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bandgie · 5 months

Note

hiiii is ok if i request a stoner smut😭 ( with either han,chan or felix) like y/n and him are smoke buddies and in one of the sessions things get a little hot and heavy 🥲

it’s ok if ur uncomfortable but if you’re not i’d love to see it

-anon 🍃

a/n: yes?!? oh my god?? why give me 3 options when I can do them all?? at the same time??

synopsis: You warned your smoking buddies that you get a little...different when you're really high. They don't believe you though, and smoke you out anyway. Neither of you can decide if it was worst mistake or best decision of your lives.

warnings: MDNI 18+, heavily under the influence, 4some, brief pussy play, no protection, cumming inside, pussy eating, mxm themes!!!, squirting, double penetration, blow job (m!&f!), multiple orgasms (f!), I went crazy with this one I ain't gonna lie

2.6k words

"Oh dude she's gone."

"You shouldn't have smoked her out man."

"She wanted me to!"

You can distantly hear the three of them arguing. Han is, once again, thrown under the bus as Felix and Chris blame him. To be fair, everyone's high out of their mind. Whatever Felix bought back from California hits.

Han is warm as you snuggle against him, his heartbeat irregular as he keeps defending himself. When you told them you get a little excited when you're super high, they thought you'd be bouncing off the walls. Instead, they had to keep you from clawing Han's cock out to bounce on that.

"I'm not even that high," you speak up for yourself. "I just want a little fun, that's all."

Chan scoffs, bloodshot eyes looking at your droopy ones. "You are that high, actually. The sober you that I know would punch Han before he even thought about touching you."

The image of slapping the man you're sitting on makes you laugh hysterically. You're gasping for air, clutching at your chest as you cackle. Your exaggerated laughter makes Felix chuckle, and it doesn't take long until all four of you are on the verge of throwing up from giggling.

"But I like the way he feels," you manage to speak after your chest heaves. "Hannie's so soft and warm, it feels so good." It's not smart of you to talk like that when Han's cock is underneath your ass. You can feel like twitching in response.

You softly grind your ass against it, humming. "You like it too, huh Hannie? Do you want to touch me?"

"Hey. That's enough," Chan's voice is stern, but you don't miss how his eyes drop to your bare thighs. Han freezes under you, scared that moving might make his cock hard.

You roll your eyes and grind against Han again, hearing him hiss. "For fucks' sake Chan, I'm high, not drunk." There's not a care for the aftermath in your head. It feels as though there'll be no repercussions, that time has frozen still for you. For this moment.

Still, Chan shakes his head. "Doesn't matter, you're not in the right mind."

"If you don't wanna fuck me Chan, Hannie will." You turn your attention back to Han, who's struggling under you. He's hard now, but his hands stay placed on the cushions. "You'll play with me, right Han?"

His eyes dart from yours to Chan's, unsure. "I dunno. What if you get mad at me in the morning?" You coo at his uncertainty. Reaching for his hands, you place them on your hips. His fingers dig into your soft flesh, pulling you closer to him.

"I would never be mad at you," you promise. "Just touch me."

That’s enough permission for Han. He parts your thighs while Felix and Chris are front-row viewers. Getting high was just an excuse, you've always wanted him to touch you. For all of them to touch you. It's why you didn't wear any shorts under your skirt. A black thong barely covers your cunt, and Han is quick to play with it.

His fingers slip behind the material, finding your clit easily. He gently rubs you in circles, moaning in your ear. Han slips his hand out and places it over your underwear, rubbing that instead.

It makes you whine, bucking your hips in protest. You're about to complain when you catch the other two boys staring. Felix is on the edge of his seat, staring at where Han touches you. Chan is the opposite, crossing his arms over his chest as he leans back in his seat. He looks irritated but there's dark arousal in his eyes.

You let Han make a show of you, getting you to drip down your ass.

"Fuck," you hear Felix swear. His voice sounds deeper if that was even possible. His lips are wet from how constantly he's licking them, but he makes no move towards you.

Han pinches your clit. The sudden grasp makes you whine, hips lifting in the air before he forces you back on his lap.

"I don't have a condom," he whispers in your ear. You shake your head aggressively, "I don't care. Put it in."

Chan opens his mouth to say something but snaps it shut. His jaw clenches as he watches Han slips his hand between the two of you, releasing his throbbing cock. He doesn't want to hear you complain in the morning about this, it's your fault.

Han pulls your panties to the side and slides his cock against your folds. You arch your back into him, moaning. You look down to watch his dick collect your juices, lewdly making noise. Then he angles his cock down, catching your entrance.

You have to slightly lift your hips when his tip goes in. The stretch is far from painful, and it feels like you're on cloud nine. You slam your hips down on Han impatiently. He whines behind you, body shaking and his arms wrap around your waist.

It's a struggle to keep your legs open for the other men to see, but you hook them over Han's legs for support. Han starts slow, unused to the feel of your cunt. He groans in your neck, biting your skin. "Fuck, that's good pussy."

You only hum in response as you feel Han fuck into you harder. It sends overwhelming shocks of pleasure throughout your body. Your mind grows hazy, vision blurring. You've touched yourself while high, and that alone was a trip. To have someone bury themselves deep inside you, to feel their hot dick slip in and out of you, it feels like you're at a constant high.

Felix is the first to break. He stands to his feet quickly and takes long strides toward you. Han slows his thrusts, unsure if Felix wants a turn with you already. He grips you a little tighter, possessively.

Both of you are shocked to see him fall to his knees in front of your pussy. He pushes the thong further out of the way with his thumb, looking up at you.

"Can I?"

You're nodding before he even finishes, "Fuck yes."

You cum at the feel of Felix's plush lips. Your walls clench and grip Han's cock tightly, making him thrust into you deep. Felix has to keep his hands on your thighs to keep you still. It's obvious you came with the high-pitched moans and convulsing body, but neither of them made a move to stop.

"Shit, I can feel her creaming on my cock. Fuck, Felix lick me too," Han rasps out.

Felix is quick to comply. You feel his tongue dip past your pussy presumably only onto the few inches of Han's cock that isn't in your pussy. Han trembles behind you, hips stuttering into yours. Felix reaches back up to your clit, running his lips over your nub before he lightly sucks.

You don't have much energy to grind on his pretty face, so you lay there pliant as Han fucks into you earnestly and as Felix gently eats you out. You bury your hands into Felix's green hair, desperate to grip onto something.

The hot sensation builds in your stomach again, this time much more intensely. Han can feel the clenching of your walls, the added wetness your pussy drools out. The pressure in your tummy feels different, hotter, and unstable.

"Felix!" You cry out. "I'm gonna cum again! Fuck, I think I'm gonna squirt!"

You think he might back away, but he buries his face deeper, sucks a little harder. "Give it to me baby, I want it all over my face."

The force of your second orgasm makes Han's cock slip out. Felix's face and Han's thighs are victims of your release. You coat them sheer with your orgasm, watching how Felix keeps his mouth open to drink your release.

He gulps down the remaining spurts of your pussy, a smile on his face. "Yeah, Han. That's good pussy alright." Felix stands, looking down at your wrecked state. He bends down and kisses you roughly, making sure you can taste yourself on his lips. Then he moves behind you to kiss Han who already has his tongue out. Both of them moan in the kiss, making your pussy throb even more.

Felix unbuckles his belt and pushes his pants just down enough to reach for his cock. You drool at the sight, moaning softly. He pumps himself a few times, then taps his tip on your swollen clit.

"Think you can handle two at a time baby?"

Before you can even think to answer, Han butts in. "You should be asking me that. I don't think I'll last much longer." The two of them laugh, and then Felix looks back at you. "Can you?"

Biting your bottom lip, you nod. "Yeah, just go slow." Han and Felix nod in unison, "Of course baby."

The two of them angle their cocks into your slightly gaping entrance. Han pushes the tip of his cock in first. Felix follows quickly after, pressing his tip against Han's. You let your head fall back between Han's neck and shoulder, relaxing your body. It's quite easy since you are already elated, but there's still a painful stretch as they slide in.

You hiss when they stretch you out, their cocks halfway in. Han tightens his grip on your waist and pecks your forehead. Felix soothingly runs his hands against your thighs and kisses your exposed neck. "Doing so good, you're almost there."

Their comforting touches encourage you to try harder. They sink further in and you gasp.

"Chan," Han calls his hyung who's been overly silent throughout the whole thing. You almost forgot he was there.

"What?"

"Think our baby needs a bit of help. Come on."

Chan shouldn't help. He told you many times this was a bad idea, but no one listened. Still, watching your teary eyes get to him. The way your face contorts from discomfort. You looked so pretty cumming over Han's cock, he can't imagine what'd it be like to cream over both.

He finds himself standing and walking over to you three, standing beside Felix.

"Mate, you need to Han bottom out first. Here." Chan hands one hand on Felix's waist while the other guides your stomach downwards. Han moves his hips up, slowly filling your walls. You squeal and tremble, but it's bearable.

"There you go," Chris coos. "Make sure you go deep Han. Felix needs as much room as he can get."

Han obeys his friend, making sure to bury himself to the hilt. You feel him push past what you thought was possible. Your legs threaten to snap shut, but Felix's iron grip keeps them open. Han can feel how tight your pussy is, how good it feels to rub against Felix's cock.

Chan taps the green-haired on the waist, "You're good to go."

"Oh," your eyes roll back to your head. Your lips spread deliciously when Felix pushes the remaining inches in. You can feel how your clit slightly rubs against his girth, making extra warmth flow out of you.

Your reactions make Chan chuckle, smiling for the first time in what seems like hours. "Feels good huh? Taught him well." He playfully slaps Felix on the ass.

The two of them feel heavenly in your walls. All three of you are a moaning mess, content with staying still. It's not until Chris clears his throat that Han begins to move. Shallow thrusts into your pussy that make the trio whimper.

Felix moves with longer strokes. They don't match each other's thrusts, but the speed is the same. One goes in while the other goes out, then sometimes it's at the same time, then it's everything in between. Your walls loosen after a few testing strokes, and they're fucking into you roughly in no time.

Chan tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, getting a good view of your face. It's then that you notice his hard-on, how painful it must be in his jeans. Wordlessly, you open your mouth, tongue lolling out. Chan laughs at your directness, "You sure?"

You respond by using your weak fingers to unzip him, "Yesssss."

He laughs again and helps you undress him. His cock is the biggest of the three, in girth and length. You're thankful he isn't in you, there's no way you could've handled it. Chan taps the head of his cock on your lips, smearing his pre-cum.

Then he pushes in gently, not to disrupt the boys using you. He's hot and heavy on your tongue, slightly salty. Truthfully, getting as high as you did always leaves you with a dry mouth. You find it difficult to provide enough spit for Chan's cock.

He doesn't complain though, and never pushes you past your limit. Chan uses his hands to jerk what you can't fit in your mouth. You want to protest and say you can do it yourself, but with how good Felix and Han are fucking you, it seems impossible.

Han's cock twitches inside you, a warning for his orgasm. "I'm gonna cum. Fuck baby I'm gonna cum in you."

You hum around Chris's cock in response, and soon enough you're filled with Han's cum. It's warm in your stomach and you feel it pool onto the sofa. Felix moans at the extra lubrication, finding it hot to see him fuck the cum out of you.

Han's cock stays inside of you. He likes to think Felix and you help ride out his high. He turns his head to watch you suck off Chan, groaning. Han opens his mouth and sticks his tongue out, looking up at Chan expectedly.

The eagerness in Han's eyes has the older man raising an eyebrow, but he indulges nonetheless. Chan slips his cock from your mouth and places it on Han's tongue.

Han is in a better condition to suck. He even does the honor of spitting on Chan's dick. He licks and takes his cock almost to the hilt before gagging. The sight makes Chan moan, and he puts his dick back in your mouth. Your lips are much softer and your mouth is hotter. Han's is wetter though, and much more usable. Chan settles for using both of your throats.

You're thankful for Han helping, it's hard to focus with Felix still pounding away. His fingers are for sure going to leave a bruise, and your pussy may not be the same after this. With your warm pussy and Han's cock, Felix can feel his balls tighten and how his hips lose their momentum.

He doesn't warm you when he cums. There's just his deep, consecutive moans as Felix fills you to the brim. Your legs tremble, and you're cumming before you're aware of it. Chan has to use Han's mouth more often as you moan and whimper through your orgasm.

Felix rides his high out when Chan forces your head to face his cock. He jerks himself quickly, tapping his tip on both your and Han's tongues. Chan cums on both of your faces, hot spurts landing on your cheek and lips.

Your tongue pokes out to get a taste, moaning.

Felix finally pulls out, making you whine. Han follows suit, letting his soft cock leave you empty. Chan lets you give his cock extra kisses while Han unwraps an arm from you to wipe his face.

Chan has to pry you away from his dick, chuckling when you protest. He tucks himself away despite your complaining.

The four of you untangle from each other. Though the couch is small, all of you manage to snuggle against one another with you and Han in the middle. All of you are shining in afterglow and cum, with complete disregard for how you might react in the morning.

Han picks his head up to overlook all of you, a playful scowl on his face. "And you were mad at me for smoking her out."

a/n: man i...I dunno what to say. this is totally self-indulgent. the way I need this to happen. thank you anon 🍃, I truly needed this

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kittykattropicanna · 4 months

Text

Going absolutely feral over Mechanic!Simon and how you met him :(( I just want him so badddd

TW: pervy!Simon, smut, creampie, possessive!Simon, dirty talk (praise), he just wants you so bad girl, swearing, kinda naive!reader, brief mention of spanking

Mechanic!Simon masterlist

Regular masterlist

Just imagine you’re driving through a shitty little town somewhere in England, you don’t even know where you are at this point.

