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megistusdiary · 2 years

Note

We know Scara is rough but-

What if its readers first time? Would he be gentle?

(I actuallt requeated this before but i tought you might have overlooked it because it has been a while i requested. If u saw it and deleted it please ignore this 😊)

hey! i think i remember seeing it but my inbox is so full- i think i have about 65 ish requests rn ;w; they built up over time and i do not think i will ever get through all of them ☹️

however, lately i have been in a scara mood so i will be writing this one 🤞 it is really long because i have been in the mood to write more dialogue and plot lately :)

i know you are all probably tired of the really long stories with minimal smut but i guess it's a side effect of me being mushy in the brain.

i firmly believe scaramouche is an asshat, but i think if you were really vulnerable he would take pity mostly because it reminds him of his past and feeling vulnerable 👎👎

also, i think if he was to take a partner, it would need to be someone strong asf who can stand up and challenge him. he would honestly be smug if he thought he could teach you something.

warnings: dom!scaramouche and sub!fem anatomy/gender neutral pronouns reader

sweet and sour scaramouche, degradation/praise, he calls you 'human,' fingering/penetration (sub!receiving),

scaramouche stared at the pot of stew boiling over the fire. he occasionally reached over to add spices and stir the liquid with the wooden spoon, flames reflecting off of his deep blue irises.

he watched the soup with blank, dead eyes, brain long gone and focused on other matters. particularly what had occurred earlier that afternoon.

the two of you had your usual sparring match, you fought for a bit, he pushed, you pushed back, and it all ended with him on top, of course. naturally, even the strongest of fighters didn't stand a chance against a being made to exist as a puppet for the raiden shogun.

however, this time, something was different. there was a certain tension between the two of you.

now, scaramouche was not ignorant on the pleasures and desires of flesh. though he had not felt anything similar to this in many years. he had experience, though he knew he was out of practice in some ways.

so it surprised him when you landed on top of him, chests pressed together, your noses touching. he could feel your heart beating rapidly against his chest, and the ghost of a heartbeat in his own-

he immediately had shoved you off of him, hearing you gasp when you rolled over. "go shower and get changed, i'm going to cook dinner."

that was another thing he had never done before...cook for anyone.

perhaps it was a shock to find out that scaramouche knew how to cook in the first place. he claimed to have learned by himself, but you both knew that he must have picked recipes up from his time as a traveling puppet.

but none of this mattered to scaramouche, only your peculiar reaction to being on his chest. he could see the way your eyes went comically wide. he was sure if he hadn't pushed you off first, you would've scrambled to get up yourself.

but why? was he that undesirable?

scaramouche suddenly jumped when he realized his hand was resting on the burning pot, cursing the archons themselves when he cradled his hand to his chest.

damn you for distracting him. he knew it would be best to dispose of you, but he couldn't bring himself to no matter how many times he walked this path.

when it finally came time to serve the stew, you were already there, taking the ladle and filling up your bowls to the top, carefully walking them to the dinner table. he never thought he would live any type of domestic life, and it perplexed him how he ended up in this situation in the first place.

dinner was quiet, as per usual, though him clearing his throat put you on edge.

"about our sparring match today," he began, making you tense up as you avoided his gaze. "you were slacking off, like always. i can tell." he scoffed, sipping the stew.

"do you want me to learn to hurt you?" there was a slightly teasing lilt to your voice that made scaramouche grunt.

"you could at least give me a challenge." he leaned back in the chair, stirring his bowl. "though, i must say you did catch me by surprise at the end."

he watched you duck your head, face heating up as you cleared your throat. "i...apologize for that. i didn't mean to end up, uh, on top of you."

scaramouche narrowed his eyes at you. "why do you look so shameful?"

you looked up at him this time, lips pressed together tightly as you dropped your soup spoon into your bowl. "because i didn't mean to offend you. if i have, please, don't beat around the bush. tell me so i-"

"i am only asking because you act like you've never touched a man before."

you coughed, immediately reaching for your water before scaramouche snatched it away from you.

"no more distractions. tell me why that is. does my touch or form displease you, human?"

your brows furrowed. what was he on??

"what are you talking about?"

"answer me." he barked, clearly upset.

you couldn't tell him the truth, you just couldn't. it was difficult enough to live with him knowing he hated you. this would surely make him get rid of you.

"i- i can't." you told him, dropping your head once more as you forced yourself to stay neutral.

"and why is that?"

"because you would hate me-" scaramouche opened his mouth, though you paid no mind, "more than you already do."

scaramouche pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing. "i never said i hated you. humans get on my nerves, i don't typically like your kind." he leaned his head back, staring up at the ceiling. "but i suppose i make an exception for you."

you stared up at him, wide eyed, lips parted as you struggled to collect yourself. "you- well, i-" you couldn't seem to find the right words, brain failing to communicate with scaramouche. "so you're not mad at me?"

"no." he confirmed curtly as you nodded. "but i would still like to know, indulge me, what was with that terrified little human act?"

"i did not want to offend you by being so close. i know you despise physical touch."

scaramouche sighed. "you know, it would be so much easier if you didn't lie to me. i can hear your leg bouncing beneath the table."

you immediately froze at his comment, willing your body to sit still. you felt yourself tremble under his gaze.

and so, you were finally caught.

how long had he known? how did he feel about it? what if he-

"tell me the truth."

you suddenly stood up, slamming your hands on the table. you were running on pure adrenaline, ignoring the shocked look he gave you. "if you want to hear it so bad, then fine. i like you, and when i fell on you i was nervous that you would reject me like you did. there, are you happy now? kick me out, get rid of me, do what you wish. i can't live lying to myself anymore."

your energy fizzled out towards the end as you stood rigid, fists clenched. scaramouche slowly rose from the table, stalking towards you and gripping your chin. "how endearing." he cooed, pulling you towards him. he swiped a thumb over your bottom lip, shaking his head and muttering to himself.

he watched you rub your thighs together shyly, staring up at him surprised as he scoffed. "oh, please, if you want something from me, you'll have to ask me the correct way."

he was expecting something from you. but you struggled to produce as you suddenly grew meek. "scaramouche, i don't- i mean, i just..." you grew quiet, wishing desperately to bury your head in the sand as he frowned.

then it hit him.

"you've never done this before, have you?" he asked as you shook your head just twice, not wanting to stare up at him any longer. he sighed deeply, carefully taking one of your hands. "if i am to be the one to deflower you, i won't be cruel." he watched your anxiety slowly dissipate. "but that does not mean i will treat you like glass." he warned.

"i want you, scaramouche. can you please teach me?"

scaramouche seemed to be pleased by your soft voice, obliging and tugging you behind him towards his private quarters. his grip was tight, though not as much as what you assumed some of his subordinates felt when they disobeyed.

once he closed the door behind you, he tugged you towards the bed, urging you to sit down. "you do know how to please yourself, yes? i hear you every night. the walls are thin." your neck felt like it was on fire as you covered your cheeks.

"yes, i know how-"

"then we will start there. disrobe."

you followed his orders, carefully removing your clothing until you were left in the thin tank top and shorts beneath your robes. scaramouche narrowed his eyes.

"i said disrobe, not leave everything on."

"but..." you curled up on the bed as he sighed, standing up and removing his own clothes. "wait-" you squeaked, embarrassed as he went as far as his undergarments.

"my form has purpose, i am not ashamed of it. never show shame for your body, be grateful you have one." he huffed, adjusting his hair.

once you finally undressed, he adjusted you in his lap, spreading your legs and staring down at your most sensitive areas. he held up two fingers in front of your mouth expectantly, feeling you slowly part your lips as he shoved the digits past them.

he rubbed his fingers over your tongue, coating them in saliva until he deemed it fit, pulling them away and swiping them across your slit. you squirmed a bit, feeling him hold you steady as he worked you up.

you leaned against his shoulders as he tried to remember exactly how to pleasure a human being. it had been quite some time since he found himself in this predicament.

he opted to focus on stretching you out, collecting your slick and easing a finger into your hole. you gripped his wrist reflexively, eyes widening at the intrusion. "it feels weird."

he rolled his eyes. "it will be fine. just relax, don't tighten up so much. breathe." he warned you, feeling you try to lean back against him, keeping your legs spread as he allowed you to adjust to the digit inside of you before attempting to add another.

the second he started spreading his fingers out, you jumped, not used to the sensation. "stay still." he snapped, holding you down more firmly as he fucked his fingers into you.

he heard your whines increase in volume as he crooked his fingers, slightly changing the angle that they slid into you at. he could feel you trembling against his form, taking shaky breaths as he slid his thumb up to brush over your clit.

unintelligible mumbles fell from your lips as you plead for him to keep going, begging for more until he suddenly pulled away. your eyes filled with tears of frustration until he quieted you. "stop whining. this is supposed to be a humanly act of love, no? not just an outlet for release." he chastised as you pouted in his lap.

he rearranged your body, moving you to face him on his lap. he carefully removed his final piece of clothing, revealing himself to you and allowing his cock to bob up against his stomach. he stroked himself a few times using your residual wetness as a type of lubricant.

he picked you up with inhuman strength, hovering you over his dick as you shivered, feeling the head rub over your hole.

you bit your lip, nervous as he looked up at your glassy-eyed expression. "i won't lie to you, it will be uncomfortable. but as i said earlier, i am not cruel, nor am i ignorant. this is supposed to be done for human connection and pleasure."

and with that, he eased himself into you, groaning deeply as you gasped, fingers seeking purchase on his shoulders as you shivered. he filled you up perfectly, stretching you out and making you feel a fullness you never had before.

though you couldn't deny it was still painful, and it felt like you were ripping apart at the seams internally. you wanted equally to escape and chase the feeling, stuck in his iron grip.

as soon as he was seated entirely inside of you, he let you lean on his chest, smoothing his hand down your back. he shushed you, allowing you to adjust and relax. you were squeezing him so tightly, seemingly confused by the sensations as he sighed, pulling your chin up.

"i am sorry it hurts like this. i do not wish to taint your idea of sexual pleasure." scaramouche explained, gently placing his lips to your forehead, feeling you lean into him.

though he had seen you cry, experience defeat, be cut, bruised, scraped, sick to your stomach, and soaked in rain, he hadn't seen you this vulnerable before.

it almost reminded him of a certain someone many, many years ago.

"let me take care of you, just breathe."

#genshin impact #genshin smut #genshin impact smut #genshin impact x reader #genshin x reader #genshin impact x reader smut #genshin scaramouche #scaramouche x you #scaramouche smut #scaramouche x reader #scaramouche #💌─𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘴 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘮𝘢𝘪𝘭! ༊*·˚#✎─𝘥𝘪𝘢𝘳𝘺 𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘴 ❛ ༉‧₊˚

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hellowoolf · 4 months

Text

on strawberries and masonry: chapter iii

series summary: you atone for your sins, now, in a jackson garden, learning to care for soft things and yourself. joel miller is a lethal sort of similar, and misery loves company

you live in jackson and meet joel and you’re both damaged little babies and fall in love (but i’m drawing this shit out🫶🫶)

warnings: angst, age gap (reader late 20s/early 30s, joel 50s), blood & gore, scars (NOT self inflicted), knives, guns, SMUT!!, unprotected p in v, fingering (if i left out any, let me know!)

word count: 9k

authors note: the fucking. at long last. thank god. (this is my first time writing smut omg goodbye)

series masterlist | masterlist

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

joel speaks to you like copper oxidizing in the sun. it’s slow at first, a shiny amber thing you covet, bestowed every once in a while on patrol or in the dining hall. but when the green catches hold, the gloss of it gone but easier, softer, it’s only a week or two from start to finish. he remains taut with you, strung into a tight wire you weary your hands trying to soften. even still, his prevailing silence makes him a vault, and at every moment you deem appropriate, you store your secrets there.

you tell him about the strawberries first. of the redness of that first one, and the way you’d wept with tommy and noah over the soil. of your hoarding of them, too. you recall to him your brisk walks in the biting air with ellie, smuggling handfuls stained red in the warmth of your coats, to deposit the bunches of them in your kitchen.

he doesn’t ask you again, after his vulnerability on your porch that night, about ellie, but regardless you tally your moments with her to recite for him. you watch him grip to them like a wounded animal in the snow, though still he is joel, and so mostly he is quiet as you recount your greenhouse conversations. you’re certain, now, that he isn’t her father, but she mirrors him to a degree of uncanniness, what with her constant bristling. this you do not say to joel, but mostly because you suspect he already knows.

you pull from joel what he lets you. you learn he lived in austin, before. you learn he worked in a boston qz most recently, up until the trek with ellie to wyoming (the motives of this are strictly off-limits, and though you enjoy pushing him, you allow this omission to stand). you learn he loves music, and played the guitar a lifetime ago. and you gather scraps of him in the moments between the stories, too; he is performative, despite himself, and runs inhumanly hot, and reaches still for his southern manners like he’ll someday be rewarded for them. most of all, though, you learn he is not very good at covering the craters of himself. the small set of moments from his life before jackson he allows you to see are censured, punctured through by his own tongue, you deduce to muzzle the voices of the characters of his past he won’t let you meet. but his recollections remain wounded by his carving of them, and so the ghosts of his memories, unnamed as they are, are clear to you. there is one in boston, and another set along the path to jackson. most incurably, there is one in austin, but unlike the rest, joel carries this specter with him.

the dining hall is always bloated with townspeople when you return from your rounds. the warmth of them overcomes the cold of the outside (it has persisted into late january this year) and as you find a table with joel at your side, the buzzing heat tickles at you from under your coat. you sit down at an empty table with joel on your left.

“but i do think they’re being weird. quiet, i guess, and tommy isn’t ever quiet.” you turn to joel, whose mouth is full already, and he leans back in his chair. tommy pulled away from you, and joel, too, over the last two weeks or so. maria has kept her distance—you have learned to expect this—but tommy is so insistently social, and so his waning outings in town seem odd to you.

“i dunno. tommy’s tommy, ain’t he?”

“yes, tommy’s tommy. but tommy hasn’t been tommy. you see what i’m saying?”

joel shrugs, stabbing again at his plate. “i guess,” but his thought isn’t finished, so you don’t respond quite yet. the brown of his eyes flickers when he’s let the tail of his sentence go, and you’ve learned to make space for them. “i…i don’t think maria’s too comfortable with my bein here.” he won’t look at you, but still it’s as vulnerable as joel ever is with you; he thinks tommy is distant because of him. you’re thrown to that night with maria in your kitchen, asking (demanding, really) that you patrol with joel, to the unyielding truth that your forced proximity to him begins and ends with your proclivity for violence. you aren’t quick to guilt, but it lays its clammy hand on your shoulder while you watch him eat. you’re reminded of how hot the room is, and begin to pull your arms from your jacket, turning your head slightly to lay it across your chair.

“maybe not, but she’s never been too excited about me, either. maria’s protective, very protective. but tommy’s different, too, he–” you don’t know if it’s the looking or his finger that comes first, but in any case you’re jolted somewhat ungracefully into silence. joel’s face has contorted into something unrecognizable as he looks down at your arm, bare in a tank top for the first time in months, and you watch as his pointer finger follows his eyeline down the scar on your left bicep. oh fuck. the callous of his touch just barely dances along the top of it, padding his fingertip along the skin in what feels like disbelief and disappointment and something else entirely. the mark closed up years ago, but the feeling of joel’s hand along your skin nearly burns the thing off. your sanity and your wanting of him are so flammable, and the spark of his touch sets the whole of you in smoke. after a few seconds of it, of the looking and the touching and the silence, joel remembers himself and stiffens again in his chair.

“i’m sorry, darlin, i-” he stops himself. “i'm sorry.”

and him calling you darlin is entirely unfair. you flush, across your chest and down your spine and down through your sex. there is something truly wrong with you. “no, no. it’s okay. i didn’t realize you hadn’t seen it.”

though he’s retracted his hand, joel’s stare remains clutched across your bicep. his fists curl in on themselves in his lap, and he stays there, firm and looking at you and cupping on nothing in his palms. you fill the silence.

“it was a long time ago. i don’t think about it much anymore.” this is only halfway dishonest.

“i shouldnta touched it.” he almost sounds bashful, boyish. he finally looks away from the scar and back at his food. “shouldn’t be starin either.” the depth of his voice tears through you despite the softness of it now, a whisper nearly unintelligible under the sounds of the dining hall. it strikes you that he thinks you a victim, and the thought nearly makes you sick. by maria’s fear of him, you’re certain joel has as blood-stained a past as you do, and late at night you tell yourself he would understand. still, you haven’t had the heart to tell him. what would you even say?

joel shakes his head slightly side to side like he’s reprimanding a child, though the child is him, now, and you could laugh at how awful and sweet and misinformed it is. you’d like to forgive him again, but you think he’ll excuse himself if you say any more about it, so you let the whole thing dissolve away.

“you like strawberries, sting?”

joel groans. yes, along with the lusting and your little fruits, the nickname is a luxury you cannot deny yourself.

“‘n so i played, but never out at bars or anything. tommy sure as hell wanted me to,” he said, securing his horse back in the barn.

“so who’d you play like?” you called from your stall in the stables.

“nobody,” he grunted back.

“you play like sting?”

noah found an old record of his on a run once, and you sat by jesse’s record player for hours at a time listening to it. in truth, it was some of the only music you really knew by heart. as you asked it, the both of you stepped out from your corners of the barn, and he stood with his hip cocked. you grinned at him, but he looked incredulously back at you.

“like sting? are you serious?”

you crossed your arms over your chest. “i’m asking a question. can’t i ask a question?”

