#i will not trigger tag this post as it is a trigger warning in itself and that would defeat the purpose of posting it at all

[a-scary-lack-of-common-sense]

Part 2/2

By the time Stanley had realized he wasn't as alone as he believed himself to be entrapped in this ravenous abyss; he had honestly begun to suspect that he was finally starting to properly lose his mind.

In all the ceaseless miles that Stanley had journeyed during his apparent permanent residence within the dark devouring void, not once had he encountered another conscious, walking, talking being similar to himself. Every other formerly living creature that he had crossed paths with had been so... silent. Empty. Dead, in every sense of the word. It was as though the very essence of life itself had been sucked out of their bodies with a straw, their forms slowly falling apart piece by piece under the vicious gluttony of the darkness that surrounded them. They looked like they actually were supposed to be there, unmoving and comatose, unlike him.

So, when Stanley first began to encounter the twins, all of a sudden, he wasn't the only one in the dark.

When meeting the first pair of them, he found himself standing in a lake.

He hadn't even noticed the changes at first. It felt as though he had been walking for weeks on end, his body moving purely on autopilot and his aching legs leading him towards a destination only it knew. A thick fog of forgetfulness and flickering memories had descended upon his brain like a heavy blanket of numbing static as he had traveled. In this absentminded state, he hadn't even realized that the ever-present undulating, buzzing darkness surrounding him had begun to gradually shift and morph to form a horizon line; stretching into tall looming cliffsides that almost seemed to close in on him. Once the nonexistent floor beneath his soles abruptly began to ripple and warp, like the disturbed surface of a shallow puddle; only then did he finally notice his transformed environment.

The transition was seamless, almost dream-like. One moment, he was still surrounded by that filthy, overwhelming abyss; and the next, his boots were suddenly plunged deep into the cold, dark lake water.

The silence didn't leave, however. It still choked and stuffed its way into Stanley's ears to clog up his mind with thick cotton; the eerie quiet not quite matching the calm, almost serene scenery the void seemed to have abruptly transformed itself into. Like a movie with its sound cut off; leaving only the unsettling hum of the projector to fill the empty air.

It was odd. The lake was surely incredibly deep. He could obviously tell from how thin and pathetically small the shores appeared all the way from where he now unceremoniously stood in the middle of the lake. Stan could look down and see the darkness below his feet swallow what meager light that managed to break through the murky waters. The overwhelming black almost seemed to beckon him, gaping and haunting; a bottomless underwater pit of pitch black that never seemed to end.

And yet, he didn't sink. Stanley remained perfectly level, the almost ink like waters stopping just at ankle level, as though he were held up just above the surface by some invisible force. Even the writhing waves seemed small and low, as though the waters were shy to climb up his legs further than that. It was odd, so very odd.

However, it wasn't nowhere near as odd as the sight that greeted him when he finally lifted his eyes from the waters.

Stanley had crossed paths with truly unbelievable sights in this strange somewhere; from bursting, collapsing stars; to the imploding heat death of entire universes, but none of them seemed to hold the candle to what he saw then when he lifted his eyes:

Children.

Two, to be exact. Two, nearly identical looking children stood motionless before him; completely soaked through to the bone as though they had taken a plunge into the frigid water that pooled around their ankles. It was a girl and a boy, both adorned with twin expressions utterly devoid of emotion, their wide eyed stare seeming to burn holes into his thin jacket. Their drenched clothes sagged off of their scrawny frames; thin rivulets of water dirpping off of them and disturbing the glassy surface of the water at their feet. The little girl's hair had messily stuck to her face in thin sodden strands, her cheeks still full and round with youth just like the boy's. They looked young. Too young to be in a place such as this.

Oh, but their eyes; their eyes.

They burned with such anger; such injustice, brighter than any dying star or galaxies he had ever seen. Anger towards the world, to fate, to whatever cruel deity that had deemed them fit to be sent to this wretched place so prematurely. They were too young to be here; to be entrapped like he was amongst this hungry darkness. And yet, here they were, sheer denial against their own untimely deaths being the only thing keeping them awake and conscious amongst the dead and rotting. A show of juvenile defiance to nature itself so vehement even the all-consumign darkness seemed hesitant to devour them whole just yet.

It saddened him. It saddened him to know that they belonged there, that they were supposed to be there. He could see it, he could feel it; they were dead. No amount of determination could deny that universal fact.

When they spoke, Stanley could hear anger:

Stan chuckled in a futile attempt to lighten the suddenly heavy atmosphere that threatened to crush him whole. "A lake monster? You kids and your imagination," he teased, hoping to somehow rid the poor kids of the haunted look that seemed to whirl in their glares. No child should have been burdened with such a knowing look; such eyes that looked like they had seen everything there was to see about the world, the horrid and the good.

Clearly, it had been the wrong thing to say, and Stanley's faux pas was rewarded with a scowl from the little boy. A world's worth of sour contempt etched into every contorted groove that his grimace seemed to dig into his much too young face. Stan suddenly felt guilt squeeze at his weary bones for having caused that.

"That's what they all said," the boy spat out, eyes shining with a sheen of wetness Stan wasn't sure he was prepared to deal with.

Stan left that first interaction with the twins with the feeling of guilt and sorrow still clining to him.

He couldn't have known, at the time. He couldn't have known that this wouldn't be anywhere near the last time that he would meet the pair. He hadn't realised just how many of them there were. After that first pair, his endless journeying within the Abyss was hardly be spent alone anymore. Countless more times, he came face to face with the exact same two young and impossibly worn faces; forced to meet one pair of beaten and bruised kids after another.

Not one pair had died the same death as another. Some had gotten lost, prey to whatever threat that had snatched them up out in the open; some had fallen from high up; some had been crushed under an incredible weight; some had burned; some eaten alive; some zombified. Some didn't even seem physically harmed at all, body perfectly intact, and yet that same faraway, distrubed look in their eyes remained.

He thought the worst ones were the ones he found alone. A little girl or a little boy, left all lonesome without their other half there. Twins, he remembered a pair of them telling him once.

Once, he had come across a town full of silent, stone statues. It was a rustic, shabby, almost nostalgic looking town- odd and strangely familiar. The sight of it had tugged at an aged memory that had long since wasted away in the back of his mind. It was serene, almost deceptively so. The sun shone; the air smelled crisp and fresh; numerous waterfalls continued to crash down from the tall cliffsides; and a soft nonexistent breeze whistled through the thicket of pine trees that blanketed the outskirts of the town. None of it seemed to match the gruesome scene of the hundred wailing statues that littered every inch of the town.

He had found the boy's statue on the other side of town, deep within the green forest and toppled over the gnarled roots of a towering tree. Like the rest of the townsfolk, he too, was frozen mid-shriek; his stone face twisted and contorted into a mock impression of a silent scream as his body lay paused in a writhing struggle. He made sure to be gentle when he carried the boy's statue over to place it beside the girl's, whose statue stood far deeper into the forest, sporting the same rictus grimace of terror as her brother's. It somehow felt wrong for them to have been so far apart from one another, even in death.

He had come to dread meeting of the twins. He hated every second he had to confront yet another pair of dead children that did not belong here, but fate had decided they did. He despised having to listen to their tales of woe as they wept about the injustice of the world, of having died young; he despised himself for being unable to do more than weep with them.

"We don't belong here, Grunkle Stan," he would listen to the little girl weep, calling him a title he didn't recognize. He never remembered if they had ever told him their name, but they all seem to know his, without a fail. "If we're dead, then what about you? What about Grunkle Ford? Mom? Dad? What about them? We can't be dead, we can't be," they would say, confusion and frustration written all over their faces. They didn't understand. They didn't understand why they had come to the darkness so early, so unfairly.

He never knew what to say, he'd never been good with words.

All he could do was kneel down to their levels and engulf them in his arms, hoping he could somehow squeeze the pain straight out of their bodies in his embrace. He hugged them, because what else could he do?

[theghoulboysblog]

Also! I’m sorry! I should’ve put a trigger warning on that ask I just realized because although they found it funny, more so Ryan, it was borderline harassment in my opinion 😭

no, you’re good anon! 🫶

you didn’t really go into detail about the situation at all in your ask, just referenced it and said that you thought the situation was odd, so i do *believe* that it is fine without a tag! 🙏

i did, however, make sure to put a TW on my response to your ask just to be safe! (not because of what you said but because i went into depth a little more and i wanted to make sure it wasn’t possibly triggering to anyone!)

so don’t worry about it anon! it has been tagged accordingly and in a safe way! :) 💛

[jellycreamjammedart]

Just say you think cp is ok as long as the minors are fictional you fuckin pedophile

Normally I ignore hostile or pre-judgmental asks on the off chances I get them, but I'll make exception for this one because it seems like a good opportunity for some much needed nuance-- also because I get this person's disgust, I really do.

But you, my fella, must understand that this isn't about the morality or even lack thereof behind dark fictional content, at all. You must realize that wanting dark and taboo fictional content (yes including that one you mentioned) not being allowed to exist actually does nothing to improve or protect irl lives, much on the contrary actually. No, I don't think there's any possible moral reason behind fictional cp content (nor do I find it 'ok',) but once again, this isn't about morality.

Please take a moment to read this thread (it words this topic better than me) then think it over. Trust me, it's a better use of your time than annoying ppl online with words you can't even bother standing up for with your name/face.

[vulturevanity]

Content warning for the current wataoshi anime arc

I'll keep this post as spoiler-free as I can, but I'm posting it nonetheless because I feel it's important and I haven't seen anyone else talk about this: late in the Manaria arc there is verbal confirmation that someone was r*ped. It is admitted to by the perpetrator themself. It's something meant to be a cautionary tale, and as such it isn't taken lightly, but within the greater context of the story it will certainly leave some people (rightfully) outraged and it might be especially triggering for victims, particularly those who might like the perpetrator. I'm not sure the anime will show any visuals relating to it, but it's very likely since we got a panel dedicated to it in the manga.

So if this is a triggering subject for you, tread cautiously ahead, or perhaps give this arc a pass.

Important edit in light of new info I've received: this post was a misinterpretation of a scene as it's framed in the manga. Sorry for the scare

Some points, still trying to keep it spoiler-free:

Media adaptations always lose something of the original text when formatting it for the new medium. In the manga, the backstory for the character in question is told by said character, who phrases it in a really weird way (strongly biased against themself), and that in addition to the single panel depicting the way they viewed the relationships made it much harder for the scene to be read with the original intent, leading me to believe that it was indeed an act of violence. However, that is not the intent of the original text. In the LN, as it was sent to me in the comments of this post (spoilers if you want to read it for yourself), the story is told through Rae's narration, whose PoV as someone with nigh absolute knowledge of the game gives us a bit of the greater context that lets us know that the relationship was ultimately consensual. It's unfortunate that so much crucial context was lost in the adaptation, and I once again apologise for jumping to conclusions with such a limited perspective.

That being said, I still believe some caution is necessary, for the very same reasons stated above. We don't know how the anime will frame it, and depending on their choices it could really go either way, and anime-only fans may or may not get a poorly framed, potentially triggering scene in much the same way it was with the manga.

