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#rangers mind link
verflares · 21 days
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saw spirit tracks zink earlier and it made me kind of sad actually because what are the odds we'll ever see that + phantom hourglass get ported or even remade...... :(
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twpsyn-who · 1 year
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Was anyone going to tell me Dacre Montgomery played in the 2017 Power Rangers reboot or was I supposed to find out from an article about his new role in Went Up The Hill?
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barrenclan · 6 months
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PATFW: Animal Name Systems
As more non-Clan characters get introduced to the story, I’ve been having fun coming up with the naming systems for various animals. In real life there would probably be more natural variety within a whole species, but also making up little systems is fun so I don’t care. Also, as a technical note, obviously none of these names are in “English”. They’re in whatever language animals speak. So, like, Hacksaw is not literally “hacksaw”, it’s the animal word for that object. 
Cats - with the exception of warriors (who obviously have an incredibly specific naming system), cat names tend to be more loose, and can be named after many things. In general, they are shorter. House cats are also an exception, as they are named by people and so their names can be very different. Ex. Cashew, Summer, Rowan, Egret, Thrasher, Jackalope
Wolves and coyotes - like cats, wolves also have a more loose naming system. Often wolves are named after someone else, to honor them. Coyote communities are heavily linked to wolf communities, so their rules are similar. In general, they are longer. Ex. Coldbreath, Nightshade, Lucky-Foot, Antlerhorn, Ranger
Deer - deer are always named after plants. No exceptions to this. Often the plants are ones that the parents admire or enjoy. Ex. Wild Rose, Juniper, Hyssop, Maple, Lingonberry
Mountain lions - they are named after some kind of aspirational trait at birth that their parent is hoping they fulfill. Sometimes this leads to funny, ironic circumstances, but usually the kitten is shaped by their name and strives to embody it. Ex. Ferocity, Swiftness, Cunning, Power, Caution
Porcupines - for the first year of their life, porcupine kits are named after the order in which their mother gave birth to them. Ex. First, Second, Third, etc. When the porcupine has come of age, they are given their adult name. These names are short and functional, usually no more than four letters. Ex. Mud, Snap, Snow, Blue
Falcons - chicks are never given names by their parents, and are generally treated as indistinguishable when young. Once they leave the nest, falcons name themselves whatever they like. Frequently these names are inspired by human artifacts, as falcons (and many other bird cultures, as well as raccoons) value their liminal relationship to humans. Ex. Hacksaw, Highway, Black-Wing, Perils, Artemis
Bears - at birth, bears are given short, silly names, meant to be inconsequential. Ex. Fuzz, Seed, Bug, Baby. When they come of age, they are given an adult name by the eldest bear, whether it’s a large group or just a family. These names are structured as some kind of brag about the individual’s qualities, to impress others and display dominance. They are composed of two words in the trait separated by a hyphen. Ex. Longest-Claws, Fiercest-Roar, Strongest-Jaw, Thickest-Pelt. However, if the bear is disliked or considered weak, they can be also be called a version of this structure that is an insult. Ex. Dullest-Mind, Weakest-Strike, Softest-Heart. The greatest shame of all, though, is an adult bear forced to keep their childhood name. 
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ssslime · 7 months
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nocte solitudo
his mind tends to wander at night.
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➥ astarion x gn!tav, ranger!tav, some angst, a lil comfort, mentions of blood
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It wasn’t often Astarion felt rested.
Meditation brought him some reprieve, at least, during nights where the camp’s quiet was only interrupted by the distant buzz of insects and the sound of the trees above them. Sometimes silence was too loud — too thick and heavy for him to relax.
Astarion shifted in his bedroll. His ruby gaze was caught upward, piercing into a little coin-sized hole in the cloth ceiling.
Tav would probably stitch that up quickly, if he asked. They’re good with crafty little things like that, all nimble fingers and a brow furrowed in concentration.
He rolled over.
A shard of light caught in Astarion’s eye for a second. The tiniest bit of moonlight bounced off of his daggers, tossed unceremoniously atop his travel bag in the corner of the tent. Smooth silver gave way to crusted, dark blood and grime near the sharpened tips. Astarion’s lips twitched downward.
He was hungry. He hadn’t fed in a while, and he’d need to hunt something down within the next few nights. Things had just felt hectic as of late — why exactly Tav insisted on helping every dripping wet, sniffling fellow they found on the side of the road, he’d never know. It grated his nerves sometimes, how it seemed they were unable to say no to any sad little sob story fed to them. He would know; it’s worked for him before.
But, Tav would probably help him hunt down some wild boar, or maybe even a bear to hold him off for a while, if he asked. They’re quite the hunter.
He sat up.
Outside, he could hear Scratch idling around. The dog’s eager nose gave him away; sniffing and snorting softly, Astarion knew the pup was poking around their trunk of food nearby. With a sigh, he stood to his feet and parted the curtain door. He wouldn’t be settled any time soon, anyways.
The night air felt cool on his skin as he stepped outside. All was calm, as expected. A crackling, dying fire laid in the center of camp, dimly lighting the area and casting weak shadows along the surrounding tree line. Astarion let his eyes wander over to the white dog some yards away.
Scratch lifted his head and peered right back. His tail swayed lightly back and forth and his ears perked up.
“Hungry, are you?” Astarion asked quietly, looking between the dog and the closed chest. Scratch simply tilted his head to the side, his big, pleading eyes working wonders on the supposed stone cold vampire.
Astarion sighed. “Fine, fine — but nobody hears about this, understood?”
He wasn’t sure why he was talking to a damned dog. He reminded himself of how strange and silly Tav looked whenever they would communicate with animals. It was nearly second nature to them, it seemed, and perhaps that’s what it was — a survival technique, like all their other skills, developed out of necessity. He could relate, and that thought alone made his stomach turn a little.
Thoughts like these came to Astarion at the worst times. Moments where he was free from distraction, with countless minutes under his belt to ruminate and dissect, even when all he wanted was to simply close his eyes and let time pass like sand between his fingers.
He tossed the dog a sausage link. He knew what it was like to have a feast right in front of you, and not be allowed to indulge.
In his mind’s eye, Astarion could picture slinking across the stagnant landscape of their sleepy little camp. Working with the shadows to blend seamlessly into Tav’s patchwork wonder of a tent. Watching their chest rise and fall with deep, steady breath — their lashes flickering just the slightest bit over their cheeks. Feeling their pulse thrum beneath his lips, their breath catching, their hand weaving into the curls at the nape of his neck.
Tav would probably let him feed, if he asked. They’d shared their blood before; succulent and sweet and mind-numbingly warm as it slipped down his parched throat. They’re such a delicious treat.
But he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t ask such a selfish thing.
He sighed.
Change is difficult. Surely his life was leaps and bounds better than it was before; no longer did he have to prowl taverns and dark streets for vulnerable prey in the form of drunk and lonely hearts. But this… duality inside of him made him sick. He wished so desperately for things to be different.
He wished they could’ve been another name and face to discard the morning after.
“Astarion?”
He wished he didn’t see parts of himself in them.
“Is everything alright? It’s very late.”
He wished he could be selfish with them, because it’d be so painfully easy. But he couldn’t.
He glanced up, soaking in Tav’s tousled hair and squinted expression as it grew closer. They rubbed one eye with the back of their hand and furrowed their brow, watching him expectantly. Scratch, of course, trotted over happily upon seeing his favorite person, and leaned up against their legs. Tav dropped their hand to rub along the dog’s snout and cheek in a show of idle affection.
“I was just… thinking,” Astarion replied finally. “Feeling a bit restless, I suppose. And what of you, darling?”
Tav blinked their bleary eyes, watching him for a moment before opening their mouth again.
“Would you come lay with me?”
It wasn’t often Astarion felt rested. After 200 years, it was something he was used to. His nights were filled with crushing guilt or staggering loneliness, doomed to wallow in the dark and filth of his seemingly endless existence.
But, perhaps change is a good thing. Perhaps this is what it’s like to be born anew, to shed your old skin in favor of a life newer, better than before. It’s unsettling, it’s sensitive.
Astarion pondered this as he settled in behind Tav. The scent of lavender curled around him as soon as he laid down on their bedroll. He didn’t mind — it had quickly become a source of comfort, whether he’d admit it to himself or not.
“Thank you,” Tav whispered after a few moments of quiet, “it feels better with you here.”
Astarion slid his ruby gaze over to settle on the back of their head. He turned onto his side, weaving his arm under theirs to rest on their waist. Tav relaxed easily into his gentle hold, fitting their bodies together like they were shaped from the same clay.
“You don’t have to thank me, dove. I’m just a few tents away,” he leaned closer, ghosting his lips over their shoulder with a gentle kiss, full of all the warmth and affection he never knew he was capable of before, “all you have to do is ask.”
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littlejuicebox · 4 months
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LittleJuicebox Masterlist
Click here for my AO3 account. (Converting is a WiP).
If you’d like to be added to a tag list, please DM me and I can send you the google doc link. I have decided to keep tag lists for each individual series so you only get tagged in the ones you want.
My personal favorites are denoted by a +.
GN reader is denoted by a * otherwise assume Fem reader/OC.
Titles colored red are smut or other mature themes, 18+ only.
AstarionxWren Series:
This is a canon-adjacent passion project which focuses on Astarion and Wren, a ranger half-elf with her own backstory. She is based off my first Tav. Do you like angsty slow burns where two broken people find one another and learn to love again? Then this one is for you.
Chapter 1 / Chasing birds to get high (PG) + Chapter 2 / Between comfort and chaos (PG) Chapter 3 / Sunshine and midnight rain (PG13) + Chapter 4 / Protect the flames (M/Gore) Chapter 5 / Blue and silver bonded (PG13) Chapter 6 / Remember how it feels to have a heartbeat (PG13) Chapter 7 / Give peace a chance (M/Smut) + Chapter 8 / Dancing in a burning room (M/Gore) Chapter 9 / Lavender haze (PG-PG13?) Chapter 10 / I want to hold your hand (PG13)
Midnight Chimes Series:
Your parents own a tavern in Baldur’s Gate, and Astarion was somewhat of a regular when you worked at the bar in your younger years. You don’t exactly trust him. Now you’re an apothecary owner based in Waterdeep, and when the two of you crash on the beach, you aren’t exactly thrilled to see him there, too. But things aren’t always what they seem.
1 / The Prologue +
2 / Three years
3 / Luck +
4/ Ringleader
Midwinter Carol Series:
Eirianwen and Astarion were in love before the Ascension ritual changed his behavior toward her. She refused to become a spawn, and they went their separate ways. The story starts when they run into one another fifteen years later; Eirianwen returned to the city to deliver some news to the pale elf. Meanwhile, the Ascendant had a night time visitor that convinced him to change his ways, and he believes his ex-lover might be the key. Will he be able to change after fifteen years of living life as a debauched degenerate?
1 / The Prologue +
2 / The Barrier
3 / The Carriage
4 / The Auction +
5/ The Repeat
6/ The Affliction
7/ The Interrogation
8/ The Scheme
9/ The Snake
AstarionxReader One Shots and Mini-Stories:
Mini-Stories are grouped together in order and denoted by a “Part X” in sequential order after the title. These are in general "timeline" order and follow my (admittedly self-indulgent) headcanon for Spawn Astarion x Tav but can definitely be read as OneShots. All stories are AstarionxReader, some allusions to reader having spellcaster ability but otherwise no real description apart from being female in about 3/4 of the fics.
Act 1-2:
The little things.
Before someone steals your queen
Act 3:
Drunken nights*+
The nail salon
You'll stay still, won't you, little love? +
Post-BG3:
Mermaid whiskey+
Baking Cookies*
Astarion talks in his sleep Part 1*+
My Sun, My Moon Part 2+
Glowing in the Underdark+
Reflections on one year of marriage
Highharvestide Part 1
Highharvestide Part 2
Handmade+
Dadstarion:
The wish spell worked.+
Daddy?
Little bump.
Labor and joy
Skin to skin.
Milk.+
Little lockpick.
Beach babies.+
A growing brood.
Puppy love.
Stuck.
Pre-BG3 / Random / Ascended Astarion OneShots
Midnight chimes / The Original One Shot
Pre-BG3. You’ve known Astarion for years… or at least, you’ve known of him. You think he’s a rake, but one night he changes your mind. The series "Midnight Chimes" started based off this "prologue."
A Midwinter Carol / The Original One Shot
“A Christmas Carol” but Ascended Astarion is Scrooge. He sees you after your break up 15 years ago, and then has an unexpected nighttime visitor showing him past, present, and future. Will he be convinced to change his ways? The series "Midwinter Carol" started based off this "prologue."
Naughty or Nice?
You’re Ascended Astarion’s little toy in the middle of a party. TLDR; he’s tease and a BDSM dom.
Dancing on my own
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Guile & Guilt
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Your best friend has warned you to stay far, far away from her younger brother — infamous party boy, Sergeant Johnny MacTavish. However, when she asks you to be her maid of honor in her wedding, you and Johnny end up closer than you ever expected.