Your ex just kicked you out of your shared apartment in the middle of the night and you have nowhere else to go, your only option is to drive in your little shit box of a car as far away from him as possible.

Of course its poring rain and of course your car breaks down in the middle of the road surrounded by scary looking government houses and a very obviously high homeless guy screaming and yelling all sorts of profanities :(

With shaky hands you quickly look up every mechanic in town on your phone, its almost dead and none of them answer :( of course they wouldn’t! Its the middle of the night!

You don’t have insurance either! Everything is going wrong, you’re so lost and scared :(

You start to panic when there’s only one number left, with a shaky breath you call it and just as you think you're out of luck, a deep cranky voice answers begrudgingly obviously pissed that someone dared to call him at this hour.

Tomorrow is his only day off for the week >:(

Simons personal number was attached to the shop after Price promoted him to manager, now he has all sorts of dumb fucks calling him all times of the day and he hates it!!

But how could he say no? A poor girl called him in tears gasping for air between sobs and absolutely hysterical :(((( His not an ethical guy and a young girl like you that knows absolutely nothing about cars :( imagine all the extra money he could charge you? You wouldn’t question it either! Oh how could he say no to such a silly girl…

After what feels like hours a very tall, bulky, thick man with a scary balaclava knocks on your driver seat window and you scream so loud!!! His so scary and big! And his eyes! They’re are so angry :(((( he must be so angry at you for calling him :( you feel so bad :(

After he loads your car onto the tow truck he insists on driving you home

“Ohh come on sweetheart, would hate to see a pretty baby like you stuck in the rain, let me take you home darlin’”

His so pervy too! Subtly touching your arse and looking at your hard nipples that poke through you soaked shirt :(

He can’t help it! You can’t blame him! You’re not wearing a bra!

And with a beautiful face like yours and a body like that, what did you expect him to do? Not eye fuck you? Don’t be ridiculous.

You tell him that you have nowhere to go because your shitty ex threw you out and Si insisted you stay with him!!

“Oh pet, you poor poor girl, you want to get a room at a motel? No. Nooo. That’s no place for a doll like you, come stay with me darlin’, come on sweets, I’ll sleep on the couch, promise yeah?”

“I’m just tryna’ keep ya safe honey, its not nice around these parts, okay? hate for somthin’ to happen to ya”

And you know his right :( he came all this way in the middle of the night, left his comfy bed in the pouring rain just to help you, his from around these parts and he knows best!

His voice is so deep and husky, you just know a man like him could keep you safe!

You jump in the shops tow truck and he insist you take off your soaking shirt and put on his company jacket.

Its covered in oil and dirt, smells like cigarettes and is wayyyy to big for you. “Riley” is printed onto the left breast pocket with a large logo with the words “Price’s Motor Repairs” on the back.

Its so disgusting and smells musky but something about it makes your pussy clench!!! His so manly, so dominant, how could you not get turned on by him!!! You could feel his eyes roam your breasts as you sit in his jacket, chest completely bare underneath, hard nipples rubbing against the fabric :(((

Once you reach the shop, he drops your car off then shows you around.

He wants to impress you sooooo bad, showing you all sorts of tools and telling you what he uses them for, how he uses them to fix things. The whole time his talking all you could look at is his big muscly arms as he purposely flexes them for you.

Never in his life has he seen such a gorgeous, gorgeous girl and all he wants to do is bend you over his modified truck and fuck you so hard you’re creaming on his cock :(

And that’s exactly what he does! Before driving you back to his, he has you bent over, back arched and his callused hand wrapped around your hair as he ruts into you while you're still in his company jacket :((((

Your poor pussy hasn’t taken such a big girthy cock before, his wide hips connecting with your arse and slamming your much smaller body into the hood of his car :3

Thrusts so deep his car shakes from the force :)

As you moan and babble completely cock drunk you can hear him snickering and grunting behind you, whispering dirty words in your ear

Praising you between grunts….

“Look at you love, fuck, look at that perfect fuckin’ pussy, taking my cock so well, such a good girl, aren’t ya?” As he pounds into you so deep the tip of his leaking cock touches your cervix. A small squeal exiting your lips as he holds you there for a second, letting you feel for the first time what a real deep pounding feels like :)

“Never been fucked this good have ya baby? Never cum his hard before” he’d snicker has you cum for the third time, legs shaking and mascara running not from the rain this time, but from the tears of pure pleasure his so kindly giving you :(

And of course his coming inside of you! His loads are so big as well, when he finally lets himself cum he absolutely floods your pussy :)))

Your moans bounce around the tin walls of the shop, the sound of him slapping your arse echoing at the same time

You can feel the hot ropes shoot up inside of you as he continues to slowly thrust making sure none of it goes to waste.

He tries to suppress his moan, disguising them as grunts but a few slip past his lips :(

He doesn't pull out but that doesn’t stop his cum from leaking out of your cunt and down you beautiful thighs,

“Look at tha’ baby, fuckin’ hell, you did so good for me my gorgeous girl, so fuckin’ good”

He just met you but his already so, so possessive. :)

He carries you to his truck because your legs feel like jelly :( his so gentle with you too, whispering in your ear how good you did for him and how you're such an obedient girl, his obedient girl.

You fall sleep in his truck, curled up in the passenger seat, his company jacket still wrapped around your bare chest.

You’ve had such a big night and the sound of the soft radio and drizzle of rain lulls you to sleep.

You wake up in Si’s arms as his gently placing you into his bed.

“You’re alrigh’ darlin’, jus’ close ya eyes for me, ill be here”

Its safe to say he didn’t take the couch that night :3

Request are open for Mechanic!Simon, I would love to hear your thoughts so feel free send them through and add to the AU. im just obsessed w/ himmmm

!Disclaimer! - Above is NSFW content - MDNI - If you follow my blog without your age in your bio, you will be blocked - If you are under the age of 18, you are not welcome here, otherwise, enjoy :)

Cat divider sourced by @positively-mine from Pinterest - Pink line divider by @eloquentreverie - MDNI divider by @cafekitsune

Basic blog housekeeping - fic requests guidelines, boundaries and my rules for minors

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zedif-y · 1 year

Text

Joel wakes up screaming.

His first thought, honestly, isn’t very coherent. A mishmash of need more time and a throat-tearing scream escaping him as he opens his eyes to–

His scream dies down. Joel looks around– at least, he thinks he’s looking around. Hard to tell when it’s all pitch black and he can’t see a thing, is he sure his eyes are working–?

Joel brings a hand to his face, “Did I go blind– What the heck!”

His voice comes out shrill, a hair away from a shriek (because no, it wasn’t a shriek, it was all manly and stuff, thank you.) as his hand kind of– it kinda–

He knows where his head is. Obviously. Be a bit weird if he didn’t. He knows where his head is, and he knows where his hand is. Both are important. So when he reached towards his head, right, gotta see if there’s a cloth over his eyes, or if he’s gone blind or whatever stupid thing must’ve happened to him after… After he…

His thoughts go fuzzy for a second, like that feeling you get when you think you’ve forgotten something but can’t remember what. Like knowing the shape of something you’ve lost, its absence so pressing that it chokes you like sand, clogging your lungs with each second it's gone but what the heck is it–?!

Where was he, again?

Oh. Right. He was freaking out.

The point is– because there was a point, right before things got all weird there– his hand went through his head.

It… He doesn’t even know how to explain it. It felt like… Not much, really. Didn’t feel like anything. But that’s the issue with it, the issue of something should be there, like skin and muscle and bone and perhaps even a brain. But instead, Joel put his hand where his face should be and he felt nothing, no matter how hard he tried, how far he reached and pushed and–

Joel wants to scream. Or laugh. Or cry. Either of the three, though preferably not that last one.

It’s so weird. He just wants…

There it is again. That feeling. The clawing, desperate something in his chest that twists and writhes–

“Hey, Joel.”

Joel screams. (First option, then.)

Jimmy just stares at him, unimpressed. His sunglasses are blocking his eyes.

For some reason, it makes Joel want to cry.

Jimmy sighs, “Are you done?” Joel gapes at him.

Are you serious, “Am I d– What the heck, Jimmy?” He snaps, “Don’t sneak up on me like that, I’m not bloody Grian–”

Since when did Jimmy get so quiet, anyway?

“Of course you’re not Grian,” Jimmy says, his voice all weird. Off. “It’d be easier if you were. He’s already moved on.”

Joel’s hackles rise, “What d’you mean it’d be easier?” He snarls, like snapping teeth. “And he hasn’t moved on, he’s just–”

“Looking for new friends?” Jimmy deadpans. Joel’s jaw clicks shut. “ ‘s what I thought.”

Oh, Joel wants to punch him in the–

Wait a second.

It comes back to him then, slamming into him like a wave. The bubbling, helpless laughter in his chest as he leaps and runs across a flimsy dirt bridge. The way he knows he’s fallen before, fallen a million different times and came out both dead and alive but he doesn’t care.

("–you can't keep doing this–")

He doesn’t (didn’t) care, because why should he, he’s got– he’s got water. He’s got water, like everyone else on this blumin’ server, he’ll live, surely, so there’s no need to be scared.

("–got to let go, eventually, right–?")

No need to worry, even as yellow feathers plummet and disappear from view and lightning strikes where Jimmy’s voice cut off–

“Joel!” Jimmy shouts, practically right in his face. “Joel, are you even listening–?”

This, Joel decides, is not Jimmy.

It's got the shape of Jimmy, sure. Right hair and face and everything. Right voice, right bloody curve of his eyebrows, which makes Joel laugh, because it isn't him.

It can't be. It can't be, because Jimmy's dead. Jimmy's gone, he ran out of time because he fell like an idiot so no, this can't be him, there's no way.

On all levels except physical, Joel can't seem to breathe.

There's no way this is Jimmy, he thinks, just the right amount of hysterical. It's just not possible.

Because if this is him, (and that's a big, gigantic if) then that means– That means wherever he went, Joel followed. Joel followed, and now they're in the Void, or Limbo, or whatever the heck it's called, and that means that Joel–

Joel failed Grian, too.

"You're not Jimmy," He says at last, with his not-there tongue and not-there face. His voice sounds distant. "He'd be like, crying. Screamin' about dying first again, going oh my gosh!" Joel tells Not-Jimmy, pitching his voice up and then laughs, laughs, and laughs.

Until he can't breathe. Until it hurts to.

Until it's not much of a laugh at all.

Light shines on Not-Jimmy's sunglasses. He's still the only thing Joel can see.

Joel reaches out, pretending to see two, shaking hands grab Jimmy by the shoulders. He pretends, thinks about it hard enough that he almost feels the texture of Jimmy's denim under his palms. He thinks, imagines, pretends, whatever, that the fabric crinkles under his touch, that the sob that makes his way past his lips is a laugh as he says, "I'm sorry."

Something wet trickles down his not-there face.

" 'm sorry, Jim," Joel rasps out, and it hurts. "You weren't supposed to– I had a surprise for you, you know?"

Jimmy's voice is quiet, "What kind of surprise?" He asks, and Joel…

Joel thinks he might be falling apart.

(Or maybe, his mind supplies, he shattered a long while ago. Like glass hitting the floor.)

He grins, or at least, he tries to. "I was gonna break your curse," He confesses, with his terrible, trembling mouth. "I was gonna sacrifice myself for you, be all heroic and everything."

Jimmy says nothing. Joel still can't see his eyes.

"I'm sorry."

He's getting tired of pretending.

"Will you come with me now?" Jimmy– Not-Jimmy says, his voice ringing like the toll of a bell. "You've said your piece, not many are afforded that luxury."

Joel blinks. Death stands before him, no sunglasses to cover empty sockets.

For a moment, Joel considers fighting. Again, and again, and again.

But he is so, very tired.

He sighs.

I don't feel very lucky, Joel wants to say. And you still aren't Jimmy.

"Whatever," He says instead. He feels his entire being slip away like sand, like time held tightly between two fists. "Take me away, or whatever it is you do."

Joel closes his eyes, "I'll tell him when I see him."

#ryan's writing #joel smallishbeans #smallishbeans #jimmy solidarity #solidaritygaming #solidarity gaming #trafficblr #limited life #limited life spoilers #limited life smp #limlife #limlife smp #limlife spoilers #the bad boys #limlife bad boys #smallidarity #<<can be read as romantic or platonic methinks #also! this is my first time writing joel properly :D so i hope its good!#anyway. explodes

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ahsxual · 4 months

Text

Dark Sins - II

Pairing: William Afton x Fem!Reader

Summary: After what happened, you tried so desperately to forget about William Afton, the man who couldn't leave your mind no matter how hard you tried it. But desire is a dark sin, a feeling that makes human beings do things against their will.

Genre: Smut

Warnings: minors don't interact + 18, guilt, office sex, cheating, choking, sassy reader, p in v sex (no protection), spanking, Dom!William x Sub!Reader, possessive William, daddy kink, spanking (one slap), softer William at the end, married William, age gap (reader is on her 20s, William is 50), cursing, student!reader

Word Count: 2,7k

Part I & Part III

A/N: Part II of Dark Sins was unexpectedly requested by you, so here I am posting it! I didn't expect so much support after not writing fics for 3 years (can you believe??), but I'm glad to be back! Ly guys <33 @fandom-maniac-anime here's your tag, hun! ^^

It's been weeks since that little "incident" with William and you couldn't managed to take the thought of fucking your boyfriend's dad out of your mind. You knew it was wrong, you knew it was filthy, but you couldn't forget about William's tongue and fingers inside of you, making you cum so hard until you saw stars. It sent shivers down your spine everytime you thought about it and it made you feel so guilty... Sure, Stu made some mistakes in your relationship, but nothing compares to what you did to him. You didn't know what to do: was it better to tell Stu the truth? No no, he would never forgive you and you would ruin his relationship with his stepfather, even tho it wasn't completely your fault... should you just broke up with him? That wasn't an option either, because you loved Stu dearly.

