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lyrical-linguist · 2 years

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Tarot Cards

Archivist

Statement of Evan Lodge, regarding the alleged series of ‘bad luck’ in early 2019 following the purchase of a deck of Tarot cards in August 2018. Original statement given May 7th 2019. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London.

Statement begins.

Statement (Archivist)

I’ve never really been one for that spiritual nonsense. Plenty of my friends are into it, New Age spirituality and paganism etcetera, etcetera. I always found it fun, though. I might not have believed in any of it, but tarot cards and horoscopes and crystals were a nice bit of fun, something to do when I was bored and a good way to give yourself advice. I’ve always found all these supposedly prophetic things to be a good way to convince yourself do to what you already know you need to. It’s all just confirmation bias and coincidence.

And even when weird stuff does happen, it’s not like there’s anything supernatural. It’s just a coincidence, or some sciency thing we don’t yet understand or can’t see, like how some fish can see infra-red, or some bugs can see more colours than we can. Things doing stuff they shouldn’t, it’s all just ions or quantum physics, or maybe dark matter - we don’t understand that yet. The point is: everything weird has an empirical scientific explanation. Anything that seems supernatural has a, well, natural reason. It has to. But those cards, I don’t know. They’re just wrong. I’ve not done drugs, I don’t think I’m hallucinating, there has to be an explanation. I need you to tell me that there’s a rational, scientific explanation. I’m not crazy, I’m not!

I’m sorry, I’m getting ahead of myself. I’ll start at the beginning.

It was just like any other day in August, I was in town doing some shopping as it was the Summer holidays and I was yet to start my University term. I was looking around some charity shops as I’ve never particularly been a fan of the more modern, more expensive clothing you get on the highstreet. I specifically remember the shop that I went into third, because there was this beautiful vintage jacket significantly under-priced, and I bought it immediately. As is the norm, I had a quick look around the books and the CDs. I don’t suppose you care what I bought, but I’ll mention it just in case it is useful in tracking the shop or something. I remember looking through the books for a little longer than usual. A friend had told me they had found a beautiful clothbound book from the 1800s here last week. No luck, though, and in the end I just got a copy of Dorian Grey and a couple of CDs from some obscure band I’d never heard of before. Sorry, that’s probably not a useful fact.

It was then that I saw them, looking though old teapots and photo frames. At first I thought it was just a pack of ornate playing cards, but as I looked closer I realised they were tarot cards, an intricately morbid design painted on the box. As I said, I’ve never really believed in spiritual nonsense, but there was just something about this deck that drew me to the cards.

I took a few out in the shop to examine them, and of course they first card I pulled was Death. At the time, this seemed amusing. I know that Death signifies new beginnings and fresh starts, but it’s always funny to pretend it means I’m going to die. Well, it used to be. Anyway, I pulled out the card, and examined it. It was truly beautiful, unlike any deck I had seen before. It seemed to be hand-painted, the ivory of Death’s bones stark white against the black of his cloak and the red of the corpses at his feet. If I hadn’t known better, I would have said that red looked like fresh blood. Of course given the age of the deck, blood would have been a dark brown not this glistening scarlet. Every card in the deck was the same; a black and white design with blood-red detailing. Even the cards of the Major Arcana signifying anything alive seemed almost dead. They weren’t skeletal, no sunken eyes, they even had joyous expressions. I could not label any detail that made them seem that way, they were just… dead.

I do not do justice the beauty of those cards in my description, but of course I bought them. Maybe I didn’t believe in that stuff, but they truly were beautiful, and I’ve always found the aesthetic morbidly appealing. Not to mention that they were only £2, and I felt oddly drawn to these cards, as though they were made just for me. There was no company listed on the back of the box, just a cardboard thing with ‘Tarot’ crudely painted on the front. It didn’t seem to match the look of the deck, and seemed to have been made significantly after the cards themselves were. Something of this beauty seemed to belong to some sort of ornate wooden box, like a more expensive version of those boxes dominos used to come in. The cards seemed to be lacking this, but I don’t suppose I thought much of it at the time. I was only disappointed I could not Google to find more information on their creation.

For the longest time, nothing happened. The cards sat pride of place in my growing collection of spiritual items, mostly bought by friends who were happy I was also getting involved in this stuff. Those same friends were massively impressed when I showed them my new deck, and even more impressed when I told them the price. I remember one told me that something like that could easily go for £50 if they were new, and in the hundreds or even thousands if they were as old as I suspected they were. Although I could not find my deck on the internet, I was shocked to find others selling for as much as 2.5 grand. I don’t know why, but I didn’t even consider selling them. I suppose I just didn’t think they were actually worth as much as my friends said they might be, and despite (as I keep saying) my disbelief in all things spiritual, I had developed some sort of connection to this deck. Selling them would be wrong. How I wish now that I hadn’t held onto them, that I had sold them, even given them away for free.

So like I said, nothing really happened for a while. I would read my tarot maybe once a week, usually the standard past-present-future spread, and I was even slowly learning the meanings as they were much easier to read than my previous Grand Etteilla deck. I was even quite proud of myself one day in early December when I managed to do my reading without even having to look up what the cards meant. I was less proud when I realised what the cards were. I still remember today, even though it was months ago. Past: Nine of Swords, upright; anxiety, trauma, depression. Present: The Hermit, reversed; isolation, exile. Future: Ten of Swords, Upright; disaster, betrayal, defeat. Suffice to say, these were not comforting cards. They were right about the trauma in the past, they were right about the loneliness I often feel. I suppose they were also right about the future, although obviously I didn’t know that at the time.

I dismissed this reading as coincidence and silliness. They weren’t some magical, prophetic pieces of paper, they were just a bit of fun. I had a little laugh to myself and texted my friends’ group chat about the doom I had just been foretold. I suppose the lack of reply should have been some indicator that perhaps the Hermit card was right about the present.

