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obsessedelusional · 2 years

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In Your Dreams

parings ✦ Eddie Munson x Reader

summary ✦ Eddie was your childhood best friend. What happens when he was a dirty dream about you? Will it tear you apart or bring you two closer? contains smut

authors note ✦ feedback and reblogs appreciated <3

I’m reposting this one because a few hours after posting this my account experienced a glitch. That stopped my posts from showing up in tags. Tumblr claims they fixed it so hopefully you can see this

⊹ ꙳ ✦ ⁺ ‧ ⨯. ⁺ ✦ ⊹

“What the hell was that?” Eddie groans looking down at his morning hard on. The details of the dream he had replaying in his mind, over and over again. He just had a sex dream about his best friend.

Eddie still remember the day you moved to Hawkins. You were so young, moving into a trailer a few spots down from him. Eddie was only nine years old and was ecstatic when he found out there was a kid moving just down the street. He was surprised when he found out you were actually a little girl but that never changed anything. Didn’t take very long for you two to become best friends.

Never once had he thought about you in any way but platonic. Sure he knew you were beautiful. He also definitely noticed when your breast started to grow in junior high but tried his best not to stare. Even when Jeff and Gareth were gawking at you, whispering behind your back. Eddie always telling them to shut the fuck up.

So when Eddie woke up from a dream he remembered so vividly, the dream where he was balls deep in someones pussy. Only to look up and it was you, smiling down at Eddie. The worst part is he enjoyed it even more when he realized it was you. The sound of his alarm had woke him up from the wet dream.

He thought for a moment about rubbing it out but deciding that’d be too weird. Stroking his cock while thinking of his best friend. Instead letting himself suffer, giving him self blue balls.

Eddie’s been giving you rides to school ever since he saved up enough money to purchase the van. Something you’ve done hundreds of times. This morning it felt different, Eddie wasn’t nearly as friendly as he normally was.

“Hey Teddy.” You smile, climbing into the passenger seat. Calling him the nickname he pretended to hate but you knew he secretly loved it.

“Hey,” he says flatly, not daring to look your direction.

“Everything okay?” You ask, concerned.

“Yeah I’m fine.” He finally looks your way and gives you a not so reassuring smile. Only for you to notice he’s shoots a glance to your chest. He notices you noticing and scrambles to start the car. What the fuck was that?

The drive was filled with silence, not a word said between you two. The tension thick enough you could cut it with a knife. Pulling up to school Eddie gets out without saying a word, leaving you in the car alone.

Your mind starts to race, trying to remember what you could of possibly done to make him so short with you. Also what was that about, he was definitely checking your tits out. You look down at your cleavage, it’s not anything more then it usually was. Eddie’s seen you in less and never let his eyes wonder.

—

The first half of the school day was absolutely miserable for Eddie. Normally couldn’t focus in class but today it was ten times worse. The mental image of your chest bouncing in his face as you rode his cock, heavy on his mind. Walking from class to class, book covering his boner.

He felt terrible for being so short with you but when he did look your way he was most definitely checking you out. Which you noticed so he freaked out and drove off, not saying a single word to you. Even leaving you alone in his van. He cursed himself for being so rude knowing he’d have to see you at lunch, the meeting tonight and when he gives you a ride home. Thinking to himself, ‘I could give her something else to ride’ before pushing the thoughts away as quick as they came.

—

When lunch finally rolls around, your a little late but you make your way to the lunch table. You’ve sat here hundreds of times, only this time Eddie was no where to be seen. Your sat next to Jeff, quiet which was strange for you.

“Everything ok?” Jeff asks, noticing the change in your behavior and the absence of Eddie.

“I dunno, Eddie was really weird this morning.”

“How so?”

“So short with me. Haven’t seen him since, I feel like he’s avoiding me. I saw he yesterday and everything was okay. Suddenly this morning he can’t stand to be near me.”

You sigh frustrated, “Do you know what his deal is?”

“Never know with that dude.” He laughs, obviously not taking this as seriously as you.

“Where even is he? We always have lunch together at this table.”

“I have no idea.”

“He’ll have no choice but to face me at tonight’s meeting.” You groan annoyed, standing up deciding to head to class early. No reason to sit here and let your mind race with the worst possible outcomes.

“Yo Eddie what’s your deal?” Jeff asks walking into the drama room. Eddie is busy setting up for DND.

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve been totally M.I.A today dude. Stressing y/n out.” Jeff says, plopping down in his regular seat.

“Nothing. It’s stupid. I’ll get over it.” He mumbles to him self as the rest of the guys start to pile in.

“She totally likes you, don’t give her the cold shoulder dude.” Eddie looks at Jeff more confused then ever.

“Wait what? There’s no way.”

“Dude be so fucking for real right now. I know your a little slow but it’s so apparent.” Jeff laughs.

“What? Y’all talking about Y/Ns undying love for Eddie?” Dustin chimes in, laughing with Jeff.

“You guys don’t know what your talking about.” Eddie says matter of factly.

“What are you guys talking about?” You ask startling Eddie. None of them had noticed your arrival.

“Nothing.” Eddie spits out. Against your better judgement you take a seat next to him. You sat next to him every time, so what makes today any different. That’s until you realize all eyes are on you.

“Just tell me.” You whine, curious what you interrupted. Wondering if it has to do with why Eddie’s acting so weird today.

“Just talking about how you have a giant crush on Munson.” Gareth laughs, everyone shoots him a ‘why the fuck did you say that’ type of look.

“In your dreams.” You tease, laughing because they’re right and now your embarrassed. Your attention goes to Eddie trying to gauge his reaction but his eyes go wide. Can’t even look your way. He stands up and runs out of the room, leaving you behind with the guys staring at you.

“Gareth why would say that?” You say before leaving the room to follow Eddie. Knowing that things will probably never be the same.

“Eddie wait!” You yell as your catching up to his van, where’s he’s sat inside. Just as your about to let yourself in he locks the doors from the inside.

“What the fuck Eddie? Why are you avoiding me?” He turns the key in the ignition like he’s going to leave.

“I swear to god Eddie if you leave me I will show up at your house, break your fucking door down. You will have to talk to me sooner or later.” He sighs giving up and shutting the car off before unlocking the door so you can get in. You sit in silence for a few moments unsure of what to say.

“Is this about what Gareth said?” You speak up. Eddie’s looking out the window, his body language is stiff.

“Did I do something? Whatever I did I’m sorry I hate whatever this is. This has been the worst day ever.” Eddie’s heart aches knowing that your so torn up because he’s too scared to look at you after the dirty dream he had. Awakening feelings he didn’t know he had. Wondering if they’ve always been there just too afraid to act on them because he never wants to lose you.

“No you didn’t do anything.” He finally speaks up.

“Then what is it?” Silence fills the air again.

“You know you can tell me anything, Eddie.”

“I’m terrified.” He says his voice low and shaky.

“Of what Eddie?”

“That if I say what I’m thinking I’m going to say. You’re gonna run away. I can’t lose you.”

“You’re never gonna lose me. Just spit it out.” Eddie’s hands cover her face before he lets out a large sigh.

“I had a dream about you.”

“What were we doing?” You ask, curiously.

“We were uhhh,” his voice trails off. Now you need to know what this dream consisted of. You have an idea.

“Say it.”

“We were fucking.” He finally says hands still shielding his face.

“How did that make you feel?” You ask, scooting closer.

“I liked it. Probably liked it too much. Then when Gareth opened his fat fucking mouth you said in your dreams, I lost it like fuck she has to know. How the fuck did you know?” He whines, removing his hands so he can finally face you.

“I didn’t.” You laugh.

“I’ve been avoiding you because I can’t stop reliving the dream in my mind, walking around with a boner all fucking day.” You look to his crotch and there is a tent in his jeans. It turns you on thinking you’ve caused Eddie all this torture today.

“I bet the real life thing is ten times better.”

“What?” Eddie asks.

“Maybe we can make your dream a reality. Just an idea.” You shrug your shoulders, trying so hard to read Eddie’s response.

“Are you being serious?” He questions.

“What exactly were we doing?” Eddie’s dick twitches thinking about his dream for the millionth time today. Excited because it might become true.

“You were on top.”

“On top of what?” You ask innocently, wanting to hear all the details.

“Me. You we’re riding me, your tits bouncing in my face.” His voice is shaky and you’re enjoying it.

“Is that why I caught you staring at my cleavage today?” Eddie nods yes like he’s to ashamed to admit out loud.

“It’s okay, you can look. You can even touch if you want.” Eddie looks but it’s not nearly enough for you.

“Can I kiss you?” He nods yes again and you waste no time, kissing his lips. Eddie’s hesitant but that quickly fades when you guide his hand under your shirt, he cups your breast. You take the opportunity to explore the tent in his jeans, palming his dick through his jeans. He lets out a small moan so you pull away from the kiss.

“Did you like that?” You ask hand still on his groin.

“Yeah.”

“I can make you feel so good. You want that?” You ask, still palming his cock through his jeans. Eddie moans yes, so you lead him to the back of his van.

“Here?” He asks, getting comfortable.

“Yeah we’ll just have to keep it down.” You grin sitting between his legs pulling the waist of jeans down along with his underwear. Revealing his large throbbing dick, pre cum sitting on his tip.

“Where the fuck have you been hiding this?” You start pumping his cock, watching the pleasure flood his face. Small whimpers leaving his mouth.

“So good,” he whines.

“I bet. Walking around all day long hard because of me? No way to release it.” He nods as your lips meet with the tip of his penis before swallowing as much as you can. Your tongue moving as you go up and down. You hand playing with his balls. You look up and through your lashes you can see Eddie unfolding in front of you. His moans fill the van, not being quiet at all. Eddie starts pushing down on the back of your head, forcing you to gag on his dick. Tears start to fill your eyes. You can feel the pool growing in your panties.

You push against his hands to catch your breath, spitting all saliva that’s built up onto his dick. Going back down on him, this time pushing your own limits. Making your self gag on his giant cock.

“If you don’t stop I’m gonna cum,” Eddie speaks panting. You stop what you’re doing and start taking your shorts and panties off, aligning your entrance with his cock.

“You weren’t wearing a shirt,”

“What?” You ask confused.

“In my dream.” You laugh before ripping it off throwing it to the side. Eddie’s eyes gawk at your exposed tits, even bigger and better than he had imagined. You grab his hand, leading it so he can feel how wet your cunt is.

“See how wet you make me.” You moan as he explores your pussy, fingers sliding through your lips before making slow circles on your clit.

“It’s about you today. Making your dreams come true, Teddy.” He helps you line up his dick with your hole. You slowly drop onto it, enveloping his whole cock with your warm wet pussy.

“Fuck.” Both of you are moaning. You move your hips back and forward, Eddie’s hands find you hips, guiding you. His dick fills you up perfectly. You’ve never felt so full. It’s like his dick was made for your pussy.

“You’re so fucking beautiful.” Eddie whines.

“Everything you’ve ever dreamt of?”

“Yes,” he moans, you drop to his level still riding him so you can kiss him intensely. You’re sweating, it’s hot as fuck in this van. The windows fogging up. The thought of possibly being caught turning you both on more. You pull away so you can pick up your pace. Eddie’s hands find their way to your boobs, squeezing tightly.

“I’m so close,” he says.

“Cum inside me.” You purr sending Eddie over the edge. His warm cum shoots inside you, you ride out his high slowing down.

You lay down next to him, breathing heavily. You two take a moment to catch your breaths. Trying to wrap your mind around what just happened and what would happen after this. You two could never go back to just being friends.

“I feel terrible.” You whip your head towards him.

“I just sucked your dick and then rode it till you came inside me and you feel terrible?” Anger threatening to come out in your voice.

“It was amazing. I just so caught up in it I didn’t make you finish.”

“I said today was about you. Making your dream come true. It can be all about me next time.” You laugh.

“Next time?” He asks.

“If you want that.”

“I definitely want that.”

“Good.” You smile kissing him one more time.

—

“What happened? Where did you guys go?” Jeff asks as you two sheepishly rejoin them in the drama room.

“We talked it out,” Eddie says sitting down. More like fucked it out but whatever.

“Just made his dream come true.” You laugh, Eddie shoots you a look.

“What?” Jeff asks.

“Ignore her.” Eddie demands and everyone goes back to playing DND. Eddie and you spend the whole game eye fucking each other. Counting down the minutes till you’d have him alone again, him doing the same.

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comicaurora · 10 months

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Just a quick question as someone who is well-meaning but just a little confused about the kindle thing:

is it just the filesize of the pages that's the problem w/ downloading? I'm not sure what the difference between dl-ing up front or while reading would be from a hosting perspective. (unless ppl are actually wanting every page at once instead of like a few chapters' worth)

Sorry if all this is annoying, I'm just trying to better understand the problem. I don't mean to bother, so if it's not something you want to talk abt, then that's completely fair.

I guess the thing I keep snagging on is that it's not at all what I intended for the comic and it's not what the site is optimized for. My site follows an extremely normal webcomic format, the tumblr mirror has multiple pages in each post if people need improved loadtimes, and I'm getting kind of thrown that people are suddenly asking for it to be in a completely different offline format? A webcomic has "web" right in the name. It doesn't work that way, it hasn't worked that way the entire time the comic has existed, and frankly, while the intent was definitely not malicious, being asked "hey I'm having a lot of trouble pirating your work, you should make it easier for me" feels Weird And Bad for reasons I would assume are self-evident.

From my side of things, I'm hoping to get Aurora physically published in the future, and physical publication these days usually also goes hand in hand with an ebook release. Publishers already need convincing why they should physically publish something that exists for free online. If I jerry-rigged a downloadable ebook version myself, why would a publisher go to the effort to do it for me? It'd be like self-publishing the book first and then asking them to pay to do it all over again. I would very much like to not fuck up the publishing thing and that means I'm not touching anything a publisher would want to do.

Aurora is entirely free. It has no affiliated patreon, and after a brief run and some laughably poor policy management from google's ad plugin, the site no longer has any ads. I'm not saying this to guilt anyone - just to contextualize why, after finally completing the work of four and a half years of my life that I shared 100% freely with the world for the sheer love of creation and the profound joy it gave me to see people fall in love with this story I care so deeply about, why it sucks that people immediately, not even 24 hours after the final page of arc 1 goes up, start complaining that it doesn't exist in a nice little bundle on all platforms on and offline.

I promise it's not a big deal, but it's not a pleasant experience either.

#asks

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swiftllama · 1 year

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Anthony Complimenting Ian ☀️🔍

“I think that’s a big difference in us reuniting, is I am so willing to praise you and mention your strengths.”

Hey guys! Been working on this post for a while and so happy to finally share!

Before we knew of their reunion, there was this window of time where Anthony kept complimenting Ian on social media. That stood out to me then, especially after having very little interaction between them in so long. But now having the context that they were actually hanging out again behind the scenes, and that Anthony now makes a conscious effort to compliment/praise Ian makes it all the more sweeter. The said compliments I mentioned were posted at the time but the fandom wasn’t as active as it now is again so I wanted to compile a list of all the moments of Anthony complimenting Ian from their reunion to present for anyone who might’ve missed it. Enjoy!

Pre-Reunion

Okay so this first post is actually from before they reconnected. We know from the Smosh Reunion t-shirt that they reconnected in November 2022 and this post is from July 2022.

I like to think Anthony was in a better place with his emotions towards Smosh/Ian by this point, and that Ian had been on his mind and so a nice little compliment was to be had.

Post-Reunion

April 2023

5 months post-reunion and Anthony’s feeling more confident to joke around whilst still complimenting Ian. You love to see it! And Ian’s reply, him getting all embarrassed is cute 🤭

It also reminded me of these tweets from back in September 2017 :-

Confirmed: Anthony has a thing for calling Ian ‘daddy’. Noted. 👀

May 2023

Less than a month later and Anthony was back at it again with the compliments

Ian looks good and Anthony is determined to tell him at every opportunity!

And then…

June 2023

THE (PUBLIC) REUNION

And so ensued an abundance of compliments.

Anthony’s Interview

First lot of praise we saw from Anthony to Ian was in his interview with him. Tumblr sadly doesn’t allow you to add more than one video to a post so these are all quotes from said interview.

Like the tweet above of Ian getting his first chain necklace, they reference it once again. Ian is talking about how even though they’ve grown as people they haven’t changed that much, he references the fact Anthony has “more bling and tattoos” now, Anthony then interjects with :-

“Hey, you got a little bling too, let’s not discount it.”

Ian then shows the jewellery off and Anthony comes in saying “Baby’s first chain.” I like to think he was the first one to say that when Ian got the chain and where Ian got the inspo for his Twitter caption. Anthony then finishes this topic of conversation off by adding on that Ian also got “face bling too” in reference to his glasses. I know this isn’t really a full-out compliment and they’re just kinda messing about, but I think it still stands with Anthony saying that’s something that’s changed between them now is that he’s willing to compliment him, and I love how when Ian tries to downplay something about himself, Anthony jumps straight in there to lift him up too.

Another complimentary moment from the interview was when Anthony was talking about when he was 15 and came down with an autoimmune disease resulting in him missing half a year of school and Ian got a bunch of people to sign a ‘Get Well Soon’ card to give to Anthony to make him feel better.

“There is one moment, one thing that you did for me, when we were younger that really stood out to me that I never mentioned to you and I never thanked you for. I’ve been holding it in and I have never expressed it…. I don’t know how you got it to me, but somehow you got a ‘get well soon’ card that you gave to me - Okay, I don’t know if it was you who came up with the idea or your mom, or if like your mom told you, you had to do it. And a whole a bunch of people signed it and you wrote a message like ‘get well soon, we can’t wait to see you again’. And that, it really meant a lot to me, and yeah, it kinda kept me motivated and focused, and I don’t know why but for some reason it motived me to learn how to program a website, program a game, and I feel like because of that in some ways I was able to channel all my energy into creating the things that eventually culminated in what the foundation of Smosh was.”

I really love this moment, and I think it really shows Anthony’s growth. As was revealed in his letter to Ian, there was a period of time in which he felt he had more of a hand in creating Smosh in the early days, but the fact he can now acknowledge and recognise Ian’s input in it all, even before Smosh was a thing, and thank him for it really shows how far Anthony has come.

The last lot of praise from the interview is actually something Anthony has mentioned multiple times as you will see later on in this post and that is about their dynamic and how they work together.

“I think the fact we work in such different ways, like I’m able to really hyper-focus on something and put all my energy, just like back-to-back constantly in one chunk, I think that works really well when compared against the way that you work, where you are super creative and..”

Ian interjects by saying his head is “up in the clouds” when he works. Anthony continues by saying that Ian needs to be there to come up with the ideas that he does and then praises him once more :-

“I could never come up with most of the ideas that you come up with, but I feel I know how to formulate it and put it together.”

