#triumphant dancing

[automatonknight]

here's the prick i was talking about^ i have so many thoughts and notes about him but they're mostly incomprehensible so when i organize maybe them i'll post them who knows

[thehauntingofharrenhouse]

jace receiving some kind of triumphant resolution in this, establishing the ruler's right to legitimize bastards in everybody's minds > the next succession crisis resulting from a king legitimizing all his bastards to weaken the claim of a worthy heir > the rot seeps through, the system cannot be fixed!!! so long as the power of the throne is easy to abuse someone will eventually come along to abuse it!!!!

[stromuprisahat]

One by one, every man and boy with Strong blood in his veins was dragged forth and put to death, until the heap made of their heads stood three feet tall. Thus did the flower of House Strong, an ancient line of noble warriors boasting descent from the First Men, come to an ignoble end in the ward at Harrenhal. No trueborn Strong was spared, nor any bastard save… oddly… Alys Rivers. Though the wet nurse was twice his age (thrice, if we put our trust in Mushroom), Prince Aemond had taken her into his bed as a prize of war soon after taking Harrenhal, seemingly preferring her to all the other women of the castle, including many pretty maids of his own years.

Fire and Blood (George R. R. Martin)

Wow! Now it certainly sounds SO ROMANTIC!

I mean:

Though her own children had all been stillborn, the milk that flowed so abundantly from the breasts of Alys Rivers had nourished countless babes born of other women at Harrenhal.

I'm sure none of them were among the slaughtered, and if they were, she had no relationship with them. No remaining feelings, because feeding someone else's baby doesn't usually result in that, right?!

[horizon-verizon]

Queen Alicent was fettered at wrist and ankle with golden chains, though her stepdaughter spared her life “for the sake of our father, who loved you once.” Her own father was less fortunate. Ser Otto Hightower, who had served three kings as Hand, was the first traitor to be beheaded. Ironrod followed him to the block, still insisting that by law a king’s son must come before his daughter. Ser Tyland Lannister was given to the torturers instead, in hopes of recovering some of the Crown’s treasure.

Fire and Blood, by George R.R. Martin, pg 464

[dimsilver]

finished the empty grave!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[ajokeformur-ray]

Joker’s stair dance scene still makes me roll around in bed giggling and blushing and grinning like a lovesick student (I mean… yeah😂🙏) hhhh I love hiiiiiiiim so so much😭😭😭🙏🙏🙏🙏

[mr-smith-stories]

Mr. Smith #26 Part Two

A few seconds later, Mr. Smith heard Philip’s shouts for help from down the hall. “Guys! Come look at this!”

Mr. Smith and his friends hurried down the hall. In the parlor, Mr. Smith found Philip standing over an unconscious man on the floor. Mr. Smith scratched his head. “This is a strange place to take a nap.”

“He’s dead.” Philip said. “And it wasn’t me.”

Mr. Smith peered at Philip. “How can I be so

sure?”

“Because I would’ve tried to cover it up! He’s not even in any of my best hiding places- under the rug or behind the curtain!” Philip insisted. “How do I know it wasn’t you?”

Mr. Smith sighed. “I thought he was sleeping! It wasn’t me!” Mr. Smith looked closely at the body. “That’s the man I saw making blueberry pancakes earlier! Oh no! Someone is attacking kitchen staff! They might get me next! Quick! Let’s offer up Simon as next to go! Then we’ll have a headstart to save ourselves!”

Philip glared at Mr. Smith. “No. That’s not the right thing to do.”

Mr. Smith stared at Philip. “What is the right thing to do?”

Philip sighed. “Solve this crime and prove our infinity level IQ to those stuck up intellectuals! Who’s with me?”

Simon spoke up. “I’m in! Let’s save everyone here! Then we’ll be heroes!”

Suddenly, a voice spoke from behind them. “Actually, I think we’d better call the police,” Harry said. “I don’t trust you idiots with anything besides the food.” Harry dialed 9-1-1. “They should be here soon.”

Ten minutes later, the chief of police arrived on the scene, and Mr. Smith and his friends all sat in the sitting room for questioning, since they had found the body. Harry stood with them, and explained the situation.

The chief nodded, taking a bite out of the chocolate chip cookie in his pocket. “Mom’s special recipe,” He explained. “How much am I getting paid for this? How’s 2 grand?”

Harry sighed. “This is a murder investigation. I’m not paying you to solve it, the station is.”

Mr. Smith raised his hand. “He can use my calculator to resolve the issue if he wants.”

The chief glared at Mr. Smith. “I don’t need a calculator. Just stay out of my way.”

Mr. Smith pouted. “But I want to help!”

The chief glared at him. “No. I can do this myself. I don’t need you, I just finished at the police academy last week!”

Harry’s eyes widened. “So you’re a rookie? And you’re the chief?”

The chief sighed. “The real chief decided to go on vacation unexpectedly. He wanted to go to Hershey’s Chocolate World after that nice Harold Smith bribed his way into getting free tickets for him and his family. The station asked me to fill in. He was also promised unlimited chocolate by Harold Smith, so we don’t know if he’ll ever be back.”

Harry looked alarmed. “Why was he bribed?”

“Harold Smith wanted the chief to blackmail a rich company into giving his son and their friends their own cruise liner. The chief wouldn’t do it, but I wanted a promotion, so Harold and I struck a deal.” The chief explained. “But I can do it. I haven’t solved any crimes yet, I was only hired at the station last week. All I did was paper work before my big promotion. It was so boring! But now I’m here. This should be more fun!”

Harry looked alarmed. “I’ll be in a barracaded room with my guests. That way we’ll be safe. Let me know when the investigation is done!” Harry hurried away.

Mr. Smith looked at the chief. “I bet you think you’re so smart, in your police uniform and with that big promotiom from my dad! Well, just an FYI, I’M the TRUE genius here! I’m going to be in charge of all the puppy farms someday, and then you’ll HAVE to let me solve all the crimes I want! I’ll just blackmail you! You’ll see! I’m level infinity IQ!”

The chief sighed. “Today is not that day. Today, I’M in charge, and I’m going to prove how clever a detective I am! You stay in here, or I’ll arrest you!” With that, the chief left.

Philip turned to Mr. Smith. “I have the perfect idea. I know how to distract him so WE can solve the crime and be heroes!”

***

Five minutes later, the chief was snooping around the mansion, when he saw a strange sight. A chocolate chip cookie on the floor! He picked it up and began eating it, when he noticed another cookie a few feet away. In fact, there was a whole line of chocolate chip cookies, leading out of the parlor and down the hall! The chief followed the line of cookies out into the hallway and down the hall, until he came upon an open storage closet, where the line of cookies led to the cookie jar. The chief began eating all the cookies when the door slammed shut. “Wait!” The chief yelled. “I’m not done eating! Let me out!” There was no answer. The chief shrugged and continued eating all the cookies.

In the hall, Mr. Smith giggled. “It worked! You are a TRUE genius, Philly! But not as much of a genius as me.”

Philip smiled. “Now WE can solve this crime! As the geniuses we are!”

Amy chimed in. “OMGG! This is just like the time Susan and I got stuck! We were in an escape room, but we didn’t know what any of the clues meant and couldn’t get out. They unlocked the door after twenty minutes, but Susan and I didn’t know which door was real and which was artificial, so we got trapped there overnight. Making decisions is HARD!”

Susan squealed. “Oh. My. GOD! Remember when we got stuck in the mall overnight? We couldn’t remember where the exit was, and the people didn’t like us so they wouldn’t tell us where! We got lost looking and they didn’t find us until morning! We snorted glue in the bathroom all night, and did manicures in the salon for free! We stole so many shirts, and when the cops tried to arrest us, Harold Smith just gave them gummy bears and they let us go! It was so fun!”

Amy squealed. “It WAS fun! Remember the time we got lost at the park? The ranger had to come pick us up after we called 9-1-1! I don’y get why he was so mad. How were we supposed to know we were sitting next to the exit? Reading signs is BOR-ING!”

Mr. Smith began to gesture and mouth things. “I never read signs. Sometimes, I forget how to read altogether.”

“People think we’re DUMB! I don’t know why.” Amy said.

“We’ll prove them wrong,” Mr. Smith said. “By solving this case like the ace detectives we are!”

***

Five minutes later, Mr. Smith gathered all the kitchen staff in the game room.

“OMGG look at all these cool games. I’m good at games! I always win! I don’t know why people say I cheat. I don’t knock the pool balls off the table on purpose! I’m just really clumsy.” Amy said.

Susan squealed. “OMGG! People think I cheat too. I always steal their good cards when we play poker, and then I win! I didn’t know it was against the rules!”

