon hatched from his egg, or he claimed a living one, things would be different from how they were now. He would not be the subject of people’s taunts nor feel the prominent sensation of inadequacy that weighed on his soul, but it seemed as if Aemond was destined to suffer within the shadows of his family’s success no matter how hard he tried to step out of it.

His older brother possessed the skills of conversation and humor he didn’t have and constantly teased him for it, though Aegon was not without faults. His brother would tell him to stop being a “twat,” to get his nose out of books, and that he was dull, sullen, and far too severe for his age.

Because of this, Aegon preferred to spend time with Jace, Luke, and his niece, but it didn’t help that they were much easier company. His half-sister’s children seemed to have a bond closer than his siblings, each with dragons, which was the one thing he didn’t possess. Aemond would never admit he was jealous of his niece and nephews, for that would mean that he saw them as equals of comparison, which was something they weren’t. They were beings of lesser standing, though they thought themselves on par, as they had been raised with the same extravagance he was.

Aemond knew you would be looking for him the next day as he watched you skip to the library the following morning, your smile so bright on your face that it made him sick. Seeing how the joy fell from your face when you saw he was not there gave him a deep sense of satisfaction.

Did you think him stupid?

He could see the telltale signs of tears welling in your eyes as you realized your hidden plans of ridicule were foiled: the scrunch of your dark brows, rapid blinking to get the droplets at bay, and then the pursing of your lips. This time, you held firm and refused to let your emotions guide you. At least, that was what Aemond believed as he observed you exiting the library deep in thought.

He knew you would not give up so easily, and instead of taking solace in his usual places of inhabitant and risking you finding him, he chose to watch you. You could not see him if he was three steps ahead. Aemond was glad that you weren’t nearly as bright as you believed, and as long as he stayed out of sight, he could be sure you wouldn’t bother him. The irony of the situation that he would now be following you to avoid you didn’t matter, and he certainly wasn’t concerned about your well-being after what Aegon did, either.

You were as foreign to one another as Old Valyria; there was no reason for him to care. Aemond would do this every day for the rest of his life if it meant he would never have to spend a moment with you again.

“Brother, what are you doing?”

Helaena’s voice drifted through the halls like summer wind through tree leaves, startling Aemond as he watched his niece’s dark head disappear around a corner. Her fair blonde locks, a copy of her brother’s, were braided around the crown of her head, a tiny metal cage in her lithe fingers, and a curious expression on her visage directed towards him.

“You’re avoiding her,” Helaena declared with a resolute lilt to her tone, taking the insect out of its confines. “After what has been stolen.”

Aemond stared at his sister with perplexed eyes, quickly looking to ensure you had not heard the conversation and came to investigate.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Aemond said distractedly, wringing his hands at the pit of unease in his stomach.

There was no possibility that she knew what occurred during the night. Aegon would never willingly admit something like this, and you would undoubtedly keep what happened a secret, seeing as you refused to tell your mother in fear of punishment.

Helaena was silent as she observed the olive-and-brown grasshopper in her palm, petting it with her index finger before it tried to jump away. She held the open metal cage in the bug’s intended direction, and it landed inside, swiftly flicking the door shut before it could attempt to escape again.

“Tis our fate, I think, to crave what is given to another. If one possesses a thing, the other will take it away,” Helaena declared with the furrow of her blonde eyebrows, the insect thumping against the metal bars as she looked at her younger brother.

Her words were cryptic, and Aemond felt a bead of sweat run down his spine as he observed his older sister. He didn’t understand what she meant. She intensely focused on it, so he assumed it was about the grasshopper. Aemond wordlessly shrugged, disregarding his older sister’s vague observation as he peered anxiously at where he last spotted you.

“Tis not difficult for the ewe to love the lamb. But for the wolf?” Helaena began again, standing beside her brother with a soft swish of her satin skirt. “The wolf’s love for the lamb is such a renunciation, it’s the wolf’s sacrifice—it’s a love that could never be requited. This wolf that sacrifices its very definition for the lamb, this wolf that doesn’t eat the lamb, is it a wolf? Is it still a wolf?”

Aemond paid no attention to her now as Helaena spouted what he felt was nonsense and decided to push forward in search of you, ensuring with noiseless strides you would not see him once he got close.

Helaena was someone he felt was misunderstood like him, but now was not the time to go on with poetry and riddles.

“But sometimes it’s the wolf that falls into the jaws of the lamb. Out of love, the wolf falls backward into the circle of fire. It goes around fast. It so happens that the lamb catches the wolf,” Helaena continued, her voice soft like morning spring rain as she followed her vexed younger brother. She was inside her world, purposely or ignorant of her brother’s frustration.

“There is no greater love than the love the wolf feels for the lamb it doesn’t eat.”

Aemond groaned, losing his temper, which he rarely did in the presence of his sister. His niece had irked him, causing his heartbeat to quicken and his lungs pant.

“Helaena, will you please stop with this nonsense? I have important matters to tend to,” Aemond barked hushedly as a servant passed by, blocking the sun from the windows.

Any other day, he would allow his sister to speak for however long and about whatever she wanted, but this was not one of those times. You could happen upon him at any moment, and the prince did not want to risk the chance of a repeat encounter.

Helaena refused to listen to him as her musings became louder and sharper as if she was trying to convey a point without the proper words, no doubt alerting you and everyone else in the Keep to where he was. Aemond felt the blanket of defeat shroud his figure as the sound of light hurried footfalls sounded in the hall.

“The lamb loves its wolf. The wolf turns white and starts quivering out of love for the lamb. The lamb loves the wolf’s fragility, and the wolf loves the frail one’s force. The wolf is now the lamb’s lamb and the lamb has tamed the wolf,” his sister concluded, violet-eyed with an understanding she attempted to impart onto Aemond with the harsh squeeze of her digits on his arm.