A sincere thank you to @worldenoughntime and @cyberbun, who stepped up to correct me on this. I will not be deleting this post because I believe in open and honest communication, and I want to let it be known that I'm open to being corrected when I commit mistakes. Once again I am sorry, and thank you for understanding.

[thethingything]

do you ever write out a post and then remember the reading comprehension on this site is abysmal and you can practically feel the potential shitty comments and think "actually no this isn't worth it"

[chamerionwrites]

There is no content warning on earth (at least no primary author-created one) that covers “the author chose to content warn for unhealthy relationships but not for war crimes, because the characters in the unhealthy relationship are the protagonists that we’re supposed to care about but the people getting war crimed (possibly by the protagonists) are just the background scenery and props.”

(You think i’m being hyperbolic, but quite frankly this is not that far off from how a fair amount of fanfic is tagged.)

And if you’re sensitive to narrative framing, the trouble here is not that you’re reading about war crimes. It’s not that you would have backed out if the war crimes had been tagged. The trouble is specifically that the story’s framing is telling you that the toxic relationship is more disturbing than the war crimes, because the characters in the toxic relationship are Real People whose suffering Actually Counts.

Like this is personal and anecdotal and I do recognize that I am probably in the minority here (or if not, that people with a different experience are definitely way louder about it). But. Personally speaking, I am significantly more likely to be triggered (and WAY more likely to be badly triggered) by a story’s framing than by its content. And content warnings are themselves part of a story’s framing. Ironically, blackly hilariously, this actually means that an exhaustively tagged story which overlooks something is vastly more likely to do a number on me than a story labeled with some kind of extremely nonspecific Yeah Shit Gets Fucked Up Here tag.

Again, I recognize that this is personal and anecdotal and that I am likely in the minority. But I also don’t think this is in any way unique enough that it shouldn’t be something we consider when we talk about why people might go a less-is-more route with content warnings.

[mischievousmoony]

𝚏𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚝𝚎𝚜

⟢ james potter x reader ⟢ you and james steal five extra minutes together before waking up for the day ⊹ 679 ⟢ warnings/tags: wrote a while ago and only skimmed it so lmk if i missed anything and need to change it to fem!reader please ⟢ note: i wrote this a while back & didn't love it so i kept it to myself but i figured it was time to get back to posting fics so here you go! hope it's alright <3

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

You’re all tangled limbs and quiet breaths as the first morning light shines upon you and James. The blinds filter in slivers of soft light that your tired eyes find piercing, and you find that keeping your eyes closed is much more comfortable.

You swore to yourself that you wouldn’t fall back asleep— you’ll simply rest your eyes for a little longer. But the way James cards his fingers through your hair and massages your scalp makes that task exceptionally hard.

You shift, stretching out your limbs a little as to not let yourself lull back to sleep. James mistakes your movement for you preparing to rise for the morning, and he presses you closer with the hand tangled in your hair, a protesting hum reverberating in his throat.

As a promise that you’re not going anywhere, you nuzzle closer and press a kiss to his chest where your head lies. He returns the favor, lifting up from the pillows to kiss the crown of your head.

Just as he settles back into the plush pillows, the sudden sound of your alarm blares, interrupting the peaceful silence of your bedroom. It only lasts a second, though, as your phone is tucked in James’ free hand, his thumb lying in wait over the power button to trigger the snooze feature at a moment’s notice.

This is how it goes almost every morning. You’re more of a night owl, never wanting to wake until you have to. And James, although he could easily rise even earlier than the sun itself, he simply can’t get enough of you. Given these two truths, you’ve had to start setting alarms much earlier than your actual wake up time.

There’s about five more minutes left to steal before you’ll have to get up. Knowing this, James sighs deeply, wanting nothing more than to forfeit all of his responsibilities and remain cozied up with you all day.

He adjusts his positing, scooting down the bed until his head rests comfortably just above yours. He bends his neck to press his face into your hair. You feel him leave another kiss on the top of your head as he inhales, drinking in the scent of your coconut shampoo.

His hand has travels down to the back of your neck, his fingers applying a comfortable pressure to keep you close. His other hand swings around and lands on your waist. He’s abandoned the phone on the mattress beside him, knowing he’ll have to let the next alarm ring out a few times anyway to get you both moving for the morning.

“What time is it?” you mumble tiredly as his hand tugs at your t-shirt until it’s ridden up enough for him to be able to trace shapes into your bare hip. The cold air and his feather light touch make you shiver.

“We ‘ave plenty of time,” he murmurs before taking another deep breath. “You smell nice.”

“Thank you. New shampoo.”

“I like it.”

You hum appreciatively and the conversation ends there, another comfortable silence settling over you as you enjoy your last moments of peace.

James flattens his hand against your skin, rubbing back and forth from your hip to your back, and sometimes traveling lower to smooth over the curve of your bum. You tsk when he delivers a little squeeze, and after a farewell pat to your backside, his hand travels back to your waist.

Suddenly, the alarm blares again and James lets it ring. You huff when your ears aren’t immediately relieved of the jarring sound. With a groan you push yourself up onto your elbow, reaching over James to turn off the alarm once and for all.

As soon as you click “stop” James captures you by the waist and pulls you on top of him. You swing a leg over him so that you straddle his hips.

He pulls you in by the back of your neck, pressing a lasting kiss to your lips, which he follows up with a peck to the tip of your nose.

“Good morning, m’love.”

“Morning Jamie.”

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

[raileurta]

Well this post got me thinking about how the humans would react to Raf's death. It also would not be pretty to say the least.

⚠️ Trigger warnings in the tags ⚠️

Both Fowler and June are devastated at the loss. He was just a kid involved in war he shouldn't have been anywhere near. I bet for the longest time they would blame the Autobots for the loss and resent them for it. They would also become extremely overprotective of the other kids. Especially June who was already protective. This whole thing made her lose complete trust in Arcree's ability to protect Jack. (The femme bot doesn't blame her for it) She would try to keep Jack away from the base for any excuse. Logically she knows he is technically safer there but her heart is too scared of being away from her kid. Fowler also can't help but agree with her. He is much more aware and strict about the kids now too. He was even tempted to sorta kidnap them and send them to a secret base in Washington or something. For now he is going to have the kids being monitored 24/7.

Jack is depressed as hell to say the least. He blames himself for not being able to protect Raf. He was the one "meant" to stop their trio from being hurt and he failed. It cycles through his mind constantly on what he could have done to prevent this, how he could have been better, why wasn't he better?

Jack visits Raf's family a lot and tries to help them any way he can. He feels like he has to atone for his failure in some way. Then when that doesn't work to help free himself of the guilt he would resort to "punishing himself." I'm pretty sure you can figure out what that entails..... 🔪

Jack also is much more aggressive about preventing Miko's reckless behavior. He will tackle, and even restrain her to prevent her from potentially getting herself hurt. They have many arguments now and aren't really on speaking terms. He will text her a lot though just to see if she's alive, Miko will always respond no matter what.

Miko at first just went into shock. Her mind went into a complete shutdown. For two days she barely spoke, ate, or just did much of anything; once the shock wore off though she exploded. She ripped off the posters off her walls, broke everything in sight, screamed, cursed out the world, and even smashed her hand through her mirror. Once the adrenaline wore off she clutched her bleeding hand and sobbed. She doesn't know how long she sat there crying but by the time she was done her hand had stopped bleeding and she was covered in dried blood.

Miko stared at her arm the glass embedded in the skin, and felt nothing but seething hatred for Megatron. It wasn't the kind of usual fiery animosity she held towards the man but a freezing loathsome whirlwind that had frozen itself across her entire body. This wasn't some superhero show anymore, where the hero would defeat the villain in a spectacular explosion of power but a cruel war that was going to end with the excruciating death of Megatron.

She planned, rewrote her plans, researched, planned again and did more research. For one of the only times in her life Miko didn't rush into something. Megatron was going to die and there couldn't be any way he would survive or somehow come back from death again. Miko had to make sure it was perfect, Raf deserved it she almost religiously thought. Early into her plans Miko recruited Bumblebee into helping her. The scout hated Megatron just as much as she did. Bee told Miko everything he knew about how Cybertronians could be hurt and the ways to do it. The autobots always feared transformers tech landing in human hands and they had a great reason to do so. Humans had remarkable twisted minds that could think of things that would disturb even some of the most callous of bots.

Miko is no different, especially when she is motivated by pure unfiltered hatred. It took many sleepless nights and three months of preparation but they finally had everything ready. They just had to wait for the right opportunity. By this point bumblebee's anger has calmed down slightly and he was now starting to doubt if they should really do this. The consequences could be disastrous.

You see Miko had realized scraplets or the rust plague couldn't really hurt her so she could easily use them to defeat Megatron. So she has been breeding scraplets, training them, and trying to selectively breed them so they would be able to resist the plague. Miko had the scraplets micro dosed with black energon so they would crave the stuff and be more powerful. Bumblebee would obtain metal for them to eat and he tried to make sure the other autobots weren't catching on. Once they could get on the nemesis Miko would command the scraplets to infect as many bots as possible. They had made around 100,000 of these suped up mega disease scraplets so there's basically no way anyone is escaping uninfected. They were basically sentencing every decepticon to death.

Bee questions whether Raf would want this and Miko just replies,

"It's not about whether he would want this or not but what Megatron deserves and he deserves to die. If I have to kill every decepticon to do it? So be it. I don't care what happens to them, every bot on that ship is a horrible person. "

He reluctantly agrees with the reasoning and continues with the plan.

After the ship would go down a infected wounded Megatron escapes the scraplets his priority would try and cure himself. When he tries to make it he's in for a horrible surprise; while they were preparing the scraplets they had also set out to purposely destroy ingredients essential to the cure (They of course made a lot of vaccines themselves) Any place he might look for the ingredients he would just find a data pad stating,

//Start message

"Hello Megatron, you may not remember me but I do. My name is Miko nakadai, and I was a friend of Raf, the human charge of bumblebee that you mercilessly had killed. He was just an innocent child but you didn't care, why would you? You're the powerful evil overlord of the decepticons, the bot who strikes fear to every Cybertronian who knows of you. Humans are nothing but organic trash that would be crushed under your foot. That's not going to be the case anymore. You're going to care, you're going to see what you have done, and you will regret having ever laying a figure on Raf. You shouldn't have messed with humans and you especially should have not messed with my friend.

If you don't want to die from the rust come to the coordinates X"00'X0.x" alone and we will provide you a cure. Also don't even think about contacting the other Autobots or you can kiss that vaccine goodbye."

//End message

Megatron then would come to meet Miko and Bumblebee. They would talk/integrate Megatron about Raf. Then Miko would pull out the apex armor, activate it and fight Megatron with Bee. If all goes well they kill him (maybe torture him a bit before that) and drop his remains on Raf's grave.

When they do get a hit on the Nemesis location they slightly panic and rush to get things in order. When they are ready the ground bridge opens and as they are about to leave they hear Ratchet say,

"I should stop you shouldn't I?"

The old bot is standing behind them looking at the ground bridge location pinned in on the nemesis. Miko and Bumblebee don't know what to do for a second before Ratchet's words register in their minds.

Should? They think.

Ratchet monologues for a bit about how stupid, dangerous, this is and how he should stop them from doing it. But..... he opens his servo to look down at Raf's broken glasses. He just can't. Ratchet looks at them tears streaming down his face. The same look of pure hatred in his eyes and demands to be there to help kill Megatron. Miko and Bumblebee look at him, they both just simply nod.