Soap x Reader AU
Link to AO3
JUNE
You shouldered your backpack as you waited in the aisle of the train, sleep-deprived and hungry. When Hamish had called you to let you in on his little surprise, your heart had leapt in your chest for your best friend, Brigette MacTavish. She and Hamish had been together for nearly two years, and he had finally worked up the nerve to pop the question.
Brigette thought Hamish was just coming over for a Sunday roast, but you were showing up as the red herring. While she was distracted and fussing over you, Hamish could quietly panic until dinner was served, and you could take the pictures. You were glad to help him, you really were, and the MacTavish cottage was only an hour outside of Glasgow, so you didn’t mind, but your work had been exhausting lately, and your body ached for your own bed.
You hailed a cab on the app and waited in the cool night air for your ride to arrive. It was a cold one, and your Floridian bones weren’t used to it yet, even after five years of graduate school at the University of Glasgow. You were a Shakespeare scholar, and you loved every moment. It was just more demanding than ever, and you could barely meet the deadlines as it was. Now, you had a wedding to help plan, and you were torn between excitement and stress.
A clean Saab pulled into the gravel lot of the train station, and a cheery old man popped his head out,
“Where to, lass?”
The cabbie smelled like coffee and smoke as you climbed inside. You handed him a slip of paper with her house number on it,
“Old Kilpatrick, please. Here’s the address.”
A quick ride and you were dropped off at your destination, eager to see Ham and Pidge. Brigette hated her nickname, but it had stuck to her like glue. Her younger brother, Johnny MacTavish, had given it to her ever since he was a little boy, unable to fully form the proper sounds until it was too late. Pidge caught on like wildfire, and there was no escape.
Johnny was famous for making trouble around these parts. You’d never met the man, but you’d probably slept in his room more often than he had in the past year. When you stayed over with Pidge, you slept in his bed and wore his old, soft Rangers football tees. But, Johnny was a sergeant in the SAS, and he never took leave. When he did have to come home, his sister would complain about him staying in strangers’ beds instead of his own. She’d warned you from the start,
“Don’t look my wee brother in the eye, or he’ll hypnotize you like he does to every lass who comes within six feet of him.”
Pidge called Johnny a playboy, a womanizer, and a lush. She smacked him on the back of his head when he came home with another hickey on his neck, and by the time he went back to his deployment, Brigette said she had to chase the women out of the front garden like stray cats looking for their Tom.
“Promise me you won’t touch Johnny boy without gloves and a hazmat suit.”
You’d always promised you wouldn’t get involved with her brother. It seemed like an easy enough promise to keep with a man who was never home. His photos were few and far between, but it was obvious there wasn’t a girl north or south of Hadrian’s wide wall who would turn him down. Johnny’s boyish grin, his striking blue eyes, and his devilish mohawk made for a terrifying triple threat. Combine that with the body of a Spartan warrior and he was a sure weapon. Lucky for you, you were certain he’d never even look your way.
You knocked on the MacTavishes’ door and waited for her to crack it open for you. When she did, she looked astonished, but she wasted no time in hugging you around the neck and squealing with delight.
“What are you doing here, babe? I thought Hamish was takin’ the piss when he said you were on your way, haverin’ on about settin’ three plates for dinner. Come in! Come in, ya dafty. Give us your bags. Go on. I’ll put ya up in Johnny’s room,” she shooed you into the parlor and yanked the backpack from you, strong as hell for her small size.
You found Hamish in the kitchen, minding the potatoes, testing them with a fork to see if they were done.
“Hammy! Show it to me right this second, or else,” you laughed, whispering as low as you could.
His wide, bright smile was framed by his full, dark brown lips, and his deep skin gleamed. He was glowing like a virgin, and just about as nervous as one.
“Okay, but quick as you can,” he tugged the ring from his pocket and showed it to you.
Hamish’s hands trembled, and you clutched his palm in yours, shaking your head
“It’s beautiful. She’s going to love it.”
He smiled at you with joy and gratitude, but as soon as you heard Pidge coming down the stairs, he pocketed the ring as fast as he could, turning back to the food, nervously stirring potatoes that didn’t need to be stirred.
You poured a generous glass of wine for you and your hosts, making sure Brigette was distracted until dinner was served. You caught up on all the latest gossip. Pidge was the primary source for the juiciest news. As a librarian, people from all over would come to tell her things that they probably shouldn’t have told anyone, ever. And when a new romance novel came out, Pidge had the scoop on just how spicy it was. A five alarm fire on Pidge’s scale was a hard score to achieve, but the books that earned it, really fucking earned it.
“…and apparently, while she was out with Pink Shoes’ mister, the Skateboard Dad was out with Pink Shoes! Can you believe it?”
All of her gossipers had codenames. She was mindful about privacy, but you’d been hearing about these people’s dirty laundry for so long, it felt like you knew them well enough to come around for Christmas dinner.
“Here we are, ladies,” Hamish set down your heaping plate and slowly sat in his chair, looking like he’d seen a ghost between the oven and the fridge. You smiled at him, sending the strongest vibes you could with your smile, praying for him to hold it together.
He didn’t.
“Actually,” the noise of his chair scooting back away from the table was grating and a bit of a shock, but when he paused, it was dead silent. He continued, “Brigette, babe, I just…I want to say that, um, I don’t…uh…”
Pidge looked concerned. Her bright blue eyes gleamed as she gazed at her tall, dark, and handsome boyfriend. She dropped her fork and turned to face him, giving him her full attention. He was a full professor of biology and very rarely was he inarticulate. She checked on him,
“What is it, darling? What’s wrong?”
He shook his head, grabbing her hands in his, bending down on one knee so he could be eye-level with her,
“Brigette. It’s quite obvious to me that I can’t live another moment without you. Please, say you’ll marry me before I come apart like a total idiot.”
“Hamish! What?” She was beaming, but still a little confused and shocked by his proposal.
You were catching the entire moment on your phone, trying to keep your hand from shaking with excitement as you did so, holding in your joy. Hamish pulled the ring from his pocket and Brigette gasped, all of the air left her lungs in a shaky sigh, and she began to sob. It was the most picturesque response, and you couldn’t have been happier for her.
After she had hugged him around the neck a hundred times, gasping and laughing as he told her his secrets and showed her your texts, she threw herself into your arms. Her hair was soft in the way that a girl’s hair was supposed to be, and you wondered if yours would ever feel that way. She smelled like the sun and old books, warm and nostalgic.
“God! I cannae believe you kept this from me! You’ve got the worst poker face. I never thought you’d be able to stand it,” she pinched your arm, gently teasing you.
“I know,” you admitted, “It wasn’t easy. Hamish had to talk me down from the ledge more than once.”
“Well, you’ll be my maid of honor, of course!” She squealed, pausing for a moment, remembering how busy you were, “Right, babe?”
You nodded, already thinking about the sleepless nights and missed deadlines,
“Of course!”
Hamish took your plates after you were done eating, and his warm voice boomed from the kitchen,
“This calls for champagne, right, ladies?”
He received two very loud “yes” shouts in agreement. You drank and talked until it was well past midnight, and with a goodnight hug, you sent the lovebirds to bed.
In your room (his room), you dug through Johnny’s old tee shirt drawer. You loved staying with Pidge, because her brother had the softest tee shirts in the world. Sleeping in them was like a buttery, smooth, transcendent experience and you were glad he wasn’t around to stop you from wearing them. You’d be mortified if he found out, but he was off in some terror-filled Green Zone, and these big, glorious tees were just languishing here unused.
You quickly spotted your favorite. It was a blue Rangers shirt made to look like a jersey with the name McCoist on the back. You clutched it to your chest, inhaling the smell of oranges and clove, mixed with some other human scent you couldn’t quite place. The sheets smelled just like it, too. You kept forgetting to ask Pidge what detergent she used.
The shirts he had in his old dresser were so big on you, you imagined he must have been tall his whole life, and wide. You never wore anything underneath, savoring the sensations of the fabric all over your body and reveling in it. You threw your hair into a high bun and padded back into the kitchen to get a warm cup of sleepytime tea before calling it a night.
You put the kettle on and opened the cabinet to reach for your favorite tea box, stretching up so that the shirt barely skated across the edge of your ass cheeks.
Then, you heard a low wolf whistle. Your heart stopped beating. You turned around as slowly as you could, paralyzed.
There was a man looming in the foyer in black riot gear, hoisting two huge rucksacks over his shoulder, staring right at you. You gasped, wanting to scream but no sound was coming out.
He stepped toward you. His eyes were blue, just like Brigette’s, but he was so very tall. His muscles were huge, bursting from his sleeveless tank and stretching out of his gear vest. Covered in guns and canisters and ammunition of all kinds, he looked absolutely terrifying. On his head, he had a shaggy, grown-out mohawk, laying flat and unstyled. His eyes were blackened with soot. When he glared at you, you thought you might melt to the floor in fear, until he opened his mouth,
“You’re a pretty little thief, you are. Better gimme back my favorite shirt, hen, if you know what’s good for you.”
“Johnny?” You hoped beyond measure that you had matched old photos to this new, dangerously handsome face.
He halted his approach, his features softening immediately, reminding you of the pictures of him you had a habit of studying in the hallway.
“Yeah…who are you, lass?”
You told him your name, and he nodded,
“Ah, Pidge won’t shut up about you. What are you doin’ here a’ this hour? I just got in from my tour. Got a note from Hammie that it was urgent.”
Johnny dropped his bags and came closer to join you in the kitchen. The soft light from the stove cast delicate shadows over his bright eyes and golden skin. He looked like a dream. He reached toward you and you flinched. A low, sarcastic chuckle resonated in his chest,
“Easy. Just keepin’ the kettle from keenin’.”
Studying you like an explorer in a new land, his eyes watched your every move, as if trying to memorize your skin like a map. He moved the steaming pot to a cold burner and you watched as the white hissing clouds died back down. You decided to break the ice, smiling knowingly at him,
“Good to finally meet you, Johnny. I’ve heard…so much about you.”
He took your hand in his and shook it once, dropping it and grabbing his own tea bag from the cabinet, plopping yours and his in their respective cups. It was an easy reach for him, and he grinned,
“It’s all lies. So, what’s the craic? What was so urgent?”
“Hamish proposed,” you said, watching his mouth fall open in shock.
“You’re takin’ the piss.”
“No, it’s true. Look,” you showed him the video.
The way his eyes gleamed, full of emotion, as he watched his sister agree to Hamish’s proposal was breathtaking. Surely this was not the same Johnny famous for accidentally inviting his two flings to the same Christmas dinner. He didn’t seem like the type.
Then, the sergeant leaned in closer to you, situating his enormous shoulder behind yours, getting a closer look at your screen, and you could smell him. That familiar, delicious, earthy citrus made you fall apart. It was nearly edible, and the fact that it emanated from such an attractive man made it that much more intense. No wonder he had women crawling all over him. The thoughts that invaded your mind made you blush.
His smile was back, and you never wanted it to leave,
“Tha’s fuckin’ brilliant. She’s asleep?”
He didn’t wait for your answer. Treading off down the hall, he knocked on Brigette’s door. You couldn’t see them, but you heard her answer it, the wood was creaking and popping from age and weight.
“Johnny boy? Is that you, you fuckin’ numpty!? Brother,” your friend’s voice was muffled as if she was crushed to his wide chest, “I’m getting married.”
“Let’s see it, then, Pidge.”
There was a span of silence, and then you heard him say in a low tone, unaware that his voice was carrying down the hall,
“You put a fit lassie in my shirt as a part of the occasion, or…?”
The sound of a slap on a heavy body reverberated along the wall, then a dark warning,
“You. Will. Not -“
“I dinnae ken what you’re abusin’ me for, Pigeon! I’m a saint!”
“Johnathan Fergus Euan MacTavish, she’s off-limits! You’ll not lay a hand on that girl’s pretty wee head, or I swear on Mother Mary and all the actual fuckin’ saints…”
“No promises, Pidge. If she wasn’t such a smoke show, you might have had a dog in the fight, but a gorgeous wee hen making tea in my kitchen wearing my fuckin’ shirt; it’s enough to make a lad start sinnin’.”
“Start! Tell me when you stopped. Is she out there? Oh, fuckin’ hell, you arsehole.”
You heard footsteps. You spun around and pretended to fuss with the tea.
“Babe! You met Johnny?” Pidge looked red in the face, and Johnny looked redder.
“Yeah, just came home. Showed him the video,” you shrugged.
“Great, this is just great,” Pidge forced a smile onto her face, and you got the sense that this was anything but great.
After not a small amount of insisting, you ended up in his bed and he slept on the sofa. So, when you awoke in the morning to the heavy weight of a body sinking into the mattress, you jolted up, thinking that he’d come to start sinning with you and you’d have to somehow find the inner strength to fight him off. Pidge would kill you both. Based on her reaction last night, you knew it in your bones.