Next lot of praise for the month was this tweet :-

Anthony praising Ian, along with everyone else who had a hand in keeping Smosh going all these years. Similar to something he said at Vidcon when he interviewed Ian once again :-

“I just want to say huge, huge respect to you for staying with Smosh. For having that faith in it that it could continue to grow and be something bigger…” [audience cheers and Anthony points to Ian] “So huge, huge respect to Ian. That took a lot of tenacity - the tenacity you said I had, that’s where you really showed up. And Ian had to learn how to be a leader, Ian had to learn how to do all these things where he was just thrown into that because I made the decision to leave because Smosh, what it had become, was eating a hole in me and I felt I needed to walk away to figure myself out, to just grow on my own and I’m so thankful that you stuck around to keep it going so that we could do this [own Smosh again].”

And there was more where that came from and leads me onto the next lot of compliments :-

Vidcon 2023

“When Ian came over to my place to write… I remember I was sitting on the coffee table writing these jokes and you would say something and it would totally catch me off guard just like you used to do.”

Anthony said this so fondly to Ian, the “just like you used to do.” It goes back to what he said during his interview with Ian, which he got emotional about, that during the lunch where they reconnected properly for the first time, he saw his childhood friend in that moment. That despite how much they had both changed, the Ian he knew, the only one who can make him laugh like he does, was and is still there.

Anthony goes on to bring up their working dynamic again as he did in his interview :-

“While we were writing that sketch, while we were shooting it, there was this feeling - I didn’t realise it, but there was something missing from my creative process. Especially in creating comedy, that Ian just perfectly… I don’t know if I want to say yin and yang - I don’t know what I want to say about it. But it was just this perfect balance, that feels like in order for us to reach our fullest potential creatively, us working together is, in my heart, the only way for that to really reach its fullest capacity.”

Ian then responds in his usual way, trying to downplay his efforts by agreeing that their dynamic works well that way because he’s, in his own words, “kind of lazy.”

Anthony is quick to jump in though :-

“I think that’s a misconception, you’re not lazy.”

I love how he just outright refuses to let Ian talk down about himself nowadays. He will absolutely not have it!

Ian continues on and compliments Anthony in return by saying he is very ‘tenacious’ and ‘focused’, and ‘particular about things.’ Whereas Ian’s way of working, as Anthony goes on to say, is “throwing stuff out” and Anthony likes to pick out the best of the best from those ideas. And this is when we got the first of the ☀️🔍 analogies :-

“It feels almost like Ian is the sun radiating all these ideas in every direction, and then I’m the magnifying glass that’s like ‘let’s focus on this one, let’s make this one fire. This one’s amazing.’ And something about just the way that we work together just meshes so perfectly, and I think that’s how we became best friends in sixth grade, that’s how we established our sense of humour and why the Smosh videos that we created resonated with so many people, is because there is that perfect dichotomy between us.”

Do you think Anthony thinks their dynamic is perfect? I don’t know 🤔 I don’t think he mentioned it enough.

Jokes aside, it is very sweet. And I love how much he loves their connection.

The next lot of compliments come straight after the quote of Anthony praising Ian for sticking with Smosh whilst he was gone :-

“I’m super thankful - you know for the past six years it just felt like there was a hole in there [in his heart]. You know I’ve been creating my own interview series and it’s felt like this is a great way for me to be able to express a part of me, but not all of me. And that other part of me that wasn’t being expressed is that part of me that I now get to experience with you, and working with you, my childhood best friend, in creating something and being able to capture that magic and express it, and be able to present it for all of you [the audience], it’s a really, really great feeling.”

Ian then responds with another little compliment of his own :-

“I think on my side, you know when you left I was still making sketch comedy, I was still writing, but I never found the same kind of writing partner that I did after you. It was never the same. The way that we work together, I never quite found that kind of person to easily bounce ideas off to, so I kind of stepped back a little bit from the writing.”

It also reminds me of something Ian said during Anthony’s interview, about how they have this level of ‘trust’ between them, that Ian never found again with anyone else after Anthony left. Makes me so soft, they feel so lucky to have each other again. No one quite gets them like the other does and they can never replace what they have. Their connection truly is special.

This is more of a silly one and just them joking around but I’m including it anyways! They had a Q&A session with the audience after the interview and the person asking the question starts off by introducing themselves and saying how they met Ian the other day and apologises for calling him “old.”

They both laugh and Ian pretends to begin to walk off stage. And then, you guessed it, Anthony swoops in with a retort :-

“Hey! He’s 35 years young.”

Moving on to later the same day, after playing a live version of TNTL with the cast, they all had a sit-down Q&A :-

Q: “What inspires you? What made you who you are?”

And of course, as if he hadn’t already killed us enough, Anthony has to go and say this :-

“I’m about to say something totally whack. I’d say, Ian and my friendship when we first started really connecting. I feel like Ian taught me to not take myself too seriously and his sense of humour is just all over the place and I eat that shit up, I think it’s so funny.”

Like wtf. WHAT THE FUCK.

Ian’s reaction to him saying that pretty much sums up my emotions.

And that was it for Vidcon!

Except if you count this little cherry on top and the perfect closing to June as the picture is from Vidcon :-

Anthony being obsessed with Ian on main! You love to see it!

July 2023

Started off July with a bang and the ☀️🔍 article :-

Never getting over this! Anthony just loves the sun and magnifying glass analogy and I couldn’t be more here for it. Ian is the sun in his life 💛🖤

Ian Reads Anthony’s Angry Letter

And then came the infamous letter video. Which even though there were a few hurtful things revealed, there still managed to be a few nods of acknowledgment towards Ian even in that hurt Anthony felt.

As mentioned earlier in this post, in part of the letter Anthony writes that in the early days of Smosh he wanted it to be something ‘he’ made with Ian’s help, and that he considered Ian to only be “tagging along”. He goes on to apologise [in the letter] for if he ever made Ian feel like he didn’t deserve as much credit as he did.

“You may not have done some of the heavy lifting I did in the early days, but definitely encouraged us to keep going and you kept things light and full of laughs as we did it. We accomplished so much and I am just now realising how important you were in making that happen.”

Anthony then brings up something that happened recently between them :-

“But that thing that you read there - you did, and this was actually really nice for me to hear from you. It was a few days after we had confirmation that we had bought Smosh, you came over to my place, we had a little celebratory hang; very luxurious. We chilled with cigars and some whiskey, and we just bro-ed it up, and you said that to me. That exact thing - you said, “hey, I don’t think I ever really acknowledged the heavy lifting that you did in the early days” and you said that you “felt really lucky to be there at that time and that I included you in that.” And that was really nice to hear, even though I know.”

So I know technically this compliment/praise/acknowledgment isn’t new as the letter was written in 2017, but it’s ‘new’ to us. But I’m glad to hear that Anthony does acknowledge Ian’s involvement in Smosh’s success, even in the early days when Anthony was doing more of the technical things. He acknowledges that Ian still had a role to play in it all being what it was.

Ian agrees with what Anthony is saying, and that he always felt ‘guilt’ over the fact Anthony had to do the things he didn’t have the skillset to do, but recognises that he didn’t acknowledge or thank Anthony enough for it because he was ‘afraid’ that he might have to do more when their whole thing was about doing “equal work” because they felt as a duo they had to, and that if the other felt they were doing more work then there was some resentment there. Ian tries to downplay himself by joking “In most cases you were doing more work than me…” but Anthony is quick to jump in again and not allow it.

“I was doing more hours, but I think you were doing more of the creative heavy-lifting which is more taxing in many ways. So I think that you needed your time to recoup your energy, cause you’re coming up with funny stuff, and at that time I was like ‘I’m doing so much work’.”

Also another mention of Ian’s creativity and humour when it comes to writing, that Anthony acknowledges he wouldn’t be able come up with. But you can see where the ‘resentment’ they talked of came from, and why Anthony felt he was doing more. When in reality it’s just that’s their strengths lie in different areas, but that doesn’t make the work they both do individually any less important. So I am happy they can see that now and praise each other for the unique ways in which they shine which compliments their own strengths in their own special ways.

WE WERE ROBBED! Watch Party

It happened again. Anthony calling Ian ‘daddy’. Can we just all agree that he has a thing for it? Okay. Good.

They’re discussing how everyone in chat is poking fun at Ian for saying “you guys are a fun bunch” to the rest of the group during the ‘Do Men Know Reproductive Anatomy?’ Smosh Pit video and how it was a ‘dad’ comment. Ian reads out a comment talking about how Arasha called him ‘dad’ and he says “[she] can because she’s my son”. And then Mr ‘Ian is Daddy’ Padilla jumps in with the correction once again :-

Anthony: “I think you’re becoming ‘daddy’.”

Ian: [asks if it’s when he puts his glasses on]

Anthony: “Especially.”

Ian: [puts glasses on]

Anthony: “Oh damn, daddy.”

Like why is this Anthony’s thing now? Whatever the reason - I’m here for it.

Also, Ian doesn’t like to be referred to as ‘pops’ but Anthony’s into it. So, Daddy and Pops. It’s settled. Love our parents 👨‍👨‍👧‍👦

Smosh Mouth

And just like we started July, we ended it the same - with a bang!

I urge you if you haven’t seen it yet (or even if you have), to go watch this video. It may as well have been named ‘Praise Ian Hour’. Not only have we got Anthony, but also Shayne and Amanda coming in to add to the many compliments.

I know all these compliments the others were giving Ian were probably making Anthony’s heart swell with pride. To know that not only himself, but everyone else also recognises Ian’s strengths. To know that these things he loves about Ian, others see in him too.

So a lot of the video was the others complimenting Ian rather than from Anthony himself, but he agreed with everything they were saying and added a few little tidbits. So this next lot of compliments will be what Shayne and Amanda said, along with Anthony’s comments :-

Amanda: [talking about when she first auditioned for Smosh] “And I’ll never forget after I did that [read the script], it was really fun - they asked me a question, and I was in a really interesting place in my life… And they were like “If you could have one superpower, what would it be?” and I just said “Vulnerability.”… And I’ll never forget, Ian stood up and went “Do you write comedy also?” and I said “Yeah!”, and he went [nods] and he shook my hand.”

Anthony: [grinning ear to ear] “He knew. He knew.”

Happy boy loving hearing people praise his bff 🥰

“I think honestly that statement alone is exactly why you’re doing a podcast. I think Ian was able, if he really did know in that moment, I think it probably was seeing that there was more to you than just the comedy, there’s more depth there, there’s multiple layers, and you can build on that a lot more than just somebody who can only do one type of thing.”

A very sweet comment. How Ian recognised the talent in Amanda from that one thing she said, and also cute how well Anthony knows Ian so can see exactly where he was coming from in seeing that talent in her and why she ended up at Smosh.

Shayne: “…I’m curious how you [Anthony] think things were going in the years you were gone? It’s been fun to see this arc of Ian. And being honest I’ve gotten to know Ian so well over the course of 6 years and that’s what’s so interesting about you coming back. You know Ian better than any of us-”

Anthony: “But I don’t know the Ian from the past 6 years as well as well as you guys do.”

Shayne: “…But you haven’t seen president Ian.” [talks about how when Anthony was still there both him and Ian were so busy under Defy that they weren’t around much to act as leaders]

Anthony: “Yeah, there was no leadership really coming from Ian and I, except that I think we showed excitement and passion… We showed that, and I think that’s where we kinda led, but it wasn’t really ‘we’re the leaders’ and when I left, and especially when Defy collapsed and Ian was left there making a lot of those decisions, he had to be the leader that had to lead by example and get everyone onboard with his ideas, and that was a really unique role for him because he was kinda forced into that position, and he was forced to get really good at it. And I think, over the 6 year time period that I was gone, I’ve seen him, observing from the outside, I’ve seen him get better and better at that role. Even though I know he doesn’t ‘love’ it, he’s not like ‘I can’t wait to go and be a leader when I go to work’, and he’s told me that he feels like he thrives most when we have the dynamic between us where I can pick up when he’s not really-”

“observing from the outside” 🥺 the fact he was still checking up on Ian even when they weren’t close anymore, it shows that the care was still there despite the strain on the relationship. It also reminds me of what Ian said during Anthony’s interview, that he could tell Anthony was floundering when he first left :-

Ian: “I could see very clearly what you were doing and what was going on. It was very clear that you were trying to find your individual creative voice. And with the types of videos you were putting out it felt very much like you’d throw this out and see if that would stick, you’d throw that out and see if that would stick. You’d get excited about something - I could tell there was a time when I think you were watching Nathan For You, and you were getting excited about this one kind of style.”

Anthony: “Damn, you read me like a book.”

It’s just like Shayne said - they know each other better than anyone. And that extends to even when they weren’t speaking, they still knew the other inside and out.

Amanda: “He’s glowing right now.”

Shayne: “He’s been so happy.”

Anthony: “It’s really, really cool to see because you know watching from the outside, I was able to observe his mannerisms and kind of get a general idea of where his headspace was at, but even then I wasn’t able to fully understand him because I didn’t fully understand him for so many years leading up to it, so I was just an outside observer trying to just keep tabs. But I do notice a stark difference, ever since Ian and I had that discussion, and were like ‘you know what, let’s buy Smosh and anything we can do to make that happen, let’s do it’. And after that conversation I’ve been keeping up-to-date with the content a lot more and I’ve seen Ian shine in such an interesting way, where I don’t even know if you guys felt it - like before the announcement, you felt something good was coming?”

Is everyone sufficiently in tears? Good, because me too. This isn’t even the end of this convo, I just had the pause to go over all of what was just said. Both Amanda and Shayne saying how happy Ian is now, I don’t know how Anthony didn’t cry on the spot! I did and it’s not even about me! Like hearing that, knowing it’s because of him that Ian is so happy 😭 and I think the same can be said for Anthony. They’re both so happy to have each other again ❤️

Shayne: “I did start to notice a change these past few months. I started to notice - this dude, there’s something about him, like the ‘cool’ factor started to change. He started wearing a chain! He started tucking shirts in.”

Amanda: “Oh yeah! He tucked in every shirt. He wore a chain. He was glowing. And our conversations were about life and joy and not really what he was reading on the internet.”

Shayne: “His confidence level has changed this year. When you guys announced the whole thing [buying Smosh], you walked into the building and I was like ‘Okay this makes sense!’ He’s feeling a lot more confident because things are feeling more certain and this place is going to turn into more of what he wants.”

Anthony: [agrees, and talks about how he thinks the confidence comes from a place of Ian now knowing the future of Smosh is secure under them after not knowing for a long time] “And I think for some reason, just naturally his confidence started growing as - I don’t know if this is related, but he is so good at writing and coming up with jokes, and I think for a long time he got the impression in his head that he wasn’t good at that anymore. And I think the Smosh channel moving away from written stuff, which I feel like he just really shines at - these absurd ideas, and when they come to life on screen maybe I’m able to help keep them a little bit more focused. But I really love that, cause he has so many great ideas and I started noticing just how many good ideas - he would throw out like 30 ideas and 20 of them were brilliant. But I feel like he started to gain confidence too in our writing sessions where he realised, ‘oh this isn’t a fluke, I wasn’t just funny in the past’ - I don’t know if this was the worry that was going on in his head, but it certainly was in mine. I was like, ‘was I only good at this in the past? can I be good at this now?’ and we both discovered together that what we were good at in the past, was more of a representation of our innate abilities and personality on our own but also the dynamic between us, and it seems like his confidence was growing there, and on camera when I would watch him from the outside, even hosting ‘Let’s Do This’ - when I saw him hosting these things it seemed like he was much more confident and he was able to take initiative.”

I love how much Anthony talks about how good Ian is at writing and coming up with jokes, and how much he reiterates that nowadays. I love that he recognises that talent in him and acknowledges how his own abilities complement Ian’s so well and why their dynamic is so special and works so well.

Shayne: “Ian is so much funnier than he realises. And maybe he’s realising it now-“

Anthony: “Yeah, I hope so.”

Aw Anthony 🥺 well if he doesn’t, you’re there to remind him tenfold.

Shayne: “But over these past years, I think the thing that has always frustrated me is - as you said [Anthony], he’ll throw out ideas but he’ll be like ‘oh this one’s dumb’ and I’m like ‘no that’s really funny, man’…. But whenever he goes 100% and he commits fully it’s always great.”

Anthony: “Always great.”

Shayne: “And I think he really does that in your guy’s sketches, there’s no doubt - the Ian that people know and love is that guy. And I think when he’s able to write and know what it is, he goes full force. But I will say even with the improvised stuff he held himself back - he’s so good, but he just needs to allow himself go full force.”

Anthony: “I think he would second guess.”

Shayne: “He second guesses. And I feel bad talking about him without him here, but it’s all good things. Cause reality is he’s really, really talented.”

Anthony: “The truth is he was doubting himself, but the less he’s doubting himself [he’s able to go full force].”

Shayne: [talks about how Ian has said 2019 was one of the hardest years after Defy collapsed and he had to step up as a leader and figure things out on his own] “So suddenly one day Smosh is gone and all these people are just gone, they don’t care. And I remember talking to Ian and being like “hey, so what are we gonna do?” and I remember this look of just - it’s still Ian where everything’s very casual and just kinda shrugged off almost, but I remember him just being like “We’re gonna figure it out. I’m gonna get this together”, and I was just like “That’s the most confident you’ve ever sounded about anything.”

Amanda: “It’s cause he was a single dad, he had to figure it out.”

Shayne: “But Ian’s always like ‘yeah, I dunno’ but this was the first time he was like ‘we’re gonna - I’m gonna - we’re gonna have it.’

Anthony: “And I feel like we see that [confidence] a lot more from him now.”

Shayne: “Yeah, and that was the first time that I was like ‘Dude, this Ian’s crazy. This guy’s not fucking around.’ and he had to do so much behind the scenes that I didn’t see, but he was making business deals and he was working all day, every day to get that shit together. And you know people say Rhett and Link saved Smosh, it’s like Ian saved Smosh. Rhett and Link were there to make that deal happen, but Ian was the one who put that shit together.”

Anthony: “For sure.”

Loved this from Shayne! Because it’s so true, yes R&L were there when Smosh needed a home, but Ian was the one who put in the hard work to make that happen. None of it could have happened without him. And I’m glad Anthony agrees, and as his comments at Vidcon suggest, he’s very thankful that Ian was there to save Smosh so he could come back and they could rightfully own what is their’s, doing what they love, together again.

Shayne: [talking about how Ian and Anthony going their separate ways needed to happen] “You started this thing forever ago when you were kids and it’s completely overshadowed your own lives and your friendship. To be able to take a step away and figure out who you guys are on your own and then come back - you guys at a certain point were forced to be best friends on camera and that’s tough and it becomes a product more than an actual friendship, so to be able to walk away and leave that alone and then choose to be best friends again.”

Not so much a compliment, just loved this. It’s the choice to be best friends again that gets me. Something they’re actively choosing and put above everything else, they’re never going to let anything get in the way of their friendship again and that is so special.

The famous quote comes to mind :-

“If you love something, set it free. If it comes back, it’s yours.”

Shayne: “I said it to Ian when he was on the podcast - I really respect both of you for your both individual journeys in all this. Like your choice to leave the thing you made forever ago as a kid, that meant everything to you, that’s an insane choice. And you made it for your own good, and you recognised your own happiness and that was gigantic. And Ian, I think really was scared to be a leader here, he was scared to be on his own, like president, and he really did it and he’s stuck with it through crazy [times] - not only the shutdown where he stepped up, but the pandemic as well, where we were all filming stuff on our own by ourselves, and he stuck with it, man. That dude, he’s had some endurance with all of this and so to see you guys back together, I know for him there’s pressure taken off because he has you, and I can see there’s so many aspects of the job that he questions himself - I think he’s great at it, but he questions himself and I think you can fill in that part for him where he’s like ‘oh sweet, I know I can rely on you’.”

