pair: jon x sansa wordcount: 5.8k (13k total) summary: the one where Sansa decides to take to the Appalachian Trail alone after the death of her brother Robb. somewhere down the trail, she winds up crossing paths with a far more seasoned hiker. [part one] [social media au]
Sansa was exhausted. And irritable. And it was made even worse by the fact that none of the others seemed to be as worn out as she was.
And they were being far too nice about. Slowing down for her. Distracting themselves with stories every time she got winded and needed a break. Sometimes Gilly even pretended to struggle at the same bits of trail where she would falter.
It was infuriating.
She wanted to snap at them, tell them to leave her alone and stop trying to make her feel better. She could catch up to them later she just wished they’d let her be. And then she’d be wracked with guilt when her huff of breath would slip out of her too harshly, making Sam’s smile falter of Jon’s hand waver.
They were kind and thoughtful and she was buried under waves of inadequacy, self conscious about everything she did. Like the way Sam would always lend a hand when it was time to make camp because it still took her three times as long as everyone else to set up her tent. Or how no matter how tired she was she could never fall asleep with ease on the thin foam pad like the others could, and instead spent the night tossing and turning, longing for a real mattress without sticks and rocks and leaves crunching beneath her.
She still blushed as she made her way off the trail to relieve herself, as she dug a hole and buried her own waste, though no one else batted an eye at it. She blushed at the way she still jerked away every time a fly or a mosquito flew up at her, even though it had happened often enough she ought to have been used to it.
Imagine: Being stuck at Alexandria while the group attempts to take Maggie to the Hilltop and avoid the Saviors.
Warnings: Angst, language
A/n: There will be more parts to this
If there was one thing the people of Alexandria could agree on, it was how you were hands down the most beautiful out of them all. And the one and only Daryl Dixon had the great honor of calling you his daughter.
“I don’t like this, Dad.” You confessed, shaking your head with an unsure look resting in your eyes. “These Saviors seem dangerous and I don’t like the thought of you being out there.” He was all you had left. All you ever had.
“Rick needs my help.” He spoke in return, never stopping from his movements as he packed what he needed for the journey. “So does Maggie.”
“And I need my Dad. Home. In one piece.” Reaching outward you lightly placed a hand in his forearm.
Usually, there were no worries in your mind that your father could care for himself. He was Daryl mother fucking Dixon. The strongest man your ever known. The bravest. But there was this strong feeling in your gut like somehow, some awful way, your Dad wouldn’t be coming back home.
“I’ve lost Carol, uncle Merle…I don’t know how many more losses I can take.” Tears dared to sting your vibrant eyes, but you somehow managed to hold them back. “Just promise me you won’t do anything stupid or reckless.”
Daryl gave you a slight smile just before he pulled you into his chest. The hug was normal, showing he had no intention of not returning to you.
“Promise.” He said in reassurance. But that pit in the bottom of your stomach still sat, and it grew as he and a good majority of the group drove out of the gates to take Maggie to the Hilltop.
Hours had passed since everybody left. So many hours in fact that you became an unnerving wreck both physically and emotionally. Shaking unsteady breaths. Heart pounding at the pace of a machine gun.
While Rick and everybody was gone, you were put in charge of watching over Judith. Winch truth be told you didn’t mind. She had taken a fond liking over you as you had her. But as she lay in her crib, you found yourself pacing outside the front door. Waiting the gates to open. But they never did. No cars ever approached. No RV. No Daryl.
They’d all been gone well over the estimated time, so assuming the worst. Assuming your family and friends were in dire need of help, you packed your bag. Asked Father Gabriel to watch Judith. And walked to the gates. As you opened them, something heart easing came into sight. They were back.
Dropping everything, you ran to the RV as it pulled into Alexandria. The blood and bullets resting on the shell of the vehicle brought the heart racing pace back into your chest.
“Dad?” Everybody came out slowly, all looking so defeated. So weak and torn down.
“Dad?” Your voice and call grew more frantic. Begging for him to show his face.
Rick stepped pass you, head hanging low. Face covered in sweat and shame.
“Where’s my dad?” Your chest rose and fell heavily. Tears of anger and fear formed in your eyes.
“Y/n…” He spoke your name in a barley heard whisper, unable to look you in your eyes.
“No.” The word came out as if telling him not to say what you feared. “Where the fuck is my dad, Rick?” Heat rose to your cheeks in a sick twisted form. Swirling your insides like a blender.
“They took him.” Rick somehow managed to tell the frantic mind before him. “The Saviors- Negan, they took him.” He too had tear filled eyes. Replaying the trauma that they had all experienced.
With a swift motion you wiped the tears from your offending cheek. Picking your bag up once again you began to head towards the gates. Only to find Carl running in front of you to stop your movement.
“Move Carl.” You spoke plainly and with determination.
