#from the cradle to enslave

[stayallnite]

https://www.deezer.com/us/album/72269

#nowplaying Death Comes Ripping by Cradle of Filth out of From the Cradle to Enslave

[oftenwantedafton]

A New Afton - Stepfather Steve Raglan/William Afton x Stepdaughter Reader

Chapter 2

Rating - Explicit

Warnings - sexual content, daddy kink

Also available on AO3

taglist @yellowbunnydreams

William Afton thinks, perhaps, he is moving things along a little quickly.

It’s only the first night; it’s barely been a few hours. And here you are, your school uniform clad body pressed against him, your soft lips touching his.

He could argue that time was of the essence, there’s no time like the present, whatever other platitudes there are about that elusive entity that enslaves mankind, but he’d recognized that look in your eyes. You’ve been devouring him all evening, consuming his face and his body as thoroughly as you’d knocked back those beers. Coveting.

He knows about coveting. Intimately. It starts with the children at the arcade. A higher score. A bigger prize. Continues to the dining hall. Another slice of pizza. Another piece of cake. Outside. The Emily girl bullied. A kind of hum in his ears, as if her blood has a frequency. He wants to silence it. He craves revenge. He covets the power it brings.

Then there’s the simple fact that, well, he wants to fuck you. So yes, things are progressing rapidly. It’s just the nature of things. Fate taking him along by the hand, guiding his path to you.

The warmth leaves his lips as you and he draw apart. “Steve…”

He frowns. This won’t do at all. “There’s going to be a new rule around here. You won’t be calling me that when we’re alone together. You’re to refer to me as what I am. Your stepfather.”

You blink at him, looking uncertain. “You…want me to call you Stepdad?”

His teeth flash. “Nothing so proper. We can shorten that right down to Daddy.”

A little hitch of breath, a flutter of lashes. God you were gorgeous. He can’t wait to see what other sounds he can elicit from you.

***

Your stepfather has just kissed you.

Closed mouthed, it could almost be considered chaste and innocent except it’s everything but. You know you’re supposed to feel guilty. You know it’s wrong. But you like it. You like the warm hand on your shoulder and how he cradles your bare knee. You can smell the shampoo from his recent shower and the cologne stirs your pheromones.

You’ve gone on a few dates over the last couple of years, but have never really had a steady boyfriend. You’re still a virgin. You wonder if Steve knows this, if your mother has ever mentioned it. About your boyfriend situation, or lack thereof, that is; not the virgin thing. That would have been weird.

Not that cheating with your mom’s new husband isn’t weird in and of itself. When he suggests you call him Daddy something thrills within you. You feel the place between your legs throb and tingle. You’ve had a couple of guys try a few clumsy fumblings there but nothing serious or experienced. You think this man in his fifties must be quite the opposite.

“Ok, Daddy.” You try the phrasing out. You feel his body shudder beside yours. He kisses you again, his mouth lingering this time. The kiss becomes wetter. Lips parting. His tongue probes gently. Your stomach flutters and your pussy throbs again to remind you of the growing need within. You lay a hand on his cheek, sliding over his beard. This texture is new to you. All of the boys you’d been with have been clean shaven. The tendons in his neck are taut beneath your fingers. You’re too shy to explore any further just yet. His mouth tastes like mint. The scent of his cologne is heavy in your nostrils. It’s intoxicating. You have a pleasant buzz from the beer you’d imbibed earlier and in your body from your arousal. Every touch of his tongue against yours strums another chord inside you.

He sucks your bottom lip, tugging gently with his teeth. You feel the smile before you see it. “You like doing this?”

“Yes, Daddy.” It still feels a little silly and awkward. Or maybe that’s just you. You want to sound sexy for him. You’re just not sure how.

“Good girl,” he says, and the pulse in your sex is palpable, demanding attention. “I’m sure a good girl like you is still a virgin, right?”

You like the praise. Your body likes it too. “Yes, Daddy. I haven’t…I haven’t done very much of anything.”

“What have you done?”

“A little touching. And kissing. On the mouth,” you add hastily.

“Do you ever touch yourself?”

You worry your bottom lip, cheeks flushing. “Sometimes.”

“How? Show me how.”

You face grows even hotter. “I…I’m not sure…”

“Suddenly shy are we?” He laughs softly. “Its ok to feel a little embarrassed. You’ll get over that. What if I were to touch you instead? Would you like that?”

Your pussy immediately answers yes, throbbing and sending another wave of fluid. You know your panties are wet. You nod.

“If you don’t like it, tell me to stop, okay?”

“Ok, Daddy.”

He kisses you again and you feel the hand at your knee shift, stroking up your thigh, first on top, then shifting to the inside. “Open up a little for me.”

You part your legs, letting out a little whimper when you feel his fingers stroke you through the crotch of your panties. Only the first touch and it’s already a million times better than anything you’d previously experienced.

“You’re quite wet already,” he murmurs. He traces the outline of your clit through the cotton fabric and your hips jerk involuntarily, grinding you against his hand. His caress is electrifying, the nerves sizzling and snapping. “Does it feel good?”

“Yes, Daddy.” You gasp when his hand moves and shoves beneath the waistband, his fingers now touching you directly. A needy sound escapes you. You pant beside his mouth.

“Is this how you touch yourself?”

“No, I…it’s so sensitive I just use a pillow or a stuffed animal between my legs. With panties on. It’s…”

“Have you ever cum?”

“Yes, sometimes.”

“I’d like to make you cum. Either with my fingers, or…my mouth.” His tongue darts out to stroke your lips and you moan. “What do you think, sweet girl? Which do you prefer?” His middle finger teases your entrance while his thumb strokes your bundle of nerves. It’s all very gentle and slow. You can’t even stop yourself from pressing against him in search of more contact.

“Whatever you want,” you respond breathlessly, forgetting to add his new favorite title, but if he minds he doesn’t show it.

“What I want, hmm?” Steve withdraws his hand and sucks on the fingers damp with your juices. “Oh, you’re fucking delicious.” He shoves the coffee table back and kneels in front of you, lifting your skirt to admire the tiny pink bows printed on that delicate bit of fabric before hooking thumbs into each leg hole and the rest of his digits curling over the waistband, jerking your underwear down, over your hips and thighs and knees and calves and ankles. He flips the skirt out of the way and grabs your hips, tugging until you’re barely still sitting on the couch, the edge digging across your ass cheeks as he pushes your legs back for you to hold, your cunt presented to him. He spits on your sex—completely unnecessarily, you’re already soaked—but you find the gesture filthy and erotic. “Tell me what you want, baby girl.”

“I want you to…please eat my pussy Daddy.”

He plants a trail of kisses along your inner thighs, teasing you, his beard tickling your skin. “Are you sure that’s what you want?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

“Are you going to cum in my mouth like a good girl?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

He rests a hand on the space below your navel, fingers spread over your mound, pulling slightly to draw the skin over your clit taut. His tongue slides across the nub in a sharp lick and you see stars. His mouth presses against you and he sucks and you moan. Better than anything you’ve ever tried, far better than anything anyone else has ever offered you. He’s slurping on your pussy like it’s the best meal he’s ever consumed, moaning at the taste and the vibrations echo within your core.

You release your grip on the back of one of your thighs and slide your fingers into the older man’s hair. So silky soft. Slightly damp, from the shower or sweat; you’re not certain which. It’s overwhelming, the feel of that ravenous mouth on your private place, all lips and tongue mashing and sucking and laving. You keen and whimper and mewl against him, insensible noises of pleasure, of need, of lust. You feel perspiration spark at the back of your knees. There’s a coiling knot of pressure building within your core that’s becoming unbearable. His eyes meet yours, dark and depthless and it sends you over the edge, spasming violently against him as he focuses all his attention on sucking your aching clit relentlessly. Your trembling legs fall and your thighs reflexively try to clamp down on him, the sensitivity skyrocketing. The fury against your pussy lessens and he laps more slowly, letting you ease down off your high, your body still wracked with spasms until he finally, finally emerges from between your legs.

***

Your stepfather wasn’t kidding when he says you’re delicious. Forget the best pussy, it’s the best fucking thing William’s ever tasted, period. Honey sweet. And the sounds you create. It makes him want to eat you out somewhere with vaulted ceilings so he can have that sound echoing around him. Fucking incredible.

So good he’d had to unzip his fly in the process and stroke himself to completion while he was devouring you. As much as he wants you to touch him—and fuck does he want that, those delicate hands and your sensual mouth and that tight virgin cunt wrapped around his cock—he’s not so far gone over in the lust that he doesn’t realize he needs to pace himself, for your sake. He likes you being needy, but he doesn’t necessarily want you reluctant or fearful. He wants you to want it. To beg, like you just had. It’s so much more satisfying to corrupt than to simply force. It takes skill and patience and Afton has plenty of that.

So for this evening, he’s settled for his hand accompanied by the flavor of your inner essence on his tongue and it takes the edge off. He shuts off the television and retires to the bedroom he shares with your mother while you shower and get dressed for bed. Perhaps you’re lying there awake right now, heart pounding, sex still tingling, limbs still feeling the aftershocks of your release. Not so much the young innocent girl anymore, the one who had chosen to wear pink ribbon patterned panties that morning before going to school, perhaps admiring the row of plush toys from your childhood lining the bookshelf beneath the window gone now, left behind, a relic of the past. Maybe you’re staring into the dark void above your head, cuddling whatever stuffed animal you’d previously used to pleasure yourself, wondering if he’ll come to you again.

The taste of you still floods his mouth and he thinks perhaps he will. Or perhaps he will wait.

It is only the first night, after all.

#william afton x reader #william afton x you #steve raglan x reader #steve raglan x you #fnaf fanfic #william afton #steve raglan #fnaf movie #divider credits @saradika

[theetherealbloom]

NO COMPLAINTS | JOEL MILLER

No Complaints | J.Miller One Shot

Summary: In the peaceful town of Jackson, life seems stable. Ellie has found some sense of belonging, but for you, life remains a constant struggle due to the trauma you carry. You've faced loss, isolation, and danger, and you're not sure where you fit in. That's when you cross paths with Joel Miller, a man with a haunted past and a heart hidden beneath a tough exterior.

Pairing: Joel Miller x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 8.5k

Warnings: Age-Gap (Late 20s - Early 30s) Angst, Hurt-to-Comfort, soft!joel, suicide ideation, Almost SA (dw nothing gets that far), Assault, Abuse, Blood, Injury, PTSD, Depression, Anxiety, Panic Attack, Slavery, Ellie and Joel had talked through their problems and everything is ok so no golf =D

A/N: This fic by @familyvideostevie titled “the meaning of it all” inspired me to write again after a long-ass writing slump. Literally, go read all of her fics cause they're just THAT good. Tbh, I’m not sure if this was even good to post since I’ve been out of practice. This one is a little darker than my usual writing, idk how it happened… it just does… so remember the trigger warning ya’ll!

Song: No Complaints by Noah Kahan

MAIN MASTERLIST

•───────•°•❀•°•───────•

You always thought that you’d find peace in never being awake long enough to feel anything. You lay there staring at the red marks on the hillside and the sharp grooves in the bark of the trees, and you couldn't help but wonder how you got to be in this desolate spot. Your feet, which were now exposed and rough, bore witness to a difficult journey.

All you knew is that one moment, you were fighting for your life from a group of raiders a few miles North, and you ended up where you lay. Had it been minutes? Hours? You weren’t sure as your vision was blurry and hazy, only saw the bleak white winter sky, you could hear crows cawing in the distance as you were freezing, and the snowflakes were on your lashes as you lay there in the snow.

Memories were a blur, time a mysterious riddle. One second, you had been immersed in a life-and-death conflict with savage captors who had enslaved you many kilometers to the South. In the next, you were in this desolate, snow-covered setting, with no clear explanation for how you had arrived. You saw the world through hazy glasses, your eyesight clouded, and all you could see was the stark winter sky, pure and cruel. As you lay there, a lonely soul in the middle of the cold wilderness, the eerie cries of far-off crows provided a haunting tune to your frost-chilled daydream. Each snowflake rested sweetly upon your eyelids.

A ghostly mist danced in front of your eyes with each breath, a whispered reminder of life's fragileness. You tried to relish these fading moments with every exhausted breath out. You felt tired and under pressure from having survived for a long time. You had endured the storm for a long amount of time, seeing pathetically as those you loved died, leaving a thick veil of grief, guilt, and unremitting agony in their wake.

You ached for relief, an end to the never-ending agony that had become your daily existence. During those last seconds, as your eyes closed like a curtain shutting on a world of hopelessness, you heard the muted voices of a group of strangers and the distant sound of galloping horses. A lone figure towered above you, their voice a beacon crying for assistance, while the warmth of your own tears blended with the chill on your cheeks. 

“Please… make it stop,” you gasped, the words escaping your trembling lips like fragile whispers, hanging heavy in the frigid air. "I just want it… to stop." And with that, at that very fragile moment, you gave yourself up to the gentle embrace of the gathering darkness.

•───────•°•❀•°•───────•

How you awoke unfolded gradually, like the faintest of whispers. First, a parched throat and chapped lips stirred you, and then the sensation of the plush pillow cradling your head, the yielding mattress beneath, and a soft blanket cocooning your form.

Your eyelashes fluttered as you hesitantly blinked awake, and an immediate panic surged within you, constricting your chest. The world around you was unfamiliar, and a gnawing uncertainty clawed at your psyche. Was this a new iteration of hell on Earth?

A relentless drumming, your heartbeat, echoed in your ears, and your vision swirled with chaos as you scanned the alien surroundings. You used your forearms to hoist yourself from the bed, your chest rising and falling with the rapid pace of your breath.

Then, the door swung open, revealing a man in a pristine white doctor's coat, clutching a clipboard. "Oh, you're awake," he began, but your question cut through his words like a knife.

"Where am I?" you demanded, urgency coloring your voice.

"You're safe," he assured, though the reassurance felt as hollow as an echo.

Driven by an instinct you couldn't fathom, you sprang from the bed, the IV drip yanked free from your left hand, a sharp sting preceding the rush of cool air against your skin. Barefoot and resolute, you pushed past the doctor, racing down the dimly lit hallway, your footsteps echoing in the empty, sterile corridors.

With a beating heart, you reach the end of the dimly illuminated corridor and see two enormous doors. With bated breath, you lunged forward, pushing them open and preparing yourself for whatever horrors could be behind them. You expected to be in another harsh and terrible location where the only things that remained consistent were torture and cruelty.

To your astonishment, you found yourself in a simple, wintry town. People of all ages populated the snow-covered streets. Elderly residents chatted quietly on porches, and children giggled and played, their rosy cheeks contrasting with the chilly air. The adults turned in surprise at your unexpected arrival, their faces mirroring a mix of curiosity and concern.

From behind, the approaching doctor and nurses shouted, their voices filled with alarm. In the midst of your confusion and disarray, a strong pair of arms encircled you, causing your instincts to scream in fear. 

"Let go of me!" you cried out, struggling in the grip that held you captive.

A soft, heavy southern accent whispered gently in your ear, "You're okay... you're safe here. Ain't no one here gonna hurt you, darlin'."

Your fear intensified as you flailed and cried inside the confining hold. But you didn't notice the abrupt, stinging prick on your neck because you were too caught up in the chaotic mayhem. The environment around you became blurry and black in a couple of minutes.

•───────•°•❀•°•───────•

The patrol had begun like any other routine, just another day in the relentless grind of survival. The plan was straightforward: coming across a few Clickers and eliminating them like they were just annoyances to be removed. What he had not expected, though, was to stumble across a lady who was on the verge of dying of hypothermia. 

“Please… make it stop,” you begged in a voice so soft and fragile, "I just want it… to stop."

Joel couldn't ignore the desperation in your pleas. He'd been there before, when the world had crumbled into chaos, and he'd lost his daughter. Back then, he saw no point in carrying on, until he'd met Ellie and endured the hardships alongside her. He found her, protected her, and now, he cared for her as if she were his own.

Joel stood there, just across the street from the clinic, his weary eyes and gruff exterior a testament to the countless trials he'd faced. Those brave enough to ask for the details of what had transpired a few days earlier, who he had discovered, were met with curt, direct responses, followed by an icy, hard stare. 

He'd assumed that Maria, Tommy, or whoever had been entrusted with integrating newcomers into Jackson would take care of you. So, for the past few days, he went about his life as best he could—patrolling, teaching Ellie how to play the guitar, constructing new homes, and restoring old ones.

But as he made his way to assist Tommy with yet another task, he saw you in the middle of the street, awake and in a state of panic, clad in your medical gown. His chest constricted with a sudden, unexplainable urgency, and without a second thought, he was sprinting towards you, clutching you against his chest in an attempt to ground you.

Now, you were back in the small room of the clinic, asleep due to the sedative they had administered. Joel sat in a chair beside your bed, patiently awaiting your awakening. He couldn't quite comprehend why he felt drawn to be by your side, to ensure your well-being. He closed his eyes, pressing both palms to his face, contemplating the reason he felt so adamant about your recovery.

Maybe it was the way he had glimpsed the hopelessness in your eyes, a reflection of his own prior misery. The way you had pled, already having given up on yourself, touched a chord within him. He understood that sensation all too well. Despite the plethora of sins he had committed, perhaps aiding you was a chance for atonement, a way to make amends for everything he’s done.

•───────•°•❀•°•───────•

You stirred from your slumber, feeling the haze of grogginess envelop you as your weary eyes fought to open. Gradually, your vision sharpened, and you found yourself in a familiar place. This time, you weren't alone.

Across from your bed, a figure sat in a chair. His countenance was rugged, marked by the passage of time, a salt-and-pepper beard framing a face etched with the stories of his life. His presence exuded a rugged handsomeness, even as he raised a quizzical eyebrow in your direction.

In a deep baritone, his voice resonated through the room as he uttered the words, "You're awake."

You shifted uneasily on the bed and looked at him with wide, unsure eyes, suddenly feeling uncomfortable. His piercing look was enigmatic; you didn't know how to respond, so you decided to be quiet, entangled in a fog of uncertainty.

With a soft hum, he introduced himself, "The name is Joel… Joel Miller. What's your name, ma'am?" His voice carried an air of gruff kindness that gently nudged you to respond, yet you found it hard to meet his gaze. Your eyes darted everywhere but his, and you said your name in a shy whisper, leaving it hanging there like a delicate secret.

Joel's voice wavered as he began, "I'm... I'm not exactly supposed to be here, but I—" 

Your brows furrowed, and your eyes squinted with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion as you interrupted, "Then, why are you here?"