Anthony looks like he’s about ready to cry when Shayne said that and I don’t blame him because I could too.

Knowing just how important he is to Ian. That he is the only person Ian can rely on when it comes the leadership side of the business, an area where he’s been alone in for so long, doubting himself, I’m sure it makes Anthony want to hype him up and reassure him even more that he’s doing a good job.

Shayne: “And I said this to you, I think the day you first came back, but I’m like - you both together is one of the greatest YouTubers ever.”

Anthony: “I appreciate that.”

Shayne: “You individually - super successful. Like you went and you were successful on your own. Ian maintained Smosh on his own. That’s really cool to see that there was success from both of you individually, but together - I mean when we’re at Vidcon and we’re talking to other YouTubers, Smosh has, there’s something to it right? Like other YouTubers go ‘Oh! Smosh!’ that’s a big deal.”

It’s so emotional how this thing that Ian and Anthony created together as teenagers is what it is now 🥲 and it’s so true - together, they’re something special.

Anthony: [discussing how he discovered his interview format for his videos after trying lots of different kinds of content after leaving Smosh] “I thought that my lane was making sketch comedy so I was writing out some stuff. But I realised that on my own, without Ian, I am not a very strong writer. I do not have the funniest jokes.”

Again, Anthony recognising Ian’s talent when it comes to writing and the Yin and Yang of their dynamic, and how they need each other to really be at their best.

[Amanda says how Anthony seems like an extrovert in his interviews. He says it’s an illusion and that he’s really introverted - Shayne agrees that he is]

Shayne: “I mean I’m just now hanging out with you again recently, but I always got the sense, and I get the sense still, that Ian is the outgoing one.”

Anthony: “Yeah.”

Shayne: “Ian’s super outgoing, and people maybe don’t clock that… At parties, Ian will walk up to any group of people and he’ll just join the conversation.”

Anthony: “For sure.”

Amanda: “You’re right, he does.”

Shayne: “It is shocking to me. And he’s so chill about it.”

I know this was mainly just Anthony agreeing, but I found it interesting and it made me wonder if that is another reason their dynamic works so well and if it’s maybe also a comfort for Anthony? As a fellow introvert, I know how much easier it makes things when you have an extroverted person with you in social situations that you feel uncomfortable with. So I wonder if it’s the same for Anthony with Ian, that he has him there to lean on, knowing he’ll take the forefront in those types of situations if he needs it.

And that was it for the podcast and for the month of July.

And so draws to a close the first instalment of this compliments series. I plan to continue this month to month, or every few depending on how much content there is - you’ll be able to find all parts in the Compliments Masterlist.

Thank you for reading and catching up with the world of the Anthony Padilla Ian Hecox Fanclub with me. Hope you enjoyed and I shall see you next time!

#this took me so long so rb are appreciated 😅#wanted to get this out end of July but didn’t finish in time #started adding august onto it forgetting you can only add 10 photos on a post 😑#but anyways! so happy to finally get this out to you guys!#smosh #ian hecox #anthony padilla #ianthony #☀️🔍#ianthony compliments #ian and anthony #smoshian #smoshanthony #smosh ian #smosh anthony #my posts

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infiniteglitterfall · 3 months

Text

the worst part about the i/p discourse

it's NOT the posters of Nazis with the swastikas on their flags replaced by stars of david. or the pages and pages of blood libel conspiracy theories in instagram posts about why local pride organizers are such big meanies. or the newfound insistence that jews just exaggerate and make up antisemitic incidents to smear the pro-palestine movement....

it's the fact that every. single. time. i try to post anything about any of these things, i end up in a rabbit hole SO DEEP IT'S IMPOSSIBLE TO GET TO THE BOTTOM.

Yesterday, I saw a --

YOU SEE? I went to Reddit for a second to find the link to the post about the Melbourne protest this week that had people carrying the Nazi-star-of-David posters. But first, I saw a post that began, "All I see on social media and the news is more and more attacks. Who beat up a Jewish family here, who stabbed a 1 year old in front of a synagouge. Those are two examples, I've lost track of all of the other ones."

and I was like, SOMEONE STABBED A ONE YEAR OLD IN FRONT OF A SYNAGOGUE?!?!

And I started to look that up. AND THIS IS EXACTLY WHAT HAPPENS. EVERY SINGLE TIME.

Two days ago, I saw an article about Cincinnati Socialists setting up a table at North Kentucky Pride without asking, it sounds like, to hand out flyers saying the war in Gaza was Netanyahu's "Final Solution" for Palestinians. Cincinnati Pride organizers alerted the NKY Pride organizers, who kicked them out.

I was like, "okay, well, let's see what Cincinnati Socialists say about it." Then I discovered that their instagram not only "names and shames" the two Cincy Pride organizers and one NKY organizer. Which led to the Cincy ones getting so much harassment and violent threats that they resigned....

But also has a related post that goes on for pages and pages of pure blood libel.

So then I sat there fact-checking all their blood libel and finding out that not only was it untrue and impossible, but half the stuff they referenced didn't even exist.

Then I ended up fact-checking things in the "article" that they'd clearly used as their source. Fact-checking things I found while fact-checking those.

Trying to write a Facebook post about how fucked up it all was. Giving up on the Facebook post after several hours because it made more sense to write it on Tumblr, or at least to write it on Tumblr FIRST.

Then I'm also looking at the post they made "naming and shaming" the organizers, which is like... "the Cincy ones are partners! two days after Hamas's incredibly violent and brutal massacre, one of them changed his profile picture to a photo of them honeymooning IN ISRAEL two years ago! they did it through some group that COVERS A LOT OF THE COSTS FOR HONEYMOONS IN ISRAEL!!!!" and "the other one went to a protest of Hamas's massacre!!! with a sign saying to free the hostages!!!"

oh no. the fucking horror. truly how did these genocidal monsters even end up on the pride organizing committee. this is a shanda scandal.

then I'm responding to people's comments, trying to talk them down from horrible positions. telling people things like, "I know it's asking a LOT, but if people could grasp the idea that "going to Israel for your honeymoon" ISN'T "committing genocide," it would be really great. Or that wanting the hostages freed is actually something that both Israeli AND GAZAN protests have called for, and it's only Westerners who are opposed to it. Or that in fact, saying you "Stand with Israel," a few days after an incredibly brutal attack that burned multiple towns to the ground in one day, killed entire families and their pets, an attack which Hamas has promised to repeat "again and again and again" till Israel is violently destroyed... is opposing that attack, NOT calling for genocide."

then i'm like, "oh, i should edit these images to show the correct info, and i can explain that I drew arrows and added the correct info!" so then i'm doing that and working on writing alt text, and holy shit??? how many fucking hours??? did i spend on this?????? just because i read a frigging reddit post that linked to an article about it?????????

and like. i can go through and debunk all that shit in the comments. (and did. i responded to every single comment that believed this shit.) but ultimately, everyone who pulls this shit has way more reach than I do.

just. like. THAT'S ONE ORG IN ONE PLACE. And it was bad enough that I persevered and finished debunking it and commenting on it today and started telling people about it. Do you even know how many more of those I've seen?! How many I would see if I looked for them on purpose?!

The tsunami of deliberate disinformation is SO FUCKING BAD. All of it is SO FUCKING LAYERED. In any single bullshit post, there are SO MANY horrifically bad and wrong assumptions. So many of them are DESIGNED, BY HAMAS, to lead people down the path to "All Zionists should die! Israel should be violently destroyed!"

There were so many comments on a "Free Palestine Melbourne" group's instagram post (Sydney? Could've been Sydney) asking, pointedly, how many Jews are Zionists. What percentage of Jews are Zionists, again?

One (1) had a response telling them it doesn't matter what the percentage is, no percentage would justify collective punishment of Jews.

The rest all said things like, "Too many."

It feels like constantly being lied to. Just constantly being lied to about things I have looked up and verified myself from solid sources, now and in the past, by people I counted as my community.

Then just now I opened Instagram because I hadn't taken screenshots of a couple of the pics I wanted to add. And I'm hit with these:

View this post on Instagram

A post shared by jewsinschool (@jewsinschool)

instagram

View this post on Instagram

A post shared by Jewish on Campus (@jewishoncampus)

instagram

View this post on Instagram

A post shared by Jewish and Proud (@jewishpridealways)

instagram

Then some brighter posts (including one of a baby bat!!) and then a post which sums up a lot of what I'm feeling right now.

View this post on Instagram

A post shared by Jess Cook (@jessicagcoook)

instagram

It's like, yes, that, plus the uncomfortable sense that some people are getting thisclose to going, "Most Jews are Zionists anyway, so YEAH, I DO think most Jews deserve to die."

#antisemitic tropes #blood libel #depressing discourse #fuck hamas #long post #wall of words #Instagram

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epicbuddieficrecs · 3 months

Text

Weekly Recap | June 3rd-23rd 2024 ~ Podfics

Had to split the fic rec cause Tumblr couldn't handle how long it was 😅

Podfic

[Podfic] i want your midnights by Cass_Caelis/ @cassiopeiacaelis for heartbeatdiaz/ @loserdiaz (New Years Eve, First Kiss | 10-20min | Teen): Buck wasn't expecting his exes to show up at the New Year's party and he certainly wasn't expecting all of them wanting to kiss him at midnight. He only has one person in mind that he actually wants to kiss.

[podfic] trade amber clay roads for the sea foam by Matriaya // fic by @hattalove (Post-S5 | 10-20min | Teen): “It’s the thirty-seventh couch you’ve looked at today,” Eddie finally replies, trying to ignore the headache settling into his temples. “And I'm gonna guess there's something wrong with—what, the headrest?” Buck blinks at him. “It's the feet,” he mumbles, his gaze falling to the floor. “They're weirdly shaped.” in which buck is finally ready to buy a couch, except he doesn't seem to actually want one.

we made these memories for ourselves by half_bakedboy [Podfic] by Rhea314 (Rhea)/ @rhea314 // fic by half_bakedboy / @half-bakedboy (Love Confession, Chris&Buck | 10-20min | General): Buck (accidentally) starts a baby box for Christopher and Eddie finds out.

🔥 [podfic] the sound of love astounds me by All_I_Ask/ @alliaskisthepossibilityoflove for fleetinghearts/ @shitouttabuck (Getting Together | 10-20min | Teen): “All the more reason to sleep,” Eddie presses. Buck looks at him, blinking tiredly. “Okay,” he says, suddenly amenable, rounding the couch and climbing onto it. He drapes himself across it, settling on his back and shoving his head into Eddie’s lap with a contented sigh. Eddie sits frozen, book in one hand and the other hovering over Buck’s chest. or, there’s not a lot eddie wouldn’t do for buck

🔥 [podfic] share this hour of make-believe by All_I_Ask/ @alliaskisthepossibilityoflove for fleetinghearts/ @shitouttabuck (Quarantine, Getting Together | 10-20min | General): or, quarantine finds eddie sharing a bed with a pillow-thief and sleep-talker. he minds less than he thinks.

🔥 [Podfic] you knew the password (so I let you in the door) by RhetoricalQuestions/ @rhetoricalk // fic by lilythesilly / @lilythesilly (Post-S2 | 20-30min | General): “Last year,” he starts again, “We had this really rough call and Bobby—well, Hen and I went to check on him. We didn’t break down the door or anything because Hen had a key to his apartment.” His throat clicks when he swallows. “Said that they had keys to each other’s places in case one of them couldn’t make it home. And I don’t know I—it sounded nice. To have someone looking out for you like that. Just in case.” Eddie seems to come to a decision about something, because he nods once before pulling a key off of his own keyring and handing it to Buck. “Sounds nice to me too.” Or, Buck gives Eddie a key to his loft.

[podfic] but it feels like a fortress when the weather gets bad by TheBoyWhoWalksInTheLight/ @aro-of-artemis (Post-3x15: Eddie Begins | 20-30min | Teen): Turning his face to the side, his eyes landed on the collection of house keys that sat in a bowl on his counter. A key for his apartment, one for Maddie’s, the key to his Jeep and one for Eddie’s front door. Eddie had given it to him one day as though it were the simplest decision in the world. “Y’know. In case you ever need to watch Chris or something. Or in case of emergency.” OR Buck has a nightmare about Eddie dying, but he also has a key to Eddie's house.

🔥 Relationship Advice from Complete Strangers Online by HMSLusitania [Podfic] by Rhea314 (Rhea)/ @rhea314 // fic by @hmslusitania (Getting Together | 20-30min | Teen): When he gets home for the night, Buck turns to the one source of information that’s never let him down: the internet. But where does one go for relationship advice from complete strangers online? Which is how, ten minutes later, he finds himself on Reddit with a shiny new account and username. It takes him a while after that to craft his question for r/Relationships, but he thinks he’s got it pretty accurately conveyed before he hits post.

🔥 [PODFIC] Into the Unknown by TheyReadWhatWeSow (TheyReapWhatWeSow) // fic by benjaminrussell (Canon Divergent, S4 | 30-45min | Teen): Buck is cursed. Cursed to have visions of the future but for no one to believe him. Over the years he’s got used to working around it, until one day, the 118 gets a new firefighter who believes him without question. Okay, Eddie does have some questions, but he believes Buck, and that’s the important thing. But then Buck wakes to a vision of Eddie getting shot. Will he able to prevent his vision from coming true or is he destined to lose the one person who believes him?

🔥 [podfic] I Opened My Eyes and There You Were by All_I_Ask / @alliaskisthepossibilityoflove (Post-S3, Getting Together | 30-45min | Explicit): In which Buck provides the dots and Eddie finally connects them.

🔥 [podfic] i have dreams where i kiss you and it’s pink by All_I_Ask/ @alliaskisthepossibilityoflove for fleetinghearts/ @shitouttabuck (Getting Together, Fluff | 45-60min | Teen): or, jee-yun buckley-han's third birthday party is in dire need of some fairy tale magic and buck's attempt to save the day might just be the thing that finally kills eddie

[podfic] fall right into me by Matriaya // fic by therainbowsedge / @therainbowsedge (PWP | 45-60min | Explicit): They plan the evening on a Tuesday afternoon while on their way back to the station from a call. “Wait.” Buck waves his hand in the air to pause the conversation. “You’ve never smoked weed?” “I’m a firefighter,” Eddie says like that’s an answer to Buck’s question. OR: Buddie gets high.

🔥 The Red Means I Love You by EtoileGarden [Podfic] by Rhea314 (Rhea)/ @rhea314 // fic by @etoilegarden (Post-S4, Angst | 2-2.5h | Mature): How stupid was it that a song that freaked him out so badly was still catchy enough that his brain decided to just play it on random repeat? He held it together for long enough to set the washing machine, to press start, to stumble upstairs to his bed, to lie down. For weeks and weeks after Eddie had been shot, Buck kept dreaming of different endings to the scene. Most of them involving Eddie just dying right there on the tarmac, just out of Buck’s reach. Buck trying to hold him together in the back of the engine even though Eddie was already gone. Buck begging him to stay, to stay, to hold on, please hold on, and Eddie letting go. ~ Eddie's left the 118 and Buck is definitely coping with that.

🔥 [Podfic] listen to you breathing (is where I wanna be) by Itty_Bitty_Blondie/ @itty-bitty-blondie // fic by Yavilee/ @theladyyavilee (Major Character Injury, Angst, Getting Together | 4-4.5h | Teen): The thing is – and Eddie should have known this, has been taught this cruel lesson over and over and over again – the thing is most of the time the worst day of your life will start like just any other day. A million small moments, so familiar and mundane you almost don’t even notice them slipping by - until you would give anything to go back and get just one more. (You can’t.) - Or the one where Buck is presumed dead after a building collapse and Eddie has to live through the reminder that tomorrow isn't promised to anyone

#buddie #buddie podfic #buddie fanfiction #buddie fic rec #buddie fanfic #buddie fic #epic buddie fic rec

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concretevampire · 2 years

Text

Early Morning Breeze

arthur morgan x f!reader ꔫ 9.7k ꔫ emotionally fueled smut, icky gooey lovey-dovey stuff for thou // based off of the Dolly Parton song // religious themes

A/N: this is my first rdr2 fic & my first post on tumblr & english is not my first language so critique is highly encouraged

You sniffle, forearm coming up to wipe away stinging tears clinging to lashes.

A rough exhale escapes your lips, and you can feel the sweeping glance Abigail sends you. Sniffling again, you press the heel of your palm to an eye, the other shut just as tight.

“Guess a couple’a vegetables is all it takes to get you cryin’,” she jokes, cleaver slicing off the head of a trout; her apron stanches the briny blood, scales scattered across her forearms like small slivers of moonlight.

“Onions,” is all you can muster as you finally allow yourself to turn away from the cutting board. You turn your face upward, cracking reddened eyes open to peer at the sky.

Big clouds– white, ozonated mountains beyond imaginable reach– float by lazily.

Another sniffle escapes you, but the dam of your eyes has been rebuilt, and the tears secede. Your sinuses still burn though, sending a horrible ache to the back of your throat.

Swallowing, you return to chopping onions.

Other than Abigail’s humming and the incessant clucking of hens in the distance (Grimshaw and chickens alike), the camp is quiet.

Shady Belle is certainly an improvement to dirt-ridden tent floors and crickets in your pillow, but it’s rather gloomy at times. You’re sure that it’s simply the haze of Bayou Nwa and the spectral creeping of ivy along chipping, gray paint. But it would be foolish, and most of all, naive, to ignore the simmering discomfort lingering under everyone’s skin.

Kieran’s death. Jack’s kidnapping. Dutch’s… nerves, if you were to give it a name.

Arthur feels it, and so do Abigail and Hosea, but all four of you are unwilling to mention his waning psyche for fear that it’ll only darken the already half-lit moon of his mind. It isn’t worth it.

And frankly, Arthur’s loyalty to Dutch is suicidal.

He will hem and haw, but in the end, orders are followed with abandon. Loyal to a fault, you tell him. It’s all I know, he says back, gently smiling as if an inside joke has been said. This ol’ dog can’t learn new tricks, and he’ll chuckle wryly at the quip, head shaking like the sins of the world have been settled and folded into the intestines of his mind.

You can only let him wallow for so long when he gets like that.

Though you’ve learned (after too many years as friends and a few more years as something quaintly more) how to put an end to it: a routine. Artfully mastered, a precariously balanced act that includes a succinct scold paired with a slap to his shoulder before pressing a soothing kiss to his cheek as he grovels over his journal like an overgrown child.

But another layer to the quiet and unease around camp is unarguably Micah's presence. Filthy, bastard leech of a man. Suckling away at Dutch’s good faith.

The fifth horseman of the apocalypse: treachery.

The way he saunters about is simply nauseating— skinny fingers pricking and prying into people’s souls. And he’s always been particularly taken with you. Disappointingly.