“jesus. sting played the bass,” he said, exasperated, as he turned from you to walk out. you thought of his thorniness and guitar playing and the colors of his voice. sting. you decided you’d call him that as you followed out after him.

“i think so. i think i used to.” he seems far more relaxed in his chair now, and it makes you sink further into yours.

“i just have too many now. i’ve been thinking of giving some away,” you say, looking at him. “would you take some?” and it’s true; they’ve been overflowing into your sink and onto your windowsill. your little plant has been bountiful, and you had insisted her harvests were yours, but watching them mold on your counter has not proven as indulgent as you had thought. another, quieter and much more dangerous piece of yourself, tells you that really, you just want to give something to joel, to give anything to joel, but you cite instead the rotting by your fridge and allow yourself to ignore that little voice.

joel eyes you. “you really askin? or you bein courteous?”

“am i ever courteous?” you laugh. he smiles a little and laughs, too.

“no, no. i guess not.”

you’re giddy with the shake of his chest and his grin. he doesn’t laugh all that often, you suppose because it exhausts him so, but when joel laughs it’s an anatomical revelation. the whole of him wrestles with it. you’re wet, again, (it’s nearly constant for how often you’re together), and you eat what’s left of your lunch.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

your favorite of the group before jackson was danny. you’d met eliza first, in the salt lake qz, but danny was your age, and beautiful in a delicate sort of way that struck you as unnatural. you remember the stories your father told you from the bible, of the angels with eyes and wings and bloodlust, and danny was of that sort. it surrendered you to him, you think, and so you let him fuck you when the moon wasn’t out. he never made you come, really, but it wasn’t about the coming then. you were teenagers and guilty, so heavy and ashamed and good at the killing, and so the rub of a tree at your back as you let him put his cock in you was an escape from your being and the blood on your hands.

in his back pocket danny kept a polaroid, folded up and frayed around the edges, of him as a child, much of the same abnormality and prettiness, and ellie reminds you of that photo. for a thing you’re certain has seen death on and about her, ellie remains strange and stunning. she sits to your left with her legs out in front of her, sorting through your stock of seeds. you spin your knife along your knuckles as you sort through a pole bean plant to harvest the ripened pods, the orange light of sunset filtering through the leaves and quilting shapes along your skin.

“okay, mainly you’re almost outta radishes. everything else you gotta pretty nice setup on,” she says, setting the box down next to her. ellie had broken her outstanding silence with you, and you determine quickly that she isn’t disillusioned with who you have been. she’d told you once that you hold your knife like you’re worried someone will take it from you. she’d laughed and laughed, conjured scenarios of your vegetables rising against you, and you laughed with her. still, she sees your practice with it, the disjoint of your grip against the unmoving of your plants, and inherits the knowing of the damage you’ve done.

“alright. i’ll see if anyone going through the set of cabins down south can find anything,” you say back, sifting still through the bean leaves.

“and what do you say now?” ellie’s voice lilts with her smile, all childlike wickedness, and you turn to her, grinning back.

“thank you, ellie.”

with a grunt and a stumble she stands back up and gives you a half bow, echoing self contentedly, “thank you, ellie.” you snort.

as she leaves, you watch tommy approach through the greenhouse walls. you think he’s frightened of her, hides himself in his coat as though she may reach out and tear him apart, but still he tips his chin to her as he makes his way towards you and crosses her path. you can’t help but smile, tracking the peeking green of a few pole beans she’d stolen bounce from her pocket as she walks away. you walk out the doors to lean on the outside greenhouse wall.

“i see you’ve risen from your crypt,” you say as he arrives fully in front of you.

tommy grins tight lipped, his arms cradled to his ribs as he keeps his hands in the pockets of his jeans. there’s an anxiety to him, to the way he rocks back and forth before you. “yeah, yeah. i already heard it from damn near everyone i’ve seen today.”

“i’ve been more social than you these past two weeks. you know how fucked up that is, tommy?” you’re trying your hardest to show him you’re joking, coax him into honesty. he’s come to confess something to you, you think.

“oh give me a break,” he replies.

you raise your eyebrows slightly and holds your arms out in front of you; you have the floor. a beat.

“well i came to tell you the news.” you hum. “maria and i are, well i guess maria is, shit,” he says, but he’s smiling now, coy and wistful, scratching the back of his head as he asks, “how did people used to do this?” you say nothing, still. “maria and i are having a baby.”

and something between your lungs shifts out of place. they are going to have a child. a child. your first thought is that they will be good parents, tommy and maria; their flesh and blood is warm with sun and work and something lovely, and it will make for something worth growing, you’re certain. they will be of jackson, like your plants and the snow, and maybe the whole of humanity is forgiven for children like this, born into safety and wood cabins.

your second thought is so horrifically selfish you can hardly stomach it, let alone recite it. you swallow it back down.

“tommy, that’s amazing,” and you hug him there, a copy of your embrace standing in the reflection of the greenhouse walls. “how are you feeling about it?”

he pulls back grinning. yes, he will be a good father. “well shit, scared out of my mind, you know,” he chuckles, “but real excited. maria, too.”

you give him a smile that you mean. “well, you guys let me know if i can do anything,” you say, and gesture towards the garden, “if there are any herbs or things that could help maria with any of it you just let me know.”

tommy nods and puts his hands in his pockets, nodding. “i thank ya for it.”

for a moment, the two of you stand there in the waning sunlight, watching what you’ve become. tommy, you think, is precisely what he was meant to be. he has always been far too content with existence, molded over as it might now be, to deny fatherhood. you wonder what he sees in you.

“well, give maria my congratulations. lord knows she’s doing the heavy lifting,” you chuckle as you move to go back into the greenhouse, “and come knocking if i can help.”

you make it to the door before tommy calls your name and you turn around.

“how’re you doin on patrol with joel?” he asks you from his spot, letting the words cross the now sizable distance between you. you’re thankful for how far he is, hoping whatever grin is laying itself across your face is too subtle for him to make out.

“we’re doing okay, i think. he’s a little tense…and can be fucking terrifying.” and now you really smile. “but i can handle him.”

tommy barks out a laugh and begins to walk backwards towards the town square, calling out with a palm cupped to the side of his mouth, “you’re good for him!”

and you let yourself be jovial, laughing as you kneel to your beets, but really you might never forgive him for saying something like that.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

joel still hasn’t come to visit your garden, though you’re grateful for this now. the warmth of the greenhouse has become your respite from the constant wanting, and you think if he materialized in the doorway you’d melt there in the soil. pacing through your kitchen, you eye the little basket of strawberries on your counter. you’ve named them joel’s already, but each time you’ve made to bring them to him your resolve disintegrates down your thighs.

but oh, they are so perfect now, reddened into a vivid blush, and if you don’t hand them off today you’ll have to throw them out. you grab the basket and slip out the door, doing your best to avoid spitting up your heartbeat on the walk to joel’s porch.

it’s nearly dusk, and when he opens the door he has a glass with about a finger of whiskey in his right hand. it sloshes as he looks you over, eyes measured a little with surprise and something else, but you stay tied to the wrap of his fingers around the glass and lock your knees to keep from dropping to them.

“hey, sting,” you grin (or grimace, more like).

“uh,” he leans a shoulder on the doorway and the movement brings his chest closer to you outside of the threshold. you smell the whiskey and the pine of him as he continues, “hey.��

his voice is deeper, now, hoarse with the weight of the day, and you conclude that you are, in fact, doomed for madness, if he keeps looking at you like that. you bring the basket of strawberries up to your chest and gesture them to him. “i just wanted to drop these off. they’ll go bad in a few days.”

joel peers down into the basket and grins a little, turning to put the tumbler on a table behind him before stepping more fully out of the house. you think he expects you to take a step back to make room for him, but you allow his chest to crowd yours, tilting your head further back. “well shit,” he laughs, “these are real.”

“yeah, well, now they’re real and they’re yours.”

joel lets his eyes circle once more over your face before extending his hands to take the basket. the warmth of his fingers as they brush yours along the weaving makes you clench and expand in the span of a moment. “thank you, really,” he says softly, sincerely, and the basket is so much smaller, now, held to his front.

you shove your hands into your back pockets. “eat them soon, though, please.”

joel turns around again to put the basket inside just beside the whiskey glass, and says to you behind him, “can always make jam or somethin if i can’t go through em all.”

your stomach twists up and it pushes what can only be described as a giggle (an awful thing) from you. “jam? you know how to make jam?”

he shifts back around and cocks his hip, sticking a knee out. “the fuck you mean by that tone?”

you laugh harder, earnestly, nearly folding over with it as he grips the door, ready to close it. “jam?”

“yes, jam. it ain’t that hard.”

you keep laughing just for the sake of it now, but as joel begins to swing the door shut with a quiet jesus you hold your hands out. “i’m sorry, i’m sorry, you just don’t look the type is all.”

with a tilt of his head he asks, “oh yeah? so what type am i?”

this quiets you. please, do not give yourself away, do not bleed your hand, do not. you narrow your eyes at him, dramatizing your assessment, pleading with yourself to construct an answer suitable for near sunset, but you take too long, boots nearly reaching his. he grunts, bringing his thumb and pointer finger up to hold your chin and twist you away from him. you feel the calluses on the pads of his fingers for the moment that he grasps your head between them, and your pussy drools a little. still, you begin to make your way down his porch; this is far from the most aggressive way joel has decided the conversation has ended, and so despite his push of your chin from his palm you make it to the final step pleased, the warmth of his skin still licking where he touched you.

“goodnight.”

you stop, take a deep breath in, the silence behind you petting down your spine. he hasn’t closed the door. he’s waiting for you to say it back. and you die a little death there, with one foot on the road. “goodnight, sting.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

the air is noticeably warmer this morning as you drag it into your mouth, padding along the beginnings of spring towards the stables. joel has prepared his horse already when you walk in, giving you a mornin, and he’s leaned up statuesque on her side with an elbow. the sling of his gun’s strap hugs his chest through his flannel, and the barrel peeks up over his shoulder, but only just. you salute to him as you saddle your horse.

“morning yourself.” you feel him stretch behind you as he mounts his horse (you are always so painfully aware of his body) and smirk, “rough night? did the jam give you trouble?”

“christ, i didn’t make any, darlin i’m just tired.”

you mount your horse. darlin. jesus.

“well you rest up, cowboy, i’ll cover you.”

joel grunts and says nothing as you trot out the gates together. he doesn’t think you capable of protecting him; in all, it is your best kept secret.

as the both of you wind through your northern route, you notice again the opening forest floor, weeds and flower beds resurfacing again beneath the trees. elderberries start to bloom out here this time of year, and in years past noah has uprooted the bushes for you to replant and harvest. the flowers are edible, too, and beautiful, and you wonder if joel will let you stop a moment to look for them. you wait until the trees grow thick and quiet around you before asking.

“joel,” he makes a noise in response, “could we stop here for a little? there are berries that grow around here and i want to see if i can find any to take back to the greenhouse.”

joel looks at you from his horse, affectless. “you serious?”

“yes.”

he lets out a sigh that morphs into a yawn midway through and shakes his head around a little, dusting something from his mind. “alright, alright. fine. but stay close, please,” and he trails off as he says it but you catch the end all the same.

you smile up at him, feet already on the ground and setting your rifle at your horses hooves to pull your knife out. as you weave through the shadows of the brush you call back to joel, “maybe you can make some marmalade out of these, too,” and you’re buzzing with the scoff that passes even through the feet between you, but he’s grinning, small and against his best efforts, and you spot that, too.

“you ever gonna let that go?”

and you don’t answer, ducking into an embankment of bush and leaves.

it’s been years since you’ve foraged like this. you used to pick mushrooms and berries from the ground with danny at night when you ran with the raiders, eat them together and take your chances. this feels different, though, charged with a tenderness and gentle knowing that’s new to you now. the world out here looks so much like your garden, feels so much like yours, and it strikes you that the mountains answer to you in your own small way. you could find a spot, up and away from the snow, and decide what grows there, play god with the grasses and the weeds. so though you find no elderberries in this brush, you are quiet with that little victory as you pace back to where you left joel.

as you approach, joel’s voice calls through the trees. a deep and pained “fuck!” and the rustling of clothes grows louder as you pad forward. there’s a shrill grunting, too, not joel’s, not joel’s. you take stock of your heartbeat and your fingers and the blade in your coat. there is someone else here. you move silently on the dirt, hiding your body in the bark and greenery, and then you spot him, kneeling with his hands behind his head, his gun kicked a few feet away, and a scrawny figure holds a glock to the skin of his forehead. suddenly you’re 19 again, and unafraid. joel spots you from your place halfway behind a tree and his eyes widen a fraction. don’t come out, he’s pleading with you, but you will not listen. your father’s knife, tucked into your jacket, coughs to life.

you trample the ground below you as you stumble out, hands in the air. you whine, “please, please, don’t hurt him,” and the man whirls around to you. he looks gaunt, his cheeks pressed into his face, but his beard, which hangs wiry by his chin, is streaked with something bloody and dead. he bares his teeth and laughs with delirium.

“so there is another one,” he says as he approaches, gun pointed now at your nose. you let him think you a coward and flinch as he presses it to your face. “you’re prettier ‘an your partner, ain’t ya?”

you keep your eyes wide, say nothing. not yet, not yet, he isn’t close enough. joel barks from behind him, lowly and wild, “don’t you fucking dare,” but the man has already brought his other hand to drag around your face, through the hollow of your collarbone, down your sternum. you let your lip tremble and joel flinches ahead of you.

the man calls behind him to joel, saying “if i hear you move a goddamn inch i’ll shoot ‘er.” joel’s face is pulled up into fury and brutality and helplessness, nostrils flaring and chest heaving, but he stills.

“please, please, i’ll do anything, let us go,” and as you say it, already his right hand is tilting, the barrel of the gun slowly drifting from your cheek. just a little more.

his breath is soiled with rot as it fans over your face and he’s so close to you now, whispering, “anything?”

the gun is pointed just to the right of your ear.

now.

you twist your arm between your shoulder and his wrist to grab his hand, pointing the gun to the treeline as you duck under it to spin behind him, your free hand reaching into your coat and stabbing through the artery that runs through his neck. blood pours from around the handle as the man falls to his knees, and you grip him by the filth of his hair to pull your knife back out. you let out a breath, standing over what is now a corpse. it’s been years, but you are always yourself, aren’t you?

you falter only when you turn around and joel is there. he’s sat fully on his haunches, arms hanging loosely by his sides as he looks up at you. and the look on his face is…you don’t entirely know. his eyebrows kiss, knit together on his forehead, and his eyes look through you, like you’re an apparition before him, but still his mouth hangs open slightly. you think if you stay here, standing above him, the whole mangled history will come clawing from your mouth, so instead you move to sit beside him, the both of you now facing the body you left behind.

the silence survives, for a few seconds. joel’s shoulders slump as he adjusts himself to sit with his legs out, and he pulls in a deep breath.

“you done that a lot?”

you take a moment before replying, “yeah.” you think of how the truth seems to demand to be known regardless, regardless of your stifling of it and your wanting of joel and whatever innocence you’ve never had but cling to when with him. you think of this, and begin speaking.

“i was 18 when they found me in the salt lake qz. there was a group of them, 9 at the time, and this woman, eliza, she promised they’d take care of me. feed me more than the qz had. and i wasn’t starving or anything, really, or in any kind of trouble. i could take care of myself, you know. maybe i should’ve had a stronger moral compass. i was just…” you take a breath, “i was so alone, then. my father died on outbreak day, and mom was never really in the picture. some of them were my age, some were older. i don’t know. i’d learned how to use the knife like…” you look again at the corpse, “like that by then. i’d killed by then. it didn’t feel like i was losing anything, being a raider.”

joel is still beside you, looking down at his hands, but you know he is listening.

“and so we used to trap people like that. men, mostly. they’d throw me out in groups of them, let them get close and then…” you wave your hand around, a stand-in for the killing. “i ran with them for a few years. they kept their promises.” your scar throbs beneath your sleeve and you take another breath. “and then another group got the jump on us. we’d been looking through a warehouse and they’d been hiding there, i guess. they killed a few, nearly killed me, i think. they sliced through the artery down my left arm,” and you trace the line of the scar as you say it, “but matteo killed the rest before they slit my throat. he tried to stitch me up a little with what was left of our twine. still, they left me there. i didn’t really blame them. still don’t.

tommy found me there. he patrolled with noah, back then, and they came passing through after everyone else had left or died. at first they said i could only stay until the wound was healed, but in the end nobody had the heart to turn me out.” finally, you look at him, and he shifts his head up to look back at you. “i’m sorry i didn’t tell you.” and you are.

joel’s eyes flit over your face, scowling still but soft, too, and brings a hand up, slowly. he cups his palm around your cheek to turn your head, thumb soft along your face, and wipes the blood splatter along your neck and jaw with his other hand. when he shifts your face back to his, he lets his thumb trace the line of your nose, around the curve of your chin, once, featherlight, under your bottom lip. your mouth opens up a little, watching him watch you. he nods, then, decisive, and pulls himself off the ground, helping you up after him.

you ride back to jackson in silence, leaving the dead man in the open. you let joel turn over what he saw, what he heard, in the quiet of your horse’s footsteps. he leaves you in the barn when you’ve dismounted, tells you to stay put, and reports the man to tommy. you stay, leaned up against the barn wall, waiting for him, something inside you scratching along the lining of your body, wondering what he’s thinking and knowing you have no right to it. when joel comes back, you notice the streak of blood on his thigh where he’d wiped his fingers after holding your face. you consider each other a moment from across the stables, and something passes between you. you saved his life today, and he’s grateful for it in a way he’s struggling with, and you can both agree you needn’t mention it again, at least until tomorrow. these thoughts he lets you read, before dropping them.

