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mybworlds · 1 year

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Chapter 2: King’s Landing attack

Hello, well thank you to my few readers.

Pairing: The Hound x Sansa Stark

Chapter summary: Sansa is still a prisoner in King’s Landing, until Stannis Baratheon attacks King’s Landing and...

Chapter warnings: violence, blood. Some lines from George R. R. Martin "A clash of kings" book.

Thanks @vase-of-lilies for the banner

“You mew like a suckling babe,” his brother hissed at him. “Princes aren’t supposed to cry.”

“Prince Aemon the Dragonknight cried the day Princess Naerys wed his brother Aegon,” Sansa Stark said, “and the twins Ser Arryk and Ser Erryk died with tears on their cheeks after each had given the other a mortal wound.”

“Be quiet, or I’ll have Ser Meryn give you a mortal wound,” Joffrey told his betrothed.

Sansa remained silent as she had been ordered to, fearing for her life every day. Every day, she received a punishment for a wrong word, for a glance, or whether it was her brother Robb doing something. She always paid for her own or others' faults, whether they were minor or serious.

The narrow streets were lined by men of the City Watch, holding back the crowd with the shafts of their spears. Ser Jacelyn Bywater went in front, heading a wedge of mounted lancers in black ringmail and golden cloaks. Behind him came Ser Aron Santagar and Ser Balon Swann, bearing the king’s banners, the lion of Lannister and crowned stag of Baratheon.

So, it followed King Joffrey, with Sansa trailing just behind him, her thick auburn hair flowing to her shoulders beneath a net of moonstones. Two of the Kingsguard flanked the couple, the Hound on the king’s right hand and Ser Mandon Moore to the left of the Stark girl.

Next came Tommen, snuffling, with Ser Preston Greenfield in his white armor and cloak, and then Cersei, accompanied by Ser Lancel and protected by Meryn Trant and Boros Blount. Tyrion fell in with his sister. After them followed the High Septon in his litter, and a long tail 314 of other courtiers—Ser Horas Redwyne, Lady Tanda and her daughter, Jalabhar Xho, Lord Gyles Rosby, and the rest. A double column of guardsmen brought up the rear. The unshaven and the unwashed stared at the riders with dull resentment from behind the line of spears. I like this not one speck, Tyrion thought. Bronn had a score of sellswords scattered through the crowd with orders to stop any trouble before it started. Perhaps Cersei had similarly disposed her Kettleblacks. Somehow Tyrion did not think it would help much. If the fire was too hot, you could hardly keep the pudding from scorching by tossing a handful of raisins in the pot. They crossed Fishmonger’s Square and rode along Muddy Way before turning onto the narrow, curving Hook to begin their climb up Aegon’s High Hill. A few voices raised a cry of “Joffrey! All hail, all hail!” as the young king rode by, but for every man who picked up the shout, a hundred kept their silence. The Lannisters moved through a sea of ragged men and hungry women, breasting a tide of sullen eyes.

Sansa observed, fearful, all the misery surrounding them, but most of all, she watched the faces of the starving and angry common folk. In just a few moments, the situation took a turn for the worse: to their left, three gold cloaks went down under the surge, and then the crowd was rushing forward, trampling the fallen men. The Hound had vanished behind, though his riderless horse galloped beside them. Tyrion saw Aron Santagar pulled from the saddle, the gold-and-black Baratheon stag torn from his grasp. Ser Balon Swann dropped the Lannister lion to draw his longsword. He slashed right and left as the fallen banner was ripped apart, the thousand ragged pieces swirling away like crimson leaves in a stormwind. In an instant they were gone. Someone staggered in front of Joffrey’s horse and shrieked as the king rode him down. Whether it had been man, woman, or child Tyrion could not have said. Joffrey was galloping at his side, whey-faced, with Ser Mandon Moore a white shadow on his left.

Sansa tried to break free, to escape from the enraged crowd. She lost the royal procession and, for a brief moment, thought she could return to the Red Keep on her own, believing no one would pay attention to her. But that wasn't the case, three men surrounded her. It was then that she understood something terrible was about to happen to her. She ran as fast as she could, but with little success. She found herself on the ground and dragged away by the men who pursued her.

Sansa screamed in fear, realizing their intentions. She screamed loudly, but none of those three seemed to hear her. Indeed, it seemed to excite them. In no time, their laughter turned into cries of pain: Sandor Clegane arrived to rescue her, eviscerating and slaying her attackers.

“It’s all right, little bird. You’re safe now!” he reassured her, pulling her to her feet and carrying her on his shoulders, he carried her back to the Red Keep. The young Stark feared she would vomit or faint during that journey, she saw severed arms and heads, blood along the streets of King's Landing, disembowelled bodies, scattered entrails.

The Hound finally took her inside the fortified walls and handmaidens surrounded her, the first to ask her how she was was Tyrion "Are you hurt, my lady?"

Sansa couldn't speak, too shaken by that horrible sight, it was Clegane who spoke.

“The little bird is bleeding,” he said. “Someone take her back to her cage and take care of her.”

Her handmaidens rushed to obey, leading Sansa away.

Sansa ate almost nothing that day or the following days, the experience she lived, had a profound impact on her. Master Frenken visits her every day, even Tyrion Lannister - the uncle of her future husband - often visited her, he was kind, it almost seemed like she could trust him, but then Sansa remembered that he was still a Lannister just as she remembered the words of the Hound "Look around and smell carefully: they're all liars here..." the Stark girl turned over in her bed, no, she couldn't trust Tyrion either.

Her betrothed never visited her, only her mother the Queen Regent, Cersei, had come once, told her to get well soon and then with a smirk she added she would blossom soon and not too soon after that moment, her son and Sansa could have married and then give birth future princes and princesses. If Sansa had heard these words months ago, she’d filled with pride and enthusiasm, but now? The idea troubled her deeply.

She no longer wanted to marry the Queen's son, her heart no longer beat for him, not after the horrors he subjected her to, not after he had her beaten, not after he continually threatened her with death. No, Sansa, he couldn't anymore.

He wanted to escape, but… how? When?

The Guards were everywhere, every corridor was always filled with one or more Guards, often the Hound or Ser Meryn roamed the corridors, no, Sansa just couldn't do it, not alone.

The moment came on a night without stars, on a night where the sky was a riot of colors that went from green to orange, from red to yellow with shades of emerald and jade, the air smelled of burning, Sansa had taking refuge in her rooms completely shrouded in darkness, only by opening the curtains she could observe all the colors reflected in the sky.

Sansa started to step back, she was scared, she intended to take advantage of that situation, but she had no idea exactly how to do it... someone coughed behind her and Sansa jumped and turned around. She saw him for a moment, all black and green, the blood on his face dark as tar, his eyes glowing like a dog’s in the sudden glare.

“What are you doing in my rooms?” she asked to the Hound.

“I’m going.”

“Going?”

“The little bird repeats whatever she hears. Going, yes.”

“Where will you go?”

“Away from here. Away from the fires. Go out the Iron Gate, I suppose. North somewhere, anywhere.”

“You won’t get out,” Sansa said. “The queen’s closed up Maegor’s, and the city gates are shut as well.”

“Not to me. I have the white cloak. And I have this.” He patted the pommel of his sword. “The man who tries to stop me is a dead man. Unless he’s on fire.” He laughed bitterly.

“You’d come with me.” he said, “I could keep you safe,” he rasped. “They’re all afraid of me. No one would hurt you again, or I’d kill them.”

“With you?” Sansa asked again.

“The little birds just can't keep from repeating everything… what do you want to become one of those birds with colorful feathers?” he teased her.

“I'm not going with you.” Sansa said with a courage she didn't think she possessed "You are always so... harsh, mean... I don't..." the young woman stopped.

