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penvisions · 2 months ago

Text

by the grit of sandpaper {honor me}

Pairing: Jackson! Joel Miller x F! Reader

Summary: As the seasons change, you and Joel tackle both big things and small that make up life in Jackson. Underlying it all, is one thought that prompts him to craft something he thinks will be even better than the cutting boards you lovingly used every day.

Word Count: 7.4k

Warnings: canon typical language, canon typical violence, heart of gold joel, carpenter joel, woodworking joel, artisan joel, patrol partnership, lots of feelings, angst, hurt and comfort, joel miller's hands need their own warning, joel just needs his own warning actually, arguing, reader gets overwhelmed, reader deals with ptsd and general trauma, mentions of child loss, mentions of lost family / loved ones, winter weather as a trigger, lonliness, reader struggles with seasonal depression, mentions of outbreak day, heated interactions, smut, p in v, unprotected p in v, reader has no canon name but a commonly used nickname, some descriptions f hair length and skin tone are made (they are not set in stone), this may be triggering so please be careful if you are sensitive to any of these, i just want y'all to be safe

A/N: i've had this in my drafts for the longest time and finally got around to finishing it. not gonna lie, i made myself sad with some of it but i think this is a good and realistic depiction of a healthy relationship and dealing with hectic life stuff. so glad to be sharing more of them with y'all, they mean so much to me

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The deep timber of a guffaw bursts into the bright blue sky, scaring a collection of birds into flight from where they were searching for food by the water’s edge.

“Oh, shut it!” You shout, no heat behind your words but bubbling laughter, water sparkling all over you as it soaks into skin and fabric alike.

Joel uses one hand to mime zipping his mouth, even as the corners of his lips lift up into a grin. He’s glowing in the midday sun, bronze skin on display as he mirrors your choice of a tank top to stave off some of the heat. Joel is standing proudly at the shore, pebbles and larger rocks firm under his sturdy boots. His weight has accented itself, the stones shifting to accommodate him. He’s a vision, fishing pole in the thick curl of his hand, propping it up on his hip in an almost suggestive manner. His other hand steadies the pole, the line cast out shaking to the very end where it disappears into the gray blue lake.

You huff, shaking the cool water that had splashed all over you. The fish you had caught wiggling something fierce as you tried to unhook it from the end of your line. It had flipped and flopped, slapping its slimy, scaled body and sharp tail thrashing against your scrabbling hands. The splash of it diving back into the water had been large, spraying you to soak through your tank top. The light color of it darkened and damp combined with the near panicked expression you had throughout the entire moment.

Chuckles rumble from between flashing teeth until he catches sight of the blood dripping down your arm. Twisted up and at an angle for you to access the damage as the sting set in.

His focus never leaves you even as he leans down to rest the handle of his fishing rod down, wedging it between two larger boulders to keep it propped up. His longer hair tousles from where he had it tucked behind his ears, a strand falling to curl over his forehead as he’s suddenly in your personal space.

“It doesn’t look too bad,” You soothe even as you feel the sting of the water that trails down your arm and seeps into the cut.

“Darlin’, you’re drippin’ blood.” Joel quietly disagrees, taking the handkerchief from his back pocket and dabbing at the wound before holding it tight, curling his palm over the four inch line.

You can’t stop the hiss that escapes from deep in your chest, the pain flaring at the pressure. His eyes fly up from where he’s looking for any signs of blood seeping through the fabric to catch the grimace that pulls your lips down at the corners. You see the panic flit in the back of his eyes, the sun turning them amber as they take stock of you all over now. Worry evident in the grip he keeps on your injury and the other palm that cups your shoulder to keep you both steady on the rocky shore.

He's quiet, mind working a mile a minute as the weight of your injury settles atop his shoulders. But you don’t want it to affect him this way, the sight of blood suddenly jarring him back to the gruff man he had once been. The horrors of the world too much for him to not be consumed by it. You want your Joel back, the one he had been just moments ago.

“Hey,” You whisper, other hand coming up to cradle his strong, scruffy jaw. “I’m okay, Joel, I promise.”

“You better be, otherwise I’m gonna swath you in bubble wrap.” His plush lips well with color as he chews at his bottom lip, peeling the fabric from your cut to check on it. The blood clotted, wound sealing up as best it could, and he lets out a relieved sigh that fans his warm breath over you.

“Joel, bubble wrap doesn’t exist anymore.” You say with a roll of your eyes, hoping he sees the feigned petulance. He fastens the handkerchief securely around your arm, tying it off to keep it in place as he rests his forehead against yours and closes his eyes in a long blink. You see the tension leak out of him as he takes a deep breath, the beating of his heart calming beneath your palm on his chest.

“Hush, lemme just worry about you, okay?” He’s a provider, a caretaker, a protector. It’s in his nature to switch from carefree and silly to focused and shielding in a heartbeat. It was something you admired, mirrored in him as it makes up a part of you are as well. Two sides of the same coin, connected. Bonded. Understanding.

“That goes both ways, Miller.” Your breath hitches as he pulls you flush against him, the feel of his firm body against yours still takes your breath away even after all this time. His lips quirk up at the corners before he captures your own.

The day spent at the lake was Joel’s way of getting you out of your head, with the anniversary of Aiden’s death fast approaching at the end of the week. He did his best not to push conversation if you spaced out during meals or he found you out walking among the budding olive trees. He did his best to make you either a mug of warm coffee or a chilled drink and press it into your hands to help soothe the thoughts that consumed you. You know you could come to him with anything, talk to him about anything and he wants you to know that he’s there. Even if you can’t find the words sometimes.

He's watching now, as you linger in front of the second bedroom. Aiden’s bedroom, the door closed by his own hand all those years ago as you both set off for the patrol that plagues your nightmares. Joel hadn’t meant to, but he had bumped the handle one day as he waddled down the hallway with planks of wood that would become shelves in your shared bedroom. Book collection growing as he brought more home from patrol and Ellie traded for ones that she thought you would both like.

That same fire that had consumed you six months ago as you hurled hurt words and wooden spoons alike at him in your kitchen had reared up. You had just so happened to be coming home when he had realized the door opened and you caught sight of him with his hand on the knob as his curiosity got the better of him. A quick glance was all he had taken, but that split second in which he glimpsed an unmade bed and piles of clothing along the floor before he began to close it had been enough for you to rush at him with sharp words and quick motions.

Through your tears you had demanded why he would do such a thing, invade his privacy like that. Your privacy. And he realized his mistake, the split-second decision made out of curiosity had caused enough damage that he had slept on the couch out of guilt for disturbing you when sleep came to him late that same night. He had woken up to you curled atop him, throw blanket he had rucked off over your tangled legs and your head pressed right over his heart.

Now though, it’s you who stands in front of the door with a hand on the knob. Joel steps out into the hall with a towel around his waist, skin warm from the time spent in the sun and the water he had used to wash off the remnants of the trip.

“Olive…you okay?” He keeps his voice low, not wanting to spook you. You don’t startle, but you do turn to look at him with wide eyes and a firm set to your lips. Wet footprints mark the hallway as he approaches you, reaching out to rest his hand atop yours and remove it from the brass. Your skin is cold against his as he places your palm over his heart. It thuds against his ribcage as you look up at him with such conflicted eyes, tears brimming the lash line and then falling over to race down your cheeks as you suck in a shuddering breath.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay. Breath with me, okay? You’re okay, sweetheart.” His own palm spreads warm against your chest, the neckline of your tank top scrunching up with the action. He breaths deep, counts to three and then exhales, making sure you mimic him until your heart beats at a calmer rate. He doesn’t care that the warmth of his skin cools and the droplets of water on his shoulders now chill him in the conditioned air of the home. He’s worried about you, about the shakes he sees move your shoulders, the arm of the hand he holds, the wobble of your head.

He ducks his head to catch your eyes, a tiredness he knows all too well tinging the color of them. You look like you’re about to say something but your mouth snaps shut seconds after it opens.

“Take your time, I’m here, not goin’ anywhere.” The spot of blood on the handkerchief draws his brows together and he carefully ushers you towards the bedroom. You move pliantly, allowing him to set you on the edge of the bed. He kneels to take your boots off, socks too. And you seem to come back to yourself while he disappears to wash his hands and gather supplies for the cut.

“Joel?” You croak, throat thick.

“Yes, sweetheart?” He speaks softly, voice washing over you and almost massaging your tense muscles.

“Can we…can you…h-help me tidy up h-his room tomorrow?”

“I’ll help you with anything, but are you sure?”

All you could do is nod, reaching for him the moment he finishes wrapping the bandage around your cut and tucking it into itself.

“He would’ve li-liked you, I know it.”

“I would’ve liked him too, Olive, I promise you that.” He offers you a soft smile, eyes so earnest that it makes you feel like he really would’ve, that he’s not just saying it to make you feel better. But that’s the thing about Joel, he doesn’t say stuff he doesn’t mean. His words are important.

“He loved me, just wanted to see me happy. You make me happy, y-you make me so happy, Joel.” Your lip quivers as you look down at him with tears trailing down your cheeks. “He deserved to be happy too.”

“He was, sweetheart, you made sure he was. Safe and happy here in Jackson, you gave him the chance to have a life here.”

“It wasn’t long enough.” Words barely choked out on a sob has him surging up, forgetting the wet cloth and tube of ointment on the floor.

“It never is.” He crowds you, arms wrapping around you and hauling you up the bed with him. You tried to move with him, but all you did was cling to his chest with your head buried in his neck. “He knows you did your best, he knows.”

A simple question, a simple answer; both led to a hard afternoon where Joel proved just how much he loved you as he helped you to finally open that door and step inside the second bedroom. Just a clean, nothing too strenuous, nothing too much for you to handle. Just picking up the clothes that had been piled up, dusting the furniture and making the bed over again once everything was washed and dried. Clothes put back into drawers and hung up, going through them left for another day. Joel had been beside you every step of the way, helping where he could, with his hands, his strength, his words.

Later that day, he lets you be the big spoon. Your arms secure around his chest as you tuck yourself around his back and simply breath with him until sleep claims you both.

“Thank you again, Rick, I really appreciate the help.” You smile at the teenager beside you, sitting in one of the wooden chairs Joel had been excited to craft to fill the space of your newly completed porch. His freckled cheek was stained with dirt, as were his arms from his offered task of cleaning out the gutters of your house. You and Joel had been trying to decide when it could be done as he shared lunch with you in the kitchen earlier that week when the boy had chimed in that he didn’t mind taking on the task.

Joel let you lead the interaction, even though you both shared the house and the land it was on with Ellie, it would always mean more to you.

“It was no problem, ma’am. Wanted to show my appreciation for the opportunity to work alongside you in the kitchen.”

“I’m happy to have you there, there’s no need to thank me.” You raise your glass of tea in a silent cheers, the temperature is begging to wane. Days warm but evenings getting chilly, the nights cold enough to turn on the heat.

“Everyone around town says that you used to patrol, still do sometimes.” He’s a little subdued now, like he’s worried about saying the wrong thing. “With you’re uh- with Mr. Miller.”

“I go out with Maria and Tommy sometimes too, but I try to focus on the kitchen these days.” Is your way of confirming the teenager’s assessment. You had really stepped back from patrol, opting to only go out with Joel on overnight or longer ones. Tommy and Maria sometimes if someone called off or fell ill. You realized that going out beyond the walls was something you just…didn’t want to do anymore. Even before Joel had become your partner, but he had needed someone to show him the ropes while Tommy took his own leave to focus on Maria and the pregnancy.

“Do, um, do you think I could maybe go on the next one with you, both of you?”

“Oh, well.” The overnights would be too much for him, or maybe they would be perfect since it’s a longer journey for him to get the feel of the job- how serious it was and all the planning and caution that goes into it. “That’s certainly something I can run by him and Tommy, see if we can work it out.”

“I would really appreciate it. I know I’m still kinda new myself, only been here just shy of eight months. But now that I’m a little acclimated, I want to help out more.” He’s genuine in his words, something that you both appreciate and worry about. So many of the teenagers here haven’t had to face the hardships of the outside world, being protected by the town, the community built within the walls. That had always been an issue between you and Millie, until the influence of her mother no longer affected her so deeply. It’s a challenge to get the younger generation to realize just how fucking insane the world is now.

But then again, they had no memories of the way things were before.

You’re quiet for a moment, thinking over the young boy’s words. You offer him a not as he finishes the glass of iced tea you brought out to him and takes off back toward the house he’s set up in with two other boys and the town butcher.

“Look mighty fine up there, if I do say so myself.” Joel’s voice hollers from the gate he had put up around the front yard. His hands are atop it, his eyes trained on you as you realize you must’ve been spacing out.

“My partner was kind enough to build it for me with his own two hands, pretty impressive, huh?”

“Oh yeah? Sounds like a real keeper to me.” He struts up the walkway and takes the steps easily, hands cradling your face as he dips to press his lips to yours in a breathtaking kiss. His tongue traces your bottom lip before tangling with yours as you return the kiss with just as much fervor.

“Gonna make us late, darlin’.” He murmurs against your mouth, not willing to disconnect completely.

“I was sittin’ out here already to go and you’re the one who decided to take his sweet time coming home.”

“Was busy helpin’ with the paddocks. Horse kicked one of the partitions clean off its hinges. Foal needs a lotta discipline before he’ll be ready to train for ridin’.”

Joel holds his hand out for you to use as an anchor to stand, letting you wrap your arm around it and tug it into your front as you both walk side by side down the walkway and toward the street. Ellie bounces out from the backyard and her own little studio to join you both as you make your way toward Tommy and Maria’s for a little bonfire dinner.

Hours later, once the sun begins to set and cast the evening sky in a swath of deep navy blues and gorgeous deep purples, you find yourself back inside the house. Maria had asked after Tupperware for the leftovers from the grill and you had jumped at the excuse to take a moment for yourself.

Joel’s name leaves your lips in squealed laughter. He had snuck up behind you to scoop you up into his arms as you tried to reach for something in a cabinet that was too tall for you.

“Gross, get a room.”

“Tommy!”

“Nope, y’all should know better. You are guests in my home and still can’t seem to keep your hands off each other.” Tommy grabs the sippy bottle of juice that you had refilled before disappearing as soon as he had appeared in the room.

“I wasn’t- Joel just- you’re a traitor!” You shout after him even as Joel continues to trace his fingers over the sensitive skin of your ribs. He keeps it up, hands closing around your ribs to pick you up and plant your butt right atop the counter. He’s between your legs, smirk in place as he leans down to whisper in your ear.

“Looks like it’s just you an’ me, sweetheart. Wanna tell me why you were lookin’ me up and down out there?”

“You know why.”

“Needly little thing you are sometimes, huh? Just can’t help but watch me, this is a family event, ya know. Nothing but innocent fun around the fire. ‘n you had to go and make it dirty with your squirmin’, tryin’ to get some relief right here between these pretty legs, hmm?” All you can do is gasp as his thick fingers swipe up the seam of your jeans, just enough pressure behind them to squish your already slick and puffy lips together.

“J-Joel…” Hands fly to catch his wrist, to catch the longer strands of his hair that are curling around his neck and pull.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” He’s crowding you, fitting himself perfectly between your thighs and pressing into you. The bulge in his own jeans is obvious as he swoops in to take your lips with his, devouring any argument you have about the setting.

Joel curses as silently as he can, the little crystal dish on your bedside table is empty. None of the rings you wear occasionally are nestled there. He opens the smooth drawer, peering inside only to find a journal, a cookbook with a bunch of bookmarks, and an old polaroid camera. Hands on his hips, he glances around the bedroom, looking for anything that could help him with the task that’s been weighing in his mind and heart the last six months.

It had come out of nowhere, the thought shocking him one day as he sat on the porch he had added to the front of your house to mimic the one on the house he and Ellie had been in before moving in. The project had been daunting, there was nothing but a small concrete stoop with few steps and two wooden support beams. But now there was a decent porch that runs across half of the front of the house from the front door to the living room window. You had been working earlier mornings, to help with the gardens and harvest after ensuring the town had a hearty spread for their breakfast.