Micah finds sheer amusement in laying out your arteries on cork board, needles stabbing; displaying your heart like a prize butterfly, blood glittering like topaz stained glass.

It was simply infatuation at first, back all those months ago.

A game he had played with many women before and one you brushed aside easily. And then he discovered that you and Arthur were something— and Micah became a true savage, fueled by both contempt and his peculiar fascination with having taken women.

Even now as he makes his rounds with the gang, purposefully adding to the gloom, his eyes linger on your figure.

Micah veers closer, and you take a step towards Abigail. Her shoulders straighten, so do yours– a useless attempt to create some sort of fortress. He’s approaching in your peripheral and Abigail slams her cleaver down onto another trout, a singular clawed scale landing on your blouse.

You’ve moved from onions onto potatoes, your knife cutting away skin in precise shallow strokes.

When he’s close, Micah says your name– a horrible rasp of letters strung together by cigar smoke and glowing ash– the depths of hell holed up in his esophagus. You ignore him. And in turn he grins wildly, as if presented with riches beyond King Midas’ imagination. Your jaw clenches, eyes set on the knife and the naked, golden flesh in your palm.

“How’s Morgan’s broodmare?”

Abigail side eyes him. Your next slice is thicker than the last, heavy handed, taking off more flesh than you’d like. A waste.

“Or has he moved on after all these years? Got tired of the same fuck.”

You set the nude potato aside, picking up a new one. You imagine it’s Micah’s prick: dirt ridden and calloused. You begin to skin it too, taking extra care to needle out any dark spots.

“Been awhile since he’s been back in camp too. Makes you wonder.”

“Oh piss off, Micah,” Abigail hisses, her cleaver resting threateningly against the dark wood of the table. A sharp, glaring warning.

His smile widens.

He shifts his stance, shoulders slackening as his thumbs hook on the flap of his pockets. “Hit too close to home? Remind you too much of Johnny and how he ran off?”

“Micah,” you finally interrupt, picking up a new potato. “Shut up.”

“So that’s how I get you to talk.”

You stay silent, returning your attention to vegetables and other honeyed daydreams of skinning the Devil alive.

“Ignoring me again.” His eyes linger, thinking of horrifically creative ways to dissect and tear you apart as you stand. “Wouldn’t you be worried though? He’s been gone for a week.” The statement is mocking and cruel.

He wouldn’t know what concern was if it ate his face off, ravaged his eyeballs and devoured his tongue.

Abigail glowers, this time pointing the cleaver at Micah. “Yer just jealous.”

Micah sneers, the cylinder in his revolver shaking off a warning like a rattlesnake curling up to bite. “Jealous of what Miss Roberts?”

“Jealous she ain’t with you.”

Micah opens his mouth to retort something evil and violent, obvious in the way his pupils have contracted, gray eyes gone silver with wrath. You stab the knife into the cutting board, punctuating the air.

Both of them have stilled, turning towards you.

“Quit it.” You snarl. Abigail gives an apologetic look, but not before sending Micah another scowl. She’s back to chopping off fish heads.

And Micah, damn him, always needing the last word spits out a, “Bet he got himself killed,” before he rushes away, seething and gnashing his teeth.

It’s quiet again.

You get through six more potatoes before speaking. “You didn’t have to do that.” It’s a gentle chide towards Abigail, one that makes her huff.

“I just hate how he talks to us. ‘Specially you. And I hate how you don’t do anything.” Her hands wring together harshly, not having any more trouts to dismember.

“It’s best to ignore him. He gets off on it, the sick freak.” You keep your gaze fixed on your work.

Abigail relents, fingers stilling momentarily.

Her gaze rises, eyes trained on Jack’s small silhouette at the far edge of camp, playing in the weeds and brambles. He seems completely ignorant to such plights. What bliss.

Abigail’s raised him well.

“Ain’t ya worried though?” She says suddenly, spinning to look at you. You pause your ministrations, glancing into her perturbed blue eyes. “I mean,, well, Micah had a point, I guess.” She’s annoyed at the admittance, even if it is her own. “Arthur’s been gone for a while. It ain’t like him.”

You sigh. “It is like him,” your teeth chew at the flesh of your cheek, “but you’re right. He wouldn’t leave for a week without saying something.”

Abigail nods but her fingers have knotted and tangled once again. “Hunting trip?”

“Yeah, but with how long he’s been gone you’d think he’s trying to take down an entire herd of angry caribou in heat.”

She snorts. “He would try. Strong enough for it.”

“Bullheaded, that’s what he is.” And you scowl, starting to dice the potatoes far too quickly; bound to cut yourself. Abigail sends you a sympathetic, knowing smile.

“So you are worried.”

“Whatd’ya mean?”

“I mean you ain’t as calm and cool as yer pretendin’ to be.”

You continue chopping away, somehow not having cut yourself. Years of practice you suppose.

“Course I’m not. I’m always worried when it comes to him.”

Abigail snorts. “Well, ya never act like it.”

“Because if I act like it,” and you finish dicing off the last potato, ‘then that means something bad would actually be happening’, “then who would you have to talk to when you’re worrying?” And you give a knowing smirk.

She laughs, shaking her head, hands coming to a rest. You feel your own face brighten to a smile.

That’s the way it is with her; with all the girls. Quilted conversations complaining about men and life and backaches all riddled with coy smiles.

The breeze picks up then, and Jack comes tumbling along it, hands rusted with the red Lemoyne dirt and beaming at his mother like a little sun; too bright; seen without looking.

His eyes barely peek over the table, but he’s determined, placing a bundle of messy daisies next to dismembered fish, yet to be fileted.

“For you Mama,” he adds with his gift, hands clutching the edge of the table to watch her. And Abigail smiles tenderly, picking the flowers up. They drip, raw with dew and fish blood. She tries, ever so delicately, to wipe away the crimson stain on their petals.

“Thank you kindly, Jack,” she says. And he gives a toothy grin and runs off— on the breeze once again. Abigail ponders the daisies for a moment before offering you one with a teasing smile. “M,lady,” she jests, giving a sloppy curtsy. A true country princess. You snort, but fawn delighted shock, pricking the flower from her nimble fingers.

“Oh how romantic,” you add, putting a hand to your chest. Pocketing the daisy, Abigail does the same with hers, now fully smiling.

And with a few giggled words you separate; the chores around camp looming as Grimshaw’s eyes sharpen into blades, her tongue preparing to tear you both apart.

You help Tilly with the laundry.

Karen and you care for spare guns.

Under the shade, you patch up holes in socks and shirts and handkerchiefs all while Mary-Beth tells you about her new book— a romance, of course— about an outlaw and upper class woman finding love.

It makes you snort.

Amusement brewing in agitated, annoyed swirls in your chest as you’re reminded of Mary.

You’re too smart to be reading those kinds of things, you tell her, needle pricking your finger as you push it into the cotton of Dutch’s union suit. She shrugs; tells you she likes it.

You don’t blame her. You used to too.

And the sun has begun to set, casting long shadows on long faces after a long day. And people begin returning.

Javier and Bill from a home robbery.

Lenny with a wagon of purchases from Saint Denis.

John and Sadie each with a few rabbits in hand.

But no Arthur.

It’s a bit disheartening. Like a sunshower with no rainbow. What’s the point of the rain then?

You’ve grown anxious, your hands fussing the linen of your apron though there’s nothing to wipe away. And you don’t have the stomach to eat or the heart to make conversation— so as the gang begins settling in for the night you grab a basket, your revolver, and leave.

Charle’s, keeping watch, eyes you like a ladybug in winter, but keeps quiet.

You thank him with a glance.

And you’re not stupid. You know it’s dangerous in Bayou Nwa— whether it be under God’s sun or the Devil’s moon— crawling with bipedal predators and freaks of nature beyond comprehensible understanding. Arthur has warned you. Don’t you go out, firm words with even firmer hands on your shoulders. Not without me.

But you go.

You need to, if only to catch your breath; to steel yourself away from prying eyes if he doesn’t show up for yet another week.

And in the tall, marsh grass and bundles of cattails you’ve found something quiet and private; a place where you can crouch and pick away at plants with a frown you don’t have to hide.

And your fingers are shaky and uncalculated as you rip apart the oleander and sage, like a newborn colt, teetering across grass. You shove the foliage into your basket as if it took Arthur away personally. As if they’ve laced their way into his veins, choking and drying him out.

You’re upset, but you won’t cry, obviously. There’s no reason to, it’s hysterical and ridiculous, but you’re frustrated.

Because even if Arthur is painfully terrible at communicating, he at least has always told you how long he’d be gone for.

It’s a luxury you’ve gotten used to. And out of all the silks, jewels, and luxurious baths the world offers, it is your favorite.

The promise of his return.

“Yer mutterin’.”

The voice would’ve made you jump if it weren’t for the far too familiar rumble of it. Too often has it soothed you and brought you to climax for it to scare anymore.

You look at Arthur over your shoulder, glaring. “I do not mutter.”

“Sure ya do,” he says, stepping over a log to reach you.

His horse stands in the distance behind him, grazing and chuffing indignantly at the occasional alligator. Flighty things, horses are. Arthur’s is braver than most.

You turn back around before said man reaches you, hands resuming to the ripping and the pulling and the tearing.

“I told ya not to come out here without me,” he’s standing right behind you now.

“I know,” you grunt. And it’s quiet— heavy under the screeching of crickets and cicadas— until Arthur sidles his shins up to your skirts and places his hands on your shoulders, leaning.

“Yer mad.”

“I am not mad.”

“Sure ya are.”

“I am not,” and you look up, seeing him gaze out into the bayou with a gentle smile. “I’m annoyed,” you correct.

“Did Reverend chat ya up again?” And he chuckles, stepping aside to finally crouch beside you.

His knee brushes against yours, a touch starved way of saying hello. Under the golden sky, his blue eyes have filtered into grays and greens, seafoam and jade alike.

He looks tired but that pleasant smile is still there; too happy with your presence to be bothered by such ridiculous notions as the human need for sleep. And as much as you’d love to sooth the eyebags away, you continue frowning.

“You may be surprised to learn that Reverend was astonishingly quiet. For a week.” You add the last part roughly, hoping Arthur gets the message.

For a second, you think he doesn’t.

But then his hand raises, the pad of his thumb passing over the furrow of your brow. Achingly attempting to pacify you. To tell you he’s sorry.

“What’d I do this time?” And his voice rumbles over the question, soft and sweet, a tone he takes only with you. You sigh, turning back to the plants.

His hand retracts as you pick away at the leaves, but his eyes are heavy on your face, as if he trying to kiss you with just his gaze.

You’re sure he wishes.

“I just don’t like when you leave like that without telling me, or anybody really,” you say. And with Arthur, you always keep things succinct and out in the open because lord knows he won’t read between the lines.

He’s not like you, where you can tell he’s in a bad mood just by the way he drinks his coffee in the morning.

And Arthur takes a deep inhale, and then an exhale. “Yeah, I know.”

You look up, raising a brow.

“Sorry,” he coughs and you know it’s the most you’ll get out of him. It’s always that way with Arthur. Hands-on approach. Not much in the way with words.

The only way he failed Hosea.

“Abigail was worried too,” you add absentmindedly, finally letting yourself dawdle a bit now that he’s by your side again.

Arthur scoffs. “She’s always worryin’ about somethin’. Jack, John, you, me.”

You can’t argue with that, but you can’t blame Abigail either because you worry too. You just hide it better.

And you look up, less angry this time.

He left with a stubble and has returned with a beard. And though you’re sure his hair hasn’t grown much in a week, you notice the way the sandy blond locks brush against his shoulders— like golden willow on blue hills.

Finally, you acquiesce.

Your own hand raises, reaching out. And before you can even touch him, his fingers brush against the skin of your forearm. Ferns to sunshine.

You meet his cheek, wiping away at a smudge of dirt before tucking a stray strand of hair behind his ear and hat.

“Your hair’s gotten long.”

Arthur looks amused, leaning into your palm not unlike the way a puppy does.

“Want me to cut it?”

You shrug. “That’s up to you. But at least take care of this.” And now both hands are on his cheeks, rubbing childishly over his beard. You beam at the way his nose crinkles.

“Wha’ I thought you liked my beard?”

“Not when it’s this long. You’d give me a rash every time you kiss me.”

Arthur smiles, dropping his head to laugh quietly.

And you stand, hand reaching to pick up your basket, but Arthur already has it in his grip, rising too.

“Oleander. Sage.” He notes expertly. You hum. “Tryin’ to poison someone?” He asks.

“You,” is your easy reply as you step away from him and to his horse. He follows in a pavlovian fashion, well trained.

“That mad about me leavin’ huh?” Long strides quickly bring him to you, arm brushing against shoulder.

“I wasn’t mad. I was annoyed,” you correct once again.

Arthur makes an entertained sound as he grabs for his horse’s reins. You finally notice all the carcasses strapped to the poor creature. A doe, a fine pelt, geese and rabbits hooked here and there. “Ya missed me?” He teases.

And before you can snort and tell him off, he leans down to kiss you. His hand cups the back of your neck gingerly; giving you all the ability to pull away if you’d like.

But you don’t. You never would.

Instead, your eyes slip closed as Arthur presses further. His lips are uncomfortably chapped, dried from the days on the road but so incessant in their need to feel you that you wouldn’t dare tell him to stop.

Instead your hand rises to hold his wrist loosely, a move that’s always made him melt for one reason another.

Then just as quickly, he pulls away, brushing his nose against yours.

“I missed ya.” And he breathes in as you breathe out.

“Me too,” You admit, though it’s not a secret. He knows. His favorite little luxury it is; the promise you’ll be there, awaiting his return.

Hasn’t gone a day without it since meeting you.

Admittedly, 1891 was a bad year to meet Arthur. Grieving, and angry; Eliza and Isaac freshly dead.

But you were there, picked up by Dutch, almost like a feral animal. Rabid enough to shut down Arthur’s (correction: everyone’s) bullshit immediately, yet organically compassionate to soothe him through bad nights. Even when you barely knew each other.

That was you.

Strained it all was at first. Funny, what time can do to two people.

Unraveling knots and kinks to smoothly twist two lives together.

And you watch as Arthur starts walking, not bothering to clamber onto his mount— even if the exhaustion in his step is obvious, like meatpie in a patisserie.

“You’re not gonna ride?”

He pauses and shakes his head, turning to look back at you.

“Personally? ‘M tryna get as much time alone before we have to be surrounded by fools and degenerates.”

You snort, strolling over to his side. “So what kept you away for a week?”

The back of his hand brushes against yours as you both begin walking.

“Heard about a wolf in Cotorra Springs. Wanted to check it out and well,” he eyes the pelt. “ Didn’t think it’d take me that long to hunt her down, but she was sneaky.”

He shrugs. “The rest of this I got on the way home, knowing how Pearson’ll be if I don’t come back with somethin’.”

You nod knowing how the man can get. Feisty about food, placid about most everything else. Sometimes he reminds you of a bear going into hibernation, and you doodle it on scraps of paper— messy, untrained caricatures of the gang.

They make Arthur laugh.

“Me and Abigail joked about you hunting caribou in heat. Not to give you ideas.”

Arthur flicks a brow. “I wouldn’t do that.”

“You would if there was money in it.”

“Is there?”

“I’ll say no for my own sake.”

Arthur laughs at that, and you grin, his joy infectious. A bad disease you’re willing to catch.

“So what have you been up to then, if not grumblin’ and mumblin’?” Arthur asks, eyes sweeping your frame.

“Cooking. Cleaning. Sewing.” You shrug. Arthur frowns a smidge.

“You gotta get out more.”

“I wanted to go out to Saint Denis but I got caught up with Grimshaw, I guess.”

All he can do is press against you a bit closer. “I’ll go with you soon then.”

An incredulous look is sent. “No you’re not.”

And Arthur looks so genuinely offended you have to laugh.

“What do you mean I’m not?”

“You hate Saint Denis.”

“I know but-“

You lean your cheek into his bicep. “Thank you, but you don’t have to torture yourself for me.”

He pouts. “It ain’t torture.”

“Mhm, sure.”

Voices in the distance become louder, the echo of Molly’s gramophone and Uncle’s drunken singing coming to a crescendo— smashing and breaking the isolation in a gradual blunder.

And you pull away, taking the basket from Arthur’s hand as you do.

Charles greets as you approach, and you hand him the spoils of your anger-fueled gather with another silent thank you. He nods politely, in his own grateful way.

And as Arthur hitches his horse— cooing with all the affection in the world— you leave him, going up into your shared room.

You know he has to take care of a few things before you can really have him for yourself:

Talk to Dutch.

Contribute money and check the ledger.

Load the hunt’s catches into the kitchen.

Help with any last minute chores.

Say ‘hello’ and ‘how are you’ to Hosea, Jack and John; Abigail and Tilly; Sean if he’s in a good mood too.

So you sit. Passively reading and waiting as you lean against the bed’s headboard.

And half an hour later, Arthur pulls open the door and then shuts it tight. Like maybe if he held it closed for long enough, the walls would thicken then burst fantastically into a hot air balloon; sending you beyond reach of civilization.

Under the yellowed light of the lantern, he seems entirely exhausted; the slope of his shoulders dooming, his usually straight back hunched.

Ain’t no rest for the wicked, Arthur jokes at times.

He sits down on the bed. For awhile he’s like that; just sitting and staring at the white canvas of the wall. And his eyes are flicking back and forth, like he’s sketching whatever he’s seen in the past week on the molding wallpaper.

It’s strange when he gets like this.

It’s not that he’s sad or upset, just caught up in his head.

“You should get undressed,” you command gently, sliding off the bed as you undo the buttons of your blouse.

Arthur watches. You pause. And then you deadpan.

“Are you serious?” But he says nothing, and neither do you, not as you come to stand between his knees.

You take his hat off, shoving the worn leather jacket down his arms, and he rests his head against your collar bone, pressing impossibly close into the revealed skin there.

Like maybe, just maybe, this time your atoms will combine and he won’t have to leave your side ever again.

When you begin unbuttoning his shirt, his hands finesse to undo the clasps of your skirt and you have to momentarily brush him aside, slapping his hands like a toddler gone for the cookie jar.

“Hey,” he protests, blue eyes pleading. But the way they blink slowly and idly tells you everything.

“No. Sleep. We can do that tomorrow.”

Arthur groans but listens; hands dropping, head knocking against your chest. “A week,” he grumbles.

“And whose fault is that?”

He’s quiet as you work, up until he catches a look at the thin silver chain around your neck. His finger notches on the ring that’s hooked to it.

“I wish you would wear it,” he mumbles languidly.

“I can say the same thing,” and you glance at the gold band he keeps tucked away on the rope of his hat. “Maybe if things get better.”

“When,” he amends. “When they get better.”

“Sure.”

He glares, the lines of his face darkening. “Don’t be like that.“

“Arthur.” And you cup his face, kissing him quickly and quietly. “It’s late.”

He stares up at you, an odd mix between enamored and frustrated.

A huff then escapes his lips, and he unbuckles his belt as you finish with the last button of his shirt. Your hands toys with the hem momentarily as if gripping to the tendrils of his soul.