Nobody had said a word about it but they all knew no matter what happens Megatron has to die. Even if that means destroying themselves in the process.

They enter the ground bridge together.

Wow that sorta mini fic came out of nowhere. I'll leave it up to your imaginations on what happens next. Thank you @lets-try-some-writing for the inspiration.

Follow me if you want to see the future stuff I write. ✌️ 

[fortheloveofpiggy]

TW this is a rant about proship and comship! Tags will have more in-depth trigger warnings

Edit: OMG PROSHIPPERS STOP MAKING THIS POST ABOUT DEFENDING IF SHIPPING CHILD X ADULT OR INCEST IS OKAY OR NOT THE POST IS ABOUT THE LABLE I DONT WANT TO ARGUE WITH YALL ABOUT THAT ANYMORE.

This is my one post where all people on all sides of the proship debate can interact. Including proshippers. If that makes you uncomfortable then don’t interact. I hate echo chambers and I want to hear all sides.

Also sorry for cross tagging just want the opinions from all sides

Actual post:

I hate the terms proship, neutral ship, and antiship. They’re all extremes and I hate them. From what I understand the meanings are

Proship: support all ships no matter what even if they’re comships

Neutral ship: doesn’t have an opinion at all

Antiship: is anti any comship which is outrageous

If y’all don’t know comship just means complex ship or they enjoy more morally grey or imperfect ships. This can include things like human X different intelligent species (like aliens, furries, monsters) which most rational people don’t think is bad. But this can also mean kid X adult, family x family, or victim X abuser

I actually don’t identify as pro, neu, or anti because I think some comships are good and healthy. I think morally grey ships are important in media when done correctly. Especially since a lot of relationships are rocky and not always healthy and it’s good to show that in media. My own ocs personally aren’t in a perfectly healthy relationship because of their own issues. But this should be done respectfully and with care. Abuse shouldn’t be romanticized but people can be romantic outside of the abuse going on just like in real life relationships

But in a pedophilic fan fiction or art or an incest fanfic or art there is no such thing as a loving part of it. The relationship in itself is abuse because a minor being with a child is abuse and family members being together is abuse. It’s not healthy for anyone involved to romanticize relationships like that and frankly can effect reality no matter how you spin it because it’s representing something as normal to kids.

Right now a lot of neutrals, antis, and probably a lot of pro shippers are agreeing but that’s where my point really starts

The term “proship” and “anti ship” are too vague. If you say you’re proship you sound like you defend media where children are harmed. I understand the meaning is being proshipping and minding your business but that’s still what you look like and frankly that’s what the term does. If you’re pro everything then that means you’re pro the harmful stuff too

And the term “antiship” suggest that you’re anti shipping in general or anti any complex ship which is also unhealthy for us all because morally grey topics need brought up. Antis also are very very commonly okay with harassment when it comes to proshippers

And neutral ship is basically just saying you don’t have a opinion at all which is harmful because you’re suggesting you’re okay with the harm done on both sides. And I understand some people who are neutral ship agree with me and don’t just not care but I feel like majority is the former not the latter (based on what I’ve seen)

Also disclaimer if you’re neutral because of mental health or because you have better things to deal with that’s valid but identifying as neutral ship does put you in it and i instead suggest staying out of it entirely

So idk maybe we should make a term for the middle. I had a few ideas maybe something like middleship or intentship (intentship meaning enjoying or allowing all ships as long as the intentions are good and are not to romanticize trauma or abuse)

Idk everyone can share their opinions but if I see another proshipper say fiction doesn’t effect reality I’m gonna scream and if I see another anti shipper call all morally grey ships bad as if they done killed their grandma I’ll go insane

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

To a Tea 3

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc. 

Part of the Sweet and Spicy AU 

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as dubcon/noncon, and other possible triggers. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk. 

18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you. 

Summary:  A demanding customer grows increasingly needy.

Character:  Raymond Smith

The title is a pun, don’t @ me.

Please comment and reblog if it’s not too much. I always love getting to chat about these stories and hearing all your ideas! You all are wonderful and loved. 

Six days in a row and you’re ready to keel over. Amid your busy schedule, you hadn’t a chance to fill your quickly dwindling cupboards and fridge. So, after a ten-hour shift on your feet, running all around the tables and between tea rooms, you expend the last of your strength on a quick trip to the shop. 

It isn’t too far out of your way. It’s just a half-block away from your stop. You could wait until tomorrow, your day off, but you’re dying for a strawberry shortcake mochi before you tuck into bed. The rest of your night isn’t too unusual; you’ll be happy to fall asleep to an episode of the same old sitcom that you know by rote. 

You yawn over the bask hooked over your elbow. You have your mochi and a few other staples to get you through; eggs, oat milk, and your favourite brand of granola. You rub your forehead as a stitch threatens to imprint itself permanently. Tomorrow you’ll do a proper shop. 

You stop just before the cashier and peruse the discount shelf. Those chocolate-covered gummy worms are deadly. You shouldn’t. 

You reach for the package, eyeing it up, blinking away another yawn. Those will only have you waking up with a sore tummy. 

“You’d be better off with the dark chocolate, or even the peanuts,” someone says. The timbre is dulcet but firm, and strangely familiar. 

You look over at the figure standing around the side of the shelves. You fear you might be hallucinating as you stare at Raymond. He has a square of protein chocolate in hand but sets it back where he got it, making certain it and every other bar is straight. 

“Oh, hi?” You stammer.  

The tea shop is busy and you’re certain you’ve probably crossed paths with at least one customer outside store hours, but never like this. If anything, you both look the other way and carry on. Instead, he’s intent on you, shifting to face you fully as he sets his shoulders, clutching his hands before him. 

“Though I do suppose you’ve already got the ice cream, it hardly matters what else you add to your lot,” he muses. 

You look in your basket then at him. Is he judging you? Mr. Black Tea, plain. You hang the bag back on the hook. As you do, he steps forward and you shuffle back on your heels. He pulls the bag in line with others, rescinding his hand with a flutter of fingers. 

“If you’re in the mind for something sweet, there’s a place near here, it has a sticky toffee pudding more worth the expense,” he suggests. 

You don’t know what to say. You haven’t seen him since he muttered about your apron strings. In the two weeks after, you assumed he might not come back. As particular as he is, you thought you’d gone egregiously over the line. And yet, you’d forgotten about him for all the other bodies passing through the door. 

“Thanks, I’ll look into that,” you say. 

“Mm,” he hums and his eyes flit up and down behind his lenses, “you sound different.” 

“Do I?” You reach to scratch your neck. 

“You look different too.” 

You tilt your head and give a confused grimace, “well, I...” you glance down, “suppose I'm not wearing my apron.” 

“Must be it,” he agrees, “you sound tired.” 

“I guess... yeah,” you take a breath and let it out slowly.  

It’s strange. He’s not a customer here, there is no need to please and yet you feel you must. You poke the tip of your tongue out then hide it behind your lips. 

“Not in a bad way,” he assures you.  

“Right, thanks,” you say in a fracture, “that’s nice, but uh, I... I’m just on my way home.” 

“I know,” he says. 

“...so then I’ll just be--” you point towards the checkout and falter, “what did you say?” 

“Yes, down Trafalgar. I know. It’s late,” he peers over towards the transparent walls along the front of the shop, “these parts aren’t too safe this time of day.” 

“Trafal--“ you begin but can’t finish, “Raymond.” 

He blinks, his expression scarily placid. 

“Details,” he says evenly, “it is best to keep note of them. It is dangerous not to mind them.” He raises a finger, “one might not notice the shadow that walks behind theirs or the window they left open in the kitchen.” 

Your lip trembles as your heart sinks, “have you... have you been following me?” 

“Following... that sounds sinister,” he gives a crooked expression, “no, no, I would consider it... I keep you safe.” 

“Safe. From what, exactly?” 

He narrows his eyes and his lips straighten thoughtfully.  

“Well, from men like me.” 

His words turn your blood to ice. Men like him. What does he mean? 

“I...” you take a step back and he moves with you. You put your hand up to stop him as you still, “Raymond, do not come any closer.” 

“You don’t understand, I wouldn’t hurt you,” he says, “that’s what makes me different. Not like those other men.” 

“I mean it,” you warn him. “If you come any closer, I will make a scene.” 

Your adrenaline courses through you. You’re awake now. The yawns have dissipated and your eyes are wide. 

“Ah, and that’s where I am like the other men,” he shrugs, “it doesn’t matter if I come closer to you right now. Hardly matters. Because I can wait. I have waited. And when I...” he steps towards you and you put the basket between you, his stomach pressing against it, “come closer, you will not even see me coming.” 

You stare at him, horrified. His blue eyes gleam and he reaches to straighten his glasses. He smirks and his brows draw up coyly. He leans in and you lean away. Then suddenly, he backs off and tugs his cuffs straight, then fixes his tie. 

“Don’t forget to close your window,” he says as he spins on his heel, “wouldn’t want some nocturnal creature creeping in.” 

You gape after him as he saunters off. You can’t quiet move as disbelief has you stuck to the spot. It’s all so sudden. So unexpected. How could you ever predict something like this? The uptight man from the tea shop, a stranger really, a face who disappeared for a whole fortnight, and he’s just shaken your entire world into disarray. 

Men like him? You don’t even know who he is. Only his name and how he likes his tea. 

[pedrospatch]

Lonely Too Long l (To Hell and Back Drabble)

Series Masterlist

Summary: After escaping a group of brutal slavers, you are left with permanent physical and emotional scars. Unwilling to put your trust in another human being ever again, you spend a year fighting for survival alone in the post outbreak world. But when you choose to save the life of a man named Joel Miller, the wall that you’ve built to protect yourself slowly begins to crumble.

Pairing: Joel Miller x Female Reader

Warnings/Tags: 18+ only, minors DNI. Flashback of implied SA, but no descriptions. Soft Joel, Joel sings to reader. *If you happen to be reading the series, I recommend reading this one because it starts setting up Joel and reader’s relationship. This is also the last flashback she’s going to have since it’s a heavier one than the last two.

Word Count: 1.9k

A/N: Dust to Dust is one of my favorite songs by The Civil Wars. I know the song did not come out until like 2013, but we’re just going to pretend. Also, I know that the gif is video game Joel, but god I love him just as much and it fits this scene so we are gonna roll with it. I know this might not be everyone’s cup of tea but I wanted to write it so I did. 🤌🏼 I am still organizing the taglist for this series, it will be start with the next chapter. This was mostly for me but hopefully some people out there enjoy it too. 🤍

You couldn’t scream.

You’re trying to cry out, but you can’t.

Chest tight, your lungs won’t expand.

You couldn’t breathe. 

One hand around your neck, the other is fumbling with the zipper of your jeans.

“Been thinking about this all day,” he grinned, his fingers roughly scraping against the skin of your lower stomach.

In the corner, your cellmate is curled into a little ball in the floor, hands covering her ears and her eyes squeezed shut.

She’s probably praying she won’t be next.

She’s seventeen so even in the midst of your own chaos, you can’t help but pray she isn’t next too.