“Am I too cruel for Your Grace's delicacy?” Sandor asked, looking her straight in the eyes “I'm honest. It's the world that's cruel." he informed her roughly “The world is not made for pretty ones like you, the world is a cruel place, if you can’t protect yourself, then you die and someone else lives.”

The Hound suddenly grabbed Sansa by the wrist and Sansa groaned in fear, she feared he would kill her but instead the man just got close to her face and said "Come with me." it wasn't a question, it was just a statement, a statement said in a tone that Sansa had never heard before, or at least the Hound never used that tone of voice.

“I – I need to change.” Sansa only said.

"There's no time." saying these words, the man dragged her away with him.

The Hound moved with incredible speed and grace for a large man like he was, Sansa struggled to keep up with him, she almost had to run. When he opened the door that would allow them to reach the stables, the earth shook and everything around them began to catch fire, the men screamed. Sandor Clegane staggered for an instant in the face of those flames, then abruptly woke up and started running again. They bumped into fleeing men, screaming women, Sansa couldn't even understand who they were hitting just to reach their goal, suddenly something hit her head and Sansa lost consciousness...

Closing remarks... that's how things really went. Sansa should have runaway with the Hound even in the books and in the tv series. Agree or disagree?

Please let me know what you think. If you'd like, if you had questions or comments you could send either in the comments section or my inbox. If you don't like my story don't read, so please no rude comments towards the story, the people who like this story, or me.

Next chapter asap.

#the princess in the north and the hound #game of thrones #fanfic #got #game of thrones fic #game of thrones fanfiction #got fanfiction #got fic #the houndxsansa #the hound #sandor clegane #sansa x sandor #richard armitage #sophie turner

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deux-jared · 2 years

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my review (more like ramble) of The Menu

the three aspects: class, capitalism, and cuisine

very much so spoilers

the menu

Class:

I could talk forever on what each characters represented, their own personal sins and how it reflects common behavior in the world. but that’s easy to pick up. so onto bigger ideas. very much so is this movie a rich vs poor. that’s made almost too clear.

best part is when the chef asks felicity what school she went to and if she has student loans. that’s what it feels like. that’s actually literally what it feels like. the song silver platter by john grant. broken pieces of furniture that won’t be replaced. wearing through your shoes. there’s a sort of heaviness that seems to come along with the word college itself. what it means. what it takes. what it gives.

the chef seems to not make a class distinction based purely on wealth, but instead on role. givers and takers. if you find yourself asking which you are, don’t keep yourself up over it. we are all both. the chef is conceited in the idea that his art of cooking is above all. that to serve food is the greatest job. he’s right of course. Perhaps the World Ends Here by Joy Harjo. “No matter what, we must eat to live. The gifts of earth are brought and prepared, set on the table. So it has been since creation, and it will go on.” but he is foolish to cast himself into this spotlight role. he is not serving anyone dinner, hasn’t for what seems to be awhile. he is serving art. food is art. but art is not always food. there are other roles it has to fill to be both and these dishes just don’t fill that. it doesn’t make them lesser. it does make him lesser in the social hierarchy.

the movie chooses to , ever so graciously, look at women’s rights. and lately. it feels like that means something more than it should. i don’t want to count the amount of times each day i feel pain from it all. in an unshareable and indescribable way. the parts about disrespect, sex work, infidelity, work status, even money itself. they did not go unnoticed. it was pleasurable. perhaps too much so. to see the look on Kathrine’s face when she stabbed the chef and proceeded to say nothing. she exist under him, under the structure he executes. but she got that moment. and in a way, she owned her death too, which no other character can say.

however i don’t understand the man chase thing though, that had no consequences and was clearly used as a plot device to get the women to bond but then it like didn’t even matter that they did. and margot sharing her true identity was meaningless beyond some feminist idea about identity being regulated by circumstance or men or work and the other women feeling a stronger connection to her.

Capitalism:

what stands out about the chef isn’t that he hates the world he lives in. many, many people do. it’s his high status that contrasts this sentiment. he blames these rich people for ruining his art, but the transaction goes both ways. he himself failed at what he set out to do, and is now unhappy with the results. he took a wrong turn along the way.

the chef is, and bear with me now, capitalism.

we like to think of the men on top as these horrid monsters. it makes things easier to take in. the cloaked figure in a storybook or the black man on the news. but of course that’s not how it is, that’s not really how the human mind works. and i truly believe that those men who decided to make all these choices in global government, those who have altered history for the worse, meant for the best. of course they thought that free market was a good idea, it looks perfect on happy. trickle down economics, eugenics, war itself. we are quick to trick ourselves into thinking we’re making the right choice because that’s the easiest thing for our minds.

none of the guest thought they deserved any punishment. it never occurred to them they were being rude or unkind. and it never occurs to the chef when he is in the wrong. but he made this place. he set these prices. he signed the contracts. and in turn these people show up. it is in this same way capitalism fails.

there’s a moment in a car that’s sliding off the edge of a cliff , and i know this because i was once in a car sliding off the edge of a cliff. where you know that what you once could have done, you no longer can do. you could have made the turn differently, could have loaded the trailer less, could have not made the fucking trip at all. but this doesn’t occur to you until the back wheel is teetering and none of it even matters anymore. it’s not about what happens after, because the after will always come. in death and in life. it’s about knowing that you were not always as helpless as you are in the moment. it’s digging your own hole. pandora opening the box. the first sight of the gun. the last note of the song. how does it feel to know that this is what you had coming. in a way, to me at least. that is what the menu is about. you made the reservation, now dine.

i did not die that night. obviously. nor was that the night that car got totaled. and that slightly convoluted rescue story is one of humanity. doomsday comes when there is no longer another person who cares. no longer humanity.

the chef’s biggest gripe seems to be with the destruction of craft for money. the pressure to succeed (the sous chef’s suicide represented by a pressure good dish), the fear of replacement (elsa’s needless self caused death), selling out (the horrible movie the actor did), empty knowledge over skill / romanticization of a craft rendering it over-commodified to the point of reservation or god forbid obscurity (tyler). these are all very real issues , among many of they other negative undertones of the modern work force. and why do all these issues seem to arise ? capitalism. sell sell sell, and then you end up selling the craft itself. they lost a love a cooking because they were no longer cooking to cook, or ever to serve or please. they were cooking because they were expected to (this statement is debatable, the specific motives for the cooks’ depression is probably even nonexistent. this is a guess based on the ending and the expressed emotions). margo breaks the cycle of what is expected by honestly asking for what she wants. and for what she knows the chef wants to make. she brings humanity back into the transaction, and is thus freed.

but also in careers, sometimes the passion leaves. and that is normal. and healthy. what is wrong is the stagnation. you’re stuck here. now what. no way back no way out it often feels. you spent a life time earning this, and now there is nothing left. single skill workforce layout is killing us as a people god bless that’s just more of a person rant didn’t have to do much with the movie. i want a multifaceted skill set so so so bad.