“you like whiskey?” he asks. and god what you wouldn’t do for a drink, so you nod. he jerks his head behind him and grunts, “c’mon.”

you let him lead you to his house, and for the first time you come inside.

joel has lived in jackson for years less than you, but still he’s filled it more than you have yours. there are books, on little tables and in the shelves, and half-done whittlings, and pencils. you flush with the scent of him, so strong in the curtains and the couch.

joel pours you a healthy shot into a tumbler, and then one for himself, and he lets you roam as you sip on it, following at your back without a word. you approach each of his shelfs, run your fingers along them, linger on the pieces of him he’s littered around. you finger through a pile of guitar picks and set your glass down there.

“what did you think of me when you first met me?” and you don’t entirely know why you ask it, at first. it comes, maybe, out of a selfish need to be reassured, or an even more dire want to hear his voice.

“what did i think of you?” he asks, and you can feel him approaching your back slowly. you hum, and joel reaches around you to set his glass down next to yours. he’s so close now and you squeeze your thighs together. “why d’you wanna know?”

and really you do your best at keeping yourself even. certainly, you tell yourself, he doesn’t mean to have this effect on you. certainly, he’s only trying to be kind after you sliced someone open for him. “i guess…” you think a moment, and then, “you asked me last night what kind of person you were. i want to know what you thought of me.”

he sighs a little, inches closer still. and his voice is so deep when he says at your back, “can i touch you here?” and you see in your periphery his pointer finger at your shoulder, hooking lightly over your hair. you barely muffle the shake in your chest and nod, and he pulls your hair over your other shoulder to bare your neck.

joel runs his nose along the line of your shoulder and lets out a breath there, pained and dismantled. into the seam of your neck, he whispers, “as soon as i saw you darlin i thought,” and he pauses to bring the backs of his knuckles, desperately light, down your spine, and you clench around nothing. “i thought you looked so goddamn soft. the fuckin garden and the strawberries, jesus, the strawberries.”

the paw of his hand, now at the base of your backbone, stretches itself along one of your hips. he says, now, “what about here? can i touch you here?” you nod again. joel’s fingertips press into you over your jeans there, but still he keeps his palm raised with a tremble that feels like restraint. “i thought i’d scare you.”

you let out a breath, slow, and muffled by your own attempt at control, and press your thighs together. the growing wetness at the nexus of your legs sears you, all lightning and heartbeat, and you will yourself to stay standing against the insistent pull of your arousal. joel tips his nose above the lobe of your ear to speak into it, lowly and gruffly and nearly apologetic (but not quite), “i’m too goddamn selfish.” he rests his forehead on your shoulder and breathes deeply again. “and violent.” this time, his words really do sound like repentance, and you stay silent to make space for the full of his confession. but his lips hover over the crest of your shoulder again, barely grazing, branding you all the same. “but you’re…” his jaw unhinges slightly, but he collects himself, “you’re vicious, baby.”

you whimper, then, and the sound of it makes him press his entire hand into your hip, suddenly frantic and squeezing at you.

“you hurt people, haven’t you darlin?”

you have to gasp for air, your pussy leaking into your underwear, because he’s seeing you, horrific and violent, and choosing to seek you out anyway. you nod cautiously, and his hands feel like they’re everywhere. and then gruffly, into your ear:

“you gonna hurt me?”

and you figure now, at least, you must be honest with him. “probably.” you barely recognize your own voice, the color of it darker with want than you’ve ever heard before.

joel pulls himself flush with your back, letting you feel the hardness of him, and allows himself a single push of his cock on your ass, muffling something animal in the back of this throat. he bands his free arm around your front to splay his palm on your sternum, pressing unforgivingly, and you feel the wild screaming of your heartbeat echoed back at you through his skin. he’s shaking, whispering, “don’t let me do this.”

you lay your head back into his shoulder to bring your mouth further up to him, arching yourself into his hold, making a home for yourself there. and pleading is a crime you refuse to commit in the presence of others, but you cannot help your own desperation now. “please.”

he spins you around then, and the lip of the shelf behind you presses determinedly into the skin below the hem of your shirt, but he’s kissing you (like he hates you, almost, or maybe himself) and so you take in the pain like it’s easy and you love it. his hands cup your head on either side, cradling the base where it meets your neck and threading his fingers through your hair as he nips at your bottom lip, laving over it with his tongue. he moans into your mouth as you kiss him back, lord forgive you for what that makes you feel, and you hitch a leg up to his hip to press your cunt into him. even through your jeans and his, he is an inhuman kind of large, and you wrap a handful of his shirt between your fingers to anchor you to sanity as you grind your hips at him. i need you i need you i need you, and you don’t say it, won’t say it, but you think it all the same.

his hands move from around your head to grab at both ass cheeks, dragging your center across the front of his pants and you groan at each other from the feeling. whatever it is that sews you together is being reaped. you let yourself be dramatic; you’ll die if he doesn’t fuck you now.

“joel, please,” you whisper into his mouth, which continues to eat at you.

“please what?” he pants back through your lips. “say it. what are you askin for?” despite this torture, his hands start to grope down your sides and pull at the buttons of your jeans. you move to press yourself into his grip but he insists, pushing you back into the wall. “tell me,” he growls, and it’s shadowy and lustful and deep, but as desperate as you feel, and it emboldens you.

“fuck me now, joel, please, please,” and you continue to beg, though your words turn incoherent, as he brings you up the stairs, holding your pussy still against his cock as it hardens behind his zipper. your pleading tightens joel's fingers on your waist, your thighs, the crook of your knee.

joel splays you on his bed, the tendrils of his hair haloed out around him as you run your fingers through and hold, and joel sucks and bites down your neck as he smooths his hands under your shirt to feel your skin. you whine out as he grabs at you, tight and wanting, and he pulls away so the both of you can pull your clothes off. you’re frantic as you sweep away your shirt and then your jeans, left bare besides your underwear on his bed, and you’d be embarrassed at your frenzy if joel wasn’t equally so pulling at his pants and shirt, but as it is you let yourself marvel at him. the broadness of his shoulders and biceps as he opens himself to you, the softness of his tummy, and oh, god, his cock tents in his boxers and you feel the already overwhelming wetness in your panties spread itself further. as soon as he’s on the brink of nakedness he’s on you again, caging your head between his palms on the mattress and pressing the hard line of his cock into your aching sex. his eyes bite at you with as much physicality as his teeth and tongue. something rumbles and unlocks in joel’s chest watching the rise and fall of your breasts as you heave, still grinding on you like he has no choice.

“goddamn it darlin,” he grits out, letting his eyes close a moment to feel the drag of your pussy against him. “you think about this?” your jaw falls open as you let a sigh out, one that means yes, and he moans deeply as he wraps his palms around each breast and squeezes. “you think about it as much as i do?” you nod again; you are past embarrassment, even humiliation, you are unreachable. it is only joel and his depth and you under him. “you touch yourself thinking of me?” and now you moan with the full of your chest, letting it loose in the sliver of air between you, and he returns it. “show me,” he pleads.

you let yourself a moment to pull the air, now heated with your body and his, into your lungs before you drag your fingers down your front and into your panties. he watches the movement of it, and his mouth stays open around a silent groan watching your fingers circle and push under the fabric, hearing you. you’re fucking dripping, and the squelches of your digits as you fuck yourself on them makes him groan and thrust his hips a little into nothing. you whimper his name and he falters a little.

as a tightness grows in your belly, approaching without mercy with the scent of him at your lips, he finally brings his own hand down into your panties. he cups his palm over your moving hand and you begin to pull it out, but he catches your wrist.

“no. keep going,” he groans. and you realize now he’s feeling how you touch yourself, barely resting his hand over your fingers as you pet inside, and you nearly come at the sight and thought and feeling of it.

as you near your high again, he tightens his grip on your wrist and pulls your hand from your cunt with a growl. you whine at the loss, but he pushes two fingers inside you and suddenly you’re yelping like an animal, thrashing as he grinds the heel of his palm into your clit. he whispers, mostly to himself, “oh jesus christ you are so fucking tight,” and you keen. joel circles the spongy spot deep inside you and you clench around his fingers, pushing your clit further into his hold, and you’re so close, so close, so close. you tell him so, and he smiles a little, lustful and wicked but nearly in disbelief, too, and he says back to you, “it feel good, honey?” and you could almost laugh at him for questioning something so glaringly obvious, but any thought is cut off by a white and swirling pleasure that coils and then unties itself, and you come with a high pitched moan while he groans above you. that’s it, baby, oh my god. he whispers this to you as you come, but it sounds underwater and you can barely process it even as you come down from your high and joel pulls his fingers away.

when your vision clears, you look above you to joel with his fingers in his mouth, eyes closed and stroking himself over his boxers, and now you really think you’re hinging on death.

“fuck me now, joel, please, jesus,” you say, though it’s breathy and broken with the intensity of your orgasm, which throbs still through your clit and around your walls.

joel pushes you further up his bed and lets his head dip again into your neck as he pulls his boxers and your panties off, biting with a diminishing mercy and chastising, “greedy.” you nod because you are.

when finally, finally, his bare cock is running through the wetness of your cunt, barely catching on the opening, and you’re two heaving bodies with the feeling of it, the both of you pause for the first time since joel’s entryway. you press a little foot into the back of his bare thigh, and you watch each other there, nearly in and of one another.

you whisper, “you gonna be okay, sting?”

joel breathes out onto your face and you feel his cock jump and pulse along your dripping seam. he looks pained, but you grin because you know better, can feel better by the rawness of him on you.

“yeah,” he replies. “are you?” and he looks down to where you nearly connect, gyrating his hips again and prolonging the feeling of his head at your entrance. you have just enough sense to notice his cock is as massive as you’d felt it to be, red and weeping along your pussy, and you’ll take him in your mouth sometime but not now, he has to fuck you now or you’ll blind yourself with your own wanting heat.

you murmur back a yes (it’s the best you can do), and he fists his hands in the sheets by your hands as he pushes himself in.

you imagined joel would fuck you roughly, unforgivingly; in this, you were right. but he is not rushed. joel drags his cock deep through your walls, letting the head bump your cervix before pulling nearly all the way out, and then reburying himself inside, but it is meticulous, intentional. you press back up, as best you can, to rub your clit in the dark curls at his base, and in return he curves his hips deeper into you; the friction there makes your walls pulse, and you feel every ridge and vein of his cock as it pistons in and out.

only when you’ve recovered from the initial stretch of him can you hear the noises the both of you are making. it is unholy, unceremonious, and loud. you’re moaning in his ear as he fucks you, and he groans into your mouth, the side of your head, your neck, every patch of skin on the expanse of you that he can reach.

so fuckin wet f’me, huh?

fuck, baby, this pussy is so fucking good.

yeah, yeah—oh fuck—clench me like that, fuck.

you know you won’t last long, and from the stumble of his hips each time you whimper at him you know he won’t either. with each thrust his balls slap and stick to your skin, the bed frame bumping on the wall.

joel sits up straighter, eyes trained on your stretch around him and the wetness that pours out there. he looks wild, awed at how you suck him in, and you’re mewling just as wildly because he’s so fucking deep and you think you can see the bump of his head below your navel when he thrusts inside. you curl your hand over his bicep and press your nails in, moaning out, “joel, joel, oh my god, you’re so deep i can see it.”

joel follows your eyeline and moans out something broken and incoherent, pressing a palm down where he knots up from your skin to feel himself moving in your walls, and you scream. the sensation makes you clamp down harder on him and joel grips the other hand on your hip.

“stop, oh my god, stop,” he grunts, cock still hard and unyielding and beating inside you.

“i won’t last, joel, please,” you whine back, and joel lets his eyes slip closed for a moment before nodding. he mutters out a fuck and presses your knees up to your chest, slinging each calf over his shoulders as he fucks you harder, deeper, and your eyes roll back in your head.

“jesus christ, darlin, you’ll kill me.” another moan. “come on my cock, baby, c’mon, let me feel it” and it’s a demand and a prayer at once, and who are you to refuse? you feel your cunt soaking him, the squelch of your bodies together intensifying, and the filth of it unravels you a second time. you come like a punishment, hard and drawn out and expansive in your body, and joel is moaning out at the feeling, “so good, so fucking good.”

you drag your nails down his back, hoping the marks are harsh enough to stay, and joel’s head tips back with his mouth pulled open. his cock swells and twitches inside you, and as his fingers turn white with his grip on your legs he pulls out, pushing your thighs together and fucking the skin there until the white ropes of his come paint your chest and stomach.

you both pant as joel slumps slightly over you, keeping an elbow at the side of your head to keep his weight off you but allowing your legs to fall to the bed again. despite the fucking, this is by far the most intimate; your breaths meeting between your faces, his nose pressed against yours. you look for something to say, but come up short. joel spares you by pushing himself off the bed and retreating to the bathroom.

you are both quiet as he wipes you with a cloth, though he remains gentle, diligent. when you’re clean, he throws it somewhere off the bed and sits on the edge, back to you and head in his hands. you shift to let your legs hang off his quilt, but don’t turn to him.

“joel,” you say, lowly. it’s only his name, but you know you’re asking something of him now, something you’re not sure either of you are strong enough to give. still, you wait for his response, keeping your gaze on his floorboards.

“what are we gonna do?” and it’s so soft, it reminds you of the day you met months ago. he is timid again, and it frightens you. the weight of your friendship, which you feel finally has bloomed into something worth nurturing, presses along your airways. you’ve wanted him for so long, and now you’ve had him, and you want him again. and so you’ve had your cake, and you move now to take a bite.

“we…” you let out a breath, as steady as the moment allows, “we’re friends.”

joel runs his fingers through his curls once before looking at you, and you gaze back. his eyes squint as he assesses your naked body on the edge of his mattress. “you gonna want me to fuck you again, darlin?”

you think he’s trying to panic you, euthanize whatever amalgam you’re constructing on his bedroom floor before it overcomes the both of you, but you do not shrink from him. “probably.”

he nods.

“are you?”

joel sighs. “probably.”

and so you redress yourself and return home, legs trembling and aching unbearably between them, and wonder for how long you and joel can deny absolutes in favor of the gray area you’re carving out together. probably probably probably, the both of you are clinging to probably. but you have no qualms with using nails and teeth to find purchase, and so despite all better judgment, you mostly feel sated, at last. what price could you possibly pay for this anyway? your heart? your soul? you forwent your ticket to absolution years ago, and you suppose the last half holy thing you can do is want, so why deny yourself this carnality? this is your last testament to living, to fuck joel and be his friend and deny the inevitable complication. you have taken and taken and taken and the blood remains on your hands, so what’s one last smeared fingerprint on the walls of your existence? when death comes for you, she’ll have such an awfully easy time, for you’ll have left a walkway in red behind you. what’s one last sign post? i am here. and it will be painted in your wanting and platonic insistence and the piece of joel you took within yourself tonight.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

taglist: @koshkaj-blog @shotgun-shelby @limerence4u (if anyone wants to be added let me know!!)

#joel miller #joel miller fic #fem!reader #jackson!joel #the last of us #tlou #on strawberries and masonry #joel miller smut

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anxiouspineapple99 · 11 months

Text

Okay here goes nothing! My original fic has turned into a monstrosity because my maladaptive daydreaming said “bitch we need to Tolkien tf outta this.” So I may post that one later when I’m done fleshing it out and I may not if the dopamine kick for my currently unmedicated ADHD wears off. However, it did result in this (longer than I intended) one shot. I feel pretty vulnerable posting this tbh but it’s good for my anxiety to do this. A few notes before continuing. I almost wrote this in third person because while I love reading me a good character X reader fic when other writers use “you” whooooo boy was that hard for me. Also because it was born of MD, the initial story was a first person OC but I don’t feel comfortable writing that yet so here we are. Okay I am rambling now sooooo here I go before I read it again, see everything I hate about it and chicken out!

Fireflies

@deewithani asked to be tagged when I posted so hi and I hope you enjoy! 😊

Rating: Teen+

Pairing: Tech x GN!reader

Word count: 2017ish

Warnings: fluff. Lots of it cause I love fluff. Fluff so sweet your teeth might fall out.

One cycle. It had been almost one full cycle since The Batch had landed on your secluded planet of the Outer Rim. You’d made your way here following Order 66 and the villagers of the tiny island on which you now lived were more than welcoming. You were still heartbroken, however. You were alone. You felt like a failure. You were a Jedi healer and you couldn’t save any of them. Your former master, the younglings, your friends in The Order, your friends that were clones. So when The Batch arrived you were conflicted. Torn between the fear that they may also turn on you but also feeling immense comfort in their presence. You kept your secret, you couldn’t get hurt if they didn’t know. Regardless, you began to open back up slowly but surely. You made cookies for Omega and Wrecker, shared dry jokes with Echo, and carried out pleasant conversations with Hunter. However as the days pressed on, you found yourself seeking Tech’s company the most. You loved hearing him talk about anything and everything. You shared your own scientific and medical experience (withholding key details about your time as a healer) and theories with him. You loved the lively debates and learning from him. Watching him working on the Marauder was your guilty pleasure pastime. You felt almost normal again.

