undiscovered-horizon - Tumblr blog

undiscovered-horizon · 7 days ago

Text

"Vipers, crows and dragons" - Aemond Targaryen x spy!reader

(warning: this story contains mentions of suicide)

SUMMARY: Your relationship with Aemond began strictly because of espionage. As time went on, your training failed you and you fell in love with the One-Eyed Prince. Too afraid to reveal the truth to him, you've sworn to carry it to the grave. Until your commander tasks you with murdering the prince who might kill king Aegon. Now you must choose whose life you will sacrifice - his or yours?

(angst with a happy ending, I swear)

WORDCOUNT: 5.3k (I started and couldn't stop)

Sleep has eluded you for three days now. It wasn’t for a lack of trying - recent events and assigned duties kept you too anxious to rest. Even if you closed your eyes, nestled in the strangest cranny of the keep, the sound of your own breath would keep you awake. Each sound, echoed by the stone walls, made you too wary to sleep.

Walking towards the commander’s quarters, you patted your face with the back of your hand. Mild pain and improved blood flow were just good enough to prevent you from stumbling over your feet. Once you report back, you should be off for the next day, maybe two, if Westeros decides to take a quick break from its usual lunacy.

Although most of your attention was focused on the unbearable exhaustion gnawing at your body and soul, some of your thoughts indulged in fantasies. When you finally have a few hours to yourself, what will you do with them? The weather has been lovely lately, ships from Dorne have brought exotic fruit, and…

You hear yourself gasp. It’s been so long since you’ve seen him. Three days felt like three decades. Usually, you would manage a visit here and there, between tasks. This time it was quite impossible, making you realise just how much you crave the attention of none other but Prince Aemond. How funny it really was - so many tried their hardest to avoid him whenever possible and you sought him out like stars do the night sky.

Thinking about him, you feel a sting in your chest. If he ever learns the truth, he… No. He simply can’t know. Not now, not ever. Let him believe that it was a pure accident that you were his designated guard when he travelled to one of the kingdom’s realms. This is better for everyone. Aemond may be wise for his young age but he’s just a man, despite his family’s claim to godhood - the truth will break him in an inconceivable, inhuman way. Perhaps some skeletons should remain inside the closet.

Your knock on the heavy door is more of a courtesy, rather than seeking permission. Without awaiting an answer, you enter the room.

Spymaster’s quarters resembled a library more than they resembled a war room. Stacks of books and parchments littered the space in random columns. If there was any rhyme or reason to the order, it was beyond your comprehension. Only Davros himself could find anything in that mess. Crows came and went through the open window, barely taking time to rest before flying off into the horizon again. Their cawing was comforting in its familiarity - it reminded you of the early days, when the only thing you were allowed to do was sort through the correspondence and write down the replies. Such simpler times…

"Commander Davros,” you called out, “you wanted to see me?"

The man glanced at you for less than a second. His grey eyes, a metallic shade like mercury, flickered towards you only to immediately go back to skimming through the paperwork on his desk. The table was kept in as much disarray as the rest of the room. Maps, sketches, reports and Gods know what else.

"Yes, there is something that needs to be done,” he said. The commander’s voice was, well, commanding. Each question sounded like an accusation, each statement like irrefutable facts of nature. “Swiftly and quietly."

A tired sigh left your lips. All the hopes for some rest burst like soap suds in a bath that’s growing cold. The image of Aemond’s silver hair and bright stare flashed before your eyes. As strange as it may sound, it was starting to feel physically painful to be away from him for so long. The most feared man in the kingdom and he was your safe haven, the only moment in your bleak days that you could feel truly safe.

But you swore your fealty to the Iron Throne. Fighting through another task means keeping Aemond and his family secure for one more night. Now, it seemed, it was the only thing you could do for him.

"Just my expertise.” You force yourself to smile and keep your head high. It would be incredibly naive to think that a few days without sleep could make Davros ease up on you. He was nothing if not demanding. “How can I be of use?"

The commander lifted his gaze at you. He leaned forward, propping himself up on the table. Despite deep wrinkles and greyish hair, he appeared quite youthful. Age hasn’t slowed his body or his mind.

"Kill Aemond Targaryen."

Maybe the lack of sleep started playing tricks on your mind. It wouldn’t be the first time.

Your voice was a mere breathy whisper. "I'm sorry?"

"You heard me just fine, girl."

Most people would say that their hearts started beating out of their chests when hearing something of that sort. In your case, it was quite the opposite - the muscle stopped at once, leaving you unable to breathe. Numbing pain spread underneath your ribs like a beast of horror gnawing at its enclosure to be let out. Is it love or grief that is clawing its way out fo you?

"And I can't believe that I heard what I heard. This is quite unexpected, sir."

"Death usually is.” Davros appeared calm, completely unmoved by the situation and its implications. This was just another day for him. “Prince Aemond is currently the largest internal threat to king Aegon. A mellow rug rat is easier to steer than a maniac with a grudge."

The commander may be a demanding man but he was never greedy. In fact, greed and selfishness were the two things he made sure you grew out of. His methods were painful, at times cruel, but effective. If it wasn’t for him training you, Prince Aemond would never have known about your existence, much less fallen in love in a ploy to keep his plans known.

"Since when do you care about 'steering' the king?” you ask, wary. Something about Davors has changed but you couldn’t quite put your finger on the cause. What was going on behind the curtains, the doors closed even to you? “We're meant to be peacekeepers and scouts, not meddlers."

"What would you call assassinating conspirators?” His question sounded like an accusation. You knew better than to answer. “You've killed many people, kid, and now you care about meddling?” Those mercury-coloured eyes bore straight into your very spirit. For a moment, he became a mirror of truth, forcing you to look at the ugliest part of who you are. Whatever you thought of it was irrelevant - it was true. “A spy with a conscience. As if!"

You’re not sure what to make of this turn of events. Davros is your commander, yes, but he’s acting unlike himself. Did someone put a spell on him? Was one of the Lords threatening him? Although blackmailing the spymaster sounded rather impossible to achieve. Which made this situation even more bizarre.

"It's just…” you hang your voice, looking for the right words. “I don't think this is wise, Davros. With Aemond dead, Rhaenyra has nothing to be afraid of. Aegon will be paralysed with fear that his brother was murdered. And Queen Alicent? She will go berserk. Our heads will end up on spikes before the rooster calls."

There was no visible change in Davros. Your words meant nothing to him.

"Queen Alicent is a woman of reason. She'll come to it."

His apparent lack of concern irked you. The commander was treading the line between callous and stupid. "She's also a mother,” you reminded him.

Davros scoffed and shook his head. "A mother who never loved her children, only the position they gave her,” he answered, the tone of his voice coming off as annoyed or bored.

It seemed as though he wasn’t asking you to assassinate your lover and the crown prince. He was sure it had to be done. All the positive and negative outcomes had already gone through his mind and Davros was content with the final outcome. He was beyond arguing.

The spymaster was clearly sacrificing peace and stability for his personal gain. What kind, you couldn’t be sure yet. What grand offer did it have to be?

“Stop wasting time, girl,” he droned out his words. “Get to it,” Davros spat out the command like a venomous lizard from Dorne’s deserts.

But you were well-acquainted with poisonous fruit and venomous bites. It was your sole purpose in this world to recognise them, to get rid of them before they reach the king. With vipers, as it is with men, one must not run in fear of their fangs. No - to win, you must show that your fangs are bigger. They dig deeper into the flesh, draw more blood.

“I won’t, Davros.” The tone of your voice was cold and calm like the winds sweeping the snow in the North. “And something tells me you knew that already.”