Cuisine:

i guess this is what the movie is actually about. or what stands out the most. it is also my favorite part. margot seems to take the stance that the chef’s meals are bad. but that’s because she’s judging them wrong. as previously detailed, the food is more art than food. she is disappointed because she expected dinner and was given a show instead.

my favorite part is the (short lived) mentions of biome based cuisine. while it’s only shown at the beginning and never really specifically backed up, the concept of having an island where all your ingredients are naturally sourced is incredible. wonderful set up for a commune. secondly, the role that geography And environment plays in customary cuisine is fun to look at. what things do the people around you usually eat and how does that connect to the natural ingredients in the area. it’s how costal places have sea heavy diets. but on a far more detailed scale. you use a lot of mint in your food because the neighbors grow too much. you have the farmers market walnuts that the orchard in the county happens to grow. it’s even making a lot of dips because down the street the corner shop is known for their homemade tortilla chips. there’s are connections that have mostly been lost due to corporate structure and industrialization. but still thrive in the earthly nature of biome cuisine. it’s something to not only think about, but apply to your own lifestyle.

the class connection to cuisine. not something i’ve heard talked about but something i Very much so think about. especially in relation to health and quality of life. while consuming food is something all humans have in common, the type of food is wildly different. not serving bread is not only to show that the food they’re eating that night can’t be accessed by lower classes. but also giving them a taste of their own medicine. they are denied food that is out of their class, as many of us are every day.

and there’s also the history of bread being told. there’s a sharp contrast between the types of food eaten by different classes. qualities like nutrition and being filling are valued more than taste. my favorite food, my friday night go to, is the $6 wendy’s taco salad. all the food groups in one meal. and for under ten bucks. it’s ground breaking. no working class person is considering some pieces of high quality meat or delicately placed vegetable cubes a good meal for many reasons.

this is in part that margot seems to get right. the importance of food beyond aesthetic and artistic value. there’s a joy that comes from survival, the monkey core of the brain being appeased. and that’s part of what filling food provides. there’s also comfort food. which reminds us of better times, of fond memories, of the family who we have shared table and plate with. by asking for a cheeseburger, margot is not only being honest about her dislike of the menu in a way no other guest is. but she’s also giving the chef the chance to do something he hasn’t done in a long time. bring joy and comfort. help someone. literally serve instead of artistically serve. it’s the feeling of making a pot of soup for your friends or serving lasagna at the homeless shelter. you’re doing this to provide. not to show off. when the class based hierarchy of “fancy” cuisine burns to the ground, we will still have food. the food of our childhood and of our environment.

final thoughts:

if i was to die. i hope it would be this way. given or taking i don’t care. to finale become the art, just like we’re never supposed to, it’s the darkest wish fulfilled. just thinking about it makes me go wild with the pain of want.

#this is not beta read xoxo #the menu #the menu 2022 #media talking #this is for orphilar mostly i think

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jjlunfiltered2 · 2 years

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2022, The Year That Was

I have had the most mixed year of my life and it is, at the time I’m writing, just about over or already over depending on when you see this. I have been through a lot, so let go through what I’ve learned first, then look to the future of what I want to happen in 2023.

What I Learned

Starting in January, I finally learned what I had a suspicion of for years: I am autistic. I have pushed through 35 years of working to mask (poorly) my stems like rocking back and forth, shaking my legs, and, returning recently, biting my bottom lip. These are habits in the eyes of others that I cannot help but have tried, to varying degrees of success, suppress so that people wouldn’t see me as weird or creepy or abnormal to scary degree or intimidating. I am autistic and I now know my incredibly unique way of thinking and doing is different from everyone else because I have a brain that’s impossible to duplicate, which, in a way, makes me feel good.

I also learned that I do have sleep apnea big time to the point that my pulmonologist said that I have 85 interruptions an hour. As of now, I’m still trying to get the right mask for my CPAP, so hopefully I’ll have full sleep sessions sooner rather than later.

I have also learned to not trust anyone. That’s pretty harsh, but for a very long time, my trust barriers were incredibly high and took me years to fully trust people. I recently realized that my walls weakened and brought more people into my life, which is fine to a fault, but there’s always been a policy that I’ve enforced where if someone has a problem with me or if I say/do something wrong, DM me, call me, text me, email me, or whatever you have to do to get me one-on-one and tell me so it can be resolved.

But thanks to incidents over the summer and fall, mistakes I’ve made without knowing I’ve made them have cost me friends and social circles almost to the point that I would’ve had complete meltdown. I own up to my mistakes, and I’ve always tried to explain myself as to why I have done said thing, but spreading rumors causes a mob mentality to where people don’t pull you aside and get the story from the source, causing things to spiral out of control. This happens so much so that you can see a true person’s colors to a point where they hate me, they want nothing to do with me, and they discourage others to meet or talk to me. In my head, that makes me feel like I committed the worst social sins possible and think that I’m an incredibly horrible person, when the complete opposite is true. Of course, my anxious brain will conjure all of these things and my logical brain will have to calm me down before I do drastic things. However, what I said in the last paragraph is 100% true, and because of the incidents I went through — which I’m keeping vague to not spark worse consequences — I’ve re-strengthened my walls to their previous conditions to protect me from worse punishments and losing even more friends and costing me possible romantic relationships.

Speaking of relationships, I have survived another full year of loneliness that went from a metaphorical contained brush fire to a full-blown 1,000,000-acre wildfire thanks to the pandemic (which is still a thing). I’ve also found a term that makes me scared of being alone forever: autophobia. With me being touch-famished, demisexual in a college town, and all of my other mental complexities, I worry that I will never find Mrs(x). Right and it’s worrying. I have also learned that I am not against polyamory and open to two or three other women in my dynamic (no men, because attraction limits), even though I am default monogamous would be just fine with someone that loves me for me and will love me to the point that I want them be completely integrated in my as I would be in theirs.

That said, I know that I’m like a teddy bear where love hugs and kisses on the head, cheeks, and lips, and making out to me is my version of someone getting a metaphorical sexual home run. That said, sex is great, but I will never force anything on my significant other(s) — as no one should; NO MEANS NO — but I also have to come to a different realization that I’m a 445lb, 6’3” black man that many women will find intimidating, scary, creepy, or [INSERT ADJECTIVE HERE], even though my closest friends will look at you sideways and wonder where you’re seeing that in me. I can’t help my physical features, but I do my best to be an open book and a lending ear to help people and do better to help myself as well.

What I Want In 2023

In 2023, I want to spread my talents to other people and the world. I’m going to work on making more content, both long-form and short-form as well as the podcasts, Yes, This Is A Podcast & The Pixelated Men, and maybe be on or help make new podcasts as well. I want more people to join and spread the reach of the Locked ‘N Loaded .game (dotGame) Network with more members, developers, & hybrids. I want to expand Studio 6.2 Enterprises with a few more divisions that I can collaborate with and make new content along the lines.

I also want to work on bringing more people to decentralized, community-driven social media, which is why I’m on Mastodon, Pixelfed, Minds, & MOXY. I truly believe that we need to bring the internet back into power of the people and this is just the beginning. (Hint: click/tap the links to add me or see what I’m working on.

I hope that this is a helpful look into my life over the past 365 days and a sports book look into what I want in 2023.

Finally, but not even the last, I want to thank my friends Rachael and Amanda for being the best hosts when I went on my first vacation to San Antonio, @pixelguysean, Cody, Krystn, & Mark for keeping me from the deep end and my sisters and mom for being the anchor that kept me on the ground and pushing forward regardless of what I want, have said/done, and will say/do. I still live with them, but they have made it a goal to help me become a more prosperous, independent person,………..and better at money because math is hard and adulting is worse.

Here’s to a better 2023 than the 2022 we had.

#2022 #happy new year #2023 #autophobia #autism #autistic spectrum #autism acceptance #lgbtqia #lgbtqia positivity #demisexual #cuddling & snuggling #making out #mental health awareness #anxienty #cpap #sleep apnea

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bethanydelleman · 2 years

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The Three Possible Fates of Fallen Women

Jane Austen offers three possible fates for women who are entangled in sexual misconduct: To be sure, it would have been more for the advantage of conversation had Miss Lydia Bennet come upon the town; or, as the happiest alternative, been secluded from the world, in some distant farmhouse.

"Come upon the town" means fall into prostitution. Now let's forget for a second how horrible Meryton is being (Wouldn't it be better for gossip if she was ruined forever?) Jane Austen has actually explored all three fates that are mentioned around Lydia Wickham.

In Sense & Sensibility, Eliza Brandon, the divorced and disgraced love of Colonel Brandon, was found by him in a sponging house, probably dying of syphilis, after falling into a life of either prostitution or becoming several people's mistress. "I could not trace her beyond her first seducer, and there was every reason to fear that she had removed from him only to sink deeper in a life of sin."