But, he wasn’t even looking at you. He was sitting on the edge, digging in the side table for his phone charger. He tugged on the jumble of wires and acted surprised when you groaned out a quiet,
“G’Morning…”
“Ah, hey, lass. Sorry to wake you. Goin’ down to the shops for coffees. I always -”
“You bring them to Pidge your first morning back, I know. She told me,” you smiled and then smiled wider when he looked overjoyed with your knowledge of his fraternal lore.
“Pidge mentioned that?”
You nodded,
“Yeah, she loves it.”
He looked…healed, somehow, like you’d added space into his heart.
“Well, you’re part of the tradition now, so what’s your order?”
“Really?”
He rolled his eyes, feigning impatience. You laughed and answered him,
“Chai latte, please. Let me give you some money, hang on…”
You started to dig below the bed to find your bag, but he was already walking out the door,
“Back in two shakes, bonnie.”
As the door clicked closed, you lay in the man’s bed, in his room, in his house, in his shirt, and you wondered what exactly you’d gotten yourself into. It had been all fine and proper when he was just a cute face in a picture frame, but now that you could feel his heat and see his eyes looking at you, and hear that warm voice - and gods, his scent…
“Shit,” you said to nobody and everybody at the same time.
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Chapter 02
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cavillscurls · 6 months
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Burlesque | Joel Miller (Part II — round here buzz)
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Pairing: pre-outbreak!Joel Miller x showgirl!reader
Chapter Summary: You run into Joel unexpectedly at a bar in town. Despite your better judgment, you just can't keep your hands off of him.
Chapter Warnings: MDNI. Foul language. Alcohol consumption. Pet names. Dirty talk. Lots of banter & flirting. Sexual tension and scenarios. Exhibitionism, sorta. Heavy petting. Fingering. Unsanitary environment (public bathroom smut, you’ve been warned). Joel is a little menace. No mention of age, race, or body type; Joel does lift reader at one point. Moodboard for aesthetics only.
Word Count: 5.4k
a/n: thank you for everyone who has been so patient awaiting this update! HUGE shout out to @morning-star-joy, @cupofjoel, and @darkroastjoel for their help and letting me scream non stop about these two.
my kofi linked here if you’re interested in supporting my work further!
part I. | series masterlist.
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Monday night. Your night off, and somehow, you still ended up spending it with the same people you saw every other evening of the week.
In a dive bar of all places.
When you asked Bridgette about her questionable choice of venue, she looked at you like you were actually stupid. “The Rangers are playing the Astros, it’ll be crawling with honeys, and I bet’ya plenty of them are single.” She winked at you then, as if this was meant to be the best news you heard all week.
There was no good reason for why you weren’t excited at the prospect of meeting someone. In fact, the only reason you could think of was the most pathetic, idiotic one. Outrageous and unattainable, you could hardly even admit it to yourself. That the last three days had been completely and utterly consumed by the thoughts of your scandalous, wildly unprofessional moment alone with your Friday night stranger.
Not a stranger, a Joel. A dark headed, broad shouldered, chocolate brown eyed, voice dripping like honey, smug son-of-a-bitch, Joel. You knew nothing about this man other than his name and the frighteningly easy way he had reduced you into a puddle on his lap without even putting his hands on you. Large, calloused hands that had gripped so dutifully onto the cushions instead of touching you. The image of what they would look like, feel like on your skin was the only thought your mind could conjure since you left that room. The chances of ever seeing him again, though? Slim to none. You knew that. You were a rational human despite your momentarily laps in judgment.
With that reminder, and perhaps a bit of pride, you thought perhaps Bridgette’s idea of finding someone wasn’t the worst. Just a blip, a momentary instance to numb the loneliness and take your mind off other unrealistic obsessions. You were no stranger to the one night stand.
You thought maybe the reason you hadn’t had a proper fuck in so long was because of how picky you were, because as your eyes slowly casted over the permitter of the bar, you found yourself scrunching up your nose at the disappointing options. Packed to the brim with Texan gentleman, and not a single one caught your eye. You noted the way some of them talked too loud, boisterous and boastful, or how others already had their lecherous gaze set on another girl across the room, whispering what you presumed to be downright filthy words to their friends beside them. Others just looked clueless, or they were far too enamored with the game to care about you or anyone else for that matter. There was, of course, the matter of physical attraction, but you tried to put your vanity aside for the time being.
Taking another healthy sip of your rum and coke, you swiveled your gaze to the other side of the room, analyzing the bar top. It was difficult to make out features amongst the chattering groups smashed side by side to get the best glimpse of the television screens.
Then suddenly, as if the devil himself could hear your thoughts, your eyes came to a halt towards the end of the bar top, practically spitting out your drink. Because you saw him. You actually saw him. Scruffy beard, broad shoulders, and tanned skin. Nursing a bottle of beer to his lips in the same fashion he did in the lounge, smirking cheekily at whatever the man in front of him was speaking about. You blinked rapidly, as if the clearing of your eyes would somehow change the sight before you. There was no fucking way.
“Oh my god,” you muttered, loud enough that it garnered the attention of the women around you.
“What?” Bridgette asked, giving your gawking expression an odd look.
“That’s him,” you whisper-yelled, leaning in partially to block your view of him and giving the girls a chance to hear you without screaming. “That’s fucking him!”
Alice’s eyes flitted around, trying to catch path of where your own were looking so intently. “Who?!” she asked, almost as hurriedly as you.
You opened your mouth to speak only to immediately shut it. You had given the girls some information regarding your previous Friday evening, but not all. Not the guy whose thigh I fucked at the club all. They asked you how the session went, as they always did, and you were unable to stop the wide look in your eyes and the clear guilt on your cheeks. They had huddled around like a pack of dogs, eagerly awaiting the dirty details. You kept it simple, telling them of his suave nature and teasing words. How he openly wondered aloud about your own pleasure working in a place like that, to which they all responded with an obnoxious scream of delight.
You cleared your throat before you spoke, worried the lump growing in it would prevent you from articulating. “Jo— that…that guy. That guy from the club on Friday,” you clarified. As if one cue, their heads whipped around towards the bar. “Oh my god, don’t all look at once!” you screeched, the perpetual anxiety of being seen by him growing by the moment.
There was no guarantee he would even recognize you like this; natural hair, significantly less makeup, casually adored in your ripped blue jeans and sage flannel atop a lace trimmed, black bralette. In fact, you chanted it like a prayer. That the persona away from the club was somehow incognito enough to draw less attention. You found yourself torn between the fear of having to face him and the thrill of him noticing you.
“Holy shit,” Bridgette exclaimed as she turned back in towards the table, jaw hung open in delight. “You didn’t tell us he was a fucking stud. You have to talk to him!” The rest of the bunch squealed in agreement, to which you rapidly began to shake your head.
“Nope. No. Absolutely not.” Your protest was followed by a string of disappointment, muddled chatter that increased your already forming headache. “Can we please just drop it?” you seethed over them, not even bothering to entertain Bridgette’s scoff of disapproval. If it was her, she would jump on the opportunity in an instant. You knew it. But that wasn’t you. You were much better at setting boundaries for yourself, even if they manifested in the way of becoming the ultimate buzzkill.
Alice, ever a saving grace, was quick to jump in, telling the girls to let up and that if you wanted to approach him, that was your call. She swiftly changed the subject while you continued to feverishly sip at your drink. You were not use to feeling this level of unbridled anxiety, the sliver of desire laced into it all the more frustrating.
Nonetheless, it happened. Like goddamn clockwork. You managed another five minutes of uninterrupted peeking, only half focusing on Alice, while the rest of your attention studied his profile. His sturdy build, that deliciously curved nose, the way he would nod along diligently to whatever the man in front of him way saying. But eventually when you looked up, he was no longer looking towards his companion, but out into the open bar. Eyes studying the crowd in a similar fashion your own had done while he sipped carefully on his beer. He seemed unfazed, relaxed.
Until he spotted you.
Your body went rigid, and you thought for a split second that you had gotten away with it when he gazed just passed you, only to snap his attention back. You knew you should’ve looked away, should’ve ended what was bound to be the very eruption you were looking to avoid, but a deeply rooted part of you just couldn’t help yourself. Not when his brows crinkled in subtle confusion, blinking a bit more rapidly, as if he was deciphering the sight of you. Searching the confines of his memory for where he may have known you.
You wouldn’t — no, you couldn’t let it get that far. As quickly as the moment started, it ended with you snapping your gaze back down to your drink, fiddling with the straw to avoid your hands from shaking. You leaned in closer to the circle of girls, hoping to be perceived as smoothing your way back into conversation, not playing stalker eyes across the room.
You waited a good few minutes before you even dared to assess the status of your situation. When you willed your eyes up again, slow and cautious, it seemed karma was on your side. The spot he had been occupying was empty; as if he had never even been there, a ghost, a figment of your lust driven imagination.
He’s gone. He didn’t recognize you.
Repeating that mantra was the only way you could bare to get through the rest of the night.
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Forty-five minutes later, Alice had bid her goodbyes, and before you knew it, you were alone. Well, not alone, but you may as well have been. Somehow, Bridgette and Trixie had sparked up a conversation with the two young men at the table beside you, leaving your panic to be old news. You could leave, but Bridgette was your ride, and you did not feel like dealing with her attitude if you attempted to pull her away from her flirtatious antics.
It was then you noticed how depleted your drink had become, your only saving grace in the nightmare that was this evening. Taking a careful peek around, you assessed the coast to be clear. He disappeared long ago. There’s no way he’s still here. At the very least, nowhere near the bar top.
Carefully, you slipped away from the table as to not draw questions on where you were headed. Luckily, the girls were far too engrossed in their likely painstakingly mundane conversation, and you were able to weave your way to an open space at the bar without so much as a glance from anyone.
You ordered yourself another, leaning against the bars edge and wrapping your fingertips against the smooth counter while the bartender got to work. You had gotten good at this. Remaining hidden in places like this, never wanting to give the men around you any indication that you wanted them to talk to you. You didn’t.
As soon as the bartender returned with your order, a warm body slipped in beside you. You didn’t think much of it, lost in your own world. Until you heard his voice.
“Another beer, please.”
You would recognize that deep drawl anywhere.
Your body stiffened instantly in response, a soft gasp leaving your lips. You kept your eyes drilled forward despite the incessant curiosity telling you to take a peek. Maybe it wasn’t even him? And if it was, maybe he didn’t recognize you? He hadn’t given much indication of it when he saw you earlier. Just pure coincidence he would pick this spot to order. No, you wouldn’t even take the risk. Take the chance. You wouldn’t look, you wouldn’t —
You were so fucking weak.
Slowly cocking your head to the side, you dragged your eyes upward. First came the sight of dark blue jeans held tight by a black belt. Then, the undeniably beautiful way his sung navy t-shirt clung to his firm chest. Until you were brave enough to find his eyes; leaning against the bar by one elbow, the other hand on his hip as he peered down at you.
Fucking Joel.
His lips were pulled into a tight, closed lip grin. Dark eyes seeming to twinkle a bit under the dim light. It was brighter than the club, though, making it easier to mark out the pattern of his masculine features. You must’ve looked pathetic gawking up at him, because a chuckle rumbled through his chest not even seconds later.
He shook his head. “Mhm, thought that was you.”
Fuck. You snapped your eyes back straight ahead, as if ignoring him would make him go away. Don’t engage, don’t engage. But he was persistent, turning this frame to mimic your stance, leaning both forearms against he bar. His shoulder was centimeters away from brushing yours.
“What? Thought I wouldn’t recognize ya, angel?” he questioned, the low drop of his tone accompanied by the nickname setting your skin aflame. Like at the club, when he spoke it, it was unlike the others. He wasn’t giving you a title, he was calling you as such. An angel.
“Was counting on it,” you quipped in response, still looking forward. You wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.
He laughed again. Not the reaction you were hoping for, which only made you more infuriated. You had only been around this man twice, and already you were noticing a pattern of frustration and short fuses. Where exactly that stemmed from, you couldn’t quite pinpoint yet.
“Kinda hard to forget those eyes.”
Those same eyes snapped back to him, finding a smug smirk on his cheeks while heat filled yours. Maybe it was the way he talked, you thought. The cool sort of confidence, genuinely interested in discovering what would make you cave. You felt the same sort of power over him in the club; it was foreign to relinquish it here.
You were saved only momentarily by the bartender sliding Joel his beer, to which he thanked him before returning his attention to you. Clearly, he wasn’t going to let up.
You took in a deep breath, raising your brows at him. “I’m not supposed to engage with customers,” you said plainly, lifting the rim of your glass to your lips.
Joel’s grin only spread, the look of amusement across his face making the lines of his eyes and the soft dimple in his cheek stick out. “Well, I ain’t a customer right now, am I?” he retorted.
He got you there.
Your face must’ve shown your defeat, because Joel was breathing out another snicker before carefully eyeing the space around you. “You here alone?” he asked, furrowing his brows.
It was your turn to laugh, the sort of scoff that suggested awe. “Not a creepy question at all,” you countered sarcastically.