The commander’s eyes turned strangely dark. What once had reminded you of mercury’s colour, now reminded you of the deadly disposition of the substance. Despite healing some ailments of the body, it wasn’t any safer than a sharpened blade. In the same way, the spymaster’s seemingly collected exterior was nothing more but a ruse.

“I was stupid enough to count on your reason.” The disappointment in his voice made blood rush to your face. As if it were a reflex, you wanted to lower gaze. Strangely enough, the thought of Aemond Targaryen forced your shame to disappear. “It seems it’s too late for that. You know that happens to traitors, don't you?"

It wasn’t a threat, at least not in the way most people understand the word. His question was more of a reminder, a warning at best. The letter of the law was clear and no amount of excuses could save your head should Davros bring your insubordination to the king’s attention.

And yet, you couldn’t bring yourself to treat the matter with proper seriousness. Not when it came to him.

"Bite me,” you barked back at him. Davros raised his eyebrows in surprise and, truthfully, you shared his reaction. Never before have you stepped out against him. “I'm your second-in-command. If I suddenly fall dead your whole operation will go to shit and people will riot."

The commander’s lips twist into something similar to a smile but much too sinister to be a sign of joy. A curious glint in his grey eyes made him appear almost amused at your action.

"How bold,” he murmured, more to himself than you. “You seem to overestimate your worth, girl."

"Do I?” The question rings in your ears, its echo asking you the very same thing - are you overestimating your importance? To Davros, to the Iron Throne… to Aemond? “I'm the one you're asking to kill the prince who is next in line to the Iron Throne. If anything, I'm priceless to you."

"Priceless?” His voice came out as a hiss. Now is the time when the venomous snakes shall bare their fangs and compare. “You're only useful to me because you keep whoring yourself out to the prince. No one will question your weaponry and visits at strange hours of the night. You're not irreplaceable, girl. Just convenient."

His words hurt only because they were true and you couldn’t honestly deny the claims. Indeed, you and Aemond have indulged in ways that did not befit a couple from such different backgrounds. It was quite distasteful to call you a ‘couple’. A man and a whore aren’t a couple after all, are they? They are a person and an object. The only difference between you and the ladies in Flea Bottom was the price - you had none. Which made the whole scenario even more disparaging. The prince could do with you as he pleased and you never asked for any payment. Aemond, however, did pay. At least in some way. For every night spent in your company, he divulged parts of himself never known by any other living soul.

The decision should have been harder to make.

"Then you will have no problem finding my replacement."

Your fingers swiftly take off the small crow-shaped brooch from your coat. The pin clattered on the desk, right under the commander’s nose, when you tossed it away. One of the crows sitting on the windowsill cawed, as if in shock at the scene it witnessed.

Davros slowly picked up the brooch. He inspected it in his hands, although needlessly. It wasn’t something new or unknown to him.

"I raised you,” he spoke after a moment of silence. His voice wasn’t calm but rather empty - rid of any emotion. “I've taught you everything you know. You would be nothing without me.” Davros raised the pin to his eye level like he was showing the pin to you. Then, he threw it across the room, missing your face by less than an inch. It wasn’t truly a miss; he meant to scare you. The metal accessory clattered as it hit the wall and then the floor. “And that's how you repay me?"

You slowly exhaled. It took a lot from you not to flinch when the pin just about missed your left cheek. Dodging flying knives was much easier, you noticed. Mainly because the people throwing them weren’t the ones who took you in around the time you learnt to walk. Those hands that taught you to tie shoelaces and braid hair had just shown you that they could easily maim you without much hesitation.

All doubts, guilt and shame left you the moment you took a deep breath. Davros no longer looked like your almost-father. No, his face contorted under the weight of something corrupted, festering inside him. He was the same man he was when you met him and yet, he appeared as a strange-faced devil.

"I'd rather be nothing than aid your struggle for power.” You clenched your hands into fists in hopes of stopping them from trembling. That waver in your voice was enough to let Davros know just how much effect he had on you. “You taught me about servitude, not…”, you hang your voice for a moment, realising you’re still in the dark about his motivation, “whatever this is supposed to be. The Iron Throne has blinded you."

The commander scoffed again. His eyes are staring at you as if you were a court jester, humiliating yourself in hopes of crumbs of dignity or food from the less-than-caring overlord. In other words, Davros found you pathetic to the point of amusement. Perhaps he had realised his own mistake - he never should have allowed you near the prince. It was his lapse of judgement that you’ve found yourself in such an undignified position; he should have known better than to make you responsible for such an important matter.

"Like the noble prick blinded you, girl? At least power is not something that will cast you away when nicer tits come its way."

A corner of your lips twisted into a half-grin. The expression was nothing short of contemptuous.

"Then you know nothing about power, Davros."

You turned to leave the room when the commander called out after you for the last time:

"This will cost you your life."

Some part of you wanted to look at him, desperately hoping to see even the shadow of the man you had almost called your father. But you knew better than to tease fate. Your eyes remained blankly focused on the door handle and your hand wrapped around it.

"It already did,” you said under your breath. “You raised me, remember?"

The door shut behind you and with them - your life. It was quite clear that by sunrise, someone would be dead. If not prince Aemond, then you. Davros wasn’t the kind of man to simply give up or let go of a grudge. Even if you were to flee King’s Landing, he was bound to find you at some point. The king’s spymaster had crows everywhere, some winged and some not. Prying eyes and ears of Westeros would be more than willing to sell you out for the commander’s favour.

Truthfully, the choice wasn’t much of a choice to you. The thought of killing Aemond was unfathomable to you. And to continue living with his blood on your hands? No, you didn’t have the heart to do this. To suffer for decades on end until your time runs out. If it’s not Aemond you will kill, it leaves you with only one option - yourself.

No matter the outcome of this night, you knew you had to do something beforehand. If you must take your longing for the prince to your grave, the truth should be known. The very truth you had sworn to yourself never to reveal. However, if you’re not going to live to tomorrow, it is only fair that Aemond becomes aware of just what awful thing you have done to him. Maybe, if you actually were more than a cheap whore to him, the truth would make his grief lighter. Perhaps it would rid him of any heaviness that your death shall bring.

You waited until nightfall, well after supper. At this hour, Aemond should be in his chamber, unbothered by any visitors. Aside from you, that is.

The twilight inside the bedroom made him appear even more alluring than he already was. Candlelight paired with deep shadows danced across his features, painting him both divine and sinister. Aemond’s silver hair, flowing down his shoulders and back, brought memories of flawless pearls smuggled by a merchant. You obtained them through trickery as well.

He didn’t move from his seat by the table when you opened his window and came in. There was no doubt that he heard you in the silence of the night. Only assassins and thieves enter homes through windows or balconies in the dark. Aemond Targaryen was yearning to see one of them.

You’re no farther than a meter away from him when the prince acknowledges your presence at last:

“You finally came.”

As cold as his voice sounded, you heard the unspoken fear, longing and anger writhing under his skin. Both lovers and spies seemed to be able to listen closely to the other’s silence. And Aemond’s silence was never empty or quiet. It spoke of things grander than life, too viscerally human to be expressed in any known language.

His leather clothing creaked as he got up from the chair and looked at you. The twilight surrounding you captured his demeanour all too well - divine and sinister, loving and dismissing, rejoiced and furious.

But most of all, he appeared sad.

It was the sadness of a child once again forgotten, a lover once again scorned.

And there you stood in front of him, bringing more heartache in place of apologies.