Mr. Smith addressed the room. “Now, I have been appointed by the chief of police to solve this heinous crime.”

A staff member raised their hand. “Why wouldn’t he just solve the case?”

“Because he didn’t know what he was doing. He was incompetent. I AM a TRUE genius!” Mr. Smith said. “Let’s begin questioning. Now, which one of you is the murderer?”

The same staff member looked at Mr. Smith in disgust. “Why would the murderer tell you just because you asked?”

“Because I have influence. I recently read two sentences of How To Win Friends and Influence People- the title and author.” Mr. Smith said.

“How could you learn anything from that?” The man asked.

Mr. Smith scratched his head. “You can learn from reading. I’m pretty sure. Leo said that once. He said I don’t read enough. Well, I’ve been trying to read more. Just this week, I read the titles of six books at the library! Six, I tell you!”

“What were they called?” Philip asked.

“”The Big Book of Dinosaurs (Child’s Edition),” “Maps of the United States,” “How To Make A Ham and Cheese Sandwich,” “The Puppy Farm Guide to Renewable Energy,” “”Harold Smith’s History of the Universe,” and finally, the most challenging one, “How To Turn On A Stove.”” Mr. Smith said. “Unfortunately, I have forgotten the names of the authors of each book, including Harold Smith’s History of the Universe. I have been trying to figure out who wrote that one for four days.”

“Huh,” The staff member said. “Interesting.”

Mr. Smith looked around the room. “So, which one of you is the killer? I’m only going to ask nicely once. Who killed this man?” No one said anything. “Pretty please?” Mr. Smith asked. “No? Fine! I’ll ask more questions.”

Mr. Smith addressed the staff member who had questioned him. “Now, where were you on the night of May 19th, 2020?”

“That’s four years before the murder happened.” The man said, his jaw hanging open.

“I know. I just wanted to get the ball rolling,” Mr. Smith said. He paused. “Do balls roll downhill, or upwards? I have a Physics test at the end of the week and I’m not sure. Also, it’s on my homework, so any help would be much appreciated.”

“That has nothing to do with why we’re here,” The staff member said.

Mr. Smith pointed at him with his pen. “I need help with my homework from somewhere. No one I know knows the answer. Now, tell me your name.”

“Charles,” The man said. “Charles Barkley.”

“Charles Barkley, you are under arrest for the murder of one staff worker whose name I already forgot, and for the attempted murder of Mr. Smith!”

“I didn’t murder anyone! You can’t arrest me without proof! And when did someone attempt to murder you?”

Mr. Smith pointed his pen at Charles. “YOU tried to murder me when I first got here! You poisoned the blueberries you were using to make the pancakes! I would have died, had it not been for my super powers! I can eat anything and survive! But you didn’t know that, did you? You thought you could get rid of me that easy, so I wouldn’t solve the crime you were about to commit! Well, you can’t outsmart me! I’m a genius, I tell you!”

“The blueberries weren’t poisonous. Simon ate them too,” Philip said.

Mr. Smith stamped his foot. “Dammit! There goes my claim to fame! I almost solved the case in under two minutes!” Mr. Smith pointed his pen at the chef. “What is your name?”

“Marianne,” The woman said. “Marianne Johnson.”

“Marianne Johnson, YOU are under arrest, for the attempted murder of Simon on June 19, 1949! I knew I recognized you from somewhere!” Mr. Smith said.

Simon piped up. “No one ever tried to murder me. And she wasn’t even born yet. That was just a dream you had.”

Mr. Smith threw his pen at the wall. “Dammit! Wrong again!” He pointed a finger at the man next to her. “What is your name?”

“Gregory Timmons,” The man said. “I did not attempt to murder you or anyone else. I’m innocent.”

“Where were YOU at 4 AM last night?” Mr. Smith asked.

“Sleeping?” Gregory said.

Mr. Smith scratched his chin. “Exactly what a murderer would say. Now, in what position were you sleeping? On your front, back or side? Answer me!”

“On my back?” The man asked.

Mr. Smith gasped. “THAT’S how several famous serial killers would sleep! According to Puppy Farm Forensics, serial killers often sleep on either their back, front or side! I ALWAYS sleep on my head! I’ve caught the killer!”

Philip raised a hand. “That’s how normal people sleep too. Most people don’t sleep on their head.”

“Dammit!” Mr. Smith swore. “This is an outdated study anyway. Grandpappy Smith conducted it by interviewing three serial killers and asking them each how they slept. Oh well. I guess I’ll have to do my own study! Next, what is your name?” Mr. Smith pointed to a brunette.

“Susanna Evans,” The woman said.

“What is your favorite color?” Mr. Smith asked. “Mine is blue.”

“Pink,” Susanna said. “How is this relevant?”

“Pink is too innocent a favorite color for a serial killer to have. You’re innocent.” Mr. Smith pointed to the last person, a short black haired man.

“That’s sexist,” Susanna said.

Mr. Smith scratched his head. “I don’t know what that is. I fell asleep when they talked about gender in health class.”

“That’s horrible,” Susanna said.

Mr. Smith began to gesture and mouth things. “Is horrible a type of turtle? What kind of turtle? Is it aquatic or a space turtle?”

“Horrible means you’re a bad person.”

“I would have liked what you said better if it involved the space turtle. Otherwise it goes in one ear and out the other with me. Next.”

“Tim Dunn.” The man said.

“Mr. Dunn, have you ever been arrested for any sort of crime?”

“I was arrested for stealing all the chickens on my neighbor’s farm once.” Tim said.

“AHA!” Mr. Smith yelled. “So why did you do that?”

“Because he called me a nerd once in third grade. I had to get him back.”

“Understandable. Being called a nerd is the highest offense! Anyway, since clearly none of you is the killer, I’m going to go ask the rich people questions upstairs.”

A few minutes later, Mr. Smith knocked on the door of the room where Harry and his friends were. “What?” Harry asked.

“I’ve caught the killer. Let me in, he’s running down the hall after me!” Mr. Smith yelled in a panicked voice.

“Alright!” Harry opened the door, shutting it behind him. “Who’s the killer?”

“I don’t know.” Mr. Smith said.

“But you just said they were chasing you,” Harry was dumbfounded.

“He lies a lot,” Ritchie said. “Don’t trust a word out of his mouth.”

“I came in here to question you and find out which one of you is the killer!” Mr. Smith explained.

“None of us is the killer,” Leo said. “What happened to the chief of police? Did you bribe him to let you try to solve the crime?”

“Actually, I left a trail of cookies to lead him into the storage closet. He’s eating them in there now.”

“Oh my God!” Leo snapped. “You’re a complete moron! You’ll never be able to solve this case! Harry, open the door! We’d better take matters into our own hands!”

Twenty minutes later, they had let out the chief, who found fingerprints on the body and arrested the killer, Tim Dunn. “Why’d you do it, Mr. Dunn?” The chief asked.

“I hate working here! I wanted to kill all the kitchen staff just to spite Harry for forcing me to make him such complicated dishes! Do you know how exhausting it is to make a chicken sandwich?”

Mr. Smith scratched his head. “There was no meat labeled duck in the fridge for your chicken sandwich! Only chicken and turkey! Unless… does a chicken sandwich have turkey in it? Turkey is a bird, right?”

Mr. Dunn was led away. Mr. Smith realized that he had failed in trying to prove his intelligence, rage building inside of him. Mr. Smith screamed, picking Simon up and throwing him at the police chief. “Take that!” He yelled. Then he ran into the kitchen, grabbing a handful of berries and throwing them at kitchen staff. “That’s what you get for not telling me who the murderer was!” He yelled. Then he took pancake batter and began flinging it at people. “Ha!” He said. “Now you’re all dirty!”

The cops entered the room. “Please stop that.” One said.

“No!” Mr. Smith yelled.

“Then we’re going to have to ask you to leave,” Another officer chimed in.

“I’m NEVER leaving!” Mr. Smith yelled. He ran into the living room, crawling into the unlit fireplace and up the chimney. “I’m going to live in this chimney the rest of my life! Simon can bring me food, and I won’t have to be a failure any more!” Mr. Smith continued climbing up the chimney, but got wedged inside. “Oh no! I’m stuck! Someone help! I don’t know how to get down from here! What do I do?”

The police called the fire department, who helped a sheepish Mr. Smith down from the chimney, which took two hours.

Mr. Smith ran to Harry. “THIS is YOUR FAULT!” He yelled.

Harry turned to Mr. Smith. “No, it’s your fault. You’re all fired! Don’t come back here again!”

“You can’t fire me!” Mr. Smith yelled. “I’m not Mr. Smith, I’m his cousin, Mee- goo- well!”

“Then you’re fired, Miguel.” Harry deadpanned.