His words stumbled and faltered. "I... I don't—"

Frustrated with the lack of a clear answer, you turned your gaze away from him, your attention drawn to the frosted glass window on your left. Joel fell silent, respecting your need for space.

After a brief pause, you nodded toward the outside, your voice soft, inquisitive. "Is it real?" Joel waited for you to elaborate, and you continued, "There are kids playing in the street, no FEDRA, elderly being taken care of... it all seems so..."

"Normal," Joel finished your thought, and you snapped your head back to him, watching him nod in agreement. "Yeah, I couldn't quite believe it myself, to be honest," he admitted, clearing his throat. "Jackson is a safe place, a good community. They've got real food here."

A weary, exasperated chuckle escaped your lips as you felt a lump form in your throat, and your eyes grew watery. You hugged yourself tightly, seeking comfort in your embrace as you confessed, "I... I don't know what to do."

"We'll figure it out, darlin'," Joel reassured you, his words infused with a tenderness that pierced through his rugged exterior. It was a kindness you hadn't expected, a gentle ember igniting a glimmer of hope within you. Maybe, you began to believe, that life wasn't supposed to be a never-ending punishment after all.

•───────•°•❀•°•───────•

Solidarity was something you thought was long gone ever since the beginning of the apocalypse, where the Infected had taken what they wanted, and the remaining people who survived will always be at war with each other rather than fighting the common enemy.

It took more than a few tries, but eventually, you got the hang of things, thanks to Maria and Tommy, and especially Joel and Ellie. Bits and pieces intertwined with time got you to understand them better and sometimes made you feel less alone. Your mind sometimes wonders how Joel and Ellie met, when Joel practically adopted Ellie as his own, or how they got to Jackson.

You’ve got a house that you have made your own, a bed, and a kitchen. You help give back to the community in ways that you can. You helped in the greenhouse, and the stables, and when you were finally ready, you went out patrolling with the group when you were up for rotation.

Initially, you kept to yourself, often skipping breakfast, lost in a peculiar silence that enveloped you like a shroud. It was a protective cocoon, a way to conceal yourself as if you were an isolated island adrift in a sea of people. The presence of others had always unnerved you, a lingering fear that refused to release its grip.

•───────•°•❀•°•───────•

Taking charge of the stables for the month had its perks, especially when it came to tending to the horses—an undertaking that ranked high among your favorite chores. While two other residents were technically assigned to work with you, the majority of your time was spent in the solitary company of the majestic creatures.

In the quiet embrace of the early morning, just before the crucial handover to the patrolling team, you busied yourself ensuring the horses were well-fed and prepared. Running your fingers through Scout's mane, one of the older stallions, you continued the rhythmic task of brushing his coat, a tranquil hum escaping your lips.

"S'cuse me," a voice interrupted, and you jolted at the familiar sound. Turning your head, you found Joel, surprisingly up and about at this early hour. Mouth slightly agape, you greeted him breathlessly, "Joel, hi."

"Up early for patrol today... so... was wonderin' if you needed any help," Joel's gravelly voice broke through the quiet serenity of the stables.

You tilted your head, a subtle quirk of curiosity. The unexpected shyness emanating from Joel piqued your interest. Scanning him up and down, you suppressed a smile before nodding, trying to appear nonchalant despite the fluttering in your chest. "Um, sure... Could you feed the rest of the horses over there?"

He nodded in acknowledgment before moving with seasoned ease to attend to the horses, his hands moving confidently as he handled the feed and navigated the familiar routine of caring for the animals. As he worked alongside you in the quietude of the stables, the bond between caretaker and horses, and perhaps something more, unfolded in the soft morning light.

"How are you settlin' in in town, darlin'?" Joel inquired, his voice dipped in a gentle southern charm that sent a delightful shiver down your spine. The term of endearment he used left you feeling a sweet warmth spreading throughout your body.

You shrugged, a subtle smile playing on your lips. "Jackson is good, quiet, and peaceful. Never thought a place like this could still exist after... everything."

Joel's gaze lingered on you, and he couldn't help but note, "Well, it's got its charm. People here look out for each other. You included darlin'." His words held a quiet sincerity, wrapping around you like a comforting embrace.

Your eyes shifted around, a flutter of nerves settling in before gathering enough courage to meet Joel's gaze. You licked your lip nervously, and the words tumbled out, "Joel, I... I never apologized when I... um... first arrived here in Jackson. I'm sorry."

Joel looked at you, seeing the vulnerability in your eyes, and a softness overcame him. He offered you a sympathetic smile, "Nothin' to apologize for."

"You must have thought I was crazy," you lamely laughed, and Joel shook his head, his voice gentle, "No, not at all, just someone who's hurtin'."

You stared at him wide-eyed, feeling a phantom fear of tragedy as if he could see through you, still aware of any negative tendencies you may have. It evoked a sense of helplessness and vulnerability.

Then, a flicker of something in his gaze—a fire, a subtle intensity that caused warmth to spread across your face. An unspoken connection kindled in the quiet space between you, creating an inexplicable but undeniable bond.

Unable to hold his gaze, you looked away, clearing your throat, and tried to hide your smile as you continued to brush out Scout's mane. Joel smirked, watching you duck your head, proud of the way he made you react with just his gaze. The unspoken words hung in the air, a sweet tension that hinted at something more than apologies and simple conversations.

“So… what’s today’s patrol route?” You asked, trying to move the conversation, Joel walked over to you and finished feeding the horses, he stood in front of you and sighed, “Should be a quick one, makin’ sure there aren’t any infected or raiders nearby.”

Time flew by in the hypnotic flow of discussion with Joel before you realized it. His patrol partner eventually arrived, signaling the end of your stolen moments together. As you handed over the reins to Joel, a subtle thrill coursed through you when your hand brushed against his. A soft smile graced your lips, and you whispered, "Stay safe out there, Cowboy."

In response, Joel's steely exterior softened, and a rare, small smile played on his lips. He nodded, meeting your gaze with a warmth that transcended the casual camaraderie. "I will, darlin'," he affirmed, the endearment lingering in the air like a promise.

•───────•°•❀•°•───────•

The kitchen at Jackson bustled with activity, and you were focused on the mundane task of chopping carrots for the evening's stew. Gemma, a fellow resident assisting you, had stepped outside to discuss some news with an acquaintance. The day seemed ordinary, a haze of familiar routines in the post-apocalyptic town.

But then, it happened. A deafening crash of the door bursting open shattered the tranquility, causing you to jolt in fear. Instantly, you were transported back in time, your mind torn from the kitchen and thrust into a nightmare you thought you'd escaped.

In an instant, you weren't in Jackson anymore. Instead, you found yourself in that dreadful place, that sinister basement that still haunted your darkest memories. It was as if the chains that once bound your ankles were clinking and dragging across the worn wooden floor again, just as they had back then. The echoes of your fellow captives' whimpers and cries resonated in your ears, the cacophony of despair down the hall of that wretched basement.

The room seemed to whirl around you, and a frantic panic welled up inside, a chilling flood of memories surging through your mind like an unstoppable tide. It was as if the past, a nightmare you believed you had left behind, had come crashing back into your reality. 

Your throat constricted, and tears welled in your eyes, blurring the faces of the people and the clatter of the fallen knife in the kitchen. You couldn't bear it any longer. You couldn't pretend that everything was okay. You couldn't ignore the haunting echoes of the past any longer.

Without a second thought, you dashed past the bewildered onlookers in the kitchen, their voices fading into a distant, indistinct hum. Your pounding footsteps carried you through the dining hall and out into the crisp, autumn air.

Outside, you continued to run, propelled by an inexplicable urge to escape. The scene before you spun as you sprinted past, driven by an overwhelming need to distance yourself from the nightmarish memories that had clawed their way back to the surface.

Reaching the stables, you sought refuge by pressing your trembling hand against the cool, aged wood of the railing. It was a familiar anchor in this moment of turmoil, offering some semblance of support as your chest heaved, each breath drawn in ragged gasps. Your other hand clung to your racing heart as if to prevent it from leaping out of your chest.

Overwhelmed by emotions too powerful to contain, you eventually collapsed to your knees on the straw-strewn ground of the stables. There, amid the scents of hay, horses, and leather, you allowed yourself to succumb to the tidal wave of anguish. It was a cathartic release, an outpouring of pent-up pain, as you wept for the horrors of the past and for the insidious trauma that still gripped your very soul. The weight of the past was crushing, and a foreboding sense of its unending presence gnawed at you.

Amid the silent stables, in the hushed serenity of the autumn afternoon, your sorrow reverberated through the air. The horses nearby snorted and shifted, sensing your distress. Through your blurry vision, you made out the form of your own horse, Spirit, a palomino, whinnying and restlessly pawing the ground. Even he could perceive your distress.

With a heavy heart, you surrendered to the overwhelming emotions, curling into yourself. You buried your head in your arms, seeking refuge from the maelstrom within.

Time was elusive in that moment of vulnerability, and you couldn't gauge how long you remained in that cocoon of pain. It was the gentle touch of someone's hand on your shoulder that finally roused you from your anguish. Startled, you jolted and flinched backward, your tear-soaked eyes locking onto the familiar figure before you. 

It was Joel. He knelt on the stable floor, his expression a mix of concern and understanding. His hands were lifted in a gesture of surrender, a silent assurance that he meant no harm. His voice, as gruff and comforting as ever, reached out to you with reassurance, "Hey, sweetheart, it's just me. Nothin's gonna hurt'cha."

You felt yourself wrapping your arms around Joel in a vulnerable moment as if motivated by an unsaid desire for comfort rather than condemnation. He hesitated for an instant, but then he threw his powerful arms around you and held you close to his chest. Tears poured easily into his flannel, his hold's warmth providing a haven from the cold.

His hand moved with a soothing rhythm on the small of your back, a gesture meant to calm the storm raging within you. In that quiet corner of the stables, amidst hay and the comforting scent of horses, you let out the pain that had long been buried.

Word had traveled through the residents about the outburst you experienced, reaching Maria's ears. Concern etched on her face, she went to check on you, only to discover your broken state in Joel's embrace on the stable floor. A shared look between Maria and Joel conveyed an understanding, a mutual acknowledgment of the solace he provided. Without a word, Maria nodded in appreciation before quietly walking away, leaving you in the tender care of Joel's comforting arms.

•───────•°•❀•°•───────•

Funny how it all fades away, the chaos of the world and the turmoil within, the very moment you surrender to Joel's arms. It's as if the universe aligns with the comforting embrace, reshaping the way it spins. You find yourself rearranged, your mind shifting, holding on a little tighter in the safety of your old age.

Your past, a fragile tapestry of pain, remains untold, hidden away from prying eyes. No one had ever asked, and the memories were not something you carried with pride.

Before you knew it, tears had given way to exhaustion, and you had surrendered to the solace Joel provided, falling into a peaceful slumber in his arms. Joel, unable to disturb your tranquil rest, gathered the strength to lift you with a gentle grace. Carrying you across the farmhouse they called home, he navigated the familiar halls with the kind of care one reserves for something precious.

In his bedroom, he gently laid you down on the bed, tucking you in with a blanket. You slept soundly, undisturbed by the world outside. Closing the door with a soft click, Joel rested his head against the wood, his tired eyes reflecting the weight of concern.

A voice sliced through the quiet, shattering Joel's contemplation. "Watcha hidin' in there?" Ellie's words caught him off guard, and he jumped, a whispered curse escaping him, "Fuck! Christ, kid, you almost gave me a damn heart attack."

Ellie leaned against the doorframe, her eyes studying Joel's worn expression. "Who's in there?" she asked, her curiosity tinged with concern.

Joel sighed, running a hand through his grizzled hair as he said your name, "She needed someone, kid. Don't worry, she's asleep now." He could see the questions forming in Ellie's eyes, and he continued, "She didn't need to be alone, not tonight."

Ellie's gaze softened, her understanding silently conveyed. "Need any help?" she offered, the bond between them speaking volumes in the unspoken connection.

Joel shook his head. "Nah, I got it covered. Get some rest, Ellie."

As Ellie retreated to her space in the garage, Joel turned back to the closed door, a silent vigil for the fragile peace within.

•───────•°•❀•°•───────•

As you deeply inhaled, the scent of soft cotton sheets enveloped you, and the plush mattress cradled your form. A gentle breeze wafted through the open window, causing the curtains to sway gracefully. Blinking your eyes open, your eyebrows knit in confusion as the unfamiliar room unfolded before you, a stark contrast to the one you had meticulously crafted as your own.

As you pushed yourself up, the blanket slipped off, revealing a scene that painted a portrait of the person who occupied this space. A guitar stood propped up next to a box of records, hinting at the melodies that might have filled the room. A clock, perched on the wall above a small bookshelf adorned with a multitude of books, ticked away the moments. The window, adorned with a closet nearby, allowed soft daylight to spill into the room, casting a warm glow on the carefully curated details that made this space unique.

Exiting the bedroom, you quietly padded towards the kitchen, drawn by the inviting aroma of breakfast and a faint hum in the air. As you entered, Joel came into view, focused on the morning task of preparing a meal. You said his name, but he tilted his head to the side, as if catching a subtle sound in the stillness. Eventually, he turned around, and a small smile graced his face, revealing the hint of a dimple.

"Oh, you're awake. Good mornin', darlin'. How'd ya sleep?" Joel greeted, his eyes warm and the kitchen bathed in the aroma of breakfast. The worn, well-loved kitchen table held evidence of countless meals, the scent of brewing coffee enveloping the space, and a charming clutter of ingredients spoke of a morning routine crafted by familiarity and care.

“I… I’m–”

“Before you start to apologize for shit that you can’t control, don’t,” Joel interjected, a wry smile on his lips.

Deciding it was too early for arguments, you settled for a small nod, and Joel mirrored it with an agreeing one, “Alright, good.”

You began, “Uh, then I should… uh, see myself out then um–”

Joel shook his head, “Not with an empty stomach, you’re not.”

“But I–”

“Let me take care of you, please?” Joel's request carried a certain weight, and you found it hard to resist. Politely nodding, you ventured, “Is there anything I could help with?”

Joel shook his head, “Just have a seat over there by the dining table.” You complied, the chair scraping against the floor before you settled, observing Joel expertly preparing a spread of plates.

The front door opened, and Ellie walked in with a bright smile upon spotting you. "Hey! You’re still here and Joel hasn’t scared you off yet?”

You began to reply, but Joel scolded Ellie, placing down plates and glasses on the table, "Ellie!"

With a sheepish smile, you told her, "Quite the opposite actually."

Ellie shot Joel a cheeky look as she stuffed her face with food, “Wow! Look at you, when did you become such a social butterfly?” Joel sighed, shaking his head, while you shared a chuckle with Ellie, finding yourself welcomed into the heartwarming banter of their unconventional family.

You three had a nice supper together in quiet companionship. Ellie finally got up from her chair and announced that she was going to hang out at Dina's apartment. Never one to pass up a chance, she gave Joel a playful glance and puckered her lips into a kissy face at him while you were busy with the dishwashing.

By the time Joel was done drying the dishes with a towel and setting them on the drying rack, you picked at the loose skin on the edges of your fingernails, nervously waiting for Joel to ask the question you knew was coming.

“Let’s go sit out at the porch and enjoy the good weather, watcha’ say darlin’?” Joel asks and you bring yourself to look at him and you just nod as you follow him outside. He opens the door for you and gestures to the seat that you take, Joel moves the table around and moves his chair closer to yours.

You inhale deeply, finding solace in the delicate dance of silence and the caress of a spring breeze that leaves goosebumps in its wake.

“Have ya talked to anybody?” Joel's voice breaks the quiet, and you turn your head to meet his gaze, a mixture of curiosity and kindness in his eyes.

“What?” you respond, caught off guard by the sudden question.

“Y’know, made some friends around town?” Joel elaborates gently.

“Are you asking if I have friends?” Your quizzical tone hangs in the air, and Joel huffs, “Well, you ain’t answerin’ the question, honey.”

A sigh escapes you as you weigh the words in your mind. Finally, you admit, “I like being alone.”

“Must be why you’re talkin’ to me so much,” Joel remarks with a smirk.

You meet his gaze, the warm sun highlighting the depths of his brown eyes as he looks at you. Shaking your head, you say, “That’s why I knew you were different. Because, for the first time ever, I wanted someone else’s company more than my own.” The vulnerability in your words hangs between you, suspended in the soft glow of the sun.

Joel's weathered hand envelops yours, a gesture that carries the weight of shared pain. "I’ve had 'em, the um, panic attacks," he admits, his voice a low murmur that echoes the haunting specter of those moments. "Feels like all the air in your lungs is gone, and you begin to feel like you’re drownin’.”

“I see her sometimes,” Joel continues distantly, his gaze lost in the depths of memory. You wait, the air thick with unspoken sorrow. “Sarah, my daughter. I lost her on outbreak day. She was only twelve.”

Your eyes well up, and you squeeze his hand in silent solidarity. "I'm sorry, Joel."

Joel shifts his gaze to his broken watch, a relic that marks the day and time when his world shattered when he cradled Sarah in his arms as she bled out.

“I got Ellie now, and she’s…” Joel trails off, the weight of his feelings for Ellie impossible to articulate fully. She's his everything, the reason to press on in a world that often feels desolate.

“I know,” you say, nodding in understanding.

“Talkin’ about it helps, y’know. Learned the hard way, almost lost her.”

Tears stream down your cheeks as the raw vulnerability in Joel's words resonates with your own pain. “I don’t want to just survive anymore,” you gasp, the ache in your chest palpable. “It hurts, Joel.”

“What happened out there, darlin’?” Joel asks, his voice breaking.

With a sob, you reply, “Nothing good. Nothin’ good, Joel.”

Then, the floodgates open, and you begin to tell an account laced with patches of short-lived joy and a frantic search for any opportunity at a better life. You spoke about the day of the breakout, the terror of seeing your parents die, and the passing of your siblings. You were taken prisoner by deranged and vicious raiders who took you to a basement filled with the deafening screams of violence.

You consider yourself lucky, spared the physical torment, yet the anticipation of it looms, a shadow of dread. "They should've just killed me then and there," you choke out, laying bare the scars that time can't erase.

A surge of anger courses through Joel's veins, an incandescent rage that echoes through his chest, resonating in the very marrow of his bones. The simmering heat in his head intensifies, a visceral response to the mere thought of anyone causing you harm. Every protective instinct in him flares up, urging him to mount a horse and embark on a ruthless pursuit, to track down those who dared lay a hand on you and unleash a torrent of violence upon them.