It was fall now, marking the passage of a year since your relationship had begun to shift. An entire year of being with you had made him feel whole again, it healed parts of himself he had ignored for far too long. He had spent the summer months getting the work done around his other projects. Replacing fence lines around the gardens, house repairs, the shed and detached garage he had fixed up for Ellie’s living quarters and his workshop right beside it. He had insisted, saying he didn’t mind turning your house into a home for all three of you. The smile you had given him was blinding and he vowed to make you smile like that as often as he possibly could.

That same smile had broken out on your face the afternoon you had trudged home from your busy day.

And the thought of bending down on one knee in front of you to keep it there had him moving to meet you as you approached. He kissed the smile on your lips, hands cradling your face before he trailed them down to your waist and lifted you in a spin that cropped up a bout of giggles that melted his heart.

Now though, determination to make the moment perfect made him hyper aware of every moment he shared with you. That it was hard to just not reach for your hand and ask you as easy as it was to breath.

Even though he’s sure you would fawn over the question and give you an easy answer all the same. But he wanted to put work into it.

He finds you sprawled on the couch, mouth open and harsh little puffs of air sounding into the air as you slumber. Crouching down to get the throw blanket from a basket beside the couch, he drapes it over you and feels his chest fill with warmth as you instantly snuggle down further into the cushions. The glint on your fingers as you curl them around the edge of the blanket and bring it up under your chin catches his eye and he feels his heartbeat pick up.

Your jewelry. The rings he had been looking for are set daintily in place.

He’s careful, more careful than he’s ever been before as he gently reaches for your right hand. Eyes watching your face as he slips his own, thicker fingers around one of the rings and begins to slide it from its place. He gulps as he sees how they dwarf yours, thick and strong where yours are slim and long. Then his stomach flips and heat pools between his legs as he recalls the way you had begged him the night before, to fill you with them. The sounds you had let out, the memory of them alone makes him swell in his jeans.

Just as he’s got the ring in his grasp, your hand twitches and a deep hum has his eyes catching your own sleepy ones as they crack open.

Through your blurry squint, you see Joel’s handsome face, the broadness of his shoulders and the curls atop his head warming your heart. Yawning, you reach for the hand you were sure had just been tangling with yours. He had pulled it back and sleepy confusion colored your features.

“Mmm, what’re you-“ You kiss each of his knuckles, dragging his hand up with both of yours, his shoulders sagging at the soft feel of your lips on his skin. You drag them over each dip and ridge, “Doin’ up so early?”

“You fell asleep after your shift, sweetheart, it’s not so early anymore.” The slip of his tongue along his own lips has you boldly opening your mouth, his eyes dilating at the soft pink of your own tongue as you swirl it around two of his fingers. It must be something about the warmth of the sun hitting the living room windows, the depth of which you slept and then waking up with Joel crouched beside you. But you needed him, your body yearning for him in the basest of ways.

“Let’s waste the afternoon together.” You press the words to the pads of his fingers, not bothering to wait for a response before you suck them into your mouth to the knuckle. Joel’s eyes roll as a groan rumbles from his chest, his other hand coming up to cup your jaw, thumb brushing over your hallowing cheeks.

“Anythin’ you want, darlin’.” And then he’s pulling his slick fingers from your chasing mouth and trailing them down beneath the blanket to press between your legs, his mouth descending on yours.

You notice the way he nearly runs to his workshop after patrol on days he’s home early, his eyes focused and his hands clenching at his sides in the way they do when he’s anxious or thinking something over.

You leave him be, Joel would come to you about what was bothering him when he wanted to. There was no need to push the communication, you trusted him implicitly.

But he was busy most afternoons, well into the early evening lately and while it didn’t worry you…it worried you. He was distant, despite the other day when he had played hooky and put off his afternoon handy man tasks. Coming to bed late, after you had already crossed over into semi unconsciousness.

Often finding the leftovers of dinner still on the table or on the stove and cleaned up after he ate if he beat you home in the evenings. Ellie too, had noticed he was a little more reserved. She had been soothing, spending more time in the kitchen with you at home and dropping by the gardens with another girl’s arm interlocked with her own.

It had to be the time of year, September bleeding into October. His birthday had been a quiet affair, another cake like the first one you had given him. Yellow cake with chocolate frosting that ended up on the tip of his nose as Ellie dipped her finger into the excess and swiped it across his face. He had smiled so bright and his laughter had been loud, his shoulders easing the second he had walked through the door after patrol to find you both waiting for him with it. Just an evening with his two girls on the day he missed his other one with all his heart.

Forever intwined with his birthday was the trauma of the day the Outbreak took place, the part of himself he had lost in his daughter the day after. Something he would carry with him until his last breath, though he admitted that you made it easier to shoulder. Your kindness and love allowing him to heal from it in ways he had never thought he would be able to.

But today when you walked down the street and unlocked the front door there was no sign of anyone having been home for hours. And then you remembered that Joel had gone off on an overnight patrol with his brother and the thought doesn’t sit well. It was a hard day for you, this late in fall. Much like Joel’s own. But unlike him, you hadn’t shared the specific date.

It was still hard to talk about, even if you had made peace with the passing of your own child. Had admitted as much to Joel, to Tommy, Maria. But Ellie…you hadn’t shared it with Ellie. Even as you hear the happy laughter of hers as she treks down the street outside. Unable to quell the low mood and not willing to bring her own down, you grab your bag and make your way down the hallway to your room.

The next day you sleep as late as possible, rest not having come easy throughout the night. Thankfully, it was the week you normally take off for the harvest. Your absence in the mess hall kitchen accounted for and supplemented by Millie and Callie. She had taken her mother’s place in the space, the older woman choosing to keep to herself in the wake of all that happened the year before. The gardens her preferred job now, though her hands were beginning to bother her as arthritis set in.

With little sighs of exertion and some slight frustration at yourself for feeling things so deeply, you dress modestly in a plain tee and flannel. The sleeves are pushed up by noon, the entire flannel disrobed by three as you flit around the trees and gather the olives that are ready for picking. You’ve got two barrels by the time you hear Joel and Ellie walking down the street, the teenager laughing and joking. Joel’s voice is a more even tone, a deep rumble that calms you even as you think back to how distant he had been before he left for the overnight patrol.

Two weeks of kisses planted to your forehead as you slept, of blankets rustling and strong arms wrapping around your already passed out form, of notes being the main form of communication. It was bound to happen, a tough spell. Emotions so intricate and surely hard to deal with as the seasons changed. The date on the calendar looms in the back of your mind as well, the day that everything shifted. That you told Joel how you feel and he told you the same, that you decided to act on those feelings. Maybe that’s why you were so hyper aware of his actions and the long, busy hours he led.

Dinner wasn’t even prepped, no thoughts of food but for the pitted delicacies that were ready to harvest. The street quiets once again as they enter the home, sounds of life wafting from the slight openings of the glass. It was too chilly in the night to have them open but air flow during the day and a lower setting on the heat allowed for a good temperate environment.

The smell of coffee swirls out of the side window of the kitchen, the breeze picking it up and bringing it to you just as Joel descends the few stairs at the back of the house with two steaming mugs.

“Told ya I’d help with that, sweetheart.” He looks tired, his jacket marred with dirt and his scruff glistening in the low sunlight. “Didn’t have to start it alone.”

He’s pressing the mug into your hands and dipping his head to press a kiss to your forehead, your stomach fluttering at the smile you could feel on his lips before he pulled back and you could see it for yourself. The basket you had been using to gather the harvest hangs from your arm, opposite the one that now bears a small, still silvery scar from the day on lake.

“Just needed to get outta my head,” You don’t quite meet his eyes, prompting him to hook two fingers underneath your chin and tilt your head up. His warm eyes search yours, the emotions swirling inside of you on display for him to see, to search, to calm.

“Lemme get some dinner started, sun should set soon. Come sit with me?”

“Joel, I’ve already started this tree, I don’t want to leave it half undone.”

“I’ll help you, then dinner, yeah?”

“You’ve had a long day,” You sigh, unable to quell the guilt and shame of feeling so utterly alone with him standing in front of you, with Ellie in the house. “You should shower and get some rest.”

“Don’t wanna rest until you’re taken care of.”

“I’m not ready to go inside.” There’s an edge to your voice, one built up from the past few weeks of things just feeling like too much. He clocks it, the simmering emotions just beneath your tingling skin and the slightly raised words you aim at him. You’re not looking at him, eyes focused just to the right of his own, a curl catching your attention and making it easier to focus. But you’re overwhelmed and don’t know how to handle it.

“Okay.” He’s stepping back, cautious but willing to give you the space you needed. To not push the matter or force you into following him into the house. His fingers caress your skin as he pulls it away and your eyes flutter shut as tears burn hot beneath your cheeks. “I’ll, uh, be inside.”

“Okay.”

You don’t ever make it down the hallway, finishing up the harvest on the tree and then setting everything in the utility room before showering and then promptly burrowing into bed. No lamps turned on, no lights in the bathroom, no pages of the book you were currently working through read or tea had.

Just, straight to bed. Despite the sounds of Joel and Ellie having dinner with quiet conversation. The smell of roasted vegetables strong and the clink of glasses almost too much to bear. You want more than anything to force yourself out of bed to join them- but you can’t. The weight in your stomach, the soles of your feet, it’s too much.

“Olive?” Joel’s deep voice calls in a soft whisper from the cracked open doorway, but you don’t stir even as you lay with your back to it. You have no idea how much time has passed but you realize as your eyes focus and your ears stop buzzing that there’s no longer any sounds of conversation or life being lived down the hall. It’s quiet.

When his steps round the bed to his side, he startles a little when he notices that your eyes are open and glinting in the moonlight that filters in through the curtains haphazardly pulled over the glass panes.

“You’re awake.” It’s not an accusation, it’s a soft realization. He’s sitting to remove his boots, jeans shucked off and folded on the chair tucked into the corner by his bedside table. Flannel shrugged off and socks tugged up to his calves before he sinks onto the bed and slips between the covers.

“You don’t have to tell me what’s goin’ on, but you can’t tell me that everythin’ is fine.” He reaches for your fingers that are curled around the edge of your pillow, keeping it tucked underneath your cheek just the way you like it. “’m here, promise.”

And the petulant no, you’re not is quick to cut the air at full volume.

Harsh breath through his nose is the only response you get before he’s pulling you into him completely, intertwining your legs together and cradling your head with the back of his head as he tries to catch your eyes.

“I know I been busy, I’m sorry.”

“It’s not just that…y-you’ve been di-distant too.”

“I don’t mean to be.” He acquiesces quietly, knowing that the truth in your words is something he can’t really argue with.

“Always in the damn shop, makes me feel like that stuff is more important than me and then I get pissed off that I even feel that way. No matter how fleeting it is.”

“Your feelings are important, no matter how small or big. I…I’ve been working on something for you. But that’s not an excuse for how things have been.” He’s pressing his forehead to yours, a deep breath jostling you both as it stutters out of between his plush lips. “I wanted to have it done in time for the holiday but I keep fuckin’ it up.”

“Don’t want anything- j-just want you.” Your nose is cold when you nuzzle it into the crook of his neck, right where his collarbone peeks from beneath his shirt.

“You’ve got me, I swear it to you.”

“It’s been…it’s been really hard the past few days…”

“Past few weeks.” He breaths the words into your hair, his scruff rustling there as he buries his face into the crown of your head, arms tightening around you. “’m sorry for lettin’ things get to me.”

“Me too…”

“We’re gonna be okay, yeah?”

“Yes, Joel, of course. It’s just…it was just…a few days ago was…this time of year….that’s when I l-lost-“ A hiccup steals the admission from you, tears wetting the skin of his neck as you’re suddenly overcome with voicing exactly what had you so overwhelmed.

“Shh, it’s okay, you don’t have to- if you don’t- if you can’t. I get it, believe me, Olive.”

“I don’t want to keep it from you, it’s just- it’s a l-lot and it’s he-heavy.”

“I know…I know…but I’m here, I’ve got you.” He holds you until you’re breathing evens out and you fall into a restful slumber. His mind reeling with how much he’s been focused on what he could provide for you when you were right in front of him and struggling with something he had been too blind to see, even having been through it himself. One of his hands snakes down and traces the scar that’s exposed from your rucked up shirt- his shirt and thinks back on how shy you had been when he had first met you, how grateful and thankful he was that you two connected…

The next few days are spent tending to each other, tending to the harvest that needs to be collected, divvied up and handed to the general store on main street. To people who want the fruits of your trees for trade. He’s by your side through it all, helping any way he can even if you can’t find the words in a specific moment. No patrols for either of you, no kitchen shifts for you to run to for long hours. Just the two of you and the trees that gave you back your purpose once you had found a place here, safety.

The trees had given you purpose when you had lost your child and again when Aiden had passed. It’s a purpose that seems to realign everything in you each year and for that you’re grateful. The man beside you making you feel like things are finally settling for the better, even if he’s got his own past that haunts him in the quiet moments.

Joel feels it too, how good this time to yourselves has been. How much you both needed it.

It’s when the last line of trees needs to be focused on when bubbles of laughter and small jokes are shared, your voices lighter after so much devotion and time spent together healed the jagged edges of busy life that had caused discordance. He’s trailing soft fingertips through the belt loops on your jeans while you reach for the topmost branch atop a step ladder when he catches the subtle shake of your shoulders. He’s worried for a second that tears have taken over but he hears the huffs of your laughter and smiles so wide his cheeks hurt.

When you step down with something cupped in your hands, he can’t help but be mesmerized by the sparkle in your eyes as you hold them out to him. But he’s also cautious, because he’s learned your penchant for placing random things in his hands. With a shake of his head, he’s stepping back with his hands raised in surrender- refusing whatever you’re trying to give him.

“Nu-uh, you little troublemaker. I dunno what you’ve got but I don’t want it.”

“It’s not bad!” You giggle, unable to reign it in as the thing in your hand tickles against your palms.

“Then why you giggling like a maniac, huh? You may be cute, but I ain’t fallin’ for it this time.” He tries to maintain an even face but you can tell that he’s holding back laughter. Especially when you go to tease him with your next breath.

“Awe, is big bad Joel Miller afraid of a little catapillar?”

“When you’re tryna put it in my hands, yeah. They feel gross and look ugly as hell.” The lines around his eyes deepen as his moustache pulls down with his frown.

“Joel!”

He just raises a brow at you, the thick arch of his making you stare at him in open shock. He looks far too good, even as he’s trying to be serious right now. Eyes bright as he watches you. You can see that he wants to laugh, the corners of his mouth twitching the longer you hold out your hands. Parting them, you show him the bright green creature, lined with black dots and fuzzy legs. He visibly shivers as the thought of it crawling on him crops up in his mind and you can’t help a bark of laughter at the distaste he’s frowning with.

“Put that thing down. I got somethin’ better for you.”

Oh, you’re no fun. It’s just a silly, little guy. He ain’t gonna harm anyone.” You turn around to place him on a lower branch. Right beside two olives that you had yet to pick. The creature happily crawls onto the branch and proceeds to take microscopic bites of the fruit, forgetting all about being plucked from the higher branches. Wiping your hands on your dirty work jeans, all traces of laughter dissipate and your breath hitches when you turn around.

Joel is down on one knee and he’s holding his own cupped hands out to you now.

“Was tryna to figure out the best way to do this, but uh- figured I should just take the moment.”

“Joel…” Your bottom lip trembles as your heart races, he looks nervous. The strong, broad man kneeling in front of you looks nervous and it makes you nervous in turn. Feeding off of his energy in a way you always have.

“Now, I realize that while being so focused on gettin’ this right that I kinda fucked things up. Took a long time because first I had to swipe this to use as a reference,” He uses one hand to reach into the front pocket of his jeans and pulls out your simple silver band that had gone missing weeks ago. And then it hits you: he’s made you a ring. “I love you, think you deserve the whole goddamn world. Whatever I can provide for you, I will. For as long as I can and as long as you want me to.”