“Fine!” Mr. Smith yelled. “Then Mr. Smith will be back next week!”

“I’m firing Mr. Smith too,” Harry said. “It’s your job to tell him.”

“No!” Mr. Smith yelled.

“If you come back, I’ll tell everyone I know how you failed to solve the crime, Mr. Smith,” Harry snickered.

“Fine!” Mr. Smith yelled. “I QUIT!” Mr. Smith and his friends fled the crime scene, returning home where they spent the rest of the weekend binging Dancing With The Stars.

***

[stagnant-stale]

People on this site need to accept that liking evil and/or objectively wrong characters is ok. You do not need to try and hyper-analyze and attempt to prove that character as morally correct/a victim in order to justify liking them. It is fiction.

[viviseconds]

Steven Shearer Works from the Craftmonsters series Installation view, the artis's studio

[azzo0]

"Katsuki!" You called from the bedroom, lying on your stomach as you read a romance novel. You'd just seen a line you read a handful of times in other romance novels. It was a line that managed to make you smile like an idiot, with butterflies dancing in your stomach.

"What?" He yelled from the living room, where he repaired one of his gauntlets.

"C'mere for a sec," you got up with the book, and Katsuki walked into the room shirtless with a little grease on his chest and arms. Even better for your request. 

"What the fuck? You just called me in, and now yer pushin' me away?" He knitted his eyebrows when you pushed him out of the room.

"Katsuki, can you do this?" You handed him the book, and he took it, looking down at the page in confusion. 

"A lot is goin' on here, sweets. I'm a hero, not an actor." He said, cherry eyes scanning the page. 

"Oh, come on! I'm sure you can do this one." You pointed at the line, and he brought it closer to his face, reading it out loud, his eyebrows raising amusedly. 

"I looked up from my work when I heard the door open to see William. He stood in the doorway, one of his hands on the header above him. "Hey," he greeted-" Katsuki stopped to look at you, "I don't see what you want me to do? Stand in the door and say hi?"

"No, no. You're supposed to do what William did," you explained, demonstrating what you meant by showing him, even though your hand wouldn't reach for the header, "Get it?" 

"Hah? What's so special about it in the first place?" He asked, flipping the book shut and giving it back to you. 

"It's just sexy, okay?" You huffed, "I've read similar lines in many other books, and I just wanna know what it would be like when you do it."

"Fine," he grumbles, "Stand inside."

You happily skipped inside while he stood outside. He took a step closer and stood in the doorway. He brought his hand up and held the doorframe, thick bicep flexing in the process, revealing a few blond hair in his pit. He leaned closer to you, snaking a calloused hand to your back, roughly pulling you closer.

"This what ya wanted, hm?" He whispered into your ear, sending tingles down your spine. He smirked at your flustered state and snuck a peck to your lips. 

He chuckled at your stupor and turned around to leave. He glanced back, a triumphant smirk on his lips, "Let me know if there's somethin' else that William dude does. I can do it better than him anyway~"

[gardengaytes]

post-concert depressive episode except you were only able to tayl-gate bc being on long-term medical leave means dwindling savings and income and the us leg ends in two weeks and she's not coming to canada and you have to accept that you'll never get to see the tour fr inside the stadium

and also dancing with mobility aids while taylorgating was very rough on you physically so you basically slept through two days after and you're still in pain and recovering

owie

[rafecameronssl4t]

Could u do maybe like a ballerina x rafe type fic where she’s breaking in her pointe shoes and rafe is just so confused why she’s breaking them 😂😂 I love all ur fics 😭

Pointe Shoes || Rafe Cameron x fem!reader

MASTERLIST

Hearing the loud banging coming from the balcony, Rafe makes his way up the stairs. “What’s going on?” he calls out as he rounds the corner, his brows furrowed in concern.

As he steps onto the balcony, he stops in his tracks, puzzled by the sight before him. There you are, sitting cross-legged on the ground, a pointe shoe in hand, vigorously whacking it against the floor. The repetitive thud echoes through the space.

“What are you doing?” he chuckles, shaking his head in disbelief as he walks over to the sofa and sits down, watching you with a mixture of curiosity and amusement.

You look up at him with a soft smile, pausing your task for a moment. “I’m just breaking in my shoes,” you explain, your tone light and casual. You then proceed to snap the shank of the shoe with a satisfying crack.

Rafe’s eyes widen, and his jaw drops in shock. “Why the hell are you breaking your shoes? They cost a fucking fortune!” he exclaims, staring at you as if you’ve lost your mind.

You can’t help but laugh at his reaction, the sound bubbling up despite his clear disbelief. “It’s part of the process,” you say, still chuckling. “New pointe shoes are too stiff to dance in comfortably, so we have to break them in to make them fit just right.”

Rafe shakes his head again, still trying to wrap his mind around the concept. “I had no idea,” he mutters, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth despite himself. “Wanna help me with the other one?” You smile at him as you pass him your other pointe shoe.

“Yeah, sure, why not,” Rafe shrugs, moving to sit beside you. “So do I just, whack it on the floor?” he asks, his tone laced with confusion. You chuckle, nodding. “Pretty much.” Rafe picks up a pointe shoe and gives it a tentative tap on the floor. You watch as he gauges the effect, then, gaining confidence, he starts hammering it against the ground with increasing force. Your eyes widen in shock as the shoe takes a serious beating.

“Okay, okay—that’ll do,” you say, your nervous chuckle betraying your concern. He stops and looks at you, a triumphant smile on his face. “Got it,” he says with a grin. “This is kind of fun.”

[stromuprisahat]

Prince Daemon himself would take Caraxes to the Trident ... to find Prince Aemond and Vhagar and put an end to them. Ulf White and Hard Hugh Hammer would fly to Tumbleton ... to assist in the defense of the town and castle and destroy Prince Daeron and Tessarion. Lord Corlys suggested that mayhaps the prince might be taken alive and held as hostage. But Queen Rhaenyra was adamant. “He will not remain a boy forever. Let him grow to manhood, and soon or late he will seek to revenge himself upon my own sons.” Words of these plans soon reached the ears of the Dowager Queen, filling her with terror. Fearing for her sons, Queen Alicent went to the Iron Throne upon her knees, to plead for peace. This time the Queen in Chains put forth the notion that the realm might be divided; Rhaenyra would keep King’s Landing and the crownlands, the North, the Vale of Arryn, all the lands watered by the Trident, and the isles. To Aegon II would go the stormlands, the westerlands, and the Reach, to be ruled from Oldtown. Rhaenyra rejected her stepmother’s proposal with scorn. “Your sons might have had places of honor at my court if they had kept faith,” Her Grace declared, “but they sought to rob me of my birthright, and the blood of my sweet sons is on their hands.” “Bastard blood, shed at war,” Alicent replied. “My son’s sons were innocent boys, cruelly murdered. How many more must die to slake your thirst for vengeance?” The Dowager Queen’s words only fanned the fire of Rhaenyra’s wroth. “I will hear no more lies,” she warned. “Speak again of bastardy, and I will have your tongue out.”

Fire and Blood (George R. R. Martin)

The gall of this bitch!

She's one of the instigators of the war, yet she comes to suggest peace as if it were the only thing on her heart. She only does it once her side's losing.

She comes to "beg", yet she dismisses Rhaenyra's loss she and hers caused as if it didn't matter at all, once again insulting Nyra and her family in the process.

Alicent doesn't call only the Velaryon boys "bastards", but Viserys- believed to be dead at the moment- too. It's obvious Rhaenyra's children would be rumoured bastards no matter who fathered them, because *checks notes* they came from that whore, who dared to get in the way of Alicent's ambition.

While all of the Black children's fate was caused by the Greens- Aemond and their allies from Triarchy- Maelor's death was a combination of bad luck (The egg being discovered.) and unmanageability of a mob.

How many more must die to slake your thirst for vengeance? says the woman, who'll be more than willing to sacrifice her only remaining descendant to murder the last of her enemies, she made into enemies by her own fully intentional actions.

