#I’m weeping folks | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

celenawrites · 9 months

Text

pretty when you cry

pairing - Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!Reader

word count - 2.4k

warnings - Ghost is a bit of a dick but he gets better, Reader is a bit of a crybaby here but it's just cuz she's very in tune with her emotions, Simon is emotionally constipated and cannot handle feelings, some fluff, heavy-ish (?) angst, open ending, etc.

Note - Kinda got tired of writing fluffy stuff all the time and my mental health is fraying atm, so I decided to (hopefully) hurt some folks with this little piece. Enjoy!

AO3 Version

Divider by @/firefly-graphics

You cry easy.

That's what Ghost thought of you when you first joined Task Force-141.

While he has always been skeptical of any new additions (often temporary) to the team he has come to love and trust after going through hell and back, Price was convinced that your impeccable record on stealth ops, your physical agility, and your skills as a sniper were much needed.

Reluctantly, Ghost silently accepts his Captain’s decision.

However, time and time again, your sensitive nature had him worried that you might prove to be a heavy liability to the team.

When you stub your toe against the leg of the table, you let out a few tears of frustration and pain, cursing everyone and their mothers while you hold your injured foot in the air as you comically jump around the kitchen, even though your lack of spatial awareness was to be blamed here. It is almost always a comical sight, Gaz rubbing your back in comfort while you curse and cry, failing to hide his amusement. Soap is not afraid to laugh at your face for it, while Price has this twinkle in his eye as he asks you to sit and eat something for breakfast.

Simon ignores the flutter in his stomach when you take a seat next to him on the table, your wet hair letting out wafts of jasmine - all for him to smell and keep to himself.

You cry when you accidentally let the door close on your pinky, dramatic hiccups leaving you as Soap ties up your little finger with white bandages, stroking your hair as he consoles you, "That's a brave lassie, yeah? You got this". (Soap has always been good with people, Simon notes.) Sometimes, Soap will be ‘kind enough’ to offer you to kiss your injuries better and you’d shove him, your face giving away the embarrassment and the humorous jest you feel around the demolition expert.

You weep uncontrollably when you watch Marley and Me with Gaz in the rec room. Price and Ghost had been passing by, discussing the aftermath of a mission they had just returned from when they heard loud sobs coming from the usually empty room. They peer in to find both of you huddled close in soft blankets, a bowl of popcorn propped up in your lap and a box of tissues in Gaz’s lap, as you munch on the buttery snack and cry over the adorable dog finally being put to rest. You lean into Gaz for comfort and Ghost wonders if you still smell of mud and caked blood like you did on the field.

Price decides to break up the party as he enters the room, clearing up his throat to grab the attention of his Sergeants. Your lip wobbles as he lightly scolds you, his brow laden with concern as he looks at you and tells you both to go get some much-needed rest. You pass him by as you leave the room, your hand being a feather’s touch away from his and he almost holds onto you. (He still has no idea why he almost reacted like that to you)

One time, Price had been sent to help Laswell out on a crucial mission and all you had accomplished during those three and a half weeks was mope around and wish your Captain were here. You’d be lying on the sofa in the common room and you’d whine to your companions. “I’m so bored. I miss Captain. I wish he was here”, you’d pout and Soap and Gaz would gang up on you, teasing you as they asked you whether you had some unresolved feelings for dear Price. (The idea of you coveting Price like a lover seemed ridiculous to him, really. You and the Captain? Not a chance)

And then there was that one time when you had to go on a solo mission (the first of you being on your own since you joined the task force, really) and when you had come back to him them, battered and bloodied and disheveled but still safe and sound and Price lets out a sigh of relief, his shoulders sagging as if all the weight of the world has disappeared now that you’re back home, back to your team (where you now rightfully belong). You rush to them, running as if you cannot close the distance between them fast enough, and Price hugs you with steady arms as he lets you cry into his shoulder, wetting his uniform as you all but sob in relief, leaning on your Captain for support as your legs turn like jelly, unable to support the weight of your weary body.

It must’ve been terrifying - being out there on the field, hostility and death surrounding you in all directions and the only person you could possibly rely on is yourself. Keeping yourself safe and sane as you navigate unknown terrain and fight off the monsters who wear the skins of humans and pollute the very Earth they have been raised on. Blood and gore and gunpowder clinging to you like a second skin as you pray to survive another night and make it back home safely. Back to your team.

Back to your kind captain, and sergeants you have befriended and a cold Lieutenant who sometimes fails to hide the care he carries for you in his brown eyes.

Price has a look of sympathy and understanding on his face as he drags you to the infirmary, even holding your trembling hand in his warm palm as you flinch at the sight of the large syringe needle and hiss in pain whenever the alcohol-soaked cotton is applied to your cuts. He soothes you with a gentle pat on your back, mindful of your treated injuries as he softly tells you to clean up and maybe get some much needed sleep, asking Gaz to supply you with something to eat before you doze off due to fatigue and the morphine still floating in your system.

Ghost found it annoying for the most part - sometimes snapping at you to "Shut up and focus" on bad days and while he’s still irked at the sentimentality you possess, something that he and his comrades have willingly allowed to wither and die in their souls, a small part of him - a part of him that still resembles who Simon was, a mimicry of the humanness he hasn’t felt in his dead soul for years, worried about you. Worried sick about you and your emotions and the lack of lid you have on it. Worried if he had been too harsh on you because he doesn’t do emotions, and clearly he is out of his depth when it comes to dealing with people, but especially when it comes to dealing with you.

He realizes he doesn’t mind you crying all that much.

You go out for drinks to celebrate your successful solo mission and you spend the time you had lost on the field with your teammates - you play billiards with Gaz against Soap and Ghost and lose sorely, and then you try out a peg of whiskey the Captain has ordered and Price laughs heartily as you sputter and whine as the drink burns your esophagus. You somehow convince Ghost to teach you how to throw darts and he tries to not lean into your warmth as he stands behind you, his gloved hand holding your wrist as he positions you and teaches you how to throw the wooden dart you hold between your smooth fingers, and tells you all he knows about making sure that the little thing hits the dartboard without fail.

Simon can smell your jasmine shampoo and your citrus perfume on you as he uses his hands to correct your posture. He can feel how soft and pliant you are under him, eager to obey and please him, and all he can think about is what it’d be like - being your confidante, being the voice of reason for you when you’re drowning in emotions, being a sturdy shoulder for you to cry on.

And he knows for a fact that you’d be all that and more in a heartbeat if he allowed you to.

You lean onto Simon for support, your head lolling onto his shoulder as he quietly guides you to your bedroom. You hum quietly as he carefully makes you lie down on your bed, removing your shoes for you and when you beg him to help you remove the little makeup you had applied for the night (Price blatantly ignoring the use of contraband because it’s you), he surprisingly complies. Years of applying camo paint on his face give him the needed experience around using micellar water and makeup wipes as he helps you prepare yourself for a night of mindless sleeping, which will be followed by a hangover in the morning plaguing almost all of them. (He swears he’ll force you to drink the ginger tea he’ll make, no matter how much you’d whine about it tasting ‘yucky’. He’d rather not have you hurling over everything like a cat with a persistent hairball stuck in its throat).

“I’m so happy”, you hum to yourself as Simon tilts your head up.

“Close your eyes, Sergeant”, he orders and you comply, feeling the soaked cotton pad rub against your eyelids as your Lieutenant removes your pink eye shadow. It’s a pretty color on you, Simon thinks but he never says it out loud.

You stay silent as he finishes up with your work, his calloused fingertips tilting and moving your head to look at any missed spots he might’ve overlooked in the dim bedroom light.

“All done”, he scruffs, getting up on his feet and he hears you call out to him as he leaves the room.

“What is it?” he asks, wishing to be in his warm bed on this cold night.

“Thank you, sir”, you say earnestly with your eyes shining with sincerity and an unrecognizable emotion.

Simon observes you - you lying on your bed in the clothes you wore to the bar, with most of your makeup removed and your eyes struggling to stay open as intoxication and tiredness tempt you to forget the world and sleep.

A moment too late, he asks you, “What are you thanking me for, rookie?”

Only to find you out cold.

He sighs, draping the thin blanket over your shivering body and leaving you alone in your room.

When you wake up the next day with a hangover headache, your makeup removed and your blanket draped over you tenderly, you make your way to the common kitchen and you ask your moody superior if he remembers anything from the night before - your hazy memory failing to cover the gaps in your memory.

He gruffly says out, “No” and then hands you a cup of ginger tea, looking at you intensely as he waits for you to whine about the bitter taste of the tea he’s made for you. Knowing it’s a lost fight, you let out an exasperated sigh and thank your Lieutenant for the hangover cure. He looks at you a beat too long before leaving you to your own devices, exiting the room, and going God knows where.

It takes him time, with all that he is and all that he has been through, to come to a new conclusion for his first impression of you. Steadily with time, Simon realizes that the reason you cry so easily is not because you're weak.

It’s because you’re brave.

Brave enough to express yourself and not fear rejection from others. Brave enough to show that you care, to show that you love life and people and everything life has to offer. Brave and kind and valiant in everything you do, Simon is almost jealous of your ability to be so open and free. He wonders what it would be like to let go and just allow himself to feel.

It’d probably drown him alive.

It might set him free.

He’d never get the chance to know though.

Now again, you sob as you put pressure on his abdomen wound as you talk to him with a wet, unstable voice, “Stay awake for me, Lt. We will all make it”. You sound like you’re trying to convince yourself more than him. (You need that reassurance more than him anyway).

He’s sluggish, the blood loss and pain makes it hard for him to focus on your blurry face and the skull mask on his face doesn’t help him either. He’s immobile, despite trying his level best to raise his hand up so that he can wipe away the stray tears on your cheeks. He parts his lips to tell you to please stop crying, to tell you how he’s not worth the worry, he’s not worthy of your tears - not when he has vehemently admonished you for them all this time.

But all he can do is let out a low moan of pain, his eyes rolling back in his head. He can hear your voice, can hear the worry and fear and panic as you call out to him, but everything is hard and he can hear you but comprehending your words is near impossible with the ringing in his ears and the whirring of the helicopter that came in to rescue him and his team. He’s aware of his teammates sitting beside him - he can imagine their solemn faces as they cope with the possibility of him succumbing to his wounds before they make it back to safety. But he focuses on you instead - sweet, radiant you who worries about everyone and everything; who wears her heart on her sleeve and still holds onto the hope that he will make it out of this ordeal alive, even though he can feel his life slipping away from him like the sands of time.

Each breath of his is labored, and Simon wishes for nothing more than to wipe away your tears or to maybe hold your soft self against his injured body, cradling you close to his heart as he vows to survive this for you. Only for you.

Through black spots and dryness, he blinks up to look at you and he has this realization, a moment of pure ‘Eureka!’ as he observes your worsened state of being.

You have never been prettier than this instant, crying over him and praying to any kind of deity who’d grant him the boon of life.

Satisfied with his discovery and suddenly extremely tired, he allows himself to close his eyes, letting the fatigue win and the last thing he sees is you crying for him to stay alive and fight.

The last thing he hears is your sobs as you beg someone, anyone to save your Lieutenant.

Note -

Title is thanks to the song 'Pretty When You Cry' by Lana Del Rey, although I wasn't actually listening to the song while writing this.

#call of duty #cod #cod:mw2 #simon riley #simon ghost riley x you #simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #simon ghost riley x reader #call of duty fluff #call of duty angst #simon ghost riley angst #simon ghost riley fluff #call of duty headcanons #char.simon ghost riley

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sweatermuppet · 3 months

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hi silas i hope ur having a great day ❤️‍🩹 i’m getting back into country music bc it’s what i grew up listening to as a kid and i was wondering if u have recommendations bc unfortunately a lot of what my dad listens to is the weird nationalist shit </3

oh absolutely! here's some of my playlists (country, folk, rockabilly, cowpunk, etc)

country im into right now (random collection of country i was listening to heavily in 2023)

something ain't right with him...

arthur morgan playlist (for rdr2 but can be listened to on its own! country & folk)

boot stomp (older folk & folky)

best of seeger

gals of country

work (+ hating work) songs

stompin tom connors playlist

weeping willow (heartbroken country)

you can also check out my entire spotify profile for other playlists :-)

#matchboxbed #spotify #playlists #hoping all those links are Correct & also work #long post

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bigfatbimbo · 1 month

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I’m going to miss you when you stop posting hazbin content:( I wish you well once you’re gone! Thought you might like some boycunt Vox material so,, here’s some of that.

Just boycunt Vox being a loud ass bitch while you eat him out! Oh and blue Gatorade pussy Yummy

Smut Ahead!!

Vox was always quite the loud one. Loud about his pride, loud about his facade dominance, but most importantly, loud in the bedroom. Especially in this moment, your head in between his quivering thighs as you mercilessly eat his weeping cunt out. He can’t help but to let out the loudest whines possible, moaning and whimpering for you. He didn’t know what he was moaning and whimpering about; all he knew that it was for you. For you to continue ravaging him, perhaps. To continue tongue-fucking his pussy until a citywide blackout was caused once again. He can’t even remember how many times he’s reached orgasm, creaming and squirting all over your face while he cries out your name. It is shocking that he is still able to continue even after all of the time that has passed.