But you let go, and turn away.

Getting rid of your own clothes is quick work, but Arthur makes even quicker work of kicking his pants and boots away, collapsing onto the furs and blankets of the bed. And as insistent as he was, he’s out quicker than nightshade, his arousal forgotten.

You’re sure he’ll remember it in his dreams. It’s happened before.

And you dim the lantern, laying yourself next to him in your chemise. Even though his back is facing you, a half-hesitant hand runs through his hair.

He’ll need a wash tomorrow.

You’ll force him into it, chase him around with a bucket if you have to. But for now, you let him rest; let sleep capture him like a firefly cupped between two soft palms. Pleased, your cheek presses against his bare shoulder blade.

Obviously, you wake before him.

Already dressed before he can even become lucid enough to call for you, hand reaching out to grab your missing form. You bend down, press a hand to his forehead, and whisper for him to forget you in favor of his dreams.

His soft snores ensue. You drift away.

And today, like yesterday, is quiet. But it’s less gloomy, more of a peace that’s settled because, praise be, Micah is out for the morning. It is both surprising and delightful, and nobody takes it for granted.

And you drift around the manor and camp, helping with the odd chore, saying hello, sipping at coffee.

At some point you walk off, where the ground is more solid and less swamp to have a quick word with God in the early morning breeze.

He doesn’t reply though you knew he wouldn’t. Still, you hope he heard.

At your return, Grimshaw unloads a torrent of harsh words, quickly placing you on dishes duty. You accept it.

Mean spirited, but kind hearted, that one. Always has been. You don’t have the will to complain though— not since Arthur’s come back.

He pacifies you, Hosea has teased, a coy smile hidden by the brim of his hat. At first it was embarrassing, but soon you came to realize denying it is like looking for oranges in an apple orchard. Psychotic and pointless.

Abigail has said the same thing, John nodding along enthusiastically.

It’s annoying and the truth, and you have no energy to argue.

Arthur is still asleep by the time you’ve scrubbed both the cast iron and your skin raw. Unsurprisingly. You’ve seen him passed out for nineteen hours once.

You wish you had that ability, especially with how hot and sticky the Lemoyne air is; boiled molasses in your lungs. You would sleep the entire afternoon just to avoid it all.

But in the slowness of the day, and your boredom, you approach Dutch, reading as always.

“Anything interesting?” You ask, readjusting the basket of laundry at your hip. It’s a conversation you have often— ever since you’ve joined the gang your time to read has dwindled— being much more preoccupied with needles and guns and terrible men instead.

He hums, flipping a page. “A collection of essays done by Ralph Waldo Emerson. I presume you know him?”

You nod, stepping closer. “He wrote before the war. A Transcendentalist, wasn’t he?”

“Yes,” and Dutch smiles. He’s always told you that you’re too smart for your own good. Smarter than he deserves— than the gang deserves. But you never indulge in his compliments (at least not too much).

And you’ve never really been sure if they’re true.

He’s kind, though that may not be the word. Merciful. Insightful. And perhaps that has fueled the compassionate part in him.

But as of late it’s all been brought into question you suppose. His sanity. Whether or not he’s still the same old, reliable Dutch that he always has been.

But you brush it aside for now, letting yourself pretend it’s all normal and everything is okay. A happy family.

“Which essay are you reading?” And you lean against the doorframe, fixing your apron.

“Man the Reformer. Do you know it?”

“Only parts. I think. Care to read me some?” You tilt your head, tucking one ankle behind the other.

Refined with him, always, even with his penchant for savagery.

“For you, my dear? Anytime,” and his eyes scan the pages, flipping through to find a piece he likes. “Ah,” he says after a moment, knuckle tapping the paragraph. He clears his throat, then starts.

“Hence it happens that the whole interest of history lies in the fortunes of the poor. Knowledge, Virtue, Power are the victories of man over his necessities, his march to the dominion of the world. Every man ought to have this opportunity to conquer the world for himself. Only such persons interest us, Spartans, Romans, Saracens, English, Americans, who have stood in the jaws of need, and have by their own wit and might extricated themselves, and made man victorious.”

He turns away from the page, his face lilting towards yours. “Isn’t that lovely?” he asks you. “Just gorgeous, isn’t it?”

And Dutch, like most men, has a strange idea of what gorgeous is. Finding it in bloodied knuckles and revenge. In essays about man and power.

In hatred. In violence.

You’re unsure why you suddenly remember this— but when you were young, still attending school, you had read that Moses was not allowed to enter the Promised Land.

It had confused you. Hurt you even.

And when you had asked one of the nuns: Why? What was the reason? Why couldn’t he? What was the point if his fate was to die?

And you remember that nun, with reverent eyes and sad smile, told you:

“For freedom to be reached, the memory of subjugation has to die.”

And that is why Aaron, and Miriam had died as well. Zipporah too.

You stare at Dutch.

“Do you see yourself as Moses?” You ask. It’s a blurted question, not entirely thought through, and you’re embarrassed the moment the words leave your mouth.

Dutch stares back, his own dark eyes swirling with momentary surprise before he laughs, hitting his knee. Shoulders slacking, your own breathy chuckles escape as you watch.

“You’ve heard The Good Word?” he questions, almost shocked.

“Read it.”

“My, aren’t you full of surprises?”

“Are you calling me a sinner, Dutch Van Der Linde?”

He tilts his head, raising a brow. “Aren’t you?” It’s said as if it were common sense.

“Maybe I’m not a saint, but I don’t think I’m a sinner.”

Dutch hums, bouncing his knee. “You pray?”

“When I’m dying,” you tell him, half joking.

“And how often is that?”

“More than I’d like.”

Dutch doesn’t laugh, but a warm, hearty chuckle rumbles in his chest and he picks his book back up.

“Isn’t that the truth.”

Looking away, your eyes flick about the greenery outside his window. The chickens cluck incessantly, bouncing about like cotton ball clouds on grassy mountains.

You can make out the outline of Jack, bounding around a tree with a stick in hand, occasionally swiping the trunk. Abigail keeps a watchful eye.

And it’s all very domestic.

A little green rectangle of quiet love, framed by rotting wood and sin. It seems so far away, you can’t tell if it’s real. But you know for a fact it is, and it makes the deep, longing pain in your chest all the worse. It’s a dream really, one you think of often and one you and Arthur have only discussed either after sex or in the early morning— when everyone is still asleep and when things are a little imaginary.

When dreams rule the plain of existence.

Suddenly Hosea passes by the room. His gaze stabs through you, a knowing familiar look he’s sent over the past few months.

Like you’ve discovered a dirty secret.

And it seems you’ve both come to a conclusion you’re both equally unsure of. Same with Abigail. Same with Arthur, even if he denies it.

“I should get back to work,” you mumble, pushing yourself off the doorframe.

“Atta girl,” Dutch simpers, but you’ve already walked off, head full of fears and doubts and thoughts you know you’re not supposed to have.

Hanging laundry is one of the easier chores, one that eases the nerves. Gentle afternoon breeze, as humid as it is, drifts by, wafting the smell of soap and swamp water. Earthy and clean, rolled into a lavender clay.

Jack hovers around your skirts as you work, and you easily indulge him in poems, songs, and stories, all with a gentle smile.

He glances at the manor. “Uncle Arthur sure does sleep a lot.”

“He does, doesn’t he?”

“Where did Uncle Arthur go?”

Clipping a bedsheet to the line, your eyes gleam, turning to Jack. “He went beyond civilization” and you crouch down, making claws with your hands, a playful grin at your lips, “hunting wolves.”

Jack beams, grabbing at your hands, easing the claws. “I wanna hunt wolves!”

You laugh a little, pulling away and reaching for a pair of drawers in the basket.

“You’re still too small— they’d eat you up.”

Jack frowns. “No they wouldn’t.”

And you hide an amused grin with the back of your hand, thinking of John. After a moment, you nod. “You’re right. They wouldn’t eat you, you’re too skinny.”

“Hey!” And Jack pouts, tugging at your skirts. You finally laugh, dropping a hand to pat his head, fingers sifting through soft brown locks.

“I’m sorry. I wouldn’t let them eat you. None of us would.”

Jack seems appeased. “Do you think Uncle Arthur will take me next time?”

And not wanting to break his little heart, you say, “I think that’s something you have to ask him.”

And Jack seems to be somewhat miffed by the answer, reserving himself to sit by the laundry basket as he watches beetles and ants march along the dirt.

Little brown capped soldiers.

“Have you ever hunted wolves, Auntie?”

You hang up the drawers, humming. “No. But one time Uncle Hosea took me hunting for a bear.”

“A bear!?” And Jack crawls a bit closer. “I don’t remember that?”

“It was before you were born.” You add gently.

“Ohhh. Was it scary?”

“Well only at first. It tried to eat me, but Uncle Hosea wouldn’t let that happen.” Embarrassment bubbles at the memory. The way Arthur had laughed when you sulked, telling him and Hosea you would never hunt again.

Jack smiles. “Do you think Uncle Hosea will take me bear hunting?”

A downturned smile marrs your features. “I hope not.”

Jack complains at that, and you gently assert that bears are much worse than wolves, and they wouldn’t care how skinny he is.

And the moment is sweet and funny and utterly ruined when a horrible, rasping voice says,

“There she is.”

Micah’s back.

Setting your shoulders, you gently tell Jack to find his Ma. Tell her those stories I told you, murmured by his ear. And he scurries away, an excited smile on his face. Your full attention is then granted to the laundry basket and the sodden clothes inside.

Micah stands on the other side of the clothesline, watching you between the flaps of bedsheets and button ups. A fabric jail cell keeps you separated.

“Heard our workhorse is back, hm? Where is he?”

A sock is hung up, next a union suit.

“Oh, so you won’t even talk about your darlin’ Mr. Morgan with me?”

You’re running short on clothespins.

“You gettin’ tired of him?”

There’s still enough for now.

“Mr. Morgan, running off for days on end, only comes back to fuck his little mare good and then runs off again. Ain’t that just sad?”

You could use a new skirt maybe. You’ll head into Saint Denis tomorrow. For now though, another sock is hung.

“I could take care of ya, while he’s gone. He’ll never have to know.”

Two blouses are clipped on the clothesline and you’re officially out of pins.

“So, what d’ya think? Offer stands.”

You step away from the hanging laundry, your eyes meeting Micah’s. It startles him but turns him on just as quickly.

And then you walk away, to the manor in search of more pins. Micah doesn’t follow, though you feel his eyes burning holes into you, gaping pits of Tartarus on your skin.

You’re surprised to see Arthur leaning against the windowsill, cup of coffee in one hand, the other scratching away at his journal in long precise strokes; a wolf. And he’s trimmed his beard and hair, his skin clean.

Washed away of filth and stress.

An easy smile comes to him when he turns to see you— he downs the rest of his coffee, closes his journal, and steps over.

“Good afternoon,” you say.

“Afternoon,” and Arthur glances around for peeping eyes before kissing you chastely. “Thought we could go to Saint Denis today like ya wanted,” he offers.

You shake your head. “I can’t today; maybe tomorrow?”

He pulls away, looking bemused. “Always ‘tomorrow’ with you, woman.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “It’s too late to go to Saint Denis anyway.”

“We could rent a room.”

“I am not spending money on a bed I have here,” you chide.

He raises his head to look at the ceiling, hat tipping back slightly back as he does. A stiffness overcomes him, like a thousand rocks have settled into his stomach. “You always gotta make things difficult.”

“Shut up,” and you pat his chest, stepping around him to continue your search, “I’ll see you tonight.”

That seems to help him digest the rocks but he still grabs at your wrist, stopping you. And there’s a deep longing in Arthur’s eyes; lust and sorrow mixing to create something entirely desperate.

“I love ya,” he mumbles quietly.

And it’s not something you say often, never really finding the need to. You know. He knows. You’re on the same page.

But sometimes, you’ll indulge each other with those three little words.

And Arthur lightens when you smile and nod and tell him you love him too. It’s like he’s seen the ocean for the first time, eyes sparkling in wonderful adoration. So he lets you go, assured he has you no matter what.

Expectantly, you barely see eachother for the rest of the day, each preoccupied with your own tasks. Small glances are thrown, like pebbles against windows, but nothing more.

Not until night falls.

You’re sitting around the fire with Abigail, snorting over a not so appropriate story Karen is telling when you see him in the distance, past the embers, crawling back into the manor. Admittedly, it is late but not late enough for Arthur to call it a night.

Usually, he’d stay with the group– drink a bottle of beer and sing a tone deaf melody with Tilly and Javier. But not tonight. Tonight he’s waiting you out.

And so when Karen finishes her story, you give one last laugh and leave.

Arthur is sitting on the bed when you come in, writing something slowly; the clear mark of verbal constipation.

And the lantern is lit low, warm and golden like a dying star. He only looks up from the page when you close the door, his hand pausing. There’s a droll moment where you stare at him and he stares at you– the little lift of amusement curling your lips can’t be helped.

In a brisk moment, you’re standing between his knees; but this time it’s him who undresses you. And you let him take his time with the clasps and buttons, resting your palms on his shoulders.

“Jack asked me if I’d take him wolf huntin’,” Arthur mumbles, standing to kiss at the junction of your neck and jaw. In nothing but your chemise, it’s easy to feel the hard line of him press against your hip. “Did’ya put him up to that?”

You laugh, hands rising to undo his own shirt. “Maybe.”

A rough palm presses between your shoulder blades, the other cupping your cheek as he nudges you to tilt your head with his nose.

“Yer evil,” Arthur mutters into your skin, “making me be the one to say no to him.”

“Was he angry?”

“Nah,” Arthur sighs, knocking his hips with yours, “just said I’m no fun.”

And you slip his shirt off, revealing broad shoulders and firm muscle, laced and sewed with scratches and scars.

You run your hand down a particularly marred one at his ribs. Knife fight.

“Did he hurt your feelings?” You tease. The hand at your cheek drops, bundling the hem of your chemise up your thighs. And before you can poke his ego again, the hand dips, grazing against your bundle of nerves.

You sigh, leaning into him as he lazily dips a finger in and out, in and out.

“John looked like he was ‘bout to have a panic attack,” Arthur rasps right in your ear. “If I had said anythin’ other than no I think he woulda killed me.”

“Can’t have that,” you hum, and Arthur snorts.

“Ya need me around to fuck ya, is that it?”

Scoffing, you pull away. “You’re ridiculous.” Your chemise falls back over your thighs, covering the slick Arthur built up. And he gives a soothing smile, hands lifting yours to twine fingers together.

“Did I hurt yer feelin’s?” And though you’re frowning, you let Arthur guide you to the bed— let him push you down onto the mattress. At your silence he runs his lips across your face; kissing at your brow, your nose, cheeks and chin. “I didn’t mean any harm by it.”

Lifting himself on his forearms, he watches you. You’ve softened exponentially, pliant and willing under him.

Only him.

And the look on your face is so fond— too loving and so soft, that he feels as if you must be a figment of his imagination. A sick twisted trick his mind is playing to feel something.

But you’re here, breathing against him, and looking like a drop of sunshine under the lantern’s light.

He’s struck gold.

Bending down, Arthur kisses you and in turn you breathe him in, arms coming up to wrap around his neck. You roll your hips, and a groan verberates in his chest— the sound makes your bones rumble— the first sign of an avalanche.

He lifts the chemise once more and a knee comes up to sit between your exposed thighs. Arthur dips his hand again, this time spreading you open on two fingers.

The both of you have gotten very good at being quiet after so many years of barely any privacy; a tarp or tent at most; but in Shady Belle, bless the heavens above, you allow yourself little, quiet whimpers.

The gift of walls.

And Arthur feels himself pulse as he edges you on, fingers increasing in speed. His thumb brushes against that bundle of nerves again and you choke back a moan, hands gripping onto the sheets.

“Arthur,” you pant, eyes shining with adoration. And he pauses. You stir something in him, some sort of odd childlike devotion he hasn’t felt since he was in his early twenties.

Not since Mary.

And he remembers when you had first gotten together, back in ‘94, you had told him you wouldn’t ask him to stop loving Mary. I could never, ever do that to you. It’d be cruel and unfair of me, you had whispered.

And you knew he never would stop because that’s how first loves are. Permanent.

But maybe now, maybe in this moment— just like every other moment with you— he has stopped loving Mary. Perhaps not entirely, but he wouldn’t chase after her like he used to.

Not when he has you. Not when you beg his name.

And Arthur rises, lifting you up with him as he sits up against the headboard, huddling you into his lap. His skin is warm, as it usually is, and you can’t discern whether that’s just him or if the Lemoyne heat has to do with it too.

It’s overwhelming and you’ve barely gotten started.

Making a pathetic little noise in the back of your throat, you see the way it lights his eyes on fire, as if you hold the keys to enter the Gates of Hell. And it’s almost too easy for him to pull off your chemise, leaning forward to press his lips against yours.

He’s scarily and surprisingly gentle. Always has been. But tonight there’s an underlying torture in the way he bites at your bottom lip, then soothes it, admonishing his own efforts.

And Arthur, this sweet, sad man who has killed, murdered, and torn apart men from sanity has resorted to fluttering his fingers against your hips; as if you were a prized butterfly, ready to fly off at any second.

For one reason or another, it makes your heart ache.

Your own hands cup his stubbled jaw as you lean down, opening your mouth and letting his teeth gently collide with yours clumsily.

There’s another rumble in his chest when you kiss the corner his mouth, an apology for your gauche actions. And you can’t tell if it’s a breath or a moan, but you assume that it’s something good.

A quiet plea for you to continue. Don’t stop.

Because if you do Arthur’s sure he’ll sob in a pitiful, defeated way that would leave him rutting into the mattress.

To his relief, your thighs press against his hips all the more, and your chest meets his. One of his own hands slides up your side, and he moans into your mouth at the feeling of your skin against his palm.

Silk against stone. Soft where he is rough– ruined by bullets, knives and meaningless labor. And he decides then, he’ll preserve this. Preserve your warm humanity, if it’s the last thing he does.

And he is a fool, but he isn’t insolent. He knows you’ve seen and experienced things that would have him reeling with nausea.

You’re a woman, of course you have.

But if he can help it, he will keep you like this. Coy and kind. Too good for him and too good for what the world has to offer.

Arthur realizes he’d gotten engrossed in his worship when you pull away to look down at him, giving a shaky exhale. Running your fingers through his scalp, you let your hand settle at the back of his neck, peering at his face as if he were a saint.

Arthur can only stare back. Fervently and biblically.

He follows every unspoken order you give him with a ferocity bordering desperation that only stems from his complete adoration. And you’ll never know how or where it started and you won’t ask, in fear of an answer that that any other man could give you. But this outlaw, brute, grunt; this man of all men has become an angel under your gaze and touch.

It’s intoxicating.

For awhile this continues. The kissing– the petting and exploration. Whispered ‘I missed you’s’ brushed across your lips, neck, breasts. At some point, Arthur wraps his mouth around one of your nipples, and you stifle a whimper against his temple.

A hand pushes into the curve of your back, imploring and needy, making you keen. The other, brushes against your core unexpectedly and you almost yelp from the sudden contact. But he dips his fingers into you gingerly, restarting the ministrations from earlier.