He rolled his eyes. “Just figured you weren’t here for the game on your own, s’all. Friends, boyfriend—?”
“Friends,” you clarified, perhaps a bit too quickly.
He caught this, shifting his weight from one foot to the other as if the amusement was too much to handle internally, it manifested outwardly. When he bit at his bottom lip, you already were preparing yourself for whatever sly remark was coming.
“No boyfriend, huh?” Real smooth. Though certainly not as crass as you expected.
Yeah, I just rode your thigh into next week and then showed up at the bar with my boyfriend days later. It crossed your mind to say, but for once, you bit your tongue.
“Nope,” you said smoothly instead, popping the p and fiddling with your straw absentmindedly. You flashed him a sour grin. “Aren’t usually interested much after they find out what I do.” A sad truth, but the truth nonetheless.
Only then did you notice his expression really change; suave relaxation morphing into what looked like distaste. His nose scrunched, brows hanging low over his eyes.
“Huh. S’damn shame.”
You shrugged. “I guess I understand it.”
“Understand what? That they’re too insecure to watch ya succeed at somethin’ you’re good at?”
Okay, that one really got you.
You looked at him, then. Really looked at him. Despite your best efforts, you couldn’t seem to find a damn thing wrong with him. Except for the way the thought of him alone set your skin on fire, but that wasn’t really his fault, was it? It was just easier to blame someone else other than yourself.
“You’ve just got all the right things to say, don’t you, Joel…?” you trailed, raising your brows in questioning.
His lips quirked up again, clearly satisfied with your wordless inquisition. He tilted a hand up off the bar top for you to shake. “Miller. Joel Miller,” he finished for you.
You took his hand, though with minor reluctance, and much to your surprise he simply…held it. Wrapped those deliciously thick fingers around it, much more delicate than the way he had gripped the seat in the club. His eyes flickered off of your face then, trailing to the place where his thumb ever so gently ran over your knuckles. You studied the connection too for a moment, realizing then that it was the first time, despite your endless thoughts of this man, that he had touched you.
The intimacy of it all, however brief, frightened you. You quickly withdrew your hand from his palm, covering up the rigidity of your movements by reaching for your drink again.
“So?” he suddenly spoke, still eyeing you carefully.
You raised a brow. “So…what?”
His smirk was back. “So, you gon’tell me your name? Or should I just keep callin’ you angel?” he asked, his countenance an indication that he probably wouldn’t mind. The sickly sweet way he spoke the title having a visible effect on you that you were certain he noticed.
You took a deep breath, toying your bottom lip between your teeth. The longer you stood there, the more sips you took, the easier it was to relax into his presence. He didn’t off put you, and that in itself was the problem. He intrigued you, enticed you, and you knew how dangerous that game was to play. A history of attachments you were looking to avoid falling into again whispering at the back of your mind.
But one more slip couldn’t hurt, could it?
Bridgette would be proud of you.
He was patient, and you noticed it, only fueling your interest in him. Tentatively, you offered him your name, and his lips curled into a proper smile. He nodded to himself, glancing off towards the liquor lining the walls in front of you as he tested it out in his own voice. Hearing it made your stomach flutter, and when he dragged his eyes back to your face, you noted something you hadn’t picked up on before. You couldn’t quite pinpoint it; fascination, adoration, perhaps pure, mutual lust. But whatever it was, coupled with the way your name sounded drawling off his lips, something inside of you snapped. You couldn’t take it anymore.
You groaned to yourself, pushing your drink away in front of you and standing upright.
“Goddamnit,” you muttered under your breath. This was surely to be your downfall. “You—just, fuck, come here.”
“What are ya? — oh, okay then—“ he didn’t have much time to protest before you were grabbing at one of his wrists, yanking him away form the bar top in a fit of crazed rage and arousal. He didn’t hesitate, following in your strut through the crowded bar and weaving carefully towards the back corridor.
You were hot. Scalding. The suffocating crowds only heightening your predicament. But voices began to dim the further you pulled him down the hall, two single restrooms on either side. Without much thought, you pulled him into one, letting him stumble in first before slamming the door shut behind you. When you faced him, wide eyed and heavy breaths, he was looking at you with a clear display of shock.
“You, you are so—you’re so frustrating!” you bellowed, throwing your hands up reflexively.
Joel blinked at you, as if he was trying to process what had just happened. You couldn’t even really decipher it yourself. “I’m frustrating?” he asked, pointing to his chest.
“Yes!” you continued, now running your hands back over your head to clear some of the sweat from your brow. Hot, so fucking hot. “At the club, and then just… just showing up here and talking to me. Making me think about what I did all fucking weekend—”
“Oh,” he suddenly cut you off. Now when you looked at him, shock morphed into amusement. He licked his lips slowly, folding this arms over that broad chest, the reflection of his shoulders in the mirror behind him just as inviting. “So, you were thinkin’ about me?” he questioned, pompous as ever.
You rolled your eyes. “Trying not to.”
“And lockin’ me in’a bathroom is helpin’ with that how?”
You didn’t have anything to say to that. In fact, you hadn’t even thought this far ahead. What were you thinking? Joel must have known, because his raised brows were lowering, features growing softer but eyes darker. You didn’t even notice the way your limbs trembled until he was raking his gaze over your entirety. The same admiration he had for your body at the club translating into the tiny bathroom.
Then, he was moving. Taking slow, calculated steps towards you. You took your own backwards, gasping when your back hit the door. You craned your neck back to look up at him towering over you now, hands clenched into fists at your sides, digging your nails into your skin for some sort of relief of the torment that plagued you.
He studied you, and you him in return. He was so close you could smell him; whiskey and manly musk, inundating every bit of you. Then, it happened. Slow and barely even there, he lifted one of his hands, running the back of his knuckles along one of your arms. Goosebumps prickled your skin, and you heard your breath catch in your throat.
“If you want somethin’ from me, darlin’….” he started, the rough drop of his voice only increasing the ache between your thighs. “All you gotta do is ask.”
Right before your very eyes stood the beautiful picture that haunted your dreams for days, your self control hanging by a thread, dwindling every moment he spent looking at you. God, you knew his eyes so well by now. But you wanted more, needed more, needed him to—
“Touch me.”
He didn’t hesitate. His hands were at your waist, engulfing you in the size of them, flushing you against his warm chest. You clambered after him, desperate hands seeking refuge at the nape of his neck when his eager lips found yours.
The kiss was manic, sloppy, but inexplicably deep; hands running over the expanse of your back, your shoulders, your hair, until they eventually sunk down to your ass, kneading the flesh firmly in his palms. You moaned into his mouth, his skillful tongue catching every sound. And when his hands dropped lower, finding the tops of your thighs and squeezing, you heeded his indication. With a careful push off your feet, he lifted you by the bottom, thighs wrapping snug around his waist, pinning your back against the door with a thud.
You wrapped yourself around him entirely, trying to take a moment from your chaotic lust to enjoy the feeling of his hands on you; warm, steady, and oddly secure. It was only when you gave a sharp tug to his curls that Joel broke from your lips, both of you struggling to find your breath. He didn’t waste much time in knocking the wind from you again, though, latching his mouth onto your jaw, your neck. Your head fell back against the door, thighs clenching impossibly harder around his hips as he graced your skin with his lips, a sharp inhale coming when he dug his teeth into the spot below your ear, sucking generously.
A deep groan reverberated in his chest to your response to him; latching your ankles around his back and pulling him further forward, close enough that you could feel the evident outline of his cock through your jeans. The fog he had clouded you with at the club had returned, every fiber of your being set alight.
“Joel,” you sighed, giving the strands of hair at the base of his neck another pull. Just saying his name aloud, not buried in the confines of your memory, had you whimpering. More, you needed more.
He grunted in response, peeling you from the door and doing a one eighty to prop you up against the sink. You leaned one hand behind you to brace yourself on the edge of the counter, the other still firmly planted in his hair. He was buried in the crook of your neck, nipping at skin and bound to leave bruises. For some reason, the thought of him marking you posed no aversion.
“Don’t worry, darlin’,” he rasped, finding your lips again. “M’gonna take care of ya.”
You remembered his words from the club, then:
“You’re good at pleasin’, aren’t ya, angel? Like takin’ care of people?”
You hated how quickly he had read you.
“When’s the last time someone took care of you, huh?”
But he was so right, felt so right, and you couldn’t pass up the opportunity to have your needs met for once. To have someone bring you pleasure, for once. And he seemed so fucking willing.
He made good on his promise, a steady hand coming down between your bodies to fiddle with the buttons on your jeans.
“This alright?” he murmured hurriedly between hot kisses, popping the buttons much too slowly for your liking. Any other time, you would’ve been grateful for the check-in. But today, you were far too gone from sanity to acknowledge it.
You groaned, squeezing your thighs tighter around his hips. “Fuck, yes. Just do it,” you gritted, unable to care how needy or insistent you sounded.
This had Joel chuckling, low and delicious, and he pulled back from your lips only far enough to raise a badgering brow up at you. “Eager now, aren’t ya darlin’?” But before you had a chance to quip back, he had your zipper pulled down, sinking his fingers into the front of your jeans.
Your hips bucked off the sink in response to his warm palm cupping your mound through your cotton panties, followed by a breathy sigh of relief. The buzzing you had felt all through your veins dimmed to throb, hyper focused at your core that was undoubtedly dripping through your underwear.
Joel hummed. “Fuckin’ soaked already,” he grumbled against your cheek, confirming your suspicions.
You couldn’t help it if the torment of this man manifested in physical evidence; and you couldn’t bring yourself to care that he discovered it. His hands were on your burning skin, soothing the fire with their touch. You had gotten what you wanted. That was enough to ease fraying nerves for a little while.
He didn’t keep you waiting much longer. The pads of his fingertips toyed with the band of your panties before slipping inside. This time, when his hand made contact with your bare heat, your body jolted forward, chest brushing up against his own. You brought your arm fully around his neck, holding yourself steady and keeping him close. He worked in a fashion that reminded you there was no telling how much time you had, the impending chance of a knock at the door growing more likely by the second. You didn’t care. You couldn’t care.
Not when he was sinking the satisfying stretch of two digits into your cunt, curling his knuckles upward, and flexing his forearm in calculated thrusts. You hissed through your teeth, bringing your sweat clad forehead against his, eyes squeezed shut and lips parted in quick breaths. He needed no guidance to find the sensitive spot inside of you, something about the way he curved his fingers within your walls telling you it was a seasoned motion.
It made him terribly sexier.
The attention may have been on you, but Joel was breathing just as heavy. His hot breath hit your face with every thrust, and your hips began to buck off the sink to meet him each time. You were gasping when the heel of his palm began to brush against your aching clit, nails digging crescents into his shoulder.
“Mm, right there,” you whimpered, hardly recognizing the winded, needy thrum of your own voice. You couldn’t remember the last time you directed a man in your pleasure. And you certainly couldn’t remember the last time one listened. “Fuck, right there. Don’t stop.”
He didn’t. Instead, he kept the same, constant pace in the exact, perfect spot that sent a coil tightening all the way from the pit of your stomach through the course of your thighs. The graze of his teeth returning to your jugular sent you rearing towards the edge, and when he sunk them tenderly into the flesh, you went hurdling over.
“Joel—!” you yelped as you began to clench around his digits, slick coating your thighs. You tightened your legs around his hips, fearing you’d fall right off the sink.
His free hand found the base of your back, keeping you steady. “S’alright, angel. Go ahead. Cum for me,” he purred, coaxing you forward with his encouraging words.
You gave way to them, throwing your head back with a prolonged, high-pitched moan as the wave of euphoria crashed over you. You were grateful for the music in the near distance, likely to drown out your cries. But if anyone was outside the door, there was no hiding what was ensuing behind it. You still didn’t care.
Joel was peppering kisses along your neck the entirety of your release, the coarseness of the patchy hair on his jawline heightening the sensitivity on your skin. He worked his fingers into you despite the push back of your release, making sure to bleed every last bit of satisfaction out of you.
When he finally pulled his fingers from you, the sound was obscene. You watched in a daze as he lifted them to his own lips, meeting your eyes while he sucked them clean. A feeble whimper escaped you at the lewd display, living in the lull of post orgasm stupor, encapsulated by his dark eyes. The way they watched you, admired you.
Then, he was pushing his torso between your thighs again, not bothering to shield his clear erection from brushing up against your thigh. This was it. The feeling you had craved for months. And you had it readily at your fingertips; you could take it further, and you knew he would comply.
But then, his hands were coming up to cup your cheeks. Those same, intent eyes taking a full once over of you before he was leaning in to capture your lips again. But before he could get close enough, your palms found his chest instinctively, stopping him. Like the snap of your fingers, the haze cleared. Reality set in. You took it in, where you were, what you did, who you did it with. This wasn’t any one night slip — this was a repeat. A repeat of someone who already had you crossing all your boundaries. Suddenly, the bliss of your orgasm was replaced by the severity of your mistake. The intimacy of his closeness too much to bare.