The boy sheriff merely shook his head. Seeing the hurt in your eyes brought out the hurt in his.
“Carl, move.” Once more you demanded a free passage. This time he took a step closer to you, making you only inches apart.
“I’m not letting you leave here to get yourself killed.” His voice tried to show strength, but taking one look in his eyes you could see his crushed soul. A soul who would do anything to protect his friend.
With a shake of anger you pulled out a small gun. Pointing it directly at him.
“Move!” You screamed as loudly as you could. Tears blurring your vision completely.
Carl made no movement to go out of your desired path. He just stood there with a plain face and open heart.
“Fucking move, Carl!” You screamed ounce more.
Suddenly arms strongly yet gently wrapped around you from your backside. One hand took the gun from your hands, throwing it to the side.
“I can’t live without him.” Still your voice screamed with fear, anger, so many emotions.
Rick only seemed to hold on tighter to the shattering heart of a teenage girl.
“He’s going to be okay, but we can’t loose anybody else.” His body went to the ground with yours as your knees gave out in sadness. Holding you closely to his chest from behind still. One hand on your head for comfort.
“He promised! Without him here, I’m already lost…” you weren’t screaming any more, but you were still crying harder than ever. “I’m already lost….”
i'm sorry to ask this but do you possibly have any happy tidbits about characters that are jewish/of color following the white supremacist rally last night? i feel like all of us in the US could use some right now. thank you if you answer this <3
Let’s take back that disgusting misappropriation of the Detroit Red Wings’ logo: here’s Jordan after he leads the Red Wings to the Cup.
There’s only one reason Jordan doesn’t blow out his back or his knee or some definitely necessary part of his body a grand total of half an hour after he raises the Cup for the first time: years and years of anticipating Lindsay’s sneak attacks.
“You caught me!” Fitzy says, sounding delighted.
Fitzy is a lot heavier than Lindsay. Jordan has a feeling there’s going to be a twinge tomorrow, but who cares. He’ll probably be too wrung out from the hangover to feel anything else, all the assorted twinges that are going to come to screaming life in the next few days.
“You’re a fucking menace,” Jordan says.
“And you’re crying, Cap,” Fitzy says, scrambling out of Jordan’s hold.
“You don’t know that,” Jordan says. “It could be sweat.”
“No shame,” Fitzy says. “We’ll get you some champagne to wash the tears away.”
“Don’t–” Jordan says, about two seconds before he gets a faceful of it from Keaton.
Jordan is definitely crying now. Also temporarily blind. Champagne in the eyes stings. A lot.
“I hate all of you!” he yells.
“We love you too, Jordy!” Keaton calls back, and has smartly made himself scarce by the time Jordan gets his vision back, so Jordan can’t get his revenge.
The Shea Moisture ad should have looked like this. If you read that bottle they talk about their grandmother from Sierra Leone West Africa. The Queen who started it all. They had the nerve to sit in a editing room and sign off on this being the first commercial with 1 mixed woman of color and 4 white woman at the forefront. While a black woman was in the background in a small square for a second on screen. White people using the product is not the issue its the disrespect and lack of representation of a black woman. The blatant erasure of the black women who pioneered this product. A black woman who founded this product. A Black Woman of brown skin and kinky/coily hair should have been represented. This is not about you white people. It’s about us.
GrandMama Shea Moisture no where in sight… SMH. She was erased from her own product she created with blood, sweat and tears. Shame.
Characters : Mikael Boukhal, Adam Malik, Even Bech Næsheim, Yousef Acar, Elias Bakkoush, Muttasim Billah.
- In which Mikael freaked out and lashed at Even for kissing him, because he was secretly in a relationship with Adam Malik.
- Mikael Overlie Boukhal and Adam Malik are together romantically, but Adam, unlike his lover, isn’t fully coming to terms with doing what he thinks his religion views to be a sin.
Chapter One : Mates From Among Eachother
The minutes passed slowly, as if holding between their seconds grande ages that time couldn’t sweep forwards in a blink of an eye. Mikael felt the vast moments absorbed by every second, forbidding the world from moving forwards. For it was his own tale stuck between the seconds and minutes of the clock. It was immensly heavy, he almost felt time push his shoulders, crying for him to lighten his heart and let the world go on freely by its laws.
It wasn’t possible for Mikael though. He couldn’t let his past crumble behind and be swept by time forwards. He couldn’t do but hold still, chained by the memories. His consciousness of time was almost non-existent, and that of the world poured from between his fingers, as his eyes stared into nowhere. He could swear his eyes watched inside his mind. He could swear the world fell off its grounds and emmerged only him. Either the world sucked him in, or he sucked the world into him, for he could only think and feel himself; that mess of a mind.