You all but melt.

You’re panting into his neck, gripping onto him as he plays with you. It’s shameful how a week apart has ruined you so terribly.

You’re oversensitive and overstimulated.

When your breathing becomes more desperate (which happens quicker than you’d like) Arthur pulls away again. And he likes this game; the build up before breaking you. An annoyed sigh puffs out from your lips, and you find yourself grinding into his lap for some form of relief.

His trousers have become a hindrance.

Arthur’s leaning into your chest, eyes half-open and cheek pressed against the space between your breasts. His mouth is hot and open, panting as you grind further into him.

And though you can feel him twitching against you, it isn’t enough. He’ll need more than the dull pressure of your core. But for now, he lets your hips roll, watching brightly as your slick coats the seam of his pants.

“No more,” he suddenly rasps, the first words said in a long time. “Please, no more teasing.”

You ponder him for a moment, then nod.

The trousers are off in an instant.

And his skin against yours is a relieving sin. Hands on your hips, he rubs you against him— and all you can do is sit it out and watch with bated breath. Arthur, at the feeling, lets out a stilted, raspy whimper.

Before he can do more, you lower a hand, pumping him up and down, up and down; a choked sound catches in the back of his throat when you do.

He’s bigger than average, but not impressively so. The real volume of his size comes from his width, noting that your thumb and middle finger don’t and have never connected when you jerk him off.

And you do this for some time, listening to his gasps and mumbled moans, only stopping when he begins pulsing in your palm.

Arthur whines when you pull away, eyes gleaming almost angrily, and you have to smile at the hypocrisy of his behavior. He bites back a curse at the way you look at him, too entranced to be upset.

Then, pushing him flat onto the mattress and straddling his waist, you kiss him. His hands land on your back once more, begging to press you closer, further.

Wanting nothing more than to simply have you against him.

And finally, you slide onto his length.

It’s jarring at first, uncomfortable in the way it splits you open. And you feel his every millimeter and every movement. It takes a minute for your body to adjust, to realize it’s him. Arthur lets you wait it out, lets you take your time as you finally sink down completely.

He thrusts, once, shallow and uncertain, brows furrowed in concentration. And your eyes close shut with a gasp, squeezing your legs even tighter around his waist.

Then, you lift your hips off him and sit back down. And then you do it again. And again. And again.

The pace you’ve set is slow, but it allows you to further assimilate to the stretch. Furthermore, the friction is accumulative. You quickly find that Arthur’s hands have lifted to clasp around your own shaking ones in an act to sooth you.

To quell whatever ache has settled in your abdomen (for the time being).

And his eyes are shining with an indiscernible emotion as he watches you; something that makes you want to cry out of sheer wonder.

You’re so sure it’s love. It has to be. You refuse for anything else.

You refuse to be a broodmare or quick fuck.

And something must flip inside of Arthur because suddenly, he flips you two over, and moreover, he turns you over onto your stomach.

“Arthur,” you mutter, as you lift yourself up on your forearms. And he bends down pressing a kiss to the vertebrae in your neck as if they were jewels on a crown.

His hands return to your hips and bring you towards him.

“I know,” he replies. It only takes a second for him to slip into you again, letting a deep, pleasant groan out.

In this position he’s quicker, rougher. Less careful.

Arthur utters the occasional incoherent word and you can only pant in reply. After a while of this— of his hips slamming against yours— your shaking arms collapse under you, and your cheek presses into the mattress.

Arthur doesn’t stop though, nor does he slow, and the whole thing overloads your nerves.

Yet somehow, his touch is still loving— even as he takes you so harshly. It’s an odd dichotomy. You’re not quite sure he knows his own strength in this moment. Maybe he never does.

And you can’t help but be utterly grateful that this is the only way Arthur uses his strength on you. To fuck you into a mattress.

And the only noises you can make are broken little gasps for air, an entire lifetime’s worth of vocabulary forgotten. He’s moving in and out of you at a far quicker pace than you had initially anticipated; and you feel yourself begin to shake, quivering for help beneath him.

“Please,” you beg.

“Please, what?”

Your face flushes, hot and embarrassed even if you’ve done this hundreds of times before. “Arthur,” you whine, and he gets the message, quickening his pace as more broken, unintelligible syllables bumble out of your lips.

He brings one hand away from your hip to cup under your chin, lifting your face slightly so he can press his cheek against yours.

A loving act that tells you this is more than lust and cum.

Your hands claw into the mattress and his other hand leaves your hip to land on top of your own— fingers moving to curl into the spaces between yours. You’re crying now, sobbing quietly for some form of release at the absolutely brutal pace he’s set.

And you feel yourself coming close to climax, warmth pooling and subsequently dripping from your abdomen.

Arthur’s close too. You can tell by the way he twitches inside of you and by the way his groans have become hoarse and breathy.

He then removes the hand from your jaw and you sink back into the mattress, his fingers reaching for that bundle of nerves and rubbing it. You leave an open-mouthed whimper into the bedsheet, your breath and spit creating a hot and sticky spot.

Delicately, he pushes your body over the edge.

The orgasm rushes over you like a snap— quicker than lighting but drawn out like thunder. It singes and quakes as you quiver around him, moaning dumbly and begging for some form of sanity. Your back, arching, pushes him further into you, ignorant of your own overstimulation.

Arthur’s grip is tight on your hips as he watches, having to stop himself from spilling into you right then and there. He would.

He would if things were better. He would if he were stupid and ignorant.

But he holds himself back, teeth gnawing at his lip. Eventually you calm, the bedsheet loosening in your grip, leaving linen hills in your wake. And as soon as you take a quiet, deep breath, he continues to thrust just as quickly.

It’s now his turn to gasp and whimper, and you’ve never heard him so desperate— properly crying as he presses his face into your neck.

Your own tears bead at your eyelashes as you let him use you, abandoning any and all self respect for yourself.

But it doesn’t last long, as he’s quick to follow you over the edge. His hips begin to stutter and you know it’s over.

Arthur pulls out, and you feel him throbbing against you as he cums into his hand. He’s practically collapsed on top of you as well, his body gone boneless and weak from the aftershock.

He’s still for some time, catching his breath and his mental faculties.

And you’re not sure how much time has passed until his lips press against your neck and shoulders gently; but you sigh quietly at the feeling, pleased and sated.

He reaches under your body, cupping your waist so he can roll the two of you over to lay on your sides. And Arthur curls himself around you protectively, like he could obstruct everything evil with the slope of his shoulders.

It’s quiet and peaceful, as the aftermath of sex usually is.

And each time he kisses your skin indolently, you press back into him— a silent message that you want to kiss back. He seems to understand.

After a while, he mumbles your name.

You don’t expect it, his usual preference for silence being the norm. But either way, you hum in reply, entirely lost in comfort and bliss.

“I’ll kill Micah.” It’s said so simply, like an everyday part of his itinerary. Cleaning, hunting, murder. Well, maybe it is then.

You don’t open your eyes though. This is not a new conversation, nor is it one you like.

“You heard him today I’m guessing.”

“When you were doin’ the laundry.”

You want to frown. “It’s fine.” Is all you can say.

“No it ain’t.”

You pull away from him a little. “I don’t wanna talk about him. Ever. He doesn’t matter.”

Arthur’s quiet again. But then he nods and closes the space you created.

“Okay.”

#arthur morgan #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan fic #arthur morgan fanfiction #reader insert #rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 fanfiction #might get a part two

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philtstone · 13 days

Text

title: although it took a while

Summary: Shawn and Juliet figure out how to fall -- and be -- in love.

if u have been reading my personal posts here on tumblr dot com u jnow that, comrades. this fic kicked my ASS. real frustrated tears were shed. the only reason we're here today is because i dont know how sunk cost fallacy works and refused to give up on it after weeks and weeks of investment. technically this is in the same universe as "so here we are again" and "and we were driving on a road" (my beloved mollyverse) but it can very much be read as a stand alone. the title is of course from space age love song <3. enjoy!

Excerpt:

“What?”

“You were just …�� Shawn exhales, rubbing his good hand over one eyebrow and back through his hair. It sticks up endearingly at the top. “I mean, you know, your face got all pinchy and sad a couple months ago, when everything with – I mean, when I was in the hospital, and you came to visit like three times and it was awful — not you visiting, but you looking upset because of me —” He offers a half-laugh that isn’t humorless enough to be truly upsetting. “Couldn’t have that happen again! But don’t worry, Jules, I’m actually fine. Zero gunshot wounds this time. We can totally pretend I walked into a door, or something, and then perhaps partake in a game of parcheesi.”

Juliet’s insides twist tightly, all in one go, into a pretzel-like shape. Schneiders’ Pretzels of Hanover, Shawn would probably say. He rolls his wrist again, grimacing a bit as he does. Before she can stop herself she’s reached out and grabbed his hand in her own.

“Tell me where it hurts,” she says, even though she’s already pressing her fingers gently in between thick tendons and the meat of his palm. Shawn’s fingers rest automatically against her forearm, close to her pulse. His hands are warm, as they have been the last handful of times she’s felt them, and instinctively she skips her thumb over a red scrape on his knuckle to work softly against the curve of his wrist where he usually wears a watch.

When she looks up, expectant, Shawn is staring at her. His mouth hangs faintly open and his eyes are … oh. Juliet swallows. They can be so intense sometimes.

“I guess I fell pretty hard,” Shawn says finally, registering her earlier question. An odd rough strand is bending his voice. Juliet’s heart pounds in her ears. Her own voice echoes back at her from that case earlier in the year – their proximity on the ladder, his arm reaching over her – Shawn, what are you doing? “Um – weird. I mean, weird. On my wrist. I fell hard and weird on my wrist.”

“Right,” Juliet says softly.

“That feels good,” he adds. They stare down together at their joined hands and Juliet’s careful movements. She ignores the way the dark hairs of his arm tickle her fingers and the faint twitch of his ring finger against her palm every time she shifts her grip. She tells herself they aren’t holding hands if she’s offering a pseudo medical service to her coworker who definitely doesn’t have proper health insurance.

read the full fic on Ao3

#my writing #I PERSERVERED YALL #psych #juliet o'hara #shawn spencer #shawn x juliet #shules #burton guster #shawn x gus #carlton lassiter #henry spencer #psych usa #psych 2006

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writing-blocked-me · 2 years

Text

Over the Years

Chuuya x gn!reader

CW: BSD Spoilers (half anime based, half manga based) (15 and Strombringer spoilers)

Pairings: Chuuya x Reader

Notes: So I’m new to fic writing on tumblr but hi! A proper introduction post will probably come at a later date but for now my name’s Liv and I write for Bungou Stray Dogs (mostly) ad a few other fandoms (though I’m not confident enough to post anything for them quite yet). Hope you enjoy :)

Fic under the cut :)

You could never really be sure when exactly you fell in love with Chuuya Nakahara. Hell, you couldn’t even tell when you’d started to see him as a friend, instead of the fearsome, gravity-manipulating mafioso that he was to most others.

It might’ve been when you first met him, though you couldn’t say for certain.

It was one of your first days on the job, having just recently been recruited by the Port Mafia after they had absorbed the gang you had previously been working for. Kouyou had taken a liking to you and taken you under her wing. As you were delivering documents one day, you overheard Dazai and another, unrecognisable voice arguing. Though you barely interacted with the Demon Prodigy, you had never heard him shout. He was always quiet, calculating and observant. Never loud or outwardly enraged as he sounded then. It made you curious, so you’d decided to sneak a peek. That’s when you saw him, red faced and equally as enraged as the brunette opposing him. He’d argued with so much passion that you were partially in awe, but mostly amused. That amusement slowly turned into giggles, which alerted the two adversaries to your presence. Dazai told you to get back to work. Chuuya had just stared. After you left, you overheard Dazai teasing him about it; the screaming started up again. It had taken him a week after that to finally introduce himself, you thought it was cute.

It might’ve been as you’d grown closer.

Within a year of joining the Port Mafia, Chuuya had started making a name for himself. He’d joined the Flags, the mafia’s group of youngsters, who had taken him in as one of their own - his friends. He’d also become fast friends with you. Despite his aggressive personality, Chuuya was really easy to get along with. You would spend time with each other constantly, watching TV, playing games at the arcade, being teenagers. Chuuya actually made you feel kinda normal, despite working for a criminal organisation. You’d tease him for his height and he’d get all angry and try to insult you. In the end, you’d just end up laughing. There were times you’d stay up all night, playing games or talking.

During the attacks by Verlaine, you’d narrowly escaped death, Verlaine targeting you after his assassination of the flags. You’d comforted Chuuya as you both mourned the flags and you’d been by his side as much as possible when he was still discovering his origins. His strength throughout it all was something you both admired and adored. You were grateful you were able to stay by him and make sure he was safe, much to Chuuya’s dismay. He’d wanted to have you shipped off somewhere, even going as far as asking Dazai for help. Needless to say it hadn’t worked. Chuuya was not the only stubborn-headed menace out of your little duo.

After the events, when Chuuya had become an executive, and Mori had finally divulged the information on his family’s whereabouts, you had still stayed by him. You even went with him to see his parents, and comforted him when he left without saying a word.

You were able to see him grow and you saw beneath just the angry mafioso, to the guarded, loyal boy beneath. Maybe that’s when you fell in love with him.

Maybe it was as he grew older.

While he barely grew any taller, he had definitely matured. His jaw was sharper and his muscles more defined - he looked good. He’d grown his hair out and it now fell on his shoulder. His dress sense had changed too, from leather jackets with hoodies, to suits with an unbuttoned shirt, to, finally, his current look - the dapper mafia suit with an overcoat draped over the top and his signature hat. He looked more mature and grown up and, while he was always handsome, the confident aura with which he went about his day made him even more attractive.

That confidence was definitely not for show either. Chuuya had worked so hard to get stronger, grow tougher and be better. As the years progressed, you could definitely see the difference. You had watched him slowly become a better leader, one of the strongest members of the Port Mafia, someone you were so lucky to be beside. Chuuya, despite all of his promotions and successes, still continued to hang out with you, still considering you a friend and keeping you close. As he got stronger, he was able to protect you more and saved you countless times. That’s not to say you didn’t save him, though. You saved him as well, though not always in the same way. He was always working hard, which made you strive to work harder. He inspired you to improve. Maybe that’s when you fell in love with him.

Maybe you fell for him when you shared your first kiss.

It was at the end of a long, tough mafia mission. Both of you had been exhausted, but wanting to celebrate, you decided to go to a local mafia haunt for a few drinks. Chuuya, being the lightweight that he is, was hammered two glasses of wine in, the tiredness further, lowering his tolerance. You, however, were on your fifth glass of wine and, though tipsy, were still conscious. At this point, one of the other bar goers approached you, letting out a wolf whistle as he did so. You tried to politely inform him of your disinterest, but he, also in a rather drunken state, did not seem to be taking no for an answer. You continued in your efforts to dissuade him but Chuuya did not take the man’s persistence so well. Not unexpectedly, you weren’t allowed back at that bar. At least, not for a while.

After the fiasco, Chuuya had insisted on walking you home, though really, you were the one guiding him to your apartment. You helped him hobble up the stairs to your floor, only letting go of him when you were at the door to find your keys. You quickly unlocked the door, before you grabbed the executive mafioso once more, leading him to the couch. Big mistake. Although he was small, Chuuya was deceptively strong, even while drunk, and he pulled you down with him as he flopped onto the couch. It was then that he whispered to you how much he cared for you, how grateful he was that you had stuck by him throughout everything, how much he wished you would stay with him forever. Less than a second after his whispers had finished, he shoved his lips to yours in a very sloppy, drunk kiss. To you, however, it was perfect. Immediately afterwards, Chuuya fell asleep. On top of you. His soft snores filling your apartment as you stared at him in shock and adoration. Maybe that’s when you fell.

You could never really remember when it was you fell in love with the ginger mafioso. Maybe it was sudden, a single moment that set your heart ablaze. Perhaps it happened more gradually, with little moments shared between you building into a strong bond that eventually blossomed into love. It could have been at any time, in any way; you had known him for so long and it felt like you had loved him forever. You might never know when you fell.

However, whenever you spent time with him, your heart swelled and filled with love. So you supposed it didn’t really matter when you fell in love with him or how or why. All that mattered was that you were in love with Chuuya Nakahara.

Chuuya didn’t know when he fell in love with you, or how, or why. He guesses it could have been anytime over the years, you’d always been by him and he’d always appreciated you, which then turned into love. But Chuuya also knew that the when, why and how were not important. He loved you and he would continue to love you for as long as you’d let him. The ring he was carrying in his jacket pocket, as he made his way to dinner with you was evidence of that. Chuuya Nakahara loves you and wants to spend forever feeling this way, with you by his side.

#dazai osamu #nakahara chuuya #bsd chuuya #chuuya x reader #bsd x reader #bungou stray dogs #bsd 15 #bsd stormbringer #port mafia #bsd #x reader #gn reader #bungo stray dogs #bsd port mafia #bsd spoilers #stormbringer spoilers #15 spoilers

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invisibleraven · 3 months

Note

confessing feelings when you think the other is asleep, peterpatterlina

Apparently tumblr posted this half way through writing, so please make sure you read the one with tags to get the full story!

"Thanks again for letting me stay guys," Luke said as he set his bag down on the bed.

"You know it's never a problem dude," Reggie replied. "It wasn't like we were let you live out on the streets while they fumigate your building."

"Let either of us know if you want anything," Julie offered. "Supper's in twenty, so get settled and we can eat."

Luke shot them a thumbs up but sighed as the door closed. It's not that he didn't appreciate Reg and Jules putting him up, but given his notebooks was full of half-finished songs about how deeply in love with them he was, he could have gone for another option.

Unforetunately, Alex and Willie were out of town, his relationship with his folks was still testy even though the band had a signed contract and the first album almost done. Flynn was in the middle of finals, and Carrie was doing a phone free weekend with her dad.

That left Luke with little recourse but to stay with his two crushes.

It was only for the weekend-he had survived longer on the tour bus with them. But on the tour buss they had gotten sick of each other, so it was acceptable to retreat for as much alone time as they could. Here he couldn't use that excuse.

Hell he could probably tell them how he felt-it probably wouldn't go horribly. But it would be awkward for a time as they tried not to lead him on and he tried to get over these feelings, like he hadn't been trying to do just that practically since they got together.

He had always found both Reggie and Julie attractive-who wouldn't? He knew he could easily fall in love with them, but figured friendship was more important. But they had gotten together in senior year, and Luke suddenly realized that he wanted to be a part of them. It had hit him like a flash of lightning, and the feeling hadn't faded.

He didn't think they suspected-they still acted the same towards him-as tactile and kind as ever. But every touch, every smile, every note they sang captured his heart even more.

He refused to say it though-he couldn't bear to lose anyone else that loved him after the rejection from his folks. He would suffer through until he died if needed just to keep even the platonic love they offered him over nothing at all.

Dinner was lovely-Julie had a talent for cooking-and the three of them always had something to talk about, laugh over, or turn into a song.