You quite literally pushed him away from you, hobbling off the sinks edge and frantically pulling your underwear and jeans back to their rightful places.
“Hey, what…what are ya—?” You couldn’t see the confusion on his face, too hellbent on getting yourself straightened out, but you could hear it in his voice.
“Move,” you breathed, shoving passed him while you frantically worked to push the hair out of your face.
Joel turned on his heels to stalk after you, reaching for your hand as soon as your other met the door handle, speaking your name again in that fucking drawl of his. “Hey,” he said again, gripping at your wrist. “What just happened? I—”
“Don’t!” you barked, startling him slightly when you spun back around and yanked your hand out of his. His brows furrowed tight over his eyes, and the blown lust that once overtook them melted into inquisition, worry. “Just, just— I need to — don’t, okay?”
You couldn’t find the words, could barely find your own thoughts. All you knew was that you needed to get out of there, and you needed to do so now. So you did, turning back towards the door, and making a beeline back to the bar without looking back. You didn’t even bother to see if Bridgette and Trixie were still around, not having the mental capacity to face them or explain your clearly flustered state.
You entered the evening air looking for a taxi, fleeing the building with the echo of Joel Miller calling your name and the reminisce of his hand between your legs. It was a sound that would permeate your dreams for nights to come, all the while knowing you weren’t brave enough to give into the temptation.
At least, not yet.
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tag list: I am no longer doing tag lists! please follow @cavillscurlsupdates and select “get notifications” to be notified when i update!
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corrodedbisexual · 2 months
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Love, Drift & Monsters
A Stranger Things / Pacific Rim fusion
Steddie | E | ~40k | AO3 link
Ranger Steven Harrington, a novice Jaeger pilot at the PPDC base in LA, has yet to be paired up with a co-pilot. Ranger Edward Munson, just recently transferred, has already seen his fair share of combat at the other side of the Pacific. Despite starting off on the wrong foot, Eddie and Steve turn out to be Drift compatible. With the memory of recently losing his previous co-pilot and best friend still fresh in his mind, Eddie is far from the easiest person to establish a stable Drift with. However, Steve is determined to make it work, remaining patient and helpful with overcoming Eddie’s earlier trauma. Day after day, mission after mission, one shared memory after another, they grow closer, eventually developing feelings for each other that are becoming impossible to deny, or hide from one another; for in the Drift, there is no space for secrets. Meanwhile, just a few floors below, in the restricted area of the base, a plan is being conceived. One that involves a young girl who can do the impossible, and might just be the only hope for humanity's salvation…
Written for Steddie Bang 2023 | Updates every Wednesday & Saturday
Artist: @mcdadarts | Art link
Betas: @lihhelsing, @badcaseofcasey
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Can't believe it's actually done. This is the biggest project I've ever undertaken, and it's been hard and stressful as hell, but I'm so proud I can finally present the AU that had been plaguing my mind way before the Bang sign-ups started.
Huge shoutout to @mcdadarts for the absolutely gorgeous art for the fic (please reblog it!!!), and to @lihhelsing and @badcaseofcasey for all the hard beta work. The biggest hug ever and eternal thanks to all three of you, my lovely Team Mew, for all the brainstorming help, endless support and encouragement, tolerating my multiple motivation pits and writer's blocks, and all the fun and laughs we had along the way. I couldn't have done it without you guys. ♥️💜💙
Forehead kisses as well to my lovely friend @sidekick-hero for listening to my whining, providing the moral support and cheering me on. 😘
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Hemmy's Recommendation List - Frankie ‘Catfish’ Morales
Frankie 'Catfish' Morales
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Hi! I am Hemmy and live in a delusional world where I am the female companion to Frankie Morales, Joel Miller and Javier Peña. The amazing banner by the incredible @proxima-writes @pr0ximamidnight; mid-banners and dividers by @cafekitsune
This is my first-ever recommendation list and I am trying to figure out the best format.
These are fics that I have read and enjoyed. I am sure there are many more out there that I have yet to discover. If you have any suggestions, please comment so we can all add them to our 'to be read' lists.
Link to Masterlist
Self-plug: if you need a beta reader or want help with Spanish for the ones who write Javi P and Frankie, hit me up!
Disclaimer:
These creators are putting out content for free and do not have to cater to your personal preferences or expectations of how this or that character should be written.
If a creator has not explicitly asked for feedback on their work, keep your opinion to yourself. If they have asked for feedback, mind your manners.
You are not forced to read through it. Feel free to abandon a series or one-shot halfway through if it is not working for you.
Heed warnings and tags, if you don't like soft!Javi, don't read anything with that tag. It is THAT simple. Apply that logic to everything else that is not to your taste.
Warnings and tags on each fic. Read at your discretion. You are responsible for the content you choose to consume.
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Frankie 'Catfish' Morales
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GIF by uuuhshiny
Series
A Fond Farewell  @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin Amaryllis  @gracie7209 Because Of You  @kteague Delta Palms Tropical Resort  @linzels-blog Fix You  @astoryisaloveaffair Forest Ranger  @the-ginger-hedge-witch Grays I & II  @fuckyeahdindjarin I like the way you   @undercoverpena-fics Just a Number  @linzels-blog King Of Your Heart  @ruinedbylanadelrey My tears and my beers and my candles  @proxima-writes Shadow Of The Past  @lotrefcp Something Else  @pedrostylez Table For Two  @hellishjoel Take Your Time  @romanarose The Layover  @goodwithcheese The Melting Point  @penvisions The Road Ahead  @bellofthemeadow Third Time Is A Charm  @jwritesfanfics Those Ocean Eyes  @iamdesibell Worlds Get In the Way  @jokersfangirl84
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One Shots
Always Here For You  @jwritesfanfics Burning Hearts  @wordywarriorwrites Bush Pilot  @legendary-pink-dot Cherry Flavoured  @pedrostylez Easy Like Breathing  @louswrld11 Focus  @pedrostylez Frankie's Way  @morallyinept Friends Don't Do This  @forever-rogue Gold Band  @moralesispunk Home From The Bar  @pedrostylez Not A Day Too Soon  @criticallyacclaimedstranger Over When It's Over  @gnpwdrnwhiskey Partner In Crime  @romanarose Seven Minutes In Heaven  @tieronecrush The Day 3 Words Are Said  @undercoverpena-fics The Day Frankie Meets You  @undercoverpena-fics Touch Me Like You Never, Push Me Like You Never  @quinnnfabrgay-writes Working Hard  @pedrostylez
Link to Masterlist
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trulybetty · 7 months
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Stood Up | Frankie Morales x f!Reader
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Pairing: Frankie Morales x F!Reader (no use of Y/N) Word Count: 1,668 Warnings: being stood up, torrential rain (always bring an umbrella), mentions of alcohol, a difference of opinions on Top Gun and some could call this fluff Summary: Stood up for a date that left you in the pouring rain, you seek refuge in a sports bar and before you can change your mind the man next to you strikes up a conversation AO3: Linked
A/N: so, I was supposed to be working on Bookstore Frankie as per the WIP poll the other day and technically (in my head at least) this is Bookstore Frankie, we're just meeting him a long time before he becomes Bookstore Frankie lol.
Also, consider this is my entry for @pedrostories’ celebration, enjoy! xx
Stood Up
The Seattle rain was relentless. It wasn’t even supposed to rain that day, the forecast ironically calling for sun and highs of warm heat, which had meant you’d left the house in a maxi dress and your flimsy denim jacket. So that meant no umbrella and certainly no practical footwear for the torrential downpour you found yourself in for the date you’d left the house over an hour ago for.
You'd been stood up, and now, thanks to All-Star Week, cabs were impossible to find.
You checked your phone once more, Uber was a wait of over an hour, said date had left you on read and Cat, your friend with a text. One that promised as soon as she could get out of dinner with her husband and his parents, would come and get you with a bottle of wine to commiserate the evening over at your place.
The door to the dimly lit bar slammed shut behind you, cutting off the relentless sound of rain pounding the pavement. You were soaked to the bone, rain dripping off your hair to your face, and in a less-than-stellar mood. 
As you settled into a barstool and ordered a stiff drink, you tried to shake off the frustration. The bartender served you with an understanding smile and you were just beginning to relax when a voice from the end of the bar cut through the chatter of the bar.
“How would you like to ride home on a real cowboy?”
You looked up, and some guy in a ten-gallon hat made eye contact with you with a flourish of said hat and a wink. Based on the accent and the Texas Rangers shirt he was certainly from out of town.
Your eyes rolled at the cheesy attempt, dismissing it with a casual brush-off. The downpour seemed to amplify the irritation simmering within you. Tonight was not the night for clichéd pick-up lines, especially from individuals who seemed to believe they had some inherent right to your attention.
As you took a sip of your drink, you exhaled and began to second-guess coming into the bar. You prayed for Cat to show up soon and get you out of there. Looking through the window, you thought about downing your drink and fleeing for somewhere else less crowded. You were already drenched; what more could the rain do?
But before you could think on it any further from the other side of you, a deep laugh resonated, and you glanced over to find a guy wearing a ball cap labelled 'Standard Oil', a beer resting in his hand, his eyes crinkled as he smiled.
“Can't believe that line didn't work. What's this world coming to?” he joked, raising his glass in a mock salute.
Despite your mood, a reluctant smile tugged at your lips, “A horse did me wrong once, a cowboy and I would be destined for heartbreak from the get-go,” you replied, playing along.
“How about a pilot?”
You raised an eyebrow, you hadn't missed the aviation logo on the shoulder of his shirt, “I feel like I’m being set up for a Village People joke here,” you eyed him wearily, “how often does that line work for you?”
He laughed into this glass as he took another sip, “A lot less than you think.”
You took another sip of your drink, “What a surprise.”
“Frankie,” he said, extending his hand.
You took it, his grip firm and warm and gave him your name.
He gestured to your soaked clothes, “Rough night?”
“You could say that,” you admitted.
Despite your initial want to just drown your sorrows and maybe scroll through Instagram while you waited for Cat, you found yourself in conversation with Frankie. Turned out he was actually a pilot, a little elusive on the details of what exactly he did in the military, but a pilot nonetheless. That and he was currently stationed temporarily out of McChord Field, in Pierce County. He was up in Seattle for the weekend to meet up with some friends coming in from their own deployments.
Frankie's face turned playfully serious, his eyes widening as he said, “You're breaking my fucking heart, baby.”
You laughed, leaning back in your chair. “Oh, come on! You’ve got to agree with me?!”
He grinned, shaking his head. “I never thought I'd meet someone so smart and yet so wrong at the same time.”
You playfully swatted his arm. “I could say the same about you.”
Frankie's eyebrows shot up in genuine disbelief, and his lips curved into a playful half-smile as if he couldn't believe what he was hearing. “Not like 'Top Gun'? That's almost sacrilege in my line of work!” His eyes sparkled with amusement, revealing his lighthearted take on the situation. 
When he’d mentioned he worked in aviation within the military, you’d jokingly asked if it was all like Top Gun and if he was a Maverick. Frankie had laughed at the question as he’d flagged down the bartender for another drink for you both. That had been before you’d voiced your true feelings on the 1986 cult classic.
You shrugged, sipping your drink. “I don't know, maybe it's the cheesy one-liners, or perhaps I just don't get the appeal of fighter jets.”
He gasped dramatically, clutching at his chest. “The appeal of fighter jets? Oh, you're really twisting the knife now.”
You giggled at his antics. The more you talked to him, the more you liked him. He didn't take himself too seriously. It was refreshing, especially considering your recent string of bad luck in the dating department.
“I'm sorry, I just don't get it,” you admitted, shaking your head.
Frankie's eyes softened, and he reached over to gently touch your arm. “It's okay. We can't all have perfect taste.”
“You think your taste is perfect?” you teased, enjoying the banter that had been flowing between you two all evening.
“In some things,” he winked, making your cheeks heat furiously.
When your phone buzzed with a message from Cat, signalling that she was outside, you found yourself a little reluctant to leave. It was strange, feeling a connection with a stranger on a night that had started with disappointment, and a part of you wanted to hold onto that feeling a bit longer. Frankie seemed to feel the same way, his eyes lingering on you as you gathered your things.
“Well Frankie, thank you for being a bright light in what was almost a terrible evening.”
“Pleasure is all mine,” he replied, his voice warm.
The two of you paused for a moment, the atmosphere suddenly more serious. He'd already mentioned that he was stationed temporarily and had hinted at an upcoming deployment. And though the good company and the buzz from the drinks had lightened your mood, you were still reeling from being stood up by the man you'd really thought you'd had a chance with.
You waved goodbye to Frankie and headed outside, the rain still falling heavily. As you approached Cat's car, thoughts of Frankie lingered in your mind, leaving you with a strange mixture of excitement and melancholy.
You were just about to open the door to the passenger side of Cat’s car when the noise from inside the bar broke through over the sound of the rain. Turning around Frankie was coming out of the door, you watched him look around before his eyes settled on you with a smile.