You thrashed around underneath him. It’s futile, but all you can think about is getting him off you.

Grin fading, he let out a heavy, irritated sigh. His hand left the waistband of your jeans. He reached behind him and pulled out his gun, bringing it up to into your view—it caused you to cease any and all movements. “Listen to me,” he said, pressing the barrel of the pistol against your temple. “It’s simple, really. Keep squirming and I’ll blow your fucking brains out. Do you understand, dollface?”

When he received no response, he dug the barrel deeper into your skin, his finger on the trigger.

“Do you understand?” He repeated, his tone low.

Nearly paralyzed, all you could do was nod. 

“Good.” He roughly flipped you over.

The sound of his belt buckle clanking rang loudly in your ears. As he yanked your jeans down to the middle of your thighs, you closed your eyes.

Both your mind and your body went numb.

A light, late night rainstorm came out of nowhere, sweeping over the town. The soft, pitter pattering sound of raindrops on the window above your bed had almost lulled you into slumber.

Almost.

You’re safe.

You’re safe.

You’re safe.

The words blended into a steady but silent chant.

You’re safe.

You’re safe.

You’re fucking safe.

Slapping the palm of your hand to your forehead, you exhaled a long, heavy sigh and stared up into the the darkness of the bedroom.

You couldn’t be certain as to what time it was, but it had to be well into the middle of the night. You’d been tossing and turning for a couple of hours but somehow it felt like a hell of a lot longer than that.

You were fucking exhausted. You nearly ached for some sleep, but every damn time that you closed your eyes, vivid images of the past came creeping in and chased it further and further away.

Your brain just couldn’t seem to wrap itself around the fact that this place wasn’t dangerous.

That you didn’t have to sleep with one eye open.

That nobody was going to hurt you.

That you were safe in a soft bed in a real house.

You weren’t lying on a dirty cot in a human cage.

Sighing again, you thought about Joel who was in his bedroom down the hallway, sleeping.

It brought you comfort knowing he was close. But for some reason you couldn’t quite explain, part of you couldn’t help but feel he wasn’t close enough.

You. The same woman who vowed never to trust another human being ever again—you wanted him fucking closer. Actually, it wasn’t a want so much as it was a need.

You needed him to be closer.

Sitting up, you tossed the sheets back and swung your legs over the edge of the mattress, your bare feet meeting the cold, hardwood floors. You stood and quietly padded out of the bedroom and down the hallway towards Joel’s.

“You know where to find me if you need anythin’,” he’d assured you before he had gone off to bed.

You stopped in front of his door and lifted a curled first, knocking lightly. About a minute or two went by, and just when you started to realize that you’d made a mistake and whirled around to make a run for it back to your own room where you could hop back into bed and pretend that the thought of this hadn’t ever even crossed your mind, he opened up his bedroom door.

“Thought I heard a knock,” Joel mumbled sleepily, rubbing at his eyes with one of his hands. He wore nothing but his sweatpants, his hair looking about ten times more disheveled than usual. “Everythin’ alright?”

You swallowed dryly, trying your hardest not to let your eyes wander away from his face—it proved to be almost too difficult to keep from staring. Joel’s shoulders were broad, his chest was wide, and his stomach was soft; his sweatpants hung on the low side on his hips and revealed the trail of dark curls that started at his lower belly and descended until it disappeared underneath the elastic waistband.

You caught yourself before they could go lower.

“Somethin’ the matter, darlin’?” he asked, stifling a yawn. Thankfully he hasn’t seemed to notice you gawking at him. He rubbed at his eyes once again and then observed you, trying to figure out what it was that had brought you to his room at this hour. “You need somethin’? Are you cold? Did you need an extra blanket?”

You lightly shook your head in response. No.

He tried again. “Are you still hungry?” he asked as he gestured towards the stairs. “I can make you another sandwich if you want—”

He was cut off by another shake of your head that told him that wasn’t it.

“You just can’t sleep,” Joel realized after a minute. He frowned—he could see how tired you were and for as much as he didn’t want to think about it, he had a feeling that he knew what it was that was on your mind and keeping you awake. “What can I do to help, sweetness?”

You blinked, standing there almost dumbfounded.

Clearly, you hadn’t thought this through.

You would knock on Joel’s door and then what?

You would talk to him about what’s on your mind?

Letting out a tiny frustrated huff that was directed at yourself, you waved a dismissive hand in the air.

Forget it. There’s nothing you can do.

As you turned around to leave, Joel reached out to take your arm. He curled his fingers lightly around your elbow. “Well now, hold on a minute. You’re at my door for a reason,” he said. He watched as your eyes flickered to his hand around your arm, but he couldn’t be sure if his touch had bothered you. He dropped it, not wanting to risk pushing you too far or crossing a line, not when he had made progress with you, progress he didn’t want to lose. “You not bein’ able to sleep—it have anythin’ to do with you still not feelin’ safe?”

You hesitated.

“It’s alright, darlin’. You can be honest with me.”

The sheepish expression on your face said it all.

No, I can’t sleep because I don’t feel safe.

“Would it help if you slept with me?”

You raised your eyebrows at him, eyes widening at his proposal. At least, the way he’d said it.

Excuse me?

Realizing how it had sounded, Joel flushed. “What I mean is, would it help if you slept in my bed?” He winced. That hadn’t sounded all that much better. “You sleep in my bed and I’ll sleep on the floor,” he sputtered out quickly. “That’s what I meant. That way I’m right next to you and you ain’t alone.”

Gnawing nervously on your bottom lip, you took a minute to think it over.

If you wanted him closer, this was your chance.

But why? Why did you want him to be closer? Why did you need to have him at your side?

You’d been on your own for an entire fucking year.

And it had been by choice.

You didn’t want to be around other people, sure as hell didn’t need to be around other people.

And then Joel Miller makes his appearance and all of a sudden, you’re at his door in the middle of the damn night because you feel the need to have him at your side?

Finally, you nodded your head. Okay.

“Come in.” He stepped aside, allowing you in. Not wanting you to feel trapped in his room, he left the door open. “And you’re free to go on back to your own room whenever you feel like it.”

Joel picked up his discarded tee shirt from earlier, a small labored grunt escaping him as he brought himself back into an upright position, the bones in his lower back crackling with protest. Turning over his shirt right side out, he tugged it on as you took a look around his bedroom, a larger space dimly lit by the small lamp on his nightstand.

That’s when you saw it.

Perched on a stand, it was nestled in the corner.

A guitar.

Curiously, you walked over and knelt in front of it.

You reached out and softly ran your fingers across the strings, smiling to yourself at the sound it had made.

“Found that while out on patrol with Tommy a few weeks ago,” Joel stated as he came up behind you slowly. “Gibson. Little worse for wear, but in damn good condition all things considerin’. Woulda been a crime to leave it out there,” he chuckled. “I know Ellie’s been wantin’ to learn, it’s the main reason it came back home with me. I haven’t shown her yet since I still gotta clean and polish her up.” He took a brief pause. “You know how to play?”

You ran your fingers across the strings once more, and a loud, terrible noise that wasn’t even close to music caused him to wince. You then looked up at him over your shoulder with an amused grin.

Does it sound like I know how to play?

Joel couldn’t help but laugh. “I’ll take that as a no, then.” He leaned over and picked up the guitar. He walked over and took a seat on the side of his bed, patting the seat beside him. “C’mere, sweetness.”

Getting up to your feet, you wrapped Joel’s flannel closer around your body as you padded over to his bed, perching yourself next to him.

Head down and focused, he began to strum a few notes. You couldn’t help but to be mesmerized by how his large hands moved on the instrument, the way his long, thick fingers—

Swallowing dryly, you cut the thought short.

Curiously, you put a hand on his shoulder.

Joel paused the tune. “What is it, darlin’?”

With your opposite hand, you touched your throat and then pointed at him. Can you sing?

He gave a half hearted shrug. “I do like to sing,” he admitted almost bashfully. “Always been fond of it ever since I was a kid.” He chuckled. “Before goin’ into construction, I wanted to be a musician. But I knew it would never pay the bills.”

You squeezed Joel’s shoulder and gestured to the guitar, then to his throat again. Will you sing me a song?

Joel felt the back of his neck burn and he cleared his throat awkwardly. “Normally, I would probably say no,” he admitted. “But, seein’ as you saved my life and all, I’d be a real asshole if I said no to you.”

Lifting your chin, you shot him a smug look. That is very true. So go on then, Johnny Cash. Play me a song.

“Alright. Any requests?”

You nudged him lightly. Very funny.

“Okay, um. Gimme a minute to think of a song.”

Withdrawing your hand from his shoulder, you sat back against his pillows and pulled your legs up to your chest, hugging your knees.

Nervously, Joel inhaled and exhaled a deep breath and began strumming the guitar. Chills shot down your spinal cord as a hauntingly beautiful melody filled his bedroom. He turned and angled his body towards to you as he began to sing.

“You’ve held your head up,

you’ve fought the fight

you bear the scars, you’ve done your time

listen to me, you’ve been lonely too long…”

Your mouth fell open slightly.

“Let me in the walls you’ve built around

we can light a match and burn them down…”

The rich baritone of his voice caused goosebumps to eruprt all over your flesh. Furiously, you rubbed at your bare legs, but it was useless.

With every note Joel sang to you, more appeared.

With every note Joel sang to you, the harder you found it to breathe steady.

With every note Joel sang to you, the more beats your heart seemed to be skipping.

“Let me hold your hand

and dance ‘round and ‘round the flames

in front of us, dust to dust…”

Joel glanced up, his dark brown eyes holding your gaze as he sang the final verse of the song.

“You’re like a mirror, reflectin’ me

takes one to know one, so take it from me

you’ve been lonely

you’ve been lonely too long.”

Even if you could speak to him, you would’ve been left speechless—all that you could do was stare at him in complete awe.

Joel set the guitar down. “I’m alright,” he said with a sheepish little laugh. “My voice ain’t nowhere as nice as yours.”

You stiffened slightly.

What are you talking about?

“Don’t look at me like that. I know it was you who I heard singin’ back at that cabin when I was comin’ back around.” He gave you a crooked grin. “Earlier I was just playin’ dumb, but I know it was you. You have a gorgeous voice, and I’d love to hear it again someday.”

Hugging your legs closer to yourself, you dropped your head down onto your knees, embarrassed.

What was the matter with you?

Here was a man who had taken you in, offered you a warm bed under his own roof—gave you clothes and fed you, even offered to give up his own damn bed and sleep on the cold hard floor beside you to make you feel safe enough to sleep.

And you still couldn’t say a fucking word to him.

“Hey. Look at me.”

Forcing your head up, your gaze met his.

“It’s alright, darlin’,” Joel assured you. “It’s just like I told you downstairs. We’re gonna take it one step at a time.” Lifting one of his hands, he reached out holding it out to you, his palm face upwards. “And I swear, once you find your voice, I’m gonna do all that I can do to make sure you never lose it again.”

Biting your lower lip, you placed your hand in his.

Joel have it a gentle squeeze. “Atta girl.”

Much sooner than you would have liked, he let go of your hand and stood up.