“This is hardly a social visit, my love.” As much as you wanted to look Aemond in the eye, you couldn’t. If you met his longing gaze, you were sure to do just another foolish thing. “I came…” You paused, only to take a deep breath and exhale in a sigh. “I came because there is something that you must know. I have no doubts that it will change your view of me. In fact, I’m afraid it will make you despise me. But it must be said before the morning comes.”

Aemond’s eyebrows furrowed for a moment before he regained control over his expression. How truly him it was, to put on a blank mask in naive hope of fooling himself into disregard for the emotional turmoil inside. You’ve learnt to see beyond that facade, to see the small boy begging the world to finally love him. And how cruel the world was to make the love come from you.

“Despise you?” he repeated as though these words were foreign to him. “Why would I do that?” Aemond’s voice was soft, airy. Flowing through the room like a fallen leaf, guided by the cold autumn wind. “Indeed, there are many things in this world that I hate but you will never be one of them. You can’t make me hate you, my beloved.” His fingers gently brushed against the side of your face and neck. “Even if you tried.”

You grabbed his hand and held it against your chest. If it wasn’t for the layers of clothing you were wearing, he could have felt your heart hammering against your ribs.

“I hope you’re right, Aemond,” you whisper, more to assure yourself than him. “I pray to the Gods that you love me just as much as you claim.”

He remained silent, quietly egging you on to finally reveal the true reason for your visit. His blue eye bore into you, as if attempting to read your thoughts before you can say them out loud. The intensity wasn’t intimidating, quite the opposite - Aemond was wordlessly begging you to open your heart to him, to be allowed to know you on the deepest level. If he could, he would crawl inside you and inspect your inner workings up close. Maybe then he would finally learn how you could so easily bewitch him entirely.

You held his hand a little tighter. It was a naive attempt at grounding yourself, foolishly proving to yourself that Aemond was here, right in front of you. He wanted to hear the truth.

“Our meeting wasn’t an accident,” you confessed. “It was calculated, very much so. Davros knew that you’re too smart and too guarded to speak of your ambitions with just anyone. He devised a plan that I should form a relationship with you. Everything you told me, I was meant to pass on to him. And in the beginning, I did.” Tears gathered in your eyes and fell down your cheeks despite your miserable attempts at stopping them. They rolled down your face only to drip onto your and Aemond’s hands resting against your chest. “I was so proud of myself. Finally, I was given a responsibility that mattered. I was doing something important for the kingdom.” You noticed his jaw clenching, muscles desperately flexing to stop Aemond from something. “But then you made me laugh, we talked into late hours of the night and I grew to trust you in a way I’ve never trusted anyone. You’re the only person that I feel truly safe with, Aemond. I don’t deserve it but Gods!” You let out a scoff, suddenly realising just how pathetic you must sound and look. But it didn’t really matter if you were going to die soon. “I want to deserve it. I want to deserve you because I love you. And I know that after what I’ve told you, my words mean nothing, less than nothing.” You choke on a sob, Aemond momentarily stiffens. Something dark and unspeakable clouded his eye. “But if there is one truthful thing I have said in my life, it’s that: I love you, Aemond.”

He looked away for a while. To anyone else, he might have looked unbothered or even annoyed by this scene. You, however, knew the prince quite well. The way in which he couldn’t meet your gaze, how he stood unnaturally straight, how his nostrils flared and jaw was more prominent - it all pointed to Aemond caving in on himself, a vulnerable part of him shattered like a glass vase thrown on the floor. His ever-calm resolve was cracking, revealing the raw, unhealed wounds beneath.

"Why are you telling me this now?" He managed to say in a low, raspy bark.

Aemond tried to pull his hand back but you kept it still against your chest. Your hold was firm enough to feel the bones under his pale skin.

"Because someone has to die tonight.”

The blue eye found your face again. A glaze of anger and betrayal clouded it, making it appear as though it belonged to an animal rather than a person. It was the eye of a viper whose venom you would welcome.

A questioning look, a tense silence.

“Davros ordered me to kill you and I refused,” you finally revealed, after a long silence that felt closer to years than minutes. “By the letter of the law, that is treason.”

“So is killing the prince,” he retorted in an equally low tone.

Perhaps if the two of you spoke any louder, malicious spirits lingering in the castle would hear you, bringing doom upon you for their own pleasure.

“Which means I will die no matter what happens.” The certainty in your voice was tugging at something primal deep inside Aemond’s viscera. His hand should hurt from your iron grip but he felt nothing. There was numbness in his limbs, as though your statement had made his heart stop beating. “That actually makes it easier.” Your lips twisted into a bittersweet smile. “I can’t run from Davros, there is no corner in the world where he couldn’t find me. Running is futile. The only choice I have is regarding the manner of my death.”

Time seemed to slow down for Aemond, allowing him to fully comprehend the horror unfolding in front of him:

You reached into your coat, pulling out a sharp knife. It reflected the low candlelight, for a moment resembling the softness of water. But water can both cleanse and drown. What cleansing, what rapture, could this blade offer to Aemond?

Your trembling fingers held onto the tip of the knife. In the most submissive of gestures, you offered him the handle of the weapon.

“Do this for me, Aemond,” you whispered. A cold shiver ran down his spine. Was is fear or excitement? He couldn’t be sure. “If you have ever loved me, kill me. Please.” Your voice and hands trembled as you begged. “I don’t want to bleed out in some back alley, cold and alone. If I have to go, I want you to be next to me.”

Aemond took the knife from you. He inspected it closely, admiring the craftsmanship of the blacksmith who had forged it. There was a motto inscribed on the handle: “Virtue guide me”.

And virtue shall guide it.

With a flick of his wrist, Aemond tossed the blade into the lit fireplace.

Before you can protest or ask what he was doing exactly, Aemond held your face in his hands. You were forced to meet his intense, fiery gaze as he spoke slowly, in a low voice:

"Gods be witness when I say this: if I ever raise my hand against you, its flesh shall rot down to the bone, resembling the fester and rot of my heart."

Tears fell down your cheeks again. Why did he have to be this way? His devotion was transgressive, turning from something romantic to delusional and viscous. As demented as it may sound, you didn’t want him any other way than treading the line between sane and sick.

“Don’t do this, my love,” you begged between whimpers. “Don’t make this harder than it already is. How can I die when you confess your love for me in such a tragic way?”

His hands felt delightfully warm against your skin. Your tears burned against his fingers. Their scorch travelled to his heart and further, into his viscera. It fed a flame you had set ablaze the first time your lips met his. This fire whispered to Aemond’s lovesick mind the most horrific promises and ideas. But the prince was a dragon - he didn’t know tender, innocent love. He only knew to devour and be devoured. Aemond listened to the whispers, slowly losing certainty where they ended and his own thoughts began. You had set his very spirit on fire and he welcomed the burn. Now the flames begged to be set free, to make true the violent vows of an immortal, all-consuming love.

Aemond rested his forehead against yours.

“Listen to me, my love,” he said. It wasn’t a plea but a demand. “If you die before me, I shall burn this world to ash. Noblemen and smallfolk alike will suffer like I do. The Gods will hear my cries of your name and they shall tremble in fear, for I will storm the gates of their castles. They will answer for taking you away from me.”

Your breath hitched in your throat. A sob was stuck in your chest.

“Don’t do this to me, Aemond, please,” you continued to beg him. “Have mercy on me.”

“I will not grant you mercy, for it is not yours to be begged for.” His cold tone gave you goosebumps. This cool anger could strike fear in the heart but not in yours. To you, it was comforting - like leaning against a cold wall in the heat of summer. “You’re mine,” he whispered, droning out the last word. “You’re mine as I am yours. If you wish to die, you will have to take me with you. If you wish death on anyone, my hands will be yours.”