Your mind was a mess and you couldn't focus on anything. Not even your studies, which complicated things because you had an important exam in a couple of weeks. You were now in your room alone, reflecting on what you should do to make things feel right again. That's when you had an idea that could help you get in line again and distract you from your forbidden desires.

"Hey babe, can I talk to you?" you asked Stu, your boyfriend, when he answered your call.

"Sure baby, is everything alright?" you heard Stu becoming worried which was unlikely of him. Your heart started to beat faster when you thought about the possibility of him discovering your darkest secret, but you pushed it away quickly.

"Well... I was thinking of, you know, do something for me. Something I think that would be good for me." you could practically sense the confusion that Stu must have felt when you said those words.

"And... what's that?" you heard him chuckle on the phone, a typical reaction from Stu.

"I think I should get a job... like a part-time, so I can get some money and be more financially independent, you know?" you started chowing your nails nervously, before you heard a hysterical laugh from your boyfriend. Now it was your time to get confused. "Why are you laughing? I'm serious, Stu!"

"You, working? Come on babe, you must be joking! Why do you need a job? That's for desperate people. And you're not desperate." he laughed like what you just said was the best joke he had ever heard.

"What? Why do you say that? That's not true!" you felt a little bit offended by Stu's comment and immaturity. Stu was a rich and spoiled guy, of course he would think that way.

"My dad works with those people, Y/N. And even he thinks that those people are desperate just to gain a few bucks." when you heard the word "dad" come out of his mouth, you stopped breathing for a moment, making you cough. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah, I'm fine." you lied. There was a silence between the two of you, since you weren't sure of what to say. You were lost on your thoughts, before you heard Stu speak again.

"Listen... if you really want to get a job or a part-time, fine. I'm sure my dad can help you with that." you felt trapped, like your heart was going to explode and your mind was screaming for you to refuse his help and forget the idea of getting a job with his dad's help. You didn't really need it, you just wanted to occupy your mind with important things and be as busy as you could, so your mind wouldn't be able to think about things that didn't matter.

"Yeah, I would really appreciate that." your mouth betrayed you, speaking for your lust instead of listening to your rational and morals.

"Fine, I'll talk to him then." he said with a smirk on his face and paused. You knew something was up since Stu always wanted something in return when he made you a favor that he doesn't agree in the first place. "Buuut, you need to do whatever I ask for two weeks! No matter what it is!" you rolled your eyes, knowing that he would ask something against your will.

"Sure babe, what is it?" you smiled at his excitement, even tho you felt suspicious about his request.

"Me and the boys want to spend a week out. At... Billy's house." your smile immediately fadded away when he mentioned Billy's name. You were worried about the strange and probably bad influence Billy had on Stu, but after what happened a few weeks ago, you knew you couldn't be mad at him. "Come on doll, you know I won't cause any trouble! You know me!" he laughed at his own words, which made you laugh as well.

"Yeah sure Stu, I totally believe what you just said! Not even you believe it!" you both laughed, until you decided to let him have fun without complaining. "When will you guys go out then?"

"Oh fuck, is that a yes??" you could feel Stu's enthusiasm.

"I mean, I don't want to be the nagging girlfriend who doesn't let her man go out with his friends." even tho you felt nervous about Stu spending a week away from you, specially in Billy's presence, you couldn't forbid him to do something he really wanted to.

"Nahh, don't worry about it. You're the best, babe. We'll go in two weeks after our last exam. And don't worry, I'll talk to my dad right now. He's downstairs." your stomach sank when you realized William was at Stu's house too. You haven't seen him since then, avoiding him as much as possible.

"Thanks, baby. I love you so much..." tears started forming in your eyes, guilt consuming you by each second. Maybe Stu being away and enjoy his time with the boys would be good for both of you, since Stu was a very clingy boyfriend. You didn't mind it at all... but it became incredibly difficult to show affection towards Stu and have sex with him after everything.

"Love you too, sweet cheeks." were his last words before he hung up.

..................................................................................

Two weeks had passed and you were saying your goodbyes to your boyfriend. You would definitely miss him. Now you were in your room, looking at William's business card deciding on either or not you should go to his office. After a few long minutes debating if you should make an appointment or not, you called the number when a kind, older woman answered.

"H-hey good afternoon, I wanted to make an appointment with Mr. Afton if it's possible?" you started sweating and shaking a little bit, a ridiculous reaction to such a simple act, you thought.

"Yeah, sure! We have a vacancy for an appointment in two hours, a client canceled half an hour ago his appointment. Do you want me to make a reservation for you, ma'am?" the lady asked, and if you thought you were nervous before, now you were panting.

"Yes, that would be great." you swallowed hard, your throat becoming extremely dry.

One hour and a half passed and you were now facing the mirror, trying to calm yourself down until you felt ready to leave your room. You were dressed in a pink skirt with a small, white top that defined your breasts. You felt pretty, yet you perfectly knew this outfit would be seen as provocative to your boyfriend's dad. Why were you doing this?? Why would want to get pretty for a man who's twice your age?? Those thoughts were pushed away when you gained the courage to leave your house and went straight to Mr. Afton's office.

"Come in." you heard that deep, masculine voice... the voice that you unconsciously dreamed of hearing again. You took a deep breath before coming in and closed the door. After a moment, you saw William staring at you in disbelief before a small smirk came to his face. "Well, I wasn't expecting such an... unexpected, yet very welcoming client to come".

"I just came looking for a job, Mr. Afton." you stuttered a little bit, William's big blue eyes staring at you intimidatingly.

"I'm sure you are... sit down." he chuckled and you frowned confused before sitting down like he told you to. He started reading your curriculum attentively like he was reading his favorite book, before he looked at you silently.

"So... what do you advice me, sir?" oh that nickname... always so obedient, his little girl. Yes, you read that right. For him, you were already his.

"Well, I have a... very interesting job option for you. I think you would love working there actually, and for a part-time, it should be all good." he smirked dangerously and you looked at him confused once again, waiting for his advice.

"What is it then?" you asked curiously, before he got up from his seat slowly to make you both coffee. You accepted, since you didn't want to be rude.

"A sex shop." he said it like it was so normal to him. You almost spitted your coffee and started coughing a little bit. "It's also near my house and I know the owner very well. He told me a while ago he needed a pretty employee to... you know, attract more costumers." you looked at him shocked and speechless. No words came out of your mouth and William enjoyed the effect he had on you. "Do you want the job or not?" this time he went serious and approached you, his hands interwained in front of you to show power over you.

"Isn't there any other option? I don't think Stu-"

"My son has nothing to do with this. It's your life, your choice. Don't waste my time Y/N, you have to take this seriously. Otherwise you can get your pretty ass up and leave." he shouted sternly and went back to work on other client's files, completely ignoring you.

"O-Ok, I'll do it!" you said impulsively since you felt trapped. You wonder how William knew so well the sex shop's owner like he said. Does he buy a lot of sex toys? Is he that kinky? He must be so experienced... your thoughts were interrupted when you felt a strong hand grabbing your neck before putting you on top of his desk, him standing between your spread legs. "W-what are you doing-"

"Shut up now, bunny. You're getting on my nerves and I don't like that one bit. You think I'm stupid? That I didn't notice how you dressed up to me like an innocent girl just to get a reaction from me, huh?" his grip on your neck tighten and it became harder to breath. "You're nothing but innocent, sweetie. And you're gonna prove to me right now how filthy you really are. The side no one knows about, but me. Not even Stu." his eyes were darker then before and you felt your core getting wetter. You knew he was right and the worse of it, you didn't feel guilty anymore. You've had already sinned, so now you just let yourself go and followed your deepest desires without anyone to stop you now.

"You know what?" you challenge him with your eyes and words, before you started rubbing yourself against his already hard cock, making him confused and frown for a moment, waiting for your response. "Maybe you're right. I'm a little dirty fucking whore who's desperate to be fucked by my boyfriend's father. I've been touching myself while thinking about you... and since what happened, the only way Stu could make me cum, was if I thought it was you fucking me instead." you tried to speak the best you could due to the lack of oxygen, but it was enough to drive William insane. He stared at you incredulously, admiring your honesty with such ease. He suddenly pulled you to him and kissed your neck roughly, leaving hickeys and love bites on its way. You gasped at his roughness and the fact he was marking you as his, so everyone else could see it.

"Don't worry, sweetheart. My son won't see the way I marked you, even tho I would like to see his face once he realizes you're mine now." he whispered seductively into your ear before bitting your earlobe. He continued his attacks on your neck while he unbuttoned his pants, taking his erected cock on his strong hand and started to touch himself. He then undressed your top and bra effortlessly, like he already did it so many times during his life, before putting one of your erected nipples in his mouth. He was sucking and biting the sensitive flesh, making you moan loudly. "Shh baby, you're on my work place, don't forget it."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Afton. I'll try my best to be quiet." you promised breathlessly, pleasure consuming you at a dangerous rate.

"Good girl..." his low voice made your pussy pulsate into nothing, making you desperate for this older man's touch. "But for now on, call me daddy, understood?" he tried to remain serious and control himself, so he wouldn't cum before fucking you.

"Please daddy fuck me already, I can't wait anymore..." your desperation was palpable and it only made him even more proud of the power he had over you.

"You're mine now, bunny. Is that clear?" he said before pushing your drenched panties aside with his fingers and finally entered you. You both moaned loudly and you only prayed that no one heard you. "Fuck, you're so tight..." he pounded into you faster after giving you just a couple of seconds for you to adjust to his large size. You bite your lip until it hurted, so you wouldn't make too much noise, but it was becoming unbearable.

"Please daddy, I can't stay quiet!" he understood you needed help, so he put one hand on top of your mouth and nose and continued to fuck you hard.

"Say that you're mine... fucking say it!" he growled into your ear in a way that scared you, so you decided to give him want he wanted.

"I'm only yours daddy, I need to cum please!" you cried out pitiful pleads, meaning every word you said. He suddenly changed your positions, grabbing your body while he barely sat on the desk for support and pounded into you almost in the air. His strength surprised you and the new position touched your g spot just perfectly, making you cum within a few seconds. He knew you were about to cum, so he quickly grabbed his tie and put it into your mouth so it could muffle your moans.

"That's it babygirl, cum for daddy and make me proud. Prove to me I'm the only one who can pleasure you this good." he spanked you hard on your ass and that was all you needed to reach your limit. Your orgasm was intense and it made your legs tremble, which made your pussy squeeze William's cock as well. He came right after you, letting out a growling moan that turned you on so much, before he loaded his thick sperm inside you. He then turned around so he could sit on his chair with you on top of him, both of you trying to catch your breath. After a while you both stared at each other's eyes deeply, his now softer cock still buried in you and he didn't seem to care about the risks or if he would get you pregnant.

You knew all of this was extremely wrong... you knew he was much older than you and would never want anything serious with a young girl, specially when you were dating his own son. But the way he was looking at you right now told you something different. His eyes became softer now that he was looking at you, showing a bit of care and... love? No, it couldn't be. Stu told you that his mother and William weren't on good terms lately and probably didn't have sex anymore, but maybe that was something that made you believe William could possibly care about you and wanting to make you his. All those thoughts and theories were put aside when you impulsively grabbed William's face and kissed him. He reciprocated without any hesitation, his experienced and soft tongue tasting like coffee while his big hands pulled you closer and grabbed you like you would escape from him at any moment. The kiss wasn't rougher and primal like the sex you had. No. It was soft, slow and passionate... a kiss that you believed only people who were in love could do.

Your heart started to beat faster, desperate to feel and discover more about his softer side, and that made you realize something: was I falling in love with my boyfriend's father?

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nothorses · 2 years

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"Transandrophobia" Primer

There's a wild amount of misinformation about the term "transandrophobia" going around, and has been for a long time. So let's dig in a bit and set the record straight.

What it is

"Transandrophobia" was coined as an alternative to "transmisandry", and describes the unique oppression targeted at and faced by transmasculine folks (and people perceived to be transmasculine).

Transmascs experience oppression not just on the basis of being trans, or (typically) AFAB, and certainly not on the basis of being men alone. What we experience is unique to being transmasculine, and the way cissexist society categorizes and responds to us: not as women, not as men, but as an "other" that lies between the two.

Some quick examples of transandrophobia:

Trans men are the most likely group in the trans community to have negative experiences with healthcare providers.

AFAB trans people in general are most likely to be denied HRT.

Trans men are most likely to be denied surgery coverage.

Trans men are most likely to avoid healthcare out of fear.

Nonbinary people and trans men were most likely to report having never, or only sometimes, been treated with respect by law enforcement.

Trans men are more likely to experience problems with airport security.

Trans men are most likely to avoid public restrooms.

Over half of all AFAB nonbinary people and trans men experience sexual assault. These are the highest rates in the queer community.

9 out of every 10 trans men seriously consider attempting suicide. This is the highest rate in the queer community.

About half of all trans men attempt suicide. This is the highest rate in the queer community.