[horizon-verizon]

Daemon Targaryen returned to the castle just long enough to break his fast with Lord Mooton. “This is the last that you will see of me,” he told his lordship. “I thank you for your hospitality. Let it be known through all your lands that I fly for Harrenhal. If my nephew Aemond dares face me, he shall find me there, alone.” Thus Prince Daemon departed Maidenpool for the last time. When he had gone, Maester Norren went to his lord to say, “Take the chain from my neck and bind my hands with it. You must needs deliver me to the queen. When I gave warning to a traitor and allowed her to escape, I became a traitor as well.” Lord Mooton refused. “Keep your chain,” his lordship said. “We are all traitors here.” And that night, Queen Rhaenyra’s quartered banners were taken down from where they flew above the gates of Maidenpool, and the golden dragons of King Aegon II raised in their stead. No banners flew above the blackened towers and ruined keeps of Harrenhal when Prince Daemon descended from the sky to claim the castle for his own. A few squatters had found shelter in the castle’s deep vaults and undercellars, but the sound of Caraxes’s wings sent them fleeing. When the last of them was gone, Daemon Targaryen walked the cavernous halls of Harren’s seat alone, with no companion but his dragon. Each night at dusk he slashed the heart tree in the godswood to mark the passing of another day. Thirteen marks can be seen upon that weirwood still; old wounds, deep and dark, yet the lords who have ruled Harrenhal since Daemon’s day say they bleed afresh every spring. On the fourteenth day of the prince’s vigil, a shadow swept over the castle, blacker than any passing cloud. All the birds in the godswood took to the air in fright, and a hot wind whipped the fallen leaves across the yard. Vhagar had come at last, and on her back rode the one-eyed Prince Aemond Targaryen, clad in nightblack armor chased with gold. He had not come alone. Alys Rivers flew with him, her long hair streaming black behind her, her belly swollen with child. Prince Aemond circled twice about the towers of Harrenhal, then brought Vhagar down in the outer ward, with Caraxes a hundred yards away. The dragons glared balefully at each other, and Caraxes spread his wings and hissed, flames dancing across his teeth. The prince helped his woman down from Vhagar’s back, then turned to face his uncle. “Nuncle, I hear you have been seeking us.” “Only you,” Daemon replied. “Who told you where to find me?” “My lady,” Aemond answered. “She saw you in a storm cloud, in a mountain pool at dusk, in the fire we lit to cook our suppers. She sees much and more, my Alys. You were a fool to come alone.” “Were I not alone, you would not have come,” said Daemon. “Yet you are, and here I am. You have lived too long, Nuncle.” “On that much we agree,” Daemon replied. Then the old prince bade Caraxes bend his neck, and climbed stiffly onto his back, whilst the young prince kissed his woman and vaulted lightly onto Vhagar, taking care to fasten the four short chains between belt and saddle. Daemon left his own chains dangling. Caraxes hissed again, filling the air with flame, and Vhagar answered with a roar. As one the two dragons leapt into the sky.

Fire and Blood, by George R.R. Martin, pg 499-500 [Daemon vs Aemond Pt1; Boss Battle]

[pedrospatch]

call it what it is

Jackson! Joel Miller x Female Reader

summary: A disagreement over patrol duty leads to declarations that have been long overdue.

warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI. established relationship. HEFTY AGE GAP (reader is in her 20’s and joel is 56). ellie and joel are fine bc i said so and they deserve nothing less. reader handles a rifle, joel’s a little too overprotective and almost seems controlling, but i promise he is not. well, maybe just a smidge. arguing, admission of feelings, joel miller says i love you (yes this is ooc, no i do not care bc i need this old man to tell me he loves me). angst, fluff. quite a bit of side character interaction before we get to joel and reader in the second half. the only physical description of reader is that she is shorter than joel. fair warning, i am quite rusty.

word count: 4.2k

a/n: hi hello. i have not shared a wip in over 2 months. i was going back and forth on whether or not i wanted to share a fic with so much going on but decided i wanted to get back to doing what i enjoy. that and ofc that new footage was a boost of inspo. i am sending so, so much love to anyone who happens to see this author note, whether you read this fic or just happen to see this note in passing whilst scrolling. i know things have been tough, but i am here with you. <3

Joel wakes with a gentle start. Yawning, he rolls over from his side onto his back, blinking the sleep out of his eyes as warm, golden sunlight filters into the bedroom through the sheer, white linen curtains drawn over the window. He stares up at the ceiling, his breathing slow, steady, and even. He’s still getting used to it, it seems. Waking this calmly, with a tranquil peace he had been so certain he would never in his life feel again. He knew it couldn’t be a mere coincidence the nightmares had all but stopped tormenting him in his sleep when the two of you stopped doing that awkward little tap dance around one another and began sharing a bed, a home, a life.

No more bolting upright in sheer panic in the middle of the night, heart pounding and drenched head to toe in a cold sweat. No more believing he’s failing in his sleep. No more waking up feeling like he’s lost something.

Even his dreams about Sarah had become so, so much more pleasant. Images of her in that field on that night were replaced by different memories, like watching her teammates dogpile her after she’d scored the winning goal in their soccer tournament, or the big, triumphant grin she’d flashed him over her chocolate milkshake as the pair sat in their usual corner booth at their favorite fifties-themed diner in Austin—much to Joel’s surprise, Sarah had politely declined her teammates’ invitation for pizza once the match ended, choosing to celebrate her victory with him. Just the two of them.

“Y’sure you don’t wanna go with your friends, kiddo?” he’d asked, raising an eyebrow. He had been certain she was approaching the age where she would start spending less and less time with her old man. “I wouldn’t mind, y’know.”

“Positive,” she had reassured him with a smile, looping her arm through his and leading him off the pitch. “I’d much rather be with you, dad.”

Rather than smelling metallic in his slumber, he smells the grass that stained her white and blue striped jersey. Her cheeks are smeared with dirt, not with crimson.

Stifling another loud yawn, Joel stretches his arm out over towards your side of the bed, his calloused fingers seeking the warmth and softness of your naked body—instead, all they find are empty sheets, cold and long abandoned. He turns his head, and as suspected, you are not laying there beside him. That’s hardly out of the ordinary. Out of the two of you, you were the early riser, up before the neighbors’ rooster even had the chance to sound the alarm. Joel knows how much you treasure your quiet mornings lounging on the porch swing he’d built for you as you watched the sunrise with a hot cup of coffee in hand. He often made a genuine effort to get up and join you, but lately, his patrol rotations had been all over the place thanks to a shortage of patrolmen. He found himself sleeping in whenever he had the chance, seeing as he never knew when he might have to work a damn double. Or maybe it was just his age catching up with him.

He checks the time and then rolls out of bed, groaning when his sore knees and his aching lower back protest his movement.

After taking a quick shower using whatever hot water the kid had left for him after her own shower—much to his annoyance, it was not very much—Joel brushes his teeth and gets dressed for the day before pulling on his boots and heading downstairs into the kitchen where he finds the culprit responsible for the cold downpour he’d been forced to wash himself under. Ellie’s sitting at the table, absentmindedly stirring her oatmeal around her bowl with her spoon as she flips through one of her comic books. Just as he’s about to greet her, he spots the clean, empty coffee pot on the kitchen counter and frowns. You hadn’t even made coffee yet?

Now, that—that is out of the ordinary.

“Where is she?” he asks.

“Well, good morning to you too, old man. Oh, I slept great, thanks for asking,” Ellie quips without looking up at him as she flips the page. She mumbles something under her breath he doesn’t quite catch, something like, and you get on my ass about my manners?

Rolling his eyes, Joel snorts in response and pads over to the coffee maker on the counter. He spoons in some of the grounds he’d traded for earlier that week into the reusable filter, pours in water from the tap, and turns it on to brew. He grabs two ceramic mugs from the wire dish rack beside the sink and sets them down on the counter. “She out back?” he questions, yanking the refrigerator door open—he tries to remember the little things, like how you enjoyed your coffee with a bit of milk as well as a dash of cinnamon, if you had the rations, or something to trade for the precious spice. He always made sure that you did.

“Nope.” Ellie shovels a spoonful of oatmeal into her mouth and adds thickly, “She went to get some eggs.”

Joel shoots her a look of disgust over his shoulder. “Jesus, Ellie! How many times do I gotta tell you? Don’t talk with your mouth full. It’s bad manners,” he scolds her, shaking his head. He turns his attention back to the refrigerator. As he reaches for the glass bottle of milk, he pauses and his eyebrows pull together in confusion when he sees the wicker basket on the top shelf. “Wait a minute.” He feels her stiffen in her chair. “Why the hell would she go get eggs when we’ve got a full basket of ‘em right here in the fridge?”

She clears her throat. “Oh, uh, my bad. I got confused. Think she said she was gonna go get more honey? Uh, I used the last of it to make my breakfast this morning and she, uh—she wanted some for her toast. You know, ‘cause she really likes putting honey on her toast,” she rambles before piling more oatmeal into her mouth.

Closing the refrigerator door, he turns to her, his eyes narrowing with suspicion as uneasiness settles deep in the pit of his stomach. “Ellie?”

There’s a momentary pause. “...yeah?”

This time, Joel doesn’t bother to chastise the teenager for talking with her mouth full. “Where is she?”

Ellie nervously swallows her food and holds up both of her hands. “Hey, I already fucking told you, man.”