Gently, you held his wrists. You were unsure whether to keep his hands on your cheeks or to pry him away from you. It was quite clear that the longer you remained in Aemond’s grasp, the less willpower you had. Truly, he could simply stand in your vicinity and gain control over you with nothing more but a stare or a mischievous half-grin.

“I can’t kill you, Aemond. I couldn’t even kill myself.”

He tilted his head backwards enough to look straight into your eyes. Your noses were brushing against one another.

“Then ask me to kill Davros.”

“I can’t, it’s-”

“Ask me,” he demanded. The cold blue of his iris stared through you, gazing into the marrow of your bones, the very fibre of your spirit.

To be precise, Aemond wasn’t asking your permission. No, his goal was quite more sinister. He was going to kill Davros anyway. What he craved was absolution - if he committed a sin in the name of love, not hate, was it truly a sin? Was he not akin to a saint if he slew out of devotion?

“Help me,” you whispered, barely audibly.

His lips softly pecked your forehead. Aemond found some wicked satisfaction in seeing you so broken and desperate. The vulnerability hidden under your resolve was for his eye only. Only his ears will hear your whispered pleas. He was a cruel man and he could use this weakness for malice. You, well-aware of his dreadful character, ripped your heart open just for him. It was proof enough that your love for him was equally mad.

“You’re mine, my love,” he whispered into your ear. “And I will do horrible things just to remain yours.”

Aemond Targaryen was black of heart and he knew it. There was no doubt about it. He always thought that being loved would mend his cruelty, that it would fix whatever was broken inside him. It did no such thing to him, quite the contrary - it made him indulge in the most unspeakable of fantasies. He should feel ashamed, shouldn’t he? But Aemond knew no such emotion when you trembled against him, your salty tears wetting the pads of his fingers.

‘Shame is for good, honest men,’ he thought. ‘They feel ashamed because they know right from wrong. I only know her.’

Tonight, the venomous viper will meet a fire-breathing dragon, only to learn that its venom and fangs are useless against the beast of legends.

#aemond targaryen #aemond one eye #hotd aemond #prince aemond #aemond x reader #hotd #hotd fanfic #house of the dragon #hotd x reader #hotd imagine #hotd fanfiction #aemond fanfiction #aemond targaryen fanfiction #aemond x you #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen x female reader #aemond targaryen fanfic #aemond targaryen imagine

162 notes · View notes

undiscovered-horizon · 5 months ago

Text

"Dream a little dream of me" - 11th Doctor x Reader

[TW: major character death, grief]

SUMMARY: When you, Doctor's love long gone, show up in the Dream Lord's reality, the decision becomes a lot harder for him to make.

WORDCOUNT: ~ 4k

based on 5x7, "Amy's choice"

🫀REQUESTS ARE OPEN🫀 || Doctor Who-inspired playlist

It was only a glimpse - a piece of flowing, lilac material seen in the corner of his eye. Although it wasn’t much, hardly anything, it was enough. The Doctor’s thoughts rushed in the direction of you. Yes, he really liked how pastels looked on you.

But it wasn’t you, obviously. It simply couldn’t have been. You didn’t buy ownership of the colour lilac, did you? It could have been anyone! Anything! A two-headed dog on a unicycle with a lilac party hat!

As much as he tried to reason himself out of this melancholy and “what ifs”, the notion lingered in the back of his head. Like an itch he couldn’t reach to scratch and so elected to ignore it. That didn’t mean the sensation suddenly disappeared.

"Right, so we had some sort of psychic episode." The Doctor seemed suspiciously calm while delivering that news as if it was hardly the first time it had happened to him.

"But how?" Amy dwelled on the subject. The experience was a little too strange and unsettling for her to simply let it go. "How can something like that happen?"

The Doctor shrugged slightly. "Well, there's a-"

Amy continued to stare at him with wide eyes but not a word left the Doctor's mouth. All colour left his face, his eyebrows became a little slanted in an expression of sadness and shock. Some melancholic cloud rendered his vision blank as though his mind had slipped into a world next door; he was remembering something he couldn’t bring himself to forget.

"Doctor?" she asked quietly but he wasn't listening to her. Not anymore.

"No," the Doctor whispered to himself.

He began frantically looking for something. Whipping his head around, he was running from one corner of the room to the other, clearly searching or checking. The Doctor even knocked on different surfaces, restlessly listening to the echo of whatever was underneath.

“Where is this coming from?!” he shouted. “Where is it?!”

Neither Amy nor Rory had seen the time-traveller in such profound distress. They couldn’t even begin to guess what caused his sudden breakdown. Whatever it was, they silently agreed that it was not anything recent; no, this pain had been festering for decades, if not longer. Unattended, unaccepted, it had grown into something too grievous to be understood by those, who had not experienced it. Perhaps, seeing his change of demeanour, Amy and Rory didn’t want to empathize with the Doctor. What madness could such grief bring?

Both Amy and Rory watched the Doctor in confusion. As the ridiculous, frantic search kept going, the man only became more unstable. What began as denial has turned into a true frenzy; madness brought by something that kept eluding him. The Doctor was ignoring the couple’s questions and so they were planning on simply grabbing him to force the answer out of the man.

But then Rory noticed something - a detail that was as unmistakable as it was impossible.

"Can you hear it?" he asked Amy. "It's like... someone's singing."

The comment made the Doctor suddenly stop. He turned on his heel to face his companions. With pale skin and reddened eyes, he looked seriously ill.

“So it’s not just me,” he said more to himself than anyone else. By the tone of his voice, it was hard to tell whether he considered this revelation positive or negative.

Among the whirring of engineering, a soft hum was audible. It sounded absentminded as if the enigmatic musician was preoccupied with something else and decided to sing to fill the overwhelming silence of the ship. For a moment, all three of them listened to the faint humming echoing throughout the emptiness of the TARDIS:

“Birds singing in the sycamore trees, dream a little dream of me.”

As though on command, a resounding birdsong forced them to sleep again.

The next time the three of them woke up in the TARDIS, their anxiety only multiplied. Neither of them could be sure which world belonged to fantasy and which to reality. Such lack of certainty of one's sanity, like a tree without roots, could only lead to madness and the death that always followed it.

"This could be a dream too!" Rory argued. Between the mundane and the fantasies closest to his heart, it was awfully hard to make up one’s mind. Especially if the outcome could prove unfavourable.

"But this feels real,” Amy continued. “I know I said it before but this time I mean it. Out of all the places, why would we be in Leadworth? It can’t be real.”

“Upper Leadworth,” he corrected her. As much as he tried, it was still quite obvious Amy’s question upset him. “And, well-”

“Examine everything!” The Doctor interjected the couple’s quarrel. If he was frenzied before, now he came off as paranoid. “Look for all the details that don’t ring true.”

“Like what?” Amelia asked.

The Doctor pressed his lips into a thin line. For an imperceptible second, his chin quivered.

“Like her,” he said as he pointed somewhere.

Confused, Amy and Rory followed the direction of the accusatory index finger. At its very end stood you - a stranger to them but painfully familiar to the Doctor. The lilac slip dress you were wearing seemed fitting for a vivid dream. Still leaning against the railing on the upper floor balcony, you gave the three a small wave. Out of everyone, you were the only one completely unbothered by the brain-racking scenario. Strangely enough, you must have been standing there for some time now and yet the couple noticed you only when the Doctor pointed you out - almost like it was he who was responsible for your appearance.

“What’s wrong with her?” Rory asked slowly. To him, you looked perfectly normal. Almost too normal, all things considered.