It wasn’t a pretty sight. Thoughts flying around and questions colliding. Nothing sitting still, nothing making sense. Not that he couldn’t make sense of it all, not that he couldn’t rid himself off this misery, but he wasn’t free to act. He was emprisoned by morals that, somehow, being a human had obliged him to adopt. The unwritten rule of hiding the mess of loved ones under the rubble and protecting them from what could come of harm from them or from others. He couldn’t know how but he found himself following the rule and, thus, losing his well-being in the process.
A dear friend of his, one named Even, had done- one among many- an act of oddness. In fact, it was nothing to be frowned up. A mere kiss on the lips, a usual emboddiement of attraction and translation of love. It wasn’t odd from Even’s side, it was odd from Mikael’s side. He couldn’t handle the heavy messages sent through the kiss, beyond the attraction.
He saw his friend drawing new patterns he had never swam in between. It was as if each human lives inside a framing; one we paint through living but it’s firmly stable to keep us in order, and suddenly the framing breaks, then nothing makes sense. Our eyes can’t read the new visions, our minds can’t comprehend the new uncoded language spoken. Even broke his framing, he was skating out, away. And Mikael couldn’t understand the hazardness, everything was read off as odd.
And so, he couldn’t figure out why Even kissed him. But he wasn’t sliding back to his past to confront him, nor was he marching forwards to tell the ones who deserved to know. He just rolled at a halt now, stuck in time. He couldn’t push himself forwards and tell the man with whom he shared his heart that another had kissed him. Not just any other, it was Even Bech Næsheim; their bestfriend from little age.
He knew Adam Malik too well to vomit out the confusion to him. Adam, although a friend of Even himself, wouldn’t be as confused to know of the incident. Indeed, confusion wouldn’t be what will fill his mind upon hearing Even kissed his boyfriend, it would be anger and furiosity.
Mikael’s body was as glued to the wall as Iblis is to sin. He had been sitting there for three hours. His limbs refusing to budge, his eyelids refusing to move and even his tears refusing to fall. His chest was barely moving up and down in sync with his breathing. Barely. For the heaviness of the secrets sitting on his chest almost put his heart to a deafening silence. It is a human’s most destructive weapon; a secret. That and hatred. Mikael’s heart fortunately was as white as milk, not a drop of hatred towards no one. However, secret upon a secret, the rocks fell into the bowl and the milk poured out, falling here and there, escaping his heart as if Iblis had been chanting evil words to him continuously the night before.
“Why am I even hiding…” , the words left his mouth like saliva from someone’s lips on a fasting Ramadan day, “…love ?”, he could swear he heard SYML’s The War playing in his head. Appearing out of the crazy chaos in his head to portray his emotions, much to his ignorance, and somehow managing to decipher his puzzle of a question. They say the mind works in boxes, that, from time to time, a box steals in a wordly item from our surroundings to stick into it moments from our lives, as we live. Sometimes, it’s smells, and other times, it’s songs. Like SYML’s The War. That song had its box in Mikael’s mind, and had its memories stuck to it that would rise to surface when Mikael hears the song, or the other way around.
So his question about why he was hiding his relationship with Adam and why they decided to keep their love a secret, was the suitable thought to provoke the box to open up and let out that song. For, now, his mind jumped back to a memory, one that gives him the answer.
* * *
“And among His signs is this, that He created for you mates from among yourselves that you may dwell in tranquility with, and He has put love and mercy between your hearts…” , Mikael read off the Qu’ran in Arabic to Adam, not finishing off the twenty-one verse of Surah Al-Rum, only absorbing from it which he wanted his lover to hear. A big smile appeared on his lips as he let the word “hearts” trail in the air, as if he just discovered the preciousness of the world in the words he had just read, to an Adam who seemed a little less happy about the seemingly big revelation that fell upon Mikael from the clouds.
“Allah has made me of you, and you of me !” , he ecxlaimed, closing off the Qu’ran on his lap and moving closer in bed to the blue-to-green eyes man. Adam wasn’t receptive to the excitement that ran through Mikael though. In fact, his eyes roamed, searching in the eyes of the smiling boy for a hint of anything that would tell him Mikael wasn’t serious. But he was.
“Ah. If I were a girl, yeah.” , Adam let out a sigh despite of himself, as he watched Mikael’s eyes and lips drop, a cloud of darkness fell over his head.It wasn’t the first time Mika had Adam refuse his thoughts, he thought his boyfriend to be deep into the negative reading of Islam, it would take more than one time of introducing the words of Allah to him under a sweet light, it would take continuous collisions of their relationship with religion. He knew he had to move loads of rocks down the river but he refused to see him drenched by guilt and even dislike towards his own being, thinking he wasn’t accepted by his own creator.