On Thursday that week, I suppose I was betrayed in a small way. It turned out my best friend was gossiping about me behind my back. Nothing big, nothing important in the grand scheme of things, I suppose, but it was a small betrayal. I thought nothing of it until later, remembering how the cards had foretold betrayal. It was just a coincidence, I told myself.

The next week, I read my tarot again. If people were going to be betraying me, I’d rather know. The future reading was the Seven of Pentacles reversed, supposedly meaning hard work without reward. When I went to hand in an essay I had spent three hours writing that week, my professor told me that he had set that for his other class, and we didn’t have to do. Three hours wasted.

This continued for weeks. I would read my tarot, my supposed doom would be foretold, and something small and bad would happen. I know it was silly, I know it went against all the science I believed in, I know that nothing that was happening was even very severe, but I got scared of those cards. I’m not a complete idiot, I’ve seen all the horror movies, so after a few weeks I simply stopped reading my tarot. It was just a slew of bad luck, nothing to do with those creepy cards, I told myself. I didn’t really think stopping would change anything, but there was that little voice in the back of my head, that little superstitious anxiety. I thought it would help, and it did. For one week. That bad luck that had been plaguing me for so long stopped, almost the day I usually read my tarot. By the next week I had almost convinced myself that it had all been just a series of unfortunate events, nothing to do with the cards and just another coincidence. But that was when the dreams started.

I used to read my tarot before going to bed every Sunday, find out my luck for the week ahead. Like I said, the first Sunday I did not, the week following was bliss. But the second week, the 10th February, I got ready as usual, deliberately skipped my tarot reading, and climbed into bed. Now, normally it takes me an hour to get to sleep on a good day. I usually put on a podcast or some music and try to sleep, only for my mind to be invaded by a million tiny anxieties keeping me awake. But not that night; I was asleep the minute my head hit the pillow.

In my dream, I was at that charity shop where I first bought the cards, except it was… different. I couldn’t tell what it was at the time, when you’re in a dream everything seems normal, but when I awoke and remembered this dream, I remembered thinking it peculiar that everything in this shop - every item, every person - was coloured in that black and white and blood red of the cards. This wasn’t unusual, although I rarely remember my dreams, the ones I do remember are bizarre like this. There was a dream I once had, I must have been ten, where the people had orange and purple and green legs, but in the dream I thought nothing of it. Sorry, I’m getting off topic.

I was in the shop, oddly coloured as it was, and I approached the shelf where I had found the cards. The colouration here was even stranger, with the china and antiques only in that ivory white, and the red stain of the deck a blot on the shelf, redder than it had been in the waking world. I reached towards it, I could almost touch it- And then my alarm went off. That always happened in dreams, your alarm waking you halfway through. I do remember thinking it strange that I had remembered that dream and no other, as usually when I remember one I remember multiple. However, I felt the strangest sensation that I had had no other dreams that night, and from the moment I placed my head on the pillow eight hours prior, I had been in that dream and none other. Silly thinking, of course dreams did not work like that.

What was more peculiar, however nothing to be concerned over, is when the next night I had the exact same dream, and I woke up at exactly the same point. Of course that’s nothing unusual, I always repeat the dreams I remember. Ok so maybe they rarely seem to repeat so precisely, and maybe two nights in a row was bizarre, but dreaming about a pack of cards was not the strangest thing I had ever dreamed about and of course I wasn’t going to assume there was anything unnatural about it, I mean it was a dream for goodness sake!

The third night, on Tuesday, I was very tired. I supposed I was not sleeping properly, as the past two nights despite my eight hours unconscious on both occasion it felt as if I had not slept at all, and I was beginning to drop off in my lectures. I decided on an early night, certainly a rarity for a university student, I know, and headed to bed at only 9pm. As I have said, I was exhausted. That night, it seemed the dream was longer. It started as the previous two had, however when I reached the shelf and reached out my hand, my alarm did not go off. I clutched at the deck, which, although it seemed normal at the time, was in a wooden case exactly as I had envisioned when first buying it. Ornate, with the figure of Death emblazoned on the lid. There was still no company name, however.

I slid open the box and pulled out the cards, and seated myself at a table that, as far as I am aware, did not exist in the real shop. And then I began to read my tarot. I seemed to have little control over my actions in that dream, however I don’t believe I tried to prevent my reading. It was just a dream, after all. I shuffled the deck as I did when awake, and drew my past, present, and future as when awake. I’m afraid I do not remember which cards I drew that night, as every night from then on I had that same dream and drew different cards. It all blurs together after a while. What I do know is that from that night, the disasters started again.

I would lose important work or destroy my favourite clothing or a friend would end ill and I’d have to present a project on my own, or any number of unlucky but small occurrences. Every night I had that dream, and every day a new disaster would strike. They were never severe, although the first degree burns from coffee and small cuts from cooking were some of the worst of the events. It was like death by a thousand cuts, this constant bad luck. I already had depression at the time, and this certainly did nothing to help.

Eventually, I picked up the tarot again. It was a Sunday night again, the 10th of March I think, and after four weeks of bad luck, I had had enough. Maybe these cards were haunted or cursed or whatever, but the once-a-week disaster was worse than every single goddamn day, not to mention the fact that I was constantly tired these days, and not a small number of disasters had happened due to my falling asleep, and it was getting difficult to tell what was magic bad luck and what was just regular bad luck. ‘Magic bad luck’, God I sound insane.

And you know what? The dream didn’t happen that night. I swear I’m not making this up, I know it sounds ridiculous, I don’t know what’s wrong with me, maybe it’s my subconscious mind giving me excuses, but every week I draw my tarot, every week a disaster happens, and the dreams went away.

And now I come to the reason I’m here. The thing about the disasters is they aren’t totally random. I draw the Lovers, and I find my partner had cheated, or I draw Three of Pentacles and whatever group I’m a part of falls apart. Some of the links are more tenuous or less spiritual, like cutting myself shaving after drawing something with a sword, or getting a sunburn after drawing the Sun. I suspect breaking my weighing scales came from drawing Justice.

Last Sunday, I drew Death.