“Look, I know you like the back of my own hand, kiddo. And I know damn good and well when you’re lying to me.” Joel crosses his arms over his chest. “Now tell me the truth. What do you know that I don’t?”

Groaning, Ellie sits back in her chair. “Ugh. She made me swear not to tell you! She’ll fucking strangle me if I do—”

“Yeah, well, not if I fuckin’ strangle you first myself,” he threatens her. “M’Serious, Ellie. Tell me what’s going on. Right now.”

“Alright, alright! Jesus,” she huffs. “She’s with Tommy. He’s been taking her out of town to do target practice in the mornings, just the two of them. She usually gets back to the house before you get up,” she admits.

Joel’s arms fall back to his sides, his shoulders tense. “And how long has this been goin’ on?” he asks, rigidly. There’s a sudden tightness inside his chest, a feeling he hasn’t felt it in a while, but is still all too familiar to him.

After Tommy spread the word around town that more people were needed for patrol duties, you’d expressed an interest in the role, but Joel had been all too quick to shut you down, telling you he didn’t want you stepping foot outside the community’s gates.

“No,” he’d said. “Not happenin’. S’too dangerous.”

“But Joel—”

“I said,” he lowered his voice. “No.”

He hadn’t offered you an explanation as to why he was against it, refused to give you one good, solid reason as to why it was acceptable for him to risk his own life to protect Jackson, but it wasn’t acceptable for you to do the same.

Joel hadn’t known how to tell you the truth. How he needed you far, far more than you needed him, how the mere thought of losing you, the best fucking thing that could have possibly happened to him since the world ended, made him feel like his heart was going to stop.

A few weeks had passed since then, and thankfully, you never brought it up to him again. You had lost interest in patrol duty. Or so he’d thought.

“How long has this been going on?” he repeats after a minute.

“C’mon, man! Haven’t I already snitched enough?”

“Ellie,” Joel bites out her name. “Tell me. How long?”

She sighs in defeat. “Two weeks? Maybe three?” When she notices the muscle in his jaw tick, she grimaces. “You do realize why she didn’t fucking tell you, right?”

“Don’t,” he warns her, sharply.

“I’m just saying,” Ellie mutters, peering down into her bowl.

Without another word, Joel angrily storms past her and straight out the front door, snatching up his rifle on the way. He heads straight for the stables, trying to ignore the anxiety flaring inside of his chest.

Focus.

Now, breathe in. And breathe out.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

Breathe in.

Breathe...

You exhale as you slowly squeeze the trigger.

Y’squeeze it like you love it, you had been told by your reluctant instructor.

The round fires off into the distance and you swiftly grab the bolt handle, bringing it up, back, forward, and then down again. You pull the trigger once more, then repeat and continue firing one shot after the other for a total of five rounds.

The rifle’s recoil nearly sends you flying backwards, but a strong hand on your back keeps you nice and steady. That same hand then moves to your shoulder and gives you three firm taps.

“Alright, alright! Christ,” Tommy laughs. He withdraws his arm from around you and shakes his head. “Fuckin’ calm down, Annie Oakley.”

Picking up his binoculars, he rises to his feet and looks through the lens at the makeshift targets that he’d set up for you, three empty soup cans lined up in a row on top of a wooden fence about twenty-five yards away—your longest shooting distance to date.

“Well?” You don’t even bother masking your impatience as you lower the rifle, carefully propping the weapon up against the tree stump you’re perched behind. Rubbing your sore shoulder, you hope the kickback won’t leave a bruise. You wouldn’t know how to explain that to Joel. “How did I do?”

His response comes in the form of a long, low whistle.

There is no telling if that had been good whistle, or if it had been a bad one. You groan. Now was not the time for him to dick around. “Please tell me I got at least one of them?”

“You got ‘em all, actually.” Tommy replies, lowering the binoculars and peering down at you. There’s a glimmer of pride in his eyes. “Good job, kid.”

Kid? Not exactly a nickname one wants to be called by the brother of the much, much older man that they are romantically involved with. It’d taken Tommy months to accept your relationship with Joel, especially when you moved your things out of your unit and into his over the summer. Part of you wonders if him referring to you as a kid is simply his own subtle way of telling you—no, of reminding you, that he’s still not comfortable with it.

And perhaps he never would be.

After all, you had still been a teenager when you first arrived to Jackson a few years ago, stumbling upon the town just a few months shy of the twentieth birthday you weren’t sure you would survive long enough to see.

You were indeed a kid when you’d met Tommy Miller.

Were.

Scowling up at him, you snap, “I told you to stop calling me that. I’m not nineteen anymore, Tommy.”

Having read your mind, he gives you a small smile and acknowledges, “Yeah, you’re right. You definitely ain’t a kid anymore.” He offers you his hand and hoists you up to your feet. Before dropping your hand, he gives it an apologetic squeeze.

You relax a little and smile back at him. “Did I really get all three?”

Tommy nods. “You sure did. You’re a damn good shot. I gotta be honest with you—I didn’t expect you to be this fuckin’ good,” he admits sheepishly.

Chuckling, you scoff, “Thanks. I think.”

“It’s a compliment, sugar.” He winks and flashes you a lopsided grin. “In fact, I’d say my work here is done.”

“Great! So when are you putting me on the roster?”

His grin instantly vanishes. “Uh, listen. About that....”

He trails off, and your heart sinks a little.

Tommy wouldn’t back out of this now—would he?

“Oh, no. Don’t you dare go back on your word, Miller,” you say, lightly poking him in the chest. “We had a deal. You said if I did well enough, you’d think about it.”

He nods in agreement. “Exactly. Said I’d think about it. And I think that puttin’ you on the roster for patrol ain’t a good idea.”

Your mouth falls open. If he never had any intention of holding up his end of the bargain, then what had been the point of teaching you how to shoot?

You didn’t understand.

“You just said it yourself, I’m a great shot! I’m a good on horseback, too. I’m stealthy. I’m diligent. What more do you fucking need from me, Tommy?”

Tommy’s chest heaves with a heavy sigh. “Joel would fuckin’ murder me with his bare hands if I even thought about puttin’ you on patrol duty. Hell, he’d murder me just knowin’ we’re out here and I’m teachin’ you how to shoot. It’s a damn fuckin’ miracle he still hasn’t caught onto this, y’know.”

Shocked, your eyebrows shoot to your hairline. “This is about Joel? Are you serious?”

“‘Course it is.” He pauses. “Listen, now I know the three of us had our—differences—when he first told me ‘bout you two. Still takin’ me a bit of gettin’ used to, but I can see he’s real serious about you. I know my brother, and I know he won’t risk losin’ what’s most important to him. Ain’t no way in hell. He doesn’t want you out here and you know that as well as I do.” Tommy shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans, shrugging as he shuffles his weight from one cowboy boot to the other. “Unless he’s alright with it, I ain’t gonna put you on the roster.”

For a moment, you’re at a complete loss for words.

Upon seeing the crestfallen expression on your face, he makes a suggestion. “You can try talkin’ to him ‘bout it again if it means that much to you. Ask him—”

“Ask?” You want to laugh. You almost do. “I’m an adult, Tommy. I don’t need his permission to do this. Or to do anything for that matter. Joel doesn’t tell me what I can and can’t do.”

Tommy smiles wryly. “Well then, if that’s the case, why are we sneakin’ around and doin’ this behind his back?”

Your shoulders slump in defeat.

Because the ramifications could be disastrous.

Joel had made his stance on the matter abundantly clear, and yet here you were, deliberately disobeying him.

“Stumped you real good, didn’t I?”

Before you can even start to think about how you can possibly respond to that, you hear the sound of hooves in the dirt behind you, followed by whinny of a horse.

Tommy’s face pales as he glances over your shoulder.

“Shit.”

There’s no need for you to ask. His grimace says it all.

Somehow, you will yourself to turn around just as Joel’s steed comes to a halt beside the mare you and Tommy had ridden out on together. He jumps out of the saddle, grunting at the forceful impact on his knees when his feet hit the ground. His rifle hangs from a worn, brown leather strap slung across his back.

He approaches the two of you looking absolutely livid, and your throat goes dry.

“The hell is goin’ on here?” He breezes right past you, roughly shoving his brother with both hands. “Why the fuck would you bring her out here, Tommy? What the fuck is the matter with you?”

“Joel, c’mon. Take it easy—”

“Don’t fuckin’ tell me to take it easy!”

“Joel!” You reach for his arm. “Wait, it’s not his fault!”

Joel shoves him again, then takes him by the collar of his shirt and pins him against the ponderosa pine tree behind him. “You’ve been bringin’ her outside the gates behind my fuckin’ back for weeks, asshole?”