The Doctor suddenly began to tremble. He put his arm down only to nervously rub his hands together.

"She's dead," he whispered. The quietness of his voice makes the cracking and wavering almost inaudible. His eyes did not dare look towards his companions.“Has been for a while now.”

Despite answering his question, the Doctor didn’t quite satisfy Rory’s curiosity.

“Sorry, who is that?” he inquired further. “Or… was?”

“A long story,” the Doctor responded. Judging by the melancholy dripping from each of his words, he was using a diplomatic euphemism. “Ancient history actually,” he said in a forced cheerful voice as he looked at his friends. “Well, not literally ancient. Just someone from long ago. A lifetime ago, in a manner of speaking.”

Yes, he was a different man when he met you. When you died, he became someone else, too. Truthfully, he never stopped changing: as each new day separates him further from you, he continued to grow into a shell of who he once could have been. How strange this thought truly was, that he must remember you for longer than he had known you…

"Then this must be the dream,” Amy stated decisively. Whether it was the Doctor’s confession or the vision of a domestic, boring life, she seemed convinced. She couldn’t have actually chosen mundane, quiet Leadworth, could she?

But the Doctor isn’t quite as certain. In his mind, a complicated puzzle required an equally complicated solution.

"No, we're missing something,” he said. “It would be too easy."

What he really wanted to say was ‘it would be too easy for me to choose’. Never once in his life did a good thing come easy or free. Why should it now? Why should he suddenly have an opportunity to end this dull pain where his hearts used to be?

The Dream Lord’s reveal answered as many old questions as it posed new ones. Although ‘decide which one is real’ was just one objective, it was a highly complicated one. At least a thousand inquiries hid behind those five words; inquiries for which they didn’t have the time. The only thing they could be sure of is that the puzzle isn’t impossible - now, where would be fun in that? Except for that one fact, there was nothing that tethered them to their true lives.

Despite their jackets, Rory and Amy began to feel the gnawing cold. Space was cold, much colder than they could even imagine. With fear, confusion and desperation thrumming in their chests, the heatless atmosphere became something more profound. The shivering of their bodies only fed into anxiety; their mind and hearts were turning into stone.

The couple’s spat with the Doctor was cut short:

“You should get blankets,” you interjected. Strange, how the dead person’s voice is the last warm thing about the TARDIS. “It’s really cold in here.”

All things considered, you didn’t seem bothered by the drop in temperature. In fact, you appeared exactly as you did the last time they saw you. The lack of change makes Amy and Rory exchange a questioning look. Surely you must be proof that the life in Leadworth is the real one, right?

“You’re dead, you can’t be cold,” the Doctor retorted, his voice laced with uncharacteristic indifference. For some reason, he didn’t even bother to look in your direction. A strange device of a hand-held whisk and a corkscrew was more interesting to him than his late lover.

“I didn’t say I was,” you answered. “You’re the one feeling cold, sweetheart.”

Your words made him suddenly turn around. He looked at you with squinted eyes, a symptom of suspicion. In slow steps, the Doctor made his way towards the balcony you were standing on. Should the circumstances be a little different, the scene would have befitted a romance novel - a lovesick gentleman coming to his lady’s home, too sick with longing to patiently wait for their next meeting. The events on the TARDIS, however, were more akin to a gothic horror.

The Dream Lord’s words rang in his head. ‘I’ve always been able to see through you, Doctor.’

Could it be? Could their captor be cruel enough to use your likeness to toy with him?

“How can you know what I’m feeling?” the Doctor probed. Unconsciously, he rubbed his hands together, giving away the bustle of his troubled mind.

With a smile on your face, you answered him with a question: “Why do nightmares always know how to scare you?”

“They’re not sentient, nightmares can’t exactly know anything,” he began. “When you’re dreaming, it’s basically like being in the eye of the storm but instead of the wind, it’s your own thoughts. The monsters in your nightmares scare you because they have access to everything you’re thinking about.” The Doctor fell silent for a second. Then, his shoulders slouched. A pale shadow of grief danced across his features as his eyes glazed over. “Oh,” he whispered under his breath.

Perhaps the poets were right - the world did end with a sigh. Although, could it ever end if it never started in the first place?

Still as chipper as ever, you clapped enthusiastically. “Very clever! Now go grab some blankets before all three of you dream of the North Pole.”

Then you giggled and it was possibly the worst thing you could have done. The Doctor’s chest momentarily tightened, his breath taken from him. Must you laugh exactly the way you did? Can’t you take pity on the man you’re haunting and not remind him of the treasures he can never possess again?

“Are you alright?” asked Amy. She knew it was a silly question considering the moment but couldn’t help herself. The Raggedy Doctor from her childhood stories looked like a shadow of a memory, a mare; he appeared closer to a husk, whose creator kept remembering they had forgotten to put inside some vital piece.

“Don’t worry about little old me,” he reassured her. The lie was in no way convincing. “Get some blankets, they should be right over there.” He pointed in the general direction of an alcove-turned-storage.

With the couple gone, the Doctor turned towards you once again. You were just standing there, hands resting against the railing. The soft adoration in your eyes tore at his hearts. He missed the way you looked at him but he knew that none of this was real. Not in the way he wanted it to be. If your appearance was Dream Lord’s doing, there would be nothing to curb the anger brewing inside the Doctor.

“Are you really here?” he asked quietly, lest Rory and Amy hear. “Or are you only a nightmare?”

Maybe calling you a ‘bad dream’ sounded awful at first but there was a lot of truth in that. He couldn’t fear losing you as it had already happened. However, it is even more terrifying to find what was once lost, while knowing it can be taken at any moment. Without miracles this time.

You leaned your body forward against the railing. “Define ‘real’ and ‘here’.”

“Are you Dream Lord’s doing?”

You cocked your head from side to side. “Yes and no.”

Multiple wrinkles creased his forehead as he furrowed his eyebrows. “It can’t be both, has to be one or the other.”

“Does it, though?” you asked. The tone of your voice made it sound like he just asked something stupid. “Did the Dream Lord create the dream of a couple settling down in an English village or did he just materialize someone’s existing dream?”

The Doctor pondered for a moment. He wanted a straightforward answer but it seemed like, even as a ghost, you knew him all too well - he always preferred to solve the puzzle on his own.

He moved his lips to ask you another question when Rory and Amy came back with blankets.

The Doctor woke up in a walk-in fridge at the butchers. The alien-pensioners kept banging on the solid, metal door. Somehow, he had to get out of there without turning into a pile of dirt. There had to a way…

He lifted his gaze and suddenly froze in place. Surprisingly, it wasn’t the temperature that rendered him immobile but something else stuck in the cold prison.

Someone else.

“Why are you here?” he asked. Seeing his dead lover drove him insane as did having to guess which world is the real one. But the late lover appearing in both realities? That could surely get him committed to some intergalactic hospital.

“I could ask you the same thing,” you answered. “A walk-in fridge is hardly a nice spot for a break.” A grimace entered your face as you looked around the room only to see various cuts of raw meat.

The Doctor quickly scrambled to his feet. Whether it was conscious or not, he fixed his hair and bowtie. Old habits die hard, as they say. Paradoxically, the strange situation emboldened him. The man crossed the room in strides. The last time he stood barely centimetres away from you was long ago. A lifetime ago, like he said earlier.

“Aside from me, Amy and Rory, you’re the only thing that appears both here and in the TARDIS,” he stated. His eyes bore into yours, continuously searching for something, a piece of information that would make this weird dream reality start making sense. “But you’re not real,” he said slightly quieter, as though more to himself than you. “So how does that work? What’s your purpose?”