He gasped, his brows arched in pain from Helaena’s sharp nails piercing through his tunic, and tried to wretch his arm free with a panicked grunt, but to no avail. Before he could blink, your pitched voice pierced Aemond’s ears, and he felt like they would burst.

“Uncle! There you are. I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” The loose strands of your neatly styled hair bounced with every step as you approached Aemond with a broad grin on your lips. “I was hoping we could read today. I chose a book I think you would like. I know you don’t enjoy fairytales.”

“Love blackens the lamb, leaving fire and blood to light their way,” Helaena whispered, her violet gaze directed towards the tall window as a bird flew past. She released Aemond’s arm as if she suddenly realized she still had it. She looked back to her grasshopper, wordlessly displaying it for you to see.

“Oh, is that a new one Helaena?” you asked with a bright curiosity in your tone. Aemond didn’t believe you truly cared about his sister and her bugs, curling his lip in disgust at what he thought were false niceties. “Where did you find it? We’ll have to go there sometime to see if there are more!”

You didn’t care about Helaena and her hobbies. You were more like Aegon and made fun of her for the bugs she collected. At least, that was what he had in his mind. Aemond felt conflicted as he watched his sister nod in agreement, asking when your punishment was over so you could spend time together again.

When he noticed Helaena’s faint smile as she left, grasshopper in tow, a warmth blossomed inside his heart. His sister only showed happiness when she truly felt it, not to be polite like most, and it caused Aemond to turn to you, his face pale. You were his annoying, spoiled, bastard niece who got anything she wanted, so why were you not acting like it?

It felt like butterflies were inside your stomach as you took another step toward Aemond, a book clutched to your chest like before. Aemond watched as his sister left the two of you alone without a word, like she was in a world of her own. He wanted to reach out to her to be not alone with his dreadful niece, but Helaena was gone as quickly as she emerged, leaving her younger brother with the girl he hated most in the world.

“I have a book I think we both would like today, uncle. It’s one about the warrior Queen Nymeria and her journey to Dorne,” you announced, a slight sway in your step as you tried to quell your anxiety.

Aemond huffed as he looked for a way out of this and sighed in defeat when he found none, clenching his thumbs inside his palms to control the ire that swelled in response. Your uncle didn’t want your pity or your friendship. He knew you were only spending time with him since you didn’t wish to Aegon and could not be with your brothers because they were in their lessons. You would have never done this if his eldest brother could control his impulses. It made him feel like a second choice, another painful reminder that he was always second to his kin, yet not good enough to be a spare.

Walking away in surrender, he led you back to the library, where no one would see the pair of you, and the sun provided the only light. He knew Aegon would tease him beyond what he could take if he saw you together, and after that night, Aemond did not want to see him anyway.

You set the book of Queen Nymeria’s adventures on a dusty wooden table and giggled as you fanned the air. Aemond was not amused, sulking in the chair beside you as he opened the leather back of the book. You sat next to him, shoulders touching, ignoring his reaction. He mockingly covered his mouth as if he smelled something terrible when he inhaled the citrus scent on your skin. This made you feel a bit upset, but you tried to hide it by tugging at your dark hair and avoiding his gaze.

You read the first page together silently. It stated how the queen looked, how beautiful she was with long, flowing, swarthy hair cascading down her waist with sturdy hips, her skin a smooth, youthful complexion with brown eyes to match. Yet still, she was a fierce warrior with an indomitable spirit who led her men into battle and took no cowards. You imagined you would be like her when you grew up, a beautiful warrior queen who ruled her kingdom with an unwavering though gentle and cunning fist, who people loved and respected her rule.

“Can I turn it?” Aemond asked dispassionately, cutting through the silence. You hadn’t realized you had been so lost in your daydreams that you had not retained a single word written on the page, but to not make your uncle perceive you lower than he already did, you nodded.

You leaned closer to the pages before you decorated them in elaborate colors of blue and red, studying the new page and picture. Aemond glanced at you out of the corner of his eye, unnoticed by you as you were lost in the vast expanse of your mind, your cheek right next to his.

He was surprised at how different you were, apart from the apparent fact of age and sex. His eyelashes were almost white and translucent, while yours were black, long, surrounding dark eyes that glistened with natural wetness that threatened to suck him into their depths if he stared for too long. Aemond’s skin was pale and dusted with sun kisses, yet yours was plain, flushed, and full of life, your lips more defined and moist than his. You possessed a pug nose matching that of your brothers rather than his aquiline one, a softer, more plump face than his, as Aemond’s was more defined even for his age. His hair, the color of Targaryen’s, the white you didn’t have a hint of and mocked you for, was visible proof of who your father was.

Though Aemond immensely enjoyed pointing out the idea that you were a bastard, he reluctantly realized that you weren’t unattractive, at least by Westerosie standards.

“I will be like Nymeria when I am queen,” you announced to Aemond, breaking the silence. He gave you a sidelong glance and sighed. It wouldn’t hurt if there were some conversation between you. It didn’t seem like you would be mean to him, and he supposed you were indebted to him after all.

At your hopeful expression, your uncle didn’t have the heart to tell you that neither you nor your mother would rule the Seven Kingdoms. Women were not fit to rule and carry such a burden. They were too gentle of creatures to make the harsh decisions that ruling required.

“Are you certain you’ll be a good ruler? You can barely get your brothers to listen to you. What makes you think the Lords of the realm will?” Aemond questioned with a trace of bitterness you couldn’t understand the cause of.

Turning to him with a face painted with a serious expression, your brows scrunched together and lips tight in a severe line as you took his hand. “Just as Nymeria burned her ships to prevent any cowardly men from fleeing, I will burn all those who try to hurt my family and oppose my reign.”