I know Death doesn’t mean anything to do with dying. I know it’s about rebirth and change and cycles. But if drawing the Sun can give me a sunburn when I’m outside for less than an hour, I dread to think what Death means.

I don’t think it’s a coincidence that the first card I ever drew from this deck was Death. I know that sounds stupid, of course it’s a coincidence. All of this is just a stupid coincidence. But too many bad things keep happening. Maybe I’ll be lucky, maybe Death means the end of a cycle. I drew Death at the beginning of all this, maybe Death means the end too. But the end of what? This bad luck, or someone’s life?

I can’t keep living like this. The bad luck is getting worse. What started as papercuts and torn documents is now mistakes costing hundreds of pounds and friends being attacked and falling shelves breaking my bones. That’s how I got this cast. With the dreams, it was one piece of bad luck a day. Even reading the cards myself it seems to be that bad now. I don’t know how much longer I can keep this up.

I need help. Tell me I’m not crazy or I don’t know tell me I am. Just… Help me.

Archivist

Statement ends.

Simply put, there is nothing in this statement that could lead to further investigation. These so-called disasters are too minor to follow up, and Mr Lodge has provided no information on these cards that could detail which deck he is referring to, and does not appear to have left any copy of the cards in our possession. The fact that they appear to be hand-painted and ornate, yet only tricolour is unlikely and certainly an anachronism if they are as old as Mr Lodge suggests.

There is no evidence to suggest Tarot cards have the power to either prophesize or determine futures, and this supposed bad luck is likely, as Mr Lodge states in the only sensible part of his statement, a coincidence.

While it is certainly worrying that these dreams occurred only when he was not reading his Tarot weekly, it is likely a subconscious reaction to the stress of this ‘bad luck’. Additionally, the suggestion that in the first two dreams there was not enough time to draw cards despite lasting the whole night, but in every other dream there was time, is illogical.

What is concerning, is that upon investigation, it was found that Mr Lodge was found dead in his student flat three days after his statement was taken on the 10th of May 2007. However, this death was ruled a suicide. Mr Lodge stated a history of depression, and Tim was able to locate medical records indicating severe depression and anxiety and three years of therapy. Given this, and the bad luck Mr Lodge perceived himself as having, there was likely no supernatural causes to this death.

End recording.

#the magnus archives #the magnus archives fanfiction #short story #short stories #writing #writer #horror #fanfic #fanfiction #statement fic #I literally wrote this so long ago I had forgotten about it but hey I may as well stick in my entire backlog of writing #Wordcount: 3273

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drrafaelcm · 2 years

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Plenário reafirma jurisprudência sobre degravação de interceptações telefônicas

Ao acolher agravo regimental, os ministros determinaram a revisão da ementa de acórdão para explicar que a transcrição integral das interceptações telefônicas não é obrigatória, mas tal providência pode ser adotada pelo relator do caso. (more…)

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#AP 508 #Inq 3273 #STF

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doolsandtoys · 4 months

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#1908 #3273 #dolls

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cryptid-creations · 6 months

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3273. Sugar High Glider

My other sites: https://linktr.ee/piperthibodeau

#not ai generated #cute #art #artists on tumblr #illustration #animals #digital art #food #artwork #halloween

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putukdraws · 3 months

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New SRB2Kart mod I made here: https://mb.srb2.org/addons/putuks-character-pack.3273/

#SRB2Kart #John Freeman #Half-Life: Full Life Consequences #fanart #pixel art

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dancingtotuyo · 1 month

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8. a cry of my heart to see

Woman | Joel Miller X Female Reader

Rating: Mature/Explicit

Chapter Summary: Tragedy strikes Jackson

Tags: Joel Miller X Female Reader. Age Gap (13/14 years). HBO Characters. Mostly cannon compliant for show & game. Timeline is changed.

Chapter Warnings: blood, medical care (probably bad I'm not a doctor tried to keep it brief and vague), Character Death, loss, grief, funeral, smut, P I V, cream pie, Oral sex (F receiving)

Notes: Shout out to my girl @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin for the beta read!

If you have checked out Before, I would encourage you to do so for more backstory on our dear reader!

Words: 3273

Series Masterlist | Author Masterlist | Playlist

THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS EXPLICIT CONTENT AND IS INTENDED FOR READERS 18 YEARS AND OLDER. MINORS PLEASE DO NOT INTERACT OR READ.

One Year Later

He’s been out on patrol for days. They’re widening the perimeter and he’s on the initial team to do so. It’s nerve-wracking. You’re losing sleep.

Maria tries to assure you they’re fine. No news is good news, but it falls on deaf ears. Her husband isn’t out there in unexplored areas. Joel is. Tommy tries to hide his worry. Despite both their assurances, you know they’re concerned. It’s risky.

For the most part, life goes on. Ellie has been staying in your guest room since Joel left. You thought she would look forward to having the house to herself, not that Joel doesn’t already spend the majority of nights at your house. You wonder if she fears the same thing you do.

They’re supposed to be back in a week, but day 8 passes without sign of them.

On the ninth day, one of the gate watchmen barrels into the clinic, causing you to knock over an entire bin of instruments you had just boiled. His eyes are wide, skin pale causing your stomach to drop.

“What is it?”

“We just spotted them about a mile out. They’re down a rider. Another looks pretty banged up, can barely sit up in the saddle.”

"Who?” You fight the urge to vomit.

“We don’t know.”

“Go get Pooley.” The panic is setting in. You can’t do this. You can’t go into concerned girlfriend mode. Is that what you are? It doesn’t sound quite right. No, you need to be the medical professional you were taught to be. Calm, cool, collected like the professional you were on the UT Trauma team.

The man nods, rushing out of the clinic. You look around, pulling out everything you might need for easy access. You don’t know if he was mulled or shot or something else. This is hardly the first time something like this happened, but it’s the first time you haven’t been able to focus.

It’s silly in hindsight, but you never worried quite like this over Gabe. He always promised to come back. He seemed so confident that he would that you’d bought into his confidence, and he always did until he didn’t.