The word ‘purpose’ fell from his lips like a spat of venom. He suspected that you played a sinister part in Dream Lord’s even more evil plan; like the creature in front of him could never be more than a dirty ruse.

“Remember your question about being the Dream Lord’s creation?” you asked. Although he continued staring at you, the Doctor gave you no indication of an answer. “He needs an idea, a dream, that he can base the alternate reality on. That’s what he meant when he said he can see right through you. He looked and saw me.”

Heavy banging on the door startled both of you. Even if you’re something of a fever dream, you did exactly the same gasp he’d heard you do over a thousand times. The accuracy was nothing short of maddening.

"But why are you here?” The Doctor gestured to the less-than-hospitable room you were standing in. “Why would he put you in both places? What's the trick?"

A sad, pitiful smile entered your face. Normally, he’d dismiss such a reaction from anyone. He didn’t want others’ pity. But some part of him craved it when it came from you. The grief she had shoved as deep as he possibly could suddenly came up to the surface. It begged to be seen, acknowledged; it pleaded for you to see your face in itself. It wanted you to see how much love remained that the Doctor could no longer give you.

"There's no trick,” you explained in a soft, low voice. “I was supposed to only be a distraction, an estranged lover found in some English village but you just couldn't help yourself, could you?"

"Me?” he said under his breath. The welled-up tears in his eyes threatened to spill at any moment. They slightly quivered along with the rest of his body. He looked sick. “What do you mean?"

"I'm in both realities because I’m in both hearts.” You poked his chest playfully. "I guess the Dream Lord underestimated just how much of me there is inside that pretty little head of yours. My image is seeping through.” Then, you started laughing at something. “You're dreaming a little dream of me,” you said between giggles.

Your skin felt surprisingly warm against his hand as the Doctor gently brushed your cheek. It was wrong in a sense - you had been long gone and dead people weren’t warm to the touch, they didn’t radiate life. Despite his age, experience and nature, he was only a man. A man with a broken heart at that. So there was no power in this universe or the next, that could stop him when the one he had been longing for was painfully close.

His throat tightened. “It’s my favourite dream,” he managed to croak out. The Doctor took a deep, slow breath. The loud banging grounded him slightly, reminding him of the current peril. He grabbed your shoulders in a firm yet loving hold. “But I still don’t understand how you can be here and in TARDIS,” he continued in a more-or-less normal tone. He managed to swallow his woe. For now. “One of them is real and if you are a dream brought to life, how can you exist outside of it?”

“Because I’m a memory,” you explained. It all seemed so obvious when you said it. “Rory’s dream is only a fantasy but I’m not. Dream Lord made me appear but you made me stay.” You tightly held the lapels of his jacket to accentuate your point. “I’m more vivid than a dream should be, so whatever he’s using to control you is not working properly. It can’t tell if I’m real or not.”

A vivid memory… was that really all you were? Could he be haunted not by a ghost but by the afterimage of a phantom? As rejoiced as his grieving heart was to see you, the truth about your appearance made the reunion all the more painful. In no way, shape or form were you standing there, holding onto him. He was simply imagining it. Of course you were a perfect copy of the way he remembered you, down to the moles and stray strands of hair.

Maybe one day he would realize the poeticness of the truth. At first, you were a dream brought to life to torment him. But then it was his love for you, his live memory, that made you something more - that made you almost human. And one day, perhaps the Doctor would realize that you had done the same to him, although not as literally.

"If you are Dream Lord’s creation,” he started thinking out loud, “you know what is real and what isn’t.” His warm, ever-gentle, trembling hands cupped your face once more. “Tell me, please,” he whispered. “Somewhere out there, Amy and Rory are about to die and I need to do something."

There was that look of pity again. Staring fondly at your lover, you carefully took his hands in yours and lowered them. For a moment, the time stood still. The metal banging sounded far away, nearly unreal; like a commotion heard in a dream.

"You know the answer already, dear,” you told him. The sincerity in your voice and in your eyes only worked as proof. “I told you."

He looked at you, eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

The lullaby-like melody filled the fridge as you quietly hummed the old song. If the Doctor closed his eyes, he’d be able to see the scene like it was yesterday: you and him, a jazz club in Chicago, sometime in the 1950s. But his eyes remained open. He did not want to invite a dream of the past - not when it could be used against him.

"Stars shining bright above you," he whispered the lyrics. His voice suddenly broke and the Doctor frantically shook his head. "No, I can’t. If I get this right, you will be gone."

Was he actually considering that? Now he may earn that ‘madman’ title he had been after for so long.

Your arms wrapped around him in a tender embrace. The Doctor’s desperation and heartache seeped from his very soul as he held you tighter than he ever did. His hands clawed at the fabric of your lilac dress. It felt just as he remembered. Hot tears began rolling down your neck and shoulder. His entire body trembled as he fought for each shallow breath. The most feared man in the universe, undone by a smiling girl wearing a pastel slip dress.

"It's just a dream," you calmly reminded him. In a soothing gesture, you petted his head."It is real until the sunbeams find you and then it'll slip away like a speck of dust on a wind. You'll forget this. And when you fall asleep again, I'll be right here as if nothing had ever happened."

As much as you could, you leaned away from the Doctor. His fearful, teary eyes searched your face for any sign of trouble or a goodbye. He knew it was bound to happen but that didn’t comfort him, quite the contrary. The Time Lord was terrified of running out of time.

“You’re even more beautiful than the day I lost you,” he whispered.

Feeling your hands against his face, he allowed himself to close his eyes; to pretend for a moment. You tried to wipe away his tears but it was in vain. The longer he felt your presence, the more it broke his heart that it was just a memory. You weren’t really there, he was just an old, lovesick fool remembering what it felt like to be loved.

“But you didn’t really lose me, did you?” you asked. The question made the Doctor open his eyes. He looked at you, confused. “I’m burned into your memory. Forever laughing at your silly jokes, comforting you when you’re feeling down, giving hope when the world seems bleak. Always waiting for you to find me.”

Gently holding the sides of his head, you kissed his forehead.

"Don't go," he begged quietly but the ghost of you was already gone. He knew what he had to do. Somehow, the Doctor also had to find a way to convince Rory and Amy that the world in which they live a small-town happy life isn't real. Despite that, those two weren't the most difficult to convince: most of all, he had to convince himself to choose life over plummeting to his death by your side.

______

a/n: tbh I just went for finishing a half-done WIP to get the gears going and as it turned out I made this WIP in 2022, so a time-travel theme feels appropriate lmao. In other news, this is me trying to get back to fanfic writing. We'll see how it goes!

#fanfiction #imagine #fanfic #scenario #the doctor #doctor who #doctorwho #doctor who fanfiction #doctor who imagine #11th doctor imagine #11th doctor x reader #11th doctor fanfic #11th doctor fanfiction #11th doctor #dw #dw fanfic #dw fanfiction #dw imagine #doctor who fic

133 notes · View notes

undiscovered-horizon · 9 months ago

Text

Just popping in to tell all the writers out there: your plot isn't cliche or predictable. You just know all the twists, turns, milestones and solutions. Of course it seems predictable to you! You know what happens next!!

Keep on keeping on. You got this. Lose the fear, gain the drive and creativity.

#writing #writersociety #writers on tumblr #creative writing #writeblr #writerscommunity #writers and poets

22 notes · View notes

undiscovered-horizon · 10 months ago

Note

Welcome back!!

That is so lovely to hear but I don't think I'm back-back. This summer has been a rollercoaster for me, a lot of challenges and changes, so my writing has been put to a halt for the better chunk of these past two months. Hypothetically speaking definitely helped me get through that block, so hopefully, I can get back on track with my next novel.