“We should get some sleep. You’re gonna need all the rest you can get before you meet my kid. Ellie. She’ll be here first thing and I should warn you she can be, uh, she can be a lot to process.” He let out an amused snort and reached for a pillow, tossing it onto the floor. “You can have all the blankets, I’ll just take this throw here—”

As Joel reached past you for a green flannel throw blanket, you grabbed his arm to stop him. His face was just inches from yours.

Close.

But again somehow still not close enough.

“What is it, sweetheart?” he asked, softly.

Warm and laced with mint from the toothpaste he had used to brush his teeth before bed, his breath tickled the tip of of your nose, sending a pleasant shiver up your spine.

Your eyes looked right into his as you scooter over to the other side of his bed—it was firm, cold. Like no one had ever occupied that space before. But it was foolish to think that a man like Joel Miller had never had another woman share his bed before.

You patted the spot beside you.

Sleep up here.

“You sure about this, darlin’?”

You patted the empty spot again. Yes I’m sure.

Joel squinted at you. “You ain’t gonna strangle me in my sleep, are you now?”

His half serious joke was met with a glare.

Keep it up with wise cracks and I just might.

He held his hands up in defense. “Just checkin.”

As you crawled underneath his dark green sheets, Joel slid into bed beside you, making sure to leave a good three foot gap between the both of you; he murmured a quiet goodnight and switched off the lamp on his nightstand before rolling over onto his stomach—not even two minutes later and his soft snores filled the room.

You turned onto your side, facing him. Through a beam of moonlight steaming in through a crack in the curtains, you could just make out the outlines of his facial features. He’d fallen asleep facing you.

Closing your eyes, your body sank further into the mattress, heavy with exhaustion.

Taut, tense muscles finally relaxed.

Tight jaw finally unclenched.

You’re safe.

You slowly started drifting off to sleep.

With Joel beside you, no nightmares came to visit.

[silence-ofthe-llamas]

More stuff inspired by the mecha AU but unfortunately not following the lore pls forgive (I don't know if they want to be tagged as it's not canon compliant as it were, but original concept by @/keferon!)

The awaited Jazz/Prowl chapter I promised and then promptly forgot to post! Warning for major character death (mentioned/off-screen). Sorry, Jazz...

Petteri sighed, long deep and heavy, as he walked down the catwalk to the mech.

Apparently, not long after he’d been stationed on the base, the mech had taken itself offline. The technicians had taken a look at it. They’d flown in specialists from China, from the US, even Iceland. None of them could explain what was wrong with it. It just… didn’t want to wake up any more. The AI had decided it had had enough.

They’d slated it for destruction. Petteri was to take one last inspection, one last look, to give it one more go, before they took it for scrap parts, cannibalised it to keep their other mechs going. He didn’t know why they sent him. He’d never done an inspection like this before – he was as out of his depth as a fish out of water. But the higher ups had pushed him forwards, Swindle was eager to claw his money back on what he’d pissed down the drain on this mech, as he’d so eloquently put it, and so here he was. An untrained eye glancing over a state of the art machine as if he knew a damn thing about it.

He felt so drawn to the mech, like he had a sense of duty towards them - maybe it was the fact that his arrival seemed to have triggered the change? That they had a strange familiarity about them? He didn’t know.

He twisted his ring on his finger, feeling it run across his skin.

The old him would have been thrilled to step inside of the mecha, the pinnacle of the programme he was the poster child for. The old port in the back of his head ached. Be careful if you interface, the technician had warned him, gulping his too hot coffee that steamed up his glasses. Your old gear isn’t up for the job. If you’re plugged in for too long, it will fry you nice and crispy.

But now, he was decrepit and grouchy and a warning against that programme. It will take everything from you. You will gain nothing back.

“Let’s get this over with.” Petteri sighed. Reaching the console, he paused for a moment to look at the mech. A dim blue visor, a black helm. The opening hatch was at its chest, an expanse of white with blue stripes. Black shoulders were either side, blades going up the arms. All sharp edges and smooth, sleek design. It was a damn shame to lose any of it.

With a lump in his throat, Petteri adjusted his tie and looked for the button that opened the hatch.

The chest cracked whilst his hands were still firmly on the clipboard. He froze as the entrance to the cockpit revealed itself, the floor sliding out to cover the gap between catwalk and mech. The lights twinkled invitingly, and Petteri looked around.

Nobody. Just him. It was the night shift - they tended to be a bit quieter, and there was no reason for anyone to be out in the hangar except for him. There were no alarms. The pilots were all sleeping – either recovering from the days fight (no casualties this time, thank goodness) or preparing for the next one.

Cautiously, he approached. Maybe his proximity sensors were still active, and detecting a pilot had automatically sent the command to open. His equipment may have been old and unmaintained, but it was still usable. It still responded when it received a ping. It made complete and total sense that the mech would be able to receive the message from the antiquated technology.

Right?

The cockpit was warm. He could feel the rumbling of online systems beneath his feet, and he ran his hand over the back of the chair.Well, the mech wasn’t exactly offline. But they weren’t online either. Just… stuck. Waiting for something. In stasis until the correct launch code had been received.

The cockpit closed near silently - it was only the click of the bolt sliding into place that alerted him that he was now locked inside of it. Tutting and starting to think that this was now some kind of joke that was going to be going too far, Petteri turned on his heel and clipped towards the console, beginning to type in the code to open them-

The room was suddenly bathed in blue light, and the sound system chimed. Petteri looked up at the screen.

[<3 Prowler <3]

The corner of his lips tugged down and his heart twisted painfully in his chest.

The joke had been mildly annoying a minute ago. Now it was downright cruel.

“That is NOT funny.” Petteri scowled, glaring at the cameras. “Stop that immediately. Let me out. Now.”

The door didn’t move. The message continued to be displayed on the screen.

Petteri felt a crack.

There was only one person - one person in the whole entire world, the universe, who ever called him Prowler. The ring was the only thing he had left of them, a heavy weight that choked him. To everyone else, he was Prowl. His callsign. Simple, easy, monosyllabic. Quick off the tongue and quick in the field.

But to Jasper? His Jazz? Prowler. Only he was allowed to call him that. It was private, something between them and them alone, something they didn’t have to share.

And it was taunting him on the screen.

[I MISSED YOU SO MUCH]

Prowl didn’t reply. His vision was going red, he could feel heat prickle up his spine and flow down into his hands clenching them into fists. The clipboard rattled and creaked beneath his fingers and he ground his teeth.

Emergency escape it was, then. He stalked to the button, flicking off the protective cover and making to press it when the message on the screen changed again. He glanced up at it more out of habit more than sense, and paused.

[CAN WE TALK? PLEASE? I’VE WAITED FOR SO LONG]

He loudly swore and threw the clipboard at the floor. Damn it all, damn his weak and pathetic self for falling for this. He’d felt a brief moment of accepting he would be engaging with whatever fucked up ideas his tormentors had cooked up for him, and the crack had widened.

Jazz would have taken the bait. He’d have been curious enough to do it.

He wasn’t Jazz. He never would be. But fuck if he wished Jazz had been the one who had made it instead of him - he’d navigate whatever was left with so much more grace than he had.

So he took a moment to furiously pace and calm himself enough to throw himself into the chair, arms folded crossly, and tapping his foot.

“Well? What else have you got to hurt me with?”

[I’M SORRY]

[I WANTED TO SEE YOU SO BADLY]

[I DIDN’T MEAN TO HURT YOU]

Prowl frowned at the screen.

“… Who are you?”

[DESIGNATION: JAZZ]

It was like a lance through his chest, and he winced. Prowl had avoided looking at or thinking of the mecha’s name to keep himself from feeling the agony of it. He held the ring a little tighter, pushing it up against his finger.

He knew Jazz’s heartbeat - how could he ever forget it? It was tattooed onto his heart. Its waves were engraved into his wedding ring, he stared at the imprints of it on his finger on the rare moments he removed it. The ring as as much a part of him as his limbs were, and in turn so was the sound of Jazz’s heart.

So, pray tell, why could he hear it in the mecha?

“Who are you really? My… partner, is dead.” He was gripping the arm of the chair tightly. He slowly released one hand, each finger plucking off from the arm rest, and pressed it to his mouth. The ring glinted - a thick band of blue encased in shiny silver.

He felt the mech jolt.

[YOU’RE STILL WEARING IT?]

Prowl glanced down at the ring, watching how it caught the light.

“Every day.”

[MY NAME IS JASPER KORHONEN. WE WERE OFFICIALLY MARRIED ON THE 23RD OF APRIL BECAUSE YOU DIDN’T WANT TO WAIT ANY LONGER, BUT WE HAD OUR WEDDING ON THE 27TH OF AUGUST AND THAT IS THE DATE THAT EVERYONE THINKS WE WERE MARRIED ON]

The number of people on the Earth who knew that were slim. Prowl knew those who did – many of them were now dead. The kind old lady at the council. Jazz’s brother. Jazz himself. The only two people alive on the planet who knew the real date were himself and Ironhide – and Ironhide only knew because he was his witness.

And Ironhide wasn’t the type to do this kind of thing.

“Oh, my god.” Prowls voice shook, and he tried to take a calming breath. “I don’t want to believe it. Is it really you?”

[IN THE FLESH. WELL. MESH? ARMOUR?]

“Jazz, please be serious, I am on the edge of another fucking breakdown.” Prowl held his face in his hands, planting his elbows onto his knees as he curled in on himself. His eyes burned and his vision blurred. He didn’t want to believe it. He couldn’t. No, he’d spent so long in stupid fucking therapy sessions that didn’t do anything to scrub the sound of every bone in the love of his life’s body shattering out of his head, so much time trying medications that made him feel like he really were dead and pointless meditation tasks and behaviour therapy and-

He sobbed. He sobbed, and he fought to breath against the flood that coursed through him.

And Jazz waited patiently. He waited so very patiently for him, he dimmed the lights to make it softer for him, and he felt the air warm like a hug.

“What happened to you?” He finally asked, his voice weak and raspy, his eyes sore and swollen. “You’re meant to be AI’s – why…”

[SHOCKWAVE WANTED TO SEE IF IT WORKED] Jazz replied. [THE AI’S ARE LIMITED. THEY DON’T HAVE THE REAL LIFE EXPERIENCE THAT WE DO, THE RANGE OR ABILITY TO TAKE ON CHALLENGES OUTSIDE OF WHAT WE KNOW]

“So he tested on you?” Prowl frowned.

[I WAS DYING, THERE WAS NOTHING TO LOSE]

He knew he was. He remembered. He could still hear it, still feel it, if he let himself slip. The sound of the priests reading him his last rights on the battlefield whilst he was trapped, unable to get to him, was a significant cause of trauma - he could feel himself choke on blood that wasn’t there, feel broken bones he didn’t have, struggled for breath that he was free to take-

[IT’S OKAY, PROWLER - BREATHE WITH ME]

Prowl waved him off. He felt sick.