Yet, a rational part of Joel prevails. He recognizes the urgency of your need, the necessity for his presence here and now. Despite the molten anger that simmers beneath his skin, he restrains the impulse to act immediately. For your sake, he remains seated, the muscles in his jaw tensing as he clenches his teeth, locking away the fiery wrath that threatens to consume him. It's a fierce battle within, between the protective warrior ready for vengeance and the caring soul determined to offer solace. In this moment, he chooses the latter, for you.

The weight of your dreams presses upon you, vivid and haunting, every detail etched into your consciousness. "I've been remembering my dreams, more vivid than they've ever been, every detail and little thing. Every time I think about going back there to save the others I just… I can’t,” you admit, the guilt seeping through every fiber of your being. Joel kneels in front of you, a pillar of support, placing his hand on your knee.

“Let’s go inside, sweetheart,” Joel suggests, his voice a gentle anchor. You nod, allowing him to guide you back inside. Both of you settle on the couch, and Joel scoops you into his arms, a comforting embrace that shields you from the harshness of your own thoughts.

Sniffling, you pour out your heart, “I know I should have gone back for them, but I saw the opportunity, took it, and fought. I fought hard, and then I ran.”

Joel hums, a soothing melody that allows your tears to flow freely. “I thought… I was okay with the idea of dying, right there, in the snow, and then–”

“I found you,” Joel interjects, his voice a soft murmur.

You look up at him, eyes filled with uncertainty. “You found me?”

Joel's voice drops to a low register, his gaze steady on yours. “I found you during the patrol, freezin’ to death. Thought I didn’t make it in time.” The admission lingers in the air, a symbol of the frailty of beating the odds and the silent connection that kept you from falling apart.

You both stay quiet as you try to calm yourself down while Joel holds you, unable to form any response to the revelation that Joel saved you. You know you’re supposed to be grateful, but at the same time, you don’t feel that way. So you settle closer to him and Joel squeezes you a little tighter as if he knows what you are thinking, and there is no judgment, just pure empathy and understanding.

Eventually, you settle down and softly say, “I don’t know what to do,” Joel rubs a soothing hand up and down your back, “We’ll figure it out, darlin’.”

Then for the first time in years, that's when you could finally breathe.

 •───────•°•❀•°•───────•

As the seasons wove their tapestry of change, so did the fabric of your life, threading moments of lightness and warmth. Having shared the weight of your past with Joel, he became a steadfast presence, an anchor in the shifting tides of your existence. Ellie, too, became a companion in the shared journey of growth.

On a particular day, amidst the vibrant greenery of the greenhouse, you found yourself potting plants and tending to the garden alongside Ellie and another resident named Tris. The air was filled with the earthy scent of soil and the symphony of laughter as you engaged in the simple joy of gardening.

Joel, clad in his worn yet beloved flannel, entered the greenhouse, his eyes inadvertently catching the scene of camaraderie and playfulness. He watched, a subtle smile gracing his lips, as you and Ellie exchanged sweet banter, a dance of words that resonated with laughter.

Ellie couldn't resist a playful pun, and you responded with a burst of laughter, the sound harmonizing with the rustle of leaves and the hum of nature. The moment encapsulated the genuine connection, the shared language of laughter, that had blossomed between you and Ellie.

There had never been a label given to the unwritten relationship between Joel and you. It was a wordless understanding, manifested in the tender attention he paid you and the evenings you spent finding comfort in the round of his arms. There was a promise in the air as he held you tight, "I'll keep you safe, sweetheart." The words were genuine and reverberated through the unexplored areas of your connection, a song of love and safety that didn't require any further explanation.

 •───────•°•❀•°•───────•

The morning proceeded as usual, and the break of dawn illuminated Jackson's sanctuary with a hopeful glow. There was a small party of new arrivals, an expected but unusual sight, and the customary welcoming committee was called upon to assist them in becoming adjusted to the way of life in the community.

You and a few others started the annual task of welcoming the newcomers into the communal room that serves several purposes. A mixture of wonder and expectation pervaded the air as the newcomers experienced Jackson's regularity and warmth—a sanctuary amidst the chaos of the post-apocalyptic world.

You did your duty without thinking as the new faces moved into the shared dining room, where a shared meal was waiting. But at the doorway, something stopped you cold, a pause that went against the normal flow of the greeting.

And then, you saw him.

Recognition struck like a bolt, the back of his head triggering a flood of memories—the cadence of his voice, the grimy shirt clinging to his frame, the dirt-encrusted hands that bore the stains of a past you had fought hard to escape. Time seemed to fracture as you stood there, immobilized, your mouth agape and dry, eyes widened in sheer terror.

You could feel the weight in the pit of your stomach, a concrete representation of the eerie memories of abuse and torment. This could not be real. He was not allowed to be here, breaking into the safe sanctuary you had taken refuge in. Previously perceived as a haven of security, the shared area now seemed to evoke images of suppressed anxieties and bad dreams.

His eyes lock onto yours, and a malevolent grin creeps across his face, revealing a set of teeth that seem to glisten with wicked intent. The sight sends shivers down your spine, and an overwhelming sense of nausea threatens to consume you. In that moment, Maria's reassuring grip on your shoulder serves as a lifeline amidst the storm of dread that surges within you.

Her voice cuts through the dissonance in your mind, “You okay? You look unwell,”, her concern accentuated by the chaos unfolding around you. Yet, it's her inquiry that acts as the catalyst for your unraveling. A surge of panic propels you out of the scene, your movements fueled by a desperate need to escape the looming threat.

The world blurs around you as you sprint through the town, a disorienting juxtaposition of familiar faces and judgmental gazes. The echoes of a haunting déjà vu accompany your frantic run, amplifying the weight of your terror. Tears stream down your face, and your breaths come in ragged gasps as your throat constricts, a relentless grip tightening around your airways.

Staggering, you struggle to maintain composure, but the relentless onslaught of fear takes its toll. The corners of your vision blur, and in a secluded moment, away from the prying eyes of the community, your body rebels. The gut-wrenching sensation overwhelms you, and you bend over, retching as the trauma resurfaces in both memory and physical reaction. The ground beneath you bears witness to the aftermath of a confrontation with the haunting specter of your past.

As you slide down the cold, unforgiving wall, a shiver courses through your body, amplifying the stark reality of the present moment. The cool surface offers little solace as you fold into yourself, desperately clutching your knees as if they could shield you from the impending storm.

The air around you thickens with a stifling heaviness, a cruel reminder of the past that refuses to release its grip. Curling into a defensive ball, you hug yourself tight, as though this simple act could ward off the encroaching darkness threatening to consume you.

With your head buried in your arms, the world outside the fortress of your limbs becomes a distant, distorted canvas. The minutes unravel, each tick of the clock echoing the pulsating rush of blood in your ears. The simplicity of the moment clashes with the complexity of the emotions swirling within.

Seventeen again, caught in the clutches of an awful, horrible place that has become an indelible scar etched into the tapestry of your existence. The pain is not merely a memory but a living, breathing entity, clawing its way back into your present, rendering the passage of time meaningless.

The walls around you seem to close in, their echoes carrying the weight of your history. It's a stark reminder that the past, no matter how desperately you've tried to escape it, remains an unwelcome companion, haunting the recesses of your soul.

You feel the air thicken as he draws near, his presence casting an ominous shadow that seems to devour the feeble rays of sunlight. A cold shiver races down your spine, a chilling prelude to the encroaching darkness. His footsteps echo like ominous drumbeats, each one resonating with an unsettling promise.

"You thought you could escape, huh?" The words slither from his lips like venom, his voice a malevolent symphony that pierces through the ambient sounds of the surroundings. His gaze, filled with a malevolent gleam, locks onto yours, trapping you in a macabre dance.

Despite your mind screaming at your limbs to flee, a paralyzing fear roots you to the spot. The weight of your past sins, haunting and relentless, manifests in the figure before you. His form, etched with the scars of your shared history, now looms with a menacing intent.

"Did you really think you could hide here? With these people?" His tone drips with disdain as he gestures to the community around you. The tendrils of his threat extend beyond mere words, reaching into the very fabric of your newfound sanctuary.

Your breath catches as his words morph into a menacing promise. "I can take it all away, you know. Everything you've found here." His gaze shifts to the people you've come to love, their laughter and camaraderie now tainted by the looming specter of his return.

Nathan. A name, almost lost to the recesses of memory, surfaces in your mind – a cruel reminder of the scars he etched upon your soul. In this ominous confrontation, the echoes of your past reverberate with the sinister intention of reclaiming what he believes belongs to him.

Nathan's grip tightened around your arm, and you let out a scream, thrashing wildly to break free. As your nails clawed at his face, Nathan spat out a curse, "You fuckin’ bitch, I’ll kill you!"

In desperation, you tried to stand, but he grabbed your ankle, dragging you mercilessly across the floor. Your knee aimed at his face was thwarted, and his hands closed around your throat. The air in your lungs dwindled, and you kicked and screamed in a futile attempt to escape.

Feeling the switchblade in your pocket, you willed yourself to grab it. Flipping it open, you cried out as you stabbed him in the neck. Joel stormed towards you, anger etched across his face, but before he could intervene, you pulled out the switchblade, attacking Nathan with a frenzy of stabs.

"Stay the hell away from me!" you cried, each word punctuated by a vicious thrust of the blade. Tears streamed down your face as you unleashed your rage on the man who haunted your nightmares.

Joel, realizing the danger, moved swiftly. He pulled you away from the blood-soaked scene, shushing you and grabbing your wrist. The switchblade fell from your grip, staining the grass, and Joel held you close, shielding you from the aftermath of the violent confrontation.

Amidst the chaos, Joel's voice cut through, reassuring and protective. "Easy, sweetheart, easy. You're safe now." The echoes of your cries mingled with the distant sounds of Maria, Tommy, and others dealing with Nathan.

Maria's gaze shifted towards you, concern etched across her features. She turned to Joel and gave a decisive order, "Go and make sure she’s okay." Joel's response was a firm nod, an acknowledgment of his responsibility.

There was a hint of irritation in Joel's eyes as he escorted you home with an arm around your waist. It was an aging-related displeasure with himself for not being fast enough. But he was driven by desire to take care of making sure you were safe, and he brought you home with a strong sense of protectiveness. The atmosphere was tight, with echoes of Maria's instruction that spoke of the need to protect you from the horror that had recently occurred.

 •───────•°•❀•°•───────•

In the quiet confines of the bathroom, Joel tenderly cleans the cuts and blood on your skin. The sterile scent of antiseptic hangs in the air as he carefully tends to your wounds. His touch is gentle, a stark contrast to the harsh memories that still lingered.

Joel glances at you while he works, capturing your attention. Through the difficulties you've undergone together, you've built a mutual understanding and a silent bond. The air changes, as trust and frailty meld together at that one instant.

Joel stops and meets your eyes for a brief period. There is a tangible tension between you that none of you can deny. The air seems heated. He places the first aid kit aside and reaches for your face with his hands.

Without a word, Joel leans in, closing the gap between you. The touch of his lips against yours is a gentle reassurance, a promise that you're not alone. In that tender kiss, there's a quiet acknowledgment of the strength you've found in each other.

As the kiss lingers, the weight of the past starts to lift. It's a moment of solace, a testament to resilience and the possibility of healing. Joel pulls away slightly, his eyes searching yours for any sign of discomfort or hesitation.

And in the quiet bathroom, amid the wounds of the past, you find a newfound feeling of hope, grounded in the connection established through endurance and the compassion of Joel's care. Joel smiles softly and says, "You deserve to be happy, darlin'. Let me take care of you."

As Joel continues to care for your wounds, a sense of calm settles within the small confines of the bathroom. The sting of antiseptic is a tangible reminder of the present, but you find solace in the fact that Joel is here, offering comfort and care.

He finishes cleaning the last cut, his hands lingering for a moment before he retreats. There's an unspoken understanding between you, a silent agreement that this moment marks a turning point. The ghosts of the past may linger, but the present holds a promise of healing.

Joel's gruff voice breaks the quiet, "You're a tough one, you know that?" A hint of a smile plays on his lips, a rare sight that warms your heart. You manage a small smile in return, grateful for the unexpected bond that has grown between you.

Leaning back against the bathroom counter, Joel lets out a sigh. "You've been through hell, and here you are, facing it head-on. I've seen folks crumble under less. You're stronger than you think."

The atmosphere shifts as Joel's gaze meets yours again. There's a question lingering in the air, one that goes beyond words. You realize that this moment is a crossroads, a chance to choose your path forward.

"You're not alone in this," Joel reassures, his eyes reflecting a depth of understanding that transcends the scars of the past. "Whatever you need, I'm here."

In that moment, you feel a surge of courage, a newfound strength that emanates from within. The pain of the past begins to lose its grip as you accept Joel's support. The familiarity of the bathroom transforms into a sanctuary, a symbol of resilience and the possibility of rebuilding.

As you rise from the seat, Joel watches you with a quiet intensity. You get closer as the uncovered pull between you becomes stronger. This is a turning point in your life when you realize that you are now in control of the two worlds you have battled to survive and are determined to rebuild.

Joel's weathered hands find yours, a comforting embrace that symbolizes the connection you've forged. The tension that once lingered now gives way to a shared understanding, a silent agreement to face the future together.

In the hushed bathroom, among the fragments of the past, you lean in, closing the distance between you and Joel. The kiss that follows is a testament to resilience, an affirmation of the strength found in vulnerability. It forms a bridge between the hope of the next day and the scars of yesterday as it becomes deeper. 

Joel pulls away, his eyes searching yours for any sign of doubt or hesitation. Instead, he finds a glimmer of determination, a spark that signals a new beginning. With a whispered promise, he says, "We'll face whatever comes our way, together."

With Joel right there beside you, you walk into that tiny, quiet room, ready to tackle whatever the world throws your way. Strangely enough, the weight of the world feels lighter with him around. No complaints from you—just a sense of readiness for whatever comes next.

•───────•°•❀•°•───────•

End Notes:

tbh, I blacked out while writing this--- so UH if there are any inconsistencies let me know! :>

#joel miller x y/n #joel miller x reader #joel miller x reader tlou #joel miller x reader au #joel miller x female reader #ethereal writes #joel miller x you #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller tlou #joel miller x fem!reader #joel miller x reader masterlist

[squidwen]

🐙 Tentacle Trapped 🐙

•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•

Summary: After having a hand in destroying all of Azul’s contracts, the dorm leader blames you for his downfall and snatches you up in his tentacles.

You struggle to get free as your friends fight the overblot phantom, but Azul won’t let you go so easily. He plans to keep you restrained long enough to witness your friends’ defeat before turning his unique magic on you.

•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•

Azul’s life work lay in a million pieces at his feet. A decade of blood, sweat, and tears – gone. There was now no difference between his contracts and the dirty silt on the seabed. Just something for people to walk all over and disrespect. 

Just like him. 

Leona cracked his knuckles, releasing the tension built up by King’s Roar. Azul snapped to him, his eyes murderous, but despite the lion being the one that had done the damage, Azul had rage for everyone before him. 

Ace and Deuce’s relieved grins were grotesque. They combed their hands through their hair and revelled in not feeling the anemones. Jade and Floyd stood idly beside them, watching Azul as if he were some spectacle. His eyes pleaded for them to do something, but they stayed firmly rooted to the spot. 

And then, there was you.

Cradling your putrid cat monster, you looked almost innocent. But the way your head was tilted down in shame gave you away.

Azul was no fool. The interest you had shown in finding his childhood photograph; the fact Grim had been a debtor; the favour Leona owed you for helping him with his overblot. All the pieces were there. 

You had orchestrated this. You sly, cunning little mastermind.

•~•~0~•~•

“Gone…” Azul murmured. “Gone. Gone! GONE! IT’S ALL GONE!” He gripped his face like the reigns on a wild horse, his tendons bulging through the gloves. Breaths turned to panicked rasps. In and out, in and out as if his lungs had shrunk to half their size.

You had to look away. Admittedly, you felt bad but not guilty. Azul had threatened to evict you from Ramshackle. He had enslaved your friends. Was it wrong to protect what was yours by playing him at his own game? It had been him or you.

“Do ya have to scream, Azul?” Floyd whined. “You’re being super lame.”

“SHUT UP!”

Just then, an Octavinelle student passed by - unaware of what was happening - and Azul grabbed him by the collar. Before the boy could protest his talents were torn straight out of him. A hideous shriek ripped through the water as he fell to his knees, eyes glassy and jaw slack.

“Azul, stop!” Jade barked, reaching for his magic pen. “Your unique magic needs to be regulated with a contract. You know what will happen if you keep doing this.”

But all Jade got for an answer was a twisted grin. Darkness shrouded the glistening conch spires of Octavinelle, and the familiar tang of ink stroked the back of your throat.

•~•~0~•~•

London’s smog at the height of the Industrial Revolution couldn’t compare to the haze around Octavinelle. The sea was pitch black. Would the breathing spell hold in these conditions? You, the Tweels, Leona, Ace, and Deuce, moved into a tight circle, huddling with your backs to one another so you could see in all directions. An attack could come from anywhere.

“Duck!” Deuce suddenly cried.

Your body went on autopilot. Adrenaline forced you to the ground as what looked like a giant black trident swung at your heads. The weapon cut through the miasma, sending wreaths of dark ink spiralling in its wake. 

A figure stood in the clearing it had made.

Your heart dropped into your stomach.

Azul was almost unrecognisable. His pale skin had turned to lilac, and in place of his legs were thick tentacles. The only thing to distinguish him was his shock of white hair, made even whiter against the hideous overblot phantom towering behind him.

Grim wriggled out of your arms and looked to you for guidance, but you were stunned. This was your fault. This overblot…was your fault. The Tweels stepped in front of you when they saw your frozen form. Their faces were flat, but it must have done something to them to point their magic pens at Azul.

“How dare you defend them!” Azul shrieked. “Traitors! Liars and thieves! All of you!” His eyes fixed you as you cowered behind the twins’ legs. You. The object of his hatred. The common denominator. The one that pulled the strings. 

Azul snapped his fingers and the overblot phantom thrust one of its tentacles into the twins. Floyd leapt out of the way, but Jade wasn’t so lucky and the impact sent him rocketing through the water. You lunged to grab him, but the tentacle flexed back on itself and snatched you up.

“Y/N!” cried Ace and Deuce.

The tentacle wrapped itself once, twice, thrice around your body like a gelatinous anaconda, its suction cups gasping as they glued themselves to your skin.

Deuce aimed his pen at it, but Ace stopped him. The risk of hitting you was too great. Even Leona seemed reluctant to attack Azul while you were hostage.

Sensing his advantage, Azul commanded the phantom to fling you towards him. You’d make a perfect human shield, and while the phantom dispatched your friends he could take his time making you suffer for what you’d done. 