Julie and Reggie turned in early-they were planning on visiting Ray and Carlos the next day and had volunteered to make breakfast.

"You stay up as long as you want though," Julie encouraged him. "Sleep in tomorrow, raid the fridge and whatever. We'll probably be back before supper."

"You want me to cook?" aksed Luke.

"You mean order a pizza?" Reggie chuckled. "Sure thing."

Luke scowled a little, but then had to laugh himself-he was a notoriously bad cook, and he knew it. He was a decent baker, but he had to be in the mood to whip up a batch of his famous brownies.

The two of them went up, but Luke kept himself busy for a bit-rifling through the books, but not finding anything he wanted to read, channel surfing but only finding talk shows, and eventually he headed upstairs himself, content to strum on his guitar a while.

He was working on a song-yet another about how he felt about his friends, and this one was close to being done. The rest were half finished dreams and semi-formed sentences that cluttered up his pages. This one though...

He tuned up his six string, and began to strum, finding the right chord progression, playing the opening, and then let the words ring out.

My heart is all but ripped in two Half for him, and the other for you I couldn't choose but I never could Couldn't love the way they say I should

Maybe it's greedy to love you both But I can swear here, under oath That you've captured me heart and soul Need the two of you to feel whole

Love is love is love so they say Couldn't have it any other way Three may be a lot for all but few But I know I won't be complete without you two.

Luke stopped there, smiling at what he had so far.

"That's beautiful babe," Reggie said from the doorway.

"Where's the rest?" Julie asked, wrapped around Reggie.

"I-it's not done yet," Luke admitted. "How much did you hear? I thought you were asleep."

"Kinda hard to sleep when you're being serenaded," Reggie said with a chuckle. "Worth missing the sleep."

"Who's it for?" Julie teased.

"You know," Luke said, blushing hard.

"Well I have to say we feel the same," Reggie said, sitting on one side of Luke, Julie the other.

"And we'd be honoured to help you finish the song so it has a happy ending," Julie said, squeezing his hand.

"We always do write better together," Luke admitted. "Are you sure though?"

The kisses he got in response were answer enough, and the song ended up being their first hit. And by the time it had gone triple platinum a few years later, Luke had his own spot in their home-with Reggie and Julie on either side of him, the three of them singing their children to sleep with the song that had brought them together.

#filled prompts #ficlet #rukebox #peterpatterlina #julie and the phantoms

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moonspirit · 2 months

Note

Chapter 34 was so amazing <3. I love the metaphor for Armin tiptoeing around Annie’s emotional fragility.

I think Annie hates seeing him suffer and that’s why she shuts down. I think she also feels guilty for “leaving him” to be with her dad.

personally, I think Annie doesn’t really want to stay with her dad. I agree with @distortedclouds take on Mr. Leonhart, personally. But these are the two men in her life that she’s been the most devoted to and now she’s torn.

please stay with Armin, Annie, and Armin please communicate with Annie 🙏🙏 (I cannot handle anymore angst)

The chapter is beautiful as always ❤️❤️

Hello anon! And thank you so much for reading and the kind words T^T I appreciate them very much.

As for Annie and her father... yeah. I made a post on this a while ago over here, but honestly, in VBEOW it's hard to deal with it in a very cut-and-dried manner because parental relationships in general are anything but black and white, being infinitely complicated and nuanced as they are.

At the moment, Annie's very torn over her feelings about living with her father now that he's finally asked her. Prior to the Rumbling, perhaps even prior to Fort Salta, Annie wouldn't have batted an eyelash if given the same opportunity - in fact she was running towards it and only it. Now, it's been more than half a year that she's found a "home" for herself, both in Armin's companionship and the fun and frolic of living with the others, that going back to her father's house no longer holds the appeal it once would have.

And that's what makes her feel so guilty in the first place - that she's "not" happy to think about living with her father.

It's not easy to say "no", and it's not easy to say "yes."

And Annie being Annie tends to clam up and shut down her emotions. She may have talked things out with Armin once before (after the peace summit) but that hasn't radically changed her. Talking is still hard, especially when taking into account all the other problems that have been presented in Ch 34 (that Armin's an orphan, that he doesn't even have parents to think about, and so on) that only make her feel worse and unable to confide in him. It's also her reluctance to "just let him fix all her problems time and time again" (ref. ch. 24).

Like I mentioned in the other post I linked above, I really didn't think much of Mr. Leonhardt in the beginning. Among some other opinions I saw on reddit much later, Clouds' take both in BW and her posts on tumblr is something that has influenced the way I see and feel about Mr. Leonhardt. So I agree with you there.

As for the angst... T^T I wish nothing was angsting at all anon!!! this is not fun for me to write! I just want to see them being silly aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa-

But thank you so much for the love and I'll keep doing my best :3

#anon ask #VBEOW #aruani #attack on titan

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kinfriday · 1 year

Text

The Irregular Ascetic

In August, I briefly made a new friend on Tumblr.

His account has long since vanished for reasons I do not know. Maybe this place just didn't click for him. I've been here for years and always found it welcoming, but I know that, like everything, this site is not for everyone.

He'd send me a message, ask a question or two, and when I checked every week or so, I'd do my best to reply.

Then, one day, he was gone, but not before leaving me one last question:

"An ascetic heathen life? What does that look like to you? I want to see that visual."

And that's kind of the question, isn't it?

The thing about callings is that they aren't always clear-cut. I may feel drawn towards an ascetic heathen life, but it's not like my Gods sent me an Ikea flat-pack kit.

As seems to be the pattern with the Germanic deities, they tapped me on the shoulder and then said...

"Here ya go, figure it out."

And here we are. Forty-Two, with over ten years as a member of the Ár nDraíocht Féin (ADF), I haven't finished my dedicant path, nor started the clergy track.

I can't remember the last time I did a full ritual.

All in all, I seem like a pretty crappy monk, don't I?

Sister Snow Hare, indeed...

It seems that my vanishing friend pinned me to the wall. I've been chewing on this again, trying to work it out.

If you're reading this, buddy, know that you kicked off a lot of introspection about my path, and you inspired this long rambling Tumblr post.

The best place to start is the beginning. (A little free wisdom)

So, what exactly is monasticism?

Good ol’ Mr. Wikipedia defines it as "a religious way of life in which one renounces worldly pursuits to devote oneself fully to spiritual work."

No matter the faith, this is a feature of monastic life: asceticism, self-denial, and focus.

Have I mentioned I can't remember the last time I did a ritual yet?

Tsk. Tsk. Tsk.

Nothing makes me feel guilty, like comparing myself to the standards and practices of others. Somewhere out there, a Buddhist is living on four grains of rice, meditating eighteen hours a day, stopping only to sleep. The five minutes a day he spends on Tumblr, he's laughing at me.

I just know it. >.>

You could say I've been feeling a little convicted about this.

Yet the calling is still there. My relationship with my Gods isn't just good; it's warm. While not formal or official, I have a fulfilling spiritual life that's not structured like anything in the faith org I faithfully send my twenty dollars a year to and then largely hide from.

So what's going on?

I've begun to realize slowly over the last year that my faith path will probably never be recognizable as anything routine, rote, or by the book, but what it will be is mine.

Where does my asceticism show?

Let me take you through a typical day.

Waking at 2300 (11 pm), I plank for three minutes, do about ten minutes of calisthenics, wash my face, and then meditate for twenty minutes to a half hour, offering that time to the Gods. Then, with that done, I recite my creed and head off to the gym.

I have a creed. I'm that fancy!

While I'm in the truck, I informally pray. Often, I'm talking to my Lady Eostre, but the other Gods definitely get included. Woden and I have always gotten along, and Thunor, I call big brother because he's always watching out for us and protecting us.

Now it's time for my hour minimum at the gym. Half an hour each of cardio and weight training. This is so I can be in good condition and proper shape.

Good health is important to me, but more on that in a moment.

When I get home, I clean for about an hour, something I call "service meditation." Scrubbing floors, cleaning counters, and sanitizing bathrooms is a gift I can give daily to my loved ones with whom I make a home. While I work, I reflect on them and consider all they give me.

After a much-needed shower, I'm in the office and might finally have breakfast. I eat, ascetically, often the same thing every day; I keep my calories low and usually take up a 16-hour fast between my last meal and first meal.

Everything gets weighed down to the gram and tracked on my calorie sheet.

Next comes editing, writing, often some informal online counseling, or time spent on networks like Counter Social, Telegram, and Discord trying to help people, even if it's only getting them to smile.

Hope is big for me because my Lady Eostre is the goddess of Spring and the Dawn. She is hope personified, a goddess of fresh chances and potential. Pointing back to her and her values is my purpose. It's what I was made for.

My day continues like that until I'm in bed at 1600 (4 PM), after an hour cool-down where I go through my creed and have one last conversation with the Gods. That's when I set out my fruit offerings if I happened to have any that day.

It's a hard and fast rule. The gods always get the best part of the banana and the strawberry.

This is the way.

My bed is a mat that rolls out on the floor. I started that in 2020, and I've never been happier or slept better, and when I travel, it comes with me.

And I travel a lot.

My family here calls it "missions." Every now and again, someone in my network will need help. They might be having surgery, a mental health crisis, or are moving cross town or cross country. Whatever the reason, the call goes out, and if I can make it work with money, I'll hop a plane, train, or bus and get out there.

Beyond the joy I get from being in shape and capable, this is why I work out. It's much easier to load and move boxes or help lift people when you're in decent physical condition.

I actually have training as a CNA, so I know how to do all the transfer stuff, and I have decent experience in post-surgical care.

I don't want to go into this part too much because it feels like bragging, but I've been all over the States and soon to be Canada just helping people. I ramble in, do what I can, then return home and take back up my discarded routine.

And this is my life, apart from writing my books. As I looked at it and began breaking it down, I realized that I am already living a disciplined ascetic life.

My gods and my faith are at the forefront of what I do, but what defines my faith isn't the regular application of ritual, but action. Indeed, one of the sayings I live by is actions show what words claim.

So I'm not on a mountaintop, meditating with the sun's rising and setting, or dwelling within a monastery, cloistered from the world, living to sing hymns. There is beauty in that kind of asceticism, but it's not my asceticism.

Yet, we do have things in common.

My life is one of service, with a focus on the divine and the advancement of their aims for the world. It is my hope (there's that word again) that I can show the wisdom and cunning of Woden, the strength of Thunor, the honor of Tyr, and most of all, embody the hope of the Dawn in all I do.

Of course, I'm not perfect, and Saturdays are often waffle day, but life is about growth, not static metrics.

It's dawning on me that I may never be fully recognized in my path. I don't seem to jive well with organizations and dogmatic structures. I may never have Reverend by my name or "Sister" formally. When it's time to go, I may not even leave much behind save my books and these Tumblr posts.

When I do cross that far horizon, and I am again before my Lady, I hope she will look back on all I did during this strange human odyssey and see that while I may have been taken from her for a time, I never stopped being her devoted one, her servant, and that is all the formal recognition I will ever need.

For me, an ascetic heathen life is one of actions, denial, and service, which I seek to live every day.

#otherkin #therian #kinfriday #tumblr #writing #heathenry #neopaganism #germanic paganism #heathen asceticism #wandering hare #counter social #monasticism #paganism #anglo saxon pagan #the way of the wandering hare

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gt-ambi · 5 months

Text

Greater and More Terrible

On a quest to slay a malevolent witch, a knight of the realm goes missing. Fearful of what fate may have befallen the knight, his squire, Elliott, sets off into the witch's domain in search of his master. The young man soon comes face to face with the witch herself and falls victim to a powerful curse. Reduced to less than half a foot tall and imprisoned in the witch's cabin, can Elliott find a way to break the curse and escape? Or will he meet his end and disappear without a trace in the shadowed depths of the forest the witch calls home?

Masterpost

Preface

Hello all! This is my first foray into the Tumblr g/t community, though I've been lurking here for a few years. I'm excited (although a bit nervous) to finally be posting something. I have a few other story ideas that I'm working on here and there, and I can't promise any kind of consistent update schedule, but regardless, my number one goal is to tell a decent story, so I hope you enjoy! I welcome any feedback, comments, criticisms, etc.

Chapter One: Alone

In which Elliott makes one brave, somewhat questionable decision and a few less brave, definitely questionable decisions. Running blindly through the forest is probably a fine thing to do, right? And what's that saying - always trust strangers? I think that's how it goes, anyway. *Note* - there's no g/t in the story yet, but there will be! I just gotta cook a little, first.

CW: General Fear, Pain, Embarrassment, Poor Survival Skills, and a Squirrel-Related Inciting Incident

Next Chapter: Coming Soon...

Word Count: 3,479

The food would last another day – maybe two, if Elliott was careful with it. After that, he would be in trouble. He wasn’t any kind of outdoorsman, and he was sure that a novice trying to hunt or forage in the witch’s woods might as well be asking to meet the gods of death. As the name suggested, a witch of great power and ill repute had supposedly claimed the forest as her territory, and Elliott didn’t want to risk drawing her attention.

If it came down to it, he supposed there was always the food set aside for Sir Geoffrey. On the other hand, if the knight came back and found that his squire had stolen from his pack… Elliott shuddered at the thought. That wasn’t an option.

He is going to come back, isn’t he?

It wasn’t the first time he’d had the thought since Sir Geoffrey left him here four days ago, in the clearing where they had set up their camp. The first day had been almost nice, aside from the general anxiety of being alone in a supposedly cursed (or haunted, depending on who you asked) forest. Days apart from Sir Geoffrey were a rare gift—a break from the insults and the so-called training that left Elliott with bruises more than anything else.

The second day, the peace of solitude gave way to the unease of isolation, but Elliott hadn’t been worried about Sir Geoffrey. It only made sense that finding the witch’s lair and slaying her would take more than a day, even after leaving behind the “dead weight”, as Sir Geoffrey had so kindly phrased it.

On the third day, as morning settled into afternoon with no sign of the night, the thought tickled the back of Elliott’s mind for the first time. Is Sir Geoffrey all right? He tried to push it down, to tell himself it was an irrational question. Of course, Sir Geoffrey was all right—he was a knight of the realm, a champion of the people, a vanquisher of evil! And yet, despite his efforts, the worry wormed its way deep into Elliott’s thoughts, repeating again and again through the rest of the day, until he dozed off into fitful sleep that night.

This morning, Elliott had been torn from slumber by horrible, shrill chittering. He woke with a start, sure that some awful beast of the haunted (or cursed) forest was descending to take his life. In his tired haze, he groped for his nearby walking stick—the closest thing he had to a weapon. Armed as well as he could be, he sprang to his feet, ready to fight for his life.

There was no monster to slay, no magical creature to fend off. The raucous noise came from a half-dozen squirrels fighting over, around, and in Elliott’s pack. He stared at them, almost disappointed, until one of them popped up over the lip of the pack with a chunk of bread. Then, in a horrible flash, Elliott realized they had been fighting over his food. He charged at the rodents, screaming and waving his stick wildly.

The squirrels scattered, but the damage had already been done. The rations that were supposed to last him another week had been ravaged. Elliott salvaged everything he could, but what hadn’t been eaten outright was largely inedible, trampled in the dirt or torn to shreds and covered in fur.

Elliott’s chewed on his lower lip as he considered the predicament. His leg bounced nervously. He already wasn’t thrilled about being in the witch’s forest, but he had taken some solace in the assurance of the camp—if nothing else, he had a tent to sleep in, and food to eat. But now, the camp didn’t seem like such a haven.

Elliott was once again keenly aware that the forest penned him in on all sides. The ancient trees loomed at the edge of the clearing like giants standing at attention. Their broad branches hung heavy with leaves and cast dark shadows on the forest floor. Elliott’s view of the autumn sky was reduced to a blue circle high above him and whatever flecks he could spy through the shifting red-and-gold canopy. Any other direction he looked, all he could see was the forest.

Surrounded by the sea of trees, low on food, and with no sign of Sir Geoffrey, Elliott suddenly felt very small. That was hardly new – even at eighteen years old, he stood only five-foot-four, and he had a young face. When combined with his baggy tunic, which he’d owned since he was fifteen and still thought he would grow into it, Elliott appeared younger and smaller than he was, and people often treated him as less than significant. But where people were might be rude, or even malicious, the forest felt hungry. Elliott didn’t feel denigrated or offended—he felt hunted.

“Okay,” he said aloud, as if breaking the silence would ease the panic rising in his throat. “What options do I have?” He would make a list, that’s what he’d do. Lists were good. Lists made order out of chaos. Lists let you look objectively at a situation. A list would help him find the right course of action.

“Option one: starve to death.”

No! Idiot! He shook his head. Not an option. Try again.

“Option one: stay here and keep waiting. It’s not like I have no food left. Maybe I can stick it out for a while longer. I mean, Sir Geoffrey could be on his way back right now, for all I know.”

Assuming he’s coming back at all, his brain added helpfully. He tried to ignore it, but it had a point. If Elliott waited, and Sir Geoffrey didn’t come back, then he’d be in a worse situation than before.

“Option two,” he continued. “Try to get out of the forest. There’s that village we passed before—if I can make it there, then I can resupply and…” He trailed off. And what? He asked himself. Come back and wait some more? That wouldn’t solve anything. Besides, if Sir Geoffrey was coming back, it would probably be soon. If he wasn’t coming back, then he was either in serious trouble, or he was dead—and the more time passed, the more likely it was to be the second possibility. So that wasn’t an option either, which only left…

“Option three.” Elliott’s fists clenched and unclenched at his sides. He didn’t want to say it. If he said it, it was real. If it was real, he’d have to do it. He really wished he didn’t have to do it.

“Option three,” he repeated. “Go looking for Sir Geoffrey myself.” It was a horrible idea. Elliott wouldn’t stand a chance against anything that Sir Geoffrey couldn’t handle. What’s more, if the knight returned to camp while he was away, Elliott wasn’t certain that Sir Geoffrey would wait for him to return. Even so, Elliott had a responsibility to uphold. If Sir Geoffrey might be in trouble, Elliott was honor-bound to at least try to help him.

Elliott groaned loudly and started to gather his things. Sure, he was probably walking straight into certain death, but he might as well be prepared in case he wasn’t. He couldn’t carry everything, though. He’d have to make some choices. The food would come with him, of course, both his own and Sir Geoffrey’s. The tent would have to stay, and so would one of the bedrolls—trying to strap both to his pack threw off his balance. His walking stick was invaluable, as it would at least give him a chance to try and protect himself. The cookware was too heavy and took up too much space, so it had to stay as well. The rest of the space in his pack was claimed by the tinderbox, an extra water skin, and the emergency supplies—bandages and such.

When he was done, Elliott slung the heavy, wood-framed bag onto his shoulders and picked up his stick. He stood at the edge of camp and looked out into the forest, at the gap in the trees where he had last seen Sir Geoffrey.