Nonetheless, you were feeling guilty for not being completely transparent about who you were. So tonight was the night. You were going to tell him everything. Sort of. Actually you were going to drop massive hints. Tech was brilliant. If he hadn’t figured out your secret yet, you were certain he would figure it out tonight. You decided you would take him to your special place; a secluded alcove off the beach. In your early days on the island you’d accidentally discovered it was home to a small swarm of Tython Fireflies which only hatch during the warmest cycles, like now. They’re also Force sensitive and tend to gravitate to Force wielders. He should be able to connect the dots with that alone, you thought to yourself. Also, you really did want to show him the fireflies; and, maybe, you just wanted to be alone with him. Even if just for a short while.

“Tech! Are you available tomorrow evening? There is an incredible natural phenomenon that I think you would appreciate!” You had asked him. “Yes, I am available,” he’d told you. “Fantastic. Meet me at the old trail just an hour before dusk,” you’d instructed.

“You’re early,” you cheekily teased when you opened your door to an unexpected knock. “Obviously. Is that a problem?” Tech answered. You shrugged, “Nope. Just an observation. Are you ready?” “Lead the way,” he answered, holding an arm out, beckoning you to walk ahead of him. You shot him a flirtatious grin over your shoulder as you led him down the path to the alcove. Maker, was he incredible. You reveled briefly in his Force signature as you walked, noting its warmth. You loved the companionable silence the two of you shared. Almost as much as you loved the conversations. As you traversed the rocky tide pools you pointed out native species and he shared stories of aquatic species he, his brothers, and Omega encountered while on missions. You could listen to him talk all day. You admired how effortlessly he trekked over the uneven and slippery path; graceful and almost entirely silent. He was bloody beautiful and you wanted to look at him forever.

“It’s just this way!” you excitedly called to him. You reached out to the tangle of vines hanging from the rocky ocean cliffs. Pulling them back revealed a weather beaten opening. The two of you emerged on the other side into a small inlet. From the rock face poured a waterfall into a small lagoon. In it were some of the biggest and most elegant Goldies you’d seen, and was saying something because the ones that were kept in the Jedi Temple were impressive.The inlet was draped in exquisite greenery, trees, and radiant flowers. The sand was soft and still warm and the birds were singing their roosting songs as the sun crept lower toward the horizon. “We are here!” you exclaimed, holding out your arms and doing a little spin. “Quite impressive. There is a wide array of flora and fauna here I haven’t seen on the rest of the island,” Tech mused as he wandered about inquisitively with his datapad in hand. You giggled at how cute he was inspecting each flower, fish, and insect, rattling off facts about the ones he knew and making notes to research the unfamiliar. You walked up beside him, “There’s more. Do you see those pods hanging from the trees?” You asked. “I do,” Tech responded, adjusting his goggles. You continued, “Those are the egg sacks of the Tython Fireflies. They only hatch during the warm cycles, like now. When dusk arrives in only a few moments those will open with thousands of new hatchlings ready to spread their wings.” Tech began typing on his datapad, “Fascinating! Tython Fireflies, I know I have heard of those before—“ Before he could continue, you grabbed his arm, “Shh! Look! They’re beginning to hatch!” You both stood still as the pods split and the fireflies emerged, slowly at first. As their wings dried they began to pour from the pods like shimmering gold water. You could hear their songs within the Force, however the audible humming of their wings was also lovely. You held a hand out; first one and then another landed in your palm. One, five, eventually ten and twenty little lights encircling your outreached hand, they were warm and found comfort in the Living Force within you. Tech watched speechless for a moment, completely enraptured by the sight before him. You, under the emerging stars, in this picturesque location with sweet fireflies landing in your hands like they were pets. Time escaped you as you both basked in the moment.

“Ah yes, Tython Fireflies, I recall now. In Mando’a they are called “be’jetti Ka'ra '' or the Jedi’s Stars, because they are particularly fond of Force sensitive---” Tech stopped, looking at you with the sudden realization. “Hm, that is interesting,” you hummed coyly, confirming the unspoken between the two of you. “Wait. I want to show you something else,” you added as you grabbed his hands. You cupped them as if you were preparing to pour something in them, “Don’t move.” You walked to the nearest pod and scooped a handful of the new hatchlings. They hummed and buzzed in your hands, sounding happy and comforted by the living Force they felt in your fingers. You slowly walked back to Tech and gently placed them into his cupped palms. You then tenderly placed your hands around his, brushing his knuckles softly with your fingertips. As the hatchlings gathered their strength and their glow intensified, they illuminated his face. His brown eyes looked even more beautiful than you thought possible. He held your gaze and your heart felt as if it would leap from your chest, the space between you closing slowly. You sighed, smiled, and then whispered, “On my command, hold them up. Three…two…one…now.” Together, you raised your hands into the air and the hatchlings took flight swirling and dancing around you both as if there was a song neither of you could hear. As they dissipated into the foliage you moved to sit on a rock closest to the lagoon. “Well? What do you think?” you tentatively probed. “About which part? Your being a Jedi or the impressive light show you’ve just shown me?” he answered walking toward you.

“Both, I suppose.”

He sat next to you, thigh pressed against yours. You were suddenly keenly aware of how warm he was, soft, and kriff, he smelled amazing. You inhaled deeply taking in his scent, a combination of smokey and subtly spicy with the faintest remnants of oil likely from his constant tinkering on the Marauder.

“I am surprised I did not realize before now that you were a Jedi. In retrospect there were many signs I should have picked up on. However, I do not blame you for not being forthcoming before tonight. Though, you are safe with us. We have all had our chips removed and Omega never had one. As for this,” he motioned with his hands indicating he was now speaking about your surroundings. “This was remarkable. And I thank you for sharing it with me. It has, however, led me to ponder a hypothesis I have been rolling around recently. With your permission, of course.”

“Of course. I always enjoy a good experiment!” you chirped with a smile. He shifted to angle himself toward you. He confidently smirked as he tipped your head up, thumb and index fingers tenderly holding your chin. He then moved in and kissed you firmly. You didn’t hesitate and leaned into it bringing your hand to his cheek.

“Fascinating,” he crooned as he pulled back. “I believe this hypothesis will require further testing.”

“Well then, I suppose we should get to work,” you cooed as you leaned in again. The next kiss was deep and desperate. Tech’s fingers dug into your waist, pulling you to him while his other hand was fervidly tangled in your hair. Your hands roamed from his face to his neck, pulling him in not wanting to let go. You were tangled in each other for an unknown amount of time, hands roaming, drinking each other in under the stars.

And then his comm began to buzz. You both reluctantly pulled back, out of breath and ravenous for more. “One moment,” he sighed.

“Tech where are you?” Hunter’s irritated voice cut through the peaceful night air. “There are some repairs we need to finish here and you said you’d be back by now.”

“Apologies Hunter. We were…delayed,” Tech answered shortly, adjusting his goggles once again.

There was a pause and then a quiet chuckle from Hunter, “I see. Just try not to wake us up when you get back.”

“Copy that.”

“It is late. We should start making our way back,” you sighed, closing your eyes and focusing on Tech’s fingers that had made their way back to your hair. He sighed and leaned in, pressing his forehead to yours. “Yes, I know.” He stood up and extended his hand to you. You took it, momentarily marveling at how perfectly your hands fit together. As you made your way back together you leaned into his shoulder and said, “You know, my Mando’a is pretty rusty. I’d love to learn more.” Tech squeezed your hand and replied, “Fortunately, I am an exceptional teacher.” You laughed and he smiled warmly at you. Your laugh was musical to him. “I was going to say that you’re lucky that I’m an excellent pupil,” you teased. He bumped your shoulder with his arm playfully and chuckled.

The walk home was far too short for both of you. When you arrived you stalled trying to avoid the inevitable end to the night. “Thank you for coming with me tonight, Tech. It far exceeded my expectations and is, without a doubt, now my favorite experience there. And thank you for trusting me to test that…hypothesis,” you said as you smiled shyly, just missing his gaze.

He lifted your head so he could meet your eyes with his, “You are the only one I wish to test that hypothesis with. And I will continue to do so until you no longer wish to.” You blushed and answered, “This will be an extremely long running experiment then.” You stood on your tip toes and placed a soft kiss on his lips, “Good night, Tech.”

You turned to go inside but he held on to your hand a moment longer and uttered, “Mesh’la.” You stopped and turned to face him once again, “What?”

“Consider this your first lesson in Mando’a, mesh’la.”

“Oh! And what does that mean?”

He brought his hand to your face and you pressed your cheek into his palm as he answered, “It means ‘beautiful’.”

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burnwater13 · 9 days

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Fennec Shand and Boba Fett in the throne room of the Daimyo's palace near Mos Espa, on Tatooine addressing the Majordomo. (Mok Shaiz's Majordomo out of frame). Image from The Book of Boba Fett, Season 1, Episode 1, Stranger in a Strange Land. Calendar by DataWorks.

Grogu knew it didn’t seem likely. It was strange. He accepted that. Fennec Shand was his friend and he really liked her. She was sassy, strong, and an expert at a lot of things. She wasn’t afraid of his dad and she wasn’t actually afraid of the Daimyo either. That was impressive. Almost everywhere he went with his dad, people were afraid of Mandalorians to the extent of crossing the street, darting indoors, or simply turning around and walking away. It was impressive, if a little bit dramatic.

If they should worry about anyone, they should worry about Fennec. She had excellent aim with any weapon you tossed her way, she could run down a fathier, and she could disappear at the click of a blaster activating. Then, much like Peli Motto, she seemed to know everyone and every little, itty, bitty, bit of gossip traded anywhere on Tatooine. That was impressive all by itself.

Of course he didn’t tell his dad about how he felt toward Fennec. Being her friend. He didn’t want Din Djarin to get jealous. The Mandalorian handled it poorly at best. Like the time he gave Peli a kiss on the cheek because she had the pit droids make him one of his favorite meals, flash fried gorg on a stick. Din had some harsh words for her, but Grogu had thought he shouldn’t have been so touchy about it. The Mandalorian argued that he was asking who told the pit droids they could use the N-1’s engines to do that flash frying (or roasting, technically speaking). How was Peli to supposed to know that she had to get special permission for crying out loud? Or that the engines of the N-1 could actually set the Mandalorian’s cape on fire? Din Djarin was being unfair.

That’s exactly why Grogu didn’t want his dad to get upset over all the projects he and Fennec took on. It he did, Grogu would see less of his friend and he really didn’t want that to happen. Other than his dad, the Daimyo, the Majordomo, Greef Karga, and Peli, Fennec was the only person he knew who told great bedtime stories. They all started, “The last time I was on Coruscant…” or “The last time I was on Corellia…” or “The last time I was on Chandrila…”. He loved that. It set the scene and knew he was going to hear a story about a thrilling chase, with some blaster fire and hand to hand combat, that always ended with Fennec collecting, protecting, or silencing, whoever had been on her list of problems to take care of. She was a great problem solver. And once the story was underway, she didn’t stop telling it until it was done. Not like his dad who would let him fall asleep half way through. If Grogu fell asleep, Fennec would tickle his feet and keep telling the story. She said she could leave a task of any sort half done.

That was part of the reason Grogu liked to hang out with her. He wanted to learn how to solve problems in different ways to make sure they weren’t left half done. Even now, he worried that Moff Gideon wasn’t really gone. The person who burned up on Mandalore was probably a clone. Sad for the clone certainly, but good for Moff Gideon mark one. Dank Farrik!

Now, with Fennec teaching him how to make sure that anything he started was completed, if he ever ended up crossing paths with any version of Moff Gideon, he’d be able to find and implement a method to permanently shut him down. Grogu couldn’t imagine that any version of the Moff would be kinder, gentler, and more thoughtful and considerate than the original and the original was bereft of all of those qualities. Jedi weren’t supposed to be vengeful, but Grogu was willing to make an exception for certain people. It seemed like the right thing to do.

Which was another thing that he appreciated about Fennec. She was very quick at discerning what was right and what was wrong. She didn’t slow herself down by ponding the moral or ethical implications of the work she undertook. If she didn’t think it was worth the risk or thought that the reward wasn’t rewarding enough, she just didn’t do it. You’d never find her cleaning out the rancor’s enclosure. Nope. Not her.

His dad on the other hand, could be compelled to do some of the worst work just because the Creed demanded it, honor demanded it, or he’d made a promise to someone at some nebulous point in the distant past. That had gotten them both into a fair amount of trouble. Just look at what happened when the Mandalorian decided to prove to Bo-Katan and Armorer that Mandalore could still support life! It was a nightmare! You wouldn’t find Fennec getting caught up in stuff like that. Nope. Grogu respected that because he wished he could use that same technique to avoid cleaning his room.

Grogu sighed and made his way to the throne room. He wanted to see what lesson he could learn from her.

“…he’d have fed you to his menagerie.”

Fennec’s words didn’t sound nice, but she delivered them in a strangely matter of fact manner that made the person standing in front of her begin to sweat.

“I promise you Administrator, I will send fresh frogs right over. I had no idea that freshness was a key quality for rancor feed.”

“I don’t feed them to a rancor. As if you would be that lucky. They are fed to a powerful Jedi and he likes them fresh.”

“Of course, of course, of course.” The person bowed as they spoke and when they reached the threshold of the room, they turned and ran out of the room as fast as they could.

Fennec turned from her perch on the Daimyo’s throne and smiled at Grogu.

“The things I do to keep you and the Daimyo happy, kid. Be glad that he likes you.”

Grogu returned her smile. He was glad that they both liked him, but perhaps he was a little, teeny, tiny bit more glad that Fennec liked him. Perhaps.

#calendar prompt a day #din djarin #grogu #the book of boba fett #fennec shand #boba fett #majordomo

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sev-on-kamino · 1 year

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30 Days of Blossoming Romance (6)

Day 6: Asking them about their family (prompt list here)

Tech x afab!Reader (another one w/ a non medic reader?! what? branching out like a tree over here)

warnings: fluffy, it’s still early days, but not brand new

word count: 1005 (anxious about every single one, let’s gooooooo!!!)

You’d been working at tiny electronics shop on Ord Mantell for as long as you could remember. As a kid, you came by after school to pester the owner with questions. As a teenager, you picked up a part-time job. You mostly helped older people who were behind the times. By the time you were finished with school, you’d saved up enough to buy into the shop as a partner.

You still helped a lot of older folks, and folks who were just passing through. You loved it, and couldn’t think of a single thing you wanted beyond those 4 walls besides your cute little apartment.

Then Tech walked in, and wrecked your little slice of satisfied heaven. He was everything you didn’t know you needed, and you cautiously pursued him, fearing heartbreak. He’d been oblivious at first. Keen to chat with you whenever he was in town, but your attempts at flirting hadn’t registered.

After another round of unsuccessful attempts, you just told him you had feelings for him, and asked to kiss him. He’d been surprised, but he gave his consent just the same. Everything after the kiss had been easy, enjoyable, and educational. Tech had taught you so many things except for the one thing you wanted to know everything about: himself.

“Your ship is really cool, but I wanna know more about you, Tech,” you said, sitting in the floor of the Marauder’s cockpit.

“Why is that?” He’d asked, sliding out from beneath the console, and sitting up. You grinned as he pulled off his helmet, letting you enjoy his handsome face for once.

“Because I wanna know everything about you. Embarrassing stories from your childhood, your favorite things, your family,” you replied counting off on your fingers. “You’ve learned so much about me, but you’re very good at keeping yourself quite the mystery.”

“I’m sure one of my brothers would be happy to tell you a few of those, which is why I haven’t let them meet you yet.” He began, rising from the floor, and holding out his hand to help you up as well.

“Is that the only reason?” you asked with a raised eyebrow.

“It’s the main reason,” he insisted.

“You afraid they won’t approve of me?” your tone is teasing, but it’s something you genuinely worried about. When he did mention his family, it was clear he held them in high regards, and their opinions would matter.

“Quite the opposite. They may like you too much.”

You beamed at that, thrilled at the thought he wanted to keep you all to himself.

“Come on, let’s go for a walk, and you can tell me stories about them. Hunter, Wrecker, and Echo, right? And Omega, your little sister?” You held your hand out to him.

“And Crosshair,” he added, taking your hand.

“Crosshair? A new brother emerges from the fog of Tech’s history.”

Leading you out of the ship and steering you towards town, he scoffed.

“I’m certain I’ve mentioned him before,” he hummed before adding. “We were quite close.”

“Were?”

“Crosshair is on a different path than we are,” his tone gave you the sense it was a sensitive topic.

“Sorry for prying,” you said sheepishly.

“It’s quite alright. I like that you’re curious.” He laced your fingers together, and you looked up at his profile, unable to keep from smiling.

“Ok, so tell me about Hunter. He’s the oldest right?”

Tech relaxed slightly, you weren’t sure he was ever completely at ease. “Yes, the oldest, and he very much lives up to the expectations of an older brother.”

“Let me guess: cramping your style, fussing over you, being almost parent-like? But also incredibly cool, and something of a role model?”

“You sound as though you’re speaking from experience.”

“I have an older brother too. He’s…” you hesitated, wondering if you’d ventured far enough into this relationship to tell Tech you were related to a smuggler. “A traveler. Always off on some new adventure.”

“Would he approve of me?” Tech asked, echoing your earlier concern.

“Stars, no. He would think you were encouraging me to be soft, and put down roots,” you confessed with a grin.

“Hmm, Crosshair would say the same about you.”

“Awww, am I making you soft, handsome?” you asked, stepping into his path, and looking up into his amber eyes.

“Perhaps,” he replied, eyes flicking to your lips before returning to your eyes.

“I’m definitely quite soft for you,” you said quietly, rising up on your tiptoes, as he leaned down to let his lips meet yours in a gentle kiss. You pulled back grinning from ear to ear, not even caring that you were in the middle of the street.