The tentacle drew you back and swung you forward. You sailed through the water like slingshot amo, spreading your arms to slow yourself. But your speed didn’t waver. Water dragged your head back, threatening to give you whiplash.

Azul drew nearer.

You had to use your momentum.

Instinctively, you balled your hands into fists and reeled back to strike - but Azul was faster. His own tentacles wrapped around your wrists and pinned them behind your back. You shuddered at the coolness as they climbed up to your elbows, seizing complete control of your arms. 

Panic wracked you. Desperate, you twisted and slammed your shoulder into Azul’s side. The merman grunted and lost his balance, giving you an opening to thrust a kick at his stomach.

The heel of your shoe lightly grazed his chest before he regained his composure. Frustrated, the tentacles around your arms slammed you backwards into the seabed - a little rougher than was necessary - while another quickly slithered over your torso. Its girth bound you from your waist to your knees like a firm blanket. You bucked your hips but Azul had your core, effortlessly restraining you against the sand. Against the contracts you’d destroyed. 

All it took was one harsh squeeze and the fight was forced out of you.

•~•~0~•~•

Azul threw his head back, pausing to catch his breath. You could feel the blood pumping through him the tighter he held you. It was frighteningly quick. Like his heart could give out at any moment.

“Azul…” you panted. “I’m…sorry. I didn’t want this to happen…I didn’t– I didn’t want– I didn’t want you to lose everything. I just didn’t want you to take what was mine.”

Azul snapped back to you. The rage in his eyes had been replaced by indignation. “So you took everything from me before I could do it to you? Is that it?”

You weren’t sure. You wrestled with an answer. Yes? No? You’d struck first, but didn’t want things to go this far. This hadn’t been part of your plan. 

The tips of the tentacles binding you started drawing small circles on your skin, seemingly to coax an answer out of you. You grit your teeth to keep from squeaking. Azul smirked at your discomfort.

“Y-You’re a professional, remember?” You tried to appeal to his morals. “Surely you didn’t need a contract to become that. Not all is lost. And you can make more contracts. Just…don’t do this. This is overblot, Azul. Don’t do this to yoursel-hmm!”

A tentacle slapped over your mouth. Your eyes bulged as suction cups tugged at your cheeks and lips.

“You’re more trouble than you’re worth, Prefect,” Azul hissed into your ear. Your breathing quickened. “Being professional hasn’t done me any favours in the end, has it? And I don’t care if you didn’t mean for this to happen. I’ll drain your friends of every last detail that makes them themselves.” You screamed, begged, pleaded, but it all came out muffled. “And then I’ll drain everything from you.”

You started struggling again. Azul didn’t seem to care. He controlled every aspect of you and still had limbs to spare. If you wanted to tire yourself out you could be his guest. Hot tears pricked your eyes. You could hear Ace and Deuce shouting commands to each other, followed by cries of pain.

You had to get out!

Perhaps if you could shirk the suction cup off your lips you could open your mouth wide enough to bite? Or, if you could shift the tentacle on your thighs just a little higher, you’d have enough movement to kick. Hard. But that was all just wishful thinking. Azul had wrapped you up like a Christmas present. Your body, your words...all of it was useless.

•~•~0~•~•

Just then, you felt the water disturb around you. You moved your head towards where you’d felt it, prompting Azul to do the same. Then it came again.

Something was circling you. Azul tensed. His breathing became laboured, wary. Something was hiding in the murk. Something that would put an overblot on edge. Movement came from behind you, then to the left. Azul was pulling you here and there as a shield until BAM!

Azul cursed as he was knocked to the ground. The first thing you did was shift onto your front and hit your chin against the seabed. The impact released the tentacle around your mouth. You saw a flash of grey, a stoic face – bruised but still handsome. 

Jade was straddling Azul in his eel form.

While his tail pinned the octopus down, Jade clawed and tugged at the tentacles around you. Azul acted as you had, bucking and twisting to get free. With each tentacle peeled away you regained your control. You were eventually able to free yourself while Jade kept Azul busy; a harsh kick sending the last tentacle tumbling off. 

As soon as you were free Jade grabbed you and swam off back to the others. Azul reeled. Open and vulnerable, he called his phantom back to him.

Ace and Deuce analysed you as you were set down, checking for wounds. Aside from the small red circles from the suction cups peppering your skin you were unscathed. Grim ran to you and brushed himself up against your legs. The harsh glimmer in his eyes told you he was ready to fight.

“YOU OWE ME EVERYTHING YOU’VE TAKEN!” Azul screamed.

Facing him, you still felt awful for having a hand in what had happened. But if Riddle and Leona were anything to go by, defeating Azul was the kindest thing you could do. And perhaps you could make it up to him later on.

•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•

Author Note:

Ladies, gentlemen, and non-binary finery, I give you…ANGST.

I feel like we don’t have enough fan fictions of octopus Azul. His design is honestly so cool! I know he doesn’t like to show off his octopus form (which would probably explain the lack of content on it) but I cannot, as an Ursula fan, NOT write it.

I’m considering writing a sequel/aftermath piece to this where MC earns Azul’s forgiveness and helps him get over his self-consciousness about his octopus form. Something fluffy to balance things  😂😂

Lemme know your thoughts.

As ever, comments and reblogs are appreciated.

#twisted wonderland #twst #disney twisted wonderland #squidwen #twisted wonderland x mc #twisted wonderland x reader #azul ashengrotto x reader #azul x reader #twisted wonderland azul #twst azul #Azul ashengrotto x Mc #Azul ashengrotto #reader x twisted wonderland #reader x azul ashengrotto #cecaelia #overblot #fanfic #twst fic

[saywhat-politics]

Sen. Josh Hawley (R-MO) posted what was meant to be a supportive tweet marking Juneteenth — a federally-recognized holiday marking the emancipation of the final enslaved persons in the U.S. — but his remarks were roundly criticized for whitewashing the horror of slavery.

“Today is a good day to remember: Christianity is the faith and America is the place slavery came to die,” wrote Hawley on Twitter.

Writing for Jezebel, Laura Bassett slammed Hawley's remarks as "mind-blowingly stupid."

"In reality, as Jeet Heer and many others pointed out in response to Hawley’s inane commentary, the United States lagged decades behind most other countries in the Western hemisphere in abolishing slavery. England, Mexico, France, and Denmark had all ended slavery before we adopted the 13th Amendment in 1865," wrote Bassett.

"And while it’s unclear from a logical or even syntax perspective what 'Christianity is the faith' is supposed to mean in that tweet, Hawley also seems to be whiffing on the irony that Americans used Christianity to justify slavery in the first place." Fredrick Douglass highlighted this clearly, noted Bassett — he wrote, "I love the pure, peaceable, and impartial Christianity of Christ; I therefore hate the corrupt, slave-holding, women-whipping, cradle-plundering, partial and hypocritical Christianity of this land."

#missouri #republican senator #josh hawley #slavery

[spacesquidlings]

In The Starlight I Was Free

Description: Astarion hadn't thought he would ever know happiness, and more than that he'd thought he would never know what it was to truly love, and loved in return. And yet here he was, with his partner curled so lovingly against him, who showered him in affection every day. Who he so wholly adored, and who he wanted to show just how deep his love, and his want of her, go.

Pairing: Astarion x Female Tav (Aspen)

Warnings: NSFW, cock warming, blow job, hand job, exhibitionism (sort of), sleepy sex

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

The sky was awash with starlight, so bright it could have been mistaken for the sun.

Well, not entirely. There was a gem-like glitter to the stars, a cold, sharp light more reminiscent of sharp-edged diamonds. In comparison the sun could be anything. Buttery and soft, gliding across his skin like feathered wings. Harsh and brutal, unforgiving as fire. Thin and watery, like weak beer. There were words he did not have to describe the sun, how different it could be every day, how it could change at any point during the day, how it could set the sky ablaze, or soften the edges of the world in blush pinks and bruised purples.

Not that Astarion was a connoisseur of the sun by any means, he hadn’t set foot in it for centuries, fearful of the scorching pain that would turn his body to cinders. 

But doomed though it was, to have the tadpole buried in his brain, he could not help but be thankful for it, for allowing him to wrest himself free of his enslavement, for allowing him to set foot in the sun once more, to feel it on his skin, to experience the ebb and flow of its light and warmth like ocean tides.

He found he much preferred it, the sunlight, to the coldness of the stars and the darkness that bled out between their light like a fathomless pit.

Tonight, though, the stars were so bright he couldn’t help but stare up at them, watching as they flickered, as deep purples bled into the sky, softening the darkness. The moon was nearly full, casting a veil of silver over everything he could see, turning benign things into something nearly magical.

He could have laughed at himself, waxing on to no one about the stars and the sun and the moonlight making the dark seem ethereal, like some wild place he could vanish into and be safe from the monsters stalking the world, where he would no longer be a monster himself.

Yet even if that were true, if a portal made of moonlight appeared, a doorway leading him to a world where he could be safe, he wasn’t sure if he would even take it anymore. This world had been cruel, but he had found scraps of kindness, of precious, delicate things he wished he could hold safely in his hands, to cradle it against his heart.

Beside him, his partner yawned, stretching her arms above her, dragging them through the grass before rolling onto her side and nestling against him.

“Are you still awake, darling?” He slid one arm around her middle, tracing his fingers over her waist, her hip.

Aspen’s nose wrinkled, her lips pressing into a thin line that told him she was trying very hard not to laugh. “No.”

“Ah, I see.” He chuckled, mirth dancing in his heart. “Don’t let me disturb you from your dreams, then.”

Mirth was new to him, a strange giddiness that reminded him of sunlight bleeding through a canopy of leaves, staining everything in gold. He had only recently added it to his repertoire, and now it seemed to bubble in his chest alongside his traitorous heart at the slightest of provocations. She would say something objectively unfunny, like some tragic little pun, and he would feel it stirring. She would wrinkle her nose and roll her eyes when he teased her and there it would be, like seafoam gathering on waves. She would take his hand, or laugh brilliantly, or look back at him with delight in her eyes after mastering some new spell or song, and there it would be like a laugh in his throat.

He felt it almost every day, trailing behind him as they drew closer to the end of their quest, to whatever would lie beyond them in the future when the tadpoles were gone. This was certainly no time to be feeling such a childish delight, and yet he did. He did constantly.

He felt it now, lips quivering from the effort of not smirking as she nuzzled against his side, her arms wrapping around him. He’d never known himself capable of loving someone as much as he did her. He’d never known himself capable of being loved, certainly not as much as she loved him. 

It was in all the little things she did, in the quiet questions before kissing him, before so much as holding his hand. It was in the way she would run her fingers through his hair, let him rest his head on her chest while she slept, listening to her even breaths, relishing the warmth that seeped into him until he felt like he was truly alive. It was in how she trusted him entirely, never doubting him. In how she’d begun to open up about herself, as much as she was always asking him about him.

He could have spent another century listing off little things. The way she smiled, the way her hands tangled with his, the way she would always try to make him comfortable before she went to sleep, the way she always did odd little things that brought a smile to his face.

She’d managed to get her hands on a cloth notebook, how he wasn’t even sure, insisting that she planned to learn to draw so she could show him how she saw him, since mirrors still would not reveal his face to himself. He’d managed to get a peek once while she was practising, and had nearly burst into laughter. She’d been trying so earnestly, but she had neither skill nor talent for it, and the sketches reminded him more of something a child first learning to hold a pencil would create.

“My dear, please don’t take this the wrong way,” he’d been smirking, trying to hold in his laughter as she’d glared at him from the corners of her eyes. “But I think you’d better leave drawing to the professionals. If you’re that hellbent on having a portrait of me, perhaps you can commission a skilled artist.”

He remembered how she had snapped the book shut, stuffing it into her pack before he could get a second glance. “I thought it would be nice.”

“And darling it is nice. Well…” He’d sat beside her, trying to draw her into his lip, thinking surely she couldn’t stay mad at him if he cuddled her. “It’s a nice thought.”

She’d huffed, bottom lip popping out in a pout. She’d looked ready to run, or perhaps to smack him. But she’d done neither, although she had crossed her arms, leaning as far away as she could considering he’d been holding her.

“Perhaps once we’re done with all of this.” He’d gestured to the camp around them, to the general situation of the world potentially ending. “We can find you some drawing lessons.”

Her eyes had remained narrowed, and she’d turned away from him. “Well your options are that, or I could write a song, I suppose.” She’d relaxed against him then, some of her ire having ebbed away as the idea had struck her. “I’m not half bad at that, you know. Although I’d be verbally describing you, and I would include something about your smile lines.”

At the time, Astarion had huffed, even as that strange feeling of mirth had awoken in him at his words. It was true he’d prefer the most beautiful parts of him to be described and immortalized only, but what were songs but drawn out poems, romanticizing even the most mundane of things.

“You know, I wouldn’t mind a song written about me.” He’d mused, leaning his head to the side so it had rested against hers. “A long ballad about how wonderful I am, about all my exploits.”

She’d snorted, easing into his arms, toying with the strings dangling from the collar of his shirt. “Could I include a verse or two about how much I love you?”

“Oh darling, I would expect nothing less. I want to know just how much you adore me.” He’d nipped at her ear, earning a small squeak. “And about how marvellous a lover I am.”

She’d dissolved into a fit of giggles then, threatening him with the promise of really writing some lovesick song about him, as if that wouldn’t be something he’d have wanted terribly.

The rest of their conversation had devolved from there, Astarion growing needy for her touch, to feel her burning skin against his. And Aspen had been happy to oblige, had wanted to shower him with all her love as she’d let him lead her far from their camp, into the shadows of the woods where no one would hear them.

She’d murmured quiet questions in the shadows, her face illuminated by nothing more than the liquid moonlight pooling in the gaps between the leaves. She’d helped him to lie down, had sung sweetly to him between fiery kisses trailed over his skin as she’d undressed him slowly. 

She’d been unskilled, ignorant of the ways of seduction when he’d first met her. And when he had first taken her, she had been entirely innocent, needing guidance to know what would make her feel good, what would make him feel good. But she’d been a quick study, and in that moment she’d unlaced his shirt with deft, nimble fingers before pushing it wide to trail her lips over his skin, knowing exactly the way to swirl her tongue around his nipples, to suck at his skin while he’d moaned.

Soon enough his shirt had been discarded, crumpled in a heap as she’d made her way down his torso with her mouth, one of her hands lightly stroking him until she’d reached the waist of his pants. They were gone in an instant, followed by her own clothes, having learned how much he enjoyed tracing his eyes over the curve of her body, watching the sway of her breasts as she knelt between his legs, trailing kisses along the inside of his thighs before drawing his cock into her mouth.

She’d made love to him so sweetly that night, bringing him to completion with her mouth first, swallowing his release before planting a loving kiss to his tip before moving on. She’d scattered kisses over his body once more, but he’d grown far too impatient, taking her face in his hands and bringing her lips to his, tasting himself on her tongue, aching terribly for the feel of her body around him.

All his instruction and guidance was turned against him then, for she had grown sly now that she knew how to make him feel best, how to coax music from his lips. He’d melted in her arms as she’d circled the pads of her thumbs around his nipples, as she’d reached a hand between his legs to stroke his cock, to squeeze his balls, to make him whimper as his mind grew hazy and blank but for the quiet way she murmured his name, telling him pretty he was, he much she loved him.

When finally she’d straddled his waist, hovering just above him, he’d been able to do nothing but grip her thighs, fingers digging into the plush skin, covered in sweat and panting from previous releases. But she’d only teased him further, grinding against him before finally, finally drawing him slowly, inch by delicious inch, into her body. He’d been allowed a few moments of smug satisfaction as he’d felt how she’d clenched around him, Aspen just as needy for him as he’d been for her. Then she had moved, slowly at first, languorously. Asking him if he’d felt good, if it had been nice, if he could keep making such pretty sounds because she’d loved his voice.

She’d spent the entire night bringing him to the edge, again and again, letting him fill her body until his release spilled down the insides of her thighs, smearing across them both as she’d continued to move. She’d kissed him, over and over until their lips were both bruised, until they were both breathless, her hands stroking his sides or twining with his as she came along with him.

It had been like she’d been worshipping him, like he’d been her god and she a faithful supplicant at the altar of his body. Her words had been fragments of prayer, reverence in the way she murmured his name, adoration in the sweet words that fell from her lips like rain.

Devotion had been in every roll of her hips, in every shudder of her body as she’d came around him. Sweat had streaked down her face, pooling in the hollow of her throat, and still she had devoutly breathed sweet nothings, had given her body to him like a sacrifice.

She’d stroked his face, had played with his hair, promising him that there was nothing she’d wanted more, would ever want more, than his happiness. She’d described his expression of ecstasy like she’d been reciting passion-filled poetry, her fingers gentle even as they traced lines of fire over his jaw and his lips and the curve of his ears.

When, so lust-addled and drunk on her, his own personal goddess, he had asked her to sing her pretty words instead, she had obliged, promising that all she wanted was to bring him joy, to make him feel good, in every way he wanted.

When at last he had been so entirely spent that he’d been unable to make an intelligible sound but breathy moans she had finally stilled, kissing tears and sweat from his face until he had laughed. Strength had returned to him as languidly as the sun setting on a summer's evening, and as she’d kissed him he’d slowly wrapped his arms around her waist, holding her close, not wishing for even a breath to pass between their bodies.

She’d been happy to stay where she was, to keep her legs locked around his waist and cradle his head in her arms. He’d stayed buried deep inside of her until the sun had come up, until they’d tarried so long their companions would have certainly been looking for them.

The memory of that night, of how she made such sweet, gentle love to him, made his cheeks flush now, his breath coming in short gasps. Beside him, Aspen opened her eyes to regard him curiously, stirred to consciousness by his sudden ragged breathing.

“My love?” Her voice was heavy, thick and slow with sleep. “Is something the matter?”

There was such gentleness in her voice, such care, it nearly brought tears to his eyes. She was half asleep and still she wanted to care for him, wanted to wrap him in the softness of her love.

Perhaps he really would cry, because he was sure he did not deserve this love, as sure as he was that he would forever stay with her if she let him.

“It’s nothing, darling.” He turned his gaze back up to the stars, watching as their light glittered and danced like gemstones tossed skyward. “I was only thinking.”

She hummed, the sound vibrating through him like the beginnings of a song. Her voice was so pretty, and he could have sank into it like sailors falling for sirens at sea. He was no fool and would not be so easily tricked, but he loved her so entirely he would have followed her to a watery grave.

“Thinking of what, my love?” She splayed her hand across his chest, above where his heart beat a steady rhythm. It was strange, to be dead but to have a beating heart. It was not something he’d even noticed until her, until their lives had been inextricably tangled together.