Here stands a man at the bottom of a hole he’s made, Still sweating from the rush, His body tense, his hands, they shake,
It was then, on the sole radio sitting on the salon’s table next to Adam’s room, SYML’s The War started playing. Barely heard, but with the silence swimming between them and the little words jumping from one to another, the song was a clear tune playing in their heads at that moment.
Adam took a hold of the Qu’ran and shoved it inside the drawer. “Stop trying to merge between Islam and…”, he sounded more hurt than upset, almost sweating of shame, as if he was caught naked, “…us.”, he felt nude. Under the eyes of Allah. Not that He wasn’t always watching, but the thought was always at the back of his head, burried, but with Mikael reading the Qu’ran, it couldn’t be escaped. He couldn’t help but feel sin crawling into him as if worms were eating his skin.
Don’t you ever leave me alone, Be my shelter from the storm, My war is over, I am a sad boy,
As the song came to an end, the last words ringing in their heads, it was almost a promise to keep both lives seperate, to Allah was the five prayers and to Mikael was what fell between them. And it was also abvious that what Adam wasn’t comfortable in with his own self, he wasn’t comfortable in with his friends, so it needn’t words from any of them to know that what pulled them together was a secret to be burried.
* * *
Mikael thought if their love was flying around them, revealed for everyone that even the trees and flowers of Oslo knew of an Adam and a Mikael in love, then maybe Even wouldn’t have kissed him. And maybe then, he wouldn’t have reacted in the certain manner he did towards Even.
The phone buzzed in his pocket, not for the first time but it was only now that he made sense of it, his grasp of life around him finally breaking into his soul. It was a call from Akhoy, which was what Mikael had Adam registred under as his contact. Akhoy is Egyptian Arabic for Brother, in a Sa’idi dialect for a humorous touch, Mikael thought it to be witty. It was the equivalent of Khoya in Moroccan Darija, the word that Adam used to call Mika more than his own name. Apparently, in Morocco, it was a thing to refer to eachother as Khoya for men and Khti for women as a direct tradition falling from the precious words of Allah : “Humanity is but a big brotherhood, so make peace with your brethren.”. Not that it wasn’t common in Egypt either, but Adam didn’t seem to know any conversational tricks but to call every soul Khoya.
He picked up, but he didn’t utter a word, his fragility working its way to the surface. “Where are you, man? Been calling and sending messages, why you not answering ?”, Adam’s worry was apparent, bursting from his voice into Mikael’s heart, warming him at the realization that Adam was there. At least he had him to worry about him, to hear from him. But it also worried him himself, that the man he loved was rendered into a ball of worry after his disappearance for only a few hours, and that the only man he confined in wasn’t to be his cushion of comfort from the guilt of what he perceived to be a horrible deed he had done upon a friend.
“At your place. By the door.” , because Mikael couldn’t let his bruised self fall into the arms of his lover, he thought he’d let the shadows of his being embrace his pain instead, so he headed to Adam’s home and just sat by the door, leaning on the wall, crunched down onto the floor, his clothes almost swallowing him away from life.
“What?”, his question reeked off confusion and a little bit of dread even, but it wasn’t met with an answer, “Alright, coming!” , his words trailed, Mikael hummed a “Hmm” in response, hanging up, and just drowned even more into his own clothes.
It wasn’t a grave sin that nastily dragged Mikael into this cave of suffocating gloominess, it was the obligation, sitting on his throat like a sharp knife, to keep his insides inside only. If there was anything that blew Mikael off his feet, then it was filling himself up to no end. He couldn’t, to save his life, keep a word sewed to his tongue. If only he could tell Adam, and if only Adam could understand that Even was in disorder.
Leia fidgets in her seat. She’s never seen so many people looking so grim. The Senate chambers are titanic, and so darkly lit it’s hard to pick out faces, but the atmosphere leads Leia to imagine them all stern and forbidding. Something pricks at the back of her mind. She doesn’t like it.
Stop it, she tells herself firmly, there are no monsters in the Senate. You’re not a baby, you’re a senator’s daughter and you gotta act like it! Everyone is watching.
It’s an exaggeration to imagine everyone, or anyone, is watching but Leia straightens her shoulders, lifts her chin, and focuses on the sigil of House Organa painted on the chair in front of her.
You carried the black heart passed down from your dad
Tulsi Shepard - target practice, Torfan (1201 words) Warnings for violence, post traumatic stress disorder [flashback, hallucination] Thank you to @dearophelia for beta-ing!
The bullet burst through the paper, the singed edges of the hole curling out like a shriveled leaf. The hole sat stark and alone, far from the inked outline of a figure, far from the goal.
Tulsi tightened her grip on the rifle and fitted her eye to Mantis scope. Her breath squeezed in her lungs as all her muscles locked in rigid stress. Her finger jerked the trigger and the rifle leapt in her arms, the scope striking her eye in furious retaliation.
Another hole blossomed on the crisp target, closer by a minuscule amount.