What it Looks Like

Transmascs are generally placed in one of two categories: confused "girls" they believe can be saved, and evil, dangerous "other" they believe are beyond saving. There's a ton of overlap in these two categories, both in what they experience, and in the fact that oftentimes the two are experienced simultaneously; even in the same situation.

A quick, incomplete list of how these things can manifest:

Infantilization ("soft", "little")

Removal of autonomy

Stereotyping as "whiny", "hysterical", or "entitled".

"Butch flight" or "ROGD" - the idea that transmascs are stealing butch lesbians.

Pressuring transmascs to be more feminine/womanly, either through overt force, or through subtler manipulation.

The desire to "make transmascs women" via sexual assault (corrective rape).

The idea that testosterone causes aggression; emotional, physical, and sexual- therefore transition is dangerous, and transmascs who transition are dangerous.

Fearmongering around transmasc transitions; "binders can never be safe", "vaginal atrophy is untreatable", "you'll get fat/ugly/acne/sweaty/oily/smelly", "phalloplasty is too dangerous/expensive/unsatisfying to be worth it", etc.

Medical professionals dissuading transmascs from transitioning; stressing risks that can in actuality be mitigated easily, nitpicking family history without presenting options, etc.

The idea that transmascs only become trans to "escape misogyny" or to "gain male privilege".

Erasure of transmasc experiences, esp. experiences with misogyny and transphobia.

Lack of resources for transmasc abuse survivors.

Lack of resources for transmascs in need of reproductive healthcare on the basis of "male" gender markers, names, voices, and appearances.

Why We Call it That

"Transandrophobia" can be broken down in two ways:

"Trans" + "androphobia" = the "trans version" of "androphobia", a fear of men or social bigotry toward men.

"Trans-andro" + "phobia" = a social bigotry directly specifically at trans men/transmascs.

The second is the more common interpretation and usage, largely because the first can be interpreted, by some, to mean that those using the word are suggesting that it's actually (cis) women who oppress (cis) men, that we don't believe patriarchy exists, etc. This, of course, has never been the intention of the word.

The first break-down above could also be interpreted to refer to patriarchy's negative stereotyping of men- as aggressive, dangerous, and sexually predatory.

While that doesn't translate to systemic oppression of cis men, those same feelings- a general disgust and fear toward the concept of manhood- do inform how society responds to transmascs. As a group of people who are oppressed on the basis of being transmasculine, those feelings do play a role in transmasc oppression.

What it Isn't

"Transandrophobia" is not an attack on, or accusation toward, any other group of people.

The word does not imply that trans women oppress trans men, that transmascs have it worse than anyone else, that transfems are horrible bigots, that transfem issues do not deserve the attention they receive (or, ideally, far more attention than they currently receive).

It does not imply that cis misandry exists, that "MRAs were right", that patriarchy and misogyny aren't real, or that feminism isn't necessary.

It does not signal bigotry toward other groups. Whatever your personal opinion of the word, of who uses it, or of who coined it, the word is a word and it stands alone from those things. It belongs to the transmasculine community.

It does not demand anyone pay any less attention to other important issues. It does not accuse other trans people of oppressing us. It does not dismiss the existence of patriarchy or structural oppression of women. It does not belong to any one individual.

Why We Need it

There are real, tangible issues within the transmasc community- things that are unique to transmascs- and those things happen because of a unique bigotry toward transmasculinity.

In order to address those problems, we have to be able to talk about what they are and why they happen.

In order to talk about that, we need a word for what it is. "Transandrophobia" is that word.

Don't get me wrong: the word might change at some point, and that's fine. If the transmasc community as a whole decides that we would like a new word, and creates one together that suits those new needs, that's fine. But as of now, this is the most common, recognizable, easy-to-understand word we have.

"Transandrophobia" belongs to the transmasc community, and it's up to transmascs to define, interpret, create or remove associations, revise, and replace, as it sees fit.

What You Can Do

If you're transmasc:

Talk about your experiences. Connect with other transmascs. Join transmasc community spaces, create new ones, and maintain a positive, productive, and inclusive culture within those spaces. Uplift transmascs with different experiences from you.

Be an ally to other trans people, to people of color, to disabled people, and to other marginalized groups. Do not allow resentment toward the trans community- any part of it, and especially toward transfems- to fester in any space you inhabit.

If you're not:

Listen to transmascs. Seek transmascs out to listen to. Uplift transmasc voices. Learn. Ask questions, even if they're scary, and be ready to be surprised by the answers.

Think for yourself. Own your opinions, and own where they're coming from; don't blame them on other trans people. Acknowledge your limitations in experience. Know that you don't need to understand in order to respect us. Try to understand anyway.

#transandrophobia #transmasc #trans #transgender #trans pride #ftm #trans men #transmasculine #trans masc #trans community #long post #saint-speaks

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destourtereaux · 2 years

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home is a person - finnick odair x fem!victor!reader

summary: Y/N and finnick have been best friends since birth. when both your names are drawn for the third quarter quell, you must figure out a way to survive, or if it comes down to it, for finnick to survive.

wc: 2.4k | see request details here.

follow @lovebirdupdates to join my "taglist"!

GIF by @thranduilsperkybutt

a/n: kinda inspired by my dear olive (@retvenkos) bc she is just a superb writer for SO many fandoms. how do we even compare?

Some people believe in soulmates. Others don’t. But you? You had already found yours: goodness in the shape of a human named Finnick Odair.

The two of you had been friends since you were born and Finnick was two. Your mothers had been the best of friends and it had simply passed onto your generation. You and Finnick had grown up together, standing by each other through thick and thin. His sarcasm was never lost on you, and your wit made him every time.

When Finnick had to go to the Games, you were hysterical – screaming and sobbing, kicking and punching at the Peacekeeper who had to come escort you out of the crowd. And when he came back, you thought the worst had passed, that everything would go back to normal again, and it had… but only for 5 years. Then your name had been drawn, and Finnick had hugged you so tight it took three Peacekeepers to pry him away.

But you had survived too – emerged victorious. But at night, the memories came back. Endless nightmares that plagued your sleep, refusing to let you rest as the screams of those you killed tormented you. The only thing that helped was the weight and warmth of Finnick’s arms – almost like a shield against your trauma. He understood you wordlessly, and it had always been like that. The two of you against the world.

A year after you returned from the Games, your friendship evolved into its final stage, and feelings that were originally completely platonic slowly morphed into butterflies in your stomach and blushes on your cheeks. And when Finnick had asked you to be his girlfriend, it felt like you could finally see the sun again, like the clouds were clearing up and you had been given something to live for. Until now.

You turned the TV off once the dreadful Capitol reporter had finished announcing the theme for Panem’s third Quarter Quell: a Hunger Games between victors. You were silent in your disbelief. Not once had you ever thought you would have to return to the arena, and so soon, too. You were barely twenty-one, and you had won the games when you were seventeen, just four short years ago, not even half a decade.

Your family turned around to face you, their eyes melancholy, but you didn’t care. You didn’t feel much of anything to be honest. You should’ve known the Capitol wouldn’t let anyone escape their twisted little games.

Without a word, you ran outside, shoving open the door to your house. Finnick was already there, having hurried over as soon as he heard to check on you. When you saw him, you burst into tears, as if his very appearance had broken apart the dam holding back your fear. You collapsed onto him, shoulders wracked with your sobs.

“Y/N. Y/N. Look at me. It’s likely they won’t even pick us. Our District has a number of victors to choose from. Don’t be so scared, darling.”

He reaches a hand to your trembling cheek, wiping away the tears.

“But Fin… I can’t go back. I can’t- I just. And I can’t lose you either. Not an option.”

“I know, love, I know,” Finnick replies, as you nestle your head into the crook between his neck and shoulders. The two of you stay there for hours, as you cry yourself out and Finnick strokes your hair gently. “And remember,” Finnick whispers quietly so no one but you can hear, “I’ll always be with you. No matter what happens. You’re my forever.”

******

It was as though life thought you two had had it too good these past few years - and now you needed to pay it back in bad luck. Both yours and Finnick’s names had been drawn consecutively.

But even as you felt your world crashing down upon you, there was a strange sense of comfort in knowing you and Finnick would still be together.

And you knew — if it came down to it, you would kill yourself so he would live.

******

The interviews were over, and you felt the shock reeling through you from the victors’ shared display of rebellion. You let go of the hand belonging to the tribute on your right with a solemn nod, but you grasped the one in your left hand even more tightly.

“Princess, I’m losing circulation here,” Finnick teased, earning a glare from you as you wrenched your hand from his grasp.

The young man chuckled at your displeasure, pulling you into his side and muffling your protests. “I’m kidding. Please hold my hand again — come on. You know I was kidding!”

If only moments like these could last forever.

******

You wondered why the gods were so cruel. The arena turned out to be a clear lake surrounded by woods, putting you and Finnick at a distinct advantage. At best, you would gain the jealousy and rage of other tributes, and at worst, it would end with the two of you, each unafraid to self sacrifice for the other.

At least you had allies — Katniss and Peeta, who reminded you a lot of yourself and Finnick, and Johanna. But even though the group of you were relying on each other at the moment, there was an unspoken acknowledgement of the fact that an alliance could only last so long in the Hunger Games.

Your combined sponsors had sent you five a number of gifts, including food, and a spout for water from the trees. You had to give Katniss credit for figuring that out — she had definitely saved your lives.

Day after day, you count the cannon booms, until there are only 10 tributes left. Beetee and Wiress had been adopted into your group, much to the distaste of Johanna. The seven of you had grown closer over your time together, you and Katniss especially. She felt like a little sister to you; an extremely independent and brave little sister. You two would often share stories about your district and your families. It helped a lot, being able to talk to someone who understood how you felt.

When you and Katniss had your talks by the beach, Finnick and Johanna were off on their own. He told you he was finding water, but you knew they were hiding something.

******

On Day 15, you could tell Finnick was nervous. His whole demeanour had changed. He went from a solid cornerstone to a ball of restless energy.

“What’s wrong, Fin?” you probed, “you need to tell me. We’re in this together, remember?”

“I love you, Y/N. You know that right?”

“Of course I know that. I love you too. But what is going on? You’re scaring me.”

“It’s better if you know as little as possible. You’ll be safer. Trust me, love.”

You raise an eyebrow, perplexed, but you did trust him. That much had always been true.

For the rest of the morning, the alliance works together on building Beetee’s trap, hoping it would take care of the District 2 tributes.

Suddenly, a dagger whizzes past your year, forcing you to take a gulp of air as you dodge. Panting, you send a signal up into the air — meant to alert Beetee. But when nothing happens, you realize something has gone very, very wrong.

You send a spear soaring back to where the dagger had come from, slamming deep into a boulder. A scared Glimmer jumps out from behind and grins smugly at you.

With not a moment to spare, you sprint toward Beetee's hideout and spot him bleeding out on the forest floor, a red smile across his throat. You let out a scream — a mix of grief and rage. And that’s when it happens: an enormous explosion, red hot and booming, rocks the arena, and a hovercraft descends from the clouds like a gift from god.

I’m dead. They’re taking me to heaven, you think.

The last thing you remember is Finnick jumping into the hovercraft and pulling you up. You’re clawing at his arms, desperately trying to get on, before a pair of stronger arms yank down on your airborne legs, dragging you all the way down to hell.

******

And hell you entered. When you woke, gone were the scorching sun and shimmering waters of the arena. It was replaced by a glaring white room; even your clothes were pure white. You lifted yourself out of the hospital bed and made your way to the window on your left. There, in the neighbouring room, was Johanna, but she was almost unrecognisable. Her hair had been torn out in patches and her skin was a pale, ashy grey. You audibly gasped, tears welling in your eyes at the sight of your friend. It would be you next.

******

Finnick was beside himself with anguish. How could he have let you slip from his grasp like that? Slip right into the clutches of the demons from the Capitol. He clenched his fists so hard he drew blood, crescents of red on his palm that reminded him of his failures.

You were his person. You had been his since he was a tiny little toddler watching his mom coo over you in your mother’s arms. From then to now, the two of you had always been inseparable. He had protected you from the bullies at school and you had always taken good care of him when he didn’t care about himself.

He had let you down. Why had he been so focused on the stupid plan? Curse Haymitch. The world be damned. All that mattered was you. He should’ve saved you first.

The next day in the District 13 cafeteria, Finnick pushed his grey slop around in his bowl, avoiding eye contact with Katniss.

“Look up, Finnick. Now,” the girl suddenly commands, her voice the most authoritative he had ever heard.

He looks up instinctively, eyes catching on the TV screen. It was you. You and Peeta. You were in a white frock, legs crossed and an arm on your chair. Your lips were locked in a sickly fake smile as you delivered your message: “Katniss Everdeen. Finnick Odair. District 13 cannot and will not protect you for long.”

“Surrender, and you can still see the light of day,” Peeta adds, his words stilted, almost as though it pained him to speak.

As the screen began fading to black, a scuffle broke out. Your face, pale and frightened, gazed directly at the camera as you forced out a final message, “District 13. Here today, dead tomorrow.”

A crack was heard as you fell to the ground, and the signal cut off once and for all. Finnick was left staring at his own reflection in the dark screen, tears streaming down his cheeks.

President Snow, however, wasn’t affected by emotion, and she took your warning seriously. Ushering everyone down into the deeper floors, she shut the bunkers down completely and braced for impact.

By morning, more than 10 bombs had hit the District — each rattling the rooms. But Finnick paid all this no mind. He was too busy replaying your brief appearance on the TV. How skinny and sick you looked. The dark circles under your eyes were telling, and you looked so scared. It killed him. He didn’t deserve to live, while you died slowly by the day.