You stated the words with such a decisive coldness that it caused Aemond to shiver. He was shocked and in awe at your declaration, stunned into silence filled with momentary admiration. Aemond never imagined that would come out of your mouth. He always pictured you as soft-hearted when it came to violence, having seen you cower when Aegon would hit your brothers too hard when training.

“What would you do if they didn’t allow your mother to be queen? You wouldn’t have the power to do that,” your uncle reasoned, giving you a devoted attention he never gave before. It made you pause.

“Perhaps I was a bit rash,” you reasoned with the gentle tug of your hair, letting go of Aemond’s hand in nervousness. He swiftly snatched it back before you could think, a surge of excitement rolling in the pit of your stomach with the action. “It wouldn’t only be me, though. I would have Jace, Luke, and Joffrey when he becomes a rider. We would help our mother if anyone tried to prevent her, and I would have my husband, too. He would be my Mors Martell and help me conquer all of Dorne!”

You looked at Aemond with uncertain eyes as your gaze flicked from him to the open book the two of you barely read.

“You mean Aegon. Someone with a dragon,” he countered snidely, turning his flushed cheeks away from you.

“No,” you snapped quicker than you could have imagined. “I don’t want Aegon to be my husband.”

Aemond needn’t ask why.

You hadn’t heard your eldest uncle’s name since that night, and hearing it made something within you break. You despised Aegon for his actions. Did he feel entitled to mistreat you because of the betrothal plan? It filled you with blackened fury. You took a quick breath to calm yourself and looked to Aemond, who appeared remorseful.

“You don’t need a dragon to be powerful,” you explained with a gentle tone, but Aemond only scoffed.

“That’s easy for you to say when you have one,” he bit, causing the tips of his ears to grow pink in anger.

You attempted to hide your huff of annoyance at his sulking but failed, rolling your dark eyes as you answered him honestly. “I do believe you’ll have a dragon one day. There are too many around for you not to. You just need to find the right one, but even if you don’t, there are other ways to have power. You could ride with me and Gaeli, too, if you like? If you never claimed one.”

It was an offering of peace, of goodwill, telling your uncle without the words that you were sorry for having played all the jokes you did on him for not having a mount. You wanted him to know he was welcomed into the world of dragons without one, that you would still see him as an equal, if not better than you in some aspects. He was already showing prospects of being a fine warrior.

“Really?” Aemond perked, violet eyes setting alight with happiness you had never seen him show. He felt childish, but he couldn't help it. You offered for him to ride a dragon!

You giggled, unable to hold your joy back as you bobbed eagerly. “Of course, Aemond! As soon as Gaelithox is large enough to ride you will be with me. We can learn together for when you finally mount one!”

It was the first time you saw your uncle smile with genuine, untainted mirth, displaying a set of dimples you didn’t know he had. The pair of you fell into a deep conversation long into the late evening, causing your mother to pace with nerves until you returned, discussing thoughts of the future, of what dragons Aemond could claim, and how, if he never bonded with one, you would make him feel as if he was a dragon rider like the rest of your family.

The following days, Aemond rose with the sun, a sensation he had never felt before in the pit of his stomach as his servant dressed him in traditional green garbs.

Excitement.

He was filled with eager anticipation for the days ahead now that he had something positive to look forward to. It was something only he had now. In a way, though Aemond would never admit it, for it was such a horrendous thought that brought him great shame, he was glad that Aegon raped his niece. If he hadn’t, Aemond would never have gained one of the two things Aegon had that he didn’t.

First, he took the companionship of the only person who steadfastly supported his old brother. Next, all Aemond had to do was acquire a dragon, and finally, he would be equal to Aegon, if not better.

As Aemond traveled the halls, understanding full well that he could read within the privacy of his chamber, he went to the library to read ever since he and his niece shared words of the future. He met you in the same place in the library after your lessons, whether to read, chat, or enjoy the peace of the other’s company.

Though Aemond was proud that he took something from Aegon, he was afraid that his brother would see you together one day, but Aegon never ventured into the noiselessness of the library. The eldest son had never been much of a student.

You typically sparked conversations, and Aemond would answer back in kind. It made him feel better about himself—more of a man to have someone solely seek his attention and knowledge in a way no one else had before. Aemond always ended the day with a pleasant flutter in his heart and tingling in his fingers for what tomorrow would bring.

One night, as Aemond lay fast asleep with visions of the sun blinding his eyes, green scales, and a head of dark hair that flew in the wind, he woke with a start to the sound of his chamber doors opening. He feared it was Aegon and his nephews who were once again trying to make a mockery of him.

He rose within the lush emerald bedsheets, terrified, as the torchlight shone from the hallway, outlining the figure in the door frame. The person stepped forward with a loud creak of the metal hinges.

“Aemond?”

He heard the quiet mumble, the voice softer than that of the feather pillows he lay his head on at night. Aemond could barely see your silhouette in the darkness, squinting with sleep-clouded eyes to ensure it was you. He could hear your soft sniffles and quick breaths as concern hastened his heart.

“Can I sleep with you?”

You could hear your uncle shift on his bed, mind still reeling from being woken up from a deep slumber. The silence stretched long between you and Aemond, and you feared he might refuse your plea for comfort.

“What? Why?” he hissed with venom. There was no privacy from Aegon here. At any moment, his older brother could walk into his room and see you conversing. He didn’t need another excuse to be ridiculed. You had to leave now.

Your hiccups were loud at his rejection as you wiped at your tears, unable to form coherent sentences as sobs racked your lungs. “I…I had a dream. Ae-gon came… back. He hurt me again, and I… I couldn’t…” You cried, palms scratching at your scalp as you tried to speak.

“Go sleep with Jace,” he retorted, ready to return to bed. Spending time together privately was one thing, but this was invading his space, his place of solitude without siblings or nieces.

“I can’t! He and Luke have been sleeping with Mama since Ser Harwin left,” you babbled in despair, glancing over your shoulder as if the monster called Aegon would emerge from the shadows and devour you whole.