Now I'm officially a published writer making money off of writing. You know, a "professional". To be honest, I feel just as barely competent as I did before. Makes me think of that one tv show episode where Jackson Wang said he's not a rapper but someone who raps. I'm not a writer but someone who writes.

#the old gods respond

3 notes · View notes

undiscovered-horizon · 10 months ago

Text

"Hypothetically speaking" - Juice Ortiz x Reader

SUMMARY: It's basic etiquette to not try your luck with a friend's girl. But when that friends seems to have no respect for the girl, perhaps it's basic etiquette to give her the affection she deserves.

WORDCOUNT: ~ 3k

Truthfully, everyone knew it wasn't going to work out - everyone except for you. Whether you are too pure or delusional, the thought never even occured to you, while the other members of the motorcycle club knew the bitter end the moment they saw you. At first, none of them thought much of it. That's just how Jax Teller rolled, there is nothing new in that matter. It was the subsequent weeks that made them dread the inevitable:

Jax brought you around the clubhouse to help out with the accounting, housekeeping or party-throwing. Usually, you were holding a pan, a broom or a pen in your hand. Or certain other things whenever Jax needed tending to his more carnal desires.

Nonetheless, the other Sons have gotten to know you personally and it was that new friendship that bore dread in their chests. You seemed to have a curious talent for making people feel seen. Even the smallest of details never escaped your attention. Refilling the bar for the night, you'd always find time to ask Happy about his mother's health and how he was holding up. Chibs and Tig have come to expect you to ask them about their children. Their answers rarely changed and so did yours: 'I'm sure they're thinking about you.' The biggest surprise came from the prospects as they had grown accustomed to everyone pushing them around and yelling at them. So when you'd ask them whether they were hungry, at first they were sure it was some kind of a test or a ruse.

For Juice, those little signs of a soft heart were nails in his coffin. Whenever he was spending several hours in front of the computer, you'd appear with a drink and a small snack. On top of that, you always made it seem like these small acts of service are something obvious - it would be entirely strange to not care for others simply because you can. Usually, your presence would slow down his progress as Juice was willing to exchange his worktime for a conversation with you. As desperate as it may sound, he came to the conclusion that his job will still be there in twenty minutes but you will be gone the moment Jax enters the clubhouse and takes you away. Sometimes he wondered if he had Teller's charisma, would you give him a chance? Considering you were seeing his friend, he never planned on acting on his feelings. Even the thought made him cringe: fantasizing about fellow member's girl? That's a rather large 'no-go'.

As usual, the dread settled in the men's chests when you entered the clubhouse. Then, it grew ten sizes as they all silently realised that the inevitable was about to play out in front of their hungover eyes. You passed the threshold in a somewhat hesitant manner like you always did, unsure whether you're interrupting something or are even wanted there. Bobby, Tig and Chibs greet you but they're unable to hide a strange sadness to them. None the wiser, you chalk up their lack of humour to the aftermath of a night filled with vices.

The clubhouse is a temporary ruin. Bottles and glasses are scattered across all flat surfaces. One of the tables is slanted, missing one of its legs. A few pairs of bright-coloured underwear are lying here and there. Something tells you that yesterday you missed a truly historic night of fun.

"Is Jax around?" you ask. The men exchange a meaningful gaze but it goes unnoticed by you. "He left his shirt at mine yesterday afternoon, I was hoping to return it."

Tig's face cringes. There's a sorry look in his eyes. "Sweetheart-"

"He just left, actually," Bobby interjects. "Don't know when he'll be back."

You look between them, beginning to sense tension. "Alright," you answer, unsure what to make of the situation. "Then I'll just leave it in the dorm room."

Their silence makes you wary like there's a piece of information that you're missing while it's fairly obvious to others; something hidden in plain sight. You walk past them, when Tig's conscience puts up a fight once more. He makes a step towards you, hoping to stop the disaster about to unfold. Chibs, however, grabs his arm before the man can realise his plan.

"He's made his bed, brother," the Scotsman says in a low voice lest you hear their conversation.

"Come on, man," Trager answers with a look of disbelief on his face. "She doesn't deserve that."

"Aye, she doesn't." The man nods. His stern expression reveals that he, too, is more than unhappy with the unfolding events. "But it's already happened."

Juice is either really lucky or terribly unlucky to be walking down the corridor at the same time as you. His lips widen in a smile and he's about to call out to you, when he notices the white t-shirt in your hand. In a split second of considering his selfishness and your feelings, Juice decided to act against his own interest. He picks up his pace and manages to block the dorm room door just as you were about to put your hand on the handle.

"You really don't want to go in there. Trust me." Juice is trying his best to sound like he's joking but he's not a good liar - especially when you're the one he's attempting to deceive. True feelings are slipping through the cracks and you notice his nervousness.

"What do you mean?" you ask. The weirdness of the guys' behaviour that day is putting you on edge. What on Earth is going on? "It's not like there's a biological warfare behind that door."

Two laughing voices are audible from inside the room: one belongs to Jax, the other probably to a woman. Something stirs inside you, anxious and dreadful but you push it further down. No need to get upset before you get all the facts, right?

"See? Everything's fine," you say to Juice, although the reassurance is really for yourself.

The door swings open with a slight moan of the hinges. Then, as you take in the scene before you, it feels like time has slowed to a halt. Jax is sitting on the edge of the bed, scandily clad in the thin bedsheets. Maybe he covered himself when he heard the door open or he wasn't planning on getting up just yet. In the bathroom doorway stands Ima, dressed in a rather tacky purple lingerie - the cheap kind that desperately tries to have some semblance of luxury. Had the situation been less agitating, maybe you'd think that it's a fitting piece of garment for a woman of her sort.

It's hard to say whether it's the shock or resilience but you manage to keep yourself whole. The last thing you're going to do is cause a scene.

"Brought your shirt." You disturb the akward silence. Jax's expression is unreadable but Ima appears rather amused - there's a sly grin on her face. Her quiet snickering makes tears pool in your eyes. "Thought you might want it back."

Wanting to evacuate as fast as you can, you lay the t-shirt on the dresser by the door and turn around to leave the room. Juice hesitantly whispers your name as you brush past him but you can only muster a quiet apology.

Jax, suddenly realising the consequences of yesterday's impulsiveness, hastily puts on a pair of pants. He keeps yelling your name, begging you to stop and let him talk to you properly but you don't give in. Running out of the dorm room, he's stopped by Juice, who grabs his arm.

"I think you've done enough, man," Ortiz states in an angered tone.

For a moment, the two of them stare each other down in silence. The tension feels like a forest fire - one moment of carelessness might lead to a true disaster.

Both men are aware of the other's affections. It is only now that they admit this knowledge.

"You need to back off," Jax whispers. Juice is disillusioned that the Vice President would have no inhibitions in caving his face in.

But lovers oh-so-frequently tend to grow just a little unwise the more they love. Perhaps that has made all the difference on that dreadful morning.

"No," Juice says while shaking his head, "I think I should go after the crying girl who just saw her boyfriend naked in a bed with someone else."

"That's not your concern."

Looking over the blond's shoulder, Juice catches Ima's malicious amusement. She knew exactly what she was doing and not for a moment did she feel bad about it. When he looks at Jax again, his dark eyes carry more contempt than anger. "Apparently, she's not your concern either."

Before the young Teller can continue their argument, Ortiz is running down the hallway. Bobby, Chibs and Tig ask him something but he only gives them a disinterested 'later' and continues his search for you.