******

Every day for the next month, Finnick and Katniss got up early and knocked on the President’s door. He pleaded with them to please send a rescue team. To get you and Peeta and Johanna out of there. Out of hell.

On the last day of the month, the President agreed. “If this is what it takes for our little mockingbird to perform again, we’ll do it. But you’d better perform, Everdeen, once we save your little boyfriend.”

******

Both Finnick and Katniss were deemed unfit for the rescue team. Something about psychological and emotional instability. Finnick raged against this, but was drugged by a sheepish Gale. “We’ll be back before you know it, man. And your girl will wake you up.”

Finnick held onto those words like a dying man as he slipped under.

When he woke up, the compound was a mess of noise. Shouts came from everywhere. “Get the stretcher!” “Get me more of that endorphin!” and finally, “Y/N’s up. Someone! Go and find Finnick. Now.”

At this, Finnick jolted upright, jumping off of his bed. He rammed the door open and ran into a doctor coming to get him.

“Mr. Odair, I must warn you. Please don’t be so brash when you’re with her. Ms. Y/L/N has been through a lot this past month. You would do well not to alarm her.”

Finnick nods, breathless as he speeds up his pace. He turns a corner, then another, and there. He sees you at last. Your hair strewn across the pillow propping you up, a doctor examining your irises.

He stops out of shock for a second, before rushing to the door of the facility. The doctor accompanying him swipes a card to unlock the door, and within a second Finnick is at your side, down on both knees and cradling your hand.

You glance at him in surprise, before recognizing that it’s him. It’s your Finnick. He’s here, in the flesh.

“Fin? Is that really you?” you ask, in such a weak voice that makes Finnick want to sob.

“I’m here, darling. You’re safe now. We’ll never be apart again, my love. I guarantee it,” he chokes out, each word threatening to make him cry.

“Oh, Finny. I’m so happy. I’m so, so happy. I missed you so much,” you respond, in disbelief still.

The tears come silently this time, streaming slowly down your cheeks and falling into your hair. When Finnick sees this, he quickly gets up and embraces you, careful not to hurt you. Pulling back, he brushes your hair out of your face and wipes away your tears.

You’re reminded of a similar moment that happened just three months ago, although it seems like so much longer.

When Finnick places a gentle kiss on your forehead, you finally manage to process where you are. I’m home, you think. Because home, for you, is a person.

****** interested in other works of mine? see my masterlist!

#finnick odair #finnick odair imagine #finnick odair imagines #finnick odair fic #finnick odair fics #finnick odair oneshot #finnick odair oneshots #finnick odair reader insert #finnick odair fluff #finnick odair smut #finnick odair x reader #finnick odair x fem!reader #finnick odair x you #finnick odair x female reader #finnick odair x y/n #fic #writing #the hunger games #hunger games

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fandomxpreferences · 1 year

Text

The Endless Darkness and Mystery of the Ocean Is Becoming A Bit Tempting To Dive Into Now

Masterlist

Pairing: Ex!John B Routledge x female!reader, JJ Maybank x female!reader (all over 18)

TW:18+ smut, piv. unprotected sex. size kink(?), squirting, drug use, angst, violence, brief mention of blood,I think thats it

Summary: After ending things with one of your best friends, you see JJ in whole new light. the problem is you can't tell John B, but everything comes to light eventually. (Based on this request)

Word Count:4.4k

A/N: please excuse any typos, its 2 am and im delirious. also I couldn't choose between these gifs so have them both

Ever since the breakup things have been… tense, to say the least. You've been friends with the pogues since you could walk; they're like your family.

A year ago, your relationship with John B blossomed into something more and up until last month, the two of you had been a picture-perfect couple.

However, after everything with the treasure hunt and deserted island, something just changed. Your heart wasn't in it anymore, and John B agreed. Though it was mutual, it still put a strain on the group.

It's not like a normal breakup where you don't have to see each other anymore. Your entire friend group is shared, and you still have to hang out with him every day. It's getting easier, but how do you recover when you went from best friends to lovers and back again?

Walking away obviously isn't an option for either of you, so you're just trying to make the best of the situation.

You've found solace in JJ, the two of you growing even closer in the midst of your heartache. Which is exactly how you found yourself sitting at the end of the dock passing a joint back and forth.

The two of you have been laughing hysterically at nothing for the past hour when JJ suddenly goes quiet. You look over with a frown and find the man staring off into space. You wave your hand in front of his face with a small giggle.

"Earth to JJ. Anybody there?"

It's lighthearted, but his face is dangerously serious when he turns to look at you.

"I liked you first, you know."

The words hang in the air, thick and heavy as they register in your hazy mind.

"No, I don't know. What the hell are you talking about?"

You're genuinely confused at the random confession. You'd be lying if you said you don't find JJ attractive, but you never thought he'd see you in that light. He lets out an exasperated huff as if it's the most obvious thing in the world.

"I liked you before John B. That's why we made up the whole 'no pogue on pogue macking' rule. We found out we both wanted you, so instead of fighting, we made a truce and promised not to pursue it. I kept my word, he didn't."

He takes another hit of the joint and blows it toward the night sky, a thick white cloud dissipating in front of his face. He doesn't seem to realize the gravity of what he just said, but you feel like you're suffocating.

JJ liked you so much that they made up a rule?

"JJ.."

Your voice is soft as you reach out to grab his hand and his eyes dart down to where your flesh touches his.

"It's fine, Bambi. You didn't know, it's in the past now."

Your heart clenches at the nickname only he's allowed to use, and suddenly you feel tears sting your eyes. He's called you that since you were kids, your habit of falling and bumping into things earning you the fitting moniker.

"Is it?" You whisper, and you notice his breath catch.

That's all the answer you need and without thinking, you lean forward. He stares at you with wide eyes but doesn't pull back.

The moment your lips touch you realize how stupid you've been. Things were great with John B, you have chemistry and history, but it never felt like this. Electricity crackles under your skin, every nerve feeling like a live wire threatening to electrocute you.

He stiffens for a moment before succumbing to the sensation of your mouth massaging his. He's dreamed about this since seventh grade, and you're so much sweeter than he ever could have imagined.

The kiss deepens and you moan quietly as the taste of mint, beer, and weed mingles on your tastebuds.

He pulls away to breathe and you chase his lips, desperate to feel them again. Kissing him is like you were brought to life, suddenly aware of how dull the world has been all these years.

You didn't know what you had been missing, and now that you do, you're not sure you can make peace with not having it.

Your eyes slowly flutter open to find JJ already staring at you, and your fingers brush against the soft pink skin as if to make sure it's still there. His eyes are filled with love and lust, pupils blown, and you know he felt it too.

It's late, most likely early morning by now, and the rest of the group went to bed hours ago. You look around to make sure no one is watching, the only illumination coming from the moon and white Christmas lights strung around the wood railing.

As soon as you know you won't be caught, you lunge forward and JJ instantly wraps his arms around your waist. You can feel his muscles bulge as he maneuvers himself on top of you, his lips ravishing yours like a man starved.

Your movements are rushed and hasty, the idea of being seen looming over the two of you like a dark cloud. You lean your head back as his mouth moves down to your neck, the feeling nothing short of euphoric.

His lips are so soft, a stark contrast to the rough calloused texture of his hands as they roam under your shirt. He moves quickly, pulling down your bikini top and brushing his thumbs over your perked nipples.

Time seems to move at warp speed and in slow motion simultaneously as he unbuttons your shorts; your own hands moving down to his swim trunks. You can feel he's hard already, and he lets out a low groan when your slender fingers wrap around his thick cock.

Even without seeing him, you can tell he's bigger than John B.

The denim stings your freshly shaved legs as he drags them down the tan skin, a deep moan reverberating in his throat as he takes in the sight of your half-naked body below him. He stops abruptly and you look at him, concern written on your features.

"I don't have a condom."

You bite back a smartass remark about JJ Maybank not keeping a rubber in his pocket and settle instead for nipping at his Adam's apple.

"I'm on birth control."

He seems to like your response as he drops his head into the crook of your neck and rubs his tip through your folds to spread the wetness. Under different circumstances, you'd beg to taste him. But now is not the time, and you're certain you'll get the chance later.

He looks to you for confirmation, and you give it with a short nod.

You hiss as he pushes in an inch, the burning sensation as he stretches your heat taking you by surprise. You'd never had this problem with John B.

"I know, sweet girl. You can take it, I promise. I'll go slow."

He's speaking through clenched teeth and you know he's exercising a painful amount of restraint. He pulls back and pushes in a little more, repeating the movement a few times as you adjust to his size.

You gasp loudly at the feeling of being full, your eyes rolling back as he hits a spot you didn't know you had.

"Almost, baby. You're doing so good."

Your eyes snap open and peer into his, a look of sheer bewilderment on your face.

"That's not all of it?"

You don't think about the absurdity of the question until a playful smirk breaks out on JJ's face and your head rolls back in embarrassment.

With one more short thrust, you feel his hips meet yours and breathe a sigh of relief.

He stays still for a moment, waiting for your cue, which you give him in the form of lifting your hips.

He starts at a slow pace, testing the waters, and your mouth drops open. You briefly feel guilt over the fact you never let John B hit it raw, despite his incessant begging, but the thought is quickly erased.

You can feel every single inch of JJ, and your mind goes completely blank. He takes this as a good sign and speeds up a bit. His arm wraps around your hips, angling you up, and you let out a sharp whine at the new feeling.

He's pounding into you relentlessly now, each sharp thrust slamming his pelvis against your clit, and loud mewls rip from your throat each time he makes contact. You feel his hand cover your mouth to quiet you, but it doesn't do much to stifle the sheer volume of you screaming his name.

"As much as I love hearing those pretty sounds, and my name rolling off your tongue, you need to be quiet before you wake John B up. Can you do that for me, Bambi?"

His voice is strained, and the thought that you're the cause has delicious white hot heat bubbling in your abdomen. You nod against his palm and he resumes his brutal fucking.

It's not long before you feel the coil in your belly threatening to snap, and JJ knows you're close by the way your legs tremble and your chest arches into his.

The hand that was over your mouth drops down to where the two of you meet, and he rubs fast circles on your clit. You try desperately to silence yourself, your teeth drawing blood from your bottom lip as you clamp down.

JJ stops and removes his hand just long enough to push your shirt up so it's in your mouth before resuming his assault.

"Come on, Y/N. Let me feel you squeeze my cock. I'm dying to know what that pretty face looks like when you come."

The sound of him growling your name pushes you over the edge and your body convulses as pleasure you've never experienced before rips through your body. Every muscle seems to contract as your vision goes white and your fingers and toes tingle from the intensity of it all.

JJ fucks you through it, your own release triggering his as your pussy squeezes him with a vice-like grip he knows he'll feel for weeks. He paints your walls with a loud grunt, his face contorted beautifully from the force of his orgasm.

It takes you longer than usual to come down, your lingering high amplifying even the slightest sensation. You slowly feel your breathing calm down, and peel your eyes open to find a spent JJ staring down at you in wonder.

"There she is. You did so well, take some deep breaths for me okay? I don't need you hyperventilating and passing out on me."

You smile tiredly at the comedic relief, your body going completely limp as you regain feeling. You lay there and consider just sleeping outside as JJ pulls out carefully and starts cleaning you up.

"Do you usually do that?"

Your eyebrows furrow as you will your limbs to work.

"Do what?"

There's a brief pause before he answers, and when he does your eyes snap open.

"Squirt. Because it was the hottest thing I've ever seen and I kind of want to make you do it again."

Your body seems to kick into gear as you prop up on your elbows, and you stare at him in shock.

"Uh no, not really. I didn't even know I could do that."

You don't miss the victorious smile on his face, no doubt happy that he finally beat John B to something. You can't help but match his expression when his dimple pops out and he plops down next to you.

Neither of you says anything as you bask in the afterglow but you know you're both thinking the same thing. There's no coming back from this.

"Is it weird that it didn't feel weird?" You wonder quietly and his head flops to the side to observe your face.

"No, I don't think so. It kind of felt like something we should have been doing the whole time."

You breathe a sigh of relief and nod.

"I'm glad you said that, because I'd be super fucking bummed if we never did that again."

His bubbly laugh fills your ears and you lace your fingers through his gently. Another silence falls, and you're just about to stand when JJ speaks again.

"We can't tell John B, or anybody for that matter. Not for a while at least. We have to keep this on the down low."

There's a tinge of sadness in his voice and you nod solemnly.

"I know."

The next three months continue with you and JJ hooking up anytime you get the chance. It's not easy having to sneak around, especially when you're never alone. Making up excuses and cover stories is getting harder, and you know the group is getting suspicious.

One night after you managed a quickie, JJ is sitting out by the fire with John B just chatting when everything comes to a screeching halt.

"Why so glum?" JJ teases, and John B takes a long swig of his beer.

He's been staring blankly at the flames for twenty minutes now, and the silence is starting to irritate JJ.

"I'm still in love with her and I don't know how to stop."

John B's voice is barely audible, but JJ hears him crystal clear. In a matter of seconds, the guilt of his secret relationship with you crushes him and bile rises in his throat.

It's not just hooking up anymore, the two of you have developed real feelings and made it exclusive. Meanwhile, as he's living in bliss, his best friend is still torn up about you.

"I didn't realize it was that serious. I thought the breakup was mutual."

JJ tries to best to conceal his rapid breathing as he chokes on air, and it seems to work as John B releases a bitter laugh.