“F—fuck, i c—can’t cum-mmmm any-anymore…—zzz…” He glitches out, a sob escaping his throat once he feels yet another orgasm slowly but surely approaching. It feels as if he’s been overstimulated for years upon years while your tongue works wonders on his cunt. It feels so good, yet he feels like he cannot take anymore at the same time. But, he does take more, because he can’t handle the way that his lust overdrives the fact that he just cannot take it anymore. He loves the way you overstimulate him while working your tongue on him. “M—mmoree, fuuuuuuckkkk..” He whines aloud, hips bucking up into your mouth. He doesn’t even know what he’s begging for. He doesn’t know what he’s saying. He just needs you.

You peek your head up at him for a mere moment, face and chin covered in his sweet juices, tasting like blue Gatorade. You lick around your lips and the outer-ring of your lips as well, grinning up at Vox smugly. “Say please,” you demand. He merely whimpers at your demand. Underneath his breath, he mutters out a weak “please”, which is shocking due to him usually being a dumb brat. But he has reached a slight subspace, where he only wants your praise and nothing more. It’s a surprise that he isn’t completely non-verbal.. yet. Satisfied, you dive your tongue deep inside his cunt once more, making him let out a guttural yell, his thighs closing around your head again and his legs quivering heavily. He’s very sensitive, especially when he has his cock switched out for a cunt.

Vox, slowly, reaches out for your hand and holds onto it tightly. He goes into a full subspace, his mind cloudy, only thinking about the feeling of your tongue inside his cunt. He can’t muster up a coherent word, instead allowing his whines and whimpers to take up the majority of the sounds inside of the room. He’s damn lucky that his room is soundproof. Otherwise, he would be humiliated with everyone knowing about him getting dominated and getting his pussy eaten out. His whines and whimpers are like a beautiful song to your ears, nothing that could be topped by any other noise in the world. “Mmmm—-zzzz—-mmphhhh…” He lets out a whine turned into a yell once he squirts all over your face once more, tears welling up in his eyes for the 20th time that night.

But even after that, he still feels your tongue working on him, making him whimper. Well, he asked for more, so he’s getting what he wanted.

yahoo you made it to the end!

Hopefully this was alright! Taking more English lessons so yay:) also, I’ve been thinking about releasing my own fics for a while now. Not sure if I should do so butttttt eh whatevs

LAST POST BEFORE I PASS OUT BUT MMFJKFJMDMDMDMMMMMMMM

This was absolutely delicious. I swear I love getting things like this in my inbox. Your lovely and you grace the world with you boycunt Vox content.

SWEET DREAMS FOLKS.

#this was actually so good #like yes absolutely i love it omfffgggg #hazbin hotel x you #hazbin hotel x reader #dom reader #hazbin hotel smut #vox x reader #inbox open #sub vox

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zombee · 6 months

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I feel like the luckiest Our Flag Means Death fan in the world after the season 2 finale. By a series of incredible circumstances - including a significant metatextual realization that came in at the 11th hour - it was close to perfect for me.

This essay has everything. Completely normal behavior over a television series. Steven Universe references. The David Jenkins School of Whatever is Best for the Bit. Humbling catharsis.

First: this piece does not exist with the central thesis of “it’s okay to not like something but that’s not the same thing as it being bad.” I feel like thousands of words have already been written on this since Thursday, so I’m going to try to not get too in depth on that.

Second, cards on the table, because it’s relevant and I don’t want to waste your time if this is going to sour your ability to hear me out: I’m an Izzy Canyon hater. For MANY reasons, but from way before the concept of the Canyon existed, (some) Izzy fans pinged me in the same way as Snape/Kylo Ren fans did, and before May 2022 was over I went from genuinely enjoying Izzy’s character and place in the narrative to hating him because his fans made it impossible for me to enjoy him anymore.

(SOME! of his fans. Please don’t keep making me say this, although I’m not going to talk about the Canyon directly anymore after this. I know there are a ton of normal Izzy Enjoyers and even Canyonites, I am literally friends with many of them, please take this all in the good faith it’s intended and if you’re not One Of The Bad Ones then you’re fine! I very carefully don’t go anti-Izzy on main, and when I stopped enjoying his character, I stopped writing him into fics. I’m not trying to be a dick, I just want to be honest. Anyway.)

The season 2 finale made me weep over Izzy Goddamn hands.

ALL season long, I was disgruntled. All season long. I really, truly, DEEPLY appreciated what they were doing with his character and arc, I thought it was wildly on brand for the themes of community/queerness in the show, I saw the vision, I liked it!!! But. I wanted a fucking apology, yall. I needed three seconds of “sorry I called you a slur, Ed :/” and that would have been enough. But I had to let it go. It was poisoning my enjoyment of the whole season, which I loved with very little exception (not none!) and I just had to let it go. I wasn’t getting an apology. That didn’t negate what they were doing with his character.

Yall. They withheld the apology on purpose.

THIS FUCKING SHOW!!!

Let’s go back a bit. I was at the episode 6 + 7 screening, and the breakup shook me. Probably a LOT more than if I had watched it alone in bed at 3am on my laptop - five days of no sleep after NYCC, lots of emotions, seeing it on a big screen with a hundred other intense fans, etc etc - but I did see other folks reacting in parallel ways to me when the episodes aired to the regular public, so maybe I would have felt the same way. Regardless, I was mad at Stede and to a lesser extent Ed. I NEEDED AN APOLOGY FOR THAT FISH LINE. I needed it! “Whativah” autocorrects to “WHATIVAH” in my phone. I was going through it.

(When I rewatched the episode when it aired it was not nearly as bad as I remember, lol)

So now the episode 8 screeners go out and the reviews drop and I think I catch one half-glimpse of a “What a heartbreaking ending!” kind of snippet, and some of my friends who are spoiler fiends unintentionally drop little hints about similar ideas (devastating/heartbreaking/split the fandom) type shit.

And I was a fucking WRECK! about it.

I do love this whole show with my whole chest. I do!!! But I’m not rotted because this is an excellent television show, I’m rotted because two old men kiss each other! On the MOUTH!!! in an excellent television show. You get it, right? I’ve written 700,000 words across almost 100 fics and 98% of them are dedicated to those two men falling in love in different universes.

So it just did not even occur to me the “heartbreak/devastation/fandom split” would be about anything but Gentlebeard.

Another piece of this that was fucking me up - David Jenkins and his “satisfactory” ending biz. My brain was reacting like this show was ENDING ending, even if I knew logically! that this is just season 2!!! And I wasn’t ready for that, because what if it wasn’t personally satisfying, and I’m a mess about it? Why was I so worried about not liking it? I’d liked the whole season! Even if they didn’t nail the landing I wasn’t going to stop writing fic or hanging out with my pirate community & friends.

…is what I kept trying to tell myself, but the way anxiety disorders work is funny like that lol. What if I did stop writing fic and hanging out in pirate spaces? That would hurt much more than a show I like disappointing me. And for anyone who’s having that experience with ofmd s2, I’m so very, very sorry. It sucks and that’s where my epiphany came from on Wednesday before the finale.

Because it has happened to me before.

I flit from hyperfocus to hyperfocus, as ya do when you’re spicy, but the last thing to get its hooks in me PROPERLY like pirates was Steven Universe. And I did NOT like the way the regular season ended!!! (I actually really did like most of Future; that’s not what I mean. I mean season 5). I don’t like how they handled the Diamonds, tldr; I think the scope of their villainy got too out of hand, and I was left grieving the thing that had meant enough to me I ran a fan convention for four years based around it.

Side note: imagine if I had channeled the hyperfocus of almost a million words of fanfiction into an American OFMD con instead. We could have made magic :( I did consult with Our Con Means Death though so I am at least a teeny tiny bit of that one!

I did not like the way Steven ended… but I do respect the story they were telling and think they told it well.

I’m still sad about it. Steven is still one of my most beloved, it will always be beautiful and great to me, but that experience did and does sully my memories. There is so, so, so, SO much more good than bad from being in that fandom, and I cherish it. And I hope, if you’re having this experience with OFMD right now, that you’ll find similar comfort.

But, like I said at the top, “it’s okay to not like something but that’s not the same thing as it being bad” has been belabored already by people better at writing about it than me. I just had the incredible privilege to remember my brush with lower case T trauma and having that experience in my last REALLY big deal fandom. That’s why I had been so extra anxious about being disappointed. Because it happened to me before. It helped so much to connect those two.

So the finale happens, and it’s actually about twelve hours of me going from “eh, rushed but fun, whole season was great” to “THIS MAYBE IS THE BEST SHOW OF ALL TIME, ACTUALLY!”

BECAUSE THIS SHOW MADE ME CRY OVER IZZY FUCKING HANDS!!!!

They literally told me this was the story they were telling this season. “Men can change” “The end of piracy” “Ed leaving Blackbeard behind (ish).”

As for me? I didn’t get an apology for the fish. Instead, I got “Sorry I was a dick.” “You weren’t a dick. Life’s a dick.”

Just… fuckity BAM. THREE FUCKING SENTENCES resolving that fight. Saying so much in so little.

In real life, should these two men have an actual conversation about this shit? Sure!!! But that’s not how OFMD tells its stories!

It works in symbolism. It works in vibes. It works in an hour’s worth of content into each half-hour episode, and for how much lamenting I have done about the pacing, I would prefer that 100x to having to stretch it out too much.

I have said since March 24, 2022 that OFMD wields anachronism as a weapon. First and foremost, it’s fucking funny, but in addition to that, it’s stating clearly: “This is a fantasy world. This is not real history. This show is about romance (and so much more than that), and the rest is just VIBES!!!”

Sometimes vibes can be historical accuracy. Sometimes vibes can be true emotional poignancy. Sometimes vibes can be Ed finding his sunken leathers in the sea, changing underwater somehow, and coming out of the ocean like the Birth of Fucking Venus, because water and rebirth and mermaids and shit is all very prominent this season. And ALSO, and this is very important! BECAUSE IT LOOKS FUCKING COOL!

I don’t want to do much real Izzy meta here. It’s been said by others, and better than me. But it was telegraphed and it was symbolic – he was the paragon of Traditional Piracy in season 1, for goodness’ sake, and Traditional Piracy is Toxic Masculinity, and he was a part of Blackbeard and Ed had to leave Blackbeard behind (yknow, ish), and he got this ABSOLUTLEY FUCKING LOVELY! storyline about appreciating what a (queer) community can do, and god fucking shit fucking dammit… most of all, best of all (for me), was Buttons landing on Izzy’s grave at the end. Men can change. And Izzy DID!!! He did it for Ed. For love. For community. I am puzzled by “it’s fucked up to use Izzy to further Ed’s storyline” because… this was Ed’s season, in the way that season 1 was Stede’s. And Ed cannot be removed from piracy as a whole (neither can Stede!) so to have this old, set in his ways, coded-queerphobic character blossom to the point he can give this gift to Ed and to piracy… idk man. I just find it so fucking beautiful.

It is okay not to like what they did. It’s okay!!! It’s okay, and it’s okay to mourn, and while it’s not okay to do [insert vile behavior here], it’s okay to carefully examine what you think is “bad writing” vs “what you would have preferred to happen” and give good-faith, textually-based criticism on that.

But I want to remind you over and over and over again, this show works on vibes. It tells its stories leaving many, many, many gaps. There are many things I would have liked to see, and y’know what? I would have told the Izzy story differently. I would have personally done it differently. But it’s not my show! It’s not my show, and I am humbled and delighted to remember that, and to appreciate Our Flag Means Death for what it is and not what it isn’t.

Other words have been written better than I could about the 18 months between seasons 1 and 2 and what that does to us as rabid fans with expectations of how things will go. Millions and millions and millions of words have been written about OFMD, fictional and non, and that is going to color our expectations and experience. We had built it up SO MUCH in our minds and along the way I think some of us forgot (INCLUDING ME!!!) that it is first and foremost about Vibes.

The vibes of Izzy’s death are about rebirth and forgiveness and leaving traditional piracy behind. And he got to die in Ed’s arms, knowing (HAPPILY!) that he had been wrong, and giving Ed the gift of letting him know he is loved, and being a part of something. We had a funeral but we also had a wedding. The only constant is change. Men, piracy, Blackbeard; it all changes. And Izzy found peace in that.

Before my last point, I want to @ myself on things I felt versus realizing in the end it is (I will say it until I’m blue in the face) about vibes.

· I was convinced they left Buttons’ transformation ambiguous because they wanted to leave room for it not having been real. NO!!! It is real, until they decided it isn’t. Magic in the OFMD universe? Fucking why not!!! IT’S SYMBOLIC!!! IT’S IMPORTANT TO ED’S STORYLINE AND THE CENTRAL THESES OF THE SHOW!

· I was unhappy, and still am a little, about the Polycule Situation, but now that I realize Oluwande is Zheng’s Stede… I am less so. The Zheng : Auntie :: Ed : Izzy vibes, btw? Fuckin immaculate.

· Obviously they touched on Stede/Ed’s “killing people trauma” but I’d reallyyyy like Stede to address it, and even though I think Ed’s is left on a very satisfying note, I’d like him to dip a bit more into it as well. But if they don’t, oh well! It’s not like they ignored it, they just didn’t have a Deep Dive like I Wanted Them To!