“We’ve gotten distracted from your original line of questioning,” Tech said, clearing his throat, and tugging you along.

“Ah yes! Your family. So we’ve got your favorite brother, who’s AWOL.”

“What makes you think he’s my favorite?” he protested, but you ignored him and continued your list.

“Your older brother, who’s much better than mine.”

“Your words not mine, cyar’ika.”

“So that leaves Echo, Wrecker and Omega!”

“Well, Echo and I have grown closer. He’s intelligent and capable. I think you’d like him quite well,” He looked thoughtful a moment before continuing, “Wrecker is rambunctious to say the least, but incredibly reliable and kind. As for Omega, she is probably like you were as a child, I imagine.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Inquisitive, energetic, perceptive. Traits you still exhibit even now,” he gave your hand a squeeze, and you feel your face warming up.

“You know I just want to meet them more now, right?”

“I’m not remotely surprised,” he replied, shaking his head.

“No rush, you can keep me all to yourself for a little while longer,” you raised your linked hands to press a gentle kiss to the back of his hand.

“I’d like that,” he replied, smiling softly, as you carried on aimlessly through the streets, with no destination other than a greater understanding of each other.

#tbb tech x reader #tbb tech x you #tbb tech #the bad batch #star wars the bad batch #tech fluff #April showers bring May Drabbles #30 day challenge #seven writes #blue writes

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gemwing2010 · 5 months

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Frozen: Once Upon a Snowman is a short film that tells us about Olaf and how he happened upon Anna, Kristoff and Sven after Elsa had first created him and brought him to life with her magic.

It starts off with Elsa breaking out into singing “Let It Go”. During a certain verse, she creates Olaf and after she took off her cape to symbolise embracing her freedom to use her magic while keeping others out of harm’s way, Olaf opened his eyes for the very first time… but then gets a face full of cloak, prompting him to fall down the mountains, rolling down the hills into a large snowball until he crashes into a tree miraculously unharmed.

After he gets the hang of talking and walking, Olaf has an identity crisis, not even knowing his own name and he lacks a nose. He wanders through the wintery forest to find his sense of self until he happens upon Wandering Oaken’s Trading Post. And Sauna.

Inside, Oaken, overcoming his surprise of seeing a living snowman stumbling into his shop, was happy to help Olaf find his identity by going through various items suited for a nose fit for a snowman.

And that is where Olaf had discovered summer after seeing one of those toys that shows you slides of pictures of summer, Olaf developed his fixation of summer, under the innocent delusions that snowmen were meant to be apart of it. Being the nice guy as he is, Oaken didn’t had the heart to correct the little guy that he would only melt and be reduced into a puddle under long exposure to the intense heat of the summer sun.

However, Oaken was more than happy to recommend Olaf having a summer themed sausage for his nose. Unfortunately, the kind gesture is not without some setbacks and severe downsides as Olaf had unwittingly attracted the attention of hungry wolves… the very same ones who would chase Anna and her crew after she convinced Kristoff to help guide her to the North Mountains to find Elsa.

During the chase, Olaf learns about the skills and flaws of coming apart and literally putting himself together while fleeing from the hungry pack.

After barely escaping the wolves by falling harmlessly down the same ridge that Anna’s group leapt over, poor Olaf had a bit of bad luck where his sausage nose broke in half as the end dangles downwards. And just when he had found a carrot and about to grab it, Kristoff’s sleigh fell atop of it, crushing… and then blew up in flames.

But some good does come at the end when Olaf generously gave up his sausage to a lone hungry wolf who was pleading and turned to be extremely friendly as he happily licked and nuzzled up to Olaf like a puppy in gratitude before running off for home. That was so sweet. That has got to be my most favourite scene in the short.

Moved by the wolf’s affection, Olaf compared the affection like a warm hug. Upon mentioning “warm hug”, that promptly triggered Olaf’s memories of Anna and Elsa’s childhood when they had first made him when he was just a normal snowman, thus remembering his name and that he indeed likes warm hugs.

The short film then ends with Olaf coincidentally walking down the same path as Anna, Kristoff and Sven, kickstarting the event where they would meet and go find Elsa and bring back summer together.

Once upon a Snowman is charming, funny and heartwarming story of knowing your true identity and showing kindness to others. I must commend the amazing people of Disney of making such a sweet short film that tells us about Olaf’s misadventures and how he came to be.

❄️🩷

#Disney #Frozen

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yegarts · 2 years

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Métis Artist Frances Whitford Creates T-shirt for Orange Shirt Day

Unity, truth, and a positive path forward

Walk into a local retail store in September, and you may find Orange Shirt Day merchandise. Walk into TIX on the Square, and you’ll find wearable art, designed and printed by Indigenous artists like Frances Whitford of Beadwork & Bannock. Not only did Whitford and her son, Arden Herman, create an orange shirt for others to wear in support of the movement, she created it as part of her own family’s truth and reconciliation.

“Normally, T-shirts are right out of my element,” explains Whitford, who comes from a long line of trappers. “Hide and fur are the mediums I usually like to work with, but I just felt called to tell this story—and to include my children. Part of our coming to knowledge of our past with residential schools is to really shed light on understanding that we have our own story to tell. Knowing that the world is seeing the truth now, we needed to stand in our own truth. So I just really wanted them to understand their history, as much as I can teach it, and as much as I can learn it myself to pass it on to them so they can understand why we are the way we are these days and which direction we need to move in. I needed a positive outlet to empower them to know that healing is possible, and necessary, and important for them to think about. That’s the real legacy I’d like to leave—that we need to move forward in a positive light, and that sometimes extracting a positive from a negative situation is the best way to grow and heal. That’s what I hope my T-shirts will do."

As Whitford explains, her story and T-shirt design are both centered around the Western Tiger Lily, a flower native to her childhood home and symbolic of her family’s path forward.

“I chose the Western Tiger Lily because it is an endangered species, much like Indigenous people are now. I was raised by my grandparents in Anzac, Alberta, where we’d go to a place called Halfway Camp to get our water, when you could still drink water. And that’s where the tiger lilies were. On every trip, I’d always try to pick them, and my grandfather would constantly tell me, “They’re never going to grow in a vase, my girl. You have to leave them where they are.” And even though I always asked why and he never fully explained, I now understand. When this flower is taken out of its natural environment, it dies. And that story just reminded me of when Indigenous children were taken from their environment and expected to thrive and grow somewhere that wasn’t nurturing them in the right way. They assumed that putting them in a vase, and giving them water, and nurturing them a certain way was going to be sufficient. But Indigenous People are a distinct people—the way we are raised, our thinking patterns, and our genealogy are different. So we didn‘t thrive and we didn’t grow. Instead, it had catastrophic effects to the point that we are trying to find our roots again because we were extracted from them."

When it came to designing her orange shirt, Whitford says that all of those story elements just came together. “My son’s father is First Nations and I’m Métis, so the infinity symbol represents me, the medicine wheel represents him, and the feathers represent the children, as does the lily. By encompassing everything in a circle, it’s all connected and just makes perfect sense to me."

The shirts designed by Whitford and Arden are available now at TIX on the Square, where you’ll also find work from other Indigenous artists, many of whom belong to the Indigenous Artists Market Collective (I.A.M Collective). TIX expects to bring in more T-shirts designed by other artists in the coming weeks and months, the proceeds of which will go directly to the artists, who will in turn donate a portion to a cause of their choosing.

That support and sense of community is something Whitford says cannot be underestimated—that when you buy Indigenous products from Indigenous artists, the effect is far more reaching than you might imagine:

“It truly is a preservation of culture and of legacy. Our Indigenous art tells the story of our history, of our connectedness to other cultures and other places, and reminds us of the unity that we need to continue to share. I think it’s good to walk in your individual light and be proud of who you are and where you come from, but it’s also good to be proud of other cultures too, to raise them up and know that you stand in unity with them. So that’s what I’d like people to know—that when they purchase Indigenous art, they’re not only supporting an artist, they’re actually preserving a culture. And that’s an amazing thing.”

#yegarts #tixonthesquare #indigenous art #edmontonarts #orange shirt day

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casspurrjoybell-17 · 2 years

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HEART'S DESIRE - CHAPTER 24

*Warning: Adult Content*

The state of Montana isn't known for its restrictive speed limits but Montreal Hunter breaks them anyway as he pushes his old Nav to the limit, passing other cars on the double line and triggering rage in his fellow motorists.

His cell-phone pings with an incoming text but he keeps his eyes on the road.

Town is twenty-minutes away, Jake Nash's address probably more.

He doesn't know it but he’s guessing Freya does.

And if not, he trusts she can find anything.

Hence the text. Monty tosses his cell-phone to Kit.

"What's she say?"

Kit struggles to interpret the message.

He's learned to read pretty well already but nerves and the unfamiliar format trip him up.

"Jake st... still at... st... station," he reads.

"I will try to keep him dis... dist..."

"Distracted," Monty supplies.

"Distracted. Ad... address is... one-six-four-three Ald... Alder Creek Lane."

"Shit. Where is that?" Monty used to know this area but it's grown over the years and 'Alder Creek Lane' doesn't ring a bell.

Kit continues to stare at the cell-phone, as if this information will reveal itself if he just looks hard enough.

Monty takes it back from him and ask the A.I. for directions, then swears again as the map orients itself and he see it's on the other side of town, in an outlying neighborhood, a thirty-minute drive.

Jake could get there from the sheriff's station in less than ten.

"Monty!"

Kit's warning narrowly saves Monty from rear-ending a slow-moving truck and he thanks the Gods his behemoth of a car has decent brakes.

Setting his cell-phone aside, Monty grips the wheel with both hands and takes a breath.

Kit sits wide-eyed and stiff with fear in the passenger seat but Monty senses his courage, too.

Reaching over, Monty takes Kit’s hand.

"Good thing I got you," he says.

"You saved our butts."

Kit blushes bronze but squeezes Monty’s hand in return and doesn't let go.

On the next straight stretch of road, he passes the truck, earning a string of angry honks from the driver and Monty reminds himself not to be mad at the next person he sees driving like a jerk.

Who knows, maybe they really do got somewhere important to be.

Monty drives fast but careful the rest of the way, the silence only broken by the artificial voice on his cell-phone, telling him which roads to take and where to turn.

His heartbeat quickens and his breath whistles in his nose and throat as they approach their destination.

Against his will, Monty recalls the last time he raced against the clock like this and pressed down on the gas a little more.

He can't live through that again.

"There it is."

Kit points and Monty sees it, too, at the end of the street, on the cul-de-sac, a simple two-story house with peeling paint and a half-tiled roof.

A large dumpster full of old wood and other junk sits on the faded lawn out front and half the windows are boarded up.

Jake wasn't lying about the renovations, at least.

Thankfully, there's no sign of his ranger's truck.

Monty pulls up to the curb and kills the engine, then pauses and takes a breath.

Whatever awaits them within, knowing for certain must be better than not knowing at all.

Glancing at Kit, Monty sees his dark eyes shining with barely contained fright but with a fierce determination, too and it surprises him.

It's a look Monty has never seen directed at himself before but which he’s seen on the faces of his mated siblings plenty of times.

Monty looks away.

Kit should save that kind of devotion for someone he loves.

"You wanna wait here?" Monty ask Kit, quietly.

He shakes his head.

"No. With you."

With no time to argue, Monty nods.

"Okay. But I need you to do what I tell you. And if I say run, that means run. Got it?"

"Okay."

Monty takes another breath and then they move.

They get out and walk up the path to the front door.

Without being obvious about it, Monty takes in the neighboring lots.

The adjacent houses aren't too close and there's no sign they're being watched but Monty doesn't take that for granted.

The last thing they need is some nosy neighbor calling the sheriff on them and alerting Jake.

As expected, the door is locked but the latch isn't fancy and there's no evidence of a security system.

Monty breaks the handle off and it opens.

Kit and Monty slip through and shut it after them. Inside the home, it's dark and it takes a moment for Monty’s eyes to adjust.

The place is gutted, the floors bare and the walls stripped down to the framing.

Bits of plaster litter the floor and drop-cloths cover what looks like a small mountain of furniture, piled in the center of the living room.

Wires hang from empty light fixtures and the kitchen sink sits on the floor, disconnected from its pipes.

"Good excuse to be spending so much time here," Monty mutters.

"This isn't a one-man job, unless it's all he does. Good way to hide unusual noises, too."

Monty glances at the large gas-powered generator in the corner and at the array of power tools lined next to it and gets a queasy feeling in his stomach.

In the wrong hands, a tool becomes a weapon or an implement of torture, all too easily

"Where do we start?" Kit asks, staying close to Monty’s side and peering about at the mess.

"Are you okay to Shift? You're a helluva lot smaller than I am and I think some heightened senses would come in useful here."

"Yes, I'm okay."

He says it with enough earnest conviction that Monty believes him.

"Good. Why don't you take the yard and I'll search in here. If there's..." Monty winces but force himself to go on.

"If there's buried evidence, a little fox sniffing around outside is less likely to draw attention than a large man. Or a large wolf, for that matter."

With a shy smile, Kit glances around, finds a clean patch of ground and strips out of his clothes.

Then, far more seamlessly than Monty has ever seen a werewolf Shift, Kit morphs from man to fox.

A small, gray fox, this time.

Blinking pretty black eyes at Monty, Kit darts back towards the door. Monty follows and opens it a crack for Kit and he slips through.

Monty props it open with a nearby crowbar, just enough Kit can get back in and then turns to his own search.

Honestly, if there's anything to find, he doesn't expect to find it outside.

He just wanted to spare Kit the shock, should he find something unpleasant. Monty starts upstairs but this is quick work. There are three bedrooms and a bath. One room is obviously Jake's, though it has the personality of a military dorm room, a bed in the corner, clothes in drawers, basic care items, razor, soap, shampoo, towels and not much else. Monty digs through a duffle bag in his closet but find nothing more incriminating than a pack of condoms and a winter coat.

"Fuck," he mutters under his breath and zips the bag back up, leaving everything as he found it.

If they're wrong...

Back on the ground floor, Monty turns in a slow circle, rubbing the back of his head.

The house is laid bare, its bones exposed.

There aren't many places to hide anything but he checks anyway.

He finds nothing but the temporary residence of a man who doesn't intend to stay long.

The kitchen cupboards are empty and the trash full of takeout containers.

The closet contains only a shop-vac and a broom. In the living room, the mountainous form hidden beneath the drop-cloths reveals only furniture, a sofa set, dining table, sideboard and chairs.

Monty lets the cloths fall as they were and takes a breath of dust-filled air. Everything is still.

Then a little gray shape darts between his feet and a moment later Kit is stumbling towards him, naked and shaking

"Monty... Come quick. There's a... there's a there's...”

Monty grabs hold of Kit’s shoulders to steady him.

"Kit, take a breath."

Obediently, he inhales sharply through his nose.

'That's it. Now... you found something?"

"Where?"

He points towards the back of the house.

"Okay. You think anyone can see us from out there?"

He shakes his head.

"Good. Okay, back door."

Outside, Monty assesses the risk and finds it minimal.

The house is set further back than its neighbors and only a stretch of scrubby ground and a privacy fence separates it from the open land beyond.

Unless Jake's neighbors are pathologically curious, no one is watching us

"Okay, what it is?" Monty asks. Kit, still naked as a wild fox, though hugging his arms across his chest and shivering, leads Monty along the side of the house to a spot where a layer of bark chips overs the ground beneath the overhanging roof.

"Here."

Monty studies the ground.

"What is it?"

"Something... beneath," he whispers. "Earth and... blood."

Biting back a surge of fear, Monty kneels and brushes the bark chips aside.

Below, he finds a layer of loose soil, and then a slab of concrete.

"It's just the foundation," Monty says, sitting up and brushing dirt from his hands.

Kit grabs a hold of Monty’s upper arm.

"No... there's something more. I'm sure of it."

"Okay, okay... I'll keep looking."

Monty continues to scoop the dirt aside.

Then his fingers brush something different. Working frantically, he clears a patch of chips and dirt and reveals an iron hoop set in a square.

It could be the septic tank but then again...

Waving for Kit to stand back, Monty grips the iron ring and braces himself.

A normal man, even a normal man of my size, might struggle to lift something so heavy on his own.

But he’s not a normal man.

He’s a Wolf and an exceptionally strong one.

With a few quick, bracing breaths, Monty raises the block and hauls it to the side.

A black square yawns in its place, smelling of dank earth and a set of steep wooden steps lead into the gloom.

Kit's fingers close tight around Monty’s.

He'd like to chase Kit off, to do the smart thing and tell him to run and to wait where it's safe but his heart rebels and Monty just can't let him go.

So he takes a few more steadying breaths and then they descend, hand in hand, into the dark.