Then, in Mansfield Park, Maria Rushworth, also disgraced and divorced, ends up in a distant farmhouse with Mrs. Norris, "It ended in Mrs. Norris’s resolving to quit Mansfield and devote herself to her unfortunate Maria, and in an establishment being formed for them in another country, remote and private, where, shut up together with little society, on one side no affection, on the other no judgment, it may be reasonably supposed that their tempers became their mutual punishment."

We often think that Lydia has the worst fate, but of the three she seems to have the best. Eliza Brandon and Maria Rushworth suffered far more. All three women were failed by their male guardians/fathers and we see the three possibilities, prostitute/mistress, banishment, or married to an unworthy man. Fortunately for Lydia, her sisters will keep her from anything worse.

#pride and predujice #mansfield park #sense and sensibility #jane austen #lydia bennet #eliza brandon #maria rushworth #still gross that meryton wanted a more exciting ending #all three women bear worse punishments then the men #wickham enjoys himself in london and bath #He is clearly cheating on Lydia #Eliza brandon has the worst fate of a woman in all of austen #I don't think austen could bear to have her on page #think of how much of a village Austen built around Miss Bates #Austen protects her women characters #that's a whole nother post I should do later #too many tags!

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basicbatboys · 4 years

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Drain-O pt.2

Part 1

WARNINGS: mentions of abuse, mentions of murder

1705 words

A super fluffy follow-up to Drain-O! The cheesiness is so so much in this one, please don’t come at me for it.

Music blared through the speakers I had recently set up in the small living room in my apartment. All of the windows had been thrown open the moment I woke up and the sun somehow streamed through the clouds that perpetually hung over Gotham. I smiled and danced around, occasionally adding splashes of color to the painting that hung on my freshly purchased easel.

I felt so alive.

About three months ago, I had witnessed the death of my abusive ex-boyfriend at the hands of Red Hood. In his defense, if he hadn’t killed my assailant then I would have been the dead one.

After the incident, Jason didn’t leave my side for weeks. He was constantly checking up on me, getting me to leave the house, and helping me plan time for therapy. I wouldn’t be as happy as I am now if Jason hadn’t been there for me to help me through my recovery. It's true that I wasn’t fully okay, but I was getting somewhere.

“What the fuck are you listening to?” Came a voice from my front door. I jumped as I was yanked from my thoughts, dropping my paintbrush with a clatter.

“Jason PETER Todd!” I screeched, my hand clutching my heart. “You are despicable.” I bent over to pick up my paintbrush as he shut the door behind him. As embarrassed as I am to admit it, I couldn’t hide the smile that grew on my face. I loved having him around almost as much as I loved giving him a hard time.

He smirked and slid the knob on my stereo to turn down my wildly loud music. “Your neighbors must hate you right now.” He teased, sitting down on the coffee table I had haphazardly shoved to the side to make room for my work.

“Maybe.” I retorted, pointing my paintbrush at him. “But not nearly as much as I hate myself for giving you a key to my place.”

His smile grew and he lowered the tip of my brush. “Careful where you point that thing, ma’am. You’re gonna hurt someone.”

“Bold of you to assume that’s not exactly what I’m trying to do.” I said with a glint in my eyes. I flicked my paintbrush at him and a spray of blue paint followed, peppering his cheek and forehead.

“Now you asked for it.” He grinned, standing. In one quick movement, it seemed, he picked me up by my waist, got ahold of my paintbrush, and pinned me to the couch. He trapped my wrists above my head with one hand, and with the other, he held his new weapon. I couldn’t help but think about how a few months ago this sort of physicality would have sent me spiraling. This was great proof of my recovery, because I felt perfectly at ease under Jason.

“Hmm…” He thought aloud. “What is the proper punishment for your reckless behavior?”

“I think the best way for me to learn my lesson would be for you to just let me go, really.” I tried, smiling a little too sweetly.

“Yeah, no way.”

He slid the slimy brush across my face and I sputtered a meek, “Jason!” to no avail. I had been tainted by a streak of sky blue.

“You are a menace!” I gasped.

“Nah,” he laughed, clearly unable to contain his pure joy at causing me emotional pain. “I’ve been called worse by better, doll face.”

I started wiggling and wrestled one of my arms free, shoving at his chest until he sat up and off of me. “I hardly think Vicki Vale is better than me.”

He shrugged his shoulders as if to say, “I can’t agree.”

My mouth dropped open. “Jason!” I yelled, “That is the lowest you have EVER gone. EVER. You can’t make up for that, even if you tried.”

Jason laughed, a deep chested laugh. I couldn’t help but smile yet again. He looked around the room, clearly trying to find something to compliment to make up for it. His eyes landed on my painting. He stood and walked toward it, a hand on his chin like an art critic.

“Well, I would say that I’m a fan of your painting, but Jesus, what the hell am I looking at.”

Now I stood up. “Clearly those are flowers.”

He tilted his head. Then more. Then more. He looked ridiculous. “Ah. I see it now. You’re a shit artist.”

I put my hands on my hips and stared him down. I didn’t say a word because I didn’t need to. Jason’s eyes glided from my painting to me and he dropped his attitude and walked toward me, wrapping me in a strangling bear-hug. “Oh you poor thing.” He said with mock sympathy. “Did the big bad man hurt your feelings?”

I tried to wiggle out of his grip to no avail. He clearly thought it was funny because I could feel his body shake as he laughed. ‘You won’t laugh for long.’ I thought.

I moved so that I was standing with one of my feet on either of his and he let go of me just enough to look down at me. “What are you do-?” I didn’t let him finish because I used this as my opportunity to shove at his chest. With his feet pinned by mine, he had no choice but to fall backwards. Of course, he couldn’t just let me win, and pulled me to the ground with him.

We fell with a loud thunk. I was sitting on his hips, my hands on either side of his head to brace my fall. I was laughing too hard to realize the position I was in, but when it dawned on me, my face turned a dark red.

Jason, damn him, was looking up at me with those cool green eyes. He threw me a goofy half smile and my own smile spread across my face. He slowly reached up and cupped my cheek. Suddenly, the contact was all too much. We were so close. I felt centimeters away. I could feel his heartbeat. I needed to move.

“God, that was funny!” I diverted, pulling back from his grasp and sliding off of his torso.

“Yeah, hilarious.” He teased. I noted the possible disappointment that threaded his words. Was he going to kiss me? No, he couldn’t have wanted to. We were just friends.

That damn When Harry Met Sally quote entered my head, “Men and women can never just be friends.” Sure, maybe for some people that was true, but Jason and I were the exception, right? I didn’t like him like that, right? Right? Oh god. I totally did.

“Hey?” Jason called.

My head snapped up and I looked at him, a ditzy smile on my lips. “Yes sir!” I responded, like I hadn’t just checked out for the better part of a minute.

“Where’d you go there?”

“I was thinking about- Well, I was just thinking that…” I trailed off. I could NOT tell him that I’d been thinking about my feelings for him. That would jeopardize everything we had worked so hard to build. Thankfully, I didn’t have to lie.

“I know what you were thinking about, bat.” He said softly.

My eyes narrowed. “You do?”

He nodded. “You were thinking about Dylan again.”

I looked down at my hands. Lying to him wasn’t right. Last time I lied to Jason, I literally almost died. But I felt like this was an okay exception.

“I really don’t think we should talk about it right now, Jay. I’m doing so much better and I talk about it like, every week with my therapist.” None of this was a lie, I was simply omitting the fact that I hadn’t been thinking about Dylan at all. Far from it. But this was a really good opportunity to tell him how grateful I was for everything that he’d done for me throughout all of this, so I took a deep breath and just let it all out.

“I want to thank you. And don’t cut me off either,” I said, when I noticed him shaking his head and opening his mouth to speak. “Just let me finish.” He obliged and I continued.