Throwing up the umbrella he had in his hands he dashed the short distance over to you, “Look,” he shouted to be heard over the traffic and the storm that was now brewing, “I thought maybe,” he paused looking a little at war with himself before he spoke again, “we could do this again? Maybe without the rain and the cowboy.” he joked and you couldn’t help but laugh.
“Sure, I’d like that.”
He pulled his hand out of his pocket and pressed a napkin into your hand. Under the cover of his umbrella, you opened it to see his name scrawled with his phone number and you shot him a smile.
“Call me?” Frankie asked, his voice suddenly softer, more intimate despite the storm raging around you.
“I will,” you assured him, tucking the napkin safely into your pocket.
With a final smile and a lingering look, Frankie dashed back towards the bar, and you climbed into Cat's car, your heart still pounding in your chest.
Cat, ever the observant friend, was already eyeing you with curiosity. “Okay, spill. Who was that guy? And why are you smiling like you've just won the lottery?”
You looked over at her, your grin widening. “That is Frankie. We just spent the last few hours talking in the bar.”
“Frankie?” Cat's eyebrows shot up. “Also, you stayed in that bar with a stranger for hours? That doesn't sound like you.”
And it really wasn’t, even going out for the date that eventually stood you up had been a push outside your comfort level.
Cat narrowed her eyes. “You sure you're not being catfished by this guy?”
You rolled your eyes, a laugh escaping your lips. “Cat, that means online, not in person.”
“Same thing,” Cat retorted, not missing a beat as she started the car. “You never know these days.”
“Anyway, he's only here for a temporary assignment between deployments. Not like anything really is going to happen.”
Cat glanced at you, her expression softening. “It's okay to have fun here and there, you know. Doesn't have to be serious all the time.”
You sighed, leaning against the window. “I know. It's just… different.”
“Different is good,” Cat said, her voice softening as she pulled away from the curb, knowing all too well your past relationship history. “Different can be very good.”
You looked at her, realizing how much you appreciated her support, even with her teasing. “Yeah, maybe.”
Cat's smile widened as she focused on the road. “Of course I'm right. Now tell me everything about this Frankie guy.”
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wkndwlff · 11 months
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For The Love of the Game
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I saw this and knew I had to write something!
Pairing: Bradley Bradshaw x Female reader
Summary: Father’s Day didn’t exactly turn out how Bradley had planned, but he didn’t mind in the slightest.
Warnings: Swearing, fluff, typos, 18+ blog
WC: 2570
Thanks to @sylviebell as always for pushing me to write what I feel even if I have so many neglected WIPS.
A/N: I highly recommend watching the linked video before reading!
Bradley’s palms were sweaty as he scanned the crowd walking into the stadium. Men with their kids seemed to be flocking to the game. Bradley swallowed thickly. Of course, the one Pirates game he could make it to was on Father’s Day. He closed his eyes, taking in a deep breath. The stadium was buzzing with Padres fans around him. A chill ran through him despite the warm June breeze. Nick Bradshaw had to be with him somehow in Petco Park. A smile quirked on his lips at the thought.
“Hey pal, nice shirt,” someone squawked in his ear.
His eyes fluttered open behind his aviators to see a man holding onto a small boy’s hand, both in Padres jerseys. He smiled coolly before turning around to find Hangman. His stomach rolled as walked towards the bench the blonde aviator was pacing by. What he would give to be standing here with his dad. He’s like to think they would both be in Roberto Clemente jerseys making up the minority in the sea of San Diego fans.
“I gotta go,” Hangman breathed into his phone. “Happy Father’s Day, Pop.”
“Is that a Texas Ranger’s jersey?” Bradley asked aloud as he got closer.
“Is that jersey even big enough for you?” Hangman jeered, pulling him into a tight hug.
Bradley grimaced; it was his father’s jersey. According to his mom and his uncles, his dad was a die-hard Pirates fan from the time he was old enough to walk. It was something that never wavered as he moved away from the Steel city. It was something that rubbed off on Carole. No matter how dismally the Pirates were doing, she made sure to take her son to at least one game each year, reminding him each time who his dad’s favorite team was. Those games led him to ultimately play baseball until he left for UVA.
“Thanks for coming, Bagman,” he sighed, forcing a smile.
“Thank you for all the beers you’re about to buy me, Bradshaw,” he teased, smug grin on his face.
Bradley rolled his eyes. They were actually on Mav. His godfather was supposed to join him for the game, but Amelia surprised them both, insisting on spending the day with him for Father’s Day. Hangman was a last resort. He’d literally gone down the list of everyone in the squad, but to his disappointment, Jake was the only one free.
“Ready to go see your team lose?” Hangman asked, gently elbowing him as they neared the gate.
“Every time,” he said with a wink. It was going to be a long nine innings.
~
Bradley took a sip out of one of his beers, letting the crisp flavor wash over him. For a brief second, he let himself daydream. His dad was waiting for him in their section. He was about to watch the Pirates most likely lose with his old man, sipping a few beers in the San Diego sun.
“Did we pass a nacho stand?” Hangman asked, immediately deflating his fantasy.
Bradley groaned, clenching his teeth. “How are you going to carry nachos with a beer in each hand?” he practically growled. He was quickly learning that Hangman was that kid growing up that would rather miss the show than miss out on snacks.
“They have those little tables every so many sections.” The blonde shrugged, taking a sip of beer. “Figured we could eat at one of those.”
“I was hoping to head back to the seats, man,” he said as calmly as he could. “The game already started.”
“If we get the nachos, I will get all our drinks so you can watch the game without interruptions,” Hangman countered with a smirk.
A heavy sigh left his lips. If his dad was there in spirit, he had to be laughing pretty hard. The day had slowly started unravelling from the second he saw Hangman. Anger flared through him as he nodded gently. Maybe he would’ve been better off going alone.
“So, where are our seats for Goose Bradshaw’s yearly game?” Hangman asked as they got closer to the nachos.
Bradley’s racing thoughts came to a screeching halt. He hadn’t said a word about why they were seeing the Pirates. His brow scrunched as he stopped, looking at his friend for an explanation.
“Phoenix told me,” Hangman said gently. “Threatened me to make sure you had a good time.” He paused, eyeing his beer. “I guess I already started throwing that off.”
Bradley was confused by the soft smile that had found Seresin’s lips. He’d maybe seen it once when Jake first met Penny’s new cook. The only woman that seemingly had the cocky pilot hesitating, fumbling over himself. Did he actually care?
“We’re in the ou—”
“The game already started,” a shrill voice cut him off.
Bradley looked up too late. A boy no older than ten was zooming past him as someone ran completely into him. The beer in his left hand flipped, drenching the ancient Clemente jersey. He took a step back, looking down at his drenched shirt, hating how it was already clinging to him.
“I am so sorry,” a sweet voice gasped.
“It’s alright,” he said begrudgingly, looking back up. He gulped thickly taking you in. His mouth was suddenly dry like he hadn’t had water in days. His pulse was pounding in his ears. You were beautiful. You had on a McCutchen jersey and a Pirates cap.
“Can I buy you another beer?” you asked with a weak smile.
His breath hitched at the sight. He had never seen anyone as beautiful as you and now you were offering to buy him a beer? His brain was malfunctioning like the dash on his jet.
“We Buccos have to look out for each other, right?” you added with a wink.
Heat was rushing to his cheeks. He opened his mouth, but no words would come out. Your brow scrunched as he shifted on his feet, desperately trying to find his voice.
“You should probably go catch whoever that was,” Hangman spoke up after another awkward moment passed.
“Oh shit,” you gasped. You looked up at him, apologetic smile on your lips. “Sorry again, Clemente.”
He turned, watching as you disappeared into the crowd, his heart breaking with every added step between you. He looked down at his empty cup with a heavy sigh. Why couldn’t his brain just work?
“What the fuck, man?” he groaned, looking at Hangman.
“I couldn’t watch you struggle anymore.” He was extending his second beer. A peace offering? “And that kid couldn’t have been more than ten…probably would’ve gotten lost easily.”
Bradley knew he was right. It killed him that he was right. But now he’d probably never find you again. Could never see your smile again. He grabbed the beer, taking a long drag.
“Let’s go find those nachos,” he sighed in defeat.
~
It was the bottom of the seventh and Bradley was certain that the Pirates would lose. Not surprising whatsoever. He drummed his fingers on the armrest of his seat as he gently gnawed his lip. He could’ve cared less about how the Buccos were doing. What was consuming him was the thought of your smile. Were you upset at your team? Did you expect them to lose?
For some reason, he had convinced himself that he’d run into you after they got nachos. You’d be standing by his section, waiting to buy him another beer. But you weren’t there. The only one that greeted him was the usher, telling him the best way to get to the seats.
“I might go get one more beer after this inning,” Hangman said, drawing his gaze. “Want one?”
“One more wouldn’t hurt,” he agreed with a shrug. He was about to suggest leaving early, but one more beer would hit the spot. He was actually having a nice time with Hangman. He just had to get over the fact that Jake sent you away before he even had a chance to say anything to you.
“Oh shit,” Jake gasped. “I think that’s gonna make it to our section.”
Bradley’s eyes shot up to see a baseball hurtling towards them. A small smile painted his lips as adrenaline coursed through him. It had been his dream to catch a ball at a game. When he was little, he convinced himself that if he caught a ball, it was a sign that his dad was truly there. Maybe after all this time, it was the sign he needed.
He felt a tingle in his hands as he watched the ball. Like most of the people in his section, he was on his feet, poised to catch the home run. But as the ball got closer, he realized it was too high. His heart dropped as he watched the ball fly over his head, his dreams dashed yet again. Disappointment cashed down on him in waves as he heard cheering from behind him.
He turned, hoping that a kid at least got it. But then he froze; it was you. You were handing the ball off to the boy that ran past him right before you spilled his beer. His heart was pounding in his chest. Maybe it was a sign that his dad was there. Maybe all the times he didn’t catch a ball were leading him to this moment.
“No way,” Jake chuckled from beside him. He must’ve spotted you too. “Are you gonna go say something man?”
“How?” he huffed taking in where you were. There was no way he could get to you without causing a scene. You were tucked in the middle of your row, not an empty seat in sight.
“Hey, Romeo,” the man behind him huffed. “Sit down.”
Bradley smiled apologetically as he plopped back into the seat. He could wait for you at the end of the game by the stairs. There were a lot of things that could go wrong with that plan though. The light feeling in his chest was dissipating, his stomach knotting instead. You were so close, but so far away.
“Gonna go talk to her?” Jake asked again as the teams swapped places.
“I’m open to suggestions on how, Hangman,” he sighed. He buried his face in his palms. This was how it always went. He got close to something he was interested in, and then it was suddenly out of reach.
“Too bad you couldn’t just text her,” Jake scoffed as he took in the crowd behind them.
Bradley groaned. That was a novel idea, but he didn’t have your number. He couldn’t slip in beside you either. He pulled out his phone, closing his eyes once more. “Talk to me dad,” he muttered under his breath. His brow scrunched as he thought hard about how to make it work. He couldn’t just text you and he sure as hell couldn’t just walk up to you.
His eyes flew open. “Seresin, you’re a genius,” he praised.
“Not that I don’t agree,” Jake added with a hesitant smile, “but I am?”
Bradley just hummed, opening his phone to the notes app. He couldn’t squeeze into your row, but his phone surely could. He typed furiously, stealing glances in your direction over his shoulder. You ran off before I could take you up on your offer. I would love it if you bought me another beer, McCutchen. Maybe it could be after the game though? -Clemente
Bradley turned to the man that yelled at him to sit. His stomach rolled as the man’s hard expression found him. “Would you pass this up to the girl who caught the ball?” He asked the man bluntly. His plan could fall apart if he said no.
“The one in the Pirates jersey?” The woman next to him clarified.
“Yes, ma’am,” Bradley said sweetly.
She nodded, taking the phone from him, turning to the woman behind her. Butterflies filled his stomach as he watched his phone slowly travel from one person to the next, growing closer to you. His breathing was all over the place when the person in front of you tapped your knee. Would you say yes? Would it be a no? He thought he would vomit as he watched your brows furrow together as your read his message.
Your eyes shot up, looking around the section. Biting his lip, Bradley stood, waving in your direction. He felt light when you waved back, his smile reappearing as you smiled at his phone. The man that yelled at him earlier was saying something to him again, but he didn’t hear it. All too soon, his phone was travelling down the sea of people to make it back to him.
There was some cheering as his phone finally reached his hands. His eyes flitted to you, bile creeping up his throat. What did you say? He almost didn’t want to look. He’d been rejected plenty of times, but today, with you? It all felt like a sign. All the stars in the universe were aligning. He stole one last look at you, lip between your teeth, heat on your cheeks, before sitting down. The poor man behind him looked like he would blow a fuse if he didn’t.
“What’d she say, man?” Seresin asked excitedly.
He let out a deep breath, trying to calm the nerves pricking at him. He unlocked his phone, expecting the worst. Even if his mother told him to always be an optimist, it was easier in times like these to expect nothing. His heartbeat filled his ears.