But he did have a heart, beating, stumbling at times, reminding him that he was still alive in the ways that counted. That he could love, that he did love.

Astarion twined his fingers with hers, bringing her hand to his lips. She watched him with heavy lidded eyes, lashes fluttering as she tried and failed to keep her eyes open.

“Nothing much,” he murmured, staring at the stars. They really were bright tonight, as though the world were suddenly awash in light now that he was free. But not even the stars could compare to her, and although he’d turned his head to look up, his eyes wandered away from the jewel-encrusted night, fixed on Aspen as if she were the only thing in the world that was worth looking at.

“You’re staring at me.”

“Am not.”

She forced her eyes open, glowering at him. He couldn’t help but smile, having provoked her into waking. “You’re staring right at me.”

“I can’t help it,” he cooed. “You’re more brilliant than the stars. I look at you and I feel like I am standing in the sun, like I am truly alive.”

A tender smile curved across her lips, her eyes falling closed once more. “Would you like me to wax on about all the ways I love you? About the softness of your hair? The creases in your face when you smile? The rumble of your laughter in your chest?”

“I’d much rather you tell me how striking my eyes are, or how I look like I was sculpted to look like one of the gods,” he drawled, stroking her hair. “But I suppose if you are that fond of those other things you could make mention of them as well.”

Laughter flitted from her lips like butterflies taking flight. “I’ll take that into consideration. But truthfully, my love, there is much more to you than just your face, handsome though it may be.”

He held her closer, tighter. His heart fluttered like the wing-beats of a hummingbird, so warm from her body pressed against his that he could have been melting into her embrace. She was always reminding him that he was beautiful, although it was a fact he knew quite well, but then she would always remind him of other things she loved. The sound of his laugh, the handful of freckles scattered across his face and chest, the way he always turned his head towards the sun when it rose in the morning, the line between his brows when he was reading.

All things he would have cringed away from not that long ago, soft parts of himself he’d have rathered stayed buried in the dirt alongside whoever he’d used to be.

Perhaps it was the cadence of her voice, the musical way she listed off the parts of him that he had long considered faults in his facade of perfection. Perhaps it was the earnestness in her eyes, the way they shone and held his for the briefest of moments before flitting away as colour rose in her cheeks, as if she were overwhelmed with a feeling so strong she could hardly speak the words. Perhaps it was in the way she asked to hold his hand before she told him, how she nestled close when she did, how she had to be touching him in some way as if she couldn’t bear to be away from him.

Whatever it was, whatever magic she’d cast over his heart, had made him view himself differently. His imperfections were no longer hated, and he felt more secure in himself, in all the shards of who he was. He wasn’t just a pretty face, not to her, he was someone worthy of life, of love.

“Do go on,” he murmured into her ear, earning a delighted shiver for his efforts. “I’d love to know what else about me you adore.”

“Where would you like me to start?” Her laugh was more of a sigh, but it was infectious nonetheless, and he warmed as it reverberated through him.

The memory of the night she’d most recently sung praises for him surfaced in his mind. He tried holding her tighter as she dozed, murmuring words to him that were becoming more and more unintelligible as she drifted away. He rolled onto his side in an attempt to tuck her close, his eyes scanning the contours of her face, the line of her jaw, the softness of her lips. Her dark lashes fanned out across the tops of her cheeks, the corners of her lips quirking up as she made a contented sound, shifting closer.

Astarion had no practice in the art of writing or of music, but he was finding that there was no end to the parts of her that he loved. It was like he was falling in love with her a little more every moment, every day. There was always something new, something he hadn’t known before but that delighted him once he did. If he’d had the skill or the desire, he would surely be able to weave every little thing into a poem, perhaps a song.

Not that he was particularly keen on such an idea, but he ruminated on it for a few moments before discarding the notion as he trailed a finger down the side of her neck. She did not seem the type to desire songs and poetry of herself, always flushing so spectacularly when he breathed sweet nothings in her ear, her entire body trembling as if she might faint from such gentle words.

She never pushed him away or begged him to be quiet, but he’d noticed that when he was only trying to express simple affections, she seemed to respond better to his touch. She was always leaning towards him like a tree torn free from the earth, whether she realized it or not. Her face would brighten if their knuckles brushed when they stood together, her eyes turning to twin stars when he reached out to take her hand in his. She would nestle into his arms when she slept, trusting him to keep guard of them both, and she was forever accepting requests to hold him with her arms opened wide.

Perhaps it was not sweet words that he needed to use, but his touch.

Which was more than fine with him. Sometimes he felt as though his words rang hollow, did nothing to encompass the vastness of the warmth he cradled in his cold, undying body. He needed something else, something more. Not sex, no, but to hold her close, closer than he was holding her even now. 

He would be lying if he said it was just for her. He was selfish, and he wanted her closer, needed it, more than air, more than blood. He felt like he would die all over again if he could not close the remaining space between them.

“My love,” he breathed the words quietly, stroking her throat, above the twin puncture marks that had scarred from the daily feedings she so willingly offered herself for.

“Mmmm?” Her lashes fluttered, but her eyes did not remain open for very long.

“Do you trust me, my love?” His heart beat an erratic melody, his fingers twitching. He had an idea in mind, but he wanted to make sure she was alright with it first.

She slurred her response, and when he prompted her to repeat herself she tilted her head back, peering at him through slitted eyes as she murmured “of course.”

Astarion traced his hands lower, grazing her thigh. “And you know I love you, don’t you?”

Her brow furrowed. “What are you planning?”

“Nothing terrible, my love.” He hesitated, his hand hovering on her leg. Since he had freed himself, since he had confessed the entirety of his shadowed heart to her and she had accepted him in full, he hadn’t been able to resist slipping into her bedroll each night. Not always for sex, not when he usually wanted some modicum of privacy for that and often spirited her far from their camp so their companions did not hear the sounds of her pleasure. 

Aspen had long since grown more comfortable with him, in many ways, and at night she often discarded her trousers as she slept, wearing nothing but a long tunic that nearly reached her knees. It would be such an easy task to lift up the hem of her tunic, to stroke the sensitive flesh between her thighs until she was ready for him.

“Then trust me, love,” she murmured, reaching up to stroke his cheek. “Tell me what’s on your mind.”

“It’s nothing much, only…” He trailed off, deciding to start slowly, reaching beneath the hem of her tunic to stroke the plush skin of her inner thigh. “Is it alright if I continue?”

Aspen’s eyes snapped open, holding his for a long, long while, surveying his face in the dark. She was human, and he wasn’t sure how much she could make out in the shadows, even with the light of the fire flickering nearby. But whatever she saw seemed to appease her, and her eyes closed once more. “Yes, love, it is.”

He dragged his fingers higher, keeping his touch light.

“Do you want me to do anything? Would you like me to help with your clothes?” She moved her hands to his chest, her movements slow and muddled from sleep.

“No my darling.” He pressed his lips to the top of her head. “I just want you to lie still and feel very good.”

“Are you certain? Are you truly sure, because I can-”

Astarion brought his lips to hers, cutting off her argument before she could finish it.

She was breathless as he broke away, and he couldn’t help but smile at how flustered he’d already made her. “I am very sure, darling. This is something that I want.”

“Okay.” Her voice was small, her hands gripping his shirt tight.

“Although I do need you to do something for me, pet.”

Fatigue must have been a powerful opponent, because Aspen fought to keep her eyes open for more than a moment at a time, even as she spoke. “Anything.”

He grinned. “Spread your legs a little wider for me.”

She did as she was asked, and Astarion sighed in contentment as he began stroking his fingers along the soft skin at the apex of her thighs. Slowly at first, although he would be lying if he said he did not move quicker as her breaths turned ragged, her lips parting so prettily for him. He circled her clit with a featherlight touch, then again, with more force. She moaned, leaning into him, and he felt his own body responding in kind, tension growing in his core, heat spreading through him.

Aspen writhed beside him, her neck arching, her chest heaving. Even in the dark he could make out the colour spreading across her cheeks, reaching below the collar of her tunic.

“I’m going to get rid of this now, okay?” He murmured next to her ear and she nodded furiously, lifting her arms to make it easier for him as he peeled it away from her body.

“Good girl,” he breathed, smug as she whimpered. 

Her thighs twitched, her hips moving of their own accord, and it was with his other hand that he had to steady her, pressing her down so she could not move. “Hold still, darling. Didn’t I tell you I wanted you to lie still?”

Another whimper, a breathy please as she trembled.

He chuckled, drawing his hand away to lick his fingers clean. “I’ve hardly touched you, and you’re already a mess.”

“Astarion, please.”

“Yes, my darling?” He couldn’t help but tease her, only a little. It was so easy, especially now. She was still half-asleep, but every time her eyes fluttered open he saw her pupils, so dilated they looked fully black in the night. “Use your words. Tell me what you want.”

Aspen whined, grasping his arm with a grip like iron. Her words were breathless, broken up by little gasps as he stroked her. “You’re not being nice.”

He clicked his tongue, enjoying the sight of her squirming, of her struggle to remain quiet and still. “How could you say such a thing, darling? I’m very nice.” He flicked her clit as she whined, earning a soft whimper as her nails dug into his arm. “Well… I’m a little nice.”

Astarion did his best to keep his movements slow and even, coaxing her to the precipice of her climax without letting her fully descend into it. It was difficult, a feral part of his mind wanting to make her scream his name into the night, to bring her to release over and over until she was an absolute mess. But that was not his intention, not tonight, and he wanted to focus on something gentler, something much more tender.

He alternated between kissing any part of her skin his lips could reach and whispering softly into her ear, delighting in how she shivered in his arms when he did.

“Shh, not too loud, love,” he murmured, circling his fingers around her entrance. “We don’t want the others to hear.”

“Do you- Do you think they’ll catch us?” She was clutching his shirt so tightly he felt certain that it would tear.

“Not if you stay quiet,” he breathed, laughing at her stricken expression. “Don’t look at me like that. I just wanted you so terribly, pet.”

Aspen moaned again, his name a prayer on her lips. It made him ache so entirely he didn’t think he would be able to last for much longer. Her chest heaved, her breasts soft and inviting, and he distracted himself with them, drawing the bright pink nipples between his teeth, biting them as gently as he could until she was mewling, even his name sounding incoherent as it was caught by the wind.

“I want to be close to you,” he said, pressing his lips to the valley between her breasts, breathing in the smell of her skin, sweat and growing things and the subtlest hint of the oils and perfumes he used for himself.

Her arms snaked around him, scrabbling for purchase against his back, pulling the material of his shirt taut. “Then come closer.”

Drawing back, Astarion’s gaze fell on her face, on the deep blush that set her aflame, the heady desire in her eyes. There was something else there, too, something hidden in the depths of the need he was filling her with.

There was love in her eyes, in the curve of her smile, in the way she let out a soft breath as she met his gaze, one of her hands sliding up to bury in his hair.

It was bright as sunshine, as gentle as an embrace. His knees grew weak from it, his body trembling as she gazed up at him with such sweet adoration.

“I want to be close,” he breathed, fingers fumbling as he quickly discarded his shirt, and his trousers next, not wanting even the slightest scrap of fabric between them. He wanted nothing but her skin against his, her heart beating a furious tempo against his chest, her breath tickling the skin of his throat. He wanted there to be nothing, only her, only him. “I want to be buried inside of you, and I never want to come out.”

Her fingers ran through his hair, sketched along the shell of his ear. She didn’t hesitate, didn’t look away, spreading her legs a little wider. “I want that too.”

A lump formed in his throat, nearly choking him. He felt like a boy, like he was taking a tumble with the first person he’d ever fallen for. His heart was beating a discordant cacophony, unused to loving and being loved so entirely in kind. He felt vulnerable, his heart bared to her, but he felt no fear. He trusted her, trusted her to hold him, to love him, to keep his heart safe.

Never in all the years of his life that he remembered would Astarion have ever described himself as soft. But he felt soft now, felt like he was melting in her arms, his tenuous hold on himself fraying.

Here he was, falling apart in the face of a kind, softhearted woman, her arms open to him, her voice a murmur in his ear. This was not something he’d ever envisioned for himself, had never even considered. There was no room for softness in his world, no room for love.

Yet he had it still. He had her love; she’d entrusted her entire heart to him, her entire being. Were she not so warm in his arms, her shuddering breaths against his skin making him shudder, he would have mistaken this all for a dream.

“Astarion.” Her voice drew him back to the present, away from the churning tides of his thoughts. Anxiety had begun to bubble in his chest, fear that this truly was a dream, that it was some great trick of his mind and he would awake and be lost in the shadows once more.

But no, there was no way for his mind to conjure a voice such as hers. Hands caressing his face the way hers did, fingers twinning in his hair as she so often liked to do. He would never have been able to imagine such sweetness as this, not in his hundreds of years of life. So she must have been real; she had to be real.

“Astarion?” Sleep still clung to her, and she drawled his name, a smile on her lips. “My love, what are you thinking?”

He did his best to offer a devilish smile, although he knew he was failing spectacularly by the way Aspen’s brows drew together, the corners of her mouth twitching.

She wiggled her hips, gently rolling them against his, and he nearly choked in response, the ache in his core steadily growing. “Tell me,” she beseeched him, rolling her hips against his once more. “Please, my beloved? I want to know what’s going on in your head.”

There were a slew of things Astarion could have said to her in that moment, but with her wide eyes and her open expression, he couldn’t bring himself to say something sharp. He was well beyond feigning indifference now, having confessed to her before the grave his old self had been buried, having clung to her almost every night since, seeking the comfort and steadiness of her embrace, of her beating heart. And now, so desperate and needy for her touch he’d disposed of their clothing so he could feel nothing but her skin against his, so he could sink deep inside of her. So he could be held, so he could feel beloved and precious and safe.

“I was thinking of you,” he professed, his voice small as a child’s. He sounded like a lovestruck fool and yet he could do nothing to change it. “I can think of nothing else but you.”

“I’m right here,” she murmured, brushing his hair back from his brow. “I’m close, my love, I’m not going anywhere.”

“It is undoubtedly selfish of me…” He trailed off, trying again to grin. It was like second nature to him, to feign rakishness. But in this moment he really could not, no matter how hard he tried. How could a disciple, kneeling before his goddess, ever hope to be anything but devout, to give himself entirely with anything other that wholehearted sincerity? “But I want to stay with you for as long as you’ll have me.”

The corners of her eyes crinkled, and she spread her legs a little wider. “Oh my love, I want to be with you always. I want to be with you forever. If you’ll have me, of course.”

Astarion leaned down, brushing his lips against hers, a hunger more consuming than his desire for blood taking over. “Forever, then.”

“Forever,” she agreed, breathless from the kiss.

He didn’t give her much time to breathe, capturing her lips once more as he pushed her legs further apart. Aspen’s body complied with his needy demand, thighs shaking around his hips as he lined himself up, tip pressing against her entrance.

If there was one thing he knew he would never tire of, it would be the sounds she made as he pushed into her. The delicate whimpers, the way she sighed his name, a melody spun of spider silk and starlight, meant for only his ears.

Aspen shuddered, her body fluttering around him as he sank deeper. Her hands moved from his face to his shoulders, a delicious pressure that sent shocks of pleasure across his nerves, that made him want to move faster, to thrust with ruthless abandon into her. It took every last shred of his self control to keep his movements slow as she trembled in his arms, until a little gasp fell from her lips as his hips finally, mercifully, met hers.

“How’s that?” He murmured, pulling back just a little, just enough to sharply roll his hips against hers, earning another needy little gasp.

“You’re being mean again.” Her whine was breathy, her fingernails digging into his skin.

He shushed her. “Not at all, darling. I’m only enjoying those pretty sounds you’re making.”

She opened her mouth to whine once more, and he took the opportunity to capture her lips again, swallowing the sweet sounds she was making as he slid his tongue between her lips.

“Not too loud, though,” he teased, and the laughter that rang through the air was genuine, warm and earnest as she stared up at him, utterly dazed. “Those sounds are for me, and only me. I don’t want the others to hear.”

Aspen’s mouth snapped shut, her body trembling harder now, whether it was from the arousal he had woven with his touch or from the desire to smack him he wasn’t sure. It was adorable all the same, and he trailed a line of kisses from the corner of her lips to the hollow of her throat until her head fell back, her neck arching to allow him better access.

“While I appreciate the gesture, darling, I have something different in mind.” He couldn’t resist pressing a few more kisses to her throat despite his words, scraping his teeth against her skin so she knew just how badly he wanted the hot blood that pulsed in her veins.

She opened her mouth, closed it again, struggling to find her words.

“Take your time, my darling. I don’t plan to move anytime soon.” He had only planned to fill her body, to press himself as close to her as he could. He was still so desperate for her, and he feared he would never want to pull away, never want to move from her arms again.

Slowly, her grip on his shoulders began to loosen, her nails no longer digging deep enough into his skin to draw blood. Her lips were still parted, ragged breaths billowing into the air as she clung to him. For his part, he tried his best not to move, stroking her hair, the contours of her face, the gentle rise of her collarbone. Shudders still wracked through her body like the aftershocks of an earth-shattering quake, but they were becoming fewer and farther between.

“How’s that?” He murmured as she grew still. “Feeling better?”

A nod, her eyes dark as night as they found his. “What did you have in mind, my love?”

Hearing that sweet name of endearment on her lips, ‘my love,’ made him feel like he was fracturing. Her love, her love. He was entirely hers, and she was entirely his.

“I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of hearing you say that,” he breathed, utterly lost in her words, in the fathomless depths of her eyes.

The pink of her lips reminded him of flower buds, a frivolous detail he never would have taken note of before, and yet as he drew the connection in his mind he felt the fractures growing, splintering into shards of crystalline glass, reflecting the sunlight that he had not gotten to feel for centuries. Every part of her was perfect, every part of her was so alive, so soft and flush with colour. 

He did not have the words to describe it, and nor did he want to. There was an enchantment to it all, something delicate he did not wish to sully with saccharine words and overwrought lines. He only wanted to love her for as long as she would let him.

The corners of her lips quirked up in a small smile, her palms pressing against his shoulders and sliding down his arms. “What did I say?”

“That I’m your love.” His voice was small as a child’s, vulnerable. But he felt no fear, only a comforting warmth that curled around him like a second embrace. He was safe; here, he was safe. “That you love me.”

He was grateful for her patience, for the kindness that he had scoffed at when they’d first met. He couldn’t imagine someone being so patient, not with him, but he didn’t have to imagine. She just was, and she was patient for him, she was kind for him.

She was patient and kind for other people, but he chose to ignore that for now. It was different when she was looking at him.