Your desperation stung Aemond's heart, and sympathy clouded his sense that the fear you felt was something he, too, experienced. After a long pause, your uncle shifted to the side, noiselessly lifting his sheets and making room beside him.

Breathing a loud sigh of relief that reminded him of a fish gasping for air, you closed the door, running to Aemond’s bed and immediately clinging to his side. He knew you to be affectionate, but he still carried concern in his mind. Yet how you trembled like a frightened fawn, told him this was not a rouse. You were sincerely terrified that your eldest uncle would return and no one would stop him this time.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I know you don’t like me,” you sobbed into your uncle’s green nightshirt, gripping the fabric so tight that Aemond worried it would rip. “Please, please, please don’t let him hurt me again, uncle. I can still feel it between my legs.”

Aemond froze at the sudden burst of intimacy, slowly wrapping his arms around your quivering body. Despite the context of the situation, having you so close sent a pleasant tingling down the base of his spine. He tried to focus on your breathing, waiting for it to calm down before he spoke again.

Though he was beginning to tolerate your presence, having you within his bed chambers was not something he wanted.

Aemond recalled the last time you experienced panic like this, a type too intense for your body to manage, ripping your hair straight from the root in response. He hated to realize he didn’t want you to suffer like that again, and unconsciously, he began to stroke the crown of your head.

It felt good to be needed, so desperately wanted by someone that they tried to crawl inside him, seeking protection, and Aemond felt an overwhelming urge to protect you how a wolf does its pup. He would shelter you from all monsters and people that sought you harm so long as you returned to him with the same wet eyes and arms full of love.

When you finally relaxed, no longer shaking like a leaf in the autumn wind, he spoke, praying that your exhausted mind would forget his confession in the morning.

“When I have a dragon he will not hurt you so long as you’re with me.”

Masterlist of Series

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Oh, sweet prophetic girl. You know so much yet can do so little. Cursed with the knowledge of what will come and what has yet to be. Let's all pour one out for Helaena, besties.

I hope this chapter makes up for how sad the last one was. I love writing for angsty young Aemond. As always, thank you for reading!

Tagged Peeps: @millies0bsimp , @britt-mf , @marvelescvpe , @haikyuusboringassmanager , @discofairysworld , @lottiemsgf , @nessjo , @fiction-fanfic-reader , @qvnthesia , @hotvillianapologist

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onakomiyaki · 7 months ago

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just a silly crush (not) pt. 1.5

pairing : daniel ricciardo x childhood friend-brabham!reader ; lewis hamilton x reader (implied, platonic relationship)

summary : lewis make sure that you and daniel finally talk after the bahrain incident. or he will take matters in his own way.

warning: unedited and rushed work (I GOT INSPIRED AFTER TWO CANS OF REDBULL RAAAAAAHHHH), harsh words, childhood trauma (kinda), slowburn.

a/n : this is an extra chapter where lewis playing cupid for you and daniel. you can definitely skipped this chapter since this chapter is originally added to the first chapter.

masterlist

consider tonight's meeting (and reconciliation) a huge success, totally worth the money you spent on the party. one of perks of being the daughter of david brabham is that your can splurge on unimportant things; this party, for example, and your father won't even bat an eye.

and maybe the fact that you are one of high paid supermodel–plus an actress so you don't think about money that much.

other than this party, you really need to thank max for his genius plan. maybe a new watch or some new designer clothes for the dutch will do.

"(y/n)!"

you turned your body, eyes lit up at the view of the mighty lewis hamilton.

"what took you so long?" you asked, hugging the brit as he kiss your temple.

for some people lewis's gesture might be mistaken as love-like affection. but of course you know that it is not like that at all. lewis had always see you as his annoying little sister who he love dearly and you saw him as the big brother you never had. while you do have a younger brother, sam, things with you and lewis are just... different.

"if i say traffic, would you believe me?" he sheepishly said.

and to that you let out a dry–mocking–laugh. "really? traffic? here in monaco?" you said.

"alright alright. i might–i said might–met binotto." he stated, letting out a sigh.

"mattia binotto? that's-"

"ferrari's current principal, yes." he nod, hands snug inside his pockets.

"they want you huh? interesting." you said, fingers cradling your own jaw.

although you hate formula one, you being the daughter of david brabham of course would know a thing or two. including all the current principals of all 10 teams.

lewis let out a chuckle, shrugging his shoulder. "maybe."

you rolled your eyes at his attic, shaking your head at his secretiveness. he won't be able to keep any secret from you, you're too smart for that. and lewis is aware.

what is not so smart of you is your inability to figure out about daniel's hints and feeling for the past 10 plus years. maybe more, lewis believe.

he always notice how daniel's eyes always lights up when he saw your instagram posts, or your appearance at the latest fashion magazine. he even rambling non-stop at your first big screen debut in 2017, not only to his teammate max, but to almost all the driver on the grid. almost, because most of the drivers are just confused and was there to humor the aussie. sebastian vettel though–god bless that man–always there for him, sharing the same excitement even cheering him up.

he also remember how dejected he looks when your father visited one of the race in 2015, hoping that you would show up beside your father despite your hatred towards the sport. but instead, he saw sam, your younger brother, calmly walking beside your father.

so it is safe to say he knew it all too well. and he honestly feel sort of sympathy for both you and daniel.

"have you talk to him yet?" he asked, averting the conversation about his meeting with binotto.

"that, i have." you simply said, grabbing two glass of champagne passed by the waitress.

lewis gracefully accept the other glass and clinked his glass with yours. "and how it goes?"

you went silent, gnawing your bottom lip nervously. "it went... well." you said, voice unsure.

"oh?"

"he asked me to watch the race. in monza." you stated.

lewis nods, letting out an acknowledgement hum as he sip his champagne.

