#joan clayton x reader

[madamspellmans-met-tet]

🦇Ballentry Moor🦇

Joan Clayton x fem!reader

tags: Dark, Pining, Hurt No Comfort, very vaguely implied past assault, very subtext-heavy, Bathing/Washing, nonsexual nudity, Older Woman/Younger Woman, Unrequited Love?, Loneliness, lots of spit stuff for some reason?, SFW otherwise

summary: Once upon a time, Joan saved you and took you back to her cabin. You've been living with her ever since, and with time, you have developed feelings for her. The challenge is trying to make her understand that.

wc: ~ 2.5 k (Chapter 1/2)

*******************************************************

The fog never lifted from Ballentry Moor. A heavy blanket and smothering embrace at once, spreading gloom and offering refuge from witness' eyes. You had fallen victim to the moor, once upon a time, and lay in its murky soil, returned to and devoured by Mother Earth with vines slung around your wrists and ankles, until the swamp witch herself had cut you free.

You'd gone home with her, treading the same path you were following now in the muted indigo hues of twilight, back to her dilapidated brick house with a wicker basket full of mushrooms and roots on your arm. Stepping through the front door, the scent of vegetable broth boiling in the cauldron filled your nostrils. Joan stood next to it, with her back turned towards you, and stirred.

"Fortune smiled upon me today," you announced, heading straight to the kitchen table, where you set down your basket and began picking out mushrooms. "Harvest was good."

Joan acknowledged you with a hrmpf noise, as was her manner, and you returned your attention to the mushrooms, proceeding to wash them and taking out a chopping board and knife that could do with a sharpening. As you chopped them into slices and cubes, your gaze kept flitting to her, tossing basil into the cauldron, tasting from the iron ladle, pouring more salt into it as if it were not over-salted already.

"I feel it," she said, lifting her head and pausing her stirring.

"Hm?"

"You look at me with want."

The knife—suddenly forgotten about—escaped your control and cut into your finger instead of the mushroom. You hissed and dropped the knife with a loud clink, which prompted Joan to turn and size you up with a grim frown. Upon spotting the droplet of blood forming across the tip of your forefinger, she let the ladle fall into the cauldron and approached, grabbing your wrist to inspect the cut. You gasped when she took your finger into her mouth and sucked the blood off, then pushed your hand away, saying, "Paper cut. Cry, little babe."

You wiped your finger on your apron, cleaning her spit off it, in mild disbelief. The cut had already stopped bleeding. You finished chopping the mushrooms and took the cutting board to the cauldron, where Joan made space for you to scrape them into the broth. The steam wafted into your face and glazed it damp; your cheeks reddened too over the fire, but Joan's eyes on your movements had a similar effect.

"What is it you want, little mudbug?"

"Nothing of importance."

You avoided her eyes and left her proximity under the guise of putting the knife and cutting board away. Though the warmth behind your navel never ceased, neither did that in your cheeks. Joan hrmpf'ed again and tended to her broth.

-> continue on Ao3

[lilia-calderus-pet-goat]

Guys, I love you all to bits–and I'm obsessed with Patti just as the rest of you. But, my brothers in christ, I bEG of you to stop mischaracterizing her roles as patti clones. it's frankly a little insulting to patti's insane acting range! I really don't think Patti and Lilia Calderu, per se, act or talk or think alike at all, for example. And while she does bring a very particular, italian, patti-edge to everyone she plays, she still plays them entirely different to each other. Lilia may have Patti mannerisms, a Patti essence of sorts, but she's very different to our girl. Same applies to Joanne, to Avis Amberg, to Nellie Lovett, to Reno Sweeney, to Joan Ramsey, to Evita Perón, (fucking Evita Perón-) to Kitty Duval, to Libby Thatcher, to Fantine, Norma Desmond, Mama Rose, Helena Rubenstein, Maria Callas?? Joan Clayton, Dr Seward?? 😭🙏 Her acting isn't even the same in two performances of the same character, I think it's a little underwhelming to portray all her characters as entirely Patti just because of her icon status and the fact we all want to sleep with heR-

[angeliccss]

hi love, could I pretty please request a mood board/graphic (whatever your talented mind wants to do) for Joan Clayton (x reader) with an Ethel Cain kinda brownish hue lost places abandoned cabin in the woods Blair-witch-project-type-witchy if you can make sense of this? Need some inspiration ��

I hope I captured the vibe your going for! If not send me another ask and I can make a new one for ya :) 💜💜

I can’t wait to read the magic that comes from your finger tips (I know that sounds weird but I think you know what I mean)

[madamspellmans-met-tet]

chat do we want Joan Clayton to spit on our face in an emotionally charged moment? because I’m tempted lmao

[imorynn]

I’m gonna rant like stupid don’t mind me

It bothered you that you could never quite get your foot in the door. Whenever it opened and a wary eye appeared in the crack, it closed before the first blink.’