Despite the perfect view of the parking lot from the rooftop, you didn't notice Juice approaching you. Only when you heard the rattling of the ladder did a wave of shame flood your mind. You didn't want anyone seeing you like this, especially people of formidable grit. Some part of you dreaded being considered weak. If you were just a little more honest with yourself, maybe you'd realise that what you were truly afraid of, was the outside confirmation of what you'd already believed about yourself - too weak, too emotional to ever fit in this life.

The shame, however, seems to evaporate the moment you see Juice's apologetic expression. He always had a strange air about him, an aura you couldn't quite explain. Something about the man makes you think that you could tell him the most asinine or embarrassing thing and he would never think less of you.

With a hesitant, quiet 'hey', Juice sits down next to you. Despite his own desires, he leaves a gap between the two of you. His eyes keep switching between looking at his fiddling hands or the side of your face as though he's unsure what's the correct course of action.

"I'm stupid, aren't I?" you finally speak up. Turning your head to look at Juice, you notice a sudden change in his expression - for some reason, he looks like he's about to burst into tears, too. "Believing that he would settle for me?"

There's so much he wants to say. An entire monologue is prickling at his tongue. You'd be the one settling for him, not the other way around. Never. But Juice manages to keep those thoughts to himself for now as they are not what you need to hear at this moment. Maybe, just maybe, one day he'll get to show you that whoever you decide to marry, no matter how noble or rich, you will be the one settling for them.

"There's only one stupid person in this situation and it's not you," he says in a serious yet gentle tone. "Okay, maybe three stupid people."

Despite his resolve, Juice is only a man and he, too, must break at some point. His hand fearfully reaches for your cheek. When you don't pull away, he hesitantly wipes away a tear rolling down your face.

"Three?" you ask in a quiet voice.

"Jax is one, for obvious reasons." With the back of his hand, Juice wipes away the other side of your face. "Ima is two. And the third... is me."

Confused, you furrow your eyebrows. "You? You're not stupid, Juice. Why would you say that?"

"I'm the king of stupid, actually." He lets out an airy, bitter chuckle. Suddenly feeling small, he retracts his arm. "I just tried to cover for my dick friend, so the girl I'm in love with doesn't get her heart broken. Extra stupid points for running after her like a lost puppy that just wants to make her happy."

"That sounds more lovely than stupid," you manage to whisper before another wave of emotions wreaks havoc. Tears stream down your face again but this time it's not only the bad feelings - there's something nice among them, too. A sense of relief and belonging; an overwhelming realisation that you're loved as a person and not only as a woman.

He doesn't complain or lecture you. Neither does he attempt empty words of comfort and encouragement. Juice doesn't know what he should say, so he settles for silence. However, his quietness speaks volumes. With a soft expression on his face, he keeps wiping your tears away.

"What do I do now, Juice?"

"Whatever you want," he answers with a strange lightness to his voice. It appears that his response is not something carefully woven but rather a cliché.

You sniffle loudly and although there's nothing attractive about that, it's candid. In Juice's eyes, it only makes you more beautiful. "Right now, I don't know if that list is very short or ridiculously long."

A corner of his mouth rises in a nostalgic smile. He seems to be recalling a memory.

"Remember that one time when you couldn't sleep and found me working at the clubhouse?" Juice asks. You only nod, unsure why he would suddenly remind you of that. "Remember what you told me when I talked about all the things I still needed to get done?"

"It's only three things," you repeat under your breath. Truthfully, you have almost forgotten entirely about that conversation. Juice had been going on about all the complicated steps that had to be done before calling it a day but, in the end, it was only three things. Granted, three time-consuming, challenging things but only three nonetheless. You never thought your comment meant so much to him.

"Exactly," he says as though he had just given you the perfect recipe for anything and everything. "I'm suggesting, you do two things now. First of all, get over the guy that couldn't appreciate you."

"Sounds smart but I'm not sure I know how to do that," you admit with a nervous chuckle. Jax Teller has been a tornado to your soul: came suddenly, wreaked havoc and simply moved on. There is no one to clean the mess, no one to put the pieces back together except those that survived. And you're still at the stage of debating whether you have, actually, survived Jax Teller.

"I guess the first step is not going back to him."

As simple as it sounds, the solution might just be one of the hardest things you've ever done. Nothing good comes easy, as they say. If it's true, you're going to reach for something truly incredible with this resolution.

"And the second thing I should do?" you ask. Deep inside, you're paying he's about to suggest something silly or relaxing.

Suddenly, Juice turns shy. This biker guy with tattoos and a loaded gun is fiddling with his hands and stubbornly avoiding your gaze. Despite his appearance, you think he's adorable.

"Well, uh..." He clears his throat in a vain attempt to get rid of his shakey tone. "If you want, no pressure of course but if you find it in yourself, then maybe you could at least think about grabbing dinner with me?" Whatever your expression looks like, it must make him even more nervous as Juice immediately begins downplaying his question. "Like I said, no pressure. I know it's bad timing all things considered, so it's cool if you don't want to, it's okay-"

"I'd love to," you interrupt him.

For a moment, he silently stares at you like a deer caught in headlights. "Cool. That's, um... nice."

You see him ever so slightly cringe at his awkward response but you don't think him weird. No, the nervousness makes you all the more convinced you want to go out with him - the anxiety proves that he cares more than he's brave enough to admit.

"Can we add a third thing?" you ask hesitantly.

Juice smiles at you as if today is the best day of his life; the kind of smile that slowly mends broken hearts. "What's on your mind?"

"Say, just hypothetically, how annoying would it be if Ima's car had slashed tires?"

He nods slowly, a shadow of mischief dancing across his handsome features. "Really annoying."

"And if she had to pay for new ones and there'd be a bullshit charge on the receipt like premium air or something?"

The man laughs. How can a sound leave you breathless?

"She would have a really fucking shitty day," he answers.

"Just hypothetically, I'd be satisfied."

"I think I know a guy. Just hypothetically."

Silence falls between you again. It's not tense. No, it's quite the opposite - the silence of two people who can just be. Now that happiness or at least a lack of sadness has entered your face, Juice is staring at you with an expression you can't describe beyond soft. If you didn't know any better, you'd think he was not looking at you but at a rare, priceless treasure he has spent his whole life searching for. But you do know better; you know that, perhaps, people can be priceless, too.

A dark thought suddenly clouds your mind: Jax used to look at you the same way. Not always, not for long but he did. And yet, as he has proven, it meant nothing for him.

You push those thoughts away with all the almost-depleted strength you have left. It's no use crying and ruminating about the past when you have your future sitting right next to you. A bright, terribly good-looking future, one might even say.

"Can you just hold me?" you ask him quietly. The heartbreak of Jax's choice and the elation of Juice's confession have left you tired and vulnerable beyond all imagination. Such opposite emotions are ripping you open in conflicting directions. It's like dying and being reborn all at the same time.

"As long as you need, baby."

Juice wastes no time happily fulfilling your request. He brings your legs over and across his own, nudging you even closer towards him. Gently, he pulls your head to rest in the crook of his neck. As strange as it may sound, the man feels like a fortress protecting you from past and future heartbreaks.

#soa #soa fanfic #soa fanfiction #soa imagine #sons of anarchy #sons of anarchy imagine #soa x reader #sons of anarchy fanfic #sons of anarchy fanfiction #sons of anarchy x reader #juice ortiz #soa juice #sons of anarchy juice #juan carlos ortiz #juice x reader #juice ortiz x reader #juice ortiz imagine #juice ortiz fanfiction #juice ortiz fanfic

493 notes · View notes