The panic begins to set in—he’s taking his anger out on the wrong person, and deep down, he knows this too.

“Joel! Stop! Let him go!” Grabbing fistfuls of his jacket, you try pulling him off of the younger man. “Stop it! It’s not his fault! I asked Tommy to bring me out here!”

He whirls around, his nostrils flared, jaw clenched.

You’ve seen this side of him a handful of times before.

But his anger has never been directed at you.

“What?”

Immediately, you let go of him and take a step back. “I asked Tommy to bring me out here and teach me how to shoot so that I can start working patrol,” you explain, hoping, praying, he doesn’t catch the slight tremble in your voice. “This was all my idea, okay? If you’re going to be mad at someone, then be mad at me. Not at him.”

“So you did this after I fuckin’ told you I didn’t want you out here?” Joel seethes. His neck becomes flushed, his tan skin now a deep shade of red.

“Joel—”

He cuts you off. “I had to find out from Ellie? You tried to get her to fuckin’ lie to me? After all the work it took for me and her to—” Stopping mid sentence, he places his hands on his hips and shakes his head.

“Joel. Please.” Behind the anger in his dark brown eyes, you detect something else. A mingle of hurt, concern—fear?

Tommy awkwardly clears his throat. “Well I’m, uh—I’m gonna head back to town,” he says, touching a hand to the back of his neck. “I’ll let the two of you work things out in private.” As he passes Joel, he lightly claps him on the shoulder. “Girl’s a sharp shooter, big brother. I’d reckon she’s almost better than you.”

His effort to lighten the mood fails. Miserably.

Offering you a subtle nod of encouragement, Tommy hops into the saddle of his mare and takes off towards the commune.

Silence falls over the both of you. It feels suffocating.

Unfamiliar.

Finally, you speak. “Joel, please just hear me out—”

“What the hell were you thinkin’? Or were you just not thinkin’ at all?”

“I was thinking I want to pull my weight in Jackson.”

“You already have a fuckin’ job,” Joel reminds you.

“Making sandwiches and serving whiskey at The Tipsy Bison?” You scoff, crossing your arms over your chest. “I am capable of more than that, Joel. So much more. Don’t you believe I’m capable of doing more?”

“I don’t want you out here,” he grits through his teeth. “Capable or not, I don’t want you outside Jackson’s walls. I don’t want you on patrol and that’s fuckin’ final. You understand me?” Now it’s him who falters, and you wonder if you’re imagining things, or if that’s really a tear you see sliding down the side of his face, disappearing into the salt and pepper scruff of his beard.

“That’s not your decision to make, Joel. It’s mine.”

“M’responsible for you. It’s my job to look after you—to protect you.”

Something about the way he is looking at you, it feels like a punch to the gut, and it’s at that precise moment when you begin to realize that he’s not angry. He’s afraid.

“Joel, I know that all you want to do is protect me,” you sigh, letting your arms fall down to your sides. “I know you do. But you’re doing me no favors by trying to keep me sheltered. By treating me like I’m defenseless. Don’t forget, I’m a survivor too.”

“You already know how fuckin’ dangerous it is out here. Clickers, raiders—”

“I can handle it,” you insist, stubbornly.

“You’d be puttin’ yourself right in harm’s way!”

You shoot back, “You mean, the way you and so many other people put yourselves in harm’s way every single day for the sake of keeping Jackson safe?”

A frustrated growl rumbles through his chest. “Christ, why are you bein’ so fuckin’ foolish? You’re just askin’ to get yourself killed!”

“I can take care of myself!” You realize your hands are shaking and curl them into tight fists at your sides in an effort to hide it. “Just accept it, Joel! Accept that I can take care of myself, alright?”

That is all it takes to tip Joel over the edge he’s been teetering on. “Then what do you fuckin’ need me for?” he shouts, his voice thundering over the quiet plains of Wyoming. “If you can take care of yourself, what’s the point in us bein’ together? Why are you with me?”

“Because I love you!”

As soon as the confession comes tumbling out of your mouth, you take a step back, your wide eyes meeting his own. Until now, neither of you have ever called this what it is, been bold enough to say it’s love.

Loving after so much grief, so much loss, is daunting. It’s something you thought you would never be capable of doing again, not in this lifetime. Not in this world. It’s happened, though.

You love Joel Miller.

And he loves you.

He’s never told you he does, but he’s shown you.

From the way remembers how you take your coffee in the mornings, to the way he laces his fingers with your own, holding your hand when he’s buried inside of you, whispering sweet nothings into your collarbone every single night.

“You—you what?” Joel’s whisper is hardly audible.

You inch your way closer to him, your voice soft. “I love you,” you declare once more. “I’m not with you because of what you can do for me. I’m not with you because you can take care of me.” Closer. “I’m with you because I love you—because I’m in love with you, Joel.” Closer, until your chest brushes against his, and he can smell the subtle scent of your homemade, rosewater soap. “The only thing I need, and have ever needed from you, is your love in return.”

His throat bobs. Before you can utter another word, he lifts his hands and gently takes your face, cradling it in between his large palms, gently. His eyes search yours, immediately finding the sincerity behind your words. Leaning down, he brushes the tip of nose against your own as one of his hands travels down, his long fingers curling around the nape of your neck. His thumb lightly strokes the column of your throat.

“I love you,” Joel says hoarsely. Three words he hadn’t said to anyone in over two decades—it feels foreign to him, they ring strange in his own ears. He tries it again, clearer this time, and with a little more confidence. After all, he’s only saying what he has known from the very start. “I love you.” His other hand moves to your hip, pulling you even closer to him. “M’gonna love you for the rest of my life, baby.”

He leans in further and presses his lips to yours lightly, at first, but he wastes no time in sweeping his tongue across your bottom lip, silently asking for more.

Your mouth parts for him, and he backs you against the ponderosa, kissing you deeply, greedily, like he’s a man starved.

You whimper into him, your hands sliding up his broad chest and past his shoulders until they’re tangled in his soft, graying curls. He breathes you in, like you are the oxygen he needs to stay alive.

It isn’t until you both hear the sound of rustling behind a nearby shrub that you’re forced to pull apart. “Don’t move,” Joel instructs in a hushed voice. He keeps you pinned against the tree, his hand abandoning your hip. He glances around, slowly reaching behind his back for his rifle. His tense shoulders relax when the both of you see a pair of rabbits dart out from one dried bush and straight into another. Exhaling an amused huff, Joel shifts his attention back to you and rests his forehead against yours.

Smiling, you reach up and softly graze his beard with your fingertips. “Guess it’s about time we called this what it is, huh?”

“Guess you’re right, darlin’.” He lifts his chin, brushing a kiss onto your forehead. “M’sorry for raisin’ my voice to you. For talkin’ to you the way I did. S’just, the thought of somethin’ happenin’ to you out here scares shit out of me.” Taking a step back, he pulls the strap of his rifle from around his shoulder. He chews the inside of his cheek and silently stares at the gun in his hands. After a minute, he meets your curious gaze. “Do you really wanna do this, sweet girl?”

You nod. “Yeah. I really do.”

Joel sighs. “Can I put a condition it?”

“Depends on what that condition is.”

“I’m your patrol partner. Every shift. Every rotation.”

You roll your eyes. “Joel.”

“At least for the first few weeks,” he bargains. “Last thing I need is for you to be paired up with some fuckin’ idiot who doesn’t know what the hell they’re doin’.”

Knowing that would be the only way he’d have some peace of mind, you decide to agree. “Fine. We’re patrol partners.”

“Alright then.” Joel nods and hands you the rifle. He flashes you a small grin. “Show me what you got, baby.”

divider credit to @/saradika 💛

for fic notifications please follow @joelsgreysupdates!

[peachpitfics]

Endgame

Fandom: Bridgerton

Summary: Six years after you were married off to your Father's friend, you enter a period of mourning. As soon as it is societally acceptable, Benedict Bridgerton is in your foyer with a bouquet of flowers, amending a mistake he made all those years ago.

Length: 3.8k

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

Content Warnings: Death, mentions of sex work, penetrative sex, vaginal sex, unprotected sex, oral sex (f receiving), orgasm.

a/n: This is part iii to Wildest Dreams & Loml, requested by anon here! This is the final part!

Bridgerton master list (tag list)

Your father stood acrost from you, tears in his eyes, which seemed genuine, though they did leave you confused. He was more devastated by your elderly husband’s death than you were – they had been friends a very many years, even with an age gap between them. It was six years since you were married to Lord Roger Howard, six of the most gruelling years of your life, pretending to care remotely for such a wretched man.

“I apologise for this display” Father wiped his tears from his eyes.