Once you’re convinced you’re set up enough to take care of the incoming injured, your feet carry you out toward the gate. It’s beautiful out today. The sun shines. Birds chirp and bees buzz. The kids play tag in the apple orchard, but it all feels like a bad dream like the world is moving in slow motion. There’s a ringing in your ears.

The gate is just opening as the group draws closer. A small crowd has already formed, mostly the families of those sent out. You’re too far away to see out of the gate so you have to wait for them to file in.

The first rider comes in. It’s not Joel. You can feel your grip on reality fading. You’re trying to stay. You have a job to do. Maria appears next to you as the second rider crosses in. She tugs you closer to the chaos, through the families waiting with bated breath. Two more. Not Joel. She brings you next to Dr. Pooley who waits ready to spring into action. People make room around you so you can tend to the injured as soon as they come in.

Another pair cross into safety. John Lacy holds the reins of Adam Perkin’s horse as Adam hunches over in the saddle looking closer to death than life. John has them next to you within seconds, spewing the story of his injury to you and the doctor. You can’t pay attention, going on your tiptoes to catch sight of the last rider, but the horses block your view. The gate is closing now.

“Maria?” You look at her in desperation, pulled between the need to help and get status on Joel.

She gives you a nod and dashes off to investigate further.

Adam half rolls out of the saddle, in and out of consciousness before several strong sets of arms aid him to the ground.

“Someone get the gurney!” A voice calls out as you fall to your knees beside the man. It’s your voice. Your body is taking over, but your brain is still elsewhere. The ringing in your ears grows louder. “Someone tell me what we’re looking at!” Your shaking hands rip the stained flannel and undershirt. They're already rags anyway.

“Took a knife to the gut two days ago. Closed it up but it got infected and reopened on the way back,” John reports.

“And you didn’t stop to close it back up?” You yell.

“We had to drop the med bag.”

You groan in frustration. Dr. Pooley takes vital signs. Even in the haze you notice the signs that he’s over concentrating. His lips move to count Adams BPM and then he stops and starts over.

“What do you have for me, Doc?” You’re desperate for help. Desperate for the old man to be able to do his job, but you see it in his face. He’s about to admit what you’ve assumed for months.

“I don’t know,” he looks as lost as you feel right now, drowning in the panic of his own mortality. His own brain ceasing to work. You’ve seen the signs of dementia for months, and now the moment you need his help the most, he can’t think straight. You need his brain. You need to talk through this.

“Gurney!” Someone yells, pushing toward you with the homemade gurney. It’s more of a litter you’d find in a medieval era movie, but it does the trick.

They slam it to the ground, you don’t even have to let out the instructions before someone is counting and Adam is moved onto the stretcher. “Carefully!” You keep pressure on his wound, it’s definitely bleeding again. They must’ve missed something or it’s been bleeding internally all this time. Damnit!

You’re almost to the clinic when you hear it, a life preserver in the raging ocean, Ellie’s voice. “JOEL!”

You turn to see her arms wrapped around his midsection, holding her as tight as she does to him. His eyes flicker to yours, and it’s like you snap back into your body with a thud, your mind crisp and clear. He smiles weakly your way and you can breathe again.

You’re not sure how long it takes you. You’re pretty sure you’ve technically just performed a surgery you were in the room for once as a nurse 22 years ago. You probably missed most of the steps, but you know it was Adam’s only hope. Joyce Dobbins comes in with a poultice that’s supposed to help fight infection and “doctors him right up” as she likes to say. You don’t know enough to have an opinion. She’s the herbalist.

You shower at the clinic, bones weary and eyelids drooping. Joyce knows enough to monitor him over night as does Rachel, Adam’s wife.

You stumble home, the days events replaying on repeat in your head. The multiple times you thought you were going to lose Adam yet he somehow never faded. Lindsey’s never ending sobs from the backroom as she mourned Paul, you delivered their baby three years ago. Joel standing there giving you exactly what you needed so you could save a friend.

Most of the time, it’s easy to ignore the dangers of the outside world while tucked within the walls of Jackson, your slice of normal in the world. Tonight is not one of them.

You stumble up the porch stairs, anything but graceful as you cross the threshold. The house is quiet- no, peaceful. It’s an odd feeling compared to your raging mind. The house is clean, spotless. The orange glow of your living room lamp and the kitchen light warm you. Rumours spins in the corner, halfway through Songbird. You catch Joel in the kitchen wiping down the countertops. Your tea kettle whistles softly as he turns off the gas stove.

“Joel…” your voice is hoarse. He spins around. He doesn’t smile, only walks toward you, pulling your limp frame into his as soon as he can. “I missed you,” you whisper.

“I missed you too, Sweetheart.” His face burrows into the crook of your neck.

“I thought…” you can’t finish the sentence without tears falling down your cheeks. He rocks you both softly.

“Shhh, I know. I know.”

He kisses your head softly and then your lips. As much as you want to fall into bed, he forces you to eat something, drink the tea he’s brewed for you. You can barely sit upright, but you eat and drink and finally, he guides you upstairs, tucks you into bed, and curls up behind you. You fall asleep before he starts whispering sweet reassurances in your ear.

You pull yourself out of bed earlier than you should. You have to go check in on Adam at the clinic. No news is good news. Anytime you’re not dragged out of bed after a day like yesterday, it’s a good thing.

He’s not conscious but his fever is lower than it was when you left and that eases your worries some. Rachel doesn’t leave his bedside.

Lindsey is in the backroom as they re- wrap Paul’s body. They’ll bury him today. He’s already been dead for three days. You take Lindsey’s hand without a word, standing solemn next to her.

A hot tear marks your cheek as you watch Maria and Joyce diligently work. You were never awarded this luxury, could never gaze upon Gabe’s face one last time. Didn’t get to say goodbye.

He has a tombstone in the cemetery. You don’t visit it often. He’s not there, his ashes spread to the wind now, rolling over the earth like invisible tumbleweeds. He probably likes that better anyway.