· They didn’t deal with Ed throwing Stede’s shit away. They just ignored it! Stede started to collect new trinkets, and I believe that was as much about giving the audience back the old feeling of the Revenge as it was anything important (not to say it wasn’t also important thematically!!!). Just like Ed going back to his leathers is both Extremely Important thematically and about putting Taika back in the leathers because that’s what Blackbeard should be wearing for the epic final scenes for the sake of visually keeping the show consistent. That’s Blackbeard’s uniform.

· Stede’s frilly little outfits my beloved. God I hope they give him back some of his frippery in season 3. I think they will re: cursed suit BUT his journey this season was about something else, so!

· Ed’s stupid little non-profit non-apology, oh my god. It was so funny. And there is a transition from eps 5 to 6 where Ed is back in his leathers and the crew is more comfortable around him. They didn’t have to have him do a Real Apology, it’s implied it was all settled. What was the timeline? A day? DOESN’T MATTER, BABY, VIBES!!!

· Lots more, I’m sure, but now that I’ve tried to let it all go, I’m remembering less of what I wanted and appreciating what I got!

And, last point here, I think it is also very very very important to remember that a lot of people are normal about this show. In fact, WAY more people are normal about this show than aren’t. And that is EXTREMELY! IMPORTANT!!! because otherwise it wouldn’t be profitable and we all know what would happen then. We are the core of it, to be sure. Without word of mouth that stems from our intensity, this show would not be NEARLY as successful as it is. I truly, truly believe that.

But.

Do normies need deeply emotional discussions dissecting the central relationships? No. What normies need is Ed and Stede running dramatically toward each other on the beach and kissing. And I am happy, so fucking happy, to realize that’s what I need too. I’ve got fanworks for the rest.

I love this fucking show and this fucking fandom and its fucking creators so much. Fuck.

#our flag means death #ofmd #ofmd s2 #ofmd season 2

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zialltops · 6 days

Text

honeysuckle’s & huckleberry’s

masterlist | ao3 | spotify playlist

You chance a glance over at the outlaw in the driver's seat while he scans his surroundings like he’s done this before, the rear view mirror and the road ahead never leaving his sight. “What if they catch up to us? I don’t want to get arrested, Joel!”

a/n: howdy folks! I’m pulling my head out of my ass and getting back into writing. These last few weeks have been leveling put for me and I’ve been feeling a lot better compared to how my life HAS been. These two were the perfect break even though this took my two whole months for only a few thousand words. I’ll be back sooner than last time with an update, but you’ll see me before then for another wip. Much love, hayhay 🤍

Chapter 8: What Was I Thinkin?

Three hours ago, if you asked Joel how the night would come to its end, he’d tell you he’d probably be in the cabin, laying in his cold bed, staring up at his ceiling fan, alone—with his right hand working his dick to the tune of the farmer’s daughter. In fact, three hours ago, he’d told Tommy something similar.

“Joel, man—I promise It looks fine.”

He adjusts the buttons on his shirt another time, stuck between leaving one undone and letting the opening linger down his chest. “Fine ain’t gonna cover it, Tom—ain’t no way in hell I’m walkin’ up to her lookin jus’ fine.” Tommy huffs from behind him and starts to go through the closet beside Joel while he stares at himself in the body length mirror behind the door.

“What about this one?” Tommy beams, He’s holding up a black shirt on a hanger, slight dust on the shoulders from it’s lack of use. He’s half surprised the moths haven’t gotten to it yet. Its buttons are made of iridescent pearls that snap in place, labyrinthian embroidery adorning the breast pockets. “Ain’t worn it since before the accident.” He lifts one of the sleeves in his hands, lingering on the fitted cuff.

His mind takes him back to half forgotten nights under neon lights, long neck bottles and ropers calluses on his rodeo-worn hands. To money wasted on buckle bunnies and broncs, to years taken off his life under the sharp hooves of a one ton animal—years he’ll never get back. Years he wishes he’d never taken for granted.

He was a more confident man then, not cocky—but proud of his abilities in the arena, proud enough to walk tall, speak surly. He was a master in his sport because he trained religiously, fully immersed in the idea that this was his only shot at making it. He still believes that, even now. He wishes you could have met him then, when he was that Joel—Rodeo buckles and spurs, cowboy hats and stadium lights. When he was a white straw hat and chaps, an unsullied grin with a thirst for adrenaline and belt buckles.

He holds the black cotton between his well worked fingers and longs to be that man again—if only for one night. Would you like him? A cowboy in his prime with worked muscles, before his beer belly and the softness in his chest really set in? “This one’s good,” he huffs, brushing the dust off the shoulders before unbuttoning it enough to remove it from the hanger. “Lemme help you.” His brother offers. Joel’s not naive, he knows the fear is visible atop the surface of his flushed skin, in the deepened frown lines and the shake in his hands.

Tommy is a lot of things, but once in a while he softens around his selfish edges and he bends a little, reaching out for the weeping limbs of his brother, struggling with all his might to keep himself standing up straight in the storm, a resilient and irrepressible figure to look up to. Tommy sees the way the longing shines through the perforations in his irises, the way his shoulders slump with oppressive burden—and he takes pity on the older man. “I’ll wash it real quick while you shower. It’ll be good as new, fresh outta the dryer by the time you're done.” He looks up at Joel, who’s still transfixed in the forgotten token of his former youth, of the man who he used to be. Items he’d left in storage down in Austin that Hank had so graciously shipped to Jackson.

He almost wishes he’d never gotten it all back, it was easier then—to hide from who he was when he wasn’t reminded of his past every single day, but once in a while—that reckless, spotlight chasing cowboy grasps for the surface. And tonight? Tonight is your birthday, the town dance, where you’re going to be, probably looking like something Joel doesn’t have a shot in hell with. It’s your damn birthday and he wants to ask you to dance but he’s not sure the fee quick dance lessons he got will suffice. What if he stumbles? Steps on your pretty little feet? Drops you?

“Joel—“ there's a snap in front of his face and he pulls himself out of the chaos inside of his mind. “Man, you are loosin’ it. I’ve never seen you this wound up over some girl—“ his eyes snap up to his brothers and he huffs lowly. “She ain’t just—some girl. She’s Hank and Lou’s daughter, people I think of as family. She’s smart and resourceful, sometimes a little reckless but she makes me feel like…like I’m alive for once.” Tommy sets the black shirt down and sit on the side of Joel's bed. Beside him, Joel's weight sinks onto the mattress. “M’gettin’ old, Tom. I don’t have a lot of good years left in me and I don’t know if I’ll ever have a opportunity like this again.”

Tommy takes a glance over at the distant look in his brothers eyes. “Opportunity?” Joel's eyes flick over and he sighs. He wishes Tommy had a little bit of what he had built inside of him, the innate goal of settling down, finding where he belongs and who he belongs with.

“At bein’ happy. Good memories for my restless nights.” If he fucked this up and missed his chance, he’s not sure he’ll have it in him again, if it will ever feel like this with anyone else. He thinks he’s done, thinks you’re it. He thinks he could give you forever if you’d let him.

“S’that why you’re so messed up in the head? What, do you think she’s going to shoot you down?” Tommy’s voice picks up in pitch, offense used like a weapon to get his point across and Joel appreciates the gusto. “Think I’m gonna go home alone tonight. Think it’s just gonna be me and the crickets and this damn hand again, dreamin’ bout how damn sweet she is.”

Tommy’s hand reaches into the breast pocket of his shirt and he retrieves a silver flask, offering it to his older brother who takes it with unsure fingers. “Just be yourself, man. Walk up to her like you belong there. Just need a little bit of confidence, don’t let her think you’re second guessing yourself. I don’t know her like you do—but I know that girl is more than willing when it comes to you.”

Joel takes a long swig of rot-gut whiskey, lets is sink into his bones and find the will to drag himself into the shower and wash away the saw dust lingering on his skin from the floor of the dance hall, ease some of the soreness in his knees and back from learning how to dance.

When he’s finished, there's a clean shirt and a flask laying on his bed. Joel finishes off the whiskey before he fastens the first button.

Liquid courage is the only thing that gets him to town.

He’s everywhere—everywhere. His hands burn on your thigh, on your hip where they dig in just a little too roughly when he pins you to the wall beside the back door. The second it closed behind you, there was a desperation clinging to the early spring air, perforating the slight chill until it shimmied beneath it and took life in the form of heat dripping across your exposed flesh. It was sticky and hot, sucking you in like a vortex straight to the center of what your world revolved around—Joel Miller and his touch that feels like fire.

He tastes like alcohol and tooth paste and part of you wonders if that’s what's changed about him, why he was so willing to let go of his reservations in-front of half of the town. He’s been drinking, drowning his insecurities enough to throw himself at you bravely.

Will he still be this Joel when you open your eyes in the morning? Will he regret it?

His teeth dig into your bottom lip and your brain goes fuzzy, stars forming behind your closed eyes. Insecurities can wait until tomorrow, you decide. His hips press forward ever so slightly and the outline of his cock can’t go unnoticed, not with the way it makes the fabric of your panties drag against your clit tantalizingly. Behind your closed eyes, the stars morph into crackles of fireworks, filling your senses with bright pleasure and desperate desire to chase those lights into the night.

You hike your legs higher, trying to drag him into the delicious delirium with you. The movement pulls a guttural groan out of the broad cowboy. “Joel—Joel,” you need his hands to leave brands on your skin where they’ve touched you, setting fire to your soul. “I know—fuck, baby, I know.” Is he crumbling like you, throwing himself into this very moment right here? Is he as desperate as you are? Does it feel like a travesty and a triumph? The yearning you’ve endured, for the victory of finally knowing what he feels like when he kisses the breath from your lungs.

It’s more than you know how to articulate—more devastating than you anticipated and yet—it’s still not enough. It won't be enough until his heart beats in time with your own and you feel him wrapped up in your body

His teeth dig into your jaw and your body reacts before you tell it to, searching for the release only he can bring you.

“Touch me, please—please, touch me.”

And suddenly, in the time it takes to flip on a light switch, he’s gluttonous, insatiable and voracious—a wild predator set loose just to turn on its careful handler. The only thing that comes to mind, in comparison, is a pack of wolves frenzied to sink their teeth into the supple flesh of their prey.

In your case—Joel is the starved pack—and you? You are but an unsuspecting doe, practically sacrificing yourself to his uncontrollable famine.

Those thick digits, adorned with callouses earned from laborious work, hastily push aside the fabric of your dress in search of your covered center. He feels so fucking good when those digits push their way past the hem of your panties and he gasps against the shell of your ear. Like it feels just as good to him, letting the pads of his index and middle finger tease the seam of your lips before slipping between and dragging those rough digits over your hardened clit. It’s all the built up want, longing, needing that makes him feel so other-worldly, you’ll never experience something like this, the rush of relief to finally be his.

His fingers dip lower, searching for the source of all this slick adorning his knuckles, when his thumb drags idly over your already sensitive clit. Its like an electric shock straight to your sternum, arching you forward in search of anchorage to this reality altering interaction. There's a hint of alcohol swimming behind your fluttering eyelids, but his shuddering groan is sickeningly sobering. You want to say something, tell him how good he makes you feel, but the words bubble up in your chest and hang in your throat in the form of a silent sob, your mouth hanging open and your toes curling against your shoes.

“There it is, huh? S’what finally gets you quiet? Just needed me to touch your pussy, didn’t you?” Where the hell has this Joel been hiding? He’s never been so vulgar, so vocal and confident in himself. His fingers tease the soft ring at your opening, smearing slick around on his fingers when he leans against your front to press his face against your heaving chest and neck. His fingers plunge in—and your body jerks against his solid form. He lets you shudder and tighten up against him while his thumb moves steadily, never coming off the peak of your nerve—locked on it with such perfected percussion that there is no jerky catch, just steady—drowning pleasure. His rough pant of breath paints your shoulder in sticky warmth and your thighs tighten around him, begging to draw him into your desperation.

“She’s just cryin’ for me, ain’t she, Honey?” His drawl sounds like sweet tea on a hot summer afternoon, like your sight set on the Austin sunset from the seat of an old saddle, driving cattle through tall grass and endless horizons.

Being touched by Joel Miller feels like coming home.

He finds a steady pace, working his fingers in and out, each drag punctuated by the ridges of his knuckles and the rough pads of his finger tips. Just faintly, you can make out the wet sound your sex makes every time he fucks his fingers into you intentionally. Its instantaneous the way heat blooms in your pelvis, knotting up in your stomach until you’re so overwhelmed, you’re trembling in his grip. “She’s so fuckin’ greedy, pretty little cunt needs to be stuffed, don’t she? G’damn, you’re quiverin’—you gonna cum f’me already?” His words are like a dirty secret, never meant to be revealed—knowing exactly what kind of storm that truth would bring. Let the rain pour down, let the thunder crack and the gusts rip the apprehension from your bones—because Joel Miller wants you and you’ve been waiting for this moment for two years.