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mirrorthoughts · 2 years

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List 5 things that make you happy, then put this in the ask box of the last 10 people who reblogged something from you. Learn to know your mutuals and followers! 💖

I can see why I got this sent from both of you @teenwerewoofs & @meggie-stardust 😂😂 Thanks ❤❤❤

Stories I just love stories of every kind! May it be in words (books, fics, rpgs), pictures (comics/manga, movies, series), sound (telling stories over the fire, music in general, musicals, a music album that's got a whole story, audiobooks) or anything else ((video) games, escape rooms, stories weaved into quilts, anything really). Of course not all stories are to my liking (don't like don't read etc.) but if you see me without a story of any kind and I'm not writing myself or with people or at work I might already be dead 😂

Writing Didn't see that coming, huh? ;D Of course writing needs to be on this list! If I'm not reading or otherwise engrossed in someone else's story I'm definitely dabbling in my own. Be it in my head when I can't write or writing fics, my own stuff, rpgs, bullet point lists of ideas, ramblings in my BuJo and the like. Just as with reading, if you don't see me write and I'm not reading or with people or at work, check my pulse 😂

My people! This includes, of course, my found siblings, but also those people that leave an impression on me. And a lot of the time that's people writing stuff. We might not know each other very well, but if I've interacted with you in some kind of way, especially more often than once, I mean you with this! As you could see, stories are a huge part of my life in any shape or form. So is knowledge and curiosity. If I follow you here on tumblr and interact with your stuff, you are my people! And I love you very much for giving me your thoughts and knowledge, your passions, your stories, your empathy towards me and others. Thank you ❤❤❤

Knowledge I suppose this was obvious, after what I just wrote xD I'm a very curious person and one that can fall easily into the next rabbithole at a blink 😂 I'm not the only 'wtf why do you know that?' person in my friend group since all of us have a certain tendency to curiosity and falling into stuff head first (like finds like and all that) so it's always funny to find out new stuff and share it with the group :D (or scurry away with a rather large bit of new information and nibble at it until satisfied or bored 😂 (yeah, I'm pretty sure I'm somewhere on the autism and adhd-spectrum, why do you ask? öÖ)

Kindness This might be a weird one for some, but it's a very important one for me. The world is cruel these days. And children often like to be, so I'm not a stranger to the cruelty and unkindness of the world thanks to things like mobbing etc. I can also be a pretty naive person since I'm bad at understanding people, especially strangers I don't know. So I have to actually be careful about people being nice to me, because I'm bad at discerning if they are nice because they want to be or because they want to sell me something <.< So, people just being kind, and me being kind to people, is something I treasure very much. Sometimes a nice smile or a nice word is enough. Sometimes even the absence of cruel words has to do. On my old way to work lives an older woman who always looked out of the window when I walked along that certain street. She looked grumpy, so I wished her a good morning and smiled at her. She smiled back. Since then I greeted her every morning, because no matter how grumpy she looked, she greeted and smiled back and lit up with that smile. I'm still sad that I don't see her anymore, but I walk a very different path to work by now and earlier at that, too, so she wouldn't even be there If I would take the old path. I can't be kind like that to everyone. I'd love to help every homeless person I see, but since I live in a big city there are very many of them and very little of me. I can't help everyone, since I'm only one person. But I try. With a smile, with something to eat, with a nice word. (Because I'm still just as surprised if someone outside of my friend group has a smile or a nice word for me)

#seikaze #sei's brain bubbles #teenwerewoofs #meggie-stardust

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letterstodreams · 1 month

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It's Not That

I feel compelled to write another lengthy and public free write/morning pages entry, to keep the fire of inspiration and intention for this blog going, till I finally reach the place where my writing can be more often and more consistently to the point, I hope, the point of the intention that I set out to make this blog all about in the first place - The characters, how they help me, and so on, how they may continue to help me. Maybe by writing letters, sharing conversations, it will help them help me, and make it all feel more real, walking with them, paying them the attention to keep them alive, giving them one foot in the public, so-called real world. Letting them help my real life, bringing the dreams they give me to life.

So, I had the thought, thinking on some of what I wrote in my previous posts, "It's not that", it's not how it might seem and come across. It's not that, but what is it? It's not that I think I can or should necessarily save anyone. Or that I need to be saved, though I do, in a way, but what if I can't be? So I can't need what they can't give. Or what I can't even give myself. Or I can't expect and cling. Even if these things saved me, they might not be able to save anyone else, or at least, not in the way that I am able to present them to others. I am one among thousands who have tried to share similar ideas, because I got my ideas from the books or ideas of others. That's just the general ideas, though because some of these ideas are far more specific and I haven't learned them from many books or people. Or they are my idea alone, built on the ideas of others, but still very much unique.

Then there is the way I present the idea, just one more shade to a rainbow of countless hues of the same ideas. Will my flower in this endlessly varied garden be noticed, or wanted, I don't know. But why not try, in case? Especially since I have to read and reread different accounts of the same ideas. That's what was required for me, to keep the flame alive, to gather seeds each season, and finally to be able to grow and bring them to life in my own life. I can add one more variation to the countless flavors, just in case some particular person might have a taste for my own way of speaking, or telling this story, such as it is. I've learned from the stories of countless strangers online in the most hidden, little-traveled of trails as well.

I'm not the kind of person who has found a way to study and review the same books again and again, even though I envy those, in a way, who do so. I have so many books that I want to reread and take notes, and to learn more deeply the exact flavor and detail of the ideas and the writing style, the mood and outlook, beyond words, of certain books. I want to take that mindset into my life and let it color my personality and approach to life, to conversation, to writing. One day I hope I can, but for now I rely on countless streams of books, and things online, each new and unique even if they are saying the same ideas I've read, but in a new style so my random flitting mind can pay attention.

Likewise, it's not that I judge anyone's life and think they need saving, even though I know what it's like to suffer terribly and still feel you don't need saving, only later to see that I did need saving. But how, and how slowly, mysteriously, and by whom I was saved is a whole other story, a path I hardly knew how to choose. I acted, setting off some of this domino effect, but more so it almost seemed to choose me and trigger something complex and totally out of my hands, safe in the hands of some mystery.

I know what it's like to feel you can't be saved, or don't feel up to trying to see if you can, even though so many are offering this and that panaceas or practices to work your way out of your personal pit. I know what it's like to also need to be saved and feel no one knows how or will take the time, or maybe they can't spare the time or energy, or emotional burden, even if they know the answers. But I know what it's like to feel that I need help, and need to be saved, and to search avidly, desperately, diligently, from sources high and low, saints and sinners, average people and brilliant minds and social rejects alike, for any hint or piece of an answer I can place in a puzzle together.

I also judge no one's path of divination or religion, and don't feel anyone necessarily needs to be saved by my own religious hod-podge. Yet who knows, because again, I was saved by such things and I searched the many paths and tried them out and wore the costumes, played the roles. It was only by immersing in them that I found the gifts. It was only through eager or generous souls offering their religions and experiences to me that I found my path.

It was only because of the real ordinary people and their testimonies and suggestions that I found my way, since I'd become kind of burned out on many books on such subject matter, as they often were too lugubrious, detailed and stringent. They were too much by the book, whereas individuals felt more like me, and more unique, more individual and weird, things that wouldn't be flashy and heavy and consistent enough to sell a book, too divergent, too random and rare and real, as in really weird. Yes, real can be really weird, sometimes and it doesn't always sell well to enough people, I suppose, to make it into the books.

It's not that, I thought, about my own writing, and also about the things others sometimes say or write. They sometimes also show me what is but what they say is not quite that, if at all that. I suppose sometimes it is harder to describe what is or even to hint at it, than to show what it isn't. With certain things, even the most close to us, the closest to our own skin, that guides our lives and every step, it can still be that way. Even then, we can feel as if we don't quite know the things we are closest to, depend on and need the most. Though we need to feel we know them, can count upon them, can trust them and rely on and predict their behavior, so all doesn't fall apart. We can't even let ourselves see, sometimes, the truth, that maybe it's all very trembly, tremulous, shaky and ethereal. And all very shape-shifting and not something we can count on in much clear obvious and lasting way, at all. That might take all the breath out of our lungs, leave is collapsed and without the energy to forge on ahead.

I guess I've heard it said sometimes that God can be seen in this way: that, who can know him (or her, or them, the many, or the genderless/multi-gendered). Who can know them because their nature, their plans, their behavior, is too far beyond us. It might appear one way, one day, and completely different the next. We can know certain things about them but not in order to so much pin down or predict, because there is too much we don't know that might completely upend what we think we do know. Still, religion does claim to know certain things about God as being irrefutable, but I get the feeling like they just cling to those things to give themselves two things.

One, they give themselves and believers more of affirm sense of comfort and conviction, something to hold on, to stand on, and a path to wall forward on in their lives. And two, they give their believers more reason to join, to fall in line, to blend in and build up their group, their religion. If there was not enough of a cohesive, convincing, motivating cause to believe, then their church and books would be tossed on the heap of other countless books and theories, ignored by most.

The idea of fears, hopes, promises, rules, and judgments holds a heavy bind on people. No mind if these assumptions are illogical or logical, in fact the less logical the better, sometimes. To suspend one's logic and cow down to rules and faith beyond the mind is to open up into servitude and submission, to let down one's defenses, to become like a lamb, led along, helpless and compliant, which makes one cling all the more, regardless of what one is clinging to.

So it's been with me before, and I have been there, done that, with religion. But now I still hold on to some of what I earned that way, since it does feel like I earned, I worked for it, to give up myself, to trust, hope, try things that felt sacrificial. Yet some of what I found this way was so real, so true, even if it was found by adhering to rules and suspending logic, for a long, arduous time on that path. Over time, and feeling lost and wavering which way to go, I eventually found the mixed religion I follow these days.

Gradually I found a way to try new things, to find what was real and what still works for me (which has changed over time, some), out of that path, what's tested every so often, and still for now rings true. And I ruthlessly or gently, let go of all the rest, or kept as some keepsake, the rocks and rough stone that I can't separate from the gems. It's full of memories, beauty, story. Sometimes it's full of poison, something to handle carefully in limited amounts and when the time is right and I'm strong enough to handle it.

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alias-sam · 2 months

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Pierced by a Golden Soul

Chapter 36. Mother Knows Best

Platonic Jojo's x Reader

Summary: Fate is a bizarre concept with countless more bizarre implications. In life sometimes such extraordinary events happen that the only reasoning left must be fate. The tragedies that constantly befall the Joestar bloodline for example may be the unluckiest series of cards drawn in human history, or perhaps the work of a greater power. There is no way to tell for sure. Had Dio Brando or Jonathan Joestar moved slightly on a divergent path the world itself would be left very different. The fate or luck of the noble Joestar bloodline has led to destruction of evil likes of the Pillar Men and DIO. This story is of a similar caliber to that of the other Joestars (as I am sure you are familiar with them). This is a story of lost souls, compassion, hope, and above all fate.

Word Count: 1,740

(Crosspost from Wattpad, full fic is already posted there.)

"Good afternoon darling!" Senora Jones' voice rang in tandem with the doorbell. You lightly hummed in greeting. Your mother stood up from cleaning out a display case to meet you. "Quite the weather we've been having."

"You're telling me." You sighed, shaking off some water from your shoes. Despite your dampness, Senora Jones gave you a hug. You noticed her unusual lack of an apron, and a noticeable pep in her step.

"How did that talk with your friend go?"

"How did you know I...oh right!" For a moment you thought she was talking about your encounter with Learco. "They were too busy to talk. I just went for a walk instead." You laughed nervously. "I'll get on my shift." You sidestepped your mother and headed into the kitchen to start washing dishes, but you were met with an empty sink. "What the?"

"I decided to close early today. I barely get to take days just for myself." Senora Jones chuckled as she entered the kitchen behind you. "Business was slow anyways."

"Great. I'm glad!" You smiled having already noticed your mother's light mood. She was always busy, always working to keep up the business and taking care of you. It wasn't very often she took time for herself, even as a kid you noticed how she'd work herself to the bone. "Have anything you want to do with your newfound freedom from adulting?"

"Just one." Your mother threw you a mischievous smile.

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

"We haven't done anything like this in a while." Senora Jones laughed watching you shuffle through VHS tapes.

"And it's an absolute shame." Eventually you picked out a movie and set it to play. "I miss doing this."

"Me too." Your mother sighed, watching you situate yourself next to her on the couch. "Which movie did you pick?"

"Which do you think?"

Just as you said that the opening screen for 'The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly' lit up the screen in front of you. Spaghetti westerns were an integral part of your childhood, no thanks to Senora Jones' Italian roots. You'd practically been raised on Clint Eastwood's movies. Even if the films were made in the sixties, you had a certain respect and love for the cinematography and musical scores. The movies were where you had learned a fair bit of the Italian language. Senora Jones owned a tape of the English and Italian versions. At this point the VHS tapes were worn down from the amount of times they had been rewound and rewatched. As the movie went on you could practically recite the whole script, cue every pistol shot, and narrate every stare down as it happened. Even so, you were at the edge of your seat until the very end.

......

"What are you feeling for dinner?" Senora Jones sighed as the final scene faded out.

"Old reliable?" You smiled.

"That's exactly what I was thinking." Your mother laughed already standing up.

"Why don't you take a load off?" You stood up quickly making your mother falter. "I've made pizza with you a million times!"

"Last time I let you cook in my kitchen unsupervised I lost a toaster oven." Senora Jones looked at you skeptically.

"That was forever ago!" You defended yourself indignantly.

"That was three months ago darling." Senora Jones corrected gently. "We'll work on it together; I know how clumsy you can be."

"I know...remember the cupcake incident?" You quirked an eyebrow. Senora Jones led you into the kitchen, already heading to get out ingredients.

"That was a Mother's Day to remember." Your mother laughed. Comfortable silence followed as the two of you prepared dinner. It was a well practiced ritual, familiar and calming. This was the most normal you had felt in awhile. For just a moment you let yourself forget about stands and strange metal shards, you let yourself solely focus on the pizza dough in your hand. It didn't take long to get the fully built pizza in the oven. Senora Jones set a timer as you wiped some stray four from your hands.

"So..." You trailed off, leaning against the kitchen counter. "How are things?"

"I already don't like where this is going. I know what you're going to ask and I don't have to answer you." Your mother sat on the counter next to you.

"You're always meddling in my social life, thought I might return the favor..." You shrugged with a mischievous smile. "All I want to know is what a kind, young, and very pretty businesswoman is still doing single."

"Don't you start this again you dork!" Senora Jones laughed.

"Anybody would be lucky to have you. I sure am." With an exaggerated sigh you looked over at your mother. "The real problem is finding someone good enough for you."

"You sound like my mother." Senora Jones rolled her eyes.

"She must have been very wise."

"She was."

......

A few hours later you found yourself cleaning the living room. Senora Jones was in her bedroom reading, so you decided to tidy up. After fixing the blankets on the couch you found yourself sorting through a small stack of papers on the coffee table. It was mostly just bills and documents related to the bakery. Just as you were about to set the papers aside a business card and brochure for some kind of medical clinic.

"What's this?" You mumbled, picking up the items. The picture of the clinic looked familiar.

"What's what?" Senora Jones poked her head into the room, a copy of 'The Sign of Four' in hand. You jumped slightly from the sudden presence. It was easy to forget that your mother had ears sharper than a bat.

"This." You said, holding up the pamphlet. Senora Jones froze, a sheepish and hesitant look crept across her face. Without so much as a word your mother set aside her book and invited you to sit with her on the couch. She took the pamphlet from you, taking a moment to look down at it. A multitude of complex feelings swam in your mother's eyes.

"Do you remember much about when you first came to live with me?" She asked, looking up at you with a soft smile.

"Not really." You admitted. It was a time in your life you'd rather forget. The memories were foggy and dark, but the feelings left behind still hurt. "I had a lot of nightmares I guess..."

"Yeah. You did." Senora Jones sighed. She had comforted you every night of your first year together. "Do you remember the therapist you used to see?" You paused, wracking your brain. It had been a long time, at this point you had almost forgotten you ever saw a therapist as a kid.

"Dr. Hill right?" You asked. The card still in your hand read Dr. Cypress Hill. "That was forever ago."

"Y/n...?" Senora Jones mumbled softly.

"Do you think I should go back?" You asked quietly.

"It's not my choice to make darling. I know you've been going through something lately." Senora Jones leaned back in her seat, opting to look up at the ceiling rather than your conflicted and grim expression. "I planned to give you the contact information for the clinic myself, I didn't think you'd come across it yourself. Even back then Dr. Hill told me that if you ever needed anything to give her a call."

"I'll give it some thought." You assured your mother before putting the card aside.

"That's all I can ask." Senora Jones smiled. Without thinking about it, you pulled your mother into a hug. She seemed surprised by the sudden act of affection at first, but quickly wrapped her arms around you.

"Thank you." You sighed, gently letting go. Before you could fully break away your mother pulled you back in, giving you one last squeeze.

"I originally came in here to tell you I'm headed to bed." Senora Jones mumbled, stretching her arms a bit.

"Goodnight."

........

The sun had set, the house was silent, and you were left alone to your thoughts. Clutched tightly between your fingers was the business card. You had a choice here. There was a right and wrong answer here. You stared down at the card and surprisingly felt like throwing it away. Did you even have the time to do this? You could probably handle your mental health on your own...right? Immediately you shook the tempting thought away. You had a bad habit of doing what you could to avoid getting help. Right here, right now, you needed help.

Granted, a therapist wouldn't exactly help solve your stand user problems, but talking to somebody would probably be good for sorting out your scattered and anxious brain. After long personal deliberation you found yourself in the living room once again. It was after office hours, but you grabbed the phone and decided to leave a message.

"Hi... I'd like to schedule an appointment with Dr. Hill..."

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

Blake watched as the mass of maggots at his feet tore apart yet another animal carcass. It was a sickening sight that even he couldn't find any joy in watching. Blake still didn't understand what triggered these things to attack. That's why he was here. Blake's first encounter with the creatures was almost a week ago now. They scared and fascinated him, and he reveled in the feeling.

Tonight he was going to... experiment. Blake approached the mass, all the while minding his distance. When he was close enough Blake reached into his pocket, taking out a small packet of lunchmeat. He threw a few pieces at the gathering of maggots and it landed just beside them. Blake watched, waiting for a reaction, but nothing happened. He proceeded to throw more pieces directly into the grouping, but still, the meat went largely ignored.