"you should come, (y/n). its been 10 years since his first race, and yet, you haven't attend any of them in person." he simply stated.

"well i did watch the race from my house in monaco." you muttered. lewis shaking his head to your reaction.

"its not fair for him, you know? you guys are best friend for almost 20 years now, you said it yourself."

yeah, bestfriend. he thought.

you went silence, eyes trailed down to the floor. the expensive marble beneath your louboutin heels seems more interesting than lewis now, and he notice.

"i just don't want you to live in regrets in the future, (y/n)" he said, patting your shoulder as he walk away from you–giving you some space to think about what he just said.

"i know lewis." you whisper to yourself.

daniel, who currently enjoying his alone time at the bar, was greeted with a familiar figure walking towards him. he fix his posture, sitting straighter as the figure sat beside him and he watch in silent. daniel is still wary of this man so he just wait for him to break the silence first.

"let me join you for awhile, mate." he said.

"lewis."

"honeybadger."

hearing his nickname make daniel chuckle. thanks to you who actually give him that nickname years ago, back when you and him still go karting together, it stuck with him. and honestly he don't mind. because it was given by you.

"no company?" lewis simply asked.

"well, i was dragged by the ferrari duo, little lando, and the lovebird but they are gone now." daniel explain, politely asking the bartender for another refill.

"the lovebird?"

"max and kelly."

"ah, yes... the new hot couple." lewis nods, flashing his charming smile at the younger driver.

"yeah, i don't want to be a thirdwheel or dancing with dj norris and his two minions so here i am." he said, returning the smile to his senior as he pointed at the dj podium where lando is already getting on. carlos and charles was dancing like a maniac with drinks on their hands.

lewis raised his eyebrows, genuinely shocked and impressed at the young brit secret talent as a dj. "never knew little lando is a party animal." he said.

"i might be the one who responsible for that–to be a party animal i mean." daniel chuckled, shaking his head.

"well, he learn from the best then." and with that both daniel and lewis share a laugh, clinking their glass together.

as daniel enjoy his 3rd? 4th? glass of whiskey that night, lewis give him a small pats on his back. and daniel, confused at the gesture, watch lewis with a small frown.

"you have the patience of a saint, daniel. i won't last that long if i were you," he said, finishing his drink. "i gave up after got rejected for a second date."

lewis's cryptic messages, plus the familiar tipsy feeling, make him confused even more.

"huh?"

"goodluck, mate. i am rooting for you." he said, flashing him a smile before walking away from him.

"what just happen..." daniel muttered as he finish his glass of whiskey and decided to join dj norris and the minions.

what a night...

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#daniel ricciardo x reader #daniel ricciardo imagine #daniel ricciardo x you #daniel ricciardo #dr3 x reader #dr3 imagine #f1 x reader #f1 imagine #f1 fanfic #f1 fic

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syndullqs · 6 months ago

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𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐚𝐬𝐭 — 𝒕𝒆𝒄𝒉

summary — a mission unlocks memories in your brain you’d rather forget. tech helps, in his own way.

warnings — gn!reader, angst, fluff, mentions of childhood trauma, hunter’s a prick

note — i heard this sound on tiktok and it unlocked a memory i did NOT want unlocked lol so enjoy this self indulgent piece

𝐈𝐓’𝐒 𝐅𝐔𝐍𝐍𝐘 𝐇𝐎𝐖 𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐒 𝐂𝐀𝐍 𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐆𝐄𝐑 𝐀 𝐌𝐄𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐘. it’s funny how something as small as a child crying causes someone to fold in on themselves. you almost were shot because of it, and you definitely got an earful back on the marauder.

“what were you thinking? just standing there? you could’ve been killed!” hunter’s voice penetrated your clouded thoughts, scolding you for a poor job. he had a point; you were almost killed.

“but i wasn’t, hunter, so what’s the big deal?” you challenge, crossing your arms over your chest. what was next, was he going to question how you worked with the team? was he going to exclude you from future missions? you almost dared him.

“the big deal? y/n you nearly cost us the mission and you could have been killed,” he paused, taking a minute to think. though, given his next words, he should have taken more time to think, “i think you should sit out on the next mission,” his voice was still raised, breaths spilling from his mouth like he ran a marathon.

yet there it was.

exclusion.

“fine, it’s your call, you’re the sergeant,” your words were not short of being venomous, making hunter realize instantly what he just told you. you were a valuable asset to the batch, a sounding board, and he just told you to sit out.

there wasn’t a lot of places for you to go, so you sat in the co-pilot’s chair. you brought a knee up to your chest, resting your chin on it. the silence was comforting, but your mind still swam. hunter’s words, their words, the child crying…

“for the record, i don’t think you should sit out next mission,” tech was the first to speak, the softness and quietness of his voice illustrating just how unused to that he was. his words only earned a scoff from you.

“it was the child crying, no?” he guessed. tech noticed the shift in your demeanor when the child started crying to her mother, wondering why everyone left. you grew stiff, your eyes unfocused, and of course, you were nearly shot.

“what gave me away?” you asked him, still refusing to meet eyes with him. despite tech not being well-versed in comfort, he still knew how to read people. he could read them very well. interpreting those emotions was a different skill.

“the fact you were nearly shot, mainly,” he stated as-a-matter-of-factly, “but also the way your demeanor changed. your shoulders tightened, your eyes widened. not to mention your voice changed,” he went on to describe just how much your body changed. you didn’t think he paid that much attention to you.

“i didn’t think it was that obvious,” you shrugged, taking your chin off of your knee. you slid your eyes over to meet his, the softness of them underneath his goggles provided an odd place of comfort for you. he didn’t judge you, he was merely stating facts.

“it was,” he felt heat rise to his cheeks, a feeling he logically knew was because of his attraction to you. emotionally, he wouldn’t acknowledge it.