You’ve imagined this a million times, slipped your fingers between your legs to the mere idea of this revered and dignified southern gentleman—more once you’d put a face to the elusive cowboy. No matter how deeply you lost yourself to your imagination, none of it will ever amount to the way cold brick feels against your exposed back, the way denim jeans ruffs up the insides of your smooth thighs, the way a felt Stetson bumps against your temple when his fingers curl against a spot inside of you no man has ever found, dragging the air from your lungs, robbing your vocal cords of their melody. With your eyes rolled back and your desire strung tight, you manage to string together enough sound to produce words.

“Yes-Yes, Joel—make me cum! Please!”

A third, assured finger slips in right beside the other two and slam forward, sending you spiraling down that one way path towards pure ecstasy. His fingers curl again and his thumb quickens, pushing you up and up until you’re sure you’re about to melt through his finger tips, a weeping puddle at his feet. “That’s it, pretty girl—cum on these fingers, let me feel her squeeze me.”

His command is your saving grace, the final twist that undoes the well wound rope holding you together. A variation of his name rips from your throat and consumes the space around you, invoking a bright euphoria that shrouds every nerve ending you possess. He doesn’t even know what he’s just subjected your body to—a life altering experience that you will never be able to recreate with another person. “S…s’the best orgasm I’ve ever had,” is the only thing your mind conjures up once you’ve come down enough to speak. He’s still holding onto you, slowly slipping his fingers out and letting you down with a satisfied chuckle.

“Wunna taste you,”

How will you handle another assault from that honed attention? How will you ever unsee that unruly tousle of curls between your thighs?

He doesn’t give you long enough to form a protest before he’s rushing you through the parking lot, a determination in his step that you’ve never seen. He’s surpassed the point of antsy when he yanks open the passenger door and finds leverage on your hips to hoist you up, then toss you down on the torn upholstery. You should say something—tell him to slow down before you pass out from the burn of his hands—but fuck you don’t want him to stop, consciousness be damned.

Instead, you watch him set his cowboy hat on the dusty dashboard, the silver trim of the band shimmering with luster in the golden street lamps. He drinks your body in visibly, relishing in every curve and inhale of breath. When his vision finds yours, they are nearly black with desire—his pupils having consumed every inch of bourbony brown. When his big hands find your thighs again, the resistance bleeds away and gives way to insurmountable, greedy hunger.

“C’mere, girl.” The hands on your thighs dig into the flesh, leaving finger shaped dimples in your sensitive skin. “Lemme see that fuckin’ pussy.” Jesus christ.

If your friends could see you now, they’d all laugh at how easy you are, but right now—it’s just you and your cowboy—you’ll never be anything but easy for him.

His hands move with fever, hastily pushing your dress up your hips. “I’m going to fucking ruin you, babygirl. Only word you’ll know is my name when I’m finished with you.” That same ferocious want consumes you, possessing your hands to work on their own accord, helping Joel shimmy your panties down your thighs and over your heels.

You have enough time to register the way he stuffs the black lace into the front pocket of his wranglers before that head of his is forcing its way under your dress. He spreads your legs easily, pushes and pulls with his hands until his mouth seals over your clit, drenching your nervous system in blinding heat.

He’s good, so good at this. His tongue slides through your dripping folds with a tedious, monotonous rhythm. He’s licking for a taste, for his own glutinous thirst based on the way he groans and sighs against the softness of your lips. His eyes flick up at the same time your body starts to quiver, trying to adjust to so much honed desire narrowed in on you. “J-Joel, please don’t st-top.” Your eyes start to leave his in favor of rolling back in your head when your chest arches out, searching for a breath of sobering air, for something to hold onto so you don’t crumble apart. “Feels so good—you feel so good.”

His mouth closes over you and he sucks, pulling your clit against the smoothness of his tongue as he flicks it over and over, soothing the sensitive bud, while actively robbing you of any coherent train of thought. The only sounds that leave your lungs are sharp gasps and whines, fueled by the low groaning sound he’s muffling between your thighs. He releases you and your body reels, drawing in breath after breath to catch up with your racing heart.

“Wunna split this little pussy open on me,”

Oh fuck, oh fuck fuck—fuck.

You have long enough to gaze down at him, watching as he slides the flat of his tongue through your lips, over the sensitive bud, before your head is dipping back again.

“I’ve been practicing—I got, oh, fuck Joel, like that,” you heave and he pulls away completely, shocking you into a mewling, whining mess. “You got what, baby, use your words.”

Your body bares down on nothing, /wish he would just give it up already, unbuckle that belt, push down those wranglers and fuck you like you deserve. Joel grunts while he watches, letting it rumble through his whole body. “Got a toy that’s as big as you so I could practice. So I'd be able to take you.”

His whole demeanor shifts, alternating from this brazen, confident cowboy to the man suddenly lost between your thighs, sucking and slurping, licking and moaning to himself. He’s gutless, starving and desperate, he whimpers when you squeeze your thighs and cry his name, holding on tight until the flash of blue and red and the sound of a loud voice rips him from his mission.

“Jackson Police department, step away from the vehicle!”

Joel rips himself away from your body before you even have a chance to cover yourself. “Fuck-fuck,” he looks around sharply, eying the lone officer in a tan blazer with flashing lights fastened to its hard top. The sheriff has a light in their hand, leaning over the side of the blazer. You manage to pull your dress down and scoot back, trying to hide yourself from the light shining on the two of you.

Joel's gaze falls away from the officer, parked behind the truck, blocking it in. Instead, he looks forward, into the clearing in front of the parking lot, half lit by the street lamp. His jaw clicks and he looks set on whatever is going through that big brain of his. “Put a seat belt on.”

What?

Joel grabs his hat and slides across the bench seat quickly, slamming the door behind him. He makes it across you and throws himself in front of the steering wheel, finding the ignition quickly to turn the keys in the shaft.

The chevy roars to life at the same time that he slams the gear shifter into drive and plows over the parking block. Before you have a chance to register what's happening, the blue pickup is sliding through mud and grass, leaving tire tracks in the field as he cuts through it towards the highway.

“Joel, what in the—fuck!“ you shout, reaching up for the oh-shit handle, while the other hand reaches for the solid form beside you, grasping him by the bicep as he snorts nervously. “Just—calm down for a second, we’ll lose ‘em.”

Your heart races and your nerves radiate through your entire body. You’re a good kid, you’ve never ran from the cops before, never been in trouble for crying out loud. You did your best in school, tried to make your parents proud despite your small side of rebellion. And yet, here you are—trying your best to hang on while he cuts corners and runs stop signs, old alleyways and back roads through the thickets. The truck roars past speed limit signs, loosing rodeo flyers pinned to telephone poles when he slams the gears—orange papers fluttering in the settling dust.

He snorts, taking another random left and speeding down the street. “Ain’t gonna get arrested, honey. Just trust me.”

Trust him? How could he even ask you that, like that wasn’t what this was all along. You trusted him like you trusted the sun to set and rise again, like you trusted the birds to sing and the rivers to run—you’d trusted Joel with your family’s dream and he never let you down.

Somewhere along the way, you lose the ability to fight off your grin, Joel manages to leave flashing red and blue in a cloud of dust. He cuts through a group of trees leading into a clearing and shuts off the lights. He drives by moonlight, effectively covering his tracks and making his way onto another road, leading up the mountain towards the ranch. He pulls off another dirt road that is cut out along the side of the hill, but he isn’t in as much of a hurry as he was before. He takes a last left, bringing the truck to the edge of the hillside that overlooks the entire town of jackson—from the dance hall—to the bar—to the red and blue set of lights on the south side of town, still looking for you and your cowboy.

The world grants you a few silent moments to catch your breath, before it completely robs you of tingling in your muscles, the conscious connection between the two of you. The reality of being truly alone with him is sobering, with nothing but the trees and the wildlife to offer a distraction.

Now that the air has cooled and your heart has finished pounding in your ears, you can make out the faint hum of the stereo, the FM dial lit up by the soft glow behind it. The station is still the same as it was when you were a girl, riding in your daddy’s pickup, playing old country music like it did in the days of your youth.

Now, it rings in your ears with the nerves seeping into your bones, settling into an uncomfortable dust. Right now, of all times? Anxiety has to claw up your chest and wrap around your throat while his saliva is still drying on the inside of your thighs?

Fuck, his beard is still glistening in the green-glow of the stereo.

“You’re starin’ at me.” He says almost quietly. You expected him to tease and flirt, maybe boast, but his voice waivers halfway through and you start to pick up on his slight nerve. Under all that charm and intensity is starting to give way to a much more vulnerable Joel—a man you know all too well.

“You’re just, uh—“ you swallow thickly and try to find the courage to meet his deep brown eyes. “Your beard is…wet.” When you do find his irises, his mouth picks up in a half smirk. If he’s as scared as you are right now, he’s doing a good job of hiding it. He’s giving it everything he’s got to hide it from you.

It’s been so long and you need this. Need to be touched, appreciated, worshipped.

The look in his eyes tells you that he’s eager to kneel.

“And who’s fault is that, hmm?” That sweet, sultry accent drags you in, sliding closer on the seat until you're nearly tucked into his side, leaned back against the seat while he looms over you. He’s still nervous, you can see it floating around in his dark eyes, but his jaw clicks like he’s trying to rein something in.

Silence falls upon you once more, but unbeknownst to the cicadas and the crickets, your dancing gazes say everything you need to hear. His eyes drop to your lips and yours to his. His tongue peaks out unconsciously, wetting his bottom lip ever so slightly—like he’s tasting you there.

His mouth clicks shut and it's then that you glance up. His eyes are back on yours, suddenly so much softer with a lulled arch to his eyebrows. In the depths of his eyes you find renewed hunger, fire burning in those pools of smooth chocolate. Your body relaxes, succumbs to the form of his plains of muscles adorning his body. When you tilt your head up to him in offering, you sink so deeply into those dark pools you can nearly taste the sweetness of him like velvety candy melting against your taste buds.

“Joel—“ you choke out, deciding then that if he waits a second longer you’ll suffocate.

There's things about this life that can never be stopped, inexorable phenomenons that are unavoidable. The seasons will always change. The storms will always come, lightning will always strike. The days will always end and the sun will rise again on the next.

And Joel Miller will always, always break when you say his name like that.

He falls into you with a sharp intake of breath, crashing his mouth against yours with surprising accuracy. It’s so easy to let him take over with the perfect combination of rush and savor he puts into the way he envelops you. His mouth is soft, but persistent, wrapping around your bottom lip when he sucks it between his teeth for a soft bite that makes you want to live in this moment forever.

You nearly do because you get absolutely lost in kissing him, you don’t protest when he leans you back on the bench seat, you don’t put up any sort of fight when he spreads your thighs with his wide hips. When his hands grip your knees, you know you’re completely done for.

He pulls away from your mouth and his eyes find yours in the low green glow and there, you find everything you’ve ever longed for.

“I…I think,” Joel shifts, looking down at his hands like he’s just woken up from sleep walking straight into your heart and soul. “I think I should get you home, s’gettin late.”

Late? Your poor muddled brain cannot keep up with how quickly he fades in and out of doing anything to have you, to be terrified to touch you. How quickly he slips into a starved desire to shaking in his boots.

Not for the first time, you wish you could reach right into his brain and pull out whatever it is that makes him think you don’t want those rough hands all over your bare body. He’s already had a taste of you, already kissed you—what more could be standing in his way?

“Home? Joel, we were just getting started—“ he clears his throat and sits up, trying to slide away from you but your heels dig into his tailbone and drag him back. “Started down a road we both know only leads to nothing but trouble and regret.”

What, the, fuck?

“I’m—you think this is a bad idea?”

The uncomfortable air settles back in between you and your legs around him loosen. “Think you're going to realize really quickly this ain’t what you want and this—I’ve got…too much on the line.”

He has too much on the line? What about the ranch? Your childhood home about to be lost to the bank? What about the dance hall where he’s built a new floor to make you smile? Does it all wash away with his assumed doom?

“What are you saying? This…this was a mistake? Joel I still have your fucking spit drying on my pussy and you—you regretted it already?” The realization feels like a dull blade straight to your gut, forcing it way in and twisting you from the inside out. It burns with shame and agony and you pull yourself out from under his sturdy build.

“I didn’t mean—I regret anything, fuck knows I don’t—“ no, no. You’ve given this man so much of yourself, committed so much to be thrown around and have your feelings stomped on.

“Then what the fuck does it mean, Joel! You—you made me cum while telling me you wanted to stuff my cunt but now you think this is…” you have a realization then, that maybe—just maybe, he does actually regret it. What does he think, you’d turn around and throw him out on his ass? If he truly thinks that low of you then maybe…

“This was a big fucking mistake.” You say coldly, making up your mind as you right your bunched up dress and adjust your fixed gaze on the passenger side window.

“Take me home.” It’s not a request.

It’s not an invitation, either, Joel understands as he watches you close the front door behind you later that night, settling his made up mind.

He presses his palm to his crotch twice and comes in his pants right there in the driveway, just like he knew he was going to.

And he feels like a fucking fool.