“Olive,” His beautiful brown eyes catch the midday sun as they connect with yours, emotions swirling them. He unfurls his fingers and sitting in his palm are two wooden rings. One is larger than the other ever so slightly and you can see the shine of epoxy on them as they glint. “Will you honor me in becomin’ my wife?”

You’re nodding your head enthusiastically, hair bobbing in it’s clip to keep it away from your face as you take the few steps toward him. Your fingers brush his as you gently caress the crafted wood in his palms, a watery smile taking over your face as you realize this man had made you wedding bands from the very trees he was helping you harvest for the second year in a row.

“That a yes, darlin’?”

“Of course it’s a yes, Joel.” Your words leave on a breathy exhale as he let’s you slip the larger ring onto his left hand. He’s got his eyes trained on your own as he does the same, threading your fingers together and using that connection to haul you into his arms as he stands. He kisses you deeply, dipping you backwards slightly as he holds tight to the middle of your back.

And it’s the best feeling, of finding someone as special as him in the remnants of a broken world. Of finding someone who loves you through the good times and bad, through the happy moments and hard moments, through everything and anything you both had to do to survive and make it to this point. Joel Miller is one of the good ones and now he’s yours forever. You're his forever.

taglist: @pedrospatch @morning-star-joy @sawymredfox @pascalpvnk

@littlemisspascal @merz-8 @orcasoul @sabmat @dreamingofleon @keylimebeag

@picassopedro @tuquoquebrute @alejaa-a @jessthebaker @joeloverture

@joelscruff @swiftispunk @tightjeansjavi @undercoverpena @corazondebeskar

@honeyedmiller @novas-dreamworld @slugz-writes-shit @hiroikegawa @dugiioh

@persephone-girl @furiousmushroom @copperhalfcent @lizlil @hiddenbabynyc

@part2joelmiller @formulafun @noisynightmarepoetry @sofiparallel

@blueberrylemon7 @maryrhodalouandted @joelsdagger @fluff-lover

@communism-bitches @slugz-writes-shit @mosssbawls @vie-is-punk

@ohhellotherebumblebee @koshkaj-blog @amyispxnk @wand-erer5

dividers by the lovely: @/cafekitsune and /saradika-graphics

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imjustavenuxwithaboomerang · 2 months ago

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i showed my sister the equestria girls movies last week because i needed a win and these were her thoughts:

equestria girls:

"sunset, you've gotta wait till your goons are gone before code-switching"

"sunset knows she's a horse so being with flash is kinda weird"

"don't like snips and snails"

"pan rainbow dash?" (i asked if she had any thoughts on their human designs and that was it, idk what to tell ya)

"why are the people colored in this reality?"

"why is rarity british?" (overall thought about the whole franchise)

"when did we fucking ask him? nobody asked him to join" (about flash playing guitar during the cafeteria song)

^but yeah she didn't really vibe with flash but she found the "one no would've been fine" line funny

"laughter" "no, it's insanity"

"i didn't know there was another way" "i don't give a fuck"

rainbow rocks:

"why is the moon, cheese?"

"i like the names. in case you weren't sure this was about music" (said during the opening credits when it showed the dazzlings)

"to be fair, you did ruin everything" (towards sunset)

"somebody needs to slap rainbow"

she really wanted to protect fluttershy, i could tell

she also wasn't necessarily loving flash x twilight during the first movie but definitely wasn't after he made twilight cry so-

friendship games:

"great, a murder board"

"why are you keeping tabs [on chs]? maybe you should focus on your other students" (towards cinch)

"what do you think i should do?" "you should keel over and die"

"sugarcoat, just stab me in the heart, why don't you"

"she looks like she belongs in spongebob, derogatory" (about cinch)

"twilight is doing disney knees"

"cinch is a bitch, cinch is a bitch. cinch is a winch, cinch is a winch" (said in a sing-songy way)

"why's this bitch singin'?" (again about cinch)

"we want what we deserve" "who said you deserve it, you fucking bitch?"

can you tell she hates cinch??

also made a couple jokes about how cadence and luna seemed like girlfriends in all of their scenes together (which was actually really valid)

legend of everfree:

"what do y'all do?" (towards celestial and luna)

"[the opening credits sequence] is gonna be at the bottom because it's giving me home by phillip phillips"

"and this is my brother, timber spruce" "TERRY?" (as in terry from tdp, which is where i got the cargo shorts thing from, so let's all thank my sister)

seemed to not be the biggest fan of sci-twi x timber ("just timber!")

"do we have watches!? cause they've mentioned time twice" "the sun dial" "but it's gonna be dark, she said it doesn't work at night!" (funny conversation that doesn't work in hindsight because they apparently had their phones with them the whole time)

"i don't know why but i'm getting trans from rainbow, cause everyone else is drawn with boobs and she's not. in that shot at least"

"if i see a man coming out of the woods, i think he's just buried a body"

"that's a disgusting design i'm sorry" (about gloriosa's villain look)

"sorry i thought he was going to kill his sister, he saw the ax and i thought he was just gonna- this is a children's movie. just for a split second"

part 2 magical movie night thoughts

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hs-transfusion · 11 months ago

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> ROSE EGBERT

CHUMHANDLE: telepathsTalent [TT] STRIFE: umbrellakind MODUS: Stack LUNAR SWAY: Prospit MYTH. ROLE: Sylph of Mind LAND: Land of Woods and Invention

TT: As they say in my metaphorical neck of the woods: échec et mat.

Rose has perfected the art of being the PERFECT DAUGHTER, with SHARP WIT and almost AGGRESSIVE POLITENESS. She holds her STUDIES in high regard, even if her PERFECTIONISTIC STREAK threatens to burn her out. She has a reputation to uphold, after all. Her love of PUZZLES often has her challenging GAMZEE in duels of wits, though this rivalry is fairly ONE-SIDED.

As is befitting of an intellectual, Rose enjoys BOARD GAMES, holding a particular fondness for CHESS. She regularly takes PIANO LESSONS, striving to play as many songs above her technical level as possible. She primarily aspires to become a RENOWNED AUTHOR, though hesitates to show her work to any of her friends for fear of ANY KIND OF CRITICISM.

Rose's STACK Fetch Modus works exactly as it does in Homestuck proper. She doesn't wish to hassle her dad about buying her a new one, as clunky as her current Modus can be.

Rose's relationship with her DAD seems pleasant on the surface -- she speaks highly of her father figure, and he speaks highly of her. But there does seem to be a BLURRED LINE between how Rose believes she should behave around him, and how she truly feels about his sometimes OVERBEARING PATERNAL LOVE. There is still GENUINE CARE for him in Rose's heart, don't get it twisted, but it can get tiring OVERACHEIVING FOR HIS PRAISE as much as she does (not that she realises that she doesn't even need to).

The Land of WOODS AND INVENTION is a land covered in LUSH FOREST, which is conveniently an ample resource for the consorts of the planet to use for COUNTLESS INVENTIONS. In such a competitive market, it seems that this land's society cares more about UNIQUENESS than FUNCTION. All this TIMBER FELLING threatens to make the denizen EPIMETHEUS upset for some reason...

#homestuck #fosterquest au #rose egbert #hiveswap #kidswap

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fairyofshampgyu · 2 years ago

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Now live ! Stream: 6

Genre: smut, camboy au, college au, crack

Pairing: camboy! Beomgyu x gn reader (afab when smut)

Warnings: camboy, sub! beomgyu, dom! reader, dry humping, top! gyu, nipple play

Synopsis: Every Thursday night at 8pm, you tune into your favourite camboy: Angel313. What you don’t know is he even goes to the same uni as you, is in the same class as you and is Choi Beomgyu, the campus fuckboy but will you keep his secret?

Word count: 2.5k

You’d gotten a lot closer to taehyun and kai recently, coming over to hangout with them and beomgyu, playing board games and card games drunkenly for hours on end. They were extremely funny and you really gelled with Kai and taehyun, enjoying your new found friends thanks to beomgyu.

The christmas concert was only nearing as well, but you and beomgyu were certain it was going to go more than smoothly, having sorted pretty much everything for it and rehearsals sounding perfect with the ensemble now that everyone was confident on their parts. You were actually really excited for it.

You’ve also still been helping beomgyu film his streams and managing his channel, but you also showing up on his streams seemingly only a one time thing. You hadn’t really spoken about it since you fucked him, thinking it would be a little awkward. It was only a spur of the moment thing, right? But you do know that it had gained masses amounts of views and money since it was the first time anyone else had ever been with him and they all loved seeing him actually get fucked when it had just been him for the longest time. You’d see comments every now and then asking what happened to the other unknown person and that they really wanted to see them both again on a stream together.

“Y/n!! You’re playing against me! Come on!” Beomgyu calls out to you, grabbing the controller and tossing the other to you. You were currently at Kai’s place hanging out for the nth time this week, game chosen first for you all to play, the classic Tekken.

You roll your eyes but take a seat next to him, selecting your preferred character, beomgyu choosing Lee as you pick the map. You both narrow your eyes intensely and side eye each other as the words ‘GET READY FOR THE NEXT BATTLE!” played across the screen and your characters said their little cringey intro lines at each other, huening kai and taehyun whispering and placing bets, giggling behind you both like little schoolgirls as they excitedly watched.

“You’re going to get absolutely obliterated, y/n.” Beomgyu turns to you, cocky grin slowly etching onto his face as he dramatically gestures with his hand about slicing your neck.

“Shiver me timbers. You’re so scary.”

And so the trash talking ensues as you both intensely play the first round, landing hits and dodging attacks until beomgyu evilly and suspiciously laughs and then uses some weird combo and your character is dead. He laughs even more at your shocked face.

“Whatever. It’s only the first round, beomgyu.” You say, rolling your eyes at him.

And you start the second round, beomgyu somehow cornering you and repeatedly hitting blows to your character. “Looks like I’m about to win again, y/n.” Beomgyu smirks, very content and smug. But you somehow get out of it and corner his character instead, repeatedly kicking and punching until the words ‘K.O!’ appears for him.

“HA! Take that, you little bitch!” You turn to laugh now and mock him and kai and taehyun do the same to beomgyu, finding it hilarious.

Beomgyu huffs and sticks his tongue out. “You just got lucky.”

The final rounds seems like it last forever, both of you smashing the buttons at record speeds, tension in the air palpable, visibly sweating and Kai hiding behind taehyun in fear and anxiousness when it’s too tense, both of them letting out commentries and dramatic gasps.

You and beomgyu are on your last legs, either of you could die any second, both of you on the same level of health.

“Ahh! I can’t watch! I can’t watch!” Huening kai puts his hands up to cover the screen and taehyun does the same, screeching, not looking but looking.

You don’t know which one of you dies until the game yells ‘K.O!!!!’ and it’s your character.

Beomgyu dramatically jumps up from the sofa, hysterically screaming and laughing and running around the room that he won, doing a silly little dance and coming up close to you to teasingly pull faces.

He’s so annoying. You don’t know why you find yourself smiling a little instead at his antics though.

“Okay so which one of you bet on me winning!” Beomgyu points to taehyun and huening kai. “Ah really, I’m just too good. I bet both of you did.” Beomgyu flicks his hair.

“Um no one did…We didn’t think you’d win at all.”

Beomgyu gasps and clutches his chest, “I cannot believe this is how I get treated every day. No one has any faith in me!” Beomgyu dabs at fake tears. “I’m just a kind soul and I get bullied everyday by EVIL people.”

“I demand a rematch!” You shout, still not wanting to accept beomgyu won.

“No it’s our turn now! I’m not sitting through that again!” Taehyun says, him and kai taking the two controllers.

You sit close to beomgyu so you could both share the small blanket together, cozying up a bit too much, shoulders and legs touching but you liked it. It was nice and warm. It was only because the blanket wasn’t big enough anyway. You’ve found beomgyu being a lot more clingier lately though. You see huening Kai and taehyun exchange a knowing look. You wonder what that was about.

You were on a bench outside with Chaewon, hot drinks in both your shivering hands as you talked in between your lectures, chaewon waiting for her next one which would start in a few minutes.

You spot beomgyu with yeonjun and a group of people gushing and giggling around him again, watching as he smiled and talked animatedly.

“Y/n, remember he’s a fuckboy don’t fall for him.” Chaewon catches you staring, grinning.

“I’m not!”

“Really? Because it looks like you’re giving him ooga booga heart eyes.”

“What the f…I am not! A-and he’s different-“

“Oh no. You’re not turning into those weird, delusional ‘I can change him’ people are you? Please stop oh my god or I fear we can’t be friends for longer.”

“But he is different!”

“You’re way past the help stage, dear lord. You are delusional.”

You sigh, defeated and unable to try and make yourself not sound weird. It’s little times like these that you’d love to tell your friend chaewon what’s actually happening and that beomgyu is actually Angel but you can’t. You swore to beomgyu you wouldn’t tell anyone he’s a camboy.

“Anyway I gotta go now so see ya.” Chaewon says and you both get up, saying your goodbyes that actually turn into another long conversation and both of you eventually leaving to walk in opposite directions.

As you walk back to your place though, you feel a snowball hurled at your shoulder. You turn around, ready to scold whatever silly teenage boy thought it was funny to do that only to see beomgyu in return, badly hiding behind a tree and laughing and giggling uncontrollably. That’s it.

You chase after him as he shrieks, picking up snow from the grounds to mould into a ball and throwing it at him as he ducks behind trees, cold air shivering your skin but you felt some kind of warmth in your body when you saw beomgyu bounding ahead, his hair bouncing as he laughed, feet sinking into the snow as he tried to run but it was very slow since there was so much of the snow. Goddamn it. Why was he so annoying and endearing.

You both fire snowballs at each other until you make a particularly solid and heavy one, threatening to throw it at him as you grin.

“Y/n, that’s literally just a block of ice. Please. I’m too young and handsome to die!” Beomgyu puts his hands in surrender and fear.

But you throw it at him anyway, he makes a dramatic pained groan before taking his revenge and piling up an absolutely massive and densely packed one, maliciously smiling at you as he chases after you.

He hits at your back and you’re pretty sure it would actually leave some kind of mark, Jesus but see it as a great opportunity, fake collapsing to the ground, pretending to be hurt.

“HA HA—oh shit, y/n? Did you die?” Beomgyu runs to your lying self, feeling guilty and concerned. “Are you okay? I didn’t think it would be that hard I’m so sorry.” He searches your eyes anxiously and helps you up, holding your body close.

Then you let out a short chuckle until you can’t stifle it anymore and laugh manically, holding onto your stomach. Beomgyu blinks at you once, twice until he rolls his eyes when he realises and playfully shoves you back to the ground. “Got me worried over you for nothing, you evil shit!”

“You gotta admit it was funny.”

“Fuck you.” He shakes his head at you, mouth slowly curling into a grin.

As you both took turns showering at your place, ridding yourself of your cold and damp clothes, beomgyu sat on your bed with a serious gaze.

“Y/n. Let’s talk.”

“What about?”

“I know it might be too much to ask and you can say no but ever since we…fucked on that one stream we got a load of money and new viewers. It really blew up and they really want to see us both again, you probably noticed.” Beomgyu pauses, trying to articulate his words. “And…and I think we should do it again. Just doing solo can get boring after a while, there’s less you can play around with than with someone else and I think it’s a strong new direction to take on the channel. We’ll both be getting a lot more money. But you can definitely say no though! I totally get why you wouldn’t want to.” Beomgyu quickly adds, flying his hands in the air.

You know you had thought about it before but you’re not sure if you did actually want to be full on working with beomgyu like that, for everyone to see and open for people to say whatever they want. You know you’ve definitely seen some viewers say not very kind things to beomgyu sometimes and you would just report and filter them out. It could be a lot and also risky trying to hide personal information about yourself. But then again, you’d be making a lot of money and when you did do it, that one time, you have to admit you really liked it. You’d literally be fucking Angel, guy of your (wet) dreams for literal years and getting money for it.