“at least to me,” tech added softly, attempting to make the situation better than what it was. your eyes widened again, unsure of how to feel about this. ever since you started working with the bad batch, talking about emotional experiences was hard with tech. so you didn’t. hearing him acknowledge your feelings and talk about his own shocked you. it shouldn’t have.

“when i was a kid, i was bullied a lot,” you started, pulling down the wall you’ve built up over the years, “their form of bullying was excluding me from things. i was invited to parties, but never talked to. i was never played with, and kids made fun of me for the stuff i liked,” you continued. you’ve never spoken to any of them about this. it was too sensitive. the fear of rejection and judgement was too strong.

silence followed, filling the space between you. tech didn’t know what to say, but he knew that this was sensitive information. he knew that it was hard for you to talk about, and so he didn’t want to say anything to potentially make things worse.

“hearing that little girl cry, asking her mother where everyone went, it just…i don’t know. it was under different circumstances but still,” you were failing to understand why the moment froze you. hunter was right, you could have been killed.

“it was a different circumstance, but,” tech started, his words coming out slowly as he processed them, “your fight or flight kicked in. it’s human nature whenever we come in contact with something that’s upset us or, dare i say, traumatized us,” his eyes searched yours, trying to read the expression on your face. tech knew what it was like to be ostracized for the things you’re good at. he was a defective clone, he knew almost exactly what you felt.

“when…when i was a cadet, still on kamino, i wasn’t treated very kindly by the regs simply for being different. the words they said, even some of the things they did, it was not kind of them,” tech’s words marinated in your mind for a moment. you found yourself completely facing him, engrossed in the man in front of you. you finally found someone to relate to, that knew what it was like to be excluded and bullied. for once, you could breathe.

“you didn’t deserve that,”

“neither did you,” he agreed, his warm, brown eyes cradling yours. he came to the same realization you did. he wasn’t as alone as he thought he was. as much as he wished neither of you went through what you did, it brought you two together, and he was grateful for that.

“we do need to work on your fight, flight, or freeze response,” he lightened the mood. you smiled and laid back in your chair.

“i know i know,” you smiled. you didn’t catch it, but tech smiled too.

here’s some tech! this was kind of self indulgent so i apologize for that, i still hope you enjoy though!

#star wars #star wars imagines #star wars imagine #star wars the clone wars #the bad batch #tbb tech #tbb imagine #tech bad batch imagines #tech x reader #tech bad batch x reader

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bravo4iscool · 1 year ago

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simon riley’s love language (headcanon)

little warning before you read this: this headcanon is a little bit inspired by my dad (lol). the reason for that is that my grandpa wasn’t always the nicest person and was very harsh on my father (also since he was the oldest) and it clearly shows the damage my father got from that. my grandpa’s been amazing to us grandchildren (and later on to his children) but it’s undeniable that he’s permanently damaged his children by the way he was treating/parenting them.

also, this is simply what i think simon is like since i also suffer from childhood trauma (of course not to the extend he’s suffering/been suffering).

anyways, let’s go.

taglist - @yazminetrahan (lmk if you want to be added!)

(masterlist)

REQUESTS/ASKS OPEN!!!

simon riley’s love language is acts of service. he will buy his s/o little gifts and all sorts of things to show them he loves them and that they mean the world to him.

while he knows how to show emotions i think he’s more comfortable with masking them and not showing them 100%. it’s a protection mechanism he’s been using for years and it never hurt anyone around him (something he firmly wants to avoid).

when his s/o is overly exited or happy about something he just smiles and admires them, he doesn’t show how happy he really is. he just enjoys the moment and is already thinking about buying or crafting something that will remind his s/o of this moment forever.

simon walks around with “open eyes” (like my dad calls it). when he sees something that’s broke or needs fixing he’ll fix it before his s/o can even ask him to because he doesn’t want them to be negatively affected by it.

also, i firmly believe that he’s a little perfectionist. you develop that kinda thing when your parents are never or barely happy with what you do.

simon wants to do everything perfect, that includes his relationship. when he messes something up with his s/o or in general he gets angry at himself and shut down. he doesn’t want to talk, he keeps to himself but as soon as he processed what happened he’ll either try to apologize or he’ll do something good for his s/o, eg. washing the dishes or ordering them their favourite food.

he rarely says “i love you” or anything close to that but he doesn’t need to. his s/o knows simon loved them because his “type of love” is sacrificial love. he’s maybe not good with words or feels but he’s even better with acts and showing that he loves.

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candlelightreader · 7 months ago

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I was just listening to the DVD commentary on the Snakes episode and I know Grissom and Sara's scene (the only scene they're present in this Nick-centric ep) is big--obviously shipper nirvana--but the commentary by George Eads and the rest (I think one of the writers and either a director or producer) added so much weight that I'd never considered before!

So, Eads remarks on how Sara is the only one who ever talks to Grissom that way. This is, as she really dials up the husky, soft voice she adopts with Grissom. Eads also observes that Grissom is always himself with her, i.e. more of a nerd and rather stripped bare in a way he never is with anyone else. They all make comments on how emotional the scene is and how revealing it is of their relationship because, as always, Sara is 'putting it [her attraction and ongoing interest] out there'. She is never shy about wanting him. (I really need to transcribe the commentaries.)

But Eads keeps coming back to the idea that Grissom is more Grissom or is more himself with her than with any of the others. I'd add that it is not only the fact of their professional position that makes him freeze with her--I think Grissom is talking about himself when he asserts that some men are intimidated by beauty.

You know what magic, Grissom!

Anyways, something I hadn't thought of is that Grissom almost says something back, such as "Let’s go to dinner." But, of course, Sara overtalks and halts his momentum such as it were. But even more, it made me realize how pivotal this scene is, even compared to the Nesting Dolls reveal of her childhood trauma, because this is the moment when Grissom knows 100% that he isn't too late. The flirting takes on a different dimension after this. The looks become more meaningful.