#joel miller #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x reader #pedro pascal #the last of us #joel the last of us #joel tlou #archive of our own #cowboy!joel miller #joel miller x you #joel miller x y/n #joel miller smut

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yeehawpurgatory · 6 months

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I’m a big fan of the idea that Hosea’s ghost torments Dutch after the events of rdr2. In fact I love the idea that Dutch sees many folks as ghosts.

I can imagine Dutch going insane slowly because he knows he sees Hosea whether it’s a glance of him, a split second in a mirror he’s sure Susan’s staring back at him with red anger in her eyes. From the corner of his eyes he sees Molly weeping. Annabel he sometimes hears her voice whisper in his ear to save her from whatever cruel fate befell her in the end. But Arthur’s he hears in his head, like the voice of reason, along with Hosea’s angry beratement.

Whether it’s really the matter of his psyche or actual ghostly things at play is unknowable to him.

Dutch who’s terrorized in his own head by the once familiar voices of those he’s doomed along the way.

#happy halloween #(belated)#rdr2 #dutch vanderlinde #hosea matthews #susan grimshaw #arthur morgan #molly o’shea #rdr2 annabel

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exquisiteserotonin · 8 months

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Precious Possessions, Chapter 3

Here we are folks, the final (maybe?) installment of Precious Possessions. I might be a little biased, but this might be the hottest chapter yet.

Series Summary: Defense intelligence conferences are always the same informative but also always boring. You didn't expect anything different for this one, but an unexpected meeting with a man named Dave York, changes the trajectory of your conference experience and maybe even more.

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Pairing: Dave York X F!Reader

Word Count: 4.3K

Rating & Warnings: HEAVY E! (This one is definitely absolutely not for minors, MDNI!!! 18+ ONLY) This fic contains, but are not limited to the following, dom!Dave, semi-sub reader, spanking, bondage, overstimulation, PiV sex, creampie, oral (f! and m! receiving)dirty, dirty talk.

A/N: Not beta'd, very little use of y/n. I really really enjoyed writing this. I hope you love reading it! Thank you to my magical sluts for all the encouragement <3 Love you bbs. @legendary-pink-dot @imalrightllama @sparklefarts38 @blueheat1-blog @best-little-secret @redhotkitchen @basicoccult

Yes there is a playlist could listen to while reading this.

York Times Playlist

Chapter 3: Disclosure

Keeping your hands off each other was a battle that neither of you were keen on winning, knowing the pleasure that would be in store once you made it upstairs to your room or his, you didn’t care which. With discretion still at the front of your brain as you suggested to Dave that you walk in first to avoid suspicion and accusatory glances. The lobby still buzzed with some conference attendees coming and going to enjoy evening revelries outside the conference hotel. A handful of others still flitted around the bar drunkenly networking and schmoozing.

You found your way to a quiet spot, tucked away from the lobby. Still drunk with the memory of his fingers inside you, the knot inside you tightened in anticipation of him and how your pussy would feel after he sunk every inch of himself into you. The sound of footsteps echoed to your ears, and you turned expecting to see Dave standing before you. Instead, you found Brad, face red and splotchy with drunkenness. He leaned over at the wall over you, the smell of too much hair product and cheap beer wafting to your nose. You rolled your eyes so hard that you swear it could be heard.

“Hey you,” his voice was loud, nasal, and badgering like a bad car salesman, “where have you been?”

“Out...networking,” you stated, “you know how it is.”

“You go out networking looking like that?” He formed his thin lips into a whistle as he looked you up and down, “You are seriously holding out on all of us.”

“No, I’m really not,” you shrugged, beginning to look at your phone, “I’m just super selective about who I network with.”

“Come on, we all know it’s not about what you know,” Brad said moving in so close that you felt his humid breath stew on your skin , “it’s about who you know.”

“And who the hell are you?” You said coiling away from him, your skin itchy and crawling with a slow worm of disgust.

“Are you serious?” The entitlement he held in these words as he spoke them disgusted you. “Do you know who my father is?”

“Oh we’re going there?” You scoffed. “Please, I didn’t need to rely on my daddy to get where I am today.”

“But I bet you like fucking powerful men don’t you, you whore!” He grated, grabbing and shaking you by the arms.

Grabbing ahold of his arm, you shoved him off you back into a wall. He stumbled backwards, nearly falling into the potted plant behind him. Dave’s timing could not have been more perfect, as you saw him round the corner.

“Fuck you, you brainiac bitch,” he cried and you nearly laughed at the entitlement weeping in his voice.

“We have a problem here?” Dave's eyes were like lasers on Brad.

“It’s fine, Brad’s just drunk and disappointed,” you explained with nonchalance, “let’s go.”

“Have fun fucking a married man, you two-bit whore!” he bellowed. “Wouldn't it be fun if his wife found out about you two?”

Unblinking, you bounded forward with one foot ready to lunge at him until Dave held you back with nothing but a gesture of his hand. Silently, he walked towards Brad until he stood face to face with him. He leaned forward like a predator sniffing its prey. You watched mesmerized as Dave took a commanding hand to force Brad backwards by the base of his neck. He hit the wall with a loud thump. Dave’s eyebrows narrowed downward and his chocolate brown eyes faded to deep black pools void of any sparkle that you found in his eyes earlier that evening. You could see as he whispered something to him through growling teeth. Whatever it was, it was enough to have Brad stumbling away, dumbfounded and cursing something under his breath about how his father would hear about this. He turned back to you giving you a look that said: Don’t worry, it’s all taken care of.

A tight excitement percolated in your stomach, up to your chest, and neck when you noticed no one was following you into the elevator. As the doors closed behind you and after Dave pushed one of the floor buttons, you grabbed his sweater and pulled his body to yours until his lips crashed into yours in a fervent kiss. The heat between you intensified as his massive hands made their slow journey over every curve of your body, slipping past your waist until they found a firm grip on your ass.

“What did you tell the poor bastard?” you asked, between wet, needy kisses.

“Nothing serious,” as he brought his hand to your face, down to your clavicle and then cupping your breast, “just that I would find him and kill him if he made threats like that again.”

“Understandable,” you breathed, as you felt his soft lips and his tongue dip onto your neck to your cleavage.

He pulled down your bra to expose your breast evoking a desperate cry from your throat, “You have to protect yourself--keep up appearances.”

He pulled you close, licking and biting at your nipple.

“Besides, no one’s going to talk about my dirty, pretty, little slut like that,” he said as he pressed you into one of the walls of the elevator.

The elevator came to a stop on his floor, something you hadn’t expected. The thought of entering a space that was private to him sent a tingle throughout your body, emanating from the center of you. He was clutching your hand tightly in his, your fingers intertwined with his in a libidinous daze. The moment he pressed the keycard to his room door, your pussy pulsated for him.

Inside, one bedside lamp illuminated the room, everything clean and presentable for you. Your heart began pounding in your chest in anticipation, until he reached behind wrapping his arms around your waist, his hands traveling upwards to massage your breasts. Every nerve ending in your body vibrated at his touch, his hands reaching down the front of your dress into your bra to play with your nipples. Your mind was spinning, your thoughts unable to keep up with the moves your body made. With a strong grip, Dave spun you around to face him, pushing you back to his bed with such force that you bounced when you hit the mattress.

“Did you fantasize about me earlier this afternoon?” Dave voiced with a gruff whisper in your ear, as he crawled over you coaxing more sweetness to drip from your center. “When you had a headache, did you touch yourself? Make yourself come wishing it was me?”

“Yes!” you moaned. “I did.”

With a firm right hand, he squeezed your face, forcing your gaze towards his, “Yes, what?”

You bit your lip before providing the response you knew he desperately wanted, “Yes, daddy.”

A low moan vibrated in his chest and the feeling of his hardening bulge against your thigh had you lightheaded. You opened your mouth, presenting your tongue for him. He took it with a groan of satisfaction. Teeth, tongue, and lips intertwined together, so hungry that you could swallow each other. Your lips and his were red, hot, and swollen once they parted to find one moment to breath. Dave stood up from the bed, pulling his sweater over his head, almost taking the V-neck t-shirt he was wearing underneath with him. It gave you a small peek of his belly as it clung to his defined abdomen.

He switched places with you, spreading his legs wide as he sat down to unbuckle his belt, setting it neatly beside him on the wrinkled sheets. The freckles on his chest peeked out from the deep v of his shirt, making you yearn for more. You watched as his massive hands caressed the fabric of his jeans. The way he made a show of taking off his wedding ring before you set off something carnal inside you. He placed it on the nightstand next to the bed, a gesture so erotic that it forced you to erupt with an involuntary moan. He looked up at you with heavy eyelids as he grabbed you. He left a kiss at your pelvis as he slipped his hands underneath taking hold of your ass.

“Take off your clothes.” He ordered.

You complied, feeling the soft knitted fabric of your dress cascade down your skin like a waterfall, pooling on the floor. You stood before him, inhibited only by the strapless bra and cheeky underwear you wore. With one gesture of his hand he beckoned you to him. His hands were supple yet powerful as he massaged his hands up your thighs.

“C’mere baby,” he gestured to his lap, “lean over.”

It was like second nature to obey him. You leaned on your abdomen over his knees with an automaticity that was so unlike you. He used his hands to push his hair off your shoulders, tracing down the shape of your waist, until they rested on your ass. The anticipation of what he was going to do next was burning your body.

“Fuck, you’re gorgeous,” he groaned, massaging your ass, approaching closer and closer to your center.

“Please,” you begged, wiggling for him.

Before you could say anything else, you heard a low chuckle rise out of his chest followed by the sharp pain of his hand slapping your ass. The initial stinging quickly transformed into pleasure with just enough respite for him to slap again, but with more force eliciting from you a loud, long moan. Your center grew more wet by the second and between slaps you felt Dave’s fingers graze over the soft fabric of your underwear, teasing you. Another loud, strong slap met your ass giving you pain and pleasure while tears formed at the corner of your eyes.

“Fuck, my gorgeous, dirty girl.”

Another smack.

And another moan.

“Who do you belong to?” He asked as you heard the familiar ringing of his belt buckle.

Pants of your anxious anticipation were all you could muster andyou failed to answer him.

The crack of his belt came down on your ass and you cried out into the back of your hand.

“I said, ‘who do you belong to?’”

The hedonistic crack of leather stung you again, leaving your ass hot and quivering.

“You, Dave,” you answered your moans mixed with tears of ecstasy, “I belong to you.”

And then came one, two, three more whips of his belt sweeped down on you.

The audible sound of Dave taking in a long, deep breath of your essence was a moment of blissful respite. Two deep breaths of your own was all you were allowed before you felt his hands ripping off your underwear. A slap of his hand to your pussy was nearly enough to make you come, writhing over his knees. The tips of his fingers caressed your folds before he entered your center with two long fingers. You gripped furiously at the sheets on the bed, feeling your center throb as he pumped, moved, and twisted in and out of you. You could feel your climax rising, but all he left you with was a desperate cry and a feeling of emptiness as he pulled his fingers from you.

“You’ll come when I let you, firefly” his voice rumbled.

He stood up, letting you roll to the center of the bed. It was a desperate scramble for you to remove your bra, bare and open for him. Every move of his electrified you as he pulled off his shirt, revealing broad shoulders and chest, lines forming at the sides of his abdomen, but with a softer belly. The anticipation sparked inside you as he removed his pants and you saw his hard cock, a twitching, veiny god ready for you to worship.

“I knew you’d be big,” you felt like a lioness ready to pounce on her mate.

You crawled towards him ready to grab his cock, to show him how much you wanted him, to show him how well you could please him. Instead he shoved you back down on the bed, crawling up your body with his hands tracing up your curves until he had one hand gripping the base of your neck. The pressure with which he held your neck was exquisite and the heat that blazed from him to you had you bucking your hips in desire, longing for him to thrust into you. The ravenous look in his eyes told you that he was completely in control. He quickly bound your wrists together over your head using his belt. A breathy moan escaped you as he rolled his body against yours, feeling your nipples press against his broad, firm chest before he kissed you. The sudden feeling of the silky fabric of his tie covering your eyes had you panting and your heartbeat thumping into your ears.

All your senses heightened as you twisted in anticipation, every hair on your body raised with the electricity he sparked in you. An indignant pout and whimper left your mouth as you lay in wait for any touch he decided to bestow upon you.

“Please, please Dave!’

“I like you like this, firefly,” he growled into your ear, “open and begging for me.”

Your breaths and your pulse grew faster as his hands massaged your breasts before his fingers pinched your nipples. Your yelp filled the air as you felt his capable hands explore your body. The warm air of his breath reached your mound and his muscular forearms spread your legs open wide for him. You heard him breathe your scent into his nose, his loud groan vibrating your folds as though he’d been presented with the sweetest smelling fruit. Not a second later, you felt his broad tongue lick a firm, slow stripe from your center all the way to your clit. You cried out his name as he masterfully explored your folds, pulling the smaller petals into his mouth and then letting go to focus the front of his tongue to swirling, flicking, and lunging at your clit until all you could do was sob and fight against the restraints on your wrists.

You knew his tongue would be heaven but didn’t expect just how adept he would be at finding your pleasure. It couldn’t get better than this. It just couldn’t. His next devotion was to wrap his lips around your clit and savoring it as the most delectable fruit he’d ever tasted. The blazing desire creeped up your chest to your neck, and your breaths were heaving, your center trembled as he refused to take his mouth off you. A loud, long scream of his name filled the room, as you bucked your hips from the overstimulation of his tongue as it brought you to orgasm.