The funeral is short, but all of Jackson crowds around for the service, to bury their fallen friend. Joel holds you close, arm wrapped around your waist. You lean heavy against him, gaining all your support from his frame. Carter and Ellie sit on the ground in front of you.

When it’s time to lower Paul into the ground, Joel makes sure you’re steady on your feet before joining the rest of the patrol group. Adam is still unconscious in the clinic. They lower his body to the ground with precision that is too practiced. You wonder if he’s thinking of her, how he had to leave her body behind. He calls out her name at night sometimes. You know he’s reliving the night Sarah died.

Lindsey’s cries start to pick up again. You slide onto the bench beside her, squeezing her hand tightly. Grace sits opposite you and Elaine stands behind. You don’t know Lindsey that well, but she’s joined your ranks now. Other women who have lost spouses close in around the grieving woman, a moment of solidarity. It’s a group that’s too large for your liking, too many lives taken.

Joel holds your hand on the walk home. You keep walking, taking your path earlier than normal. You don’t speak, too many memories in your mind, too many emotions flooding your heart.

You stop in at the clinic. Adam is in and out of consciousness. Joyce is giving him something for the pain.

You cut your walk short, just one lap tonight. There’s a note on the door. Carter is at Maria and Tommy’s for a sleepover. You sigh in relief, thankful to not have to worry about another human being tonight.

Joel helps you out of your shoes. He helps you upstairs. His hands move slowly over you, half roaming, half massaging your weary muscles. He follows your collarbone and shucks the cardigan from your shoulders, frees you from your jeans leaving you in nothing but a tank top. It’s one of the few times his eyes don’t immediately land on your exposed crotch. He can’t help but chuckle at your commitment to not wearing underwear.

Fingers delve into your tight calves. You let out a soft moan as you fall back into the mattress, sheets cool against your skin.

Your eyes close, relishing in the feeling of him. This is the first real chance you’ve had to spend together since he got back. There’s nothing inherently sensual to his movements and the way he touches you, but your body heats in response, craving the connection, the assurance.

The air shifts as your breath hitches. His fingers crawl up your legs leaving tiny trails of fire as he presses a kiss to each of your calves. Desire begins to burn in your body, slow and hot. “Joel…” You moan, legs falling open.

“I know, Sweetheart,” He feels it too, voice low and thick as his eyes darken. “I know.”

Your hands tangle in his curls as he takes his time covering your thighs in kisses, swiping his tongue over your skin from time to time. “I’m here,” he says again. “I’m gonna take care of you.”

There’s no rush to the finish line, neither of you have the energy for that tonight. It’s slow, languid like a hike up a steep cliff as his mouth slowly greets your slick cunt, his tongue runs through your folds at a steady pace over and over and over and over. He’s pulling you closer to the edge, taking his time until finally, you cry out arching into his mouth, spilling more of yourself onto his tongue.

He pulls away, chin glistening in your soft bedroom light, proud smile on his lips. “That’s my girl.”

You whimper in response, hands traveling up his forearms. His calloused palms roam over your thighs and hip, fingers drawing soft patterns across your skin.

Leading with his lips, he makes his way up your sternum. Not a drop of urgency in his body, he eases up your tank top. It’s like he has all the time in the world. You wish for all the time in the world as long as you get to spend it with him.

Finally, his lips meet yours. You taste yourself on his lips as he pushes his tongue into your mouth. Your hands wander his shoulder and neck, your fingers glide through his hair again. Nails rake down his back. At some point he shed his shirt and pants, leaving him bare against you.

“Lay on your back,” you say.

He pulls back slowly, eyebrows raised. “What are you thinking about?”

“Having you on your back.”

He chuckles, warm arms wrapping around your middle as he rolls over. You brace yourself on your knees. His hard cock presses against your thigh. You run it through your folds. Joel lets out a soft moan as his eyes glaze with lust. “Fuck, Sweetheart. Let me in there.”

“Patience,” you chide, but have no intention of keeping him waiting for long.

You nudge his dick against your clit, sending sparks through your veins until you center your opening over him. He holds your hips as you slowly sink onto him. You stretch around him, filling you so completely. Once you’ve taken him to the hilt, you sit there, eyes focused on each other exchanging soft pants.

Your cunt clenches around him, pulling moans from both of you, but you don’t move, hands finding purchase against his soft stomach, thumb running through his dark happy trail. The two of you bask in the feeling of your skin against the other’s, desperate for the certainty that you’re alive and breathing, that the blur you’re living in is reality and you still have each other.

He cups your cheek, thumb brushing over your bottom lip. Your teeth scrape against it. Then you lift up just a little bit, keeping him mostly inside you before you sink back down. You keep the slow pace as you ease up and down, increasing the distance a little more each time.

Joel’s eyes never move from you, sometimes meeting yours and other times appreciating your naked form above him. His hand trails down your torso, finding the wet heat of your core. He finds your clit with the precision only granted by his familiarity with your body. He has you memorized, every single inch of you.

You let out a sharp gasp when he touches you. He holds his thumb steady against you, letting your movements drag his thumb across your clit. You clench around him and he groans. Up and down, your hands perched on his hairy chest, nails biting into his pecs.

As you draw nearer to the peak, Joel starts to meet you, hitting a different angle inside of you. You let out a long moan, head tipping backward. Then you reach the crest, cunt milking his cock, coming undone on top of him.

Sweat beads along Joel's forehead as your dripping pussy flutters around him. He’s not far behind you, filling you with his spend. The feel of him inside you, coating you, causes another breathy moan to leave your lips.

“Fuck, Sweetheart.” He pants, pulling you down beside him, sweaty skin flush against his.

You smile softly at him, brushing the curl in front of his forehead back. He kisses your palm. You should feel guilty for enjoying Joel’s comforts, his warm skin against yours when Lindsey lays in an empty bed across the way, but all you feel is relief. You’re grateful to be spared heartache for once.

Eventually, Joel rolls out of bed, returning with a warm washcloth to clean up the mess he left behind. You’ve pulled on his white tshirt. You don’t say a word, just stare at him in the lamp light. He’s beautiful, a gentle giant, and he’s yours.