“Fret not, he was your friend after all” You replied nonchalantly, your father never caring enough to pay attention to your words, let alone the tone of your voice. He nodded sadly, blowing his nose in his handkerchief and stuffing it back into the waistcoat pocket.

“Your mother is thrilled at the prospect of you coming home” He asserted.

The shock of his audacity displayed in full force upon your face, “This is my home, I will not be returning to your house in Mayfair. I have an estate to care for until its heir comes of age” You shot back at him, far surer and more confident in your own voice than you had been when he bullied you into a match you did not want.

His weepy eyes filled with exasperation, you were not sure anyone had ever spoken back to him in such a manner, it sure looked as though they hadn’t. He stuttered over jumbled consonants, words unforming as they bowled out of his mouth. Never in your young life had you seen your father so beside himself, so baffled.

“Is there something you wish to say?” You asked brashly.

Stern eyebrows grew rigid over his unpredictable eye line, “How disrespectful! I do not recall raising a child with such an attitude! You will do as your father tells you, and your father demands you return to Mayfair” He almost shouted, the corrosive tone of his voice scared you as a child, even just a few years ago; but he had set you on a journey down Dante’s nine rings of hell. No longer afraid of small men feigning omnipotence in comparison to you, your father was no better nor worse than the husband you had just lost.

Your harsh statuette figure remained still and unblinking, unimpressed by his temper tantrum. Sweat formed on his brow line, rage simmering just below the surface. He was a volcano, ready to erupt in exaggerated self-importance. “It is obvious to me that perhaps you are confused. I was married to Lord Howard; I am Dowager Lady Howard. I do not belong to you, nor am I required to hear this nonsense any longer. I have land, and staff to account for. I will be remaining here. Would you like me to escort you out?” You asked calmly, your heart thumping in your chest, prepared for his next outrageous onslaught.

Father shuffled on the spot, puffed-up and fragile, dancing between continuing this argument, or storming out of the room. With a defeated, heavy exhale, he turned swiftly on the ball of his foot and stomped down the stairs. Staff peered around corners, having heard the yelling, worried for your safety.

Making your way out to the landing, subtly triumphant smile on your face, you watched as your father barged past someone standing in the foyer. You could not believe your eyes, unsure now of whether this was a dream or not. Benedict Bridgerton stood tall in the foyer, a big bunch of flowers in his arms, side eying your father as he passed. He looked just like you remembered, just like you imagined him every day since you last saw him. His eyebrows high, his crowning glory, that cheeky smile adorned on his face. There were small changes, delicious smile lines around his mouth and across his forehead. He looked neat, and very well dressed – you thought perhaps he finally had taken some advice from Anthony. The door slammed violently, and Benedict jumped slightly, pursing his lips together in a look of amusement.

“Mr Bridgerton, to what do I owe the pleasure of your company?” You hummed in soft interrogation.

“I have come to offer my condolences” Benedict tried to wipe the smile from his face.

“Alas, it has been six whole months since my husband passed away. Would you not consider these condolences to be quite late?” You retorted audaciously.

“One… might consider my visit late, yes. However, I do believe I am right on time. I would like to point out that it is but seven hours into a societally acceptable visit for a single man to call on a widow” He feigned checking his pocket watch, nearly dropping the bouquet on the floor, beaming at you as you started descending the stairs. Rushing down the stairs with enthusiasm, you threw yourself into his arms, flowers crushed between your bodies as your kiss landed. There was that sense of delirium you had missed so dearly. Your stomach dropped excitedly, your heart skipped a beat, your smile uncontainable as he pulled you into him tighter and tighter.

“Worried I would not come?” He asked between kisses, his eyes joyously lit.

“Not one bit” You groaned as his teeth took your lip, sucking it into his mouth, “Come upstairs”.

Benedict took your hand in his, leading you to the only place he knew well in this house, your bedroom. It was strange feeling this way after so long, so much glee in such a solemn house. You had not a care in the world at this moment, everything was finally right as it should have been.

Shutting the door forcefully, Benedict grasped at your arms and pulled you toward the bed, shifting behind you to undress you. Not a second later, Benedict gripped two sections of material and reefed them apart, tearing your dress from your body, his clamorous grunt igniting something within you. The fabric fell to the ground around you in a pool, embarrassment telling you to turn to Benedict, but his forceful hands stilled you where you were. Bending you forward, you rested your elbows onto the bed, the sound of his breeches unbuttoning behind you made your mouth water, wonderment tensing your mind.

Kneeling behind you, Benedict pressed his finger to your pussy, sliding it in as slowly as possible, coaxing soft moans from your lips. You so greatly wanted to spin around, eager to see what he was up to.

“God you are so wet and ready for me” Benedict commended, slipping that same finger between his lips, sucking the taste of you off it, moaning in unbridled thirst for you. Benedict’s hands snapped to your hips grasping at generous handfuls, reefing you back into him, running the tip of his cock along you.

He plunged into you without a moments notice, sinking to extremity unexpectedly. Gasping in wretched recognition as your body adjusted, his velvet skin sliding in and out of you, images flashed through your mind of all the times you had done this before. His large hands slid into the pocket between your belly and your hips, thumbs goading you back into him, savouring every thrust back into you. Benedict laced into your hair, firmly pulling you back to meet him, the starving kiss in his arsenal his best yet. That is what it had felt like, these last two years in particular – like surviving in a baron desert, aridity only quenched by a singular person, and that person being unattainable.

Benedict’s hardness sunk into you again and again, particularly rigid on this occasion, you did not recall him filling you quite this much, but every moment was felt like a spiritual experience. His thrusts became vigorous, and he had that look in his eye that you knew all too well, his efforts quickly moving toward fruition. His pelvis slammed into yours with the most gloriously barbaric force, his moans and grunts animating, pleasure absolutely carved throughout his body and face. The eagerness of his movements made you squeal out as he reached deeper places, you hips bounced back encouraging his release inside of you. Benedict’s hands constricted in place; his body unyielding as waves of intensity rolled through him.

Desperately trying to inhale deeper breaths, Benedict rolled onto the bed next to you, stretching out his arms as if he had a stitch in his chest. You giggled at him, lying down too.

“Not as young as you once were?” You chortled.

Benedict flashed you a look of sunny offense, “If I… could breathe… right now, you’d be paying… for that comment…” Benedict chuckled through his panting. You placed your hand on his chest, feeling his heart thump against your hand, your eyes went wide with awe.

After catching his breath, you laid together in the bed for the rest of the day, slipping in and out of each other and conversation. Benedict was enjoying exploring your body again, as it had been two years and another child later.

“I cannot believe we are finally here” Benedict chuffed, his head resting on your navel, staring up at the ceiling.

“Six years later, my darling. To be fair, we did think we would be apart longer” You remarked.

Benedict paused, fingers circling your forearm wrapped over him, “Y/n… There are rumours circulating the Ton…” He uttered kindly, approaching with gentility.

“I suppose you should know what happened to Roger,” You sighed, more embarrassed for yourself than for the old codfish, “I received news six months previous, that Roger had passed at an establishment… during intercourse with a working woman” You pursed your lips together, trying not to laugh. This was the first time you had explained the situation out loud, to anyone at all. The hilarity was not lost on you, but it felt wrong for the widow to relish the death of her husband outwardly, no matter the kind of man he was.

Benedict was silent for a few more moments, his eyes squinting in reserve, white flashes of teeth peeking through his lips, trying his hardest not to burst into laughter. “At least, he died doing what he loved?” Benedict knew he could hold up the façade no longer, resigning to his impish personality, eliciting a perpetual and free laugh from you. You ruffled his hair merrily, giving playful shoves for saying something so outrageous.

“Perhaps so! It is difficult to explain to the children, not that he had much interest in them anyway. I am hoping they will adjust quickly; they are quite young still” You gave Benedict a gentle smile. You knew he had been waiting to bring up the children, only having seen them a handful of times over the last 5 years.

“When can I see them?” Benedict asked keenly.

“Their nanny took them for a walk in the gardens when I was informed my father was on the grounds… He is not particularly fond of them either” You shrugged, “They will surely be returning soon” You reached out to stroke Benedict’s face, his excitement uncontainable.

Benedict continued to talk about the children, taking guesses at their heights and how they walked. He asked about their favourite foods and favourite colours, he wanted to know everything. More than anything, he had wanted to be there to see them grow and change. He had spent their lives memorising details in letters, their descriptions and little personalities, so desperate to know them. Benedict was recently thrilled to learn that Benjamin had lost his very first tooth at just five years old. He was also filled with pride when you wrote of Beatrice climbing down the stairs for the first time, all be herself – she was three now and while Benedict felt like he had missed so much, he knew how much more there was to come, that he would get to be a part of.