“Okay. We can try it out and see.” Reluctantly, you nod your head.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. we can try and see how we feel about it. We could film it now, it’s a been while since a stream.”

So you both set the camera up, pressing the button to go live, already hundreds and hundreds of viewers swarming in and blowing up the comment section at the sight of you again, all of them excited and already tipping you both.

You straddle his lap and kiss him, trailing hot kisses down his neck as he softly moans at the contact of his crotch with you and starts humping up and rubbing up against you none stop, weakly holding onto your hips and whimpering into your mouth as you both continued to grind, rolling your hips on his and his dick only hardening in his pants as you both rutted against each other.

“Fuck me, baby.” You lay down on the bed and beomgyu stares at you dumbfounded between your legs.

“B-but I’ve never-” Beomgyu sheepishly averts your gaze.

“It’s okay, you’re so cute.” You hold onto his waist to bring him closer and stroke his wet dick a few times before you take it in your hand and bring it your entrance, moving forwards yourself to slowly sheath his dick into you, filling you up and beomgyu yelps at the feeling, body jerking.

He holds on to you tight, his face falling into the crook of your neck and moaning as you grip his hips, guiding him to fuck into you. Hips snapping into yours without experience and no rhythm and you can feel him practically drooling on your neck, already such a mess.

“S-so good…ah ahh…” Beomgyu eyes nearly roll out of his head as you grips his hips again and make him thrust into you so fast and hard and he lets out continuous strangled moans.

You pull at his hair to bring his face back up and away from your neck, he only looks at you with dazed eyes and a slurred groan as you roughly pull him into kiss, biting at his lower lip and he lets you dominate the kiss, still tugging at his hair.

“Can’t you fuck me better than this, Angel? Or are you just a pathetic virgin?” You pull away.

He shakes his head, lip wobbling, “I can, I can!” Beomgyu starts to try and fuck you harder, thrusts and pace becoming entirely erratic, rutting into you dumbly and cluelessly as tears roll down his heated cheeks in embarrassment and you know he won’t last long.

You move your hands up his chest and he shivers, pace staggering and chest heaving as you touch his nipples, flicking and rolling at the buds and he breathes heavily as he cries and moans, movements sloppy and desperate.

“C-can’t fuck you…am p-pathetic…” Beomgyu shakes his head and cries and wails, “close, gonna…”

You take one of his pretty nipples into your mouth and suck, swirling your tongue and your hand going to circle at your own clit so you can cum with him.

Beomgyu hides his face in your neck again, attempting to muffle his loud whine as he spills his cum all in your pussy as you do too, clamping around him and he stills his movements as he shakes, collapsing and holding onto you so tight as he gasps and tries to calm down his breathing.

You grab the camera again to film his pretty post-orgasm face, trying to pry his face and body away from you so you could film him but he doesn’t budge, refusing to let you go and instead, nuzzling his face more in your neck and clinging tighter onto you, whining at you for trying to get him off.

You switch the live off, cluelessly and a little awkwardly stroking his soft hair, “Gyu…we need to clean up.” But the only response you get is his soft snores. You sigh, knowing you’d have to be the one to clean you both up but you don’t have the heart to get him off you just yet, looking so cute absolutely knocked out. You can’t help caressing his soft cheek slowly with your thumb and he leans into it.

Please actually reblog !!!!!! and leave comments !!!! guys 😭 if you like the fic. It’s really appreciated and so nice tysm !<3🙏💕🌷🌷! It’s discouraging and sad when fics have such little reblogs ☹️👎🤨Feedback is always appreciated it makes writers want to actually write :) !

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sweetheartsnips · 7 days ago

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Daddy Cool - Chapter 1 : Jotaro Kujo

NSFW!

First of part of a small series I am working on! Tiny xReader one-shots for my favourite DILFS from JoJo's: - Jotaro Kujo - Diavolo - DIO - Norisuke Higashikata - Joseph Joestar

Chapter 1: Jotaro Kujo (Stone Ocean)

Summary: You are Jotaro's pretty co-worker and he gets off to the thought of you.

Tags: Masturbation, age difference (older man/younger woman), professor Jotaro, humiliation for him (kinda)

Words: 1.6k

Read on my ao3

Doctor Kujo had first met you in the faculty lounge. A pair of pretty eyes and a smiling face. But he had really noticed you in the lecture hall. It was supposed to be a simple guest lecture. You were a placeholder, filling in for him whilst he dealt with a timetable clash. The reproductive cycle of large cephalopods wasn’t exactly the most thrilling of topics, even for Marine Bio 121 students, but when he had snuck back into the theatre, you had them all wrapped around your finger.

You had stood at the front of the room, commanding attention with humble confidence and a friendly smile that he had never quite managed to master. There was no over-reliance on PowerPoint slides, no monotone, bland regurgitation of textbook chapters while students half-listened, fantasising about lunch. You had had them engaged– actually engaged.

There was passion twinkling in your eyes, in the way your hands had moved as you explained the intricate biological details of how a squid reproduces. It should have been ridiculous, really: standing there in a room full of half-asleep undergrads, talking about spermatophores and chromatophores with that kind of fervour. Instead, you looked absolutely enthralled. Like this was the most interesting thing in the world to you. And you were pretty damn convincing.

Maybe he should have been focused on that, on what he could learn from you as an academic, but his thoughts kept snagging on other details. The way your blazer fit just right, well-tailored and cinched at the waist, the fabric pulling ever so slightly across the front when you gestured wide. The smooth line of your legs in the dark pantyhose as you paced, small court heels clacking against the timber floor, seemingly effortlessly holding their attention. The way your eyes lit up with excitement when a student asked you a question.

Of course, he had never mentioned any of this to you. Doctor Kujo just thanked you for covering his ass, nodded along when students gushed about how good of a teacher you were. But after that, he found reasons to sit in on your lectures to your own classes. To watch the way you made even the driest topics feel vital. And if his gaze lingered on you a little too long when you turned to write on the board—well, maybe he just really liked your handwriting too. That was it.

But in the quiet of the evening, when he stepped through his front door, body full of tension, what had been haphazardly brushed off as quiet admiration had now become something that he was absolutely ashamed of. It was then, alone in the dim hush of his home, that Doctor Kujo lost his dignity.

His erection was already tenting in his pants, straining against the fabric, hot and insistent.

He couldn’t.

No.

Guilt curled tight in his stomach, shame clawing at the edges of his restraint. He shouldn’t be thinking about you like this, not here, not now, not behind your back like this. You were a colleague, a fellow educator. Beautiful, cute, younger than him.

But it seemed his body had already decided for him.

He couldn’t even wait until he was alone in bed.

The belt was off, buckle unfastening with a little clink. Pants shoved down to his knees, breath coming short and uneven as he braced himself against the bathroom sink. Knuckles paling as he held the crisp white porcelain hard enough to almost break. His reflection in the mirror was a disgrace—lips parted, brow furrowed, jaw clenched against the weight of something both desperate and humiliating.

God, it had been so long.

Since his divorce, since he’d last felt anything close to this—want, need, something raw enough to hollow him out from the inside. To stir his insides and spoon them out like some sort of fucking fruit.

Was he really this pathetic? Apparently so.

His grip tightened on the sink, his spare hand hastily scrambling to squirt some lotion on his hand with horny urgency.

Your voice was still in his head—clear as it had been in the lecture hall, warm with enthusiasm, bright with something almost tender as you spoke about something as mundane as squid. You had been enthralled, and now—fuck, so was he.

Balling his hand into a fist, he pressed his thick, leaking tip into the slick vice, squeezing a little around the full girth of his shaft. He couldn’t help but hiss through his teeth at the relief. He had been to one of your lectures this afternoon, and he had been hard since. He needed this.

He didn’t waste any time. He started fucking his fist with rough, urgent strokes, resting his forehead against the cool glass of the mirror, each ragged, shaky breath feeling like a confession, a betrayal.

He clamped his eyes shut, as if that could stop the images flooding his brain. Jotaro imagined how your tight cunt would squeeze around his fingers–his cock. How messy your face would be if he took you in missionary: how your cute doe eyes would glaze over as he wrecked you, how your jaw would go slack, mouth hanging open in a lewd, breathless moan. How your boobs would bounce in time with his thrusts. He’d fuck you so hard. He wanted to ruin you.

The guilt sat heavy in his chest, warring with his desire and a heady mix of forbidden need. His hips jerked forward into his own grasp, movements bordering on frantic now, shame and want now tangled too tight to separate. He was so lost.

He let go of the sink, bringing his hand to his mouth to shut himself up. His knuckles pressed against his teeth, biting down hard, a useless attempt to keep quiet.

Why?

There was no one home. Jolyne was at her mother’s. No one to hear him, no one to witness his descent into this mess of lust and shame. He could be as loud as he wanted. Let his moans spill out into the empty space of his house. Yell out your name if he damn well pleased.

But he didn’t.

The shame was too much. Instead, small whispers and moans of your name slipped from his lips like a quiet prayer.

“Please, baby…..baby girl.”

The vague images in his mind of you on your back morphed into him bending you over the mahogany of his desk. Your skirt hiked up the back of your thighs, scrunched up around your waist. Your tummy pressed against the wood, your perfect French tips scratching the varnish, how you would look at him if he grabbed a handful of your hair and forced your head back. His handprint on your ass.

Pathetic. He was absolutely pathetic . Here he was, rutting into his own hand like a desperate man at the thought of his cute co-worker that was far too young to ever be interested in him. He was jacking himself off like a teenage boy, like he hadn’t been touched in years—because he hadn’t.

But he wasn’t stopping now. Hell, he was too far gone.

Small Japanese curses left his lips as he felt himself get close. Moaning around his finger, husky and wanton. He bit down hard, hips snapping forward into his fist, chasing that inevitable, deliciously terrible release.

Not bothering to breathe properly, just little strained exhales, and the squelch of the lotion that he imagined was coming from the wetness of your pussy were the only sounds that filled the room. His thighs trembled. His stomach tightened. The tension coiled so tight inside him that for a moment, he thought he might choke.

He braced himself against the vanity, panting, head bowed. Breath fogging up the mirror. His skin felt too hot, flushed with something ugly and raw. Searing shame and embarrassment.

Each glide of his palm over his knob, how the butt of his hand brushed up against his balls at the bottom of each stroke, your image behind his eyelids. Fuck, he was going to lose the plot.

Your voice bounced around in his ears:

“Cum for me, Doctor Kujo…”

What? He tried to bury that thought under his lust, but it was far too late for that.

He broke.

His whole body went tense and taut, pleasure crashing over him in thick, powerful waves. His hands trembled, and he moaned like he was a girl in a porn video, breathless, weak syllables of your name, over and over. Thick, viscous ropes of cum spurted and pulsed out of his cock and into his hand, all of the pent-up desire for you leaving his body as if it were his atonement.

His sounds were hardly muffled by his attempts to do so. Embarrassing, needy whimpers escaping from around his finger. He sighed, as if that could rinse the shame from his soul.

For a long moment, all he could do was stand there, panting, his body spent and balls empty, his mind reeling. There was none of the clarity he usually got after getting off. Only heavy, gnawing, shame that scratched at his conscience.

He forced his eyes open, met his own gaze in the mirror. And there it was again, the weight in his chest, the flush of heat that had cooled too fast. Warm, sticky semen dripped over his knuckles, stark and damning in the dim bathroom light. The undeniable proof of what he had just done.

He let out a slow, uneven breath, dragging his clean hand down his face.

He needed a cigarette.

#jojo no kimyou na bouken #jotaro kujo x reader #jotaro kujo stone ocean #jjba stone ocean #jjba smut #jjba x reader smut #jjba x reader #jotaro kujo #dilf jotaro #i am not well in the head i think

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honest-moth-of-silver-grove · 1 year ago

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I can't wait for the next part of the trio saving werewolf!reader it was so good!

Ask: I can't wait for the next part of the trio saving werewolf!reader it was so good!

Ask: Hi! Just read part one of what is hopefully a mini-series of the trio x werewolf reader, and I can’t wait to see what happens next. If you like some suggestions on how to continue: maybe part two could be about the Reader learning how to be free, or perhaps the Trio helping reader recover enough to be able to shift back to being a human? Either way, can’t wait to see what else you have planned. Thank you so much!

[Combining the two asks here.]

A/N: My toxic trait? Answering asks for Part 2s of something I wrote over a year ago and then promptly abandoned lol. (To Read Part 1 to refresh your memory, like I had to do, click here [x].)

✥ ✥ ✥

“Do you think they’ll ever be able to turn back?” Sypha asked from where she stood, in one of the many rows of bookshelves lining the Belmont hold.

Several levels below her, Trevor grunted as he hauled large pieces of shattered support beams to the base of the main staircase. “It’s impressive how sentient they are now, being a were-creature and all.”

“Yes, but they don’t want to stay a creature for the rest of their lives.”

“Well, life isn’t always fucking fair,” Trevor cursed, half-out of breath, as he began lugging the large beam up the stairs.

“I’m fairly certain she knows that,” Alucard intervened, entering the main chamber, having just arrived fresh off the newly built lift he installed. “Speakers see far more suffering than most people, seeing as they believe it is their duty to help the less fortunate.”

“How’s the lift?” Sypha asked, coming over to the railing. “Does it work? Were the calculations correct?”

Alucard nodded. “I needed to modify a few measurements, considering the potential excess weight load-”

“We’re not that heavy,” Trevor interrupted. “Or do you plan to start bringing villagers in by the dozen and give tours?”

Alucard narrowed his eyes at Trevor. “I was considering the repairs that need to be done for all the damage the night creatures inflicted. Unless of course, you’d prefer to drag that thing up yet another hundred feet.”

Trevor huffed, refusing to show his fatigue. “What? This old thing?” He locked his knees to keep them from buckling. “Can barely feel it.”

Sypha rolled her eyes. “Could the two of you stop competing for one second?! We’re supposed to be looking for ways to help our friend!”

Admitting defeat, Trevor dropped the large piece of timber at the next landing. “Sypha, we’ve been at it for months. Every book says the same thing: only the shapeshifter can cause a shift at will. Outside of whoever cursed them with the affliction undoing it themselves. Or killing the shapeshifter and using death magic to alter their form post-mortem, there’s nothing any of us can do.”

Accepting her friend had a point, Sypha took one of the adjoining bridges, healing toward Trevor as he stopped to catch his breath.

“I could freeze that beam and toss it out you know,” she gestured to where Alucard currently stood.

“The last time you did that, we ended up with a giant hole in the ground.”

“That wasn’t me, that was the night creatures.”

“But you did break the castle,” Alucard countered. “All of the gears were melted.”

“I did not! I do not break things. I am a Speaker, I fix things!”

Alucard chuckled, sharing a knowing look with Trevor. For as knowledgeable as she was, she certainly had a hard time admitting when she was wrong.

“In either case, it will take years to repair, even with my vampiric speed and strength. Dracula engineered those cogs and wheels over several centuries, often hiring the best blacksmiths around.”

The trio boarded the lift together, Trevor having decided to leave the broken beam behind for another day.

“They worked here? With him?” Sypha asked.

“The castle’s forge is quite extensive. And no matter their level of skill, I doubt any local blacksmith’s forge would be large enough to mold such immense gears. They could only manage such creation within the walls of the castle.”

Trevor scoffed. “Did they know who they were working for?”

“I’m certain they had suspicions, but I doubt my Fath-, Dracula ever told them the truth.”

“That’s-” Trevor started.

“Sad,” Sypha finished for him. “To be alone all that time. To not be able to tell anyone who you are.”

The ingenious pulley system lift finally came to a stop as it became level with the forest ground outside the Belmont hold.

“Is that why you wish to help them so badly?” Alucard asked, referring to their new werewolf companion. “You feel they’re lonely?”