Curious, and perhaps a bit annoyed at this point, Blake summoned his stand and made a copy of himself. The copy walked right up to the creatures without any kind of response. Blake made his copy bend down, pick up a single maggot, and bring it back to him. He gingerly pinched the grub between his pointer finger and thumb. It made an attempt at burrowing into the boy's hand, but Blake simply applied more pressure on the creature to keep it still. Once again, Blake summoned his stand, and commanded it to make a copy of the maggot. Nothing happened. Irritated, he made several more attempts at copying the maggot to no avail. Blake glared down at the little monster before a smile broke on his face.

"Interesting..." Blake trailed off before mindlessly squishing the maggot between his fingers.

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jdgo51 · 8 months

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The Woman Who Washed Jesus' Feet

Today's inspiration comes from:

They Walked With God

by Max Lucado

Before you begin

Read Luke 7:36–39, Luke 7:47 NLT

"'One of the Pharisees asked Jesus to have dinner with him, so Jesus went to his home and sat down to eat. When a certain immoral woman from that city heard He was eating there, she brought a beautiful alabaster jar filled with expensive perfume. Then she knelt behind Him at His feet, weeping. Her tears fell on His feet, and she wiped them off with her hair. Then she kept kissing His feet and putting perfume on them.

When the Pharisee who had invited Him saw this, he said to himself, “If this man were a prophet, He would know what kind of woman is touching Him. She’s a sinner!”

“I tell you, her sins — and they are many — have been forgiven, so she has shown Me much love. But a person who is forgiven little shows only little love.”

Could two people be more different? He is looked up to. She is looked down on. He is a church leader. She is a streetwalker. He makes a living promoting standards. She’s made a living breaking them. He’s hosting the party. She’s crashing it.

Ask the other residents of Capernaum to point out the more pious of the two, and they’ll pick Simon. Why, after all, he’s a student of theology, a man of the cloth. Anyone would pick him. Anyone, that is, except Jesus.

Jesus knew them both and picked the woman.

What’s more, He tells Simon why.

Simon is angry. Just look at her — groveling at Jesus’ feet. Kissing them, no less! Why, if Jesus were who He says He is, He would have nothing to do with this woman.

One of the lessons Simon learned that day was this: Don’t think thoughts you don’t want Jesus to hear. For Jesus heard them, and when He did, He chose to share a few of His own.

“Simon,” He said to the Pharisee, “I have something to say to you.” “Go ahead, Teacher,” Simon replied.

Then Jesus told him this story: “A man loaned money to two people — 500 pieces of silver to one and 50 pieces to the other. But neither of them could repay him, so he kindly forgave them both, canceling their debts. Who do you suppose loved him more after that?”

Simon answered, “I suppose the one for whom he canceled the larger debt.”

“That’s right,” Jesus said. Then He turned to the woman and said to Simon, “Look at this woman kneeling here. When I entered your home, you didn’t offer Me water to wash the dust from My feet, but she has washed them with her tears and wiped them with her hair. You didn’t greet Me with a kiss, but from the time I first came in, she has not stopped kissing My feet. You neglected the courtesy of olive oil to anoint My head, but she has anointed My feet with rare perfume.

“I tell you, her sins — and they are many — have been forgiven, so she has shown Me much love. But a person who is forgiven little shows only little love.” — Luke 7:40–47 NLT

Simon invites Jesus to His house but treats him like an unwanted step uncle. No customary courtesies. Or, in modern terms, no one opened the door for Him, took His coat, or shook His hand.

Simon does nothing to make Jesus feel welcome. The woman, however, does everything that Simon didn’t. We aren’t told her name. Just her reputation — a sinner. A prostitute most likely. She has no invitation to the party and no standing in the community.

But people’s opinions didn’t stop her from coming. It’s not for them she has come. It’s for Him. Her every move is measured and meaningful. Each gesture extravagant. She puts her cheek to his feet, still dusty from the path. She has no water, but she has tears. She has no towel, but she has her hair. She uses both to bathe the feet of Christ. As one translation reads, “she rained tears” on His feet (v. 44 MSG). She opens a vial of perfume, perhaps her only possession of worth, and massages it into His skin. The aroma is as inescapable as the irony.

We love, because He first loved us.

— 1 John 4:19 NASB

You’d think Simon of all people would show such love. Is he not the reverend of the church, the student of Scripture? But he is harsh, distant. You’d think the woman would avoid Jesus. Simon’s “love” is calibrated and stingy.

Her love, on the other hand, is extravagant and risky.

How do we explain the difference between the two? Training? Education? Money? No, for Simon has outdistanced her in all three.

But there is one area in which the woman leaves Him eating dust. Think about it. What one discovery has she made that Simon hasn’t? What one treasure does she cherish that Simon doesn’t? Simple. God’s love. We don’t know when she received it. We aren’t told how she heard about it. Did she overhear Jesus’ words “your Father is merciful”? (Luke 6:36 ESV). Was she nearby when Jesus had compassion on the widow of Nain? Did someone tell her how Jesus touched lepers and turned tax collectors into disciples? We don’t know. But we know this. She came thirsty. Thirsty from guilt. Thirsty from regret. Thirsty from countless nights of making love and finding none. She came thirsty.

And when Jesus hands her the goblet of grace, she drinks.

She doesn’t just taste or nip. She doesn’t dip her finger and lick it or take the cup and sip it. She lifts the liquid to her lips and drinks, gulping and swallowing like the parched pilgrim she is. She drinks until the mercy flows down her chin and onto her neck and chest. She drinks until every inch of her soul is moist and soft. She comes thirsty and she drinks. She drinks deeply.

Simon, on the other hand, doesn’t even know he is thirsty. People like Simon don’t need grace; they analyze it. They don’t request mercy; they debate and prorate it. It wasn’t that Simon couldn’t be forgiven; he just never asks to be.

So while she drinks up, he puffs up. While she has ample love to give, he has no love to offer. Why? The 7:47 Principle. Read again verse 47 of Luke chapter 7:

A person who is forgiven little shows only little love.

Just like the jumbo jet, the 7:47 Principle has wide wings. Just like the aircraft, this truth can lift you to another level. Read it one more time. “A person who is forgiven little shows only little love” (NLT). In other words, we can’t give what we’ve never received. If we’ve never received love, how can we love others?

But, oh, how we try! As if we can conjure up love by the sheer force of will. As if there is within us a distillery of affection that lacks only a piece of wood or a hotter fire. We poke it and stoke it with resolve. What’s our typical strategy for treating a troubled relationship? Try harder.

“My spouse needs my forgiveness? I don’t know how, but I’m going to give it.” “I don’t care how much it hurts, I’m going to be nice to that bum.” “I’m supposed to love my neighbor? Okay. By golly, I will.”

So we try. Teeth clinched. Jaw firm. We’re going to love if it kills us! And it may do just that.

Could it be we are missing a step? Could it be that the first step of love is not toward them but toward Him? Could it be that the secret to loving is receiving? You give love by first receiving it.

We love, because He first loved us. — 1 John 4:19 NASB

Long to be more loving? Begin by accepting your place as a dearly loved child.

Follow God’s example, therefore, as dearly loved children and walk in the way of love, just as Christ loved us and gave Himself up for us as a fragrant offering and sacrifice to God. — Ephesians 5:1–2 NIV

Want to learn to forgive? Then consider how you’ve been forgiven.

Be kind and compassionate to one another, forgiving each other, just as in Christ God forgave you. — Ephesians 4:32 NIV

Finding it hard to put others first? Think of the way Christ put you first.

Though He was God, He did not think of equality with God as something to cling to. — Philippians 2:6 NLT

Need more patience? Drink from the patience of God (2 Peter 3:9). Is generosity an elusive virtue? Then consider how generous God has been with you (Romans 5:8). Having trouble putting up with ungrateful relatives or cranky neighbors? God puts up with you when you act the same.

He is kind to the ungrateful and wicked. — Luke 6:35 NIV

Can’t we love like this?

Not without God’s help we can’t. Oh, we may succeed for a time. We, like Simon, may open a door. But our relationships need more than a social gesture. Some of our spouses need a foot washing. A few of our friends need a flood of tears. Our children need to be covered in the oil of our love.

But if we haven’t received these things ourselves, how can we give them to others? Apart from God, “the heart is deceitful above all things” (Jeremiah 17:9 NIV). A marriage-saving love is not within us. A friendship-preserving devotion cannot be found in our hearts. We need help from an outside source. A transfusion. Would we love as God loves? Then we start by receiving God’s love.

The secret to loving is living loved. This is the forgotten first step in relationships. Remember Paul’s prayer?

Your roots will grow down into God’s love and keep you strong. — Ephesians 3:17 NLT

As a tree draws nutrients from the soil, we draw nourishment from the Father. But what if the tree has no contact with the soil?

Many people tell us to love. Only God gives us the power to do so.

We know what God wants us to do.

This is what God commands:... that we love each other. — 1 John 3:23 NCV

But how can we? How can we be kind to the vow breakers? To those who are unkind to us? How can we be patient with people who have the warmth of a vulture and the tenderness of a porcupine? How can we forgive the moneygrubbers and backstabbers we meet, love, and marry? How can we love as God loves? We want to. We long to. But how can we?

By living loved. By following the 7:47 Principle: receive first, love second."'

Excerpted with permission from They Walked with God by Max Lucado, copyright Max Lucado.

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late-nite-scholar · 9 months

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Aug 11th (Day 7): Prompt- Profane / Sword

Day 7: Sword- Besharat finds the secret of something long lost to her people, and with it, a link to her culture that she sometimes feels she is losing by being the Dragonborn. A little off-canon but very much part of my personal story for her. For her, this is bigger than being the Dragonborn, because first and foremost, she is Yokudan. Prompts by @tes-summer-fest

Redguard LDB x Farkas

Warnings- None

Wordcount- ~1500

(I posted a picture of a mod that gave me the Book of Circles. This is what you make with it. Description in alt text)

***

I stared at the ancient page in front of me, dropping my quill onto the paper I’d brought to take notes. My hand shook as I brought it up to cover my mouth. I wanted to cry. I had jokingly grumbled to anyone who would listen about not actually being the first Redguard Harbinger of the Companions, but now I was infinitely grateful I wasn’t.

My predecessor had left me a gift more precious than gold, gems, or any kind treasure that could be had. He’d left a memoir, chronicling his leaving Hammerfell, his arrival at Jorrvaskr posing as a servant, to his time as a Shield-Brother, and then to Harbinger in his later years. But within those pages, I had just learned a life-altering secret.

He was a blademaster, but not just because he studied Hunding as I did. No, Cirroc the Lofty had been Ansei! And more than that, he’d written how to create a shehai, lamenting that the art was becoming lost even in his time!

I wrote down everything he had written on the subject, trying to keep my hand steady. I copied it verbatim, lest I miss something by taking a shortcut. My heart was beating so hard I thought it would burst from my chest. Could I use his writings to do this for myself? I could hardly dare hope that such a thing were possible, so far removed from the First Era when Cirroc had written this down.

There was only one way to find out.

***

Three days later I stood in the practice yard, ready to try. I’d studied Cirroc’s words, read Hunding, and meditated in the way of my people. I’d prepared as thoroughly as possible for this moment, ritually cleansing myself and giving offerings to my gods two hours ago in the early dawn. I had only a statue of Morwha here in Whiterun, but I appealed not only to her, but to all our gods; Leki, Tall Papa, Onsi, Tava, Diagna, The HoonDing, our ancestors, and the rest. Anyone who could help me achieve this feat, I prayed for their help. Never had I dreamed I would ever actually attempt this. Had these arts not been lost since the Second Age? But then again, had dragons not been as well? Perhaps nothing was truly lost forever?

The yard was empty at this hour, minus me and Farkas, who stood beside me with a frown deepening the crease between his brows. I knew he wasn’t quite sure what I was doing and that my explanations over the last few days had probably sounded like mad rambling. But he also wasn’t going to let me try some sort of new and powerful magic on my own. I knew he’d been talking to Orielle about what he could do if something went wrong and I was fairly certain the scroll sticking out of his pocket was a dispel magicka ward. But I knew he’d only use it if he absolutely thought he had to. He was still a bit wary of magicka, but he trusted me to know what I was doing.

But that thought couldn’t dispel the excitement bubbling up inside me. I tried to keep it in check; after all, this might not work. In fact, it was more than likely that it wouldn’t. But just the idea… I pushed it out of my mind. I needed concentration now, to focus on my lessons.

“I’m going to try it.” I said softly, taking a deep breath. “Leki show me how, as you did my ancestors. May The HoonDing make way for this art, long lost and now found. Ancestors, if I am worthy to walk beside you on this path, let me be successful. Mother Morwha, guide me as you always do. Tell Tall Papa that Besharat do Bergama comes to test her skill as a warrior of Yokuda!”

I reached deep into myself, into the core of my being. Into the deep and hidden parts that most people would never think to access. And I could feel something. I reached for it, my hand curling around it as I pulled it free. From deep within, white light poured out. I was holding it, I could feel it swirling around me. And then it coalesced into a solid grip in my hands, a long curved blade rising up before me. It pulsed with my life force, my soul; the two of us attuned to one another in a way no two other beings had been in millennia. At that moment I was no longer one being, part of me was now this sword made of light.

I swung it, gently at first but then in a practice routine I used every day. And it was absolutely perfect in every way; no better weapon could be made by human, mer, or beastfolk hands. Not to compare to this. Even my beloved Skyforge steel sword, made to my specifications by Eorlund himself, couldn't compare to this actual extension of my being.

“I did it. By all the gods and ancestors… I really did it. A shehai…” Everything blurred as tears streamed down my face, and I began to laugh and cry at the same time. “I made a shehai…”

I looked over at Farkas, whose eyes were wide enough to see the whites all the way around. He took this all in, whispering, “I’ve never seen anything like that. Not even those folks who use bound weapons. It’s not like that.”

“It’s not. This isn’t calling a blade from elsewhere to use. This is creating it from within, from yourself. It’s a piece of me. No one’s done this for thousands of years. There’s been no Ansei since the Second Era. But… but I could be one… a Sword Singer…”

The spell wavered, and the shehai dissipated back into me. But I still smiled. I hadn’t expected to hold the spell even that long on the first try. No matter what, this had been incredibly, wildly successful.

“If I did it once, I can do it again!” I laughed, throwing my arms around Farkas. But he didn’t hug me in return, and as I stepped back I saw a shadow in his eyes. I reached up to take hold of his face. “What’s wrong, my heart?”

“I’m glad it worked. But making this sword from yourself, from your soul, it’s not gonna hurt you, is it? Not gonna affect you somehow?”

“Not from what I’ve read. It’s like magicka, but it’s not. When it disappeared there it just went back into me. Long ago, the wielders of this ability were powerful beyond measure, they could do things far beyond regular mortals. It’s more like… it’s more like the thu’um, it’s part of you and you just have to learn how to use it properly. And like the thu’um, I’m sure you could hurt yourself if you were reckless, but I have trained my whole life and I will keep training to use this properly.”

“Okay. That makes it make a lot more sense. I just worry sometimes, love.” He kissed my forehead.

“I know. And I don’t like to worry you. But this is huge! For me, for my people…” My shoulders dropped a little. “All this Dragonborn stuff… I feel like an outsider to it. It’s not mine. It’s the history, the stories, the gods of others. I’ve felt a bit like I’m being pulled away from my self, from who I am. But this is mine, it’s in my blood and bones. I feel it inside and it’s right. It makes me feel like maybe I haven’t totally lost my Redguard self to the whims of a dragon god who probably should’ve picked a Nord instead.”

Farkas hugged me tightly. “There’s no one else that can do what you do, Eshi. Maybe that’s why he picked you. But I… I am glad you’ve got this if it helps you feel more like yourself. It was really impressive.” He admitted. “It’d be quite the thing in battle, I think.”

“I think so too! I can’t wait to test it out! And thank you, for understanding. Why don’t we go get some breakfast? Everyone will be getting up soon and I promised Orielle I’d let her know how things went. And I don’t know about you, but I’ve been fasting for this and I’m hungry.”

He slipped an arm around my waist. “Let’s go then, love. I think Tilma said the kitchen were making apple dumplings this morning. We can get some while they’re nice and hot.”

We walked back into the hall, and I felt like I was walking on air. No matter what destiny or fate or the gods threw at me, I was still Yokudan! My blood and my bones and my soul were still of Hammerfell, and of our lost home beyond the sea. And no matter where I went or what I did, they always would be.