His lips released you and you lay on the bed, blissful, dizzy, and unresistant. He took off your blindfold, permitting you to see his handsome lust-filled face. His lips were painted with your slick. He brought his lips to yours, the taste of you mixing with the sweet taste of his lips. His massive hands explored your body until he held his grip at your throat.

“Do you see how good you taste, you dirty slut?” He said through gritted teeth. “I’m gonna make you mine, completely.”

He unbuckled the belt around your wrists, and he pulled you up to him, pressing your bodies together. Sweat dotted your body as your heat intertwined. You needed to keep your lips held to his in a messy and hungry kiss. Pulling him as close as possible to you, you wrapped your arms around him, gripping him and feeling his cock grow thick and long with the need for you. You dug your nails into his back, a groan of pleasure vibrating from his chest. Yet he pushed you back to the bed, his expression mixed with anger and intrigue.

“Naughty girl!” He said with a low roar shoving you away from him. “I didn’t give you permission to do that.”

You grabbed his face with a smirk before you kissed him again.

“Your wife would never do this for you,” you sucked his lip. “She’d never succumb to you the way I do.”

You laughed as he tossed you face down onto the bed. Your cunt was weeping and ready for him. He grabbed your arms behind you, looping his belt meticulously around your wrists, tightening it to make sure you could not loosen it on your own.

You wiggled your ass at him, straining your wrists against your restraints.

“Fuck, do you feel how hard you make me, baby?” He slapped his cock onto your pussy, drawing a loud yelp from you. “Look at how pretty your pussy is throbbing and wet for me, I wanna fill you up with so much of my cum that it’s dripping down your legs.”

“Please, give it to me!” You begged.

Another yelp echoed in the room as he gave your ass a hard smack. You smiled to yourself knowing you’d have marks from him, too.

“I need you to be more specific, firefly,” he uttered as he slapped his cock against your pussy again. “Tell me what you need, baby.”

The way you wanted him was so intense that you were nearly in tears and you responded breathlessly, “I need you to stretch me and ruin this pussy with your big, fat cock. Please fuck me.”

He was unexpectedly gracious and rubbed his cock along your folds before pushing in and stretching you out slowly. You moaned feeling his dick throb inside you and your pussy clenched around it. Together you moaned at the feeling of each other, desperate and depraved for whatever the other would give. Your pussy quivered each time he pounded into you. The wet sounds that came from your cunt as he thrust into you were obscene.

“Fuck, you’re taking my cock so well, you’re so fucking wet,” he growled, grabbing onto your hips with an iron-like grip. “This tight little pussy is mine. It was made for me.”

The familiar tingle was beginning its eruption, undulating around in your body and brain.

“I’m gonna come daddy!”

You could feel that he was close, too. His thrusts became harder and more urgent and his already tight grip became impossibly tighter. His breaths came out ragged and through gritted teeth as the tip of his divine cock pushed in deep to meet the spongy part of your core that set off the chain reaction that erupted first in your body and then in his. You squeezed him and heard him growl out for you feeling his cock throb inside you as his hot, white cum coated your walls. You thought quietly to yourself that the IUD was the best medical discovery ever made as he released you from your restraints.

As you lay there, his cum dripping from you he surprised you with the soft gesture of brushing your hair out of your face. You were giddy in the afterglow of how well he fucked you and you pulled him close kissing him and tugging on the sweat-soaked waves of brown hair. You stared at him for a while as he recouped the energy you had expended, examining each line on his face and the story behind it. His body held scars from secret stories you knew he wasn’t ready to tell. You kissed them and he flinched and you intertwined his fingers with yours, a silent encouragement that you would listen to those stories if he ever felt the urge to tell you.

“Shower with me,” you said, between greedy kisses that left both of your lips swollen.

You stood up from the bed, knowing your body would draw him to you like a magnet. LIke a confirmation of your bet, he followed you into his shower. You closed your eyes letting the warm water cascade over the expanse of your body. It wasn’t too long before he joined you, immediately running his hands over you, massaging your breasts, worshiping your nipples, taking the pussy he had claimed as his own and making you fall apart all over again over his fingers. With one quick slap of your ass, he left you to finish your shower and dry off. When you were done, you stepped out, dried off, and wrapped yourself in a plush, white hotel towel. The color stood in stark contrast to the dark deeds and desires you and Dave had for each other.

“You can use my comb if you need to,” he walked in to stand just behind you, his naked figure taunting and tempting as he gestured towards the comb placed neatly on the bathroom vanity.

The gesture seemed almost too domestic, but he quickly made up for it by grasping your hips to his pelvis. He pulled the towel from your body to admire your naked figure with his eyes and his hands. You leaned back into him and he turned your face to his to draw you into his ravenous lips.

“Come back to bed,” he ordered.

You obeyed him as he sat on the bed, drawing you to him by your waist. He blessed your breasts with kisses and then took your nipples into his mouth, biting at them with fervor. You tossed your head back moaning as he venerated your body with his. Your core was growing wet again at each touch.

“Show me what your mouth can do,” he demanded as he pushed you down to your knees.

You wrapped your hand around the base of his cock, pumping him to grow just a little before you wrapped your lips around him. It grew in your mouth as you swirled your tongue at his tip, sliding into the small space between the head of his cock and his foreskin. He called your name as you gently rolled his foreskin back and down the base of him and adjusted your throat to take in the veiny, girthy length of him. The saltiness of his precum washed over your tongue as you let him fuck your mouth.

“Fuck, baby, your mouth takes me so well,” he moaned his voice gravelly and unhinged.

You sucked on him hard, pulling on his cock as you let him go, leaving it standing at attention as he left your mouth.

“I need to bounce on that cock, baby,” you pleaded with him, “please, can I bounce on your big--fat--cock.”

“Yes, baby, take it all in.”

He moaned as you positioned yourself over him, bouncing and rolling your hips over him. You started slowly, your hands grasping and digging at his waist and chest with your nails as you felt his cock thrust into you. His thrusts became more erratic as he pushed himself into you deeper and deeper. Your tits bounced as you called out his name.

“Oh god yes!” You cried feeling your climax approaching as he bucked his hips up. “Dave, oh, god yes, yes, it’s so good.”

“Yes, firefly, you have the best, tightest little cunt,” he praised as you rode him. “Tell me who this pussy belongs to, tell me it’s mine.”

“It’s yours, daddy, only yours.”

It was all he needed to hear as he rocked into you with all his strength, leaving you moaning out your adorations for him in the form of his name as you came undone over him. The heat of his cum filled you again and he gifted you with one last smack of your ass before he pulled out of you with a whimper that left you gasping.

You rolled over with breathless ecstasy, gasping in surprise as he pulled you in possessively close to him. He kneaded the skin of your curves as he held you while you danced your fingers around his chest, belly, and pelvis where evidence of your scratches remained. You propped yourself up on your elbows to get a better look at his handsome face, keeping your gaze on his rich brown eyes. Instinctively, you brought one hand to brush through his damp waves.

“You know, your cock isn’t going to be easy to forget,” you murmured, feeling the slightest bit of sentimentality edge into your voice.

“You say it like we’re never going to fuck again,” he said with a raise of his eye brow, his hands exploring where you had left your mark, like he was memorizing them. “You left these for me after all.”

“Think of them as reminders that your wife could never fuck you the way I do.”

He moved in on you tugging at your hair as he brought his face to yours.

“I told you, I would own this pussy,” he kissed you as insurance, “just as much as you own this cock.”

“I like that proposition,” you said, biting your lip at the thought of feeling his cock between your legs again.

You turned around and felt his arm wrap around you to pull you to him again. His hands rubbed up and down your body, occasionally pinching your nipples. You knew it would only be a matter of time before you were fucking each other yet again.

His face was so beautiful, perhaps the most beautiful you had ever seen. Your nerves were getting the best of you, but you knew you had to ask. You hadn’t gotten far in your career without knowing a thing or two, not without doing your research. He wasn’t the only one who could make things happen by grand design. Though, needing his cock had not been a part of your original plan.

“Dave, I want in,“ you whispered, caressing his forehead and running your hands through his hair.

“What are you talking about?” He said his voice lowering an octave as he squeezed your hand to stop your fingers from caressing his hair.

And then you let the request fall from your lips, “When are we going to kill Brad?”

***

A/N 2: I realize this has was left on a huge cliff hanger. I was not sure if I wanted to or if this would be enjoyed enough to warrant a continuation. Please let me know your thoughts and as always comment and reblog. I swear I'm nice. ;)

#dave york #dave york x you #dave york x reader #equalizer 2 #dave york smut #dave york x f!reader #dave york x female reader #smut writers #juice bar collective #juice collective

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twst-drabbles · 2 months

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Weeps loudly over your latest work for the Years Later AU. At this point, I’d just have to tell my folks, “yeah I’m gonna stay in mirror world and marry an octopus, love you xoxo”

Hahaha, I'm kind of sad that I don't have the most powerful imagination because the older version of the cast is just a blur in my mind beyond some very minor details, like some gray hairs and wrinkles. It didn't used to be like that, honestly. I need to work on that, get the practice in and whatnot.

Can't help but imagine how that would turn out. You marry Azul, he spends the rest of his life with you, the whole thing and then you go back to your original world very visibly aged despite like, only a year or so passing. Probably won't be recognized as the same person anymore.

Or, if I really want to do some time-axis bullshit, you don't age as fast, if at all. Your body aging is following the time-axis of your home world, so while everyone is visibly aging right before your eyes, you're barely following. Fun stuff, fun stuff.

#admin #years later au

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enbycrip · 1 year

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I’m adding this to both acknowledge how true and how important it is, and how bloody *difficult* it is.

Some of that is directly *and* indirectly due to actions of the owner/capitalist class. Everything from the direct legislation that’s put in place to prevent strikes and protests to media demonisation of community and workplace organisers.

The workday and other working conditions make organising nightmarishly difficult through sheer fatigue. This is multiplied if you are multiply-marginalised - disabled, a single parent, very poor, more than one of these things.

Some of it is due to other kinds of marginalisation too. It is incredibly difficult to organise when one is multiply-marginalised; you encounter more privileged folks who will resist any attempt to do anything with you, even when it is in both your interests, because of both bigotry *and* because they fear being in solidarity with you will lead to them being marginalised in the way you are. You will encounter enormous amounts of trauma and invalidation from people you are working to *help* (racism, misogyny, transphobia, disableism etc). And if you are visibly marginalised you are likely to be in greater danger from the police and to face harsher sanctions in the workplace, including for perfectly legal and professionally-acceptable actions, than more privileged people.

There are a *lot* of neurodivergent folks and otherwise disabled folks who are marginalised. Protests are sensory hell and terrifying for a lot of us, esp autistic folks like me, and a lot of workplace and community organising with NT folks is often *outstandingly* difficult. A lot of union meetings are physically or sensorily inaccessible.

None of this is to say “don’t organise”. Community and workplace organising are the most powerful tools we have. What I wanted to address is how they are often presented as if they are easy, when there are a lot of barriers to them.

I was in a meeting with other disabled folks discussing community organising recently and ended up really frustrated because another person attending who had excellent ideas kept vocally blaming other disabled people for not organising more. And that person wasn’t chronically ill or physically disabled. They did not seem to be acknowledging the difficulty in this when just doing the basic tasks required to live is so exhausting you end up weeping on your bed in exhaustion from, say, bathing, or making food makes you literally too exhausted to eat it. I didn’t say anything to them because I think they were letting off steam and expressing their own frustration so I didn’t think it would be helpful, but the experience has stuck with me. There’s a lot of blame about “apathy”, “laziness” and worse in community and workplace organising that often conceals unwillingness to see, acknowledge and remove barriers to participation, and all that does is block the people who are in most need from organising.

#unions #community organizing #anarchist #anarchism #socialism

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everlastingdreams · 4 months

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The Weeping Monk x Reader : Born In The Dawn Chapter 27

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Story Summary: Locked inside a dark room in a dungeon, kept alive only for your power, you believed you’d never see the daylight again. That is until the Weeping Monk finds his way down and steals you from your captors. It is the beginning of a journey that leads you through hardship and newfound hope, but nothing is assured in a world that is changing for the Fey. The magic that runs in your veins is drawing out the worst the world has to offer, does it include the man who pulled you from the dark?

Chapter Title: Broken Trust

Notes: Spoon feeding chapters while stressing over the last one ;_;

Warnings: Grief. Violence. Torture. Sexual Assault. Rape Threat. Gore. Enemies To Lovers. Pining. Trauma. Flagellation. Manipulation. Strong Language. Blood. Gore?. Misogyny. PTSD. Spicy and smut parts. Slight redemption arc.

Other warnings: Jealousy. Forbidden Love. Romance. Slow-burn…

Word count of this fic: +200K

Chapter: 27/ It’s a secret.

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In the early morning, Mirena was at your door to ask for your help in the courtyard. As one could expect, accidents had happened last night. Those who only complained of headaches or nausea were not offered your or Mirena’s healing hands. But there had been a small physical fight where two drunks managed to wound each other, your mother helped them. She asked you to heal a woman who had broken her ankle whilst walking down the hill back to the village.