“Of course I love you.” A breathy laugh fell from those sweet lips, and he was once more reminded of a flower, something beautiful and colourful. She looked at him like he was her sun, even if he was doomed to be veiled in shadows for eternity. “I love you so much.”

He chuckled. “So much?”

“Yes!” She drew the corner of her bottom lip between her teeth. “More than I have the words to say.”

“And I love you,” he breathed, because he could not stop saying it. He had said it once truthfully, and now he could not stop, doubted he would ever be able to stop. “I love you Aspen, my beloved, with all of me.”

There were no other words that he could find that would even come close to describing the depth of his emotions, but he was thankful that she did not seem to need it. That those simple words were enough, that the embrace he held her in was enough for her.

“You never answered my question, love,” she said after a moment, the starlight reflecting in her eyes.

He frowned. “What question?”

“What did you have in mind? For right now?” She traced her fingertip over the curve of his ear, tugging lightly at the sharp point.

“Well, my darling…” He trailed off, covering her hand with his. “I had… That is…” He trailed off, struggling to find the right way to explain it.

It should have been easy. He wanted her, he wanted to be close to her. He craved her nearness, not sensually, just to be close. He wanted to crawl into her skin, he wanted to be held so tightly by her that they would never be parted.

He was quickly learning that it was much easier to yearn, to want, and so much harder to give those feelings form with his words.

Aspen remained quiet as he mulled over what he wanted to say. She ran her hands up and down his arms, reaching up to play with his hair, twisting curls around and around her fingers, dragging her fingers across his scalp like a massage.

Finally the words came to him, falling from his lips like a confession. “I just want to be close to you. I want to stay like this, in your arms.” He hesitated, feeling helpless as she watched him, with nothing but the shine of the stars to illuminate her face. “For as long as you’ll allow me.”

“Then we can stay like this, my love.” Her arms wrapped around his neck, hands pressing against the back of his head as she gently drew him close. “We can stay just like this for as long as you’d like.”

“Really?” He could scarcely believe it, even as she tucked his head beneath her chin. His cheek was cushioned against her breast, the steady pulse of her heart echoing through him.

“Really.” She rubbed circles against his back, her hand gliding up to tangle in his hair before sliding back down along his spine. “I love being close to you, too.”

A familiar wave of uncertainty made his belly clench, and he couldn’t help but hazard a look back at her. “Are you sure? There is nothing else you want?”

Her fingertips drummed against his back as she hummed, face scrunching up as she feigned contemplation. “It’s been a while since I’ve had a nice pastry and a coffee. I hear there are some delightful places in the city.”

He snorted. “That’s it?”

��I wouldn’t mind a new book when all this is over. I think I’m going to need a few quiet days to recover.”

Astarion scraped his teeth against her skin, earning a yelp.

“You asked!” She hissed. “I was only telling you of some things I wanted.”

“Forgive me, love,” he murmured, pressing a chaste kiss to the bite. “I’d meant are you sure there is nothing else you want in this moment?”

“If it’s not too much trouble,” she began, fingers dancing along the nape of his neck. “Can I kiss you?”

The tension that had been clutching his stomach with an iron-grip fell away, replaced by the feeling of a thousand gauzy wings fluttering within his stomach and his chest. They flitted idly between his ribs, perching on his bones, sending ripples through the oceans in his veins, like waves and tides.

“Please.”

Aspen brought her lips to his brow, smoothing his hair back as she kissed him. Gentle, soft as a feather brushed against his skin. Her breath fanned across his brow, her lashes tickling him as her eyes fell closed.

He reached up, his hand cupping the back of her head. “Wait.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong, only…” His words came out in a breathless rush. “Could you do that again?”

Another kiss to his forehead, just as soft and sweet as the first. “Like this?”

“Perhaps you should try that again, darling,” he drawled, smiling against her skin. “I’m not sure if you got it quite right.”

Aspen tsked softly, but she kissed him again. And again. And then her hands were reaching up to grasp his face, to tip it up towards her as she pressed kisses all over his face, from his brow to his cheeks to the tip of his nose, no part of him was safe from her affections.

She kissed him until he was quivering with laughter, struggling to keep it in, lest they wake their companions.

“Aspen,” he hissed, although he was smiling so widely his face hurt, bubbles of laughter nearly choking out his words.

“I can’t help it!” She sighed, giving him her best pout as she tucked him back against her chest. “I just love you, and I just get overwhelmed by it. I want you to know that I love you.”

As his laughter slowly melted away he began to relax in her arms once more, a small smile still lingering on his lips. He rolled his hips in revenge for her making him laugh, earning a sharp gasp. “I know you do. Everything you do shows me how much you adore me, my darling.”

He expected a stuttering response, her words to turn to nonsense as they were prone to do when he teased her. But she only smiled at him wickedly, her touch still gentle as a breeze rustling through his hair. “I do. And I know just as well how you, my beloved, love me dearly.”

It was Astarion who ended up struggling to find a response, his tongue heavy in his mouth, his words nothing but stammering nonsense. He opened his mouth, floundering like a beached fish.

“Am I wrong?” She teased, mussing his hair. “Have I assumed incorrectly?”

“No, my darling,” he gasped, his words spilling like a flood. In the back of his mind he questioned who he was becoming, this soft-hearted, blathering, lovesick fool who could not even string together a coherent sentence as she held his gaze. Surely he could not be the same person as he was when they had first met, roguish and clever and sharp-tongued.

Although then again, maybe he didn’t want to be that person anymore. Maybe he wanted to be someone different, maybe he wanted to be himself, whoever that person was.

It would take him a long while to figure that out, and perhaps it would change every day, but he did know one thing that would forever be unchanging, one thing he wanted to be more than anything. He wanted to be cared for and loved, he wanted to be hers.

“I care for you, more than anything,” he admitted, the words still falling free before he could think them through. “I love you more than I thought I could ever love. That’s the truth, I swear it.”

He was holding her so tightly his fingers had dug into the soft skin at her waist. He loosened his grip, smoothing his palms over the crescent moon indents he had left in his wake. “I know I’ve lied when I’ve said those words before, but I mean it. I feel like I am alive, truly, in a way I never was, even before.”

She remained quiet, playing with his hair, watching him with a little smile. Starlight shone in her eyes, or maybe it wasn’t starlight. Maybe the stars were only reflecting her light back from the skies.

The final words he spoke were little more than a breath, stolen away by the quiet keen of the midnight wind. “I love you.”

Aspen’s eyes glowed all the brighter, silver pooling at their edges. “I didn’t know you were such a romantic.”

He scoffed, although his heart wasn’t in it.

She didn’t seem to mind, her touch so loving as she slid her hands from his hair, stroking his neck and back. “I’ll try to be worthy of your love.”

He held her tighter, burying his face in the valley between her breasts once more so she could not see his blush. “Just keep holding me. Keep holding me and don’t let go.”

“I can definitely do that.” He felt her cheek pressing against the top of his head, her breath tangling in his hair. “I’ll hold you for as long as you want.”

Although he could not sleep, not the way Aspen did, Astarion still closed his eyes. Nestled safely against her, he let his mind wander. He no longer bothered to look at the stars, did not even think of them. He knew that even if he were cursed to live amongst the shadows once more, there would still be light. Aspen would be there with him, brighter than any star, brighter than even the sun.

She would keep him close, hold him tight whenever he needed it, and whenever she wanted to be close too. And in her arms, he was finally free, he was finally home.

#astarion bg3 #astarion ancunin #astarion baldur's gate 3 #astarion x tav #astarion x reader #astarion x oc #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #honey the sweeter the sun

[tiredspacedragon]

Kulbok sat in his hut, rubbing his still-aching head. It had been almost two days since the Toa Inika had freed him and his fellow Matoran from the effects of the Piraka's Zamor Spheres, and though he felt mostly recovered, his head still sometimes pounded with fleeting traces of strange, dark thoughts. He recalled little from his time enslaved, only a ringing blankness, broken occasionally by flashes of a universe in ruin, dark ocean depths, and a pair of lidless, red eyes hanging in the night sky.

A knock at the doorway drew the Bo-Matoran from his reverie, and he looked up to see a white mask peeking through the entrance.

"Widget for your thoughts," said Kvoleni, hovering on the threshold. Normally she wouldn't bother waiting for an invitation to make herself at home, but recent events had left all the Matoran of Voya Nui uncertain. Kulbok motioned for her to come in, and the Vo-Matoran joined him on his cot. They sat there saying nothing for a long moment.

"How are you feeling?" Kvoleni tried again. This time, Kulbok sighed.

"My head's still kinda funny, but I'm managing," he finally answered. "You?"

"Better," she said. "Not great, but better."

"Yeah. I think that's pretty much everyone right now." The way he said it, it was clear Kulbok had intended the words to be light, but the strain in his voice, and the truth of the statement, undermined his attempt at levity. Still, Kvoleni graced him with a chuckle.

"We've certainly been worse!" she said.

The two Matoran allowed silence to settle over them again. Even on happier days, their conversations often had a similar rhythm. One would speak, then the other, then a pause. To laugh, or think over each other's words, or simply to allow the quiet its turn. It had been a habit of theirs for several hundred years now.

Eventually, Kvoleni spoke again. "I heard some of the others say the Toa have returned from underground. They were headed to the bay, from what I can tell."

Kulbok's head shot up. "The bay? What would they want there?" He hesitated a moment. "You don't think...?"

Kvoleni shook her head. "No. They were chasing something, I think."

"Right. Of course," Kulbok said. "They're Toa. They surely have more important things to do than..."

"Chase ghosts?"

"Yeah."

The two Matoran were silent again.

"I mean," Kvoleni started, "we could try asking them to look. I heard--"

"No," Kulbok cut her off. "We shouldn't bother them. Besides, what would there even be to find?"

Kvoleni started to say something in response, but seemed to think better of it, and said nothing.

The sound of a commotion outside suddenly drew the Matoran's attention. They glanced at each other before hurrying out into the village square. A small crowd had gathered there, whispering and murmuring amongst themselves as they watched a huge being, clad in thick red-and-silver armour, tread slowly towards them.

That must be Axonn, Kulbok thought. He had heard Balta, one of the only Matoran to have evaded the Piraka's clutches, mention the armoured titan. Supposedly, he was an ally, but the grim look in his eyes brought Kulbok no comfort as Axonn entered the village.

The tall figure stood before the Matoran, towering above them. He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could, a strangled shout rang out from the back of the crowd.

Kulbok jumped back in surprise at Kvoleni's cry. She darted forward, pushing through the crowd towards Axonn with a desperate urgency. Kulbok followed, confused. What had possessed her to run straight for this powerful-looking stranger? As Kulbok approached, he was able to see the armoured warrior more clearly, and noticed that he appeared to be carrying something, cradled in one of his massive arms.

Breaking through the crowd, the Bo-Matoran saw Axonn kneel to meet Kvoleni as she reached him. He held out his burden to her, and finally Kulbok saw

* * *

The Ta-Matoran's name was Ranta.

Long ago, an injury had resulted in him being sent to the realm of Karzahni for repairs, where, like many others before and after him, the ruler of that land attempted to rebuild him into a stronger form, and failed. Though his injury was healed, Ranta's new body was smaller and weaker than his original form, hunched and misshapen. Disgusted with his work, and unable to bear being reminded of his failure, Karzahni had given Ranta and his fellow "repaired" Matoran weapons to defend themselves, and shipped them away, far from his isolated kingdom. Eventually, they had settled in the center of the Southern Continent, in a barren region around the volcano known as Mount Valmai. The Matoran called the region "Voya Nui," meaning "Great Voyage," after the long journey it had taken them to reach this place where they could live in relative peace.

It was there that Ranta had become close with two of his companions, the Bo-Matoran Kulbok, and the Vo-Matoran Kvoleni. Ranta was a quiet sort, but unflinchingly courageous, and his subtle brand of intensity had balanced out Kvoleni's more impetuous energy, while also letting the more reserved Kulbok feel comfortable enough to come out of his shell. Though the three of them were all originally from different lands, they quickly became all but inseparable. They lived, worked, and laughed together, and comforted each other when memories of their old homes and lives overwhelmed them. Even when the Great Cataclysm had struck, sending Voya Nui crashing upwards, killing dozens and leaving the new island adrift in the endless ocean above, the three Matoran stuck together.

But then came the city of Mahri Nui. Runoff from Mount Valmai had cooled into rock, resulting in the formation of a new landmass protruding out into Voya Nui Bay. The Matoran saw the new land as an opportunity to expand their settlement, and constructed many new dwellings there, where they lived for many years. All was well, but Ranta was uneasy. He was not a volcanologist by trade, but he had taken an amateur interest in the volcano, and over time became familiar with its workings and the makeup of its lava. Though he, Kulbok, and Kvoleni had remained in the Matoran Village on Voya Nui, in no small part due to Ranta's urging, the Ta-Matoran came to spend much of his time in and around Mahri Nui. He was convinced the cooled lava was unstable and unsafe, and regularly scoured the area for signs of faults or fractures. Most ignored or laughed at his concerns, and indeed for 700 years, Mahri Nui prospered.

It was on one of these scouting trips, that he was finally proven right.

The deafening sound of cracking stone echoed all across the island. The first split was small, but more quickly followed. Gaping crevices and yawning chasms spanned the length of the bay. Ranta ran screaming through the city streets, calling out for everyone to evacuate before the entire city was lost to the sea. Indeed, some heard his warnings in time, and safely made it back to the shores of Voya Nui, but most, including Ranta himself, did not. The rock heaved and broke, and Mahri Nui sank beneath the waves, down, down, to depths unimaginable, far below where any light could reach.

Since that day, the Matoran of Voya Nui would gather twice a year to throw offerings into the bay, in memory of their lost friends. For some, this brought comfort, though others, like Kulbok, never truly found closure. They knew there was no hope that Mahri Nui had survived its descent, but the loss of hundreds of lives in only a matter of minutes was too much to accept. It felt unreal, like a dream from which they'd never quite managed to awaken.

For the Matoran of Mahri Nui, the gifts from above were also like something out of a dream.

Against all odds, the city had survived, landing on an underwater cliff and disturbing a field of Airweed, which released massive air bubbles that surrounded the settlement, saving the inhabitants from drowning. The shock of the catastrophe damaged the Matoran's fragile memory, and while many had vague recollections of where they had originally come from, none could recall their lives on Voya Nui, or how they came to reside in the Black Water.

Ranta was bothered by this gap in his memory more than most. All the Matoran of Mahri Nui knew they were missing something, but Ranta felt compelled to seek it out, that there was something he had to return to, but he could not remember what. He lived a mostly innocuous life in the underwater city, never joining the Mahri Nui Council and preferring the less public work of a sentry. He made a few friends, but none of them seemed to share his drive, and he often spent his free time exploring the caves at the base of the Cord on his own.

The Cord was Mahri Nui's only link to the surface world, a narrow, hollow tube made of cooled lava from Mount Valmai that connected the sunken city to Voya Nui, though neither Matoran population knew this. The Matoran of Voya Nui were not aware of its existence at all, and the Matoran of Mahri Nui could not see how far up it went, and did not dare leave the safety of their air bubbles long enough to find out. If the threat of drowning when their personal air bubbles ran out was not enough to deter most, the Black Water was infested with deadly sea creatures, bizarre, twisted Rahi and other beasts the Matoran did not recognize.

Ranta, however, was not so easily cowed. He did not enter the Cord itself; enough Matoran more foolhardy than he had tried, and none had returned; but he did swim alongside it, up and up, further with each trip. But he always turned back. He knew that past a certain point, he would not have enough air to make it back to Mahri Nui, and he still had no idea how far away the surface may be. So he would turn back, and tell his friends that maybe he'd make it to the surface next time. They teased him each time he did, feigning disappointment at his failed "surface runs," but in truth, they thanked the Great Spirit each time he returned.

He was missed the day he did not.

As the waters around Mahri Nui grew more dangerous with each passing year, with unseen threats pressing in from all sides, Ranta risked fewer and fewer trips along the Cord. He spent more time on guard duty, keeping watch on the city borders for whatever monsters may slink out of the darkness. But he still felt the pull, the compulsion to seek out what he was missing, and one day, he made his final trip.

As always, he pushed a little farther than he had before, but this time, before he turned back, he caught sight of a glinting object falling through the water, illuminating the gloom around it. He watched it for a moment, entranced, before he noticed a tall figure swimming down after it. For a moment, Ranta was elated. He had seen a Toa before, many many years ago, and recognized the figure as one immediately. Perhaps with her help, his city could be saved. And, if she was here, than he must be near the surface, closer than he had dared hope. But his hope quickly vanished as the Toa began to thrash.

Her name was Toa Inika Hahli, and she was drowning.

Just as he had 300 years before, Ranta spared no thought for his own safety, and charged forward. He grabbed the Toa around the waist and kicked upward with all his might, fighting his way up towards the steadily growing light, until at last he broke the surface, and felt the light of the setting sun on his armour for the first time in centuries. And for the last time.

Had he run out of air lower down, Ranta would not have perished as he had always thought he would. The mutagenic effects of the Black Water would have transformed him into a water-breather, and he would have become a creature of the sea, able to swim wherever he wished. But the Matoran had forgotten how the water had begun to change them when Mahri Nui first sank, how it had undone the work of Karzahni and restored them to stronger, fitter forms, and Ranta's air ran out well above the level the mutagen reached. The seawater that filled his lungs would do nothing to save him. And while the body of the Toa of Water he carried was more durable, and naturally more suited to rapid changes in pressure, his was not. Combined with exhaustion from carrying the weight of a being nearly twice his size, and Ranta never stood a chance. He collapsed on the beach, barely managing to beg the other Toa who received him there to help his city before his heartlight faded to black, and he was gone.

The mighty warrior Axonn, agent of the Order of Mata Nui, carried Ranta's body back to the Matoran Village after sending the Toa Inika on their way down the Cord to Mahri Nui. No sooner had he set foot in the village square than Kvoleni and Kulbok were at their friend's side. His armour and body were different, but they recognized him immediately, and wept at the impossibility. Ranta had come home to them, and they would never see him again.

* * *

Grief, the being noted as he watched the memorial service. Burial and associated ceremonies had never been programmed into the Matoran, but those who dwelt on Voya Nui had developed them independently after the crash once it became clear the bodies of the deceased would no longer simply disappear as they had before. The being made a point of observing them whenever they occurred. He found the ways in which the Matoran behaved after the loss of another whom they "cared" about to be fascinating. Such an accurate facsimile of mourning.