This is especially significant when you consider that ealier in the season, the writers and producers are talking about the explicit intro of Sofia as a romantic interest for Grissom. She was there to create tension and her chemistry with Grissom was very much not subtext. So the decision to make 'this thing' with Sara more solid in the presence of this new love interest adds to the dynamic more than ever. Because the chemistry with Sofia is too easy and too simple. He's too smooth with her. He knows what to say to her at a given moment, because he has no interest in Sofia romantically and doesn't feel threatened by her. She really is just a colleague he doesn't hate. Ultimately, Sofia doesn't leave him speechless the way Sara does. He is not 'himself' when he is with her. Sara, on the other hand, always renders him vulnerable, which of course is why he distanced himself from her in season three, as he realized in four.

And we can see how Sara's effect on him is unique when looking at his other love interests: he does have speechless moments with Terri but by the end, no so much--perhaps there is a sense that while he is attracted intellectually, and somewhat sexually, there is no sentiment after all. With Heather, he never is at a loss for words, which leaves me to lean towards the notion that he was indeed never involved with her romantically--but, perhaps, it is her who makes him discover that sex without love makes him sad whether through conversation or more... In other words, grissom is typically putting on an air with other people. He's fully insulated against them and can act out the persona of an assured, curated Grissom, the bossman, the tin man, the nerd, the professor, the mentor, the father figure, etc.

But with Sara, he is exposed.

#gsr more than a boss to me #gsr #csi musings #gil grissom #sara sidle #sara x grissom #csi #otp: gsr #just otp shit #jorja fox #billy petersen #william petersen

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sugawarassoccerlover · 5 months ago

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Remedial Meals

A/n: been very fed up with my body today, it refuses to cooperate with me & I was playing book 4 so I got the idea for this. Self indulgent shit. It’s probably OOC bc I don’t know the characters too well but I love them

Warnings: health issues, childhood neglect, starvation, reader gets a little sick

Pairings: (ALL PLATONIC!) Riddle & reader, Kalim & reader

Description: reader has health issues because of their trauma, and has tried their best to keep it from their new friends at NRC. Unfortunately, something that ails you every time you eat isn’t so easily hidden

Riddle

Admittedly, he had been pretty preoccupied with house warden matters so it took him a bit to notice that your behavior was off. But… every tea party, every meal, the way you scurried off each time made him worry. He thought it was nothing at first, as he didn’t notice it every time

But things added up. He began to realize this wasn’t just an occasional thing. Now, when you, Riddle, and the third years were sharing a meal together, you began to feel the consequences. Ah shit, you were going to be sick. You didn’t want them to notice, didn’t want them to worry, so you sat up and excused yourself.

Riddle, Trey, and Cater exchanged a look before nodding at you.

You went to the bathroom, but the pain got so strong you had to sit on the floor. It was throbbing and you couldn’t make it stop. You tried shifting the way you were sitting multiple times, it didn’t work. You clutched your stomach, leaning against the cupboards below the sink, and sighed. This sucked.

“Yuu?” Riddle knocked on the door. “Are you okay?”

Shit. How long had you been in there? Had you been too obvious?

“Yuu?”

“Oh yeah, I’m fine!”

“Are you sure? You… do this a lot.”

“What do you mean?” You tried to feign ignorance.

“Run off after eating, I mean,” Riddle replies. “Are you….?”

You hadn’t normally ever heard Riddle be like this before, at a loss for what to do. You must have had him pretty concerned.

You sighed. Might as well tell him. You figured you wouldn’t be able to keep this hidden forever. It wouldn’t have been long before you ended up burdening your friends

Grimacing at the way it made your stomach hurt, you forced yourself to stand up and go to the door, unlocking it. You hated the way you couldn’t move without upsetting your body, but you had to

When you opened the door, you were met with Riddle’s concerned face. You smiled awkwardly at him before sitting down once again, on the floor of the hallway. Riddle looked at you in confusion.

You pat the floor next to you “sit down and I’ll tell you a story” you tried to be dramatic

“We can sit at the table, or in the lounge, I believe that would be more appropr-“

“As much as I’d love to, I’d rather not anger my body any more by moving,” you said with a playful tone.

“What?”

“My intestines are revolting against me and I fear if I move I will make them worse.”

“We should get you to the nurse’s office if it’s that bad,” Riddle spoke with concern.

“Nah, nah, it’s normal don’t worry.” You waved your hand dismissively.

“Don’t worry? Yuu, that is very worrisome. Such conditions should not be normal.”

“I guess I should say it’s normal for me. I’m used to it by now.”

Riddle furrowed his brows. “But being used to something doesn’t make it healthy or normal, Yuu. Pain in the intestines can be a sign of several underlying medical conditions.”

You laughed. “I should have expected you to take this more seriously than even me.”

“Of course I take it seriously. Health is an important matter that shouldn’t be ignored,” Riddle spoke firmly, but the concern was obvious in his tone.

“No its-“ You sigh. “I appreciate the concern, Riddle, it’s very sweet of you but I mean it when I say don’t worry. This is just how my body is. This just happens. It’s inconvenient at most, I promise.”

“Even so it’s.. alarming that that’s how your body is. Is there nothing I can do to help? Or make it better?”Riddle asked earnestly.

“Well, medicine helps it not be so bad,” you shrug.

“Why haven’t you asked for it before?” Riddle frowns. “If I knew about this sooner, I would’ve ensured you got the proper medicine whenever this happens.”

“I didn’t want to be a bother, I guess,” you look at the floor.

“It’s not a bother if it pertains to your wellbeing. This should be a basic necessity.”