When he crawls back beside you, he looks at you like he reads every thought in your mind, kisses your forehead, and turns out the lamp. You turn on your side. He spoons you, arm thrown over your waist.

His soft snores start to play in your ears. The crease in his forehead is nonexistent with sleep as you look over your shoulder. Then, it hits you. You’re happy here with him despite the last 48 hours. It feels wrong, like you cheated death. You just hope it doesn’t come back to collect double, but you’re so damn happy. Joel Miller has permeated every single fiber of your being.

You’ve known this, but now, you accept it. Your muscles tense with it. It’s not enough to send you spiraling by any means, but you fought it for so long, you’re not sure how to proceed. You could tell him now, wake him up and finally let the words slip off your tongue. More tension gathers between your shoulders.

Joel mumbles, tightening his grip around you as he pulls you flush against him. He kisses your shoulder.

“Don’t start with that.” Sleep coats his voice. You wonder how he’s so in tune with you even in sleep he can feel the tension.

“Don’t think it works like that.”

He hums, squeezing you again. His lips press between your shoulder blades, beard brushing against your skin sweeping the tension away, pulling the thoughts from your head.

He chuckles as you sink into him. “You sure about that.”

You reach behind you. Your nails rake over his thigh, just above his knee until you find your target. You pluck one of his leg hairs with a practiced precision.

“Ow! Not nice!”

You laugh, burrowing into your pillow. “Go to sleep, old man.”

“Goodnight, Sweetheart.” He kisses your cheek, holding you so close your brain can’t think of anything but his solid frame at your back.

#joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel tlou #the last of us #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller hbo #tlou #pedro stories #pedrostories #woman (joel's version)#woman (joel miller)

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helionpegasus · 1 year

Text

ceilings (part 4)

Azriel x Reader

masterlist

summary: Reader always had vivid dreams due her Seer heritage. But things take a twist in her life when she starts dreaming with a male she never seen, and wake up in a world that is not hers.

warnings: a bit angst

words count: 3273

author’s note: damnnn this the biggest one so far! as always, thank you for your patience <3 and i hope you like it! :)

There was too much information to absorb. Azriel’s mind was spinning since he found the female yesterday, and now this? A chance of her being able to listen to his shadows? That’s definitely not how he expected to begin his week.

He was trying to understand how the shadows are so fond of her. Because once they announced she was awake, it takes all of his strength to control them. They were trying and trying to run directly to the female, and Azriel had no clue why. And if there’s one thing that makes the Shadowsinger upset, is not knowing what’s happening with something he used to have control of.

"I don't think my shadows have the power to travel between worlds." He states.

They were in the meeting room. Cassian, Nesta, Mor and Amren arrived right after the female told the story. She came with them, eyes wide with confusion, body slightly shaking, probably scared of all the situation and scared of them.

He thought it was completely normal, given all she's been through the past day. They were a bunch of strangers to her, and she's also a stranger to them. That's why Azriel has been keeping his eye on her since they left the nursing room. She was clearly uncomfortable with the look he's giving her from the opposite side of the table, but didn't say a word of complaint.

"Maybe not traveling between worlds, but perhaps being able to connect with other shadows?" Feyre says to everyone but her stare was empty, like she's been trying to formulate a proper answer. "If she's able to hear them, like we think she is. Maybe she has such power in her world."

"I don't think that's possible." The girl says. Azriel was starting to think her accent is cute, but he'll never admit it. "I've never shown such power. I have a friend who has similar powers to that, I know how it is, but it just never happened to me. How can the first time it happens I end up in another world?

"Plus, how were you guys able to open a portal? I thought only the Horn were able to do that." Her facial features pulled in confusion.

"There's other objects that can open portals?" Nesta asked, straightening her back on the chair.

"In my world, there's the Luna Horn, a Fae relic that holds such power. My friend was trying to find it, her intentions was not to travel this much like me, but to Hel find help."

"She needs help with what?" Rhysand asks.

"Our world needs help."

Suddenly the atmosphere of the room was dense. They were still recovering from a War, now they were almost facing problems that weren’t even in their world.

Everyone got lost in their own thoughts.

Azriel didn’t waste time to call Rhysand in his mind.

“I think Nesta should play the Harp and we send this girl right where she came from.” He said once he felt Rhys presence in his mind.

“Don’t be so intransigent. She’s not some dog that we can simply deliver back to the adoption care.” His voice was firm. Making Azriel glance move to the High Lord for the first time since they arrived.

“Already so protective?”

“Not protective, Azriel. I have values. This court as well.”

Azriel was angry, because (Y/N) clearly made him uncomfortable. He didn’t know why, but there was this strange feeling starting to rip in his chest, a feeling that was not welcoming.

He was even more scared of his friends realizing that something was wrong. And he freely gave Rhysand the first sample of it in their conversation.

Their full minds were interrupted by the loud sound of the travelers belly. The Inner Circle realizes that she hasn't eaten for a long time.

“I’m sorry. I got dragged here while I was making breakfast.” She said with eyes wide. Cheeks red with embarrassment.

“There is no reason to apologize!” Feyre turned herself to face the female at her left side. “You must be starving, come with me. I’ll get something for you.”

She got up signaling for the female to the door. Mor and Nesta followed them right after.

“I’m sure of one thing…” Amren says when the females exit the room. “Mother wouldn’t let the world portal open and let the girl slip in our court with no purpose.”

“The thing is if the purpose is good or not.” Cassian says.

“She came with your shadows, boy.” The gray eyes fixed themselves on Azriel. “They didn’t tell you anything?”

“No. Apparently they’re refusing to. All they told me was that they found her in a cavern and brought her here.”

“I thought you controlled them.”

“Yes, I do. But I can not control what they say to me.”

The Shadowsinger’s voice was stiff. All he wanted was to have some free days to relax, and now it seemed like the Cauldron was throwing a bomb near to explode in his lap.