This poor woman did not even have a drop of ale in her when her foot hit an uneven spot on the ground that send her falling. The Faun woman was crying in pain and you used your magic to heal her. After you had helped her, she thanked you and was able to walk pain free again.

You saw a few people trying to convince your mother to use her precious energy to heal their bottleache. It was getting on your nerves that they would not take “no” for an answer. You marched over to the three. “My mother said ‘no’. So leave. Only those who truly need it will be helped.”

One man dared to say, “We are sick!”

“Drink water then!” You snapped at them and saw him recoil, “Leave her be, for if I put my hands on you, it won’t be to heal!”

Mirena was surprised by your outburst.

Matthew walked into the courtyard just in time to see the three ‘sick’ Feys leave, “Pfhoo, have you not slept well?”

Your mother send you a knowing smile when the knight stopped right in front of you.

He wasn’t far from the truth…

You were sick and tired of the way others took advantage of the Dawn Folk, “I just hate it when people see us as an easy way to solve all their problems.”

Matthew was understanding of your reaction, “Ignore them. Let them suffer their ale sickness.”

Ignoring them clearly only made them think that they could treat your family like this. You were a little sharp, “I wish I could just ignore them. But they need to hear that we are not here to serve their every whim!”

He held up his hands in defeat. “I know. I’m on your side, remember?”

Seeing him feel attacked made you act calmer.

“Sorry.” You sighed, saying it to your mother too. “I’m sorry.”

She gave your arm a squeeze. “I know why you’re angry, a lot has happened to you. It’s alright.”

You gave a small nod and she left your side to let Matthew talk to you alone.

“You’ve become braver.” He stated his observation.

You shrugged your shoulders, feeling like you were done with letting others take what they wanted from the Dawn Folk.

He took a step closer. “You even wore a dress last night. Trousers again today, I see?”

A frown formed on your forehead, did you hear it wrong or was he disappointed? It gnawed at you, and made you remember how it felt when he never even looked your way with interest until days ago. He must have preferred the dress on you.

His reaction had hurt the young rejected girl inside of you again, even if you did not show it. “I prefer trousers.”

You walked passed him, your work in the courtyard was done, and you left before he could say another word that might hurt you further.

As you walked into the fort to find Squirrel and Ciro, your fast pace caused you to collide with someone when you turned a corner.

“Sorry.” You blurted out, then saw who you had run into.

A pale looking Ash Man was viewing you curiously. “Good morning. Where are you off to in such a haste?”

“Morning.” You greeted him polite as well, “I’m going to ask Ciro if he wants me to help him with learning how to wield a sword. I doubt I have to ask Squirrel.”

He hummed, knowing that Percival would surely wish to be part of this lesson and invite himself.

Lancelot didn’t look so well, you even felt some pity. Just a little. Not enough to be less upset about the way things had went last night.

“Your head hurts?” You asked.

“It does.” He confessed.

“Aw, you poor thing.” Was all you said and then continued your path.

He followed and caught up with you mere seconds later.

Your bitterness was audible in your tone, “If we would heal everyone who felt sick after being drunk, we’d die from exhaustion.”

He faced the anger he sensed flowing in you without fear. “I will not ask you to heal me.”

You came to a sudden halt, “Are you here to talk to me about last night then?”

His answer was not what you had expected. “I do not recall much of the night.”

You stared at him, “You don’t?”

He looked like he felt miserable at the memory of the ale’s taste. “I did not think that some ale would be so strong.”

It made sense, some were just drunk faster than others and the Ash Man had probably not tasted ale until last night. But he did not even remember what he had tried to do…What if other things had happened that he was not aware off?

You crossed your arms, upset that he had forgotten, “Did you find yourself company last night?”

His eyes narrowed at the question, then widened when he understood, “Pardon?”

It was a genuine concern, if he had tried to kiss you, who was to say that another at the celebration had not given in to advances made?

There had been many drunk people in the castle…

Or what if someone had taken advantage of him in that state?

You voiced your concern, “If you were so drunk that you can’t remember what happened last night, I worry about what happened in the time that you cannot seem to recall.”

“I awoke alone.” Was all he wished to answer, while a tint of red crept up his cheeks.

That was a relief to hear, “Unharmed?”

A second passed before he gave a nod.

“Good…” The gnawing feeling remained in your stomach.

So it had been the ale to make him behave in such a way, and it still left you upset, hurt…

You repressed the feeling it gave you, it reminded you of the days when your feelings were crushed every time Matthew found another to give his affections to. The pain was similar, yet different, worse in a way.

A silence had passed between you, one that lasted longer than you were aware off, it seemed to have alarmed him.

His index finger gently touched your hand and pulled you out of your wandering thoughts, “Are you alright?”

You quickly nodded. “I’m alright. I haven’t slept much last night, that’s all.”

Something changed in his expression, it was gone in a blink.

You reached out and put your hand to the front of his head, it wasn’t necessary to place it there but it distracted from the situation. It costed you only a bit off energy to use your magic to fix the result of his drunken night.

You withdrew your hand right after. “Don’t tell anyone I healed that. And I won’t be doing it a second time.”

He seemed a bit stunned by the kind gesture, “I-… thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Without asking, you reached for and stole the short sword from at his hip. “I’m borrowing this.”

The Ash Man did not easily part with his weapons and stopped you from walking away, “Why?”

You swatted away his arm that he was using to block your path. “To teach my cousin how to wield it.”

“I could help.” He offered.

An awkward chuckle fell from your lips. “Lancelot. I do not mean to upset you, but it might be a little soon for the people here to see you handling a sword near a Fey child.”

He felt slight disappointment, but gave another offer, “I see your point. And if I help you, help him?”

That sounded like a nice idea. “I’d like that.”

The shy careful smile on his face in response was lovely to see.

You gestured for him to follow. “Come on. We’re taking them outside the walls. Less chance to be seen by concerned or nosy people.”

He did not need to be asked twice and walked beside you to go and fetch the children.

He had been anxious to set foot outside his room that morning, knowing that he would have to face you after last night. It was cowardly, but the risk of losing your friendship over his drunken mistake was worse than the shame he felt for lying. All he could hope was that it had not made matters worse.

~~~♡~~~♡~~~♧~~~♡~~~♡~~~

Squirrel and Ciro took turns with handling the short sword you had borrowed from Lancelot, who stood at a small distance to watch the lesson.

Often he gave you advice on how to teach them to wield the sword. And when he sometimes commented on your own sword skills, you resist the urge to grab a handful of grass and go and throw it at him.

He seemed very aware of how easily you could erupted in fury when he did it, like he enjoyed dancing on that thin line with you.

You focused on the children and decided to ignore his ‘helpful’ advice for a while.

Lancelot could tell that you had begun to ignore him, and he just watched the children interact with you in silence.

The weather was pleasant, the day calm, as if the fort and village took a day to rest after last night. Percival was even helping young Ciro when the boy lost confidence. And you encouraged them both, even if they made mistakes. It was the complete opposite compared to the tutors he grew up with while being trained.

Would he have become so skilled with the sword if he had one as kind as you to tutor him? Perhaps not.

Would he still prefer your lessons?

Without a doubt.

The Sky Folk scent filled his nostrils, a moment later Ser Matthew stopped to stand beside him.

The Sky Man crossed his arms to watch you beside the Ash Man. “She looked beautiful last night. You should have seen her. "

He looked at him from the corners of his eyes, and resisted the urge to roll them at him, “I see her daily.”

Your beauty was always present.

Matthew’s brows drew together for a second, and he looked at him for a moment before returning his eyes to your direction. “Indeed. I do not understand why she allows it, but I suppose she has her mother’s kind heart. Always helping all the damaged folks.”

Damaged…

How could he not take it as an insult, when he could sense that the knight had meant it as one? He disliked this dance around the issue that Matthew was forcing him in. It was difficult to defend oneself if he used a passive aggressive way to communicate.

The knight filled the silence between them by talking. Matthew proved to be quite the open book, “I always knew she liked me. I was flattered by the attention of course. Unfortunately I did not reciprocated it, I was aiming my affection on others. But now I see my mistake. Her inexperience does not frighten me anymore.”

Your… inexperience?

Lancelot parroted it in disbelief, “Her inexperience?”

The man proved to be unable to keep a secret, “She told me her secret once, and I don’t think it has changed since she left.”

It was clear to him that the knight was speaking of your virtue. The Ash Man flexed his hand, feeling the familiar urge to reach for his sword arise.

He tried to remain calm, even though he severely disliked how disrespectful the man was to be speaking of this secret you had confided to him, “Do you find this proper, to share such personal knowledge of her with others?”

Matthew looked at him, hearing the sharp tone. “You were a monk, were you not? Then consider this a confession and do not share it with others.”

The audacity this ‘knight’ had…

Lancelot turned to him, feeling how he was losing his patience, “It is you who should not be sharing this with others! Have you no respect for her?!”

The knight gravely disliked the tone, and made little effort to hide that he was not blind to the way the Ash Man behaved when it came to you, “I have more respect for her than you. I wouldn’t have gone to her chamber’s door in the midst of the night while drunk.”

So the knight he had seen that night had told him of it. He knew what Matthew was implying, and it felt like he was threatening his stay in the fort.

For him, this ‘friendly’ conversation was over and he turned to walk away.

Matthew made the mistake to not let him walk away from this conversation without saying to him, “I will teach her all there is to know, I wasn’t raised a monk.”

It was the matter of what it implied that had tossed burning oil unto his protectiveness towards you. The way he spoke of you was utterly discourteous, as if you were something that needed to be ‘fixed’ before Matthew would be happy to have you…

A loud curse distracted you from the children and you looked towards the men who stood at the side where the sound had come from. It was Matthew who was cursing, blood ran down from his nose. You saw the culprit storm off without explanation, the children looked very confused.

That hotheaded…

Matthew was left utterly flabbergasted and held a hand over his bleeding nose. If he told the other knights or your father of this…

“Squirrel, will you take Ciro back to the fort?” You pleaded with the boy.

Squirrel could tell that you needed some time to see to this problem, he nodded and gave you a sympathetic look. “Come, Ciro.”

Ciro followed the boy without protest, any excuse to just play was good enough for him. They walked past Matthew who was calming down, but visibly biting back the pain. You approached him, and did not expect him to be as agitated as he was.

“What is his problem?!” Matthew exclaimed.

“I don’t know. What did you say to him?” You were as lost as he was.

He thought you were blaming him, “Me? He’s the one that struck me!”

You didn’t like to be shouted at. “I am just trying to figure out what went wrong! Lancelot wouldn’t just hit my friends.”

Matthew went quiet all of a sudden, then became evasive. “I think we misunderstood each other.”

You repeated him in disbelief, “Misunderstood? He hit you! There had to be a reason, what-”

He was clearly trying to keep you in the dark about something. “It was a misunderstanding, y/n. Don’t worry, I won’t tell your father of his behavior. "

It was frustrating, but at least he wouldn’t bring this up to your father. “Thank you. Do you want me to heal your injury?”

“No. Leave it.” Matthew walked away from you to calm down at the fort.

You stood there alone, not really knowing what to do.

Why had Lancelot done this? And why did Matthew not just tell you?

The Ash Man had stormed off in the direction of the stables, and you headed there too.

You found him with Goliath, he was quietly mumbling to his horse. It sounded somewhat between affection and getting his thoughts off of his chest. It wasn’t easy to be mad at him when seeing how gently he spoke to Goliath.

You made no effort to announce your presence, he would catch your scent by the time you were close enough to him. “I hope you will tell me what that was about, and that I do not have to ask Goliath.”

“Ask your honey-eyed knight.” He coldly said, not looking in your direction.

“He’s not my knight!” You snapped back insulted. “What on earth has gotten into you?!”.

He just needed a moment to himself to calm down. But you were here to confront him about the altercation.

He wanted to walk out of the stables, but you blocked him.

You stood in his path, “Forget it. You’re not just walking away without telling me why you hit Matthew.”

It annoyed him, “What did he say happened?”

You crossed your arms over your chest. “He said it was a misunderstanding.”

A wise choice.

Lancelot failed to meet your eyes. “It was.”

You kept your stern stance. “If it was, perhaps you should apologize to him.”

“No.” Was his firm answer to that.

“You do realize that he could tell my father of this?” You tried to make him see reason.

He hated how easily he could be send away, or to the dungeons, “Then I will tell your father that his ‘knight’ speaks off you inappropriately.”

Lancelot managed to walk past you and you grabbed hold of his arm to stop him.

“What do you mean?” Your heart sank a little.

All he had bottled up since last night came out.

He sounded frustrated by it all, “Your ‘friend’ is who I thought he was. He behaves improper. Is he the man you are infatuated with?” The rest was spoken as if it was only to himself, like he could not wrap his head around it, “A man who did not look your way for years, until now.”

You took a step back, recoiling at his words. It had sounded condescending…

Upon seeing it, he tried to take it back, “I did not mean to-”

You felt verbally attacked. “Perhaps you are right and I have a tendency to surround myself with men who behave questionably. Take you for example, you are so ‘proper’ that you don’t even remember that you tried to kiss me when you were drunk!”

He fell silent immediately.

You waited for a reaction that never came, it was so disappointing, “Do you have nothing to say about that?”

The poor apology came out quickly, “I never would have done it if I was sober.”

It was the worst thing he could have said to you. Your self-esteem took a merciless blow. Your words struck back at him, “Good! Neither would I have wanted you to!”

He never thought someone could stab him in the heart with words and twist them into it so fast that it even made him feel nauseated.

You turned to leave the stables, he caught your elbow and you whipped your head back to glare at him.

“What did Matthew say to you?!” You demanded the truth.

Seeing the distress in your eyes made him want to lie to spare you from the pain it could bring.

You could see him debate on answering, which was infuriating. “Tell me!”

Lancelot finally answered the question, “He is interested in you.” He looked apologetic, “But he speaks of your personal matters with others.”

The fear what that could mean took hold on you, “What personal matters?”

The pause he took before answering should have warned you of what was to come.

“He spoke of your… inexperience.” He said it quietly, as if he feared someone outside the stables would hear.

A cold feeling spread through your body and made you feel faint.

He was quick to notice the bad response and stepped closer to support you by the elbow, “Y/n?”

The familiar whispers of the Hidden were alarming now, if the old gods were concerned, he certainly was.

Humiliation caused your anxiety to spike into a height you had not known it could take, these past weeks had made you more susceptible for it, you just had not felt it until now. How could Matthew do this? What other secrets had he shared with others?!? One friend had tried to kiss you and called it a mistake, the other had shared an intimate secret with others. Could this day get any worse?

You tried to step away and pull your elbow loose from his careful hold.

He did not let it happen and saw how deeply hurt you looked.

You weren’t even aware that you were crying until the warmth of your tears came down over your cheeks.

“Why would he…” Your arms came up to your chest and formed a shield, the sudden vulnerability after your broken trust was overwhelming.

Lancelot tried to cup your cheek, but you turned your head away, you almost begged him not to see your tears.

“This… is humiliating.” The courage to meet his eyes was gone.

When you tried to pull free a second time, he responded by pulling you against him. The protest died in your throat when he brought his arms around you, cradling your head just as he had done when he had freed you from the darkness of the cell. Even though he had upset you a moment earlier, you still found the comfort you craved in his embrace. You let it happen, feeling his arms close around and letting your head rest against his chest.

“You are aware that I am upset with you too?” You broke the silence that was growing more comfortable by the second. Your voice was cracking and breaking from emotion.

“I am. Your hand is near my daggers if you need one.” He offered you the option.

You couldn’t resist and actually moved your hand a little, he was telling the truth. “Oaf.”

He whispered the promise against your hair, “I will not tell another soul what I know, you have my word.”

Oddly enough, you trusted that he wouldn’t, he was not the sort to spread this kind of information around. By putting your hands on his upper arms, you slowly pushed yourself free from the embrace, making sure that he would not think that you wanted to get away from him quickly. Your eyes lifted to his, your heart trembled under the gaze he cast over your face. The feeling it send through you made you take a large step back, leaving him confused.

The sound of hooves and voices came from outside the stable, seconds later your father and some of the knights entered with their horses. These knights looked towards Helio, who was the last to see his daughter and the Ash Man in the stables together.

“Father.” You greeted him and saw how he barely acknowledged it, his eyes were on Lancelot behind you.

Looks were shared between the knights while they led their horses further into the stables.

Helio handed the reins of his horse to one of them and finally acknowledged you, “Y/n. Walk with me to the fort, there is something I wish to speak to you about.”

Well… those were words you had not heard from him in a very long time. Your feet felt like they were weighed down by lead when you began to follow him out of the stables.