Is this really a good idea? Elliott thought. Part of him wanted nothing more than to turn around, go back to the tent, and pretend like nothing was happening. No, he decided, this is definitely not a good idea. But I don’t have a choice. He gritted his teeth. He could do this. He had to do this. He took a deep breath and, on shaking legs, strode away from the camp, into the depths of the forest.

~~~

A few hours later, Elliott found himself deeply regretting his choice. The gnarled, twisting branches of ancient trees reached toward him from every angle. They caught and tugged at his clothing and pack as though trying to pull them into their embrace. Though Elliott knew the sun must be nearing its zenith, the shadows seemed darker than ever, and heavy as pitch where they settled in the brush. The undergrowth hissed with the passage of dozens—no, hundreds, or even thousands!—of unseen creatures. In Elliott’s mind’s eye, each rustle marked a monster fouler than the last.

His breath hitched painfully in his chest. His aching eyes begged him to blink. His knees threatened to give out from beneath him. He couldn’t stop himself from trembling. Even so, he kept moving.

This is what a knight must do, he thought. A knight must not quail in the face of their fears. He repeated it over and over, clinging to the thought like flotsam after a shipwreck. It bobbed and tipped in the sea of Elliott’s fear. If it sank, there would be nothing keeping Elliott apart from the great, dark terror below—the truth he was doing his best to ignore. The truth that however awful the forest was, the witch, greater and more terrible than anything in her dread domain, was waiting at the end of Elliott’s quest.

He stopped briefly, giving into some of his body’s demands. He leaned heavily on his walking stick, blinked the tears from his eyes and shifted his pack to sit more comfortably on his shoulders. When he was ready to move again, he looked up.

Something looked back at him.

A pair of predatory eyes, pale green tinged with yellow, gleamed dimly from within the brush. Elliott’s instinct took over; almost before he knew what was happening, he was running. The branches which had tugged at him before now struck him as he rushed past, carving bright, hot lines across his face. He threw his free arm up to take the worst of it. It cost him his vision, but it didn’t matter. He didn’t care where he was going as long as he escaped whatever lurked the darkness.

Fate, it seemed, had other plans for Elliott that day. At that moment, his foot landed wrong. Caught in the thicket at full speed, he pitched forward with a crack. Blinding pain shot through his lower leg. His shoulder slammed into the trunk of a tree and he caromed off it, crashing to the ground and rolling through the brush. It almost slowed his momentum enough to keep him from going over the edge. Almost.

The half-second of freefall nearly stopped Elliott’s heart. He landed hard on sloped ground, finding no reprieve from his agony as he continued to roll, now careening down the side of the steep hill. The stones and vegetation littering the hill did little to slow him. Every bump sent waves of pain through his body, radiating out from his leg. It was less painful when he rolled over top of his pack, but only just. The objects inside rattled and the wooden frame creaked ominously. His walking stick caught fast on something and was torn from his hand.

Elliott tucked his head to his chest. It was all he could do. Tears streamed down his face. He was dimly aware that he was screaming. Gods, please, he thought desperately. Please save me. Please let it stop.

As if in answer to his prayers, the base of the hill appeared beneath Elliott. The slope flattened, suddenly and jarringly, to level ground, and Elliott came to a shuddering stop on his side.

His head spun. His ears rang. His eyes and throat burned. His leg throbbed with pain as bad as he had ever felt. Every inch of his body hurt. His breathing was ragged, and his heart pounded as though it were trying to break through his ribs.

The outside world was lost to Elliott—his body’s misery commanded his attention. Time was likewise a mystery. He didn’t know how long he lay on the forest floor, wracked with pain. It might have been mere moments. It felt like hours.

After some time, the pain began to subside. Elliott’s breath steadied. It wasn’t so bad anymore. Even the stabbing agony in his leg had dulled to a sharp ache.

“Are you all right?”

Elliott flinched at the unfamiliar voice. He hadn’t realized he was no longer alone. Who were they? How long had they been there? Elliott stiffly uncurled and raised his head.

A woman crouched at Elliott’s side, brows deeply furrowed over amber eyes filled with concern. One hand rested on Elliott’s knee. The woman appeared to be around thirty, though life had apparently spared her the common ravages of disease and injury, as her smooth, olive skin bore no scars that Elliott could see, pox or otherwise. Her thick, dark hair was swept to one side and curled past her shoulders. The sleeves of her simple, cream-colored blouse were pushed up to her elbows, and mud stained her deep green skirt at the knees.

“Are you all right?” The woman asked again. She spoke softly, but her voice was steady and strong, and it flowed like warm honey. It might just have been the relief of seeing another person for the first time in days, but Elliott found something about her voice reassuring.

“Ah, y-yes,” Elliott stammered. He scrambled to his feet, wincing as he put weight on his injured leg, and looked himself over. A few cuts here and there, a few bruises, and of course, his leg still hurt, but aside from that (and his fresh coating of dirt and leaves), he was basically intact. “I’m all right, I think. Mostly. That is, I’m more or less all right. Still in one piece, anyway.” He mentally kicked himself. Stop rambling! “Thank you for asking,” he finished lamely.

The woman stood as well. To Elliott’s surprise, she was a few inches shorter than him. He didn’t often meet many people who were. “I’m glad to hear it,” the woman said with a smile. “That was a nasty fall.”

Elliott’s face flushed, and the tips of his ears burned. “Oh. You… you saw that?” It was one embarrassment after another.

“I heard it from the trail,” she said, and pointed away from the hill. Beyond the trees, a narrow path of worn dirt wound through the forest. A lidded wicker handbasket sat on the side of the path. “It was a bit of a shock at first,” the woman continued. Her smile grew slightly mischievous. “I was worried there was a banshee haunting the woods. Of course, banshees don’t make so much noise outside of the screaming, so I realized that couldn’t be it and came to take a look.”

Elliott’s flush deepened at the joke. Gods above, she must think I’m an absolute idiot. “It seemed worse in the moment,” he said by way of an explanation. “Really, I’m just grateful I didn’t get more badly injured.”

“Small blessings,” the woman said. Her eyes sparkled like she was holding back laughter.

What was funny about that? Elliott wondered. The thought was quickly pushed aside by a sudden realization. “I’m sorry,” he said, “I’ve been so rude! I haven’t introduced myself yet.” He brushed the front of his clothes as best as he could and gave the woman a small bow. “Elliott Weathersby, at your service, ma’am.”

The woman shook her head. “If you’ve been rude, then so have I. Please, call me Laurel. No need for the ‘ma’am’, either. I’m no more a lady than I am a king. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Elliott.

“The pleasure is mine, m—” Elliott caught himself. “Laurel,” he corrected, somewhat sheepishly.

This time, Laurel did laugh. Elliott could tell it wasn’t mean-spirited, but his meager pride felt the blow anyway. He felt foolish a lot of the time, but right now, he may as well have been a court jester.

“Well,” Laurel said, “now that we’ve officially met each other, I have to ask—how did you end up in a heap at the bottom of a hill this deep in the forest, anyway?” She looked bemused. “I don’t usually see anyone out here at all, let alone in the…” She tilted her head and waved a hand vaguely in his direction. “…state you seem to have found yourself in.

Elliott scratched the back of his head and glanced away. “It’s a bit of a long story,” he said, determined to not appear more foolish than he already did. “To put it briefly, I’m looking for my traveling companion. He went off on his own a few days ago, and I haven’t seen him since.”

Laurel frowned. “Rather inconsiderate of him to wander off like that. What does he look like? It’s possible we’ve crossed paths.”

“You would probably know if you had seen him. He’s a knight, after all.”

If Elliott had been more alert, less weary, or less distracted by his lingering aches and pains, he might have noticed the momentary pause before Laurel responded. He might have heard the slight change in the tone of her voice as she asked, “A knight?” He might have remembered Sir Geoffrey’s warnings to be wary while in the woods.

But he wasn’t. And he didn’t.

“Right,” he nodded. “Armor, sword, steed, all of it. The very image of chivalry.”

Laurel folded her arms. “Except for the part where he left you alone in the woods.”

“No, no, that’s different!” Elliott assured her. “He has a very important job to do. I’m just a squire, and a poor one at that. I would have just been in the way, so it was for the best.”

“Hm.” Laurel didn’t seem particularly assuaged by the explanation. “In any case, I haven’t seen any knights. That being said, I did find a horse wandering in the forest yesterday. Could it be your errant knight’s?”

Elliott’s stomach dropped. He tried to stay calm. Maybe it was just a coincidence. “Was it a white mare?” he asked. “Did the saddle pad have crests of roosters on either side?”

“It was a white mare, yes, but she didn’t have any kind of tack on when I found her.”

Elliott’s concern grew. “None at all? No saddle, no reins, no bit or bridle?” He could feel his worries rising, like a pot about to boil over. “Did she have any distinctive markings, or a brand, or anything like that?

“I’m not sure…” Laurel tapped her chin and thought for a moment. She snapped her fingers. “How about this? My home isn’t far from here. Why don’t you just come with me and see her for yourself.”

Elliott nodded. “I would appreciate that very much, thank you.” The sense of relief that had been growing over the course of the conversation had all but shattered. His mind raced, conjuring up all the most horrible, gruesome things that might have happened. The only thing keeping his anxiety from becoming panic was the possibility that it was a different horse.

“Then let’s not waste any more time,” Laurel said. She walked back toward the path. “Follow me.”

At the side of the path, Laurel stooped to pick up her basket. “I can carry that,” Elliott blurted. Laurel looked at him quizzically. “Not that you need me to,” he added hastily. “Just that—well, my mother always told me that one good turn deserves another, and you’re helping me, so I—I should help you, if I can.” “I suppose I won’t say no, if you’re so eager to offer,” Laurel said with a shrug. She raised a warning finger. “But let me know if your leg hurts too much, and I’ll take it back. There’s no need for you to overtax yourself."

“I will,” Elliott agreed. She held out the basket, and he took it. The damp, earthy scent of mushrooms rose from within.

“All right, then.” Laurel turned and set off down the trail. Slinging the basket over his arm and into the crook of his elbow, Elliott followed.

#g/t #g/t writing #sfw g/t #AmbiWritesGT #Greater and More Terrible #GaMT #Witch and Squire #OC-Elliott #OC-Laurel #okay so it's not g/t yet but we're getting there #just trust #g/t community

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karenandhenwillson · 6 months

Text

Some thoughts about learning and communication

I wanted to start this post with a screenshot, but I can't find the post in question anymore. I thought I had seen one of the people on the side of the call out posts making a post asking if no one had learned from the situation two years ago. Maybe it was a tag or a comment on a post instead, but I can't find it again. Wherever I saw the question, I still want to answer it.

(Continue under the break again.)

The simple answer is: No, you (specifically you as the person who posted this and their friends) have not learned a single thing from the situation two years ago. Your half-apologizes, or your refusal to apologize, and the way some of you are painting themselves the victims in the first place or of now being hit by the backlash also tells me already you haven't learned from this time either.

Two years ago the whole mess finally died down for the most part after a Black author was horribly hit by the whole the general fear and haste to appear to be on the "right" side that this fandom had fallen into at this point and she was very loud and outspoken about it so that some people finally recognized the mistakes they were making. Before this Black author, there had been a Black teacher who spoke up about the whole situation, who was trying to caution the mob to calm down and trying to teach about how to approach a productive conversation about racism.

I'm not going to dig up those screenshots, but I still want to remind everyone of her. Because she was a very outspoken and for a time loud voice, who didn't even say that all or any of the accusations where wrong but just said that the approach to all of it was wrong. She was hit with hate and messages that contained sui baiting (Feel free to DM me if you don't know what this is, it took me some time to get it, too, when I joined tumblr.) and other threats or demeaning comments or accusations she would support the racists. Some of them weren't even anon because some people claiming to be on the "right" side were horribly comfortable attacking a Black person. In the end, her voice was silenced.

I'll repeat that last sentence again, because I think it's important: In a debate about racism in this fandom, a Black voice was silenced by the side of the crowd who claimed to be fighting against racism.

I believe she said a lot of important things. Most of them can be boiled down to something an anon said in this debate and that I already quoted in the other post:

I've realised that I will never convince anyone by publicly shaming them. I might be able to silence them, but I won't convince them.

The communication both this week and two years ago failed completely. In parts for the same two major reasons we have seen this week, too:

1. Some of the people involved have taken everything said to them in horribly bad faith or willfully misinterpreted things that were said.

2. The artist in this case barely speaks English and needs a translation tool for all their communication. Two years ago from the very beginning, people were involved on both sides whose first language isn't English either and no matter how good they are at English or how much they write in their free time, it's still a barrier. (I'll detail an example for this later on.)

The first point compounded with the second point led to people, especially on the side of those accusing others of several things, twisting the things that were allegedly said in a horrific way. (As already mentioned, two years ago the accusation of racism wasn't the beginning but just the thing that "finally" found traction. I'm not sharing the screenshot of that here either because no one who was hurt two years ago deserves it to be brought up again more than it already has been. But I have proof that this didn't start over Chimney, that the very first iteration of the lists that were eventually created and widely shared was all about Maddie.)

We have seen this in a very glaring example this time. The artist was accused of claiming Jee-Yun had lighter skin than either of her parents, but when the screenshot of that part of the conversation was eventually shared, it turned out the artist was much more likely talking about a child she knew who she had brought up as a reference in the sentence before. I also fully believe the artist when they say the next part about "her skin getting lighter when she gets older" (again in reference to the child they know, not in reference to Jee-Yun, as was claimed long before that screenshot was shared) to be a mistake of the translation tool used. I've seen these kinds of mistakes in the artist’s post, and also in the private conversations I've had with them in the meantime.

I promised to share an example of how communication can be difficult between people with different first languages. There is, of course, the whole cultural side of it all that the artist already pointed out in their last post about the debate. There is the whole thing about different mindsets, about experience and perceiving the world, about how different cultures will view things differently without being aware of the differences even if they are aware to generally not know much about the other culture they are meeting.

These differences will be found in the language and how each of them uses them, too. And I'd not hesitate to bet a lot of money that most people never think about some of these differences in the use of the very same words if they aren't linguists.

English isn't my first language. I've had, in fact, a very difficult time to learn English at all. But I'm still interested in languages for several reason. When I was a child, I spent a lot of time with Czech friends, so I learned a little Czech from them. I didn't really keep any of it into adulthood because the friends moved away. I've learned French and Latin in school beside English, and after school I spent a little time learning Korean. So, I think I can safely say I've gotten familiar with more languages than many people.

I was still completely ignorant of some translations errors specifically concerning the discussion about racism until I started to get involved in English conversations about it.

There is no word for race in my language. But there is a word that sounds nearly identically, that has the exact same linguistical root as "race", but that has historically a completely different meaning. This word, my teachers would call it a false-friends as it sounds so similar to race, is one of the most horrifically racist and dehuminzing words you can use in my language while talking about another human being.

If you put that word in any translation tool, it will come back as "breed" in English. But it also will come back as "race". So of course, when I started to breach this topic in English, I assumed race and the word in my language to mean the same. Very, very slowly the English word "race" is adopted into my language so we'll have a word with the same meaning in our language without having to invent something completely new. Because there is no way to rebrand the similar sounding word of my language.

Can you imagine how I felt about using the word "race" for a very long time? I felt so horrifically offended every time it came up and tried to tell myself that, of course, in other parts of the world the history was different so using that word while talking about humans wasn't the tabu I had grown up with. But using the word still made me sick, so for a long time I talked around it, used other words (ethnicity as an example, because the direct translation of that is what my language uses mostly to get the same meaning across as the English "race").

No one ever called me out for it. But since I stumbled by pure chance about an article describing the differences between the two words, I'm wondering what people thought about my word choice. Did they think I was just bad at English? Did they think I was uncomfortable with the topic as a whole? Did they think I might try to hide that their opinion about equality was different from my own? Did I ever say anything horribly offensive without being aware of it because I was trying to not use the word "race"?

I never asked anyone about it, either. I'm also still often feeling uncomfortable using the word "race", but I think I've gotten better in expressing myself.

There is a similar problem with "racism". There is a word for it in my language in this case. And again, it sounds very similar. Just as race and racism have the same linguistical root, the two similar sounding words in my language have the same roots as well. And still in the case of racism, the word in my language actually has the same meaning.

But here is the problem: English also has the word "bigotry" and my language uses the similar word to racism with both the meaning of racism and the meaning of bigotry depending on the context. That's also something I didn't know for a long time until a friend once said there was a difference between racism and bigotry and I went to look it up because from the translation into my language I thought them to be synonyms.

Those are things I learned because I was actively participating in conversations about racism in English speaking spaces and exposed to those words. But it took me years to learn it, long after I considered myself mostly fluid in English. I honestly don't know how I should have come into that topic and known that there were these kinds of very subtle differences I needed to learn about.

It's a lesson that stayed with me in a very permanent way. It's a realization I won't forget for the rest of my life, I believe. Every time I talk to a person who hasn't grown up with the same first language as me, I am very aware of this lesson. And I try to use that lesson in every single of these conversations, though especially when emotions run high that's not always working.

Maybe sharing this lesson will be enough to raise awareness for the ongoing language barrier between non-native speakers of any language no matter how well the foreign language is spoken. Maybe my experience can teach others to be gentler in all their conversations and in how they react to things that appear to be rude at first.

There has been a lot of talk about teaching and learning. Two years ago, and now again. And I believe with my full heart that nothing that was said from the people behind the call out posts to the artist was teaching at all. I my opinion, it wasn't even an attempt of teaching. The following are my thoughts as a teacher in a family of teachers. (I have a wealth of sources, but I really don't care to put the work into finding the English version of it to provide them for you. Please do your own research.)

Teaching is about exchange, about talking freely, about asking questions from both sides and discussing the answers to those question. And maybe sometimes even about not answering the questions but letting the student discover that answer on their own. Teaching is about respect, and about giving room to grow, and about working with the student instead of against them.

A student has to be able to ask questions, to voice their thoughts and opinions without fear. Without fear of being ridiculed, of being lectured, of being punished, of being abused verbally or physically.

Student and teacher both have to have room to make mistakes, to backtrack their steps, to even lose progress. In an ideal situation, the teacher learns just as much about the student as the student learns about the subject.

The teacher learns how their student thinks and processes input, they learn how their student learns and how they talk and hold their body if they are sure or unsure of something. The teacher finds new ways to explain something when every other explanation that helped other students fails. A teacher takes on the responsibility to stay calm and understanding, no matter how often their student fails.

If you don't give a student this freedom of fear, if the teacher can't muster that patience with their students, you end up in a situation where no one learns anything. If the teacher expects the students to just take everything they lecture about, to never question it, to never discuss it without using the exact same phrases they taught it in, what you are ending up in is a dictatorship. A place where some leader tells everyone else exactly what they are allowed to think and feel and say. And everyone who steps out of that approved way to think and feel and talk will be perceived as a danger and be punished. It will create an atmosphere of general fear.

You don't teach people by shaming them and attacking them. That will only make them hate you and believe your cause to be faulty if not outright wrong by default. You teach them by keeping an open mind yourself, by listening to them as much as you expect them to listen to you, by not finding the most horribly way to understand their words but by giving them the benefit of the doubt, by admitting that you can be wrong, too, and by taking responsibility if you are wrong.

There are so many places, so many topics where people are hurt, where people have to fight every day for their basic rights. You aren't making the world a better place by bringing more violence into it, no matter how much you claim to have good intentions.

#911 abc #911

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