Rhysand and Cassian noticed their brother's change of mood since they saw him this morning at breakfast. Azriel was usually quiet, but now his silence was ice cutting.

You were walking in the hallways trying to remember all the turns you made on the big place those people called home, in case you needed to go back all by yourself.

At this point of the day, you were sure that in this world they were not near the advanced technology you had in Midgard. The lights were pure magic, not electricity; Their clothes were like the ones described in your favorite novels stuffed in your bookshelf and now while you were entering the kitchen you realize that they don’t even have a fridge.

“Do you want anything specific?” Feyre asked you.

She has been nothing but lovely with you since you met her. Clearly not acting like most female rulers you know about.

“Anything is fine, really.” You answer her with a shy smile.

“A bit of everything then, I guess.” The High Lady gives you one of her own.

The counter in front of you was full of food in a blink. Your body stiffen in surprise.

“How can you do that?”

“It’s the House.” The female that resembles Feyre says. Nesta, you remembered. “The House is conscient.”

“B-but how? It’s like a century spell or something like that?”

“Kinda like that.” Feyre says with a laugh. “There’s magic of a whole bloodline in this building, but I have to acknowledge that Nesta played an important part to make it more… alive.”

You read between the lines that they would not explain more than that to you, so you content yourself with only that.

Your belly was almost protesting again, which reminded you to make a move to eat something. The pies and cakes looked delicious, but eating something sweet being so long without eating anything didn’t sound really appealing, so you reach for a sandwich that was apparently with chicken and a salad.

At your first bite you couldn’t control the growl of satisfaction leaving your lips. With everything happening all at once you didn’t even realize you were hungry. But now that you had so much in front of you, your stomach was anxious to be full of everything you lay your eyes on.

“So… (Y/N), what do you work with in your world? If you don’t mind me asking, of course.” The blonde female asked. Morrigan was a name that fitted her so well, you thought, both were extremely beautiful.

“I am in my last year of studies at Crescent City University.” You answer her once you swallow the food. The name coming out of your mouth is more familiar, saying in your accent and language. “I pretend to work with Social Sciences. I’m sorry, I don’t know how to say it in your language. But basically, I want to work with people. Understand different organizations and cultures, and also learn a lot of history. That’s how I learned a bit of this language.”

“That’s really cool. I don’t think we have anything like that!” Feyre says, eyes shining with curiosity.

“The Day Court must be doing something similar, but certainly not that deep.” Morrigan add.

“You must be really smart, then.” Nesta points, making you choke on the piece of pear you were eating.

“Don’t expect a lot.” You gave her a nervous laugh. “That’s how you are divided here? By courts?” You changed subjects, embarrassed by the statement.

“Yes, there are seven of them. Night Court, where you are right now, Day, Dawn, Summer, Winter, Autumn and Spring.” The blonde answered. “We’re in Prythian. In the Continent there’s more places, but there are no Courts, just territories.”

You nod in agreement, processing all the information. Two continents, from what they said until now, but there’s probably more.

“You said you didn’t have powers with the shadows, what powers do you have then?” Nesta asked, plating a piece of the strawberry for you and the three of them as well.

“I don’t have any outstanding power. I can levitate and summon objects like most Fae. My grandmother was a Seer, but I don’t have practice with this power, since it was always very unsteady.”

“What do you mean unsteady?” Feyre asked.

“I don’t have visions out of nowhere like other Seers. It happened like once or twice, and it was nothing big and world saving. Lately I’ve been having a lot of them in my dreams, but I still don’t know if they’re exactly visions.” You feel the edge of your ears burning when you remember about Azriel. Still not trusting them so much to say such a thing. And you feel relieved to have your hair down.

“How come you hear the shadows?” Morrigan looks at you. Her brown eyes piercing yours, like daring you.

“I-I don’t know. I heard them in one of those dreams as well, before everything.”

The blonde gaze softens, surprise flashing fast on them. Not going unnoticed by you, but you decide to not comment on it. The air in the kitchen suddenly thick.

“Well…” Feyre deflected our attention. “There’s anything more you need, (Y/N)?”

“I would like to clean myself if it’s possible.” Your voice was shy. Your body contorting while feeling the stick material of the dried blood in your shirt.

“Yes, of course! I’m sorry, we should have given you the time to clean yourself before everything.” She says grabbing your hand. “Nesta will lead you to a bedroom. You can clean yourself, put some new clothes on and later someone will pick you up for dinner.”

“Alright. Thank you so much, really. You’re making this whole experience a bit less traumatic.” A nervous laugh goes out of your mouth, your eyes watering.

“Don’t need to thank me. We’re gonna figure this all out.” Her arms embraced you.

And how you needed this. The comfort settles in your body to calm your heart at least a little bit.

But that’s not when you break down. It was after Nesta led you down the hall, to a bedroom she said was near hers in case you needed anything. When you took your clothes off and the movements seemed more heavy than normal. It was when you sat inside the bathtub, your body covered in the warm water, muscles sore from everything that you broke down.

Tears falling down your face nonstop. A million thoughts per second all at once. So many feelings at the same time, fear, tiredness, relief, sadness, and mostly, you were feeling lost. When you finally meet the person you swear to yourself would answer all your questions and lead you to find the right path. You were feeling lost.

You were trying to steady your breath, not handling the hurt in your chest, like it was almost ripping itself open. Once you are feeling more calm, you finally start cleaning yourself. Washing your hair that still has some leaves from the forest, your nails still with mud and face that you doubted that the tears already did the job for you. You trace your finger in the thin scar that took place in your ribcage, but stopped before you got caught in a loop of thoughts again.

A small presence made itself known caressing your forearm out of the bathtub. A shadow lacing itself on your arm like a bracelet.

“You’re here to give information to your master? On how pitiful I am?” You ask quietly to the dark smoke, not expecting an answer.

The shadow only hugs your arm tighter.

“I’ll consider this a no. It would be really disrespectful to take information from me while I’m bathing, though.”