As the crowd dispersed, the being turned his gaze to the two specimens who had led the rite. A Bo-Matoran, designation Kulbok, and a Vo-Matoran, designation Kvoleni. They stood huddled close together before the grave of the deceased, a Ta-Matoran, designation Ranta. Exactly how the Ta-Matoran had survived for this long after the sinking of Mahri Nui, and how he had attained his stronger form were mysteries to the being, though he suspected they would not remain so for long.

The two Matoran stood together for a long time before they finally turned to leave and saw the being watching them.

"Velika, right?" the Vo-Matoran asked with surprise. "We're sorry, we didn't notice you there. Did...did you know him too?"

The being cocked his head. The two were clearly uncomfortable with his presence; the Vo-Matoran's motions and words were hesitant, and the expression the Bo-Matoran wore was a marvellous reproduction of anger. Perhaps they saw him as intruding on a private moment.

So he turned and left. He would allow them their privacy. There would be time enough to study them later, and there was still much else to do.

#tsdwrites #bionicle #bonkle #i wrote something! #only fanfic but it counts! #my brain hates it but i am ignoring it #it's here and i did it #that's what counts #also yeah this is all angst lmao #lots of trauma #sorry 'bout that #anyway #had fun playing with different perspectives here #i imagine in an audio setting all three parts would be read by different people #enjoy!

[writers-potion]

hi! its fairy anon again, thank you for your suggestions! i know my story sounds very gore heavy with my fairy eating babies worldbuilding but i promise my tone is actually much lighter than that 😭 i was kinda trying to take inspo from old fae stories where children would get lured away and go missing because of fairy antics. but anyway! i really like the idea of a chamber where people cant really see what happens inside. it actually gave me an idea to take that a step further to say that no one in-world actually knows what happens to the babies, so people just assume they get eaten. the idea of babies being whisked away somewhere else somehow, and that the place they get sent is linked to the fairy's longevity, i think is a good way to get my lore across without being gratuitously gorey. id love to know what you think of that idea and definitely would welcome any ideas you have in addition if you have any!

also for clarification, you understood my worldbuilding very well but i made a mistake by saying "enslaved" instead of "imprisoned". each noble house has a fairy living in a cell somewhere in the head of house's estate, and each noble house gets one element. for example, my protagonist is the heir to the house that recieved the ice blessing. but also the whole "fairies eating babies" thing is a secret from the public, the commoners of this kingdom have been fed lies for generations about the ancestors of the nobility saving the fae from extinction, which resulted in the faries "blessing" them. this is their justification for why they should be the ruling elite, despite there being very obvious corruption throughout the nobility

"The Mysterious Cave" Trope

Hi! I'm glad that my ideas helped you :)

I think the best way to further develop this idea of babies being whisked away is to take inspiration from existing ones:

The Piped Piper of Hamlin Type

The imprisoned fairies sing/whisper an enchantment that lures children, who walk voluntarily down to their prisons at night.

The "fairy song" picks up a baby, cradle and all, and delivers it to the fairy waiting in their prison

After that, no one knows what happens to the kids who were taken.

The Arabian Nights Type

In this case, there will be some action required from the child/baby, which will open the doors to the fairy's prison

For example, multiple babies can be brought forth in front of the prison's gates. The first baby to cry will automatically get the gates to open, and he will be claimed by the fairy.

Goldilocks and The Three Bears Type

The child/baby to be given is kept for a while (you can decide for how long) in a special room, fed special meals (this can be related to the particular element that the fairy controls) to optimize them for...consumption.

After the baby has been fed/washed/dressed for the occasion, the fairy can be brought into the chamber, or the babies given away to them in prison.

The Sleeping Beauty/Rapunzel Type

This is where the destiny of the babies are determined even before birth.

You can have the loyalty pay for their magic by giving up their second-born to the fairies, or have the loyalty pay off peasant parents to give up their unborn child in exchange of lifetime's worth of wealth.

Alternatively, it can be the fairies who foresee the birth of the babies that they'll consume ("a girl born in -- at -- hour shall be given to me" and such), and as soon as they're born, they'll be claimed.

Hope this helps! :)

If you like my blog, buy me a coffee☕ and find me on instagram! 📸

#writers #writing #creative writing #writers on tumblr #creative writers #helping writers #poets and writers #writeblr #let's write #writers and poets #resources for writers #writing practice #writing prompt #writing community #writing advice #writing inspiration #on writing #writer #writing tips #writerscommunity #writers life #writers community #writer things #writers block #write #fantasy #magic #modern fantasy #fantasy writing #writing questions

[3rdeyeblaque]

On November 26th we venerate Elevated Ancestor & Hoodoo Saint Mama Sojourner Truth on the 140th anniversary of her passing 🕊

An abolitionist, Womens’ Rights activist, & itinerant evangelist, Mama Sojourner Truth truly lived up to her name as one of the fiercest, relentless, & unstoppable pro-abolitionist voices of the 19th Century.

Given the name, Isabella, at birth, Mama Truth was born around 1797 to Dutch-speaking enslaved parents on Colonel Ardinburgh Hurley's plantation in Ulster County, NY. The actual date of her birth remains unknown. At the age of 9 she was sold away from her parents. She was passed through the hands of several slavers across NY State before ending up with the Dumonts. As was the case for most enslaved folks in the rural North, Isabella was forcibly isolated from other slaves and suffered physical & sexual abuse at the hands of the Dumonts.

Alone in the nearby woods, she found peace. Here, she'd speak to Spirit/God. Inspired by her many conversations with Spirit, one day in 1826, she walked away from Dumont Farm to freedom. Although the journey tempted her to return to the Dumonts, she stayed the course after she was struck by a vision of a man she identified as Jesus, during which she felt "baptized in the Holy Spirit," and thus gained the strength & confidence to push on. Like countless Ancestors before her, Isabella called on Spirit & supernatural forces for the power to survive her conditions.

Eventually, she married & birthed 5 children. On July 4, 1827, the NY State Legislature emancipated the enslaved, including Isabella & her children. Yet the Dumont family who "owned" her, refused to comply. Before dawn the next morning, with her youngest baby cradled in her arms, she sought refuge 5 miles away with an abolitionist family. During her time there, she converted to Pentecostal and joined their local Methodist church.

She later then moved again, this time with one of her eldest sons, Peter, in NYC wherein by day she worked as a live-in domestic. Here she found & joined a religious cult called, The Kingdom. It's leader, Matthias, beat Isabella and forced her to take on the heaviest workload. Soon thereafter she became a Pentecostal preacher. Her faith and preaching along with her life story as an emancipated slave drew the attentions of abolitionists & women's rights crusaders. Her speeches were not political by nature. They were based on her unique interpretation - as a woman and a former slave -of the Christian Bible.

On June 1st 1863, Sojourner Truth was born. Isabella took on this new name for herself as she headed East to, “exhort the people to embrace Jesus, and refrain from sin". She lived in a utopian community called, The Northampton Association for Education & Industry, which was devoted to transcending class, race, & gender. She preached at camp meetings for a few years before the community was dissolved. Even though the community lasted less than five years, many highly influential & reform-minded individuals visited the Northampton community; including prolific abolitionist leaders such as Frederick Douglass & William Lloyd Garrison.

Through these connections, she began to speak at public events on behalf of slave abolition and women’s rights. Eventually, this compelled her infamous 1851,“Ar’nt I A Woman” speech at a Women’s Rights Convention in Akron, OH. This was a significant moment in the sociopolitical climate of the country at the time because, for the first time for most, "slave" became equated to women & "woman" became equated to Black. She became increasingly involved on the issue of Women's suffrage, but eventually separated her voice from leaders such as Susan B. Anthony & Elizabeth Cady Stanton one they asserted that they would not support the Black vote if Women were not also granted the same right.

In 1857, Mama Truth purchased a house with the help of friends in a small Spiritualist community called, Harmonia, near Battle Creek, MI. Here she lived thriving the years of supporting hwrself thrift paid speaking events, selling photographs of herself, publishing her book titled, "Narrative of Sojourner Truth" which was written by an amanuensis, as she was illiterate.

Once the Civil War began, Mama Truth pushed for the inclusion of Blacks in the Union Army, which was not intitially the case. She then poured her energy into gathering food & clothing supplies for the underserved volunteer regiments of Black Union soldiers. This is when the plight freed slaves captured her attention, as many of whom were living in refugee camps in Washington D.C.. Mama Truth embarked on a round-trip journey from her home near Battle Creek,MI to D.C. to meet with President Abraham Lincoln to discuss the conditions of the freedmen refugees in D.C. & across the North.

After the Civil War, she championed the idea of a colony for freed slaves out West where they could galvanize their desires to become self-reliant. Mama Truth garnered numerous signatures for her petition urging the U.S. Government to provide land for this endeavor. Although she presented this petition to then President Ulysses S. Grant, her mission never materialized. Nevertheless, in the Fall of 1879, a large migration of Southern freedmen ventured westward to start begin life anew. Mama Truth saw this as God's Divine Plan for our people. Despite her old age, Mama Truth traveled to Kansas to help them. Four years later, Mama Sojourner Truth passed away at her home near Battle Creek, MI. She was believed to be 86.

"How came Jesus into the world? Through God who created him and woman who bore him. Man, where is your part? But the women are coming up blessed by God and few of the men are coming up with them. But man is in a tight place, the poor slave is on him, woman is coming on him, and he is surely between a hawk an' a buzzard." - Sojourner Truth @ the 1851 Ohio Women's Convention.

We pour libations & give 💐 today as we celebrate Mama Truth her selfless service and pioneering vision for the freedom & self-determination of our people. May her life be a reminder of: the power of stillness & deep meditation, to lead with Spirit, & the grit of perseverance that's alive in our blood.

Offering suggestions: woodland soil, water, Pentecostal prayers/ scripture, read/share her speeches & written words.

‼️Note: offering suggestions are just that & strictly for veneration purposes only. Never attempt to conjure up any spirit or entity without proper divination/Mediumship counsel.‼️

#hoodoo #hoodoos #atrs #atr #the hoodoo calendar #ancestor veneration #Sojourner Truth #black spirituality #Black Spiritualists

[whirligig-girl]

Followup to this painting: [Oh You Poor Thing]

The Prodigy kids are so interesting to learn to draw. They have quite complicated color pallettes and designs that don't trivially translate to a 2D cartoon, and figuring out where to simply things without them being unrecognizable was an interesting challenge. I went for something close to the Lower Decks style this time (i.e., my usual Guzcomic style) to complete the crossover. If I ever made more Prodigy-focused comics I think I would first spend a lot of time coming up with a better simplification of their designs and color palletes. If there's one thing that the Prodigy kids absolutely have going for them, it's strong shape language in their silhouettes.

I really hope Prodigy gets picked up. I've been rewatching it and it's just so much fun.

Image ID: Digital art webcomic in a Star Trek Lower Decks like art style.

Panel 1: The alien kids from Star Trek Prodigy are wandering together in a crowd. Dal and Gwyn are calling out Murf's name. Gwyn has turned her liquid metal sword into a bullhorn. Zero says "Come out, come out, wherever you are!" Rok-Tahk says "Where are you..." Jankom, frustrated, says "Come on guys, it's no use. He's gone forever."

Panel 2: Eaurp Guz, a green slimegirl in a yellow starfleet engineering uniform, is running through the crowd with something wrapped up against her chest, holding it like a baby.

Guz: "Hello? Have you seen a--" Stranger 1: "No." Guz: "Have you seen a group of Mellan--" Stranger 2: "No thanks." Guz: "GRR! You'd think another Mellanoid Slime would stand out in the crowd." Guz: "Hello? Have you seen--" Stranger 3: "BEGONE FOUL THING!" Guz: "Ugh."

Panel 3: Guz continues. "Oh! you kids! Have you seen a Mellanoid Slime? Kinda like me. Gooey, sparkly, probably humanoid and bluish?

The Prodigy kids are gathered in a group and look at Guz, a little clueless. "Like Murf?" Dal says. "Who?" Guz says. The viewer can see Murf, the bluish-purple Mellanoid Slime Worm, being cradled by Guz, but the kids can't see him.

Panel 4 & 5: Close-up of the wrapped up Murf, who turns around, a little teary-eyed, and makes a chirp sound.

Panel 6: Murf leaps out of the wrapped blanket towards the kids, smiling, splashing some blue slime onto Guz's face, and she closes her eyes and braces for the goo to hit her. The kids look ecstatic. "MURF!" they all shout at once. Rok-Tahk goes on and says "I missed you." Jankom says, "Hah. Jankom never doubted a thing."

End Image ID.

extra:

Guz: so. you're. this slime worm's communal family.

Jankom: what of it, ya bag of snot?

Guz: do. do you even know how to raise a slime worm?

Dal: Yes! Well. Maybe. I mean he's basically indestructible, how hard could it be?

Rok-Tahk: Yeah! He once survived eating a live photon grenade.

Guz: What.

Dal: Yeah you know it was probably all the time he spent enslaved in the chimerium mines; hardened him up to it.

Guz: WHAT?

Gwyn: It's a long story.

Guz: wait. hey aren't you those wanted fugitives?

Jankom: Desperately, desperately wanted!

Zero: I can't read her thoughts but I do not think that's the kind of wanted she means.

Dal: Gotta blast!

#Save Star Trek Prodigy #Star Trek #Star Trek Prodigy #Prodigy #Eaurp Guz #Slimegirl #Mellanoid Slime #Mellanoid Slime Worm #Murf Prodigy #Dal R'El #Gwyndala #Rok-Tahk #Jankom Pog #Zero Prodigy #Comic #Fanart #Fan Comic #Star Trek Fan art #fan art #Tellarite #Brikar #Vau N'Akat #augment #Medusan

[zileans-big-cl0ck]

Hello! How u doing?

Can i ask for some DarkCosmic! Jhin x gn! reader headcanons! Im crying fr there is barely Jhin content. Im so happy i found your blog, its so damn great <33 ilysm!! Take care :D

✦–Dark Cosmic Jhin x reader short story.✦ SFW

✦Demos on their way to provide Jhin content for you, because Jhin enjoyers deserve everything that’s the best.

✧ prompt: ✧ just some headcanons that are placed in the Cosmic/Dark Star alternative universe.

✧ champions: ✧ Jhin, the Virtuoso (Dark Cosmic).

✧ reader: ✧ gender neutral (no Y/N used).

✧ author’s note: ✧ I’m afraid it turned out more like a short story than headcanons, but you must forgive me, the whole Cosmic universe is just so emphemeral and majestic, it called me by itself to write something like this, frfr. Like, I literally have Dark Star Kha’zix as my main theme, just because it’s the most aesthetic skin in the entire game. ANYWAYS, guys, hit me up with any ideas for Jhin content, because I’m gonna take care of it, I PROMISE. And don’t worry about your asks, I’m really writting them, I’m just a bit lazy and slow. As always, please ignore any mistakes.

masterlist

The Cosmic Court has lost Jhin’s light. He has fallen into the Dark Star’s trap, embraced the inky space. Now, bestowed with new starfire powers, he conscientiously begun to claim the Universe as a canvas for his artwork.

Jhin’s corruption quickly escalated, cosmic frame mirrored the cells of his mad and abstract concept of reality. It all belonged to him now. He could create anything or make nothing from the absolute; proclaim the universe with a new virtuoso as a cradle of twisted nebulas, incandescent galaxies, blurred across the black reality.

His hunger grew alongside claiming more and more stars, his four emphemeral hands - two filled with the energy of relinquished Cosmic celestial, the other two greeting the omnipotent might of the Dark Star - working, reaching, grabbing, painting, spreading.

These hands, he reached them once for a brand new Galaxy, fresh and pure, uncertain of the destination it should met. It could be turned into something truly gorgeous, breathtaking, beyond anything a simple mortal could ever comprehend. He wanted to ensnare this light, capture it at its most enduring state, and then squize it in his claws, paint the infinite darkness of expanse by its entrails.

But Jhin hesitated. It wasn’t just another impotent Galaxy drifting in space, awaiting its dull end, that would come in eons. It was another Celestial being, alive and in their youth, unaware of the ongoing war between the Dark Star and its corruptants and the Cosmic Court.

He approached, though there was a concerning aspect in their apperance. Like a whirling black hole that he employed to create artworks greater than himself, the artist behind.

Discovered when he found himself closer, he realized that he misses the feeling of gliding freely between plantes, with stardust sweeping through his ephemeral cape. Emptiness surrounded this poor Celestial, ubiquitous darkness and black background only in the sight. It was almost pitful, to look at something so lonely, with no items to craft and work and paint. But Jhin was an artist, which entailed that he felt and saw more, curiosity rised achingly in his cosmic body.

And he obtained them, because Jhin, empowered by the power of the Dark Star, always got what he desired, what his longing soul cried for. Firstly, it was a move made from pity; soon he became covetous, as he saw other corruptants becoming jealous of his new pet. The old, disdainful wraith, Mordekaiser, jeered, demanding his own cohort of enslaved Celestials. ”If Jhin can have one, why won’t we create a whole army of it? Why should we meet constelations with cataclysms, instead of claiming them as our own?” he asked, encouraged by the coward, Xerath. But Jhin decided to mercifully ignore his acquaintances, as the Herald, Thresh, didn’t stop him - his own twisted mind hided his soft spot for some kind of pets.

Jhin admired his new companion’s loyality. They decided to stood by his side, and he was positive they would be loyal even in the end of the Cosmic Court, end of the Dark Star and the whole Universe, just because he had freed them from the nothingless of their corner of space.

He uncovered that he had no desire of consuming nor devastating the Celestial into a new piece of art, just becausae of their purity and mellowness. When born in a dark emptiness, their being couldn’t soak with the benightedness that kept buisy the minds of others. He could bathe them in his own ideas and beliefs.

Neither Mordekaiser nor Xerath could order him to leave his new partner - they became his inspiration, his only appreciated audience. Their word was valued by Jhin more than the ardous asks from the other corruped cosmic titans.

They weren’t ordinal. They were found in a repugnant darkness, embraced by no stars, no nebulas, only ceaseless nothingless. It was almost calming, like the dim insides of the Dark Star, which were consummate, persistent, always hungry for more. Jhin admired it and wanted to show his pet the whole Universe, the beauty he could rip from constellations, melt them to his will.

He often became pensive, milling the thoughts that consumed his mind, pushing him into the greatness of his immense conciousness. They could listen to him for eons about the convoluted twists and strings behind his art. But he would never talk about his past and the Cosmic Court. And they were never malicious enough to force him to confess that.