But his mother was right. Staring back at him was a new contact. “McCutchen” it read. He looked at Seresin, smile growing on his face.
“Well, call her,” he pressed.
He nodded dumbly, pressing your contact. He was buzzing as he waited for you to answer. He felt like he was flying. This was something out of one of those romcom movies Nat and Bob made him watch all the time. He couldn’t help but turn to look at you.
“I was worried you’d freeze up on me again, Clemente,” your sweet voice rang out in his ear.
He gulped. He still might. “I…I uh…” He coughed. “I like making a dramatic entrance, McCutchen.” He shrugged playfully, and he saw you laughing. It made him feel accomplished as a warmth fell over him.
“My answer is yes, by the way,” you said sweetly. He felt like he was flying. “I have to drop my brother off with my parents, but maybe we can meet up after that?”
“Yes,” he said too quickly. He cleared his throat, heat rising to his cheeks as he internally groaned. “If that works for you.”
Your laughter floated through his phone. “There’s this bar that my friends have been trying to get me to go to since I moved out here,” you explained. “It’s called the Hard Deck. Know of it?”
Bradley smiled at his feet. The stars were indeed aligning for this moment. “I do,” he said coyly. “Hard Deck at six? There’s a good ice cream shop down the road too if you don’t get sick of me after one beer.”
“Sounds perfect,” you purred.
“I’ll see you there, McCutchen,” he beamed ending the call.
He closed his eyes. Nick Bradshaw was with his son, watching the Padres demolish the Pittsburgh Pirates. Of that, Bradley was sure.
Tagging anyone I think might enjoy this!
@sylviebell @xcastawayherosx @blue-aconite @bobfloydsbabe @roosterforme @townmoondaltwistle @ereardon @sebsxphia @roosters-girl @xomrsalliej4787xo @waklman @mayhemmanaged @yanna-banana @endofdays56 @mothdruid @tongue-like-a-razorr @cherrycola27 @thedroneranger @a-reader-and-a-writer @beyondthesefourwalls @sugarcoated-lame
I do not consent to my work being copied, translated, or published anywhere else.
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sneeb-canons · 3 months
Note
There is an ongoing argument about what breed Darrel is that just will not die. Soul is dead-certain he's a Rhode Island Red. He's a chicken, he's red, what else could he be?
Mind argues that A. there's so many goddamn breeds of red chickens and B. Darrel's feathers aren't nearly dark enough to be a RIR. His tail feathers are white for fuck's sake, he's clearly a Red Ranger. Soul maintains that Darrel is nowhere near heavy enough to be one.
Heart honestly doesn't have much of a genuine opinion on this, it's not like he can really judge what Darrel looks like. He will, however, set the argument off on purpose for fun. For extra chaos, he sometimes "decides" that Darrel is CLEARLY (insert chicken breed here). The breed in question almost never looks anything like Darrel, Heart just picks the longest/most complicated name and/or what sounds most likely to piss off the other two. The "Darrel is a Splash Frizzle Satin Silkie" incident nearly ended in murder and Heart would do it all again if he could.
All three of them are entirely wrong. Darrel is a simple Red Sex Link cross hen. He's a very pretty one; vibrant red with a white tail, white-mottled wings, and white-tipped hackle feathers, but he's not of any specific breed or "designer" crossbreed. Heart, Mind, and Soul are literally never going to figure out the truth.
Headcanon #328
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luvvleah · 1 month
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Mr. Ranger
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⬭ 𓈒  ݁Synthesis - Fake dating Ellie ⬭ 𓈒  ݁ Warnings - Angst , Making out ( Not with You tho :( ) , reader Crying , Im a beginner writter so trust the process 😭 ⬭ 𓈒  ݁ Now playing - Mr Ranger - Kid Cudi NOT PROOFREAD ‼️ WAYS TO HELP PALESTINE,LINK 2 ‼️
Knocked down, round for round
You're feeling like you're shot down on the ground
When will the fantasy end?
When will the heaven begin? Yeah
Seeing Ellie in such a fragile state made you feel broken. And it was about time that you broke too. You wanted to help Ellie. She knows that right? The amount of love you held for your best friend, made your heart ache. Most times You felt like the fake dating trope had gone too far for you two to be just friends. At least in your case. But many times couldn’t help but cry at the thought of her doing this to make another girl jealous. And that girl isn’t you. 
But  that day you didn’t have a single thought in your head when Ellie asked you for a fake relationship. When you opened the door , you saw her shivering in the rain. And as soon as you two made it into your bedroom , she had practically begged you to help with her heartbreak. She had broken down into your arms and you felt all the jealousy and anger leave your mind. So you made the chose of helping her with her plan. Despite the pain in your heart.
But you hadn’t thought Ellie could be so heartless. You had caught her making out with another girl despite the fact that you two were supposedly “dating”. But it seemed that Ellie had made up her mind about loving you. You ran out of the house as Ellie hoped into her car.  You stayed at the party trying to leave the past feelings behind. It was 11:28pm when  you finally decided to get onto your bike and leave the party. And before you knew it the  tears were flooding your eyes, and making their way down your cheeks.
As soon as you saw the car parked into your driveway you knew this was the place you wanted to be least. Walking up to the door , you found Ellie standing in the living room with a cold expression. It looked as if she had something in your hand. Walking up to her you felt your heart beat faster in your chest as you looked closer. She was — shaking?
She looked down at you as a tear fell onto her cheek. Wiping the tear you walked her over to her bedroom. You could tell she was distraught. But why? Your thoughts were interrupted when she spoke.
“She doesn’t like me like that y/n—“ she sniffed and wiped a tear from her cheek “ She told me after we-um,” she tried speaking again but when opening her mouth again ,nothing came out but broken sobs. You felt empathy for her , but at the same time if she couldn’t tell you about the kiss, you knew the trust between you two wouldn’t be fixed. You knew no matter what happened between you two things couldn’t change. You knew telling her your feelings would make things worse for not only her ,but you in the end. 
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luna-writes-stuff · 5 months
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Francesca, Aragorn
Song link
Fanfic, gn! reader
Angst with fluffy ending
Word count: 2651
Tw: Mentions of battle/injuries/deaths. Mourning and loss and whatnot. Aftermath of the Battle of Helm’s Deep.
Summary: When you joined the fellowship, it was in order to protect the ring bearer. You had never been in a true fight, nor had you ever slain anyone before. Your first battle had been a gruesome one, and you struggle to compose yourself afterwards. Aragorn comes to your room to comfort you.
Requested by @rebelbagel . You initially wanted Until It Sleeps, but when I was writing it, I realised the fic was pretty much exactly the same to this one (hurt/comfort). This one was written for someone else who didn’t want to be tagged, but I decided to combine it with your request! I’m sorry for the inconvenience, but I still hope you like it <;33
Buy me a coffee/force me to write more
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“Do you think I'd give up? That this might've shook the love from me? Or that I was on the brink? How could you think, darling, I'd scare so easily?”
You weren’t a fighter. Never had been. You’d never even killed someone to begin with, and that would say a lot considering the life of a ranger. You knew how to hunt, you knew how to hide, but you would never fight unless there had been no other option. And in all your years, the need for it had never been apparent.
You should have known better when you joined the fellowship. You had met Aragorn years earlier, and began travelling together shortly after. You had aided him in bringing the hobbits to safety in Bree, after which you swore to protect him and the ring bearer. You knew the journey would be a dangerous one, and you would never get through it without fighting, however much you wished to have held the same positivity as Merry and Pippin.
You had gotten the relatively easy route initially. Your first kill had been an Uruk-Hai, and though still terrifying, you didn’t feel much remorse for it afterwards - they were ruthless killers to begin with.
But everything quickly went downhill after the Battle of Helm’s Deep. The desperate screams of the women, the final shouts of fallen men, rain water turning red upon reaching the floor, and the abandoned weapons. You had expected to calm down once the battle had been over and you were free to return to your appointed chambers, but somehow, the feeling of desperation and grief only seemed to grow at the impending silence. The second you had entered the room, you had sat down on the bed, simply staring ahead, your eyes glued at the wall, hyper aware of all sounds around you.
“Now that it's done There's not one thing that I would change. My life was a storm, since I was born. How could I fear any hurricane?”
You could still hear the sobbing and praying in the square, followed by footsteps in the keep and hushed whispers which you couldn’t quite decipher. But most heartbreaking of all were the mothers crying out for their lost children. Your fight did not lie with the people of Rohan - you had fought alongside them. Yet, it felt as if you were to blame for all this pain.
Familiar footsteps were heard coming up the hall, before gently halting in front of your door. You wanted to call out, be it to dismiss him or to invite him, but you couldn’t bring it in yourself to make any noise. So when he knocked and you remained silent, he let himself in.
“You should let someone see your injuries,” He remarked kindly, having already taken note of your sudden silence after the battle. He knew better than to comment on the whole ordeal immediately. You merely shrugged at him, your eyes slowly falling onto his figure. He sighed as he observed you, silently closing the door behind him before nearing you.
He didn’t say anything as he sat down beside you, his own injuries seemingly not having been attended to as well. You didn’t tease him for it. Not now. You just stared back at the blank wall, your mind replaying the scenes that had occurred only moments earlier.
“If someone asked me at the end. I'll tell them put me back in it Darling, I would do it again.”
His hand on yours is what slowly pulled you out of your mind and back to the present. You didn’t know what to say. No words would make up for what you had seen or what you had felt. It just felt wrong. All of it did.
“The people of Rohan will be safe now,” Aragorn tried to console, but you interrupted him halfway. “These are mothers,” your finger pointed towards the window, where sobbing was still audibly heard. “And they just lost their children.” Then, your head turned slightly, your eyes trailing up to meet his. “How do you cope with that?”
Sincerity and sympathy formed in his eyes as he furrowed his eyebrows together, visibly contemplating what to say next: “We can’t linger on that which is already lost.” You just scoffed at that, shaking your head lightly. “That sounds easy.” He dared risk a little smile at that, squeezing your hand in reassurance.
You tried to copy his smile, forcing happiness onto your features. A single choked sob escaped you as the lump in your throat began to build, your eyes squeezing shut as you tried to push the feeling down. You didn’t see nor hear Aragorn push closer to you until his arms were around you.
“If I could hold you for a minute Darling, I'd go through it again.”
He didn’t speak as you broke down in his arms. Your hands clung tightly to the back of his shirt, your face buried against his chest as your body shook with your sobs. You had endured hardship before this travel, and had seen enough of it during your travel, but it suddenly seemed to become too much. Inexplicable grief washes over you. Grief for people you fought with; whose names you might not have known, but who you would have laid your life down for.
The aftermath seemed to simply be the breaking point. When all adrenaline had worn off and reality had begun to settle in. The moment you realised what you have done and what it had cost. The aching in your body seemed all the more visible now, but somehow it hadn’t even come close to the mental turmoil soaring through your body.
If this is what Aragorn had felt during all his earlier battles, you weren’t quite sure how you would manage after that. You had sworn to protect Frodo, and though he wasn’t near now, you would gladly give your life to pave the way for him. However, now you wanted nothing more than to simply stay here and help everyone build the keep back up again.
“I would still be surprised I could find you, darling In any life. If I could hold you for a minute Darling, I would do it again.”
“I don’t know if I can do this,” you admitted through sobs, too embarrassed to look back up at him, even though you were sure he wouldn’t have minded. Be that as it may, you heard his gentle voice soothing you, shushing you before speaking: “I understand.”
You didn’t know what you expected him to say, but you would have at least anticipated some resistance. Some voice of reassurance telling you that you would be okay. That it was simply all in your head and that there was no reason to be stuck up on this. You would have anticipated anything but him telling you that he simply understood.
If this was your moment and your decision to stay, he wouldn’t even fight you on it. You and him both knew that you staying here would only make the destruction of Mordor and Sauron more difficult, but Aragorn was willing to risk it all just to let you handle on your own boundaries. If you hadn’t already fallen for him before, you might have just done it all over now.
“For all that was said Of where we'd end up at the end of it. When the heart would cease. Ours never knew peace. What good would it be on the far side of things?”
The hurricane of anguish and anger slowly settled as you properly processed his two words, your crying eventually dying down, though his grip did not fade.
Finally, you looked up at him, confusion on your face. “What if I were to stay? Are you not going to ask me with you?” “Why should I?” He countered softly, no ill intentions on his tongue. “Of course I would want nothing more than you beside me, but who am I to force you into a fight you do not wish to be part of?”
You couldn’t suppress the slight scoff in your throat as his words. Shaking your head lightly, you rested it back upon his chest, his hold now more comfortable than soothing. “This fight requires everyone to take part,” you lectured quietly. “Sauron takes no neutral opponents.”
Instead of a verbal response, he lowered his head lightly, placing a kiss in your hair, letting it linger for a while.
“It was too soon When that part of you was ripped away. A grip taking hold Like a cancer that grows Each piece of your body that it takes.”