“I’m okay. I’m okay. I’m.” He pressed his hand to his mouth, chewing on his index finger. “The brain deteriorates quite rapidly post mortem.” He got up to pace again. He felt the cameras in the cockpit train on him, watching him as he slowly walked up and down the short length of it. “He’d have to have been right there in situ with you…”

[I DON’T KNOW WHAT HAPPENED, I WAS QUITE PREOCCUPIED WITH THE WHOLE DYING HORRIBLY THING]

Prowl had thought about that day a lot. It had haunted him, a constant spectre on the edge of his awareness. And so, he’d spent a lot of time mulling over the details. There had been a malfunction. Something had gone… wrong. Very, very wrong. For starters, they’d been separated. The old suits – the original ones that he was a pilot of – worked best in pairs. They augmented each other, two halves of one whole. Where one went, the other was to follow. Instead of being giant hulking suits of armour, they were much more compact. To be crude, they’d often referred to them as their Iron Man suits. Simply complex layers of metal that sat against their skin, making them stronger, faster, harder to hurt. It was perfect for what they later learned were the infants.

On the day the first juvenile Quintesson arrived, they learned two things. One, that their suits were absolutely not enough, and two, they’d need to get much, much bigger.

But Jazz was the only one to get that hurt. There were some, like Prowl, who had walked away with minimal injuries. A broken bone, bruises, fractures, the like. And others, with slightly more traumatic ones. Amputations. Burns. Multiple broken bones.

Jazz was the only one who was condemned.

“They always planned to harvest you.” Prowl slowly said in shock. He looked up at the screens as a proxy for Jazz’s face. “They were waiting for their opportunity. You don’t think…?”

[WITHOUT A SINGLE DOUBT, THEY CAUSED MY DEATH. THOSE SUITS DIDN’T JUST BREAK LIKE THAT]

Reading the confirmation on the screen made him feel dizzy. What did they do? Where did they go with that information? They must all know. The scum goes straight to the top of the pot. Ultra Magnus? Was he involved? Would he even listen? What about their investors? Sentinel might be interested to hear that they were harvesting soldiers for their so-called-AI’s, but there was only so much influence he had with men like Zeta and Galvatron on the board...

[PROWLER?]

“Yes, dear?” Prowl felt the corner of his lip tug up in a smile. Damn, it felt good to be able to say that to him again.

[AT THE RISK OF SOUNDING LIKE AN IDIOT, CAN YOU INTERFACE WITH ME? I’VE BEEN WAITING FOR SO LONG, I DON’T WANT OUR ONLY CONVERSATION TO BE THIS. I WANT TO SEE WHAT YOU’VE BEEN UP TO]

He felt his hands drop to his sides. Two halves of him fought viciously.

His duty was to report this. His duty was to do something about this. The pilots deserved as much – the other potential victims deserved as much. Jazz deserved so much more than to be buried within metal casing, nothing more than a puppet to the people who put him there.

But fuck, he missed him. He missed him so, so much. Everything had been so cold and empty since he’d left, and he’d felt the warmth of his sun. It had begun to melt the ice that had formed around him…

He sat in the seat and buckled himself in. The helmet lowered into his waiting hands, and he put it on before activating the interfacing sequence.

Prowl expected the sharp sting. There always was one, no matter how many times you connected with someone. The initial rejection of two separate nervous systems, not recognising the other and primed to attack, followed by the gentle handshake between neural nets.

He still jumped. He felt Jazz chuckle.

“Yeah, yeah…” He muttered. He could feel a warm, familiar presence wrapping firmly around his own, and his eyelids fluttered closed and he leaned his head backwards to bask in the feeling of it.

“Don’t say anything about you knowing about me. Please.” Prowl felt phantom hands cradling his cheeks, a forehead pressed against his own. “The last pilot I had – he went missing not long after he figured it out. I’m an anomaly, Prowler – can I trust you to keep your head down? Just this once?”

He sighed. He’d always been so weak to him.

“I’ll do what I can.”

“Thank you, my love.”

Prowl could faintly see him with his eyes closed. If he focused on him, he vanished, faded away. He’d have to settle for the blurry image that felt like the sun.

“Now… tell me everything.” Jazz was grinning. He knew that much. And Prowl couldn’t help but grin back.

Two hours later, Prowl staggered out onto the catwalk, stumbling into the console. He held onto it for balance, digging the meat of his palm into his left orbital as he breathed in through his teeth. His previously pristine white shirt was spattered with red, his nosebleed being cast down from his breath. He counted back down from ten until the world stopped spinning again, and he found that he was not alone.

Swindle. He looked like a baby who had their lolly pop stolen. Prowl would have smirked if he had the energy to – he had been walking around with dollar signs in his eyes all day thinking of how much he could sell Jazz for. And behind him, Ironhide.

“’Hide.” Prowl forced himself to stand up straighter, wiping his nose on his sleeve. It bloomed red. “Get that mech back online and get me back on that programme right now.” He pointed at the back of his neck, where his implant was set, cradling the base of his skull, the skin around it red hot and inflamed. “And get me that upgrade. The mech responds to me.”

“B-but-!” Swindle began to protest.

“What did you do in there?” Ironhide demanded, reaching forwards to catch Prowl as he stumbled again. “You’re bleeding – you were in there for hours. You didn’t interface, did you?”

“I did.” He looked up at him with a wide grin that hadn’t been on his face since Jazz had taken his last name. “It felt just like the old days.”

Swindle gave him a strange look that Ironhide missed, but Prowl could have spotted from a mile away now that he knew to look for it. He returned it with narrowed eyes. He knew. Prowl knew.

I know what you did to my husband, you rotten bastard.

And it would be a cold day in hell before he even began to forgive any of them for it.

[a-court-of-fics-and-errors]

Keep Moving Forwards, Part 6

Azriel x Reader Fic

Summary: After finally deciding to leave your abusive and manipulative mate for good, you find unexpected companionship with Azriel, the Shadowsinger of the Night Court. As you navigate the aftermath of your traumatic relationship, you struggle to understand where the mating bond went wrong and contemplate your path forward, vowing never to return to the past.

Find other parts here: Master List

Content Warning: This story contains depictions of extreme emotional manipulation and abuse, mentions of physical abuse, loss of a child, and general trauma.

Word Count: 1.7k

Author's Note:

Just a heads-up that the next part of this series will offer two reading options due to sensitive topics in the upcoming section. There will be the original post titled "Keep Moving Forwards, Part 7" with the unedited content, and another version titled "Keep Moving Forwards, Part 7, Summary" that summarizes the material to avoid any discomfort.

For those who have asked to be tagged, you will be automatically tagged in the summarized part to ensure no one accidentally encounters content they might find triggering or uncomfortable. If you are tagged and wish to read the original, please visit my main page when the next part is posted tomorrow at 12:00 PM EST. The two options will be posted simultaneously.

Thank you for your support and understanding. I'll see you tomorrow.

This is a multi-part series. Unlike my previous works, this fanfiction delves deeper than just fluff, exploring complex emotional landscapes. As I navigate this new writing journey, I kindly ask for gentle feedback. The topics addressed are profoundly impactful, touching many lives with diverse experiences. Please be gentle with yourselves and others. Healing is a journey, and everyone processes it differently. Be kind to yourself. Take what resonates, and leave what doesn’t.

Please continue reading, being aware of the above content warnings, ensuring you are in a healthy headspace. Give yourself time to process and be gentle with yourself.

Days blurred together as you continued to heal. Azriel made himself scarce, sending Anthea to check on your progress and report back to him. However, he still ensured your meals were slightly more palatable than the standard fare of the training camp, often adding fruits or sweets when he could. Over the next two days, you shared your meals with Anthea, who only ever took a bite or two before refusing any more, despite your encouragement. Neither of you asked many questions, and your interactions remained brief. You no longer needed help turning over, but your body was still weak, limiting you to short walks across the room.

On your first attempt to walk, you collapsed, and Azriel appeared like a shadow to help you up. You quickly pushed him away, determined to maintain your independence. You also began hiding knives under the mattress and storing non-perishable food in the bedside drawers, preparing for the day you could leave. Your stash included two apples, a pear, and some rolls. Not much, but it was a start.

By the fourth day, you had enough strength to get out of bed and look out the window. The camp outside was a bleak sight. You could see distant mountain ranges, but the camp was nestled in a clearing deep in the woods, a space likely carved out by the Illyrians. The thought of ancient trees felled, sent crashing into the mud for this camp turned your stomach.

The camp itself was a muddy mess. To your right and left, you saw other log cabin-like structures similar to the one you were in, each with pointed roofs and a few windows. Below, the ground sloped down to rows of small, mud-splattered tents on wooden platforms. Footprints crisscrossed the muddy ground, and soldiers moved up and down the hills. In the center of the tent village was a larger log structure, which seemed to be the mess hall, where soldiers gathered at mealtimes.

Scattered among the tents were slightly larger tents, likely for higher-ranking soldiers, and raised platforms with canopies, tables, and chairs, their purpose unclear. On the edges of the camp were fenced-in pens where soldiers, each with their hulking wings, practiced sword fighting. They took great pleasure in knocking each other into the mud and continuing their fights with fists, resembling wild animals.

A particularly ostentatious Illyrian soldier often removed his shirt during fights, choosing to battle bare-chested, swinging his sword with reckless abandon. You half-wondered if only the strongest survived because they were killed before they could even make it to battle.

You noticed very few females around, and the ones you did see were in the same state as Anthea—battered, seemingly brutalized, and sneaking between rows of tents. They quickly retreated to hiding spaces or even into the woods at the sight of a group of males. Over the next few days, you watched Anthea tread a careful path from the mess hall to your cabin, ducking behind tents and listening intently for male footsteps before scurrying like a mouse to the next sheltered area. Every female seemed fearful of the soldiers, and it wasn’t hard to piece together why.

It rained incessantly here, with daily torrential downpours turning the meadow into a muddy quagmire. Despite the rain, the soldiers carried on with their training. Many ventured into the treeline in groups, disappearing for most of the day or night and returning either exhausted or invigorated. You never saw anyone without wings coming or going from the camp, making you acutely aware that you might be the only non-winged creature among them.

Once Anthea decided you had spent enough time wrapped in bandages, she brought you new clothes. She apologized for the fit, noting that they only had sizes for males, and these were the smallest options available. While they hung from your body and required extra rope to keep the pants up, you were grateful for the offer. Azriel continued to flit in and out at random times. In your time spent at the window, you often saw him leaving early in the morning, wandering into the tented area, and entering the larger tents. He rarely interacted with the soldiers, maintaining his role as Spymaster, keeper of the High Lord’s secrets.

On the seventh day, Anthea brought your breakfast and wished you a good morning as she set it down on the bed. You remained curled up by the window, but as she dropped the tray, you called over your shoulder, “I think I would like to go.”

Anthea paused, turning to you. “Go where?” she inquired.

“Just go,” you replied, stretching your legs out and standing to investigate the meal. You picked up a piece of toast with purple jam smeared on it and met her eyes, which widened slightly at your request.

“I don’t understand. Where do you want to go?” she asked again.

You shook your head slightly. “Go away from here.”

“Where are you going?” she asked, picking at the scabs on her hands.

You chewed and swallowed the toast, the rhubarb and strawberry blend coating your tongue with its sour deliciousness. “Not sure yet. I just need to get moving. I can’t stay here anymore.”

Anthea looked at you, still utterly puzzled. “You... you can’t leave.”

You stopped chewing, placing the toast back on the plate and wiping the crumbs on your pants. “What do you mean I can’t?”

“No one leaves,” she stammered. “They always bring you back.”