The whole Galaxy was yours. Jhin was the reason the sanctimonious herold of the Dark Star, Thresh, has brought the rightful owner, the true heir of the devouring force of this Universe, Lux, so she could claim the throne. And by this way, the Virtuoso obtained favourability of his master - the one that gave him the powers. It let him spread the superficial chaos, proudly pace through space with his new companion, his beautiful galaxy, his devotion and destination.

Because Jhin was never reserved; if he wanted the whole Universe to belong to him, he would accomplish this task even without help of the Dark Star.

#✦demosthenes writes #league of legends #khada jhin #jhin #league of legends jhin #league of legends khada jhin #dark star #league of legends dark star #league of legends dark cosmic #jhin x reader #jhin x you #khada jhin x reader #khada jhin x you #dark cosmic jhin x reader #dark cosmic jhin x you #league of legends dark cosmic jhin #dark cosmic jhin

[fatehbaz]

European explorers first set foot on the North Atlantic archipelago in 1505. [...] [C]olonies of shrieking birds, interrupted sporadically by violent storms. Spanish explorer Juan de Bermúdez came [...] and left nothing but his name behind. Permanent settlers wouldn’t arrive for another hundred years [...] by serendipity. In this case -- tragic serendipity. The Sea Venture, an English ship on its way to the colony at Jamestown, got caught in a monster storm and wrecked on a coral reef off Bermuda’s shore in 1609. [...] Within a few years, Bermuda became a British territory, and with that one of the cradles of English colonization: settled just five years after the first permanent English settlement in Jamestown, Virginia, and eight years before Plymouth.

And yet, reading histories about the early beginnings of the American colonies -- the traditional origin stories of the United States -- one would be hard pressed to find much [...] mention of Bermuda.

“When historians have considered it, they usually dismiss it as a curiosity or a failure,” writes Michael Jarvis, an associate professor of history at the University of Rochester. [...] His latest book, Isle of Devils, Isle of Saints: An Atlantic History of Bermuda, 1609-1684 [...] is his most recent contribution toward that end. As a prequel, it continues the work he started in [...] In the Eye of All Trade: Bermuda, Bermudians, and the Maritime Atlantic World, 1680-1783 [...]. Jarvis makes the case that the small island is nothing less than “[...] crucible of colonization,” [...]. Several earlier attempts at establishing colonies on the North American shoreline failed [...]. But Bermuda started to thrive -- which was of considerable consequence for the future United States. When the newcomers at Jamestown faced starvation, [...] just 800 miles “to the east [...]” another group of English colonists “found a veritable paradise [...].”

---

Bermuda became the first of England’s experimental colonial laboratories to produce a successful export staple -- Spanish tobacco -- which, Jarvis argues, once transferred to the mainland became the foundation of Virginia’s economic success.

With the success, however, also came Bermuda’s dubious distinction as the first English colony to import enslaved African people, thereby developing slavery into “an institution that became ubiquitous throughout English America.”

---

Drawing on three decades of his own research and [...] [field] work, Jarvis [...] delves into the interplay of slavery, race, gender, and the environment, tracing how “Europeans [...] became distinctly American” on the island -- some 600 miles offshore from what would later become North Carolina.

He argues the histories of several US states and Atlantic and Caribbean islands -- such as Virginia, Barbados, Providence Island, Jamaica, the Bahamas, and South Carolina -- are firmly intertwined with Bermuda and that historic accounts that “omit or ignore founding Bermudian settlers’ presence and contributions are thus incomplete.” [...]

---

On the one hand, it was England’s first Puritan colony, founded on the idea of building a [so-called] moral [...] society. On the other, its founders committed, promoted, and helped entrench the profound moral crime of slavery. [...] Bermuda’s puritans [...] saw themselves “in constant battle with the [...] the English Civil War, [...] hurricanes, slave revolts, and the Bermuda parent company [...].” The devil reference also stems from a Spanish nickname given to the island because of its location -- firmly in the path of frequent, roaring storms. With more than 300 shipwrecks on its reefs, Bermuda has rightly earned the moniker “shipwreck capital of the world,” although Canada’s Sable Island still [...] [achieves] that sad record. [...] That [...] lore, by the way, wasn’t lost on William Shakespeare either, who reportedly used the account of Bermuda’s shipwrecks, especially the Sea Venture’s fate in 1609, as a source for his play The Tempest, likely written just a year or two after the wreck.

By the 1670s, Bermuda had freed itself from its former parent company and become England’s most densely populated possession -- on its way to become an intercolonial maritime hub.

---

All text above by: Sandra Knispel. “A colonial history: Jamestown, Plymouth, and, yes, Bermuda.” Newscenter [a website published by University of Rochester]. 23 May 2023. [Bold emphasis and some paragraph breaks/contractions added by me.]

#abolition #ecology #imperial #colonial #caribbean #plantation

[tranakin-skywalker]

how exactly does tcw handle zygerria? i’ve been really adverse to watching it because of what i’ve seen surrounding anakin’s characterisation in that arc and i don’t know if i’d feel up to it even if the angst potential is soo high and fucked up and could be interesting to explore

It's... not great I'll be honest.

I'm not sure how much you're familiar with the arc, but they have Anakin go undercover as a slaver, which, okay sure. Going undercover in a way that is deeply uncomfortable and traumatic for him, but means saving innocent people, really great opportunity to explore Anakin's character and what an experience like that would do to him. Only, the show doesn't bother with any of that.

He acts pretty unbothered about the whole thing. Not in a way that makes it seem like he's deflecting, either. He really doesn't seem all that bothered about pretending to be a slave master, or that he has to whoo the queen of a slave empire.

And it's not like the creators forgot that he was a child slave and lived this reality for the first nine years of his life. He outright mentions the fact that his mother was sold in a slave market like the one they're walking through at one point.

Then there's the whole thing with Ahsoka posing as his slave. I... cannot imagine any universe where Anakin would be okay with something like that. Putting her in that position does not seem in character for him at all.

Then you add in some of the dialogue the writers put in there...

Who are you and what have you done with my boy?

This just does not in any shape way or form seem in character for him? Making light of the situation and joking about things to distract from how viscerally uncomfortable this is all making him? Sure. But not like this.

And then there's the end of the arc, where (spoilers) the Zygerrian Queen dies. This is a character who 1) rules a slave empire, 2) has enslaved and tortured Ahsoka, Obi-Wan and Rex and used them as hostages to get Anakin to do what she wants and 3) was implied by the show to have coerced Anakin into sex (genuinely cannot believe a kids show got away with that one) and the creators had the gall to have Anakin cradle her body as she died. The guy who murdered an entire village for killing his mother, held this woman and looked sad as she died.

I do not understand the decisions made here. I really don't.

Honestly, if you're interested in the angst of the episode but not the execution, just skip the show and read some fanfic about the Zygerria arc. There's a lot of really great ones that focus on the events of the arc and the aftermath.

Some of my favorites:

System Reset by That_Ghost_Kristoff. Honestly, this whole series is great

Dog Bites by Husborth

Goes to Ground also by Husborth cuz she's awesome like that

Time by katierosefun

Or you could read the Clone Wars comic of Slaves of the Republic, which actually handles the arc a lot better.

#i really do love the clone wars show #but i cannot get over how out of character anakin feels during most of it #the zygerria arc and the clovis episodes are the worst offenders #but even in the rest of the show he feels like a completely different character to me #anyway. there's a lot more fics out there. those are just the ones i have saved

[generic-whumperz]

The Aid: Prologue (Meet The Whumper)

TW: whumper POV, alcoholism, drunk whumper, talk of captivity/enslavement

Additional warning: Prologue follows the Whumper at first. This is not to foster sympathy; this is to make you understand what kind of Whumper he is and understand just how much of a piece of shit he is. I am not endorsing Whumper and/or Whumper behavior, HE IS A BAD GUY AND WE ARE SUPPOSED TO HATE HIM. 

P.S. This was edited, but that doesn’t mean things can’t slip through the cracks! I apologize for any typos, grammatical errors, and/or inconsistent tenses; I am working on it!

Enjoy :)

Word count: 760

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Today had been a really shitty day. 

That, of course, called for—begged for—a long evening of Wyatt Sullivan’s ritualistic practice of self-inflicted liver damage. Not like he ever needed an excuse to drink himself close to alcohol poisoning, he always did, but he felt self-righteous if he thought he had a “reason” to do so. 

And today was more than “reason” enough.

The day’s series of bad happenings began long before the predestined afternoon binge began—to start, his lemon-of-a-car wouldn’t start in the morning, causing him to miss a day of work. Now instead of making (much-needed) money, he had to inform his boss that he wouldn’t be coming in (which earned him a stern warning and ding on his record) because he would be spending the day dealing with that bastard, no-good, money grabbin’ thief calling himself a mechanic who told him that the transmission went out and would cost him $4,500…like hell he would pay that! He promptly told the burglar mechanic to fuck himself and stormed off.

Fuming, he walked to the nearest liquor store where he picked up his beloved 12-pack of IPA, a jumbo bag of low-sodium sunflower seeds, a can of tobacco chew, two beef jerky sticks, a party-sized bag of Chex Mix, and a few scratchers for good luck (lord knew he needed it), and then Ubered home. 

He’d deal with the car tomorrow; the rest of the day was dedicated to cozying up with that 12-pack and licking his wounds in the form of consuming a copious amount of his favorite junk foods.

He was dropped off at his home’s curb in typical Uber fashion. Here, where side-walk meets property line, he came face-to-face with his neglected mailbox that he often ignored and avoided—only people who ever sent you mail were the IRS and penny-begging non-profits. But once he realized that he hadn’t checked it in a couple weeks—okay, nearly a month, he fished out a fat stack of envelopes, ads, sales papers, and the like that was crammed to the rim in a forceful u-shape, nearly impossible to pull out.

Extracting the brick of mail was like trying to get a can of refried beans out in one, smooth, perfectly cylindrical mass—success was rewarded with a satisfying schlick sound as the beans left the can in total unison.

Today, the metaphorical beans would not come out in one smooth schlick.

He unloaded his loot on the kitchen table, ardently ripping open the cardboard box that cradled his precious IPA and couldn’t crack open that first glorious can fast enough. He downed can number one in a few chugs before cracking open can number two and pawing through that menacing stack of mail. Besides junk mail, he was met with nothing but various over-due bill notices, a note from the bank that he missed a mortgage payment, and a letter from the courts regarding his third month of delinquent child support payments.

This did nothing but add fuel to his ever-burning fiery indignation.

Can after can, sip after alcoholic sip, hours passed.

Each drop aided his efforts of working himself up to a fit of violent rage caused by no other than his long-time friend, Drunken Stupor. He knew that the liquor always exacerbated his cruelty; it was easier to let the red consume him and to let go of any semblance of a moral compass he (no longer) had when he had something else, something he was impuissant against, to blame his transgressions on.

His (bitch) wife took their daughter and left him years ago since he couldn’t get his temper and drinking under control. There wasn’t much that he could control; his anger ruled his thoughts and actions- he was but a sad, detestable marionette being controlled by the hand of ill will.

He drank because he felt sorry for himself, even if that exact phrasing dared not cross his mind. Because he thought of himself as anything but pitiful, because pitiful men were charity cases, and charity cases were a leach on society and not respectable.

Drinking. That’s all he could do—his wife reminded him that he wasn’t good for much besides downing a 12-pack, after all. 

Wyatt Sullivan was cold, callous, reactionary, and above all else, lonely (besides the sorry-sack servant he kept locked up in the basement, but that didn’t count for company). What he could control, however, was his fists, and that sad-sack under the floorboards, and better yet, his fists striking said sad-sack…

The Aid.

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#OH MY FUCKING GOD THIS IS MY FIRST STORY!!! #whumper #whump blog #whumper backstory #whump writing #whump story #whump oc #oc story #drunk whumper #alcoholic whumper #The Aid #GernericWritez #whump #whumpblr #my first fic #oc fic #oc whump fic #original story #basement whump #Wyatt Sullivan #prologue

[discar]

HZD Terraforming Base-001 Text Communications Network

Chapter 25 | Prev chapter | Next chapter Chapter Index

Zo: GAIA, I had a question about the machines, pre-Derangement. Will you be able to answer?

ADMIN [GAIA]: For the most part. Details of specific machines and even migratory patterns are sparse, but I have more than enough general knowledge to answer most queries. What do you need ?

Zo: I know that the machines defended themselves when attacked, even before the Derangement. They were still dangerous, they just didn't act aggressively. And in Plainsong, the Plowhorns provide us with all the food we could possibly need.

Zo: My question is, why couldn't you give everyone plowhorns?

β: and why have the machines attack at all

β: its not like you cant make more just have them be completely passive

ADMIN [GAIA]: From the records left behind by my predecessor, I can confidently answer both questions. Initially, the machines were completely passive, with no extraneous defensive protocols. However, their rate of destruction quickly reached an unacceptable level. Several tribes even barricaded their local Cauldrons, preventing any machines from leaving and performing their duties. Adding defensive protocols was necessary to discourage wanton attacks and allow the machines to function as intended. Hunting of machines was now only done when necessary for resources, rather than as a matter of course.

HIMBO: MAKES SENSE TO ME. SOMETIMES PEOPLE WON'T STOP STEALING FROM THE FORGE UNTIL IT BURNS THEM.

ADMIN [GAIA]: As for the plowhorns, the answer is simpler. The area you name Plainsong was never intended for human habitation. It was a region for experimenting with accelerated plant growth using machines based on the Faro seed planters that had been in use in the area before Zero Day. The fact that a tribe of humans was able to peacefully coexist with the machines was a happy accident. Though I suspect that my predecessor altered the seeding orders to be more palatable to humans once she saw how they were making use of the area.

BoyNextDoor: Could you really not just tell people to stop breaking the machines? You could have delivered whatever they needed, and they could leave the machines to their work.

ADMIN [GAIA]: Unfortunately, it is not that simple. I was always designed to have minimal contact with humans, to ensure they did not develop a dependence. Ted Faro strengthened these existing protocols when he deleted APOLLO. My predecessor could not even change the programs of the interaction drones in the Cradle facilities.

FlameHairSavior: I saw that. It wasn't pretty.

DIVINER: It could have been worse, though!!

BoyNextDoor: Why were they so obsessed with "not developing a dependence?" It just seems like it would have been better to give you more control, even if it left us less independent in the short term.

β: you have no idea how many robot war stories there are out there

β: super smart robots taking over and enslaving everyone was a common theme

DIVINER: And let's not forget that they WERE fighting a robot swarm that was eating the planet! I imagine that made them a bit hesitant to put their entire future in the hands of a different robot!

MARSHAL Kotallo: I believe wanting to keep us strong should have been enough of a reason on its own.

BoyNextDoor: Wait. If your protocols are so strict, how can you talk to us now?

ADMIN [GAIA]: You are the new Alphas. The system was always intended to have human participants. That is the entire purpose of the Regional Control Centers such as this one. Almost none of my protocols on interference apply to the Alphas.

DIVINER: Almost?

ADMIN [GAIA]: There are a number of protocols preventing me from directly harming a human. These apply even more so to the Alphas.

HIMBO: WEREN'T WE JUST TALKING ABOUT KILLER MACHINES?

ADMIN [GAIA]: The machines tied to the terraforming system and set to their tasks are not a case of me causing direct harm.

HIMBO: SEEMS LIKE A FINE SLAGGING LINE.

β: thats why the old ones were paranoid about machines

DIVINER: Ooh, we should start them on Terminator!

β: if you want to explain time travel be my guest

FlameHairSavior: Do I want to know?

β: no

β: no you do not

β: if matrix was more straightforward we could start there

DIVINER: Do we have a copy in the archives? The Quen only have a restored synopsis, I was always hoping to watch it for real!!

β: only the first one

β: which is still not something they will understand

FlameHairSavior: That's the one with the running on the walls and the bullet dodging, right?

DIVINER: You've seen it??

FlameHairSavior: I had a restored trailer on my Focus.

FlameHairSavior: Which, by the way, made NO sense.

β: it wasnt supposed to make sense

FlameHairSavior: Then what's the POINT?

β: its a marketing gimmick

β: get people talking about it asking questions

DIVINER: A successful one, judging by the numbers I have for its popularity!

HIMBO: HOW DO YOU HAVE NUMBERS FOR THE SORT OF THING?

HIMBO: WAIT.

HIMBO: I JUST REALIZED I DON'T CARE.

Zo: Yes yes, go back to your meatpunching videos.

β: one day well find a good show to start you all on

BoyNextDoor: I think these romance books are good.

DIVINER: How much of those do you even understand?

BoyNextDoor: Enough. Probably.

Zo: Enough. Definitely.

β: ew

FlameHairSavior: They don't mean it like that.

DIVINER: …

HIMBO: ALOY, HAVE YOU LOOKED AT THESE BOOKS OF HIS?

FlameHairSavior: One or two. How bad is it?

HIMBO: LET'S JUST SAY THAT BETA'S GOT THE RIGHT IDEA.

FlameHairSavior: Okay, there go my plans to ever sleep at the Base ever again.

DIVINER: At least the rooms are soundproof!

Chapter 25 | Prev chapter | Next chapter Chapter Index

#horizon #horizon forbidden west #horizon zero dawn #HZDBaseChat #aloy #beta horizon #varl #zo #kotallo #alva #erend vanguardsman

[rjalker]

It's also blatantly clear that most people who write "Humans are space orcs" things have no fucking clue how ecosystems work. At all.

Like this bullshit even found its way into the Farscape fandom because I remember reading some stupid fic where Zhaan was aMAZED about all the dangerous stuff that exists on Earth because "a home planet is meant to be a cradle that lets you learn and grow in safety before you explore the universe" and like. this wasn't just part of her religion, no, it's just apparently a fact of how the universe worse.

Even though that's not how this fucking works at all.

A version of this bullshit was also in the actual episode of the show with whatsherface Em-lee (Not how it's spelled at all) where the writer was like "yeah, a planet where all the animals get wiped out would be an awesome place for plants" Bitch?????? excuse me???????????????? HELLO????????????????

like this writer really thought wiping out literally all animal life on the planet and introducing absurd numbers of invasive plants from other planets was going to be a good idea that would definitely 100% have worked out perfectly if only the people he'd enslaved and starved to death (Em-lee and the rest of her people) to kill all the animals hadn't fought back :|

Like.

Zyg if you're planning to write scifi or fantasy or literally anything to do with alien life, you need to first have a basic fucking understanding of how ecosystems work. And then you need to get an even better understanding.

No, you cannot just wipe out all fucking animal life on the planet and think this is gonna end well and be awesome for the plants.

You do in fact need to do basic fucking research if you're planning to write things.

#Humans are space orcs #Humans are special #scifi #science fiction #fantasy #writing tips #Farscape #Rjalker watches Farscape