#tesfest23 #tes fest 23 #tesfest23!#tes skyrim #the elder scrolls skyrim #tes v #skyrim #the companions #companions of jorrvaskr #farkas #farks x ldb #redguard ldb #oc: besharat #yokudan #tes fic

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creune · 10 months

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I am currently in a VC, watching my partner game with his friends and just thinking, cause I don't have anything better to do

I checked up on some things I haven't in a while and it made me realize something

I have removed myself from friends before for a specific reason

They refused to move forward

They refused change

Still do

They don't seem to understand that recreating something that is impossible to is only going to make them more said

Yearning for better times is fine, normal

But refusing to turn towards the now, to move on, it's not

I have seen some messages that made me realize that

That this place became toxic for me not because they were bad people

But because I changed, moved forward, found my own path

Yet they refused to move

I realized that everything felt so much the same, because it was

From what I've seen while checking in, they only see two options, go back to the past, before change happened, to years ago or give up and suffer in the now

But they don't see that change, that moving forward is another option

Not an easy one, don't get me wrong

But it's the option they need

Not what they want, sure, but absolutely what they need

They made me realize how stuck to "better times" they are, even now

Better times being when most people didn't have certain responsibilities and had more time to hang out, which again is fine

But when they refuse to accept that time moves ahead, that their now is wasted in a past that will never return, that they'd rather be bitter that even just look ahead, that's not the best

I get it, the future is unknown, scary

Sometimes you wish to go back when you didn't know just how scary it can be

But we all must accept that it is impossible

And soon what is now will be the past, and that future is the now

And if you refuse to even look, you will slip, fall, sink ever deeper in the wishes of a time of stable ground

But you will never see it if you refuse to walk towards it

I feel sad, really

Not in a pity way

But more in a "I hoped they would mature and grow, as I did, as those did who moved on (and also away)"

It is also strange how everyone who moved forward eventually left those who didn't behind

They all talk less, or not at all

I think they all know, deep down, that when you surround yourself with people stuck in the past for too long, you will become stuck yourself

Or maybe they all are just busy

Who knows

All I know is, that this realization is as strange as the people there, stuck in a past that will never return

I should have seen that before too

There were times when I noticed they yearned to recreate something, a fun thing that most participated in, over and over, even after it didn't work, every iteration less effective than the last

Like they are trying to recreate glory days

They could have created other things, new things

When there were experiments for those, more people got involved, as it was new, refreshing, interesting

But all those got abandoned in favor of an attempt to recreate the original, the one that involved all

But it never did

It never will

As far as I can tell, only a few are involved anymore

Telling the same story again and again

Playing the same moves over and over again

Singing the same songs over and over again

Yet it all blends together, into something they have all experienced before

Even I have forgotten about the magic of the first by now

It's been done so many times now, and even more since I have last checked

As they refuse to move on

To a new story, a new melody, a new page, a new step

You'd think that with so much time passing, they would learn

Yet they do not

As far as I can tell, they tried to take a look, then refused to look again, even less willing to take a step

I'm not sure tho

I just know what I see

And watching them yearn for times that people know will never happen, it is a sad thing

They will forever remain in that state of yearning, a state of suffering

They do not see the good things in the now, the possibilities of the next step, only the joys of what is now just memories

It is truly a sad state to be in, not able to move forward

Because while moving forward hides pain, it also hides hope, opportunity, happiness and joy

Change most often isn't a bad thing, it's just new

And new is scary

At least until the new becomes the now, then the past

But by then there's new now to live through

Good or bad

I think it's better than an eternity of yearning and hopeless wishes

And to anyone who might come across this and is too afraid to move forward or maybe is just not willing:

Moving forward isn't your enemy

The now isn't here to hurt you

The future isn't coming to rip you apart

Time is flowing forward

Resisting it is just going to cause you more pain

Change is a part of life, for better or for worse, but it cannot be stopped, no matter how much you try

So just, let the river of time take you with it

Let go of the branch you're holding onto

The river is wild, yes

But it will bring you to where you need to be

It will help you go forward, find new worlds to explore, new adventures to go on, new friends to make

It is not a smooth walk in the park, don't get me wrong

You will be knocked around for a while

But the river slows, the water gets shallow

And as you float down the river of time

You will find your peace

Under a sky filled with stars made of your hopes and your dreams

Those might not be what they are now

But you won't be either

Because you grow

Because you change

Because you move forward

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whitefluffybearcub · 1 year

Text

1/2/2023

— try to be brave, be kind, do the right things by your heart but even if you choose not to be, that itself is also an expression for the soul, not good nor bad but just an experience.

Know that in a different reality, there is another you who would have chosen differently than what you have in this reality. If you aren’t brave here, you might be in a different realm. The vibration you operate on determine your path and life story and all of it has a karmic connection, absolutely everything and everyone in your experience. Most of you won’t understand this because you are designed not to see it all but just a narrow fraction but your spirit would rise one day and you would understand it all, possibly when not being a human,

I still wish you love. Be brave, be kind, do the right things by your heart & conscience. Good karma helps your spirit and vibration to rise.

Do your best anyway, my love 😊 ❤️

— as expressions and metaphors,

A certain amount of people are led to the table. They see fame, wealth, control, and power on the table, all the things they so want.

They sit and they realize the host is the devil.

Some decide to dine and wine with the devil. Some know there is poison in all of them, some would not know at first but would later find out.

Devil has a plan for all of these willing and unwilling guests. They wouldn’t know beforehand nor would they see too far ahead what is in store for them. All of it is unspeakable things, for them and theirs.

It is part of the narrative anyway. All meant to be by the karmic connection.

— for the sake of pretending to be happy and show offs, you give up conscience and anything genuine.

A facade of love, would make you feel good temporarily but it definitely would not last.

The most genuine love is unconditional and infinite.

— as an expression in this reality, the dark roads and games you always choose to take and play, expect to see some scary ghosts and monsters. It is a path you have chosen, remember everything and everyone is involved in karmic connections and consequences.

— a certain people who is not aware of karmic consequences. They always knowingly and willingly walk into the fire, for years, for lifetimes, for eternity on repeat, until they learn how this reality works.

— please rise above the character that you play in this dimension and let go of any egotistical energy and emotions. See all of the expressions and experiences as they are meant to be.

Know that all of this is just an illusion and a simulation arena. Nothing more and nothing less, Not good nor bad, Just a ride for each spirit who are here.

— the secrets of this human world, perhaps , is to think rationally and keep very calm. Step back, see the big picture, and connect the dots.

And know that the only way to raise your vibe in this world would always be kindness and mercy towards yourself and others, proceed with calmness and compassion, and think wisely with reasons.

— the guilty would always focus on the things they are guilty of. Sometimes it is the indirect truth others need to see.

— the bad you put into the world as you ignore your conscience and heart, it would come back to haunt you as karma but not only you because it also goes to the extension of you, like your children and theirs.

— it is not important. It is your ego telling you that you must have this or do that. Without ego, you can be free and all is well. It is not important.

1/3/2023

— do not expect a savior to come to save you, do not expect a romantic lover to come to sweep you off your feet.

The most precious thing comes from within, the strength, the self love & respect, the contentment for just being. Anything good that comes from outside of you, would be a plus.

And for anything good to come to you, you must be good inside.

1/4/2023

— perhaps, just a thought, karma is the only constant thing in the human reality. One would always accumulate bad karma until they stop being bad. And that good karma is the only way to elevate via compassion, love, integrity, good morals, ethnics, and true genuineness.

But to each their own, all different expressions.

— simple.

The people who truly care about you would allow you to think for yourself and make decisions for yourself. They would guide but never force.

When you force or suppress, it is most likely not coming out from a place of love.

— even if they are in denial, they know the truth deep inside. They would be when the universe keeps showing them the same pattern again and again.

The universe would keep doing this until they are aware, and If that is meant to be.

— the energy you have been harboring, it is already showing up on your faces in this humanly dimension. Could be good and beautiful or bad and evil.

The expression of dead inside for a human being comes from the very lack of love and much violations of conscience.

1/5/2023

— done as a mockery from the higher ups, they put people who are seemingly incompetent in charge of the people.

But the universe is really sending a message: the government you know does not rule or govern, they are people who are blinded by ego and wealth through corruption. From there and up the chain, there is no happiness and real love. It is a trade off.

Make no mistake there is one power that is wanting to control the whole. They answer to fate and karma as well, all playing the same game and different characters of this low vibrational reality.

it really is just a script in this fated narrative anyway.

How you will go through this humanly journey, would depend on how clear you see of the big picture. All meant to be.

Be brave and be kind, if you can.

I send all of you love.

— in this reality, a lot of people and things are not what they seem to be. They are made this way as expressions vibrating lower frequency and energy.

But the world Of contrast also has a gift, there are good and kind people and things truly are what they seem to be, making them extra special in this reality because they do operate at a higher level energetically.

1/6/2023

— you give away your power, when you allow someone else to push your buttons at their will and you react to their intentions, fear, ego,and other negative energies.

1/7/2023

— in the world of induced and constant pursuits, my dear child, plus learn to be content right where you are now, right as you are. Anything good that comes along would be a plus.

Free yourself in finding contentment within yourself.

— the world does not wish to annoy you even if it looks and feels this way, it is giving you a lesson and practice of tolerance, keeping calm, and finding self quietness and clarity in the midst of chaos and loud noises.

All an illusion, one day you shall see. Nothing but a lesson and experience.

— so you think you are kind but when your kindness is conditional and discriminating.

You do not know kindness truly.

1/9/2023

— the more influences one has, the more karma they may have, good or bad, of course depends on how the narrative goes.

— we are all energy, expressed in this reality as humanly characters and traits. Really look into the faces, really feel the vibes. good or bad energy eventually shows up on the faces and vibes.

— remember when it comes from the top of the chain, it is often times a disguise for something else, and ultimately deceitful. Ego, corruption, control, and greed.

Hard to believe as a human but the top of the chain usually operates at a low vibrational level so it shouldn’t come as a surprise. If you understand this, you understand this reality.

All of this is like a game anyway.

— people at the top of the chain are usually chained by their own ego and the devil, waiting for a door knock from devil at the right time.

It is how this narrative goes.

1/11/2023

— if I betray myself over and over again, know that this is also a part of the journey.

Be aware enough to learn the lesson. Be glad you are mindfully learning.

— in this narrative, the truthful person who tells the truth, would trigger evil’s insecurity and therefore be attacked.

It is a common story and it is so common now you really see the truth easily.

And the boys who only cry wolf as a distraction would usually be left alone, if not broadcasted.

Easy to see by now, how this human reality works. They always follow the oldest tricks in the book without fail. Same concept, different scenarios.

1/13/2023

— some days you may realize that everything and everyone in this reality is teaching you a lesson of ego. And the more wise you become, you would have more self love and respect, and none of that ego.

— ego would always tempt you to give away your heart and mind. It can only lead to a road that is energetically low and downward.

— what leads you further into your journey is already pre-destined, no matter what it is and what you believe or how you have changed, the need to blame really is ego based and is ultimately unworthy and leads to unhappiness.

Embrace, make peace, and do what is right by your heart. Karma applies to all and is there always.

1/14/2023

Dear children, see the truth the way you heart knows, believe in your own heart and reasons, change at your own will.

It is how you will learn and I believe the universe would guide you to your designated destination in all meaningful ways.

But see, there are spirits in this reality who would go against their own hearts, do the opposite of the truth knowingly, perhaps for fame, ego, wealth, and fear. It is also meant to be. There would always be light and dark in this humanly reality.

It is the low energetically expression and experiences they have chosen for themselves. When the ego is too big, keep silent and let them be. They have to go their own way. The experiences aren’t forever but they are infinite.

Observe and you shall see. My wise children.

— maybe all negative energy in this reality has a basis of ego. And when ego is too big and rules too powerfully for a person, there is nothing anyone can do about it.

Ego would be their teacher, please know that.

— there is evil and good. Open your eyes and see that there will be defenders of good as well as evil.

See who is on the payroll for evil when they act against their morals and conscience.

Know who they are and their characters.

— people who choose ego and evil over truth and love, please know that they would constantly be in battles but mostly within themselves. It is part of their designated journey.

You reap what you sow. Probably the only constant thing in this reality and the related.

I would wish them mercy no matter what.

— it takes two people who do the right thing to have a sane encounter.

1/15/2023

— a seemingly hero who could not get over their ego, is not a hero at all, and at the end would not be considered a hero.

It is how this narrative goes.

1/16/2023

— be silent and aware, see the exchange of ego in this illusion.

— when they operate on low vibrational frequency they would fall eventually. It is karmic and a designated journey from this frequency.

Everything and everyone has its time. All meant to be.

— some of their goals are to make people lose their minds and rationality, in any way possible, they know that even the smartest people in this reality would lose their heads when their emotional intelligence is reduced. It is how the script goes.

Keep calm and just observe. Think for yourself. Do not react.

— the evil would of course get rid of the un-useful puppets for its own benefit and convenience.

The funny thing is that all of their puppets and tools would eventually all become un-useful.

All evil energy and its tools would eventually expire because it is designated this way.

— the endless pursuit of greed, ego, and power besides ways of corruption, corrupt morals, deceit, and hatred, would definitely be the end of you. It would first make you restless then sleepless, and eventually lifeless.

— even if you have been wronged, but if you hold on to that victim mentality and think the world own you so much.

I am sorry for the spoiler. It would be a life of unhappiness as long as you hold on to that low vibrational energy of being a victim.

1/17/2023

— nothing is perfect, as In this world nothing is absolute. Chasing for perfection really is an obsession and would not lead one to peace & harmony.

Balance is the key.

— perhaps each judgement and criticism comes from ego.

1/18/2023

— the most prestigious shoemaker makes the most expensive and luxurious shoes, but if none of them fits you, they are essentially useless to you.

— when one is alone but not feeling lonely, that is a true blessing. Contentment comes from within.

— the know it all, the ignorant, the evil and the hero, all play into this narrative in this dimension. All meant to be for this reality.

Keep calm.

— karma would make things right. Right as humans know it but It really means it would balance the energy.

It has to be this way because it is designated this way in this realm.

Trust the karma. It would balance the energy even when it is in the unseen from the public.

Karmic, all is well.

— the ones who keep on pushing and poking, it will eventually burst and explode into something the ones can not control. The ones would always be obsessed with control but it would be a lesson of limitations.

It is how the narrative goes.

1/19/2023

— when you deep dive into ego, know that true happiness can’t come with you. That is a guarantee.

It would be an experience.

— when life brings you calm, embrace it and keep its essence. It is a gift.

1/20/2023

— do not buy into fear. Know that the very entities that are trying to make others afraid, they, themselves are also operating at a very low vibrational frequency.

Do not buy into their fear and their energy. Show them mercy when you can.

1/23/2023

— we all come into this game of karma. The good and the bad are both being utilized by the designated fate.

It all happens accordingly. All of it.

— the ego would let you feel the emotions like a roller coaster, but you have to ride it out because you have to experience what it feels like. It is also designated for you to feel as a human in this dimension.

Once the lesson is learned. It’d be wise to release and let go of the ego.

All of this is ultimately an illusion anyway 😉

— generational curse as humans know it is really karma working its way to teach the same lessons and re-balance the energy.

1/24/23

— in the realm of duality, let there be light. All the light sees is darkness. And all the darkness sees is light. They intertwine in this school.

And the story begins like a script.

— simply just focus on what makes you feel genuinely good.

1/25/2023

— please remember, people who are unkind, also live in a world that is unkind to them. They pass on that negative energy because they are treated with such. Human world is karmic.

It would be a lesson for them to figure out how to elevate via karma.

— no matter how beautiful or how hideous it is, it is still just an illusion.

It is just a ride.

—I am pure love. Dear universe show me. You are pure love, ask this simulation to show you love.

— so many religions as they are to serve as lessons and evolution for the designated human experiences. Some uses it for good, some for obsessions, some for corruption and else.

Light and dark always.

1/26/2023

— if each every little thing that you do not agree with, disrupts and destroys your inner peace constantly, be prepared to live an unhappy life.

— at this point of the collective human journey, there are endless clickbait, trends, consumerism, craze, ego, hatred, fear, and all others. If you ever try to catch up with any of it, you would be restless, always.

I wish that you would choose peace and true happiness but it is up to you to choose ultimately. It is your journey.

— so in this experience, you have signed with the devil. Being fooled not knowing better.

Don’t just be dead behind the eyes. You can still shine in your own unique way via your own arts. Be true to what you love. You would be given a chance to do and be good again.

I wish you’d try without fear.

Thank you for trying.

1/28/2023

— do what you will. Wonderful.

But if you hurt, directly or indirectly, know that you will accumulate bad karma. The universe would re-balance the energy. You reap what you sow.

Watch and see. Learn that this is a cosmic law within this universe.

— the cold brings calm. Let the calm remain.

—the obviously rigged games, the corruption, the inverted, please know that karma would deal with it all at its divine timing, sometimes it would be even in a different dimension.

— remember, some of the players in this rigged game, though dressed in gold and diamonds, are also just pawns. They have to play along.

Playing fair would earn true respect. Deep down people know and see.

1/29/2023

— being childish and foolish, is also part of the designated journey.

— in this reality, people reveal themselves by the languages they use and the vibration they give out.

1/30/2023

— energetically, to want to encounter kindness, you would first have to be kind yourself.

There is no other way around it.

— it is your designated journey and lessons.

greed, corruption, ego, deceit and all insidious hidden agenda may be what you have chosen to experience in this reality, and I trust it truly would also be the biggest teacher to you.

You would eventually have to elevate energetically because that’s all where everyone and everything come from.

— to be honest, the endless pursuit of the next best thing or simply excessive consumerism, is an addiction.

And the funny thing is, serious addiction would eventually end up consuming you.

1/31/2022

— when you are treated negatively, instead of healing, you hold on to that negative energy and turn it into grudge, you then treat others with the same negativity.

That is a vicious karmic cycle in which one would not see the light.

— the so called elites of the world in this realm, cast spells into the masses then watch everyone kills each other, if not themselves.

Some elites might be offended by the smell yet they still like to watch. They still have to answer to karma.

What a narrative of this humanly experience.

— the puppets that everyone hates is put there by design. At the expense of the puppets, it has to face all negative emotions.

— each person you hurt, one lifetime to pay back. Your humanly experience may also be infinite.

Karma would make you want to make things right. It is re-balancing the energy.

— regardless of what one says or does in the public arena, please really look at their faces and meditate on the vibes they give out. Then you decide whether they can be trusted. It is that easy.

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