A lump formed in your throat. It wasn’t that you couldn’t leave; Anthea just couldn’t imagine a world where anyone could. “You tried to leave?” you asked.

Anthea nodded, her gaze cast to the floor. She didn’t elaborate, just continued nodding.

“What happened?”

Anthea shook her head slightly, pressing her fingers into a wound that oozed around them. She didn’t speak.

“Did they hurt you?” you asked.

Anthea still didn’t speak, just shaking her head as she found a new scab to pick at.

“Anthea,” you said, reaching for her to stop her from scratching. She took two steps back immediately, running into the swords and axes poised at the edge of the fireplace, sending them clanging to the floor. Azriel appeared instantly as Anthea dropped to the floor, trying to pick up the weapons while apologizing profusely. He looked between Anthea and you, trying to piece together what had happened. Anthea continued apologizing until Azriel knelt beside her and began picking up the weapons too. She whispered her apologies again before Azriel placed his hands on her shoulders. She jumped slightly, and her eyes seemed to glaze over.

“It’s okay,” he whispered. “Nothing is wrong.”

Anthea nodded, tears filling her eyes as Azriel released her. She quickly stood, glanced at you with a tear rolling down her cheek, then briskly walked out of the room, covering her mouth with her hand. You turned to the window and watched her exit the house, heading into the nearby woods.

Azriel finished placing the weapons back in their spots before turning to you. “What happened?” he asked.

You watched the treeline for a second, and when Anthea didn’t reappear, you turned back towards him. “Nothing,” you said.

Azriel looked around the room, then back at you. “You’re standing.”

“Yes,” you replied.

“That’s,” he paused, stuttering slightly, “that’s good.”

You nodded before taking a few steps toward him. “I want to leave.”

A flash of emotion crossed Azriel’s face, but it was gone before you could read it. “Where are you going?” he asked.

You looked up at him, noting how he towered over you, forcing you to crane your neck to see his face. “It’s none of your concern.”

Azriel sighed, running his hand through his hair—a gesture you had begun to notice he did when nervous or uncomfortable.

“Look, I-” Azriel started.

You interrupted him, “I appreciate what you’ve done, and you’ve been very generous. I just think I need to move on.”

“If this is about what happened earlier-” Azriel started again, but you cut him off once more.

“It has nothing to do with that,” you noted. “I just want to be on my way and out of your hair.”

Azriel paused, searching for the right words. “Let me at least get you where you want to go,” he finally said. “It’s not like your journey was going well the last time.”

You scoffed lightly. “There’s no need for that.”

“Please,” Azriel insisted.

“If I say no, will you make me stay?” you asked.

Azriel paused. “No. I won’t make you stay.”

“Good,” you replied. “I want to leave then. Today.”

Azriel’s eyes widened. “No, that’s not a good idea.”

“Why not?”

Azriel glanced out the window as clouds began rolling in for the daily downpour. “It’s going to rain soon.”

You didn’t bother looking out the window. “Then I will leave after.”

Azriel looked back at you, his eyes pleading. “Can you just wait a few more days?”

“What am I waiting for?” you asked shortly.

“Just give me some time to plan.”

Your brows furrowed. “Given you aren’t coming with me, I don’t particularly understand what you need to plan for.”

“Just, please,” Azriel pleaded, his eyes filled with yearning. “Stay a few more days, and then you can leave.”

You ground your teeth, feeling like a caged animal. “Fine.” There was no way you could push past him, and it was clear he could outrun you if you tried.

“Thank you,” he said, his face relaxing slightly. He ran his hand over his face. “What happened with Anthea?” he asked again.

You stopped, annoyed he repeated the question. “I asked her if I could leave, and before she could answer, she accidentally knocked down the swords.” You pointed to the weapons now restacked.

“Got it,” Azriel responded. He glanced at your half-eaten breakfast. “Are you done with this?” he asked.

You nodded, crossing your arms, the bruise on your side causing a pang of pain.

Azriel picked up the tray and left, leaving you alone in the room once more. It was clear your request had bothered him as his anxiety left hard rock in your stomach. You wouldn’t be staying long, certainly not a few more days.

Authors Note: Thanks for all the continued support from the following readers who asked to be tagged!

@thatacotargirl @mcuamerica @lilah-asteria @florabelll @fightmedraco @marvelbros-oneshots @mariahoedt @quinzzelx @romantasyreader28 @minnieoo @mysteriouslydeafeningwerewolf @annabethgranger123 @krowiathemythologynerd @scatteredstardustt @romantasyreader28

[tswaney17]

Unholy

@elriel-month | Death's Fanged Beast

This is... well, it's porn. Nothing more. And before y'all come for me, let me note that I am NOT religious. I have no real foundation for any sort of religious/catholic background. This story is just a bunch of randomly used religious expressions strung together with no rhyme or reason. If this is not your cup of tea, don't read it. It was a wild idea I mentioned years ago that's finally come to pass.

Dedicated to the lovely @elainsweetcobalt for reasons. 😘

My fanfic account: @tswaney17fics​​​

My ao3 account: tswaney17

Please let me know what you think about this update. I love getting your feedback. Constructive criticism is always welcome. 💕

Trigger warnings: NSFW - explicit, goes against religious beliefs, just overall not for the faint of heart.

Word Count: 2,265

This fic will be posted on AO3 only. Read the beginning below or click here to head to AO3.

Father Azriel knew exactly who entered the confessional booth even with the privacy screen between them. The delicate scent of jasmine and honey followed her into the tiny chamber, invading his mind. Any ability to be impartial was destroyed right then and there.

Elain Archeron was sin itself.

Lust on legs.

She made him want to break his vow of celibacy; had taken to fisting himself in sin late at night from the image of her kneeling on the steps of his altar.

It was his personal form of torment. Seeing her every blessed Sunday in the front row of his church, always in a sundress that made his mouth water. And always, always wearing that delicate, golden cross neckless just around the base of her elegant throat.

He was in Hell.