“If you wish to stay here, I will let you.” He confessed, his voice a mumble against your skin. You would have loved to stay and get caught up in a fairy tale where you didn’t have to face the consequences of your actions, nor keep to the promises you had made. But you knew better than to remain there that was safe and false.
“I don’t know.” You answered honestly, hesitation clear in your voice. A heavy sigh came from you as your shoulders drooped. “It was all so much.”
Aragorn hummed in understanding, his hands squeezing you slightly, before parting from your hold. “The aftermath of a battle is the hardest part of fighting.” When you nodded at him, he continued: “But it also reminds me of why to never stop fighting. If I had not, I do not think I would have been on the right side of history.”
Again, you couldn’t help but smile slightly, wiping the tears from your face as you tried to forget about your breakdown seconds prior. “You want to leave a legacy.” You voiced.
“Though I know my heart would break I'll tell them put me back in it. Darling, I would do it again.”
“Yes,” he admitted. “But not for the world.” Then, he rose from his seat on the bed, now making way to the window, observing the people walking around on the battle-ridden fields. “For those who properly knew me. I do not want to die, knowing I could have fought.”
He turned around at his own words, dropping his head to the side as if hearing his own advice for the first time. “You live. That is why you keep fighting.”
You wanted to believe him. He seemed so confident about his own speech that it nearly enticed you as well. But as you followed his footsteps and came faced with that which you had dreaded this entire time, your expression fell again: “What about those who lost their kin. Their loved ones?”
Aragorn followed your gaze, spotting an elderly woman weeping at the tears of an older soldier - one who you could have only guessed to be her spouse. Empathy came to Aragorn’s senses. Yes; he did feel bad for the people. It was, in a way, his responsibility to keep them safe. And though a great half of them had been alive, he could not say so for the rest. Yet, he kept his head high: “It is not up to us to determine their sorrow, nor force ourselves into their narratives. Let them grieve in their own way.”
“If I could hold you for a minute Darling, I'd go through it again.”
Your hand found him as you stood beside him, your head leaning on his shoulder as you observed the people. You could understand his point, and you wanted to feel that way as well. But words were easier spoken than actions were executed.
“Yes, lives were lost,” the man continued. “But there always will be. We remember those who have fallen and fight our next battles in their honour. There is no dignity in dying for salvation.”
‘There is no dignity in dying for salvation’. Those were words that you could understand. Words that you might have believed and emphasised with. He did have a natural skill for great speeches. You voiced this to him: “Spoken like a true king.”
“I am no leader.” He chuckled, shaking his head. Before he could bring his argument, you interrupted him, pointing towards Théoden, who was speaking to a small group of men: “I think the people would disagree.” Then, you looked up at him, shrugging nonchalantly.
“I think I would disagree.”
“I would still be surprised I could find you, darling In any life. If I could hold you for a minute. Darling, I would do it again.”
He reciprocated your look, that somehow permanent and effortless expression of gratitude and love written on his face. “I would have you; king or no king.” He spoke sincerely. “I do not care for the thoughts of others.”
In any other scenario, you could have easily said something back. But the comment seemed to come out of thin air, taking you by surprise. Regardless of the amount of times he had expressed his love to you verbally, it could still take you aback at times. Your face heated at his words, a flustered ‘thank you’ spilling from your lips as you forced your eyes to the mountains ahead.
Darkness loomed there, the sky having turned almost black. If there had been any sunlight left, it was not in the east of Middle-Earth. Helm’s Deep appeared to be the final destination of a little sliver of light, its luminescence faint, but apparent. It reminded you of what you had yet to face. That this battle might not be the most difficult one yet. Perhaps you were right to stay. It would certainly be the safer option.
But there was no point in being on the wrong side of history.
“I would not change it each time Heaven is not fit to house a love Like you and I.”
“I could not stay,” you ultimately decided aloud. “If I can do anything about the terror of Sauron, I should. His defeat is near, I know this.”
A snicker of relief came from Aragorn as he let go of your hand. “You have great hope in Sam and Frodo,” he shared. “Keep it; hope is your greatest weapon.”
“No,” you dismissed. “My weapon is my greatest weapon. And maybe you.” Finally, a genuine smile climbed on his face. No assuring chuckles or elevating grins; a genuine, relieved smile. “Maybe me?” “If you were not here to tell me all this, I don’t think I would have walked with you to the ends of the earth.” “You do not have to,” Aragorn tried to convince, but your mind was already made up.
“No, I’m going to.”
“I would not change it each time. Heaven is not fit to house a love Like you and I.”
His arm wrapped around you as he pulled you into his side, a hum of acknowledgment vibrating through him. “Then I am glad to have you at my side.”
You turned your head to the side, leaning down to place a kiss on the hand that held your arm. In response, the fingers flexed slightly; a signal of near affection and endearment. If he could not voice it, he would show it.
“I’ll fight,” you hummed, nodding your head towards the square in front of you. “For them. And for all who might follow them.”
And though a fight against Sauron sounded terrifying, you found yourself oozing with new-found confidence, if not some sort of comfort. A legacy; not for the people of Middle-Earth, but for your kin. Something to remember you by. If you were to go down, you weren’t doing it by giving up. You would do it beside him, fighting for those who cannot. And somehow, that seemed more peaceful than you imagined war to sound like.
“I would not change it each time. Heaven is not fit to house a love Like you and I.”
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fourovcups · 1 year
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I've been reading Edward Abbey's Desert Solitaire as research for a project of mine, and it has certainly been an experience.
Desert Solitaire was one of these titles I'd heard bandied about in American nature literature growing up (the kind of thing teachers recommended once you finished Hatchet), but I don't here his work mentioned as much anymore. I recently re-encountered the title on a literal ecofascist reading list. While Abbey doesn't sound like an ecofascist himself, I can easily see why nature Nazis like him.
The book chronicles Abbey's time as a seasonal park ranger at the Arches National Monument in Utah There is a kind of uncertainty and inconsistency in the way he writes, even in the way he acts towards his surroundings in the desert. Silent Spring had only been published a few years before Solitaire was, and the eco-cultural revolution was not yet in full swing. Abbey writes lovingly about his desert environment. He describes in stunning detail, for example, the everyday beauty of a bumblebee alighting on a cactus flower, and decries the reckless "development" initiatives of the Bureau of Public Roads. But on the next page, he will say something like this: "...it's a foolish, simple-minded rationalism which denies any form of emotion to all animals but man and his dog. This is no more justified than the Moslems are in denying souls to women." Sure dude. Okay, fine, he was writing in the sixties. Some insensitivity is par for the course. But then, after pages and pages of decrying humans driving desert flora and fauna towards extinction, he describes with glee an instance where he stones a rabbit to death for no apparent reason.
It's a bizarre passage, and shows Abbey at his most unhinged. He describes the rabbit as "cowardly" for running away from threats, unlike the brave mountain lion, who stands and fights. He throws the stone and hits the rabbit's head: "He crumples, there's the usual gushing of blood, etc.," and the creature is dead. "I continue my walk with a new, augmented cheerfulness which is hard to understand but unmistakable [...] I try but cannot feel any sense of guilt." Reflecting on the incident, he concludes that his killing of the rabbit has made him a part of the desert, a membership bought by killing or being killed, being "predator or prey". Even so, he decides not to eat the rabbit, which he says is probably diseased anyway. He also describes using his walking stick to crush and stir up an ant colony, also without any reason beyond not liking ants. "Don't actually care for ants. Neurotic little pismires." These are far from the only times that Abbey violates his personal philosophy of reverence for all living creatures.
It's clear that Edward Abbey came to Arches National Monument already dissatisfied with the outside world, and with some authority issues to boot (some quick googling on his background shows two demotions as a military police officer for clashing with higher-ups). The freedom of the desert, its simplicity and balance, is a significant part of what makes it appeal to him. But its harshness, the hostility of its sandstorms and lurking rattlesnakes, draws him in just as much.
Edward Abbey is not an ecofascist. If anything, his ill-defined political beliefs can be vaguely defined as anarchistic, if they can be defined at all. Deleuze and Guattari write in A Thousand Plateaus that fascism is "a cancerous body rather than a totalitarian organism". It is fluid, mutable. Sometimes it lies latent, benign; at other times it rushes outward, colonizing piecemeal and erratically, in "flows capable of suffusing every kind of cell". Elements of Abbey, and of Desert Solitaire, contain such microfascisms.
Let's turn back to the linchpin of it all: the killing of the rabbit, which he sees as a joyous, cosmic act; one that links him into a (circular? pyramidal?) chain of being he was previously alienated from, in the atomized world of civilization. His joy is only augmented when he realizes he is not guilty for killing the rabbit. In per-modern hunting customs across the world, the taking of animal life is never free and unmediated. Thanks may be given to the spirit of the animal itself, or to the unseen powers that led the hunter to their quarry. Naturally, the sacrifice of an animal to a god was just that: for a god, not the human involved. What Abbey describes in the killing of the rabbit is something utterly different.
In Federico Finchelstein's Fascist Mythologies, Finchelstein says that in fascism, "consciousness was not a repression of inwardness (as Freud understood the workings of the Ego and the Id) but its actual distillation. [...] [Fascist consciousness] was not contemplative but similar to that of a sublime sensation of ecstasy."
The fascist subject is most "conscious" precisely when they loose themselves in the ecstatic abandon of the act. Such fascist consciousness is the foundation of the free, easy violence it facilitates.
When Abbey describes casting the stone at the rabbit, it is in a Meursault-like twilight of awareness. He sets up the encounter as a game, one in which he is a scientist experimenting on a rabbit that has been "volunteered" to him, and whose death is justifiable through its natural cowardice. He hardly realizes that the action he is carrying out, and when the rabbit dies he is shocked out of his reverie for a moment.
"For a moment I am shocked by my deed [...] but shock is succeeded by a mild elation."
For Abbey, primordial violence is what at last allows him union with the sacred world of the desert.
"No longer do I feel so isolated from the sparse and furtive life around me, a stranger from another world. I have entered into this one. We are kindred all of us [...] Long live diversity, long live the Earth!"
By carrying out this act of bare violence, Abbey frees himself from the civilized world and achieves union with the world of Nature, in which violence is a simple act: one that creates its own order rather than supporting existing ones. It is this union that, while the moment lasts, allows him to rejoice in his newfound "innocence and power".
That is where I will leave things for now. There are other, more overt themes that Abbey explores that are the chief reason Desert Solitaire appeals to many ecofascists, such as its characterizations of industrial society and "Progress". Abbey's later work, such as The Monkey Wrench Gang, set even more explicit examples of direct action and sabotage that inspired right-wing accelerationists as well as left-wing environmental activists. This is my first long-ish post; if you're interested in these kinds of posts on ecofascism and ecocriticism, let me know and I might make more in the future.
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WIBTA if i incorporate an old friend’s oc into my oc’s backstory?
hi!! this is a more lighthearted AITA- i’m basically just gauging proper oc etiquette bc i have no clue if this would be rude.
i (18X) am a d&d player. have been for a long time! i started at 13, with a huge group of my friends. we didn’t get to play much bc there were so many of us, but it was a blast and i ended up loving my character, natphi (a classic tiefling bard) so much that she eventually became a standalone oc for me.
in-game, natphi entered the party alongside her friend, luca (a half-elf ranger), who was played by another one of my friends (18 or 19 X now, 13 at the time). we were baby gays, and natphi and luca had a really fun sort of will-they-or-won’t-they wlw best-friendship. it was a great dynamic, and we both loved drawing them together and discussing them and even rping how they first met over discord. it was a blast, and eventually natphi’s friendship with and pining over luca became an important part of her story and character to me.
however, by this point luca’s player and i were going to different schools and had dropped several friends in that group due to standard teen drama, so it was hard to keep in touch. we stopped talking a couple of years ago with no hard feelings- just a classic drifting apart over time.
natphi is still one of my most beloved ocs (we’ve been through a lot together) and i still daydream about her friendship and such with luca. it gets difficult when i want to draw her in any meaningful way, though. luca isn’t my character, and if i drew her and posted it i would absolutely link back to her creator’s instagram, but it feels really odd to make and post art of the oc of someone you don’t talk to anymore. i can’t go and ask them if they mind, because once again, we haven’t spoken in years.
i’ve been chewing on this dilemma for a bit, but an idea came to me as i started preparing to make natphi a character sheet for a oneshot i’m doing soon: i could make natphi’s relationship with luca a part of her backstory and come up with some tragic separation of them. it would work great with natphi’s current backstory and deepen her character motivations, so there’s no problems there. however, i still feel really iffy using a now-stranger’s character with mine, even if i were to only refer to luca as more of a vague ghost than a full character. part of me feels like i’m “copying” her and just changing bits and pieces so she doesn’t look exactly the same. technically, nobody would actually be able to tell unless i told them, but i’d still feel like an ass for doing it if it’s “cheating,” for lack of a better word. however, i also know i’m a chronic overthinker, so i’m asking all of you instead: would i be TA for this??? i genuinely have no idea. thanks in advance for the input! ^^
What are these acronyms?
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