“My apologies, I am just overjoyed to finally be here” Benedict’s eyes watered lightly.

“Do not apologise, they will be excited too, you know they love you” You smiled, wiping away his singular tear. You leant down to place a kiss on his forehead, which he intercepted, stealing yours lips away with his own, warm and full.

Benedict rolled onto his front, lifting your thigh over him and snuggling himself between your legs. His nose rested in your tangle of pubic hair, nudging gently at your slit. Without meaning to, you laid back in anticipatory relaxation, Benedict’s arms wrapping around your thighs.

“You are unreasonably delicious my love” Benedict moaned from between your thighs.

His fingers danced around your outer flesh, tickling and pleasing strokes slowly replaced by his tongue, wet and pleasantly heated. Your eyes rolled back in your head, your lung’s feeling collapse was just moments away. It had been so long, and you were well and truly voracious for him, you had thought about this every single day.

Writhing under his ministrations, Benedict gently lapped at your clitoris, hardly touching it at times. You whimpered in hopeless desperation as he teased and circled exactly where you wanted him to press. There was no doubt Benedict was a connoisseur at this fine art and you were thankful for it. His hands slid up under your behind, lifting you up and into his face, you gave a slight squeal at his strength. The smile in his eyes melted your core, watching the lower half of his face flex and move, buried in your pussy. With every flick of his tongue, every suck of his lips, you could not stop yourself from grinding back onto his face.

Your face strained, trying to conceal the loudest moans these walls would have heard, Benedict’s ravenous tongue lapping senselessly, your knees shaking either side of him. Every moan from Ben vibrated through you, your hand flew violently to the back of his head, demanding more and more of him. Sucking your clit between his lips insistently, his teeth grazing your sensitive nub, Benedict allowed you to orgasm. Your hips bucked against his face, the hot friction of his stubbled face a godly addition to your unleashing.

Remaining still, Benedict’s soft eyes peered up at you, taking in every moment of your completion, committing it all to memory. You could tell just by the look in his eyes that you were a transcendent idol, sent here only for him. His tongue dallied, sensually slipping between your lips a last few times before he released your thighs.

“God, I love it when you do that!” You almost yelled in exotic delight.

“You taste marvellous, truly otherworldly. I could spend the rest of my life tending to you like that” Benedict smiled widely, subtly licking around his mouth to take in the rest of you.

You remained on the flat of your back, drunk on your adoration of him, “I wish you would” You laughed, half joking. It occurred to the both of you at separate times, that there was no longer a need to rush, nor savour these moments. There was nothing to keep you apart any longer, no one to hide from.

~

Benedict suggested bathing before dinner, so you loosely dressed, calling for the housekeeper to fetch the ladies’ maids to sort some baths. Once the both of you were dressed and ready for dinner, you descended the stairs, you arm linked over his, his gentlemanly stature reinstated upon leaving the bedroom.

The children sat on the rug in the dining room, surrounded by the petals of the flowers Benedict had arrived with this morning. Benjamin looked up, playful excitement lighting his face as he noticed the two of you.

“Mama!” He exclaimed, running into your legs, wrapping his small arms around them.

“Good evening my boy” You hummed, bending down to swoop him up into your arms. Benjamin remembered Benedict from visits previously, but he had not been around in some time. He outstretched his tiny hand, offering a handshake to his father. His sweet little teeth biting into his bottom lip, the centre one missing.

“Are you going to be staying for tea?” He asked curiously, the way children do.

“Yes, my small friend, I am,” Benedict took his hand and shook it properly, “My name is Ben, I do not know if you remember me”.

“My name is Ben as well” Benjamin gasped in innocent surprise. Without thinking, you passed your five-year-old son over to his father as they continued to talk, Benedict instinctually taking him on his hip, just like he had Gregory and Hyacinth not all that long ago. You travelled across the room to Beatrice, who gathered handfuls of pink rose petals and threw them into the air above her head, clapping as they rained down upon her. You scooped your smallest child into your chest, meeting Benedict and Benjamin at the table, placing her in her little chair. Her dark curls framing her face in sweet disposition, she waved happily to the strange man at the table. As the staff served dinner, Benedict took his place at the head of the table, with encouragement from you. You could see joy filling him right to the brim, happiness pouring out of him without a hint of regret. This was what you had both worked for. The housekeeper stopped by you on her way back to the kitchen, gently pinching your cheeks just like a mother would, she had not seen you smile like this in such a long, long time.

                                                                ~

The family spent one week together at the estate before Benedict thought it was time to travel to Mayfair, to tell him family of this news. He was not sure how they would handle him marrying a widow, nowhere on his list of objectives was there a point to explain the children and why they looked like him. Benedict had slotted into their lives perfectly and without incident, the children already slipping and calling him father at times. His heart nearly beat right out of his chest with pride.

Arriving at the Bridgerton house, Benedict carried Bea on his hip from the carriage, entering to his family waiting in the entrance hall eagerly awaiting whatever the news in his letters could be.

The first thing Benedict noticed before he had even introduced his family, was his mothers all knowing smile, and the happiness reflected in her eyes.

“Family, this is Lady Y/n Howard, and we are to be married” Benedict announced loudly, a slight echoing ringing through the entrance hall. Anthony and Collins eyes bounced between Benedict and each other, confusion ruling their faces. Everyone else littered them with congratulatory hugs and kisses.

“And who are these darlings?” Violet came forward, kissing Benedict and reaching out to rub Beatrice’s small hands on his chest.

“This is Beatrice, and this young man is Benjamin” Benedict introduced his children to his mother, watching her crouch down to take Benjamins outstretched hand for a handshake.

“How gorgeous! What a fine gentleman” Violet’s smile was sunlight, her demeanour so utterly welcoming. Beatrice leaned out of Benedict’s arms, shuffling herself across to Violet’s chest, snuggling into her grandmother. The both of you knew then that Violet had caught on as she rocked gently from side to side, Beatrice fitting perfectly in her arms as all the Bridgerton babes had before.

“Please, come to the sitting room, I will fetch the tea” Hyacinth directed everybody up the stairs to the second floor. As you and Benedict were about to follow behind the children and the other Bridgerton siblings, Colin and Anthony sequestered your arms away to an adjacent room.

Anthony closed the double doors to the dining room, and benedict slid his hand into yours in solidarity. Colin circled the both of you like a shark in open water, his normally cheery face overrun with suspicion. Anthony frowned pensively in front of you, rubbing his face, well and truly confused.

“This is all happening rather fast, do you not think?” Anthony asked sceptically.

Benedict licked his lips in preparation, “Brother, you know I was in love with y/n all those years ago. We have simply reconnected since the very sad death of her late husband” Benedict portrayed the sympathetic friend, the shoulder to cry on in a time of need.

“I see, and your engagement taking in place exactly six months after the death of Lord Howard is simply a coincidence?” Anthony questioned, logical suspicion stirring up his role as caretaker of the family.

“Yes. Benedict was very considerate, giving me my time to grieve my husband before coming to visit and offer his condolences. It can be quite confronting when one is bombarded with flowers and well wishes all but a day after a loss” You lamented, doing your best to act your part, the sullen widow.

Anthony nodded, having experienced such a similar event after the death of their father Edmund, “I understand, I am glad that you have reconnected with each other after all these years… I do just have one more question, and I will only ask once. I do not wish to offend you, however if I found out either of you had anything to do with the death of Lord Howard, I –”  

“Lord Howard died in the bed of a prostitute” You blurted out, interrupting Anthony quite rudely. He was inferring the two of you had murdered Lord Howard for his estate and potentially as a crime of passion. That was not the case, your true secret seemed to be thoroughly unnoticed by the eldest brother.

Anthony and Colin stood side by side, their mouths gaping at the same time, blinking in uneasy embarrassment. There had been several rumours circulating the Ton regarding the death of Lord Howard, this was not the one they had expected to be true. Anthony snapped back to reality, shutting his mouth and nodding uncomfortably. He gestured toward the door, Benedict pulling you out of the room, heading for the stairs.

“It is strange… Those kids look a lot like Ben” Colin muttered to Anthony as they followed on behind you, not a far distance away. Benedict turned and met Anthony’s gaze in his peripheral as the whole thing dawned on the eldest Bridgerton boy. Dropping your hand, Benedict darted up the stairs, headed for the safety of his mother.

“Benedict, get back here!?” Anthony shouted, the vein in his forehead violently protruding, he stormed up the stairs after Ben.

Colin slipped into the space Benedict left, holding out his arm for you to take, “Come on, I’ll show you to the sitting room. They are going to be a while. At least you will not have to endure two dead husbands… Anthony’s going to kill him before he gets to the altar” Colin chuckled, your arm clinging to his as he escorted you up the stairs.

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