From then on Riddle was extra aware of you anytime you had parties with snacks, or meals with the Heartslabyul students. He made sure you got medicine with your food during each meal, and even sent one of the third years to bring you some when you would eat at the cafeteria instead of with them.

Once they were made aware, Trey and Cater made sure to take note of what foods upset your body less. Mysteriously, you noticed those foods served more frequently when you ate with them. And even in the cafeteria, Ace and Deuce would insist they trade meals with you when yours included worse irritants.

“If I can help it, you’re not going to struggle any more than you need to. If it gets worse, let me know so I can arrange something.”

Kalim Al Asim

You could never turn down Kalim whenever he invited you to the Scarabia dorm to eat. He was always so generous to you, and it would have felt wrong to not accept. However… Kalim could be a bit much.

His enthusiasm was never for no reason, after all, he was right, the food was good. You had already eaten, definitely not enough to get your fill, but enough so you wouldn’t be too hungry, and it was a safe amount that probably wouldn’t make you sick.

You knew you over calculated the second Kalim sat you down to have you try a bit of every dish Jamil had prepared. Just looking at the amount of food already made your stomach churn. You frowned, unsure of what to do. It would be rude of you to turn him down, but you know your body would get even more upset if you ate anything more.

Unfortunately for you, your body decided you wouldn’t get the time to think about it, and the familiar ache came to you. You bit your lip, hoping Kalim wouldn’t notice.

“Hey, Yuu? Are you okay? Are you really that hungry, here you should eat this one first, it-“

You shook your head, putting a hand on your abdomen when the sickness worsened. “No, no I already ate, this is just..”

There was a look of confusion on Kalim’s face for a moment, only a moment, until it morphed into worry. “Yuu? What did you eat? What are you feeling? Are you lightheaded, or just sick to your stomach?”

His concern was almost sweet, but he seemed panicked. “Kalim-“

“Don’t worry, you’ll be fine, just- uh, JAMIL!”

“Yes, Kalim?” Jamil snapped to attention.

“I think Yuu was poisoned, we need to get them help right now,” Kalim spoke with urgency.

“Kalim-“

“Are you feeling worse?” You were convinced now that Kalim felt worse than you. You had gotten used to this by now but… yeah, it was probably the smart decision to hide your condition, if he was going to react like this

Jamil sighed, crouching in front of you. “Was there anything off about the food you ate last?”

You shook your head. “No. I’ve been meaning to tell Kalim, I wasn’t poisoned.”

“You can’t be sure, you never kn-“

You grab the white haired boy by the shoulders, making eye contact with him. “Kalim. I wasn’t poisoned. Though, it wouldn’t exactly be wrong to say that all food is basically poison to me…” you trail off, your tone getting bitter. “But that’s not the point. I know I wasn’t poisoned.”

Kalim frowned. “All food is basically poison to you? What do you mean? Are you allergic?”

You sigh. Woud you really have to explain the full thing to him? He seemed very worried for you, and probably wouldn’t stop worrying until you explained. “No, I’m not allergic. Ironically, I’m not allergic to anything. I just… because of stuff, my body… doesn’t handle food well.”

“Stuff?”

“…Alright. I uh. Was starved, for awhile.”

“STARVED?!”

You fiddled with the hem of your shirt. “Yeah. Didn’t have much to eat for awhile. Almost… 2 years, I’d say.”

Kalim frowned. “That’s awful! I knew some people struggled financially but not even being able to afford food is horrible!”

You scoff. “It’s not that we couldn’t afford it. My dad just. Didn’t buy any, very often. For me at least. He got enough to eat, but I guess I’m not worth food or whatever.” You chuckled dryly, trying to force humor

“What? No! Everyone is worth food, especially you! That’s a terrible thing to think,” Kalim huffed passionately. “Man that makes me so sad.”

“Why does it make you sad? It’s my life. It’s not like it affects you,” you frown in confusion.

“I wish I had met you much sooner, than you wouldn’t have starved! I would have given you food every day so you would be fine!”

You smiled. “That’s very thoughtful of you. But it is what it is. I’m just mildly inconvenienced by this body of mine now.”

“Is there something I can do now? Like is there anything you need? Something I can get you? There has to be a way I can help,” he insisted.

“Mmm, not really. I usually just wait around until I feel normal again.”

“That’s not a very good way to live! Getting sick from food and not doing anything about it,” Kalim seemed genuinely upset for you.

“Well, back home I took medicine that helped lessen it a little,” you shrugged.

Jamil interrupted, “I believe I know a medicine that may work. Is it nausea and pain?”

You nodded. “Yeah, but you don’t have to. I’m fine.”

“No way, you’re my friend, we’re going to help you!” Kalim immediately insisted.

You smile and roll your eyes sarcastically. “Of course. Well… thank you.”

“It’s no problem! Are you completely sure there’s nothing else we can do?”

“Well, I guess there’s some foods that irritate my body a little less than others. But I couldn’t ask you to go out of your way to get me them or anything,” you picked at your shirt.

“No, you can! If it helps make things better for you, of course I’d get them for you. Jamil would definitely be willing to cook them!”

As you listed off the foods that were less irritant, Kalim listened intently, but Jamil on the side made a mental note of each one you mentioned. You noticed that the next times you visited, all the food served to you included only the things you mentioned.

Kalim made sure to invite you over to the Scarabia dorm often, claiming “that cafeteria is making you sick so you should eat with us every day instead!” He would eat some of the things made for you as well, not out of greed, but rather because he didn’t want to eat what you “couldn’t”.

“You need to eat, your health is important so Jamil will make whatever is best for your health! No arguments!”

#twst #disney twst #twst wonderland #twst drabbles #twst blurb #twst x reader #twst x you #twst x yuu #twst x y/n #riddle rosehearts #riddle twst #riddle x reader #kalim al asim #twst kalim #kalim x reader #heartslabyul #heartslaybul x reader #scarabia #jamil viper

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