“Well they were lonely, back in that cage, in that life,” Sypha reminded her friends, as Alucard locked the lift in place.

“They seem better now,” Trevor remarked, being the first to disembark. “After all, you keep bugging them every day, they’re hardly lonely.”

Sypha elbowed him, lovingly. “I do not bug them. They enjoy my company.”

“You keep forgetting Speakers are used to traveling in large groups,” Alucard reminded Belmont, once again, as the trio made their way back toward the entrance of the castle. “It’s shocking how much you've forgotten, the two of you being companions and all.”

“The three of us being companions,” Sypha placed a reassuring hand on Alucard’s shoulder.

The dhampir gave a soft smile at the Speaker’s action before averting his eyes. Stepping out of her embrace, he started to ascend the many stone steps at the front of the castle.

“It’s about time for dinner. Let me see what I can cook up.”

✥

It had been a few months since the trio and their newfound companion arrived back home at Castlevania. Most of that time was spent with Sypha and Trevor bickering over how best to treat their new friend, while Alucard dedicated his time in between assessing the broken mechanisms of the castle to reading all of the tomes his father had collected on shapeshifting. Unfortunately, all roads pointed in the same direction: it was up to their friend to shift themselves back.

At the present moment their werewolf friend, or Wynn, as they liked to be called, was resting in one of the many castle bedrooms. Their furry body was sprawled out over the entire length of the mattress, as they lazily tracked falling specks of dust around with their big puppy-dog eyes.

Despite spending so much time resting, they felt exhausted this evening. It was as if the last few months of recovery meant nothing!

‘I don’t know why I’m so tired,’ they thought, shifting to curl up in a tighter ball.

Finally shutting their eyes, they made one final wish before drifting off to sleep, the same wish they had been making every night for god knows how long.

‘Please let me be human when I wake up, please.’

✥

The sun had barely peaked over the horizon. Trevor and Alucard had woken up early to finally start clearing the major debris from the Belmont hold using the newly designed lift. So far Alucard had cleared twelve large beams while Trevor had managed to remove seven. Not that it was a competition or anything. It was at this point that Sypha had come to join them.

“Well if it isn’t Sleeping Beauty, finally come to grace us humble footmen with her presence,” Trevor ribbed.

“Nice pile,” Sypha gestured to Trevor’s lesser stack laid out next to Alucard’s.

Trevor snorted. “Nice comeback.”

Sypha crossed her arms. “I had a very long night last night. Which was entirely your fault by the way.”

“My fault?” Trevor guffawed. “No no, I believe that last round was your fault.”

Alucard, who had been watching amusedly from the sides, chose this moment to step in. “No, she’s right, I recall you were the one enticing us into that last round.”

“Well, it’s not my fault if- hey,” Trevor suddenly straightened his back, and pointed to something in the distance. “Who’s that?”

Both Alucard and Sypha turned around to see who Trevor was referring to. Almost immediately, Sypha clasped her hands together happily and began running over to meet this ‘stranger’.

“Looks like Sypha wasn’t the last one to wake up,” Alucard nudged Trevor to come along.

“No, but seriously, who the hell is that?” Trevor asked Alucard, keeping his wits about him.

“You’re joking.”

“I’ve never seen that person before in my life.”

“That’s because you’ve never seen them before as a human.”

Sypha, having finally reached Wynn where they stood, proudly and excitedly in their human form, pulled them in for a big hug. Clasping each other in a tight embrace, the two companion’s eyes began to water.

“It’s so good to finally see you, my friend!” Sypha laughed, hugging Wynn closer.

“It’s so good to be seen!” Wynn answered back, clearly overjoyed.

After a good long moment, Sypha finally let go, turning around to face the boys. “Look who it is!”

Wynn gave a polite wave, suddenly overcome by shyness under the focus of all three of their friends. “Um, hi? It’s nice to finally meet you.”

Alucard stuck his hand out for a handshake, which Wynn eagerly accepted. “Likewise.”

Sensing Trevor’s hesitation, Wynn outstretched their hand to Trevor.

Shaking his head, Trevor grasped Wynn’s hand and pulled them in for a hug, nearly knocking them off their feet.

Speechless and touched by Trevor’s gesture, Sypha shot a knowing look at Alucard.

Despite being their gruff, sarcastic, and sometimes slower friend, Trevor really was like a teddy bear deep, deep underneath that jaded exterior. Sure, very few would ever come to know it unless they were close to him, but that made the trio’s relationship all the more special. And it was a very telling sign that Trevor was able to let his guard down for the sake of their new friend.

It was as if at that very moment, the trio had become a quartet. And Wynn couldn’t be happier to finally be a part of it.

#castlevania imagine #castlevania fanfiction #trephacard x reader #trephacard imagine #castlevania trio x reader #castlevania #os #werewolf!reader

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staticspaces · 5 months ago

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Late 19th Century Italianate Farmhouse

You can find the video tour here!!

youtube

Let's start off this huge abandoned farmhouse by taking a look at some exterior views as well as the smaller apartment on the back side of the house!!

In one of the fastest growing areas of the country, there is no shortage of abandoned buildings. Everything from farmhouses to mansions or even large shopping malls and most of them get demolished. They are often only vacant for a short time until they are replaced with large condo towers, rows of townhouses, single family homes on tiny lots and huge warehouses that line the land close to highways. But sometimes, land is bought for infrastructure too and such is the case for this once sprawling farmland and its buildings.

Built between 1846 and 1877 this Italianate style farmhouse has stood for more than 150 years. It is a a two and one half storey structure with a fieldstone foundation, it has a cross gable roof, red brick cladding and multiple porches with decorative wood trim.

The barn has a 19th century section with a gabel roof with hand hewn beams and posts. The addition to the barn built in 1930 has a timber frame structure with a gambrel roof.

Fortunately, both the barn and farmhouse have heritage designation and will be saved for a future project. The clock is ticking…when I first found this location, it was in pristine condition but since then, the vandals and the thieves have found it. With significant damage taking place, the house has since been boarded up in order to protect it from further deterioration.

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on-a-mechtechnicality · 10 months ago

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Idol

The morning sun illuminated the DropShips towering over the encampment and Sigrid was making her way ‘home’. The mess tent was disappearing behind her and the sounds of the camp faded along with it to be replaced by the din of people working around the towering vessels.

She boarded, finding herself in the small human-sized corridors that made the ship feel almost cramped. The feeling didn’t last as she soon found herself face to face with the cavern that was the MechLab. It looked big from up in the overlook, where she could see the entire area, but from here on ground level she didn’t think she’d ever get used to it.

Every single Bay was lit up and most had ‘Techs working on repairing the damaged machines inside. Despite this, one of them seemed cloaked in shadow. No light reflected onto the walkway in front, and from where she just entered she couldn’t see into the Bay.

The moment she could though, it all made sense.

Sigrid blinked.

Siggy opened her eyes and bounced to the mirror. In it she saw a girl with a great big mop of unruly red hair. She sat down and brushed and brushed and brushed, and then started braiding, just like Mom had showed her. Each strand meticulously on display.

Behind her on the wall hung her dream. On the left of the twin posters an impressive looking ‘Mech stepped out of a blazing inferno. Legs bending backwards, striding resolutely forward with two arms and great big rocket pods on its shoulders.

Beside it was a much more sedate but much more interesting dream. The same ‘Mech, now laid out in excruciating detail in an exploded technical view. Sometimes when she couldn’t sleep, she looked over the poster to read all the things she read a thousand times. Where the actuators were, where the sensors were, every single line on the diagram committed to memory, familiar and comforting.

And then she blinked again.

In front of her, black as a moonless night, stood her dream. A towering and proud machine, dormant but steadfast. Almost… alive.

The engineering on the foot in front of her was masterful, if she looked close enough she could see every piece of articulation, not a rivet out of place despite the well-worn look. Her eyes drifted from the trifold feet to the massive calf actuators and then further up. To the upper legs, the sleek torso and the arm actuators ending in dual hardpoints.

She couldn’t see the missile banks, but she knew them. She could see every familiar component, every single caption from her posters on Utrecht.

It didn’t just live up to her expectations, this machine exceeded it.

Blink. Work to do.

Sigrid synced her tablet with the docket and looked over her assigned tasks.

MechTech: Sigrid Guntran Initial assignment: Timber Wolf ‘Death Knell’ Bay: 8 Work order: right torso; replace armor plating right torso; general maintenance Full systems check Notes: Sigrid, sorry to put this on ya last minute, but I know you can do it! I’m trying to keep low so the MedTechs don’t get me. -Karrie

She looked down at her tablet, and then up at her dream. Part of her wondered if this was real, and another part supplied that she was currently working on an SLDF DropShip, deep in the Rimward periphery, on a hostile planet, under the command of a beautiful avian woman so old that the show she was on with the other Clan totem warriors – who were also here – was considered a historical record.

Working on an actual Timber Wolf didn’t seem so odd anymore.

She climbed up to the catwalk and found the Bay controls. From up here she could see the majesty that was the Timber Wolf from its rear angles, a dark void contrasted against the bright industrial lighting of the MechLab. She knew every angle, every single curve of the machine’s panelling by heart.

As the platform on the ‘Mech’s right side was lowering into position, she moved around to follow it. Panning down from the side she could see where the torso armor had taken the hits. Large chunks were warped or missing, open wounds showing the delicate internals that thankfully seemed to be in good shape. How good a shape she would have to find out later. Right now, the armor needed to come off.

She knew the automated arms could be more efficient, but they weren’t as accurate as handheld power tools. A machine of this caliber deserved those. She let the winch above her come down. Before connecting the straps onto the armor she placed a hand on the wounded ‘Mech.

“We’ll get you fixed up, don’t you worry.”

She hooked the straps to the attachment points in the armor and tensioned the lines. Bit by bit she carefully detached the panel until only the tension from above held them in place. Then it was just a light pull until it started moving.

She slowly guided the crane to move the panel out of the way and safely to the floor level of the Bay, out of the way of the walkway. A tap or two on her tablet flagged it for repairs. A forklift would be along soon.

With the panel out of the way she could see the underlying internals, sleek steel pipes contrasting harshly and beautifully against the black of the surrounding panels. And she knew them.

She knew the coolant from the lubricant from the hydraulics from the electronics at a glance, the labels only confirming what she already knew. Every conduit flowed like a symphony around the frame.

Around the places the armour had been gauged, she looked a little closer. Signs of damage would be hard to spot among the labyrinth of angles, but a visual inspection was part of the troubleshooting process. Her eyes danced over each line, following them from one end of the panel gap to where they snaked back into the ‘Mech’s interior.

All looked clear and secure, Clan engineering ensuring that even in the event of armor breach, the primary systems would not be easy to take out. Let alone the secondary and tertiary.

The systems looked undamaged, so she let the platform carry her down, just in time to see the panel being driven to the manufacturing wing. She followed along, not minding that she couldn’t keep up with the forklift. It’d give them some time to offload before she showed up. The difference in time between walking and driving was significant when dealing with this much space. Sigrid enjoyed the walks though, the Bay in operation was a soothing cacophony of all the different tools interacting with every material under the sun.

The armor repair itself was repetition more than anything. Identify a damaged subpanel. Remove the damaged subpanel. Find a suitable sized replacement. Shape the replacement. Attach the replacement. Repeat.

The capstone was the painting. It needed to match the existing color scheme, and match it well. Fresh paint also looked different from worn paint, but that was nothing they couldn’t handle. In the brochure it had never said that being an artist was part of being a MechTech, but the surprise had been a pleasant one.

The paint fresh but no longer wet, she followed the forklift back to Bay 8. It was already hoisted up and ready to be placed. She considered the automated tools, but for installation the accuracy was even more important than for removal, and handheld tools were king.

The work was honestly calming to Sigrid, alone up on the platform, grafting new skin onto the wounded ‘Mech in front of her. Bit by bit she circled around the edge of the panel until everything looked like she never touched it at all.

She climbed back onto the catwalk where her equipment was stored. She took out her neurohelmet and opened the compartment on her toolkit where she kept her soft tools. She knew them by heart, but looking through them helped remind her which ones she had available should the need arise.

The hop from the catwalk to the top of the Timber Wolf was not a big one. The matte black paint on the armor made it a little harder to judge. What made it really hard to make the jump though, was that Sigrid knew what she was about to do.

She was about to hop on top of a Timber Wolf. She was about to open the latch and lower herself inside. She already knew what it would look like, she knew the view from the cockpit, she knew the exact dimensions of the enclosure.

And that made it all the more daunting.

Gathering her will in her mind and her grip on her neurohelmet, she took the hop.

She was standing on top of a Timber Wolf. She was working on it, it was her work. It was her dream. She unlocked the hatch and allowed herself to slip inside.

Inside the ‘Mech it was quiet. No hum from the reactor, no sound arrived from the outside. There was just Sigrid, trying to calm her breathing, and the terrifying, loving embrace of a dream.

Her mind knew the startup sequence of a ‘Mech. Her fingers danced this dance before. And yet she couldn’t stop trembling as she toggled the first switch.

Bay power to auxiliary generator.

The high-pitched whine of the generator filled the cockpit. It was reassuring, it was terrifying, it was exhilarating.

Flick.

Auxiliary power to emergency lighting.

The lights around her came online. Dim compared to the view through the cockpit, but plenty bright enough to see by.

Auxiliary power to diagnostic systems.

Screens flickered to life. White text flew over a black background as the ‘Mech rose from slumber. Not awake yet, but no longer asleep. Sigrid listened to the whine and the soft clicks performing a symphony of self-tests. The ‘Mech checked its pressures, checked every single one of its connections in a lightning-fast choreography of every system it could access.

The text scrolled by faster than she could read, but she wasn’t looking for text. She was looking for colors. She was looking for the orange that signified a warning, the angry red that signified a fault. Her heartbeat punctuated the soundscape as seconds ticked past.

And then nothing.

No more text flying by, nothing more to focus her attention on. Just a single phrase that was both the best thing she could have read and the most disappointing.

Self-test: 100% Warnings: 0 Errors: 0 System status: OK

No need to diagnose further, it would not be time well spent. It would be time spent with her dream, but that didn’t matter.

She powered down the ‘Mech, returning it to cold and dark status. Ready for when it would be needed again. She picked her neurohelmet from where she set it down and held it in her hands. She stared at the visor.

Reflected in it she could see a woman with red hair in a tight bun, sitting inside the cockpit of a Timber Wolf. Her dream.

She sighed and rotated the helmet around. With trembling hands she placed it on her head.

She wasn’t plugged in.

The ‘Mech was powered down.

She had better things to do.

Siggy closed her eyes. It didn’t matter.

She had her helmet on

Made from an old football helmet, Utrecht Kodiaks logo covered with silver tape

She could see the canopy in front of her

Made from a laundry basket, tipped on its side

She knew exactly where the missile pods were

Two cardboard boxes, placed on the sofa behind her

She was in the cockpit of a Timber Wolf.

The beat of her heart and the sound of her breath were the only things accompanying her for this moment in time, etching itself into her memory as her visor slowly fogged up without the air circulation connected.

She took off her helmet and held it in her hands, staring into the condensed visor one last time. There was work to be done.

She extracted herself from the cockpit and closed the hatch beneath her.

The hop from the ‘Mech onto the catwalk was both easier and harder than the other way. She landed with a soft impact of her work boots.

She placed her helmet with her toolkit and sat down on the upper catwalk, out of sight of anyone working, staring at her dream.

She raised her tablet. Four taps was all it took.

Work order complete

@jaded-falcon

#battletech #mechwarrior #story event

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ironwoman359 · 7 months ago

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A Thief's Gamble - Ch. 10

...Has a Silver Lining

Prev: Ch.9 Every Cloud... || Next: Ch.11 Misdirection Fic Masterpost

Fic Summary: Brynjolf is certain that the only way the Thieves Guild will return to its glory days is by bringing in new, talented members. Unfortunately, Mercer doesn't agree, and it's not like Brynjolf's latest attempts at recruiting have gone well. But when he meets a stranger in the marketplace one morning, he's willing to take the risk and bring her on board....only time will tell if his gamble pays off.