“You have been so attentive to every single one of my needs. That night, you told me that love is gentle and beautiful and I didn’t believe you. I couldn’t imagine how there could be love without pain. I didn’t see myself being loved unless I was giving and giving until I felt like a ghost. You found a way to prove to me, somehow, that I’m worth it. That that sort of fairytale fantastical love can be real.” I looked up at him. “Thank you for…” I trailed off. I didn’t want to assume that he loved me, but the things that I was feeling and the things he was doing sure felt like love.

“For loving you?” He said, as if reading my thoughts.

I nodded, then shook my head and laughed. “I… Yeah. But that’s sort of silly.” I pulled myself off the ground and looked down at him. “Just know that I will never be able to thank you enough for what you did for me.”

Jason stood too, inches away from me. “Listen to me.”

His voice was so soft and so near to me. Chills went down my spine and I dared myself to look up at him and meet his eyes.

“Seeing you smile again, seeing you dance around your living room to your shit music, all of that is so much more than enough thanks. I missed it.”

I didn’t say anything back. We stood like that, staring into each other’s eyes, for a while. The music drifted softly through my stereo and somewhere a car alarm went off.

“What?” I teased. “Is there something on my face?” I rubbed at the blue paint he’d left on my nose with a cheeky smile.

Jason closed the gap between us and the confidence I had melted away. He placed a hand on my waist and the other hand back on my cheek, but this time I wasn’t overwhelmed. My eyes fluttered shut as he kissed me.

#jason todd x reader #jason todd #x reader #fanfic #dc fanfic #dc fanfiction #detective comics #fluff #abuse #recovery

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drethanramslay · 4 years

Text

Letters of Love and Longing (6)

Book: Open Heart

Pairing: Ethan Ramsey x M!MC (Dev Lennox)

Letters of Love and Longing Masterlist

Requested by @sinner-chan- #75 & #84

Author’s note: So I cried while I was writing this so just keep your tissues on standby. Also, I gained some inspiration form Heather by Conan Gray

Year: 1943 Location: Kasserine Pass, Tunisia

Respected Dr Ethan Ramsey,

I can’t help but laugh at how I can’t get over this formal salutation when you are probably the only person who knows me intimately, both physically and emotionally.

It is true! Absolutely no one knows me for me… No one knows my fears… No one knows how foolish and deadly the words “be yourself” are to a person like me because that could be the very thing that could get me jailed or worse killed. Nobody knows me, Dev Aidan Lennox. Nobody but you.

At first, when I fell in love with you, I almost resented your intrusion.

I was okay with hiding my true self, a homosexual, do you know that? I had made my peace that I would be in a loveless marriage with a wife who will never be satisfied and with kids in a modest suburban in Boston. I had made my peace that this my punishment and that I was just born to suffer. I had made my peace that I would probably die unloved and alone.

But you changed that. And I hate you for it.

You read it right. I hate you. I hate you for seeing right through my misery. I hate you for making me open up to you. I hate you for digging out the part of me that I had kept under lock and key. I hate you for kissing me under the inky skies of Miami. I hate you for all the passionate lovemaking. I hate you for giving me the one thing that I was so afraid of-

Hope.

You gave me hope of a future. You gave me love and affection in a way I had never been acquainted with. You gave me a safe space in you, where I could be my truest self with you.

Your presence to me was like St. Peter’s shadow to those sick men; it healed me, but it made me long for more than the shadow. The thought that you would walk through other cities where I could not follow, filled me with emptiness. But you never once let me get drowned in that emptiness.

We were there for each other through the hardships, through the happiness, through the pain and through the love. For the two of us, home wasn’t a place. Home for us was not mortar, bricks and cement. It was blood, flesh and bones. We were each other’s home. You said those words to me.

But I should have known that you were a liar.

So here I am, back to square one. I am lonely, meant to die alone and go to my grave with my true self as a secret. The only thing different is that I am heartbroken and shattered with no hope whatsoever.

I will never forget that black letter day. The day when I walked into Donahues, to meet you for our regular drink before going back to your home on the hills. It was supposed to be a regular Saturday night. But how the turntables.

She was standing at your arm, looking up at you with similar adoration and starry eyes as I am around you. That would have still been okay because I knew whose bed you would come to and how you didn’t care about other women’s infatuation with you.

But she had a ring on the fourth finger of her left hand.

When I turned to you for an explanation, I saw the impassive mask rather than your handsome smile. The eyes which I could so easily read were ice cold and impenetrable. Your arm wrapped around her waist and you introduced her to me- your fiancée.

I have never been a person who hated anyone. I was not one for jealousy either but at that moment… I just wish she were dead. And I was at your arm rather than her. I wished the world wasn’t so harsh and I wished that you would man up and love me.

A part of me silently pleaded that you would leave her and come with me. I know you could see it in my eyes how I was two seconds away from getting down to my knees and begging.

But you didn’t. You didn’t say anything. It was your silence that broke me. It was your silence that completely and utterly shattered me.

Congrats Dr. Ethan Jonah Ramsey, you broke me. You will get over it, oh I know you will. You will stick that stony facade on your face as you say “I do” at the altar. You will convince yourself that you love her and those three special words which were meant for me will be your new mantra to keep her happy and unsuspicious. You will grow old, have three kids who have the same brilliant blue eyes like yours. You will continue to make major breakthroughs in medicine and probably get awards for it. You will be sad but satiated.

You will move on. But I won’t because I am catastrophically in love with you. And I am such a buffoon Ethan that I will never, not in a thousand tragic outcomes, ever regret loving you.

I have a serious affliction: loving you forever.

Guess that is one of the other things I will be carrying to my grave, eh?

I am stationed in Kasserine pass which people have dubbed as death’s doorstep. I don’t see much chances of survival since we are lacking in preparation and resources. So when you get this letter, I might be gone… forever. I think of it as a blessing because a life without you isn’t a life worth living. I see it as a mercy.

I have lived a good life. I have had the privilege to get your love so I am not afraid to die. So, thank you.

I honestly don’t know the purpose of this letter when I am never going to read your reply. But I guess it is better that way for they say, ignorance is bliss. Because if I were to hear from you, my hopes would escalate and I can’t bear that.

I won’t be able to survive that.

I have said my piece so I hope it can give me the contentment that I have craved all my life in my dying hour. But I want you to know that it is your face I will see and your lips that I will feel when I breathe my last.

I wish you the best of everything, my love.

Yours forever,

Dev.

See, I don't want to be a dick but Dev succumbed to his injuries and passed away😭😭😭 6500 Americans out of 30000 Americans passed away. It was a tactical attack causing Germany to win and it didn't help that the Americans weren't prepared AT ALL.

And it it true that an homosexuals suffered during that time period. In Britain alone 49000 homosexuals died because of the sexual identity, be it imprisonment or chemical castration via hormone therapy. So you get it why it happened that way.

This was something completely new for me and i hope you like it 💓 I would definitely wanna dive into Ethan x M!MC in the future 😊

Tagging separately

#anushka writes #ethan ramsey #ethan x mc #ethan x m!mc #open heart #ethan ramsey x mc #playchoices #pixelberry

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vajranam · 4 years

Text

Giving Up On Meat

Song of Advice for Giving Up Meat Eating

by Nyala Pema Dündul

When I think of the suffering that meat eating brings,

I cannot bear the pain and anguish I feel within my heart.

Oṃ maṇi padme hūṃ hrīḥ!

From a state of emptiness and compassion, you guide beings —

Noble Avalokiteśvara, to you I pay homage.

Without having trained in love and compassion myself,

I ate the flesh of my mothers while lecturing others about cause and effect.

Without realizing the absolute, I wandered along the path of empty words.

I, the parrot-like beggar of White Rock,

Was practicing austerities and ‘extracting the essence’,[1]

When, one day, while meditating on Lord Avalokiteśvara,

According to the union of stages from Self-Liberation Equal to Space,[2]

My own body and everything around me suddenly disappeared

And transformed into a luminous body like that of the Great Compassionate One,

Seemingly floating in space.