~~~♡~~~♡~~~♧~~~♡~~~♡~~~

Helio waited to say what was on his mind until you were a little further away from the stables.

“What did you wish to speak to me about, father?” You hoped you weren’t in any trouble again.

He made you wait for the answer for almost a full minute, as if he found it hard to start, “I have been thinking about how much I have shielded you when you were younger.”

What? You never thought he would spend his time thinking about it.

He saw the widening of your eyes. “I am your father, y/n. All I wanted was for you to be safe and to grow up without having to suffer as our people have. And by trying to protect you too much, I have failed in that task. I scared you away from home and into the hands of our enemies.”

You stopped in your tracks. “What happened to me was not your fault. There was no stopping me once the Hidden kept calling upon my help.”

He would not ignore his fault in what had happened, “Did I not keep you away from returning to us?”

Telling the truth felt like the first step to fix things between you. “You made me think I did not belong here anymore.”

“I know.” Helio could not hide the remorse in his voice. “I know.”

A short silence passed before he spoke again and placed his hands on your shoulders, “You belong with us, always and forever. We are no home without you.”

Oh, how you had longed to hear him speak of it openly…

He cupped your neck. “There is no heaven for us without our little moons. I will not lose my daughter a second time. That is why I have brought some changes to the fort.”

Your heart was filling with joy, “What sort of changes?”

“One in particular is meant for you.” He put a hand on your shoulder again. “Making Matthew a knight offers the opportunity to let him be closer to you. I know your eyes have been on him for so long, I hope this will prove to you that I wish to make amends. I will not object to a joining between you.”

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#the weeping monk #weeping monk x you #weeping monk x reader #the weeping monk x reader #cursed lancelot #cursed #lancelot x reader #cursed netflix #weeping monk #lancelot

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aviradasa · 3 months

Text

Love long lost Pt2

Aaravos x Fem!reader

REQUESTS ARE OPEN

{angst} @delusional-mushroom @hubba-hubba1 @jellyfishxxi

Warnings: blood, wounds, depicted Self inflicted wounds,

Hey my little goblins guess what time it is! Time for my ass to post part 2!! I am honestly loving this little mini series so I've decided a part 3 maybe 4 will be seen in the near future lol. Anyways I hop you all enjoy and thank you for your patience also I will be @ ing all the folks who ask me to!

Ps: don't forget to leave a request! I will be linking my masterlist here please read it before requesting! Anyways have a happy read!

Pt 1 linked here

Pt three linked here

It takes a moment for my eyes to open again but when they don't see the stone walls of the storm spire, No all I see is that I am in an old Human tavern, As I look around everything has a blue tint-like that of the magic that Aarvos used on me, looking around i see large groups of human and elves sitting at tables, drinking, talking, and listening to the upbeat music, I can even smell the various foods being Cooked in the back the rich scents wafting about and mixing assisting in making the atmosphere even more warm and inviting.

I walk through the tavern and head to the front bar and take a seat in front of the barmaid. I don't know where I am, it seems familiar but I just can't place it. I need to know why Aaravos sent me here and why.

“ Hey, there miss, busy night huh?” I ask the barmaid, earning no response. Maybe she just didn't hear me over the music, I think to myself so I decided it best to possibly try and ask again. “ hey miss, it sure is a busy night huh?” I ask once more. The barmaid does not react at all and I start to wonder if she even knows it there. She has to know I’m there. I'm sitting right in front of her, maybe she just isn't in the talking mood. I think to myself as I stand up, I walk over to a human man who is sitting at a table with some other people and way my hand in front of his face earning no response. He just continues talking to the other folks at the table, and that's when the panic starts to seep in.

I run table to table seat to seat tapping, screaming, hitting everyone I see but I get no reaction each time, no one in the tavern can see me, hear me, or feel me. I am simply a phantom in this place. Once I've exhausted my options I run to the door of the tavern and try to yank it open to no avail, I tug and pull, kick, punch, and scratch at the door until my nails are shredded and bleeding alongside my knuckles, leaving bloody scratch marks on the tavern door as I weep, not just because of the pain I've inflicted upon myself in the moment, but because I am trapped in this place alone and scared. What makes it even worse is that Aaravos put me here and I still have no idea why.

A few moments pass and I wipe my tear-stained face, and take a seat at a darkened table in the back of the tavern. It almost seems like the light from the firepit in the middle of the room is too fearful to illuminate the spot . Once I take my seat the sound of the music in the tavern is changed to a more eerie circus-like sound as one of the bards step onto the stones surrounding the firepit. It appears he is a moonshadow elf mage. Suddenly he casts a spell and The room dims slightly as he begins to speak.

“My good friends old and new, We have a special show for you tonight, filled with frights, lights, and One of the most beautiful creatures of the night. You know her,you love her, she's the one and only Y/n!” he says as a black sheet appears on the floor in front of him. The mage sprinkles some sort of powder onto the sheet before grabbing the corner of it. The mage lifts the sheet spinning it elaborately, sending the purple dust into the air of the tavern giving the little light in the dim room a purple glow before he dramatically throws the sheet into the air, revealing an elven girl dressed as a dancer. Posing in the middle of the room as the whole tavern erupted into cheers.

“y/n?..” I ask myself, I'm confused in every way possible, but before I can think about what I'm witnessing I hear someone speak.

“Amature magic at its best.” I hear an oddly familiar voice say beside me, I jump in my seat turning my head so fast I could have broken my neck. I know that voice anywhere but could it be? My whole body freezes in place as I stare at the figure In the seat next to me, they are wearing a very elaborate cloak with an odd symbol on the hood. They are sipping from a tankard, with their eyes glued to the girl in the middle of the room. But just as I look back to the middle of the room the performer turns her head and everything goes black.

I awakened once more in a forest, it had the same blue haze as the tavern did but this time it was lighter than before. I spin around slowly taking in my surroundings but stop suddenly. Right in front of me is a small pond in a small clearing of the forest, it is surrounded by many types of Xadian flowers and plants being illuminated by the moonlight that is cast upon the small pond’s waters, and standing beside the pond with their back facing me is that same cloaked figure from the tavern.

Suddenly I hear a voice quite like mine call out in a whispered shout, “Aaravos is that you?” the voice says, the cloaked figure turns around and takes down their hood revealing the familiar elf, he looked nothing like he did when I saw him through the mirror, his skin is a more vibrant purple and the star freckles on his face glow brighter than they had when I saw him, his hair is neater and pulled out of his face, its held in place by a golden circlet. He looks divine and ethereal, he almost looks like he shouldn't belong to Xadia, but some far-away planet that we could never even dream of.

I turn around to see the elven performer girl from the tavern, this time I can see her face clearly she looks like me.., but I only see her for a moment as a smile creeps onto her face and she runs to him wrapping her arms around his neck, he returns the embrace and her smile as he wraps his arms around her waist and spins her around for a moment as their laughter intertwined with the wind. She shares my voice and from what I saw my face. But how can this be, Who is she? I wonder as I watch the scene play out. But once her feet touch the ground, their laughter fades and it all goes black once more.

This time I woke up in a cave. I take a moment to gather myself and let my eyes adjust to the darkened area before I feel comfortable to stand. I hastily make my way to the cave entrance and look out and see the edge of a new forest. I hear a loud crack and snap my head in the direction of the sound. I can't make out much but the light the stars provide is enough to illuminate two silhouetted figures moving through the trees in a panic. the taller one dragging the other by the wrist as they run, I have a good idea by now of who those two figures are and I am proven correct when they enter the cave.

They are both visibly disheveled with her hair being knotted with twigs leaves and mud, her clothing is freshly ripped and torn, and she has cuts, bruises, and blood scattered along her skin. His appearance is similar, but his hair is less messy and his clothing is more dirty than tattered, though they share the same amount of wounds it seems. “Aaravos…What did you do.” the girl says wiping away tears but smearing the blood and dirt on her skin more by accident. He doesn't respond to her, he just looks away avoiding eye contact. She visibly gets frustrated and shoves him with all the force she can muster as she chokes out a sob. “WHAT DID YOU DO?” She screams at him through tears.

He still doesn't look at her nor does he respond. He doesn't even seem affected by her shove or screams, he just stands there. She approaches him once more and hits his chest “YOU BASTARD TELL ME WHAT YOU DID! WHY? WHY WON’T YOU TELL ME.” she screams again, I jump back When all of a sudden he snaps back “ I DID WHAT NEEDED TO BE DONE!” he screams back at her, grabbing her by the shoulders and pushing her into the cave wall behind them as she chokes out another sob. “Let go, please… Let go, it hurts.” she cries. He drops her and she collapses onto the ground as he turns his back to her slamming his fists into the cave's jaggad walls. He didn't flinch once his blood started pouring out of the wounds he just placed his head against his bloody forearm and let it bleed, as his love cried in the background.

Then once more the scene went dark. But this time i did not appear in another memory.

I feel myself being shaken awake “y/n! y/n wake up are you ok? Y/n! Guys she's waking up!” I hear Raylas voice call out as my eyes drift open. I take a sharp breath as I come to and I shoot upright. Grabbing onto Raylas shoulder for support and i take in deep rapid breaths i feel a stinging on my forehead and when i reach up to touch it,it burns my fingertips. When i get my bearings I look around at everyone with a fearful,and shocked expression.

“You guys aren't gonna believe me when I tell you what I just saw.”

#tdp #tdp rayla #tdp s1 #tdp spoilers #aaravos #tdp callum #tdp s5 #tdp claudia #aaravos the dragon prince #the dragon prince #aaravos x reader #startouched elf

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