Chapter Summary: Brynjolf finds Ariene in Falkreath, and after helping her out of a jam, the two prepare to storm the bandit camp at Pinewatch to retrieve a stolen silver mold for their client Endon.

Content: Brynjolf POV, Thieves Guild quest spoilers, game typical violence.

Ships: Brynjolf x Dragonborn OC (slowburn)

Word Count: 4,203

Check the reblogs for a link to read on AO3!

— — —

Brynjolf swore he could feel time slowing as all eyes in the inn landed on him. The few other patrons didn’t bother to hide their stares as they watched the growing drama unfold, and the Legate he’d confronted was glaring at him with enough ferocity to kill a sabre cat. Even Ariene was staring, though she let her shock show on her face for only a moment.

“Now brother,” she said loudly, catching on to Brynjolf’s ruse immediately. “There's no need to cause a scene. Legate Skulnar and I were simply having a…disagreement.”

Legate Skulnar looked back and forth between the two, skepticism written plainly on his face.

“Brother?” he asked, shrugging Brynjolf’s hand off his shoulder with a snarl. “I don’t see much resemblance between the two of you, kinsman.”

Brynjolf silently cursed the fact that Ariene’s features were so distinctly imperial before giving the Legate his best eyebrow raise.

“Half-brother, if you must know. My father took an imperial wife after my own ma died; not that it’s any of your business, sir.”

Legate Skulnar didn’t look convinced, and Ariene stepped forward deftly, standing so that she was next to Brynjolf and no longer backed into the corner.

“I tried to explain to the Legate that I was here on business, but he wouldn’t listen,” she said. “Insisted I was some kind of runaway from the legion. As if ‘Ariene’ isn’t one of the most common Imperial names of the last decade.”

Brynjolf had no idea if that was true or not, but he supposed that if he didn’t, then Skulnar might not either.

“The legion?” he repeated with a laugh. “Ari’s ma is in the timber business. Why else would we come to this little splinter of a city? Certainly not for the hospitality.”

The Legate was still clearly suspicious, but Brynjolf saw the moment that he realized that his catch had slipped away. The gaze of the other patrons had turned from Brynjolf to Skulnar, and while he could arrest the both of them right there, it definitely wouldn’t do him any favors with the locals. Falkreath’s allegiances did technically lie with the empire, but this was due more to the Jarl’s personal greed than the consensus of the citizens, and Brynjolf would be willing to bet that keeping up a good image for the Legion was one of the Legate’s top priorities.

“Fine,” Skulnar eventually growled. “You can move along. But I’ll be keeping my eye on the two of you while you’re here, is that understood?”

“Yes sir,” Brynjolf drawled, his tone anything but respectful, and Skulnar glared.

“Stop antagonizing him, brother,” Ariene said, taking his arm. “Come, let me tell you about the spot I found in the woods. It’s a perfect place to plant our next business venture.”

She led him to a tiny room off the side of the bar, motioning for him to shut the door behind him. As soon as they were alone, she dropped his arm and put her hands on her hips, raising an eyebrow at him.

“Brother?” she repeated, and Brynjolf shrugged.

“I wanted to distract him from who you are. Passing you off as a Skyrim native seemed the best bet, considering the circumstances.”

“I suppose since it worked, I can’t complain too much…” Ariene trailed off, her expression changing as she gave Brynjolf a once over. “By the Nine, Bryn, what happened to you?”

It was then that Brynjolf remembered that his clothes were still torn and muddy, that his hair was a stringy mess falling into his eyes, and that there were still traces of the makeshift blood on his face. He'd probably looked like a madman, stalking up to a Legate and challenging him right there in the inn.

“Oh, right,” he said, wiping a few flecks of the red-stained mud from his cheek. “This is nothing, I just had to pull one over on some bandits camping out in Helgen. No actual fighting was done.”

Ariene sighed, then sat on the edge of her bed, gesturing for Brynjolf to sit in the room’s only chair.

Brynjolf sat, frowning at her.

“Are you alright, lass?”

“I’m fine,” she said, rubbing her eyes. “It’s just been a long few weeks. Gulum-Ei is a stubborn son of a bitch, and traveling in the Reach right now is a nightmare. Those ‘Forsworn’ are around just about every other hill. Then there’s this nonsense with the Markarth job, and to top it all off that Legate out there’s been on my ass for the past three days. I was certain I was going to have to have a mysterious ‘accident’ in the woods and disappear to get away from him.”

“Now that sounds time consuming,” Brynjolf said. “I’m glad I showed up when I did so we could avoid it.” His tone was light, playful, but Ariene wouldn’t look directly at him as she spoke.

“I wasn’t sure you’d make it,” she admitted in a quiet voice. “I worried that the message would arrive too late, or that you wouldn’t understand the code, or…”

She trailed off, but Brynjolf heard the unspoken doubt loud and clear.

I wasn’t sure you’d even come.

“One of the Guild’s best and brightest calls in for backup?” She looked up at him and he smiled at her, causing a faint blush to rise to her cheeks. “Of course I came, lass. And your code was perfect. The little clue about the First of Frostfall was a neat trick.”

“Thank you,” she said, then cleared her throat. “Honestly, I wouldn’t have bothered to encode it at all, but Skulnar was already suspicious of me, and I was worried he’d confiscate the letter from the courier.”

“I wouldn’t have put it past him,” Brynjolf agreed. “But you didn’t even mention him in your note. Which means that what you need help with has nothing to do with the Legion, and everything to do with bandits and this silversmith job. Tell me about it.”

Ariene nodded, and just like that, she was all business, every trace of worry and doubt vanishing from her in an instant.

“I went to Markarth to meet the client, Endon. I was expecting some kind of job targeting a competitor of his, or perhaps a robbery to bring some extra cash flow to his business. But no.” She shook her head ruefully. “He wants us to raid a bandit camp to retrieve a stolen item.”

Brynjolf raised an eyebrow.

“Isn’t that a job for the Jarl’s guards? Or even the Companions?” he asked, and Ariene sighed.

“Apparently, all official channels are too busy with the civil war and Forsworn attacks. I guess he heard that the Guild was returning to power and figured ‘who better to steal back something that was stolen?’ Their camp is at the base of the mountain range just northeast of here.”

“You’ve staked the place out?” Brynjolf asked, and Ariene nodded.

“This is the problem: it’s not a normal camp. There’s this old woodcutter’s hut in the forest, and I’m convinced it’s bigger than it seems. I’ve seen more men go in and out over the past three days than should be able to fit comfortably inside.”

“Maybe it’s connected to some kind of cave system,” Brynjolf mused, and Ariene nodded again.

“My thoughts exactly. But if that’s true, I have no way of knowing how many opponents I’m dealing with until I’m already inside. That’s why I wrote to you for help…though I was prepared to attempt the raid alone if I got no response in a few days.”

“Well, I’m glad I made it before you tried something like that,” Brynjolf repeated. “So when do you want to make your move? Tonight?”

“Tomorrow,” Ariene replied. “I think we both could use some sleep. Besides, the best time to hit them would probably be midmorning. From what I can tell, that’s when most of them come out to do…whatever it is bandits do during the day. Pillage, and so on.”

“Sounds like a plan, lass,” Brynjolf said, getting to his feet. “Now, what kind of drink do they serve here?”

They ordered a small meal, and since talking about business in the open areas of the inn seemed a foolhardy choice, they spent the rest of the evening having a mostly improvised conversation about their imaginary family members back in Riften.

As they talked, Brynjolf noticed the tension slowly bleeding out of Ariene’s shoulders, and he found himself relaxing as well, for what he realized was the first time in weeks. It was fun, sitting by the fire with a drink in his hand and making up stories about how Cousin Joric had fallen into the breeding pool at the Riften Fishery and thus was sentenced to a week of floor scrubbing. Being on a con again– even one as simple as pretending to be a family of timber workers– was energizing, and he couldn’t help but smile as he and Ariene shared a block of cheese and traded tales.

Despite his long day, Brynjolf found sleep that night to be elusive. Lying in one of the inn’s creaky beds and staring at the ceiling, he could feel the anticipation rising in his chest. Tomorrow, they would head into the woods to face down an entire encampment of bloodthirsty bandits. And this time, he probably couldn’t trick his way out of dealing with them.

— — —

The next morning, Ariene led the way through the woods to where the bandits had made their base. Brynjolf realized he’d never actually seen her out in the field besides that first job in the marketplace, and was impressed by how silently the lass moved through the dense underbrush of the old forests of Falkreath. He typically associated thieves with back alleys and city streets, but he supposed that Ariene’s history as a mercenary in her father’s crew had garnered her plenty of experience with the wilderness.

It didn’t take them long to reach what on the outside looked like a perfectly convincing woodcutter’s hut, and they crouched down in the bushes across the road to watch the door. Sure enough, clusters of bandits began exiting the hut, a few at a time spread out across the morning. About half of those who left headed up the road to the east, while the other half took the road west, and Brynjolf could picture them meeting up with their fellows and staging traps for unsuspecting travelers.

“Alright, lass,” he said in a low voice once it had been a good half hour since anyone left the cabin. “How do you want to handle this?”

“If there really is a secret passageway, then they’ve probably left at least one man left inside to guard it,” Ariene replied. “It’s what I’d do. I say we go in through the front here, take the guard by surprise if we can, and figure out our next move from there.”

Brynjolf nodded, and once they were sure there was no one else on the road to see them, they both rose to their feet and made their way to the cottage door. Ariene’s picks made quick work of the lock, and she looked up at Brynjolf, a question in her eyes.

He nodded to her and she pulled the door open by a hair, allowing Brynjolf to peer inside. He quickly scanned the interior, noting a cluttered workbench, a low burning fire in the hearth, and a wooden railing in the corner that indicated stairs.

“You were right, lass,” he whispered. “There is a basement. Up top here looks all clear for now.”

“Take point,” she whispered back, sliding her picks into her pocket and pulling her bow off her shoulder. “I’ll cover you from behind.”

Brynjolf nodded, and the two of them slipped into the house. They approached the stairs, and Brynjolf crouched low, peering down into the basement through the gap in the floor.

There was a single man sitting at a table with his back to them, an open bottle of wine in his hand. Brynjolf slowly descended the stairs, wincing as the wood boards creaked beneath his feet, but the man did not stir. As soon as his feet were on the stone floor, Ariene called out in a clear voice:

“If you scream, you’re a dead man.”

The bandit whirled around, his hand moving to an axe he wore on his belt, but he froze when he saw the tip of Ariene’s arrow pointed at his heart.

“What do you want?” he asked, and Brynjolf smiled.

“Just to have a chat, lad, maybe a look around. You see, we’re looking for some particular merchandise.”

“Endon’s stolen mold,” Ariene added.

“Endon's mold?” the man repeated. He offered a nervous smile. “I'm afraid you have the wrong place, my friends. You'll find no silversmiths here. I assure you, I have nothing of value. I'm nothing but a poor woodcutter just trying to make ends meet."

Brynjolf glanced at Ariene, who had a triumphant glint in her eye.

“I never said it was a silver mold,” she said, and the man licked his lips.

“Oh? Well uh, Endon is a silversmith in Markarth, so I just assumed…”

“Look, lad,” Brynjolf interrupted. “We’d like to avoid a fight just as much as you would. If you just tell us where the mold is, we can all be on our way, no harm no foul.”

The man bit his lip, eyes flitting between the two thieves.

“We can make it worth your while,” Ariene said, and Brynjolf nodded, pulling out his coin pouch and giving it a shake.

“I see…” the man said slowly, his gaze fixed on the purse. After a moment, he nodded to himself and got to his feet.

“Well, I can't say exactly where the mold is, but something does spring to mind,” he said casually. “It seems there's this strange button on the wall opposite the fireplace in my house. Always wondered what it was for.”

Brynjolf glanced at Ariene, and she gave a single nod of her head.

“Fair enough,” Brynjolf said, and tossed the coin to the bandit. The man caught it deftly and nodded to them.

“Thank you kindly, friends. Think I'm going to head out now. Take a long vacation from woodcutting, you know? Good luck.”

He edged past Ariene, who kept her bow trained on him as he climbed back up the stairs, only lowering it once he had left the cottage and closed the door behind him.

“Well, so much for finding it in the house,” she muttered when the man was gone.

“When has the Guild ever had that kind of luck?” Brynjolf pointed out, and Ariene snorted.

“Good point. After you, then,” she added, gesturing towards the button.

Brynjolf pressed it, and the bookshelf against the wall swung open, revealing a tunnel leading down deeper into the earth.

“So there is a cave back here. I wonder if they dug this out, or if it was here naturally?” Ariene mused as they made their way down the tunnel.

Brynjolf opened his mouth to answer, but stopped when he rounded a corner and found the end of the tunnel opening out into a large open room.

“I don’t know, but that doesn’t look like any rock formations I’ve ever seen,” he said, pointing at a scaffolding rig that blocked their view of most of the cave.

“Get down,” Ariene whispered, and Brynjolf immediately dropped to one knee, his hand moving to his daggers.

A second later, he saw the bandit.

Through gaps in the old wooden boards, he could just make out a rope bridge connecting the outcropping of rock they were standing on to another part of the cave system, and standing on that bridge with his arms folded was a burly looking man in iron armor. He was positioned so that he’d see whoever came walking out of the tunnel, but he hadn’t startled at the sight of them, so it was just possible that they were hidden from his sight where they were crouching.

“Let me by,” Ariene breathed, and Brynjolf nodded, letting the lass slip past him.

She crept forward into the cave, angling herself so that the makeshift wooden wall was between her and the bandit’s line of sight. She scanned the room, a frown creasing her forehead as she did so. Brynjolf raised an eyebrow as she made her way back to him, and she shot him a grim look.

“There’s no way around him that he wouldn’t notice and raise the alarm,” she murmured. “But I think he’s the only one on guard in this chamber.”

“Your call, lass,” Brynjolf whispered. “However you want to handle this, I’ll follow your lead.”

Ariene didn’t say anything for several seconds, and Brynjolf almost wondered if she hadn’t heard him, but then she met his eyes, her gaze hard.

“I’d draw your weapon if I were you.”

Brynjolf immediately pulled his daggers free from their sheaths as Ariene turned back towards the bandit. She lifted her bow and pulled back the string, aiming her shot through a gap in the scaffolding. She took a breath in, and on the exhale, let the arrow fly.

The arrow struck the bandit square in the neck, and he fell back immediately with a gurgled cry. Ariene started to straighten, then cursed and ducked back down, drawing another arrow as a confused call echoed in the room.

“Rogjar? Are you alright?”

A moment later, a bandit rounded the corner, and on seeing the body on the bridge, he gave a cry of alarm, drawing a sword from his belt. Another bandit joined him in an instant, his own weapon drawn and his eyes hard. They both ignored their fallen comrade and headed across the bridge, right for where Brynjolf and Ariene were hiding.

Ariene let her second arrow loose, and it caught the bigger of the two bandits on the shoulder. The man staggered, then grunted and shifted his grip on his warhammer. Brynjolf had just enough time to think “Well that’s not a good sign” before a third arrow shot by and caught the first bandit in the thigh, causing him to stumble forward.

Ariene shot one more arrow, but it missed both targets, and then the larger of the two bandits was on the pair of them, swinging his warhammer towards their heads. Brynjolf rolled forward, slashing out at the man’s legs with his daggers. The thug gave a cry of both pain and surprise as the blades sliced into his flesh; no doubt he was used to people trying to move away from his wide, slow swings, not towards them.

Brynjolf spun quickly, jabbing one dagger into the back of the man’s neck before he could turn around. The bandit fell forward, and Brynjolf slammed the hilt of his dagger on the top of the man’s skull, just to be safe. He turned back towards the other bandit, just in time to see Ariene strike him across the face with the arm of her bow, knocking him to the ground. She drew her own blade and followed him down, pressing her knee against his chest and slitting his throat before he had a chance to recover.