As I looked around while experiencing luminous awareness,

I saw the inconceivable miseries of the lower realms.

And, in particular, the vast sufferings of the Reviving Hell.

One of its quarters, I saw, was completely filled

With men and women, naked and helpless, before each of whom

Stood throngs of evil-looking servants with heads

Like birds, wild and domesticated animals, and ferocious beasts.

Many of the servants held sharp weapons in their hands,

With which to slice apart and devour the flesh of their victims.

Time and again they cut, and time and again flesh grew back.

Victims did not expire until their karma was fully exhausted,

And habitual tendencies did not diminish, but only increased.

For those who had performed ‘red offerings’ it was even worse.

Loudly, they all screamed in terrible pain and agony.

When I had seen this external manifestation of my own perception,

I wondered what might be done to stop such suffering.

And, in that very instant, in the sky before me,

The Great Compassionate One appeared, and said:

“Ema! My son, who has been close to me throughout many lives,

Listen well now, you who are diligent and determined!

You have gained stability in the generation stage of deity yoga,

And have even developed a few qualities,

But the root of Dharma lies in loving kindness and compassion.

Do you have real love and compassion within yourself?

How could anyone trained in compassion ever eat flesh?

Just look at how eating meat brings such suffering!

The results of our own actions will ripen on us alone;

There is nothing the buddhas of the three times may do.

Eating meat has no virtue whatsoever but entails many faults.

It is the source of 400 forms of disease and 80,000 obstructing forces,

And it naturally brings about the 84,000 afflictive emotions.

Other than as part of the fearless conduct of benefitting all one encounters,

Or as a medicine or sacred substance of the supreme Secret Mantra,

Consumption of flesh involves not the tiniest trace of virtue.

Eating flesh is a sign of being either a māra or rākṣasa demon.

It causes discipline to degenerate and negative emotions to increase.

Without the cause, which is altruistic love and compassion,

You will find it hard to gain the fruit, the essence of awakening.

Meat eaters are not accompanied by the wisdom deities.

They lack blessings, accomplishment, auspiciousness and activity.

The substance of altruism does not develop in eaters of flesh,

Whom gods, nāgas and others regard as demons.

Meat eaters are plagued by gandharvas, rākṣasas, māras,

Yamas, ghosts, spirits, gyalpo, gongpo, and samaya-breaking demons.

The result of eating meat is rebirth in the hells,

Or as a bird, a jackal, a cannibal demon, or the like.

Meat eating thus brings suffering beyond measure.

But by renouncing it, you are freed from all these faults,

And will always be revered by non-human beings,

Who will see you as a pure, authentic brahmin or god.

All the buddhas and bodhisattvas, together with their retinues, throughout the ten directions,

Gurus, yidam deities and ḍākinīs will gather around you like clouds,

And you will be accompanied by male and female bodhisattvas.

Quite naturally, you will possess the cause of loving kindness and compassion,

And swiftly reach the fruit, which is the essence of awakening.

These are just some of the inconceivable virtues to be gained.”

Thus he spoke; and then, once my own perception had returned,

I felt as if I had awakened from a lucid dream.

My body and mind were tormented as if I had swallowed poison,

And I shook with fear and panic.

Just thinking of the terrible sufferings of the Reviving Hell,

I wished only to exchange my happiness for others’ pain.

So utterly overwhelmed was my mind, I wept profusely.

And I felt intense, unbearable compassion.

Then, to take upon myself the sufferings of others,

And to purify their faults and obscurations caused by eating meat,

For every mother sentient being, as infinite in number as space is vast,

I made the following vow, true according to the two levels of reality:

“Aho! Mighty sage Śākyamuni and all buddhas and bodhisattvas throughout the whole of space and time,

Have compassion for this child who knew nothing of cause and effect!

Hosts of gracious root and lineage masters, care for me!

Have compassion for this child who knew nothing of cause and effect!

Supreme yidam deity, mighty Avalokiteśvara, care for me!

Have compassion for this child who knew nothing of cause and effect!

Overwhelmed by ignorance and the two obscurations,

I have often spoken of how all infinite beings have been our parents,

And while living off their flesh, lectured about cause and effect.

I had no idea that the suffering involved was so great!

Often have I heard it said that eating meat with threefold purity[3]

Is sanctioned by the Buddha and does not count as sin.

But this applies only to saints who benefit all they encounter,

Like pure lotus flowers, unstained by negative emotions,

And to practitioners of the profound path of Secret Mantra.

For my part, I have no instruction more profound

Than altruistic love and compassion,

And the infallibility of cause and effect.

To purify all the faults and obscurations of eating flesh

Among all sentient beings, who extend throughout the whole of space,

From this moment on, I completely renounce the eating of flesh.

This is my unfailing commitment, which I shall never forsake.

Even if all the animals upon this earth were to be devoured,

There would still be no satisfaction; hunger would only continue to increase.

Deprived of food or drink for just a few days,

We feel as if we have never tasted even so much as a single morsel or drop before.

Now is the time to escape this demon, hunger.

What, after all, is the cause of this flesh?

It springs only from self-clinging and attachment.

Merely to think of it makes me weary, nauseated.

This utterly unappetizing mound of mess and filth,

Bound up with the thirty-six impure substances,

A body of habitual patterns and aggregates, is the basis for all suffering.

Each animal has its own negative actions,

And whoever eats the flesh of such beings will find it hard to win liberation.

Meat and alcohol are impure substances,

And to offer them does not count as generosity, the Buddha said.

Who, therefore, would eat this food of the afflictions?

Pretas must live for many thousands of human years

Without seeing food or drink, enduring only suffering.

But we human beings gladly drink even ice-cold water,

And have plenty to sustain us besides meat and alcohol.

If we are still not satisfied by such delights,

How could we repay past kindnesses so unfairly?

Throughout the course of countless aeons past

In every world within this universe so vast,[4]

There’s not a single being who has not been our mother.

And the milk we drank from maternal breasts would fill a billion seas.

I abandon all pretence; let the Three Jewels be my witness!

In the past, under the sway of ignorance and habit,

I ate my parents’ flesh and did not remorsefully confess.

Now with pure motivation and the four powers complete,

As in the saying, “I was not, am not, and will not be attached,”

Henceforth, may the thought of eating meat never even cross my mind.

Should I ever fail, let the Three Jewels send their punishment.

May the protectors and guardians constantly keep watch.

Were I now to eat the flesh of my past mothers,

There would be no greater transgressor in all the three realms!

The Buddha said that harming others even slightly impairs one's vows.

So what need is there to mention flesh eating which involves taking life?

In the Parinirvāṇa Sūtra, Laṅkāvatāra and elsewhere, it is said

That eating meat is tantamount to killing.

It is forbidden in both the greater and lesser vehicles,

But is particularly unacceptable for bodhisattvas.

Our Teacher himself, when he appeared as a partridge’s young,

And as a ferocious beast[5] in the wild, would not eat meat.

How then could we, his followers, ever do so?

In accordance with the guidance of the Victorious One,

There were many great masters in India and Tibet who gave up meat.

As all this shows, the faults of meat eating are unimaginably vast.

Not cultivating negativity is itself genuine Dharma.

So may I always comply with the authentic teaching!"

Having seen the boundless faults that come from eating meat,

Even the thought of it is as nauseating as poison.

And so, I, the great beggar with the name of Dündül,

Composed these words of advice to encourage my own renunciation

In the Sky Fortress hermitage of White Rock.

As a result of this virtue, may all sentient beings

Purify all the faults and obscurations that come from eating meat,

So that they may see the thousand buddhas face to face!

| Translated by Adam Pearcey, with many thanks to Ringu Tulku Rinpoche for his clarifications. Original translation 2004. Revised version 2017.