Read More

~~~~~

Remember, sharing is caring! Please reblog if you liked the fic. It helps spread my work and I truly appreciate it. 💕

While I have moved most of my fics to AO3 only, I am still going to utilize a tag list here on Tumblr. This as a permanent solution and may change in the future. For notifications, you can follow and subscribe to my fanfic account where I will be reblogging updates and snippets only. You can also find me on ao3. If you would like to be added to my tag list, please leave a comment on this post.

My fanfic account: @tswaney17fics​

My ao3 account: tswaney17

Taglist: 

@nikethestatue

@reverie-tales

@123moiaussi

@duskwhisperer

@zdenkah

@nyxreads

@shedoessoshedoes

@athena-85

@jasmineandshadows

@nightcourtseer

@nivem565

@debramclaren

@illyrianvalkyriecarynthian

@secretpuppyflower

@justreallybored

@ultadverb

@the-regal-warrior

@roseandshadows

@tcursebreaker

@kingravinger

@mis-lil-red

@eloeloeheheh

@fawnandshadows

@swankii-art-teacher

@miss-bee-cat

@bookhhrelaz

@impossiblescissorspeachpaper

@elrielbaby

@lesolehabitantdelalune

@thoughtsaboutshows

@britishwings

@aelin21galathynius

@saz-griffin

@azrielslight

@bookstaninthesoul

@curiositywoman

@karsyn-b2

@elainsweetcobalt

@emilyondemand

Some tags seem to not want to link, which could be related to your visibility settings. Sorry about that!

[iloveyoutodeathbutimdrowning]

this whole entire situation is absolutely fucking disgusting. there is a clear difference between using s*xual ass*ult as a kink and writing dark romance. if you can’t see the difference, then you need to get off the internet because YOU are the ones creating this toxic environment.

this whole situation stemmed from a writer on this website using s*xual ass*ult as part of a friends to lovers fic. not only did she not use tags or warnings to give people the chance to choose not to read it (because it could very easily have triggered someone else’s trauma) but then she doubled down on it after being initially politely and privately called out on it. she blocked everyone who tried to talk to her about it, changed the writing in the fic without ever acknowledging it, and finally decided to deactivate her account and make a new one thinking that she was going to escape the backlash she was getting (she’s now @elendraliege for anyone wondering)

there are people backing, defending, and supporting her when what she did was unequivocally WRONG. using s*xual ass*ult as a fetish in itself is WRONG. writing and using a scenario that could very much be someone else’s exact trauma story is WRONG. not putting a trigger warning at the beginning and taking away someone’s choice to not read it is WRONG. and if you think differently, you need to reevaluate your morals because there is no situation where that is okay.

now i do understand that some people who have experienced s*xual ass*ult use writing as a way to take their power and control back and that is completely completely valid. however, i do think that if you choose to post that, you still need to put trigger warnings out of respect for everyone else’s trauma and i don’t feel like that’s an unreasonable thing to expect.

i also think its important for people to understand that while writing fanfic about a real person is normal and a lot of people enjoy it AND NONE OF THE BOYS HAVE STATED THAT THEY DON’T LIKE IT OR THAT ITS THE REASON THAT NOAH LEFT SOCIAL MEDIA, writing these kinds of fics about them can be dangerous and very damaging to their reputations, as a lot of people don’t understand what the word fiction means; thus why there should be some kind of statement that clearly specifies that it is not a real scenario in addition to the trigger warnings.

this divide between the whole fandom on this website should not exist, nor should this situation because that fic should never have existed in the first place. y’all gotta stop with the baseless hate because the only thing it does is make you look bad. bullying those who speak out against actions that are, again, unequivocally wrong is immature and heartless. supporting someone who writes fics like the one that started this mess proves that you have no regard or respect for someone else’s trauma and it makes you a vile human being. hiding behind a screen and using the anon shield to harass someone in any situation is despicable and only proves how miserable you must be in your own life that you feel the need to make others just as miserable as you.

anyone who disagrees can block me and if you want to send me messages or start bullying me too, don’t be a coward and hide behind the anon filter. say it with your whole chest or don’t say anything at all. *update: you no longer have the choice to use anon because i disabled it so if you want to say something to me now, you have to do it without hiding yourself :)*

oh and also i mean this genuinely sincerely from the absolute bottom of my heart

fuck all of you for bullying my favorite blogs off of this website.

[cinnamongorll]

Wildflower - chapter 3

read on ao3 🤍 previous chapter 🤍 masterlist 🤍

Pairing: Joel Miller x Female OC Synopsis: Joel Miller is an infuriating constant in Alex’s life. As her dad’s best friend and smuggling partner, she can’t seem to avoid him no matter how hard she tries.  When a weapons trade off goes wrong and Alex becomes the next target in a dangerous revenge vendetta, Joel is forced to uphold the promise he made to his friend to protect his daughter from the dangers of the post-apocalyptic world. But when Alex and Joel reluctantly grow closer, and she starts to peel back the layers of animosity between them, Alex realises that nothing is what it seems and that trusting Joel might be more dangerous than anything outside the QZ walls. Series tags: dbf!Joel, age gap (Joel is 49, FMC is 26), older man/younger woman, slow burn, enemies to lovers, mean Joel, protective Joel, dark Joel, sexual tension, smut, mutual pining, feral Joel, first person pov, angst, more tags to be added, ultraviolence Joel. Chapter warnings: Graphic descriptions of violence. Word count: 3k

_________________________________

Chapter 3:

“No you don’t” 

Joel’s voice is a hand reaching through the inky blackness, wrapping itself around my consciousness, then tugging hard. 

I’m wrenched back into the kitchen, denied the sweet relief of the nothingness behind my eyelids. 

It’s dark. Joel’s head is haloed slightly by the fragile ribbons of light that poke through the window blinds. His eyes are wide, panic sparking around his pupils as his hands grip my shoulders and pull me up into a seated position.

My fingers are trembling as they drag themselves down my face, collecting the sticky clumps that coat my skin. I don’t dare turn my head towards the source of the gore.

“You think this is about some stolen weapons?” 

The man’s words, growled into my ear before the inside of his head splattered across my face, echo through me. 

Joel pushes himself off the floor until he’s towering over me, looking down at my red stained skin with a trace of disgust flashing in his eyes. 

A breath huffs out of me, deflating my chest, before I inhale deeply. I can’t seem to slow my heartbeat. Blood is pumping through me at an erratic pace, electrifying my entire body with the reminder of how close I was to dying. 

If I had moved my head even slightly when Joel pulled the trigger, my skull would be the one leaking its contents on the kitchen floor. 

Maybe that was Joel’s intention. Save him the burden of having to look after his friend’s incapable daughter…

“You could have killed me,” I grind out as I grip the table leg to pull myself to my feet. 

Joel is there, curling his fingers around the collar of my jacket, tugging me upwards.

I shrug off his touch when I’m finally standing and I stagger back a few steps, careful not to step in the horror at my feet.

Joel is watching me with those dark eyes, following my every movement with the intensity of a hunter. I allow my gaze to stray from his face and slide down his body, noting the way his breaths match the pace of my own, and the hand that hangs by his side with fingers that twitch to a familiar rhythm. 

“I saved your life,” Joel replies, his voice clipped. Then he turns away from me with a shake of his head. “That shot was loud. We gotta go.”

He steps to the side and I gain a clear view of the couch across the room, and the body that’s slumped in the cushions with a dark splash seeping into the fabric. 

“Theo,” I whisper as my legs begin to move, timidly approaching the body of my friend. 

Guilt and shock at my chest with equal measure, my limbs feel like they’re been weighed down. I have to stop myself from sinking to the floor. 

I did this. This is my fault. He’s dead because of me. 

“Alex, we gotta move, now,” Joel commands. 

His voice is another bullet exploding next to my ear. My hands curl into fists.

I look at Theo. His head is thrown back, his skin painted with a deep red. My chest begins to carve out a deeper hole to house another addition to my grief. 

Joel slams his hand off the doorframe. My head whips towards him. 

He’s standing there, his hand gripping the edge of the door, staring at me, annoyance dripping from him like blood. 

I turn back to Theo and I feel my grief begin to crack, allowing my anger to bleed out. 

No, this isn’t my fault. I didn’t cause this. I didn’t cause any of this. 

“You think this is about some stolen weapons?” 

“You did this,” I say quietly, under my breath, allowing the words to taste the air. Then louder: “You did this,” as I whirl towards Joel.

I can feel my lip quivering as my steps pound against the floor, marching towards my dad’s best friend, the man he trusted with his life. The man who hasn’t shed a tear since he lost it. 

The door is wide open, the locks are busted. Thick cracks line the wood, splintering the ancient paint.

Joel’s hand is still curled around the doorframe. I can see his muscles tighten with every step I take towards him. His spine straightens too, like he’s being approached by a threat. I like the thought that he might be afraid of me, even for the shortest of moments. 

Surprising even myself, my palms meet Joel’s chest with a thump as I slam into him. 

“This is your fault,” I sneer. “All of this.” 

My teeth are bared, my cheeks are wet. My hair is stuck to the gore that coats my skin. I’m a rabid beast as I increase the pressure pouring from my hands, and I push again. 

This time, Joel is ready. His chest doesn’t move a single inch. He is the trunk of the oldest tree, standing his ground. 

Then his hands move, gripping my arms as his fingers dig into my flesh as I struggle against him. 

“Stop,” he demands before hissing as I land a kick against his shin. 

“He was your friend and you - and you don’t even care,” I sneer.

Joel’s lips curl as his grip on my arms increases and he tugs me towards him. My chest slams against his and I gasp, betraying myself. The shock of the close proximity drains the fight from me. I’m frozen with only my beating heart showing a sign of life.

My chin is tilted upwards as Joel turns his attention to my face. His lips are curled in a snarl and his eyes burn with pure hatred. 

“I care enough not to let his daughter get killed,” he practically growls. “But you’re makin’ that job real difficult.”  

“I don’t want your help,” I whisper, my voice cracking. The adrenaline once storming through my body has faded to a gentle trickle. 

A muscle jumps in Joel’s jaw. 

“It’s not up to you,” he snaps. 

I flinch, unable to stop my body’s traitorous response. 

Joel sighs, heavily. I feel his hot breath scald my skin. 

He turns his head into the hallway and his rough hands tense against my arms. Goosebumps trace my skin as I watch the lines on his forehead deepen. 

His eyes are on me again. Black pupils flash with a fearsome combination of rage and panic. 

When Joel speaks, his lips are touching the shell of my ear and my chest is pressed against his. 

“Enforcers are downstairs. You’re gonna do exactly what I say or we’re both dead. Do you understand?” 

His words are a sharp knife against my throat, forcing me to linger, breathless, in the state between probable survival and imminent death.

I don’t even realise I’m nodding, my forehead pressed against the space between his shoulder and neck, until Joel pulls away from me and his eyes flash up and down my body.

“Where’s your gun?” he asks in a rushed whisper.

My stomach drops to the floor. I can see it lying next to the pool of blood and brain matter without even needing to turn around. 

I shake my head quickly. There’s no time to turn back and get it, I can see Joel running the calculations in his mind and coming up short.

A deep, unshakeable hatred ripples across the fine lines of his face and he grinds his jaw. I jump when he tightens his hold on my arm and drags me into the hallway.

Before I can even comprehend what he’s doing, Joel moves an arm over my shoulder and tucks my head into his chest. His mouth dips to my ear.

“Keep movin’. Stay quiet. Don’t look up,” Joel commands as he starts moving, forcing my legs to catch up with his long strides. My nose is pressed against his canvas jacket, breathing in the musk of smoke, sweat and gunpowder that’s ingrained in the fabric.

We’re stumbling down the stairs. My whole body is shaking with each step. My head hits off of the buttons on Joel’s jacket. I try to pry myself from his shoulder but a large, rough hand keeps pressing my face back into the material. 

My mind is racing: Enforcers are here, how’s he going to get us out of the building? Why can’t I look up? Why am I even listening to him? Why - 

A raw shout cuts off my inner ramble and my brain shuts off, there’s only the sight and sound of static as Joel’s body lurches forward, taking me with him.

I hear a squelching blow and an agonising yell and something large and heavy drops down next to my legs. 

My mouth is open in a silent gasp but my sight is still blocked by Joel’s hand that has never released its hold. 

My breaths are coming out sharp and quick. I can feel myself start to hyperventilate with the lack of breathing space and the chaos around me. I’m struggling now, pushing against Joel’s chest.

Still, I’m unable to move.

I’d underestimated how strong Joel was and a quick pulse of fear finds my heart as my brain comes to terms with the fact that I’ve put my life in this man’s hands. 

He kills again. This time with a gun. 

My throat releases a muffled yell as the shot rings in my ears and I feel the force of it ripple down Joel’s arms.

I bite my tongue to stop another scream from emerging. Fear weakens my legs and without Joel’s arm holding me up, I’m sure I would have crumpled to the ground by now. 

That gunshot was loud. We’re on the run now. He was serious about leaving the QZ.

Joel kills a third time. 

With a little struggle in this round, I’m thrown out of Joel’s embrace. I land on the hard concrete with a burning pain in my forearms. My eyes blink open into the wide, lifeless stare of Joel’s first victim. There’s a line of red leaking from the corner of his lip, revealing the internal bleeding as the result of Joel’s quick knife. 

Unlike the first time I landed next to a body, I scream.

“Alex!”

My scream dies and I wrench my eyes away from the dead enforcer, towards Joel as his gaze locks with mine. 

His expression is wide open, with his armour in a silver pile on the ground, allowing me to witness the piercing concern that is sent my way.

For the shortest of moments, we’re locked in a standstill. It’s a scene from a western my dad once showed me. 

In that sun drenched desert, beside our horses, we drop our guns and see each other for the first time. 

I realise, in that short moment, that I’m looking towards Joel for protection, and he looks towards me with the intention to protect. 

Yet, as the milliseconds tick by, the wind changes, and the sun is clouded by a blast of dust and, back in the real world, a fist aims toward that wide open expression I had found myself lost in.

“Joel!” I scream, torn from cowboys and horses back into a dark stairwell with our lives hanging by a thread. 

Joel turns just in time and catches the first, twisting the man’s arm until his mouth opens in a silent, agony stretched yell. 

My head whips away when Joel’s knife strikes his skull and I hear another weight drop to the floor. 

There’s a clicking noise that pollutes my ears. I cover my hands over them, pressing harder and harder until I realise that my body is trembling so hard that my teeth have begun to chatter. 

Hands grip my shoulders and flip me around. 

I cry out, kicking and scratching until my eyes meet Joel’s pitch gaze as bends over me with a wild, bloodthirsty look on his face. 

For the second time today, I’m lying on the floor, being held by Joel as a body grows cold beside me.

This time, the shock and horror leaves my head and enters my stomach. 

Nausea strikes a fierce and brutal blow and my eyes widen as I turn to the side and vomit into the pile of blood. 

I hear Joel swearing between my retching. I know he’s cursing me for wasting time. 

When I’m finished, I turn back to Joel with my cheeks sporting red spots of mortification. I’m breathing heavily as his eyes scan my face with the bite of a scalpel. 

He turns and looks around them, his eyes flicking between the men he’d killed. I watch his stare without blinking and that fear that pulsed through me earlier fires again when I realise that there isn’t a hint of remorse shining back. 

Joel’s focus returns to me and he runs a hand down his face.

“Told ya not to look,” he grumbles before reaching that same hand out to help me up.

I let him pull me off the blood and vomit soaked concrete floor. This time, I listen to Joel’s advice and I keep my eyes on him.

In the stairwell, the light is dim and I can feel the walls start to move closer, pressing against me, stealing my air, crushing my lungs.

I inhale sharply and Joel’s eyebrows furrow. 

A feeling of finality wraps around my throat, adding to the grief that’s lodged down my throat and the fear and trembles my lips.

Everywhere we go, we leave bodies in our wake.

I can never go back up those stairs, back into my apartment. 

I can never go back to my stall at the market. 

My life in the QZ has ended. I’m being hunted now, we’re being hunted now, for some reason that I don’t understand. 

Joel will get us out of here, he has to get us out of here, and then my new life will begin. 

I have to trust him. Even if every bone in my body rages against the decision… it’s the only way I’m going to survive.

If I don’t, then I’ll just end up as another body on the floor or strung up in the gallows, with my life struck out of me, forgotten and decomposing with the rest of this rotted world.

______________________________

Hi!!! Sorry this chapter is so short - I had a longer one planned but, after taking a break from this fic, I just wanted to write a shorter one to get back into the story :)