"I didn't want her to feel bad. What was I supposed to do when she said she wanted to end it? Confess my undying love and guilt her into staying?"

JJ doesn't have a response to that as his mind is sent reeling. Two best friends, both in love with their other best friend. How the fuck does he always get himself into these impossible situations?

He tries not to think about the fact your cum is dried on his boxers or that there's still an imprint from your lipstick smeared on his cock. He feels like John B can sense the pictures of him fucking you on his phone, and gets the urge to chuck it in the ocean.

"You just need to get laid, bro. She'll be off your mind in no time."

It's all he can muster before standing and basically sprinting into the chateau. He feels bad leaving his friend in a time of need, but he was choking like a fish out of water.

He knows it's bullshit. He's absolutely certain that after having you, he would never be able to move on. Not fully.

How could he when he's felt your loving touch and let you into the deepest corners of his heart? It's even worse to know that John B is in love with you when your heart is reserved solely for him now.

His feet carry him to you instantly, and the look on his face has you following him into the guest room without question. That seems to be a new ability he's gained since dating you. He always knows where you are, like his heart and body can sense you before his mind does.

"What going on?"

You cup his cheek the way you always do, and he leans into your touch. Normally it would bring him comfort, but hurt shoots through your chest when he seems to realize what he's doing and recoils.

"Did you know he's in love with you?"

The question takes you by surprise, and you try to get caught up to speed.

"Who? What are you talking about?"

His hand runs through his hair as he turns around, and he just as quickly whips back to face you.

"John B!" His voice is just below yelling and he lowers to a harsh whisper when he realizes.

"JB just told me he's still in love with you, Y/N."

You shake your head in disbelief and pace back and forth a few times before stopping.

"JJ, we never even said I love you. It's been months, why would he still have feelings for me?"

Despite dating for a year, you could never bring yourself to say the words. You do love John B, but you could never figure out why you weren't in love with him. It didn't make sense, not until you fell for JJ.

You're nearing panic as you resume pacing and JJ throws his hands up.

"Y/N, have you seen yourself? Who wouldn't be in love with you?"

You stop all of a sudden and turn slowly to look at your boyfriend.

"What?"

His brain seems to lag for a moment and you catch the exact millisecond he realizes what he said.

"No, I- I didn't me-"

You cut him off with two strides forward and he shrinks under your intense gaze.

"No, you asked who wouldn't be in love with me. Are you in love with me?"

He lets out a frustrated groan and rubs his hand down his tired face.

"Don't change the subject."

You scoff and quirk an eyebrow, suddenly much more interested in the man standing a mere six inches away from you.

"I'm not. You're the one who said it. So what's the answer? I'm not letting it go.

He ponders his options for a second before relenting. He knows you, and he knows that you will get an answer come hell or high water.

"Yes, okay? But now is not the time, so can we please put a pin in it?"

You smile brightly and kiss his cheek before standing flat on your feet again.

"Fine. For the record, I'm in love with you too. So what are we going to do?"

You can't help but think how cute he looks as the wheels turn in his head, and he gives a playful glare as you stare at him with heart eyes.

"Don't look at me like that, baby. We can't tell him, not now."

Your shoulders drop as you deflate. You know he's right, but it still sucks.

"I'm tired of hiding us." You murmur and JJ's features soften as he pulls you into a tight hug.

"Me too, but we have to be careful about this. Just a little bit longer, okay?"

He kisses the top of your head as you nod against his shoulder and pull back. The two of you compose yourselves, hiding any sign of affection, before trekking back out to the rest of the group.

A month later, you're all sitting around the bonfire after a kegger; a little too much alcohol coursing through your systems. You've settled into a game of truth or dare, loud laughs being shared as you all do ridiculous tasks and share secrets.

You're sitting across from JJ and he shoots you a wink when it's your turn.

"Okay Y/N, truth or dare?" Sarah asks and you press your finger to your chin pretending to think for a second before answering.

"Truth."

You instantly regret it as she gets a mischievous glint in her eyes.

Her and John B have gotten cozier since his confession last month and you're glad he's finally moving on. The problem is since you've both experienced a relationship with him, it opens you up to a whole new level of personal questions.

"Where's the craziest place you've had sex?"

You don't catch the smirk on John B's face as he takes a sip from his cup, thinking about the time you fucked on the open beach. He's sure that's your answer, and he almost chokes when you respond with something different.

"Either on the hood of a police car or on a motorcycle."

Your answer is immediate and you don't give it a second thought before spitting it out. It doesn't occur to you that your ex is sitting five feet away and that it most definitely wasn't with him; or that he knows you only had sex one other time before him in the bathroom at a party.

You don't realize that you just told him you've hooked up with someone since the breakup, and you don't see the way JJ tenses as your words linger in the air.

Sarah barks out a surprised laugh while raising her cup to cheers you.

"Who knew you were such a daredevil."

John B certainly didn't. You're about to move on when Kie interjects.

"Wait,"

JJs eyes squeeze shut when he realizes what's coming. This is terrible timing and the second worst way for the secret to be revealed. The only thing that could top this is being caught red-handed.

"JJ, didn't you tell me you hooked up with a girl on top of a cop car like three months ago?"

His mouth opens and shuts a few times as he fumbles for words while Pope adds fuel to the already scorching fire.

"Hold up, you told me you fucked a girl on your dirt bike two weeks ago."

As soon as he says it, JJ wishes the ground would swallow him whole. He could have passed one off as a coincidence, but both? It's not exactly common to hook up in those locations, and he knows you're caught.

His silence and your beet red face only confirm the suspicions, as realization dawns on everybody at the same time.

"Holy shit." Kie mutters and you don't dare look at John B as his eyes bore into the side of your face.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" His voice is laced with venom and you wince, instantly kicking yourself for your lapse in judgment.

Everybody jumps to their feet and your head spins as chaos breaks out. You're decidedly too drunk and not drunk enough for this and evaporating into thin air seems like a good idea right about now.

"He's my best fucking friend! You left me so you could fuck him? Since when are you a homie hopping whore?"

He's screaming now as Pope and Kie hold him back, and you look like a deer caught in headlights as tears pour down your cheeks. To her credit, Sarah is comforting you despite the conflict of interest and you're eternally grateful.

You drop your cup and gasp as JJ lunges forward, slamming into John B and tackling him to the ground.

"Don't fucking speak to her like that!"

His voice is hoarse as it booms from his throat and John B just laughs.

"What are you gonna do? Hit me? She's gonna get tired of you too, man. Before you know she's played you, she'll be on her knees for Pope."

JJ's fist collides against his nose with a sickening crack and you barely register your own voice as you scream for him to stop.

Much to your surprise, the blonde listens and is standing in front of you in an instant. Johns B's blood is on his knuckles and he cups your face tenderly as your friends tend to your wounded ex.

"How long?" John B coughs, and your eyes meet his over JJ's shoulder.

You can see the sheer hurt and betrayal and your stomach lurches. You never meant for any of this to happen.

"Four months."

Your answer is simple, yet John B looks like he's been shot.

"Un-fucking-believable. How could you do this?"

Your heart breaks as his voice cracks and JJ hates the anguish in your usually bright eyes.

"Hey, we don't have to do this right now."

You shake your head and step around him, coming face to face with your lifelong best friend.

"I didn't mean for this to happen, or for you to find out like this. Please, John B. I love him."

He physically recoils as the words ring out, and your knees wobble as they threaten to give out.

"I can't do this. You can't have us both."

He knows it isn't fair, but despite his growing feelings for Sarah, the idea of watching you be happy with a man thats like his brother makes him nauseous.

"Don't make me choose, John B."

You feel JJ's hand rest on the curve of your lower spine and subconsciously lean into him.

"Why? Because you'll choose him?"

He looks ill as he speaks and you slowly nod your head.

"Yeah. I choose him."

You mean it with all your heart, yet the words still taste like acid as they leave your tongue. This is exactly what you didn't want.

John B stays glued in place, his eyes raking over your face searching for any sign of doubt or deceit. When he finds none, his heart shatters all over again.

He knows he should leave, that he should stand his ground and never look back. But this isn't just anybody. This is two of his best friends in the entire world, and he doesn't have to ask JJ to know he'd choose you too.

He can't bring himself to walk away, and his eyes squeeze shut as reality sets in.

"I'll get over it."

He doesn't entirely believe himself as his voice shakes, but he's going to try. He's got a good thing with Sarah, and if you can be happy for him then he should try to be happy for you. If he loves you, he'll let you go.

You swallow thickly as you take a hesitant step forward and JJ resists the urge to pull you back.

"Pogues for life?" You ask quietly and he nods.

"Pogues for life."

Sarah and Kie take this as their chance and pull you inside, leaving the three men outside alone. JJ shifts his weight, hands wringing nervously as he anticipates John Bs next move.

"Hurt her and I kill you."

JJ gives a mock salute and watches as John B turns hastily to walk to the end of the pier. Pope looks at him with raised eyebrows and JJ gives him a pointed glare.

"Don't."

Pope raises his hands in surrender with a smug smile.

"Wasnt gonna. We all kind of knew besides John B anyway." He admits and JJ tosses his cup at him.

"Asshole."

@disturbedbeautywrites

#jj maybank smut #jj maybank angst #jj maybank fic #jj maybank imagine #jj maybank x reader #jj maybank #John b angst #John b imagine #John b fic #John b x reader #outer banks #outer banks smut #outer banks angst #outer banks imagine #outer banks fic

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caltropspress · 2 months

Text

Earl Sweatshirt: A Geography of Grief and Growth

I made myself the poet of the world. The white man had found a poetry in which there was nothing poetic….I had soon to change my tune.

—Frantz Fanon, Black Skin, White Masks (1952)

I suggest that we do not necessarily need to hear and know what is stated in its entirety, that we do not need to “master” or conquer the narrative as a whole, that we may know in fragments.

—bell hooks, “Teaching New Worlds/New Words” (1994)

Breakin’ ’em down to micro-fragments.

—Saafir, “Battle Drill” (1994)

What is asked of me is not to ascend but to descend.

—Robert Bly (1990)

Earl Sweatshirt’s arc, swerving and dervishy, isn’t difficult to see, as we’ve witnessed it with him—we’re either interlocutors or interlopers, both with questionable motives. So when Earl looks back on school daze, as he does on “OD,” we look back with him (though ours is often an imperial gaze [HOW COULD IT NOT BE?]). We tee-hee and titter as we hear that “somebody tooted in the student commons,” tooted being the most puerile word for gas he could have chosen. An array of scatological options were ignored. It’s a deliberate gesture toward juvenilia. He doesn’t want his expression to be too mature, ha. He wants to welcome you to the romper room, ha. Remaining a kid until the moment he expires, apparently. So he sets the adolescent scene: the student commons. “The bell rang,” and the accused student was spared the prolonged opprobrium. In about four seconds, the student will begin to post. He “went home and argued in the comments,” channeling his embarrassment elsewhere, talking shit (shit) on the internet behind the safety and quasi-anonymity of a screen—an odd facade. He can walk right up to your avi and diss you. That’s his philosophy. The public humiliation replaced with a private self-possession. The discomfort of the crowd exchanged for the solace of solitude.

2. DID AN ANGEL SPEAK?

The sonics of “tooted” and “student” are twee, giggle-inducing. We laugh along with the concatenation of m and n phonemes [somebody | student | commons | rang | went | home | then | in | comments]. The near-homophonous commons and comments scan hysterical. With “OD,” it’s easy to confuse adolescence with adulthood. That “somebody” committed this social transgression seems defensive. Maybe it was him—the subject, Earl, Thebe—seeing as how the rest of the song is delivered in the first-person. Embrace the Age of Immaturity. Channel the Fat Boys: Darren Robinson’s flatulent beatbox. Place it beside the disorderly lyrics that Bobbito spits: “I write my own shit from finish to start, / Diminish the heart, / I eat a knish and then I fart.” Like the Cenobites, Earl kicks a dope verse, and only that. “I keep my sentences short,” he says on “EAST.” Beauty is brevity, brevity beauty. A “brevity pack,” as Earl has referred to the Feet of Clay songs. He strives to be live ’cause he got no choice. He runs his own business like James Joyce. In A Portrait of the Artists as a Young Man, a similar flatus incident unravels. At Clongowes Wood College (Stephen Dedalus’s Coral Reef Academy), a “stout student who stood below…on the steps” by the name of Goggins “farted briefly.” Sonically, the sentence shares much with Earl’s opening line. Dixon asks, in a “soft voice,” “Did an angel speak?” But the others react with bellicosity and name-calling (stinkpot; flamingest dirty devil). Goggins doesn’t retreat home; he simply asks, “It did no one any harm, did it?” You still bet that you can harm me, but you don’t alarm me, Goggins might say another way, reprising Del the Funky Homosapien, echoplexing Masta Ace.

Earl “watched the doppler move,” the wavelength shift—the siren song of the “toot,” something insidious—or maybe it’s just the tremors we’re feeling. Woop, woop: that’s the sound of the beast, KRS would say. The frequency shivers. The shift, the movéd doppler, means Earl is immediately older, he’s the child who “get[s] introduced to violence,” even if he acknowledges the line was inspired by his nephew on a playground in South Africa, experiencing apartheid reincarnate as a whiteboy cuts him in line for the slide. Cranly, bullying Goggins, “shove[s] him violently down the steps.” The doppler moves. It slides into violence—like the violence visited upon the MOVE compound located at 6221 Osage Avenue in Philly in 1985. Gradations of black/white. ELUCID mentions the “gray on [his] face showing age” on his Osage (2016) project. Isn’t it strange—how the youngins can turn cold, hoarfrosty, in an instant? The grayscale cover to ELUCID’s tape is graced by a photograph of Birdie Africa, the sole child survivor of the siege. The bone fragments of the MOVE children have since been used in anthropology courses at UPenn and Princeton—case studies. It’s a good trope. Fascinating stuff.