She looked up at him, panting slightly, and he nodded to her.

“Alright, Ariene?”

“Fine,” she said, getting to her feet with a grunt and wiping the blood off her blade. “You?”

Brynjolf turned back to his fallen foe and pulled his dagger out of the man’s back.

“Right as rain, lass.”

The two spared a few minutes to roll the bandits’ bodies off the bridge and hide them among the boxes and crates in the pit below. The cavern was far too vast for the bandits to have dug themselves, and Brynjolf spotted a few old burial urns and nordic weapons shoved up against the wall in one corner.

“Looks like our marks here found an ancient burial ground and converted it into a hideout,” he said conversationally as he rolled one of the corpses behind a pillar and out of sight.

“And they’re making good use of it, too,” Ariene said. “Look at this.”

Brynjolf looked to where she was pointing. Crates and barrels full of produce, cured meats, clothing, and other simple goods were stacked along one wall. Beside the crates were entire wagons in various stages of being broken apart, and there, in a shallow pit just off to the side, was a pile of khajiit corpses.

“They’re not just hassling random travelers or raiding villages,” Ariene said quietly. “They’re attacking whole trade caravans. My guess is they overtake them on the road and force them to unload their goods in here, then kill them so they can’t report on their location.”

Brynjolf shook his head at the brutality.

“It’s a damn shame. And Khajiit traders are some of our best customers.” He paused, a fraction of a conversation floating back to his mind. “Tonilia mentioned that there’d been delays along the southwest routes.”

“Looks like we found the culprits,” Ariene said as she stashed a bandit’s body behind one of the carts. “Or some of them, anyway.”

“I’m no lover of law and order, but I’m amazed that the hold guards were too busy to deal with this,” Brynjolf mused. “I understand not wanting to track down one man’s missing shipment, but these are entire caravans disappearing.”

“Well, I’m sure if they were nord caravans then the local authorities could find it in themselves to spare the resources,” Ariene said, a touch of bitterness in her voice. Brynjolf grimaced.

“Aye…you’re probably right, lass,” he said. “Good thing we’re here to pick up the slack then, eh?”

Ariene smiled briefly, then straightened and drew her bow again.

“At any rate, I don’t see the mold with these crates; I’d wager the more valuable cargo is stashed deeper in the cave. Let’s move further in and see what we can find.”

The two made their way back up to the upper level and followed the tunnels through the old burial chambers. In one of the large chambers, a makeshift bar had been set up with a few tables and chairs, though the room was thankfully deserted as they passed through. They found more evidence that the ancient nords had used the caves as a burial ground, with more funeral urns, looted crypts, and carved stone doors around every corner.

True to Ariene’s prediction, most of the bandits were out raiding, leaving the cave system mostly empty. There were a few stragglers here and there, but with the element of surprise on their side, she and Brynjolf had little trouble in dispatching them. Upon entering yet another wide open room set with a few tables and chairs, Ariene turned to Brynjolf and smiled sheepishly.

“I almost feel bad for dragging you all the way out here now, it seems I would have been able to manage this on my own after all.”

“Perhaps,” Brynjolf said, picking up a letter from the table and scanning it with little interest. “But between you and me, lass, even if we don’t draw our blades again for the rest of the day, I’m still glad I came. Just because you can handle a job like this on your own doesn’t mean you should have to without backup. Besides, the Guild’s been terribly dull the last few weeks; it’s nice to get out and about for once.”

They followed another narrow tunnel out of the room, and found themselves in a small chamber with a wooden door blocking their way. Ariene walked up and tested the handle experimentally, then stowed her bow on her back and pulled out her picks.

“Locked,” she said as she began fiddling with the lock, and Brynjolf snorted. ‘

“Never would have guessed,” he quipped, and Ariene rolled her eyes.

There was a beat of silence, then Ariene frowned.

“Odd,” she murmured. “Bryn, give this a try, would you?”

Brynjolf sheathed his daggers and knelt beside her, taking the picks in his hands. He wasn’t as good at lockpicking as Vex, but he was still pretty damn good at it, so he was surprised when, after a minute or so of trying, one of the picks broke inside the lock.

“Shit,” Brynjolf swore quietly as he pulled the broken pieces out.

“This lock is far too strong for a random door in a bandit hole,” Ariene said as Brynjolf pulled out his own pair of picks. “What could be hidden back here?”

“Take a wild guess,” said a gruff voice.

Brynjolf turned, only to find himself on the wrong end of a very sharp looking sword. He looked up to see a bandit woman in plate armor with war paint in harsh lines across her face glaring down at them. Ariene cursed and reached for her bow, but the woman shook her head and stepped closer, pointing her sword mere inches from Brynjolf’s neck. Ariene froze, and a sneer spread across the woman’s face.

“Now then,” she said, looking back and forth between the two of them. “What am I going to do with you?”

— — —

AN: Honestly I love that we've wound up on an entire side quest barely related to the main focus of the story, it feels very on brand for a skyrim story (also I'll talk any excuse to keep having these two dance around each other. :3 )

Prev: Ch.9 Every Cloud... || Next: Ch.11 Fic Masterpost

#skyrim #skyrim fanfiction #skyrim fic #the thieves guild #thieves guild fic #brynjolf #skyrim ldb #fanfic #fanfiction #ldb oc #imperial dragonborn #brynjolf x dragonborn #brynjolf x oc #slowburn #slow burn #a thief's gamble #ariene the dragonborn #pinewatch #my writing

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caxycreations · 8 months ago

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(Not so) fun fact about Relanian oceans...

There is real, undeniable evidence of the existence of a "ghost ship", called Et Sylia.

The ship's name means "The Sun" in Old Eikirian. It was a common practice for sailors to name their ships using Old Eikirian words (this would be ~2700s or so, with Old Eikirian already being a "dying language" as it had been phased out of common Eikirian use by the year 2200, and the modern equivalent was already in common use by the 2700s) in the belief that they would grant the ship greater luck on the seas with the unpredictable weather.

Despite the happenstance, it wasn't actually named for the sun, but rather the captain's wife, Sylia Mortrova. The captain, Atticus T. Droff, was known by two names; Atticus Droff, who had a reputation as being so skilled at the helm he could sail a ship even in the fiercest Relanian Storms and come out unscathed...

And Atticus the Reaver, most feared pirate in the entire southern sea. A master of Thaumaturgy and a man many claimed suffered from not having so much as an ounce of emotion, he was known for sinking whole fleets without firing a single shot, one of the only people in Relanian history to use Thaumaturgy for such vile purposes, and one of the last practitioners of magic before magic fully abandoned Sentients.

His ship, known for it's white sails with the image of a moth burned into them, lines of black char making up the visage of the insect, and the white oak that made up his ship's body, was nothing special as far as sailing ships go. There were larger, and faster, but the Et Sylia was his, and that was enough to set off alarms in the head of any captain that saw her approaching.

He was known for spending entire years at sea, returning to his home in Arkollin, a port town on an island near the coast of Kanor. However, around the year 2749, tragedy struck.

His home, and the island it sat on, were destroyed. A rival captain, one who'd seen his ship sunk by Atticus and narrowly escaped with his life, had taken a large amount of time to bind the entire island and everything on it to a catalyst, only to light the catalyst ablaze. The island burned to cinders along with the catalyst, leaving nothing but the smallest smoldering hint of what used to be.

Atticus, upon discovering his own life had now been destroyed with the same power he'd used to destroy so many others, fell to his knees at the helm and let out a wail of anguish that, according to reports, was heard as far as several miles inland on the Kanorian mainland...

Nearly 60 miles away.

According to reports from the mainland and Eikirian records from the area, there was, in the words of the reports, "Light, but black as night itself, beaming upward into the heavens like a great pylon, radiating with magic the likes of which have never been known."

Atticus, and his crew, were never seen again. Never again did he set foot on a shore, or the timber of another ship.

But his ship lives on, even into the modern age. Eternally patrolling the waters of Atticus' former home. Any ship that dared enter the waters within 20 miles of his former island is sunk, no matter the make or material and no matter the precautions.

Survivor reports claim their vessels were sunk by a brilliant, ethereally white ship with sails like the sun at midday, with the smoking black image of a moth on the sails.

Attempts to fight back fail entirely, with not a single projectile ever having any effect, leaving nary a scratch on her divinely pristine hull.

Efforts to reach the ship and board it have turned up failures on all counts, but technology advancing has led to a discovery. The ship, despite lacking a crew or captain, still moves, both as a whole and as individual parts, as if still being operated by her old crew...

The ghostly patterns they must have followed for all those years branded into the ship's habits as much as the image of the moth on her sails...

#writeblr #relan #literature #fiction #writing #fantasy #pirate #ship

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ask-ender-jackal · 3 months ago

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Chapter 1

Farewells were always bittersweet. None so more than between Elaine and her parents. Her mother blubbered her heart out as she tightly held both Elaine’s hands in hers for the last time. Her father wouldn’t even look her way, too proud to let her see the mist in his weathered old eyes though she knew it was there.

There was a dull ache in her chest that felt like her heart were threatening to collapse in on itself. Her mother made her promise again and again that she would write back often, and she endured the relentless begging for the sake of it. She hated seeing her like this.

At the sound of a whistle somewhere on deck, Elaine knew that The Claudia was nearly ready to set sail. So, reluctantly, she pulled her hands from her mother’s and began to haul what few belongings she allowed for herself up the ramp. She could hear the wails and desperate goodbyes following from behind as she stepped on deck. Turning, she gave her parents one last wave.

At last, Elaine saw her father’s face, filled with regret and maybe a hint of pride. Raising his hand, he gave a curt salute and without thinking she returned the gesture in kind. She could tell he was still disappointed in her choice of career, but she was his daughter after all. It seemed that at least counted for something. I won’t be a failure this time, she had wanted to tell him. There were a great many things she had wanted to tell him.

The moment seemed to last a lifetime before she finally turned to the hustle and bustle of the deck crew preparing to set sail. She didn’t have to search long before she found the woman she was supposed to speak to, the ship’s bosun.

The bosun stood in the middle of the deck, her sun scorched skin a tapestry of scars and tattoos and her knotted yellow hair tied back in a tight bun. When Elaine approached, she turned on a heel and looked her over with appraising green eyes.

“You the new kid Percy sent my way? Dawson, was it?” She asked, her voice curt and to the point.

“Yes, ma’am. Elaine Dawson.” Elaine replied, trying to look professional. She imagined she was failing that, but the bosun smiled all the same.

“Well good to have ya on board, Elaine.” She held out a calloused hand, and Elaine took it in a firm shake. “You’ll be reporting to me. I’m Alexandra Shaw, call me Alex.”

“Yes ma’am...I-I mean Alex.” Elaine fumbled, pulling back her hand after a moment. She could feel her cheeks heating up in embarrassment. A bright laugh, friendly and genuine, brought her lowering gaze back up to Alex’s.

“Don’t worry, we’re all green at some point in our life.” She said reassuringly as she clapped Elaine on the back. “Now, get your things to the barracks down below. Make sure you claim your spot quickly before all the good cots and hammocks are taken. Trust me, you’ll want higher ground. When you’re settled, come back to see me and we’ll line you up with some cargo work. Gotta put those strong arms to good use.”

Elaine nodded, giving a sloppy salute. She her luggage and scuttled her way below deck. The smell of timber had been noticeable, but as she stepped down from the bright daylight of the top desk into the dimly lit corridors below, the scent of oak and pine invaded her nose. The salty air tickled her tongue while she searched out the crew’s barracks and stepped inside. Some of the cots were already taken, but she managed to locate a high bunk to swing her belongings onto.

The rest of the day carried out without too much incident. Alex proved to be a tough but fair teacher. Elaine struggled to keep up with her as she ran her through every task, from hauling cargo on board to working the helm. This carried on for the next several days as the ship drifted further and further away from the village.

~*~

After barely half a month, Elaine was proficient enough to hold her own without the bosun’s supervision. She supposed working at the docks helped, but it was Alex’s leadership that gave her that push I needed. She was tough but fair, always leading by example. Elaine only wished she was half the woman Alex was.

It was close to evening when Elaine made her way below decks, the gentle creaking of the timbers greeting her ears like an old friend. The mess hall was only a short distance, filled with the boisterous laughing of both men and women. She dodged a toppling drunken fool with the grace of a dancer, spinning on her heel.

“That’s a girl, give us a show!” One of the men called, bringing with him a chorus of cheers and whistles. She indulged him and hiked up her breeches. She gyrated her way around tables and bodies until she was right behind him. He grinned as she ran her fingers through the hair on the back of his head. Then, with a quick motion she shoved his face down into his gruel. He lifted his head among a symphony of laughter, ruefully rubbing the back of his neck.

Feeling quite pleased with herself, Elaine walked to the cook’s serving table without any further harassment. The rosy cheeked mountain of a man spooned a hearty stew into her bowl, chuckling in that brassy voice that one can feel reverberate deep in their chest.

“Ye’ve taken well t’the sea life, lass.” He said, watching as she took the table closest to him.

“It’s not all that bad. Can’t say this is the life for me, but it’s good experience.” she blew on a spoonful of thick broth and took a bite. Despite not having the best ingredients to work with, the cook still somehow pulled off a savory delight that warmed the belly and chased away the chill in her bones.

“I think it suits ye quite nicely, but if ye really don’t want t’make a career of it, why not take up adventuring?” His eyes twinkled with mischief. “Ye could just as easily slay monsters. Ever hear of an Enderman?”

“Aye, but only from books. They’re creatures that attack if you look them in the face, right?” Elaine tilted her head, intrigued.

“Aye, that’s right. They eat yer heart right out of yer chest. Ye could make a career slayin’ the bastards and harvestin’ their pearls.” He palmed his apron, wiping flour and gravy from his fingers. “Bet ye’d be good at it, tough as ye are.”

Elaine shook her head. “I don’t know. I don’t like the idea of killing some-thing that I have to provoke into attacking me. It doesn’t feel right.”

“Hah! Fair on ye, lass.” His laugh rumbled from somewhere deep in his belly. “If ye ever do come across one o’ the buggers, best ye hide yer face. A mate o’ mine was able to get by with just a jack-o-lantern!”

“I’ll remember that.” She laughed, leaning back a moment to rest her sore muscles.

Before she could get too comfortable, however, Alex’s panicked voice interrupted the entire room.

“All hands on deck! We have phantoms!”

The room was silent for a split second before it exploded in a chaotic din of panic and anger. Accusations of not sleeping properly, and excuses of not getting enough sleep were hurdled around as people filtered towards the doors. Despite the chaos, the crew filtered out of the room in an almost uniform fashion.

“Dawson! You’re with me!” Alex called out.

Elaine jumped to her feet, rushing to the bosun’s side as fast as she could. A barbed spear was shoved into her shaking hands. She felt overwhelmed with everything happening without warning.

“Wh-what do you expect me to do with this? I-I d-don’t know anything about phantoms!” She stammered. Alex grabbed a hold of her upper arm and dragged her towards the top deck.

“You’ve been getting regular sleep, Dawson! You can spear the fuckers without being targeted! Now get your arse up there and help the rest of the crew, that’s an order!” She snarled.

Elaine stumbled up onto the deck amid a scene out of a nightmare. High in the night sky, winged creatures glided around the ship like so many birds of prey. There was barely any time to think before one screeched and dove, wrapping it’s tail around one of the men just in front of her. There was barely a scream before he was lifted and dragged kicking into the air.

Elaine hefted her spear, rushing forward to the center of the deck as she desperately tried to assess the situation. Just as she was identifying a target, there was a whoosh of wings behind her as another crew mate attacked. She turned, thrusting her spear forward and just barely missed the screeching phantom. It dragged the poor woman screaming towards the railing.