#wisdom #spirituality #mindfulness #meditation #religion #buddhism #self care #zen #visualization #tibet

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afterhoursfic · 4 years

Note

what about eskel as the kaer morhen's sex toy? eskel doesn't get enough dick while he's out on the path and the other wolves (including vesemir, maybe) are happy to have a few nice warm holes to use whenever they feel like it, whatever eskel's doing at the time. and it's not like he has a problem waking up full of cock.

All plot and little porn makes jack a dull boy but oh well. Honestly, I’m in love with this idea and don’t have the proper words to say so but Eskel as nothing more than a hole for his brothers to use is perfection.

I’ve also added Vesemir, there’s no explicit fucking between the two but he just gives Eskel a helping hand here and there.

Normally, when he found himself on the last stretch up to the gates of Kaer Morhen he felt the stresses of the past year slowly melt away almost as if it was taking a deep sigh before he could finally relax. This year was different though, instead, his body felt tight and uncomfortable, itchy almost and no matter what he tried he couldn’t make that feeling go away.

He knew the cause of it, of course, It had been just over a year since he last shared a bed, or hell even a hand with someone, and the winter months would only add to that growing timeline. To some, it was a stupid thing to get worked up over but in all that time he had never been truly satisfied, his hand barely took off the edge and often left him feeling worse than before, couple that with almost every brothel kicking him out on sight and having to hear his brothers forays under the sheets meant he was in for a shit few months.

Sure it had never been easy to find a partner, even less so after he got the scars that littered the side of his face but there was always someone who wanted to try their luck with him, to brag about the fact they took a witcher to bed, and yet it seemed his luck had run out.

When he finally passed the gates to the keep he only spared his brothers and Vesemir a quick nod as he settled Scorpion in the stables, if they noticed anything was odd they didn’t say it, but he could feel their eyes boring into him all the same.

After that he eagerly made his way back to his rooms, ignoring Lambert’s attempt to goad him into a game of Gwent, and giving a grunt when Vesemir announced food would be ready in an hour. Once he was behind a closed door he first went to his trunk and dug through it until he found the wooden cock, he’d bought on a whim decades ago now.

It wasn’t the first one he’d owned but he quickly learned not to take it out on the path with him between the monsters that always seemed to damage his belongings and the people who liked to kick him out of towns when he came back from a job, sans his bags, he decided it would just be easiest to leave it here, the worst that could happen would be if Lambert found it and paraded that bit of information.

Now though all he wanted was to get off, to try and ease the edge off, and so he quickly stripped before he almost tore his bag searching for the small vial of oil. In record time he had two fingers slicked and pressing into him, only doing himself the barest courtesy of prepping himself before he was slicking up the wooden cock and pressing it into him.

It felt good for all of a second, to have something other than his fingers pressing into himself, but it still wasn’t a real cock and even as he began to fuck himself and aimed it towards his prostate, he felt little relief. He knew he wouldn’t be satisfied by the end, but he was here now so may as well come, so with one hand fucking the dildo into himself and the other stripping his cock he soon came with a groan and sure enough, he just felt worse afterwards, unsettled almost, and it was only by tossing the wooden cock into the corner of the room that stopped him from destroying it with a blast of igni.

He could feel the frown on his face as he got up to grab a cloth to clean himself before dressing again, could feel the way his muscles bunched up under his skin, coiled tight as if ready for a fight and he knew he had to watch himself tonight lest he gets riled up at his brothers and lash out them before Vesemir forced him to say what afflicted him. He definitely did not want to be having that conversation with any of them, especially as he pictured Lambert’s grinning face.

Dinner was a tense affair, for him at least, offering nothing but grunts here and there as his brothers spoke a little of their own adventures over the past year, apparently, Geralt and Lambert had worked a job together and not only that but Geralt had met an interesting woman by the name Countess Mignole, who Vesemir had had a dalliance with in the past and even got chased out the woman’s window when caught. Any other time he would probably enjoy his brother’s ribbing of their mentor but now all he wanted was the privacy of his room, in fact, he only stayed as long as his food and drink lasted before he bade them farewell and went left for another very unsatisfying hand job before he went back to bed.

The next couple of weeks weren’t any easier on him. During training he lashed out, normally so controlled and level-headed, now he let his emotions get the better of him by constantly using aard to fling his brothers, and one time Vesemir, across the courtyard just to feel something satisfying, and it was satisfying the first few times, but that soon lost its appeal, not that he stopped doing it though.

Of course, he was chastised, most of their training was supposed to be without signs and even then they were only used to disarm and throw each other off, nowhere close to genuinely hurting one another, but watching Geralt, the famed white wolf be thrown back against the keep’s wall definitely helped him.

Mealtimes were no better, most of the time he could skirt by the others to pick up a bit of food from the kitchen, ignoring their lingering stares and attempts at conversation as he just wanted to eat and get on with the day. Dinner though he couldn’t avoid and would often watch his brothers, well mostly Lambert, get exceedingly drunk on his shitty vodka and bragging about the men and women he bedded, and how more than half of them had come to him begging he takes them to bed.

He wasn’t jealous, or at least that’s what he tried to tell himself, but whenever the conversation turned his way it usually ended with him telling them to fuck off before he stomped off to his room. Okay so maybe he was a little jealous.

It all culminated one night when he couldn’t sleep, couldn’t get comfortable no matter what he did, and was filled with the sort of energy that was slowly making him crazy so that he was ready to tear down the walls of this keep just to get rid of it.

He wasn’t that stupid or desperate, yet, and so he simply picked up his sword and headed down to the courtyards, the faint light of dawn beginning to peek over the castle walls as he struck his sword down against the first training dummy.

He watched it crack and fall apart under his sword in a matter of blows and soon moved onto the next one and the next until a shout rung out behind him.

“That’s enough, wolf” He turned to hurl a snarl towards Vesemir but at the sight of the older witcher, of the stance that brooked absolutely no argument, he bit his tongue and instead dropped his sword to the floor, a mistake clearly as he heard Vesemir’s scowl “That’s no way to treat your weapon, wolf, have I taught you nothing”

With a put-upon sigh, he bent down to pick up the blade and didn’t bother to look up as he started to walk back to his rooms to try for the hundredth time to get some sort of relief until he felt a hard hand on his shoulder, a touch that practically branded him even through his clothes and he hated that his knees felt just a little weak, gods when was the last time he had been touched.

He doesn’t even fight it when Vesemir forces him to his knees, just settles on his knees, face cast down as he waits for his punishment. What he doesn’t expect though is a gentle hand lifting his head up and the almost assessing gaze from the other witcher before Vesemir hums to himself and tilts his head in question “When’s the last time you were fucked?”

He doesn’t bother answering, just clenches his jaw and stares back up at Vesemir, which is answer enough apparently as the older witcher just frowns down at him “I’ll leave the boys to it, they’ve been clamoring to get into bed with you since you arrived”

That gets his attention. Sure the three of them had slept together before, when the days were dark and cold and the nights even more so and they needed a brother’s warmth to take the chill from their bones, but it had been years since they’d done anything together, at least for him. Ever since he’d gotten the scars stretching across his face he’d kept to himself, saw the way people flinched and pulled away from him, and he couldn’t bear that from his brothers.

The thought was pushed aside when he felt a pressure at his cock and he looked down to see Vesemir’s boot against the line of his cock, hard against his breeches for gods knew how long and he couldn’t help the moan that broke free as he thrust against the pressure once, and then again and again until he humping Vesemir’s boot, the only thought of moremoremore until he felt a gentle hand card through his hair and it was that that did him in, that had him come with a shout and caused a sizeable wet spot to stain the front of his pants until he was left panting and limp.