It’s so simple, but it carries so much weight?? I’m tweaking 😭😭 BUT it paints Joan so vividly while underscoring reader’s somewhat frustration and longing 💁‍♀️💁‍♀️

The dynamic between reader and Joan is evidently raw and layered with this tension that shifts between tenderness and frustration; Joan’s gruffness, her sharp edges, and the subtle cracks in her armor even if she tries to hide it —

Reader has me in shambles. You can FEEEEEL their yearning in every small gesture, every quiet thought; where Joan sucks the blood from their finger, or when they place their head in her lap, is so so freaking intimate but loaded with unspoken things?? Me personally, I felt it all coming ALIVEEE —

I’m FLOORED by how you balanced emotional depth with these quiet sensory moments that just stabbed in my chest and pierced my freaking heart —

You lived and you learnt with her, yet the amount of touch exchanged was as small as between strangers.

The ACHE exists, guys 😭😭😭 the longing for connection while Joan is constantly pushing away; JOAN, LET ME FUCKING LOVE YOU. PLEASE. And perhaps spit on me but in difference circumstances if you well —

I’m just a gay who enjoys my heart being messily sliced into two, then having the burn of angst rubbed on the scorching wounds. BUT. BUT. I ALSO don’t mind my heart being stitched together with part 2 depending on what you had in mind ( fluff, or Yk, somewhere along the lines ;-; ) unless. UNLESS, UNLESS, you know, you decide to take advantage of the open wounds and pour even MORE angst over them before STOMPING ON MY TORN ORGAN.

Yeah, well, either works. 💁‍♀️💁‍♀️

*clears throat* Anyways …

IN CONCLUSION, you’ve ruined me though I’m thankful for it, thank you very much, and you’ve managed to bring Joan Clayton to LIFE with your writing, and I’m expecting her to show up at my doorstep <33

🦇Ballentry Moor🦇

Joan Clayton x fem!reader

tags: Dark, Pining, Hurt No Comfort, very vaguely implied past assault, very subtext-heavy, Bathing/Washing, nonsexual nudity, Older Woman/Younger Woman, Unrequited Love?, Loneliness, lots of spit stuff for some reason?, SFW otherwise

summary: Once upon a time, Joan saved you and took you back to her cabin. You've been living with her ever since, and with time, you have developed feelings for her. The challenge is trying to make her understand that.

wc: ~ 2.5 k (Chapter 1/2)

*******************************************************

The fog never lifted from Ballentry Moor. A heavy blanket and smothering embrace at once, spreading gloom and offering refuge from witness' eyes. You had fallen victim to the moor, once upon a time, and lay in its murky soil, returned to and devoured by Mother Earth with vines slung around your wrists and ankles, until the swamp witch herself had cut you free.

You'd gone home with her, treading the same path you were following now in the muted indigo hues of twilight, back to her dilapidated brick house with a wicker basket full of mushrooms and roots on your arm. Stepping through the front door, the scent of vegetable broth boiling in the cauldron filled your nostrils. Joan stood next to it, with her back turned towards you, and stirred.

"Fortune smiled upon me today," you announced, heading straight to the kitchen table, where you set down your basket and began picking out mushrooms. "Harvest was good."

Joan acknowledged you with a hrmpf noise, as was her manner, and you returned your attention to the mushrooms, proceeding to wash them and taking out a chopping board and knife that could do with a sharpening. As you chopped them into slices and cubes, your gaze kept flitting to her, tossing basil into the cauldron, tasting from the iron ladle, pouring more salt into it as if it were not over-salted already.

"I feel it," she said, lifting her head and pausing her stirring.

"Hm?"

"You look at me with want."

The knife—suddenly forgotten about—escaped your control and cut into your finger instead of the mushroom. You hissed and dropped the knife with a loud clink, which prompted Joan to turn and size you up with a grim frown. Upon spotting the droplet of blood forming across the tip of your forefinger, she let the ladle fall into the cauldron and approached, grabbing your wrist to inspect the cut. You gasped when she took your finger into her mouth and sucked the blood off, then pushed your hand away, saying, "Paper cut. Cry, little babe."

You wiped your finger on your apron, cleaning her spit off it, in mild disbelief. The cut had already stopped bleeding. You finished chopping the mushrooms and took the cutting board to the cauldron, where Joan made space for you to scrape them into the broth. The steam wafted into your face and glazed it damp; your cheeks reddened too over the fire, but Joan's eyes on your movements had a similar effect.

"What is it you want, little mudbug?"

"Nothing of importance."

You avoided her eyes and left her proximity under the guise of putting the knife and cutting board away. Though the warmth behind your navel never ceased, neither did that in your cheeks. Joan hrmpf'ed again and tended to her broth.

-> continue on Ao3