It makes no way to leave your arm. Circling your wrist and forearm continuously.

“I guess I’m supposed to be able to hear you. Do you have anything to say?”

“Nothing for now.”

Your body shivers seeing the shadow move to your ear and back to your arm. So it was really it. The voice you heard before was the same as this one.

You got out of the bathtub with a sigh, deciding the time was done. Confused on how the water didn’t go cold.

Once in the bedroom you went to the drawer Nesta mentioned to find something to wear. You put a black leggings and a dark blue sweater that seemed to be the clothes you’re more used to. Socks and a pair of boots to your cold feet.

You used a product that seemed to be a hair product and brushed your hair. Your guess must have been right, because your hair detangle really easily. You finish it up and let it down to dry faster.

Looking at your reflection in the mirror, you realized how your eyes were swollen from all the crying and your nose red. You’re only hope was to not be so noticeable when the dinner starts.

“There’s anything for me to do while waiting? Maybe there’s a book here somewhere.” You say to no one.

You hear a muffled thud in a table near the fireplace, an inviting armchair placed near it. A book was settled on the table, a cup of fuming tea beside it.

“So you’re really conscient.” You say looking at the ceiling, and get by surprise when you see the reflections of the windows making a whole constellation in there.

“A romance, you have good taste. I think I’m gonna spend a lot of time like this to improve my knowledge in the language. Any chance you keep doing this?”

The house answer was a pile of books next to the one it placed before.

“Thank you!” You smiled brightly.

You don’t know how much time you spend reading, but you were progressing very well considering that you haven't read in the language for quite a long time. The reading got interrupted by a knock on the door. Nesta welcomed you with a soft smile when you opened it, but it slowly disappeared.

“You’re okay?” She asked, a little worried.

“Y-Yes, my eyes are still swollen?” Your hand goes right to your eyes, patting it to feel the damage.

“A little bit.”

“You can eat here in the bedroom if you prefer.” The winged male behind Nesta suggested with a look of concern in his eyes as well. Cassian, her mate.

“Ugh, it looks really that bad?” You run your hands in your face not knowing if you cover it or accept your fate.

“No! Your face looks totally fine. You’re even cleaner now!” He says.

Nesta slaps her own forehead before slapping Cassian’s arm.

“What Cassian is trying to say is that if you are still uncomfortable and prefer to be by yourself tonight is completely alright. But we would appreciate your presence with us as well.” The female says calmly to you.

“Yes, I would like to go with you.” You said a bit shy.

“Perfect!” Nesta says and you close the door behind you to follow them to the dining room.

Cassian eyes go strictly to your forearm, where the shadow is still resting. The small smile that shows in his face eases your heart.

Everyone else was in the dining room, the big table was already settled. But there was a presence of two people you haven't met yet. The first was the little baby sleeping in Feyre arms, that you supposed was called Nyx. The second was a brunette girl sitting on the opposite side of Azriel.

The conversation eases when they notice you three arrived.

“(Y/N), let me present to you.” Rhysand starts. “This is Elain. Feyre and Nesta’s sister.” He pointed to the brunette, who gave you a small smile. “And the little one is Nyx, my son.” He caresses the little boy's head.

“Nice to meet you.” You say to Elain with a smile. The female just nods in your direction.

“Let’s eat, I’m starving!” Cassian says, making Nesta roll her eyes.

She led you to the table, to sit beside her, Azriel on your right.

Then everyone enters in a conversation and serves their own plates. Nesta serves your plate before you could feel shy to do it by yourself, you say a quiet thank you to her.

The dinner flowed fast. They shared stories and news, you stayed quiet most of the time, only answering when the question was asked directly at you. You just didn’t know exactly where to place yourself there when they seemed so complete.

“You almost didn’t eat. Didn’t like the food?” Morrigan asked you.

“Oh, no! The food is delicious, I’m just full from earlier.” You explain yourself and she makes an expression like reminding what happened in the kitchen.

“That little one seems really fond of you, (Y/N).” Cassian points at your right forearm with a smirk. “It was there the whole dinner.”

Everyone's gaze went right to you, making your cheeks burn. Azriel stiff himself in the chair when he sees the shadow. The little thing quickly went to its master, twirling itself along with the others on his shoulders.

“I’m sorry. They’re quite… Wild these days.” Azriel says to you.

“It’s okay, They are quite comforting.” You say with a small smile for him, already missing the light feeling in your arm.

Azriel only looks at you in a way you didn’t recognize, then he clears his throat, making everyone go back to what they were talking before.

Later that night, you twisted and turned but couldn’t get yourself to sleep. Mostly scared of what could happen while you sleep. You were on the verge of tears of frustration when you felt a familiar feeling in your arm. There was the shadow again, making you smile to yourself.

“You sense when I’m needing help?” You whisper to the shadow twirling in your wrist. “Thank you.”

With a comfortable presence and the warm bed the House made, it wasn’t a long time for you to fall asleep.

When you looked around you couldn’t place where you were. It was dark, really dark, and cold. It got you bracing yourself even with the thick sweater on.

You hear whispers, coming from behind you.

When you turn around you have to force your vision to see clearly. There was a kid embracing themself in the corner of the place.

“Hello?” You call in a low voice.

The kid looks at you. Eyes big with fear.

You know those eyes. The wings in his back were just a confirmation.

In front of you was Azriel as a kid.

taglist (overlined users i couldn’t tag):

@humanpersonlasttimeichecked @valeridarkness @his-sweet-nightmare @leeknows-wife @mich0731 @kristalhi @marina568 @brekkershadowsinger @cafe-inaaa @lovierhys @kenmaisacinnamonroll @alt-ghost @marigold-morelli @thelightnddarkness @amysangel @thecraziestcrayon @fall-myriad @a-court-of-milkandhoney @hungryforbatboys @elizarikaallen @allison-rosewood-maximoff @gamarancianne @weirdo-fun

#Azriel #azriel acotar #azriel shadowsinger #azriel x reader #azriel imagine #azriel x you #acotar imagine #acotar

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