Without thinking, Elaine tossed the spear to the side and dove, trying to tackle the phantom to the side. It let go of it’s target victim and instead wrapped its wings around her as they tumbled to the deck. Just as it pinned Elaine down by the arms, a spear thrust through its neck. It collapsed on top of her as the crew mate she’d just rescued pulled the spear free. She pulled the spear free and held her hand out, helping Elaine to her feet.

Screeeech!

Elaine froze as the woman was ripped high into the air by another phantom, disappearing into the mist. She screamed out, then fell suddenly silent. Elaine watched as a silhouette was thrown limp overboard into the sea.

She dashed to the railing, desperately searching the waters below for any signs of life. A thud on the deck behind her drew her attention. There stood a tall phantom, far bigger than the rest. It hissed as it slithered closer, gripping the railing on other side of her. She turned her head as it leaned forward, its face just inches from hers. Then, with a wicked grin, it placed it’s palm on her chest and began to slowly apply pressure.

“Elaine! Hold on!” Alex called from across the ship. She ran forward, but it was far too late. The tall phantom turned it’s head towards her, looking Alex in the eye as it shoved Elaine right over the railing.

As Elaine plummeted, she watched the phantom take off into the air just as a spear grazed its shoulder. Then, everything turned inky black as she hit the icy waters below.

#canon story #Minecraft Inspired #The big phantom doesn't have a name but he was heavily inspired by Annoyance #Elaine just went for a lil' swim it's fine #It's fiiiiine

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whimsicalcotton · 9 months ago

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I think that telling people you have a boarding school werewolf polycule and sharing nothing else about them constitutes a federal crime. If you check. If you cared.

asfhdgfgsj okay sorry in advance for the long post but. they're my homemade red/blue and pink/purple gays,, here's some quick scribbles

they're very very self-indulgent and based off of both a bunch of my favorite yuri manga tropes & archetypes (sometimes i call them anokiss with werewolves) and also,, songs. ofc

Nat, the pink one, is human and she's the popular girl/Girl Who Knows A Little Too Much and is based mostly on Undone by Greta Isaac

Misty, the purple one, is a werewolf who does not hide it whatsoever and somehow no one suspects it & is the jock/cheerful rascal with a heart of gold kinda type. based mostly on Coexist by Wild Party

Timber, the red one, is a werewolf who tries really hard to hide it & is the Overworked Overachiever/shy awkward protag type. based mostly on Saccharine by Jazmin Bean

Dani, the blue one, is human and they're the Carefree Genius/unintentional prince type and is based mostly on Jason by BONNIE PARKER

everything takes place in another fav trope, the mysterious slightly nonsensical boarding school full of shameless gay activity, and uses what i remember of Wolves Of Mercy Falls rules where the werewolves are just. Living As Normal Ass Wolves for a few months every year (starts at first snowfall and they don't turn back until spring)

Nat and Misty are the school's Intimidating Semi-Delinquent Power Couple but really they're just goofballs off doing their own thing/trying their best to deal with the various Problems that arise w having a werewolf gf.

Timber and Dani are roommates (oh my god they were roommates) and have a horrid will-they won't-they, hardcore pining + never saying anything, category 5 Situationship going on bc neither of them have the balls to ask the other out. they Also have a whole ordeal happening with Timber trying (and failing) to hide the lycanthropy from Dani which ultimately culminates in Dani witnessing Timber wolfing out first hand (a wee bit traumatizing for both parties) and then just having to sit around going ''hey. what the Fuck'' all winter until Timber comes back <3 they yearn and pine and suffer your honor <3

Eventually they all cross paths due to the aforementioned Werewolf Problems and become a big messy wonderful stupid semi-unofficial polycule that effortlessly and painfully blends the lines between romantic&platonic until it becomes a secret third thing. bc i said so <3

also here are some older bonus doodles of Timber&Misty as wolves bc i love them + random old alignment chart for Extra Flavor

thanks for coming to my tedtalk

#sorry i am just foaming at the mouth super normally over the opportunity to yak about my ocs lol. thank u ^^#nova scribbles #timber + dani tag

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productofnfld · 2 months ago

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Grisly Christmas on Gull Island

This may be one of the saddest stories I have ever told—a tale made all the more heartbreaking because it is about a group of people, separated from their families at Christmas, who knew they would never live to see them again.

It is the story of the Queen of Swansea, a ship that met its fate just before Christmas in 1867. Throughout Newfoundland’s history, the sea has claimed countless lives, but rarely has its toll been as devastating as this.

Had the crew and passengers simply perished, it would still be a tragic story. But they didn’t just die. Instead, they became castaways on a cold, desolate island, where survival demanded unimaginable choices.

This tale stands as one of the most tragic shipwrecks in Newfoundland’s history—and one of the bleakest Christmases anyone has ever endured.

The Sad Story of The Queen of Swansea

On December 6, 1867, the Queen of Swansea, a 360-ton Welsh brigantine, set sail from St. John’s bound for the mining town of Tilt Cove in Notre Dame Bay. The vessel carried a cargo of timber, mail, and a small group of passengers and crew—fifteen people in total.

Among them was Felix Dowsley, a pharmacist from St. John’s who had been hired by the mining company to provide medical services for the winter. Also on board were William Hoskins and his sister, the adult children of the mine’s manager.

Shortly after departing St. John’s, a fierce gale struck, driving the Queen of Swansea more than 120 miles off course into the open sea. For six grueling days, the ship and its passengers endured relentless battering by the storm, fully expecting to be lost at any moment. Under the determined guidance of Captain John Owens, however, the brigantine managed to reach Notre Dame Bay. By the morning of December 12, the Queen of Swansea was finally approaching its destination.

Tilt Cove was just 12 miles away—but it might as well have been 200. In fact, they would have been better off if it had been. Notre Dame Bay was in the grip of a blinding snowstorm, with visibility reduced to nothing. The crew strained to see through the squall, desperately searching for Cape St. John, but the storm was impenetrable. Worse still, they couldn’t see Gull Island, a rocky outcrop directly in their path.

At 6 a.m., the Queen of Swansea ran aground on the island. The impact was catastrophic, and the ship was quickly wrecked.

Acting fast, the crew threw ropes to the island, allowing the passengers to scramble to safety as the ship began to crumble beneath them. The vessel clung precariously to the rocks, and the crew tried desperately to secure it, hoping to salvage supplies. Four crew members still on the ship managed to retrieve a piece of sailcloth. But before they could recover anything else, the lines securing the boat snapped.

Fifteen minutes after striking the island, the Queen of Swansea was swept away by the storm. The four crewmen aboard were never seen again. Days later, fragments of the ship and its cargo washed ashore near Twillingate.

At first, no one knew the fate of the Queen of Swansea or its passengers. Had they been rescued? Lost at sea? The truth was a grim mystery. Unbeknownst to anyone, 11 survivors were clinging to life on a barren, wind-swept island just a few miles from Cape St. John.

They had nothing—no food, no water, and no proper shelter beyond the salvaged piece of sailcloth. Their situation was dire, and before it was over, it would become far worse.

In Their Own Words

The survivors faced an unimaginable reality: they were tantalizing close to their destination, and even closer to the small community of Shoe Cove, but stranded—castaways on a barren, freezing rock in the North Atlantic. A few miles of open ocean might as well have been 100.

The island was little more than a desolate rock, offering nothing to sustain life. There was no food, and the only water came from falling snow. All they could do was huddle beneath their tattered piece of sailcloth, pray for rescue—and write.

Despite having no food or water, the castaways had one unexpected resource: paper and the means to write on it. Captain Owens, Felix Dowsley, and William Hoskins all made use of it to document their ordeal. When their bodies were eventually discovered, their pockets held letters recounting the horrors of their final days on the island.

With little colour, Captain Owens logged the specifics of the wreck:

"The captain and mate and seven men and two females land on the Gull Island by means of a rope at six o’clock AM, on the 12th December, 1867, just as we stood, neither bread, nor eatables, nor clothes. Boatswain, pilot, and one of the ship’s crew went away with the ship, and a married man, who was one of the passengers. All these four perished with the ship. This is written on the island after landing, by me." -- Captain Owens, Queen of Swansea

Captain Owens seemed to understand that his notes would have to tell the story of the disaster in his place — that he might not survive to explain it himself. His writings were brief and factual, documenting the events with stark simplicity.

In contrast, Felix Dowsley, the would-be medic for the mine, brought a personal and emotional tone to his writing. Rather than record the sequence of events, he chose to compose a series of heartfelt letters to his wife, Margaret, who was waiting for him in St. John’s.

His first letter, dated December 17, 1867 five days after the wreck— reveals the toll of the island’s harsh elements and his frame of mind.

"Our bed is on the cold rocks, with a piece of canvas, full of mud, to cover us. You may fancy what my sufferings are and have been. You know I was never very strong or robust. My feet are all swollen, and I am getting very weak. I expect that, if Providence does not send a vessel along this way to-day, or to-morrow, at the farthest, some of us will be no more, and I very much fear I shall be the first victim." -- Felix Dowsley, December 17, 1867

More shocking still, Dowsley confided the grim choices the castaways faced in their fight for survival.

If he were to die first, he warned Margaret:

"You will not have the gratification of getting my body, as they will make use of it for food." -- Felix Dowsely, December 17, 1867

The castaways were desperate.

They were on a cold, barren rock and had none of the necessities of life. It certainly appeared their will to survive had pushed them to contemplate some gruesome options.

Reportedly, an undated note found in the pocket of William Hoskins, who was travelling with his sister, said:

"We are starving and frozen and must draw lots so that some might keep alive longer should help come." -- William Hoskins, December 1867

A short time later he supplied the addendum:

"We have drawn, the lot fell on my poor sister. I have offered to take her place. The Horror of it all!" -- William Hoskins, December 1867

But neither Dowsley, nor any of the others succumbed as quickly. The following day he penned another note to his wife:

"I have been out to see if there might be any chance of a rescue : but no such thing. I am almost mad with the thirst; I would give all I ever saw for one drink of water, but I shall never get it. We are all wet and frozen. I am now going under the canvas to lie down and die. May God pity and have mercy on my soul!" -- Felix Dowsley, December 18, 1867

Again, Dowsley misjudged his fortitude. He survived long enought to write a thrid letter on Christmas Eve.

The Despair of Christmas Eve

On December 24th, nearly two weeks after the wreck, Dowsley penned his last letter to Margaret. His final text, legend has it, was written in blood.

It is, I think, perhaps the saddest of his notes:

"We are still alive. We had no relief since, and nor we are not likely to have any. We have not tasted a bit of food up to this of any kind with the exception of the dirty snow-water around and under our feet which we are very glad to devour. O what a desolate Christmas Eve and Christmas Day! I fancy I can see you making the sweet bread and preparing everything comfortable for tomorrow. Who would ever have supposed this would be my sad ending I did not think we could have lived so long, but now our case is hopeless... I would write more but feel unable. Your loving, but unhappy husband." -- Felix Dowsely, December 24, 1867

With that, no more was heard from Felix Dowsley nor any of the other castaways. What happened after that date, must be pieced together from the evidence left behind.

The Story Ends: April 1868

It was April 1868 when Mark Rowsell of Leading Tickles stumbled upon the remains of the Queen of Swansea castaways.

Returning from a sealing voyage, Rowsell found himself near Gull Island. The sea was calm, two of his men took a small boat to try their luck at bird hunting. They fired, wounding a bird mid-flight. The animal struggled upwards, disappearing out of sight on Gull Island. Not wanting to lose their quarry, the men rowed ashore and clambered up the rock face.

It was then they noticed a frayed, weathered rope dangling from the steep cliff. They followed the rope, and on the hilltop they found them — the remains of the castaways.

Most of the bodies were together under the piece of tattered sail — two were some distance away.

All of the bodies were frozen solid. Some, according to reports, showed evidence of flesh having been stripped away.

Shaken, the hunters returned to their vessel to report to Captain Rowsell. When he went ashore to confirm their findings, he knew there could be no doubt — these were the missing passengers of the Queen of Swansea. Leaving the scene undisturbed, Captain Rowsell set out for Tilt Cove —carrying with him the weight of what he’d seen and the horrible truth it suggested.

Rowsell returned with a crew from Tilt Cove. With them they brought crowbars and rough coffins. As carefully as possible they tried to separate the frozen bodies. Their remains were brought to Tilt Cove. It was there, the letters were recovered from the corpses.

It’s impossible to know how much beyond Christmas Eve Dowsley, or any of the other castaways survived, or the true circumstances of their deaths.

We can only be sure that one-by-one they died, in a manner that resulted in their bodies being divided into two distinct groups — one covered by the sailcloth, and one not.

It must have been horrific.

Cannibalism, Truth and Tact

Thanks to the writings of Captain Owens and Felix Dowsley, the story of the Queen of Swansea disaster has been well preserved. Their firsthand accounts provide a vivid, albeit harrowing, glimpse into the events that unfolded on Gull Island.

However, the notes written by William Hoskins—purported to include references to the drawing of lots—were reportedly lost not long after their discovery. The surviving references to Hoskins’ notes, at least as I interpret them, suggest that the group may have been considering the unthinkable: sacrificing one or more of their number to survive.

Dowsley, in his own writings, makes no mention of this possibility. However, in one of his letters to his wife, he does leave behind a hauntingly cryptic statement:

"I don't know how I have written what I have, but this I can say, the facts are worse than what I have named. " -- Felix Dowsely, December 17, 1867

Dowsley’s letter is far from an outright ‘admission’ of anything, but it does suggest there were darker, unspoken events on the island beyond the already grim realities he described — cold, starvation, and the possibility that his own corpse might be consumed.

Even so, I think the claims attributed to William Hoskins’ lost note must be viewed with a degree of skepticism. Mostly because we don’t have a good account of what was said, it wasn’t mentioned alongside the writings of Dowsley and Owens in most early reports, and it brings an additional drama that would have been very tempting to storytellers.

Many local accounts of the Gull Island tragedy make no direct mention of cannibalism. One standout, and I think relatively reliable source, is Rev. M. Harvey.

In a piece for the Maritime Monthly he wrote:

"This much is certain, that the fierce cravings of hunger at length drove some of the unhappy sufferers to that extremity from which nature revolts most strongly. Two skeleton forms, lying apart from the other dead bodies when discovered, and almost denuded of flesh, told a sad tale." -- Rev. M. Harvey, The Castaways of Gull Island, 1873

The international press was far less restrained. Reports circulated widely, with some alleging that the bodies recovered from Gull Island had stab wounds. An article in the English newspaper The Intelligencer, for instance, was particularly blunt.

What is the truth? Well at this point, the story of Gull Island may forever be clouded by the folklore that has developed around it.

Fires and Folklore

There are other aspects of the Queen of Swansea story that remain questionable. Often when people tell the tale, they say the people of Shoe Cove saw lights and fire on Gull Island that December. However, because the island was uninhabited and unused during the winter months, no one thought to investigate.

Some have even suggested that the villagers were reluctant to venture out due to a superstitious belief in Jack O’Lanterns—mysterious lights thought to be malevolent spirits or omens of danger.

While this detail adds an additional element of tragedy to the story, it is likely untrue. Both Captain Owens and Felix Dowsley wrote that they had no fire on Gull Island, casting significant doubt on the idea that any light or flame could have been seen coming from the island.

Legacy

The story of the Queen of Swansea has remained in Newfoundland’s memory for nearly 160 years, a powerful reminder of the harshness of the North Atlantic. While some details have been blurred by time, one fact is clear: the men and women stranded on Gull Island endured one of Newfoundland’s most tragic events.

Separated from their families at Christmas, they faced starvation, freezing temperatures, and despair, knowing rescue would not come. Their final letters, filled with sorrow and farewell messages, reveal their courage and heartbreak during those desperate days.

The Queen of Swansea is more than a tale of shipwreck; it is a story of loss, despair, and the cruel fate of those left so close to safety yet utterly alone. It remains one of Newfoundland’s saddest tragedies and one of the bleakest Christmases ever recorded.

#shipwreck #tragedy #Christmas #2024

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