4. TRYIN’ TO TRANSFORM YOU BOYS TO MEN LIKE DAYCARE

When JuJu of the Beatnuts asked, You want pain?, he wasn’t referencing the dramatical-traumatical pain Earl negotiates—JuJu’s question posed a ruffneck and ruffian pain on “Watch Out Now.” Somewhere closer to Marcy, where Jay-Z’s streets was watching. Earl clocks minutes, anaphoric with what he watches (I watched the doppler… / I watched a child…), much like Dylan’s portentous hard rain in which he saw endless racialized visions: “I saw a newborn baby with wild wolves all around it”; “I saw a black branch with blood that kept drippin’”; “I saw a white ladder all covered with water.” For Earl, the ladder is a slide. The saw is watched. Witnesses all.

In “Theory as Liberatory Practice,” bell hooks writes that she “came to theory because [she] was hurting”: “I wanted to make the hurt go away. I saw in theory then a location for healing.” hooks says that she “came to theory young, when [she] was still a child,” citing Terry Eagleton who argues that “[c]hildren make the best theorists.” Children, Eagleton insists, possess “a wondering estrangement.” No wonder, then, that “since a jit” Earl has found no use in “giving up.” He rather make it make sense.

I beat you to the point. Having gained experience, there’s nothing you can tell Earl that he doesn’t already know, that he hasn’t already seen. He’s seen enough, had enough. He doesn’t await the mob’s pursuit; he places the noose on himself, he RE: DEFines it within his own lexicon. His noose, therefore, “is golden.” He’s a young youth, rockin’ the gold [noose], DEATHWORLD goose. He speaks with criminal slang, with a split tongue like ELUCID. Where ELUCID was “true and living, actual—no dull axes, owner of all heads,” Earl is “true and living, lonesome,” with no skulls to keep him company. He has to square up with the “pugilistic moments” on his own.

7. I AM OLDER THAN I ONCE WAS AND YOUNGER THAN I’LL BE

I’m thinking of “The Pugilist at Rest” (1991) by Thom Jones, whose epileptic protag describes a “grainy black-and-white photograph” of the bronze statue called The Pugilist at Rest. The pugilist, with a pocketful of mumbles, has “slanted, drooping brows that bespeak torn nerves” and a forehead “piled with scar tissue.” Torn nerves and scar tissue—sounds like the physical manifestations of grief. And, yes, Earl has grieved, and he continues to grieve—as listeners, we’re accustomed to his grief pedigree, as per Ka. In the past, Earl was “panicking a lot”—he just “want[ed] [his] time and [his] mind intact.” That’s a cold fact.

The narrator of “The Pugilist at Rest” readies himself for a cingulotomy—a psychosurgical procedure that will “cauterize a small spot in a nerve bundle in [his] brain.” In other words, he wants to keep his mind intact. The neurosurgeon promises the operation will lift “the heaviness of a heart blackened by sin,” which is what convinces the narrator to agree to it. Good grief, he thinks, he’s been reaping what he sowed. He “can’t go on like this,” barely living “with a deadening sense of languor,” a phrase which calls to mind Earl’s lethargic, slugabed flow. Feeling insane in the membrane, like he’s a Soul Assassinated, exploring the depths beneath his whooligan behaviors. 376 was a brothel. “Good and evil are only illusions,” Jones writes. In anticipation of the surgery, the protag considers the worst-case [so what, so what] scenario: “If they fuck up the operation, I hope I get to keep my dogs somehow.”

8. MOURNING & MEDICINE FOR MELANCHOLIA

Grief carries its own antidote along with it.

—Charles Brockden Brown, Wieland (1798)

“Grief is the door to feeling,” Robert Bly says. But Earl, on “Grief,” told us he “ain’t been outside in a minute”—and that minute, whether we’re speaking with criminal slang like Nas on “It Ain’t Hard To Tell” or not, is an eternity. Earl hadn’t crossed that threshold, hadn’t kicked in that door. MIKE would realize it much later on “No Curse Lifted (rivers of love),” how you “had to walk through the grief,” even if it “was the worst feeling.” In 2015, though, Earl found these passageways distorted. Like the undulating photograph on the cover of his first mixtape. Like the blur-obscured selfie on the cover of Some Rap Songs. Like the static-scrambled cover of I Don’t Like Shit, I Don’t Go Outside. Earl’s dealt in fragmentary confuzzled noise for a full career. He’s been standing on the corner, red burnt, moving down alien lanes paved by GBV, greenthinking to himself. It ain’t hard to tell that Earl “don’t act hard” and yet is a “hard act to follow.” The density or opacity of his exterior notwithstanding, grief don’t come easy. “As men,” Bly says, “we’re taught not to feel pain and grief as children.” So Earl spits somnolent, numb-tongued and slack-jawed. Like he said on “Cold Summers”: muffle my pain and muzzle my brain up.

“I’ve been alone in my shit for the longest,” he spit on “Grief,” and in work as recent as “Vin Skully,” he’s still figuring out “how to stay afloat in a bottomless pit.” Bly says that “we receive something from our father by standing close to him—something moves over that can’t be described in material terms.” Bly speaks of being in a “conspiracy with his mother” from early on. Earl finds himself “thinking ’bout [his] grandmama” while he wallows and lies in a bottle. “Grief” catalogs all the things his mama taught him. Earl’s work, of late, is autodestructive. He peels away and pastes back haphazardly. He vibes with this Bly shit: “If you can deny something so fundamental as grief in the whole family, you can deny anything. And then how can you write poetry if you’re involved in that much denial?”

Bly goes on to quote Alice Miller, the psychoanalyst who gave us The Drama of the Gifted Child (1979): “When you were young, you needed something you did not receive, and you will never receive it. And the proper attitude is mourning.” Mourning is the proper attitude, not blame—mourning. Mourning makes its way through moaning and mumbling—Earl’s current intonation. On “Grief,” he “cut the grass off the surface [and] pray[s] the lawnmower blade catch the back of a serpent.” Philip Larkin’s poem “The Mower” (1979) leans more literal: “The mower stalled, twice; I found / A hedgehog jammed up against the blades, / Killed. It had been in the long grass.” Larkin’s speaker genuflects before the innocent critter, recalling how he “fed it, once.” Now, he mourns how he has “mauled its unobtrusive world, / Unmendably. Burial was no help.” Earl, of course, is less forgiving of the serpents in the grass. They’re threats, not friends. Still, a void opens up when the mower—(and let’s not forget the lawnmower is a modernized scythe)—does its mowing. Grief is the door to feeling, and on the other side:

Next morning I got up and it did not. The first day after a death, the new absence Is always the same; we should be careful Of each other, we should be kind While there is still time.

9. NOBODY KNOW WHO MADE THIS WELL, FOR IT WAS HERE WHEN I WAS BORN

“Come get to know me at my innermost…”

Riveting, Earl raps. Earl raps are riveting. We fix to the flow—riverrun, past Eve and Adam’s. We’re invited to know Earl, to become familiar, and his “innermost” is a constant vacillation between optimism and [afro]pessimism. The sudden switches—these switches on bitches like fixed with hydraulics—establish what Danny Schwartz, writing for Rolling Stone, called an “uneven terrain.”

Earl’s “family business [is] anguished,” and that’s recognizable. We’ve known Earl (on “Chum”) with the “pendulum swinging slow” and low. He holed up, hostage-like, in his “heart’s bottomless pit.” Poe’s “The Pit and the Pendulum” (1842) brand of captivity. “I was sick,” that narrator says, “—sick unto death with that long agony.” Something tells me there should be an exclamation point there (SICK!). Earl Sweatshirt was down, down, down. “I was in the fucking pits for like 10 months post my pops dying,” he said in an interview. The Spanish Inquisition ain’t shit.

But for these countless downs, “OD” tracks the ups like naloxone in the nasal membrane. “Now I need atonement,” Earl notes—he makes a case for reparations. He “sets the goal[s]” like some motivational speaker. If “half [his] wings is broken,” he can “spread the other for [his] brodie OD.” Somewhat circumspect as he’s “tiptoeing,” yet the approach is laden with “too much love.” Even when his “sister showed in a rut,” he’s joining arms with her and “getting over, sending up.” That rut she walks—like Eudora Welty’s worn path (1941)—is a path through the pinewoods, and she’s suddenly Phoenix Jackson. “She was very old and small,” Welty writes, and she moves “with the balanced heaviness and lightness of a pendulum in a grandfather clock.” Even with her pentium processing and pendulum low, she swings back up—the rise of her namesake. She screams phoenix, her feathers and flames are one skin. “Living in the moment,” Earl raps, and his craft is bars. “You been corrupt”—and, sure, who hasn’t?—but you recover with “some ginabot.” Welty’s Old Phoenix surveys a spring “silently flowing through a hollow log.” She bends and drinks and says, “Sweet gum makes the water sweet.” It’s the equivalent to Earl putting “shilajit in his sippy cup,” which is “healing cuts revealingly.” And, yes, from a “sippy cup,” so we’re back to toddling around again (“Since a jit,” he says). “I can’t give enough,” Earl raps, his last winding-sheet made of nard and myrrh.

10.

We crouch and teeter, caterwauling along the ledges, for we’ve got these clumsy feet of clay. This is the intended effect[/defect]; this is the rubble of what Earl calls the “crumbling empire.” This is us feeling the violent vibes of the “death throes” he speaks of. Why would we expect anything to resemble traditional song or rhyme structure when the earth quakes, civilization trembles, and Earl’s dungeon shakes? His chains have fallen off. The tenor is tremors. He’s living the trife life—hell on earth—but still living. Earl’s done trying to not look down—he embraces an outer appearance which scans dour; he deliberately gazes into the pit, inviting the vertigo, for it “haunts the whole of existence,” as Fanon says. But Frank B. Wilderson III promises a “vengeance of vertigo.”

11.

Gallons of rubbing alcohol flow through the strip, and Earl’s lips. He’s “refilling the pump”—his heart, yeah—but with a sawed-off shotgun, hand-on-the-pump posture. There’s “no concealing it,” not even with a concealed carry permit. He brandishes right back at “the enemy up in arms bearing snubs.” The mood swings; been down so long it looks like up to him. The turns require tourniquets. This is some Battle of Dak To torture—somewhere between Retaliation and the Heavenly Divine. Emotional turmoil seems violent by design, and Earl’s “memory [is] really leaking blood.” Fear not, the blood is “congealing, stuck.” Like Havoc says, “The Mobb rollin’ thicker.” Prodigy cites it, too: “This ain’t rap—it’s bloodsport.” But Earl has known that all along—he’s been “mobbin’ deep as ’96 Havoc and Prodigy did” since 2013.

12.

HipHopDX’s Kevin Cortez referred to listeners having to “sift through the muddle” in order to appreciate the bars, but where muddle suggests a disorderly conduct, a kaos network, Earl’s style, more appropriately, models. The woozy, wavy, and inner-conflict-war-torn vocals model an abstraction that anticipates the listener’s loyalty. This is what I’ve got, brief and cryptic as the gesture may be, the model says. Writing for NME, Dhruva Balram described Earl’s lyrics as “slurred,” but slurry is the form.

13.

If the empire can deploy Orwellian technologies of repression, its outcasts have the gods of chaos on their side…

—Mike Davis, Planet of Slums (2005)

So if we’re giving ourselves over to the woozes and waves, we’ll just as well find ourselves lost. Let’s go—like those tourist books run by students—and let’s wander eastward. Follow our napkin-scrawled directions and disorientations to a somewhere elsewhere. Let’s go east for a second, for a spell, on a lark, in the dark (word to AKAI SOLO). Earl’s bloodwork contains “pieces of slums”—or more aptly, [sLUms]. He’s hand-to-hand with that Jungle Boy MIKE, but also the god Mike Davis. “[T]he cities of the future,” Davis wrote, would be “constructed out of crude brick, straw, recycled plastic, cement blocks, and scrap wood.” Just the same as an Earl Sweatshirt verse is built—under the tutelage and overstanding-sharing, symbiotically, with MIKE. Davis says our cities aren’t “cities of light soaring toward heaven,” but a world that “squats in squalor, surrounded by pollution, excrement, and decay.” Smells like somebody tooted in the student commons. Smells like a slum village, something we’ve smelled before—possibly coming straight from the slums of Shaolin.

14. ACID EASTERNS

Earl trekked to the East and squinted into “one beacon in the dust weaving”—like Clint Eastwood arriving out of the hazy horizon ether of High Plains Drifter (1973). But Earl is heading to the East, blackwards. And though Brother J claimed you can’t define what’s direct from the East, Jeru told us on The Sun Rises in the East that you can’t stop the prophet either. So on “EAST,” Earl traverses a tricky terrain—it’s tricky, tricky, tricky because it’s an acid western landscape: an acid eastern.

The path isn’t direct or linear—it zigs and zags like rolling papers, and stimulates the same. “Double back when you got it made,” Earl says at the start of his journey “EAST.” The objective is to talk sense condensed into the form of a poem like Special Ed once did on “I Got It Made.” Instead, Earl’s poems—his L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E poems—skew [non]sense, go form[less], and vaporize rather than condense. Lyn Hejinian in cinnamon Timbs: “constant change figures / the time we sense.” The narrative is hallucinogenic (note: “how the story careen against the bars”). Earl’s bindle contains “thirty racks and weed [with] no fat in the collard greens.” That’s how he gets funky on the mic like an old batch. That’s how he gets sincerity on the mic: “Off top it’s me—no cap, / I don’t bottle things.” That buck that bought a bottle could’ve struck the lotto, maybe. But Earl’s “canteen was full of the poison [he] need[s].” He gets where he’s going like El Topo, bereft. The “trip was long and steep”—that being an acid trip—so let me see you try to ride a horse into the chasms of the canyon.

“EAST” is a death meditation, a grand duel between Dantean and Donneian lyric voices [he damn-near well should’ve double-tracked the vocals]. In a 2015 interview with SPIN, Earl is asked about the worst thing he did that year, to which he replies: “Umm…acid?” He elaborates: “I took it at a time when I really didn’t need to be taking acid. I had like a fucking existential crisis at, like, four in the morning. But it was tight. We reeled it back.” Jodorowsky called El Topo (1970) an “eastern” in that it “incorporat[ed] ancient eastern wisdom in the materiality of American cowboys.” For Earl, it’s more a rhinestone cowboy—he holds the cold one like he holds an old gun (as evidenced in the “EAST” music video). DOOM was no stranger to grief, of course, and the rumors persist regarding the bad acid that precipitated Subroc’s early demise (“Bad Acid” also being the original title for “December 24”).

Estranged Earl, alienated—a high plains drifter (not Clint Eastwood, though) who rechristens a town “Hell” through a baptism of blood. Like the Beastie Boys’ version, Earl pulls out a pair of pliers and pulls a bullet out of his chest. He pulls through, true and living. “I’m long distance from my girl,” Mike D raps, so he’s “talking on the cellular,” but Earl is more alienated than that—beyond racking up roaming charges, immersed in dead zones. He “lost [his] phone and consequently all the feelings [he] caught for [his] GF.” Relationships can’t be sustained in these bleak and barren locations. All the blood has been drained from the ruddy faces—sanguine scenery. In his essay “On the Acid Western,” Jonathan Rosenbaum discusses how the subgenre “refuses to respect or valorize bloodshed.” Memory really leaking blood. Congealing. Stuck. To paraphrase Rosenbaum, Earl’s acid eastern “formulat[es] a chilling, savage frontier poetry to justify [his] hallucinated agenda—a view at once clear-eyed and visionary, exalted and laconic, moral and unsentimental, witty and beautiful, frightening and placid.” Earl’s “innocence was lost in the East,” and obsessives speculate whether this refers to Samoa or New York City—how far east we going? Countless spirit-questers pit-stopping at ashrams, searching for that Gifted Unlimited Rhymes Universal guide.

“I wait a beat,” Earl says. His canteen stays filled, auto-replenishes. His “cognitive dissonance shattered” and the “necessary venom restored.” Jodorowsky reportedly once taped snakes to his chest for an experimental theater performance. As if it matters if you think it matters anymore. Or, as ELUCID says, “Words mean things but don’t have to.” Acids and bases. Occident and Orient. Western and Eastern. Up is down.

15. NOTHING LIKE US EVER WAS

Earl’s “EAST” accordion beat—or whatever Orkes Gambus Al Fata instrumentation is at work—is more madcap than madvillainous. In my head is Erick Sermon, though, speaking about how “the flow slow…like a jazz player, or someone on the accordion” on “Knick Knack Patty Wack.” But I’m less concerned with the flow of air through bellows—compressing and expanding—than I am with Earl’s rendering of wind. (Somebody tooted.)

“Let the dead be dead,” Carl Sandburg says at stanza’s end in “Four Preludes on the Playthings of the Wind” (1920). Later, he reports, “The only singers now are crows crying.” And so Earl, a lonesome crow, reminds us—and himself—that “the wind get the ashes in the end” on “December 24.” The whining, wheezing consonance of /-nd/ in “wind” and “end” manages to evoke both the wind itself and the circularity of life. The bar whooshes and whips until we’re at our end, the terminus. That circularity, that full circle: ashes to ashes. “We are the greatest city,” Sandburg repeats, “the greatest nation: / nothing like us ever was.”

Global winds be blowin’—[Of the Soul]—and so billy woods cites that same line on “Haarlem”: “Thebe said the wind get the ashes in the end, bruv.” Check the configuration of the rhime:

The wind | gets | the ashes | in | the end {birth} {life} {death}

Even that get does work—whether it’s the violence of Death Grips’ “get got”; Too $hort threatening you to “get in where you fit in”; or the satirical sadism of Keenen Ivory Wayans’ I’m Gonna Git You Sucka. The wind wins out—it gets what it wants. On “EAST,” the wind—infinitely personified—“whispered to [Earl], ‘Ain’t it hard?’” It ain’t hard to tell that it is. How about some hardcore? Yeah, we like it raw like M.O.P. But those burns yield ashes. In Adrienne Rich’s poem “The Burning of Paper Instead of Children” (1989), she struggles with the words she uses, knowing “[t]his is the oppressor’s language / yet [she] needs to talk to you.” I know it hurts to burn, she writes, but writing is no less ardent. “The typewriter is overheated, my mouth is burning.”

Let me bring it back to Robert Bly. “In the ancient times,” Bly says, “the movement for the men was downward—a descent into grief. It’s referred to in the fairytale as ‘the time of ashes.’” Ashes, he explains, is the “code word for the ‘out of it’ time.”

We know what it is like to take ashes in our hands. How light they are! The fingertips experience them as a kind of powder… Ashes, we note, find their way into the whorls of our fingertips, cling there, make the whorls more noticeable, more visible, more clear to us. We can take our own fingerprints with ashes.

Ashes, then, aren’t simply for the wind’s taking—ashes are for us, are necessary for us to transcend the grief the boys, the men, and the man-child experience. Bly points to the various cultures that have used ashes in initiation rites: “Ashes Time is a time set aside for the death of that ego-bound boy.” Ready to give up, so you seek the Old Earth. The elders cover your face—even your whole body—with ashes “to make [you] the color of dead people and to remind [you] of the inner death about to come.” Consider Earl’s ashen white face produced in the negative imagery of the “Grief” music video.” “The word ashes contains in it a dark feeling for death,” Bly says. “Ashes when put on the face whiten as death does.”

Earl Sweatshirt is a far cry from knocking blunt ashes into caskets.

16.

Feet of clay, hands of light…

—Moor Mother and billy woods, “Furies” (2020)

For Cheryl I. Harris, Earl’s mother, the feet of clay refer to a vulnerability we all possess no matter how formidable we may appear to become. Earl invokes the King of Babylon’s dream, a dream of an idol “meant to represent all the empires of the world,” echoing Sandburg’s imperious “greatest nation.” Earl believes “we at the feet of clay right now…We posted up live from burning Rome.” Imagine the ash pile. So Earl is here, ostensibly, to turn the disco into something dismal—how Mtume becomes “MTOMB” with its entombed sonics, as if he’s rapping from within a wall, the victim of some Poe immurement.

17.

“I remember woods,” Earl raps on “OD.” “I remember Endom when he wasn’t remembering much, / I remember love healing the ruptures.” I remember is also the refrain and title of Joe Brainard’s poem-memoir, a term which aptly describes much of Earl’s recent output. Brainard’s memories bum-rush into the present:

I remember a dream I used to have a lot of a beautiful red and yellow and black snake in bright green grass. I remember painting “I HATE TED BERRIGAN” in big black letters all over my white wall. I remember liver.

If Earl recalls love “healing the ruptures,” then he also likely recalls Fanon: It is essential to convey to the black man that an attitude of rupture has never saved anyone. But Fanon also speaks of young Black men “maintain[ing] their alterity. Alterity of rupture, of conflict, of battle.” Earl, “feeling rushed, grew up quick.” He echoes Biggie, who “grew up a fucking screw-up,” and Raekwon, who “grew up on the crime side” (though Earl’s mama taught him, as we know from “Grief,” how to avoid the pigs, persecution, and prosecution). Eyes on the clock, Earl acknowledges this “trip around the sun” is his “25th,” so “give it up”—his survival alone deserving of a standing [on the corner] ovation. He celebrates life with “gin and rum.” Again, notably not gin and juice—murder was never the case. The only death is the inner death, the death of the ego-bound boy, that Bly describes. Earl’s gin is the drink of be[gin]ning, of genesis (“Light them Phillies up then…”), of Super Nintendo, Sega Genesis, when I was dead-broke, man… “We wasn’t supposed to be alive,” Earl says, yet here he stands.

18. RUMINANT

Stare at the Feet of Clay album cover—an evocation of folkloric imagery: a Grimm forest with gnarled tree branches—and the enchanted, diabolic goat lying in wait. Earl’s parasocial following speculate G.O.A.T., of course, but I’m more inclined to mythopoeic possibilities. The Feet of Clay goat glares like Baphomet but frolics like a faun over fractured beats. “OD,” Earl has stated, “brought [him] up out of [his] little wreck”—a wreck of wracked nerves. Adrienne Rich encourages “diving into the wreck” (1973).

I am blacking out and yet my mask is powerful it pumps my blood with power.

Earl’s right there with her, submerged and blacking out, but still surviving: Really leaking blood, but refilling the pump.

In her essay “Teaching New Worlds/New Words,” bell hooks invokes Rich’s struggle to navigate the “oppressor’s language.” For hooks, as a Black writer, managing that is even more difficult and historical. “I think now of the grief of displaced ‘homeless’ Africans, forced to inhabit a world where they saw folks like themselves, inhabiting the same skin, the same condition, but who had no shared language to talk with one another, who needed ‘the oppressor’s language.’” hooks explains how Black folks have “remade that language so that it would speak beyond the boundaries of conquest and domination.”

Earl Sweatshirt, especially in his later work, has “altered [and] transformed” English, just as “enslaved Black people took broken bits of English and made of them a counter-language.” The emotional wreckage is also a linguistic heap of fragments—micro-fragments, if we’ve learned anything from Saafir. Earl, in the tradition of his ancestors, “put[s] together [his] words in such a way that the colonizer ha[s] to rethink the meaning of the English language.” “The grammatical construction of sentences in these songs” by Earl, just as by the spirituals of hundreds of years prior, “reflect[s] the broken, ruptured world of the slave.” That crumbling empire Earl mentions was faulted by feet of clay.

At the Museum of Contemporary Art in Los Angeles in 2019, sharing a dais with his mother, Cherly I. Harris, Earl spoke to this lineage directly: “Rap music is slave music—the modern-day iteration of it. Slave communication had to be encrypted. You got a code.” He shifted: “If I know what I’m saying…I can teach it to you.” On Feet of Clay, Earl is teaching to transgress. “I’m cracking my own code,” he says to an audience member during the Q&A, “how it comes out garbled…,” and then he trails off, as if making a deliberate effort to keep his answer cryptic.

hooks always saw language as “a site of resistance.” This included the incorrect usage and placement of words—she called such practices a “rebellion.” Weaponizing syntax. hooks recognized rap music as a continuation of this fight—the latest [sound]clash, hip-hop artists as rebels without a pause—while still acknowledging the collateral damage it might cause.

Rap music has become one of the spaces where black vernacular speech is used in a manner that invites dominant mainstream culture to listen—to hear—and, to some extent, be transformed. However, one of the risks of this attempt at cultural translation is that it will trivialize black vernacular speech. When young white kids imitate this speech in ways that suggest it is the speech of those who are stupid or who are only interested in entertaining or being funny, then the subversive power of this speech is undermined.

Or, as Earl once said on “Chum,” “Too Black for the white kids and too white for the Blacks,” an axiom he’s come to loathe. Perhaps Fanon had the better bar on this subject: “The white man had the anguished feeling that I was escaping from him and that I was taking something with me. He went through my pockets. He thrust probes into the least circumvolution of my brain. Everywhere he found only the obvious. So it was obvious that I had a secret.”

Despite the pitfalls (and, yeah, the pit is bottomless), Earl’s words play [wordplay] a part in retraining minds, all while exorcizing his own demons through a steady diet of ashes and fractures. hooks promises us that “in the patient act of listening to another tongue we may subvert that culture of capitalist frenzy and consumption that demands all desire must be satisfied immediately.” Through his embrace of a language that indulges in passion and cerebral coding, Earl “heal[s] the splitting of mind and body” so common within Western metaphysical thought. Earl Sweatshirt speaks “words that do more than simply mirror or address the dominant reality”; he builds blips into a reality that is worth the rewind.

Images: Dead Man, dir. Jim Jarmusch, 1995 (screenshot) | Teen at 1990s computer photograph, Unknown (c. 1996) | James Joyce, Age 2, Unknown | ELUCID, Osage album cover (2016), photo by Michael Mally, Philadelphia Inquirer | The Boxer at Rest, bronze statue, Palazzo Massimo alle Terme, Rome, Italy (330-50 BC) | Alphonse Legros, The Pit and the Pendulum, second Plate (1861) | High Plains Drifter, dir. Clint Eastwood, 1973 (screenshot) | Subroc on an Apple IIc, Unknown (c. 1987) | Earl Sweatshirt, “Grief” music video, 2015 (screenshot) | Arthur Rackham, The Water of Life, Grimms Fairy Tales (1916) | Dead Man, dir. Jim Jarmusch, 1995 (screenshot)

#earl sweatshirt #underground hip hop #rap #backwoodz studioz #elucid #billy woods #moor mother

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