The next thing he knows he’s inside the great hall and is being handed off to Geralt and not much longer he’s in a bed with far too many hands pulling at his clothes, turning to see Lambert behind him, but he can’t even say anything before he feels a finger circling his rim before pushing in.

It’s as if all the air leaves him then and all he can do is hold onto Geralt in front of him as he’s fucked on two, then three, then four fingers. He comes again as a fifth finger teases his hole and it earns a chuckle from his brothers.

He whines when he feels the fingers pull out, but he can’t even comment when suddenly he’s being moved onto his front, on his elbows over Geralt with his ass up before Lambert slides into him. His groan is cut off when a forceful hand in his hair is pulling him down and suddenly his mouth is full of Geralt’s cock, barely able to stop himself from choking on it.

Between the two of them, they figure out a rhythm so that he’s either sinking down onto Geralt or pushed back onto Lambert, filled from both ends for the first time in decades, and he’s almost shameful to say how much he missed this, how much he missed being fucked and moved around as if he were nothing but a hole.

He could feel his mind go hazy with it, just let himself relax as he let them use him how they pleased, whether that was by forcing his mouth onto their cocks until they stretched the back of his throat and left him gagging and struggling for air, or using all the strength and stamina they possessed to fuck into his ass for hours until he was an aching, come-filled mess, and even then begging for more.

He’d lost count of how many orgasms he’d had, only knew that a hand hadn’t touched his cock once and yet it was still hard and flushed red, even as another dry orgasm shook through him and wring out another orgasm from both Lambert and Geralt with muttered swears about what a needy slut he was, how he wanted to be their breeding bitch for the winter and couldn’t go a minute without a cock in him.

In dispersed between the moments of brutal fucking that left him a weak, begging mess, were softer moments that were somehow worse, that would have tears at the corner of his eyes if he were able when Geralt slowly fucked into him, oh so careful and gentle as he pressed small kisses along the scars on his face or when Lambert had him pressed face down into the mattress and slowly rolled his hips into him, a comforting weight at his back as he promised to look after him, that they were all he needed.

It was sometime in the early morning when they finally retired to sleep and for the first time in months, he felt relaxed, comforted now that he was surrounded by his brothers, and fell into a restful sleep.

He had half expected that to be it, that they would help him that once to take the edge off, to make him himself again for the rest of the winter lest he physically tear the walls down, and a part of him hurt at the fact but when woke up to an empty bed he didn’t dwell on it.

He took a moment to admire the bruises and scratches littered on him, even the ache that seemed to stretch across his whole body when he stood up before making his way to the kitchen for food and then probably back to his own bed for some more much-needed rest.

That plan was derailed as soon as he stepped into the kitchen, Vesemir working over the stove making some sort of stew for dinner, whilst Geralt and Lambert sat at the small table, Lambert finishing off his breakfast before they all turned to look at him.

The next thing he knew Geralt was up and pushing him back onto the table, quick hands removed his trousers and two fingers pushed into his swollen rim still leaking their come from only a few hours before. He couldn’t keep back the moan in the back of his throat before suddenly Geralt pulled his fingers out to be replaced by his cock.

That’s how he found himself being fucked over the breakfast table, his brothers chatting amicably with each other whilst he was reduced to a desperate wanton mess under Geralt’s hands. He was only half-hard by the time he felt Geralt come into him, how he still had anything left was a surprise to him but he was left panting and whining for more when the other witcher pulled out of him, but he wasn’t left long when he felt Lambert move by his head.

Lambert’s breakfast seemingly finished he was shifted on the table until his table was hanging off of one end and soon Lambert’s cock was teasing at his mouth and with a hum, he began to suck down the younger witcher’s cock. So focused on just how good it was to have a cock in him first thing in the morning, he jumped when he felt rough hands pinch at his nipples, the mix of pain and pleasure sending a shiver through him as he heard Vesemir chuckle above him, but that didn’t stop the older witcher until he was coming with a shudder with Lambert’s cock so far down his throat he was struggling to breathe.

There was a passing remark from Vesemir to clean up whatever mess they made as he left, and then it was just the three of them, Lambert finished soon after with a growl and he was promptly settled back onto Geralt’s cock, now sat on the bench whilst he ate breakfast, and when down pushed face-first onto the table and fucked within an inch of his life before he and Geralt were coming together with a shout.

The following weeks had the same pattern, namely the three of them using them however they wanted, well mainly Geralt and Lambert.

Occasionally Vesemir would find him and offer his boot for him to hump or a hand for him to fuck into, one time he was even given a pillow to rub his cock against whilst he was kneeling between the other witchers legs, yellow eyes boring into him the whole while and after offered a gentle hand and a kind word before being sent on his way.

His brothers were more forceful, insistent in their need, namely, they’d push him against any surface they could, sparing a couple of fingers to prep him, not that they needed it given how often he was on one of their cocks, always open and dripping come. It didn’t matter what he was doing, whether it was reinforcing the walls around the keep, or repairing the fence around the stables.

Normally he could hear them coming and was able to at least move to a somewhat softer surface before he was shoved face-first to the ground and his clothes all but torn off of him. Not that he had any complaints, he was the most rested he’d been all year and there were truly no words to describe how good it felt to be wanted and craved, to be woken up with Lambert cock’s fucking his hole, all the while telling him how good his hole felt clenched around his cock, how desperate he was for them all, that they could bend him over anywhere and he’d beg to fucked like needy bitch he is.

It’s when Lambert calls him a pretty, little cum dump that he comes, only his brother is long from over and instead, he’s shushed back into sleep whilst Lambert continues rocking into him and when he wakes in the morning he can feel the come spill down his thighs, but he’s only given a minute to admire it before Geralt is pushing him onto his back and forcing his legs wide so that he can push his own cock into his hole.

He almost mourns the end of winter. Whilst he’s itching to get back out on the path he’s not looking forward to leaving his brothers, to go through another year of villager’s ire and even less of their coin, but especially without the feel of his brothers fucking him like they’re desperate for him. It’s not that he’s obsessed, well maybe a little, but now that he’s had a taste of being nothing but a hole to be used whenever someone wants now, he needs more like it’s a physical ache.

So when Geralt asks for his help on a big contract he’d heard about on the way up to the keep, how can he refuse when it means he gets even longer to be nothing more than a cock dumb hole meant to be fucked.

#afterhours cw dubcon #afterhours cw overstimulation #afterhours cw exhibitionism #I don't know any other tags to use #eskel is a hoe

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princess-of-riviaa · 5 years

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Wuthering Heights challenge: Day 2

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Reader

Prompt: She was much too fond of him. The greatest punishment we could invent for her was to keep her separate from him.

Summary: You’re a war nurse at the same camp Captain Steve Rogers is based at, in the rare moments when he’s not on a mission to kill Nazis. His supersoldier serum keeps him from ever getting injured enough for him to need medical attention, but that doesn’t stop him from finding every excuse to demand your attention in the infirmary, and that doesn’t stop you from loving every second of it.

headcanon | drabble | oneshot

Warning(s): slow burn, innocent!Steve (but he knows just how to tease a girl), blowjob

Word Count: 4041

“Why do you waste your time here?” you question. You’ve currently got a light shining in the Captain America’s eyes, checking for pupil dilation or any other signs of a concussion, which he claims he might have.

He waits until the scrupulous eye exam is over before he asks, “Honestly?” He flashes those soft blue eyes at you and you swear you melt.

You force your attention back to your medical equipment. “Preferably.”

Captain Rogers sighs, and you realize that his answer is going to be a lot more personal than you’d initially expected. “My entire life, people have treated me differently because of my body. The first twenty-five years of my life, people would look at me in disgust or pity, if they even bothered to look at me at all. And now, with the serum... people seem to like me more, but it’s not me they like. The way they look at me now... it’s almost worse than how they used to look at me, before.”

You continue to uselessly inspect your instruments just to avoid his gaze. You don’t know how to look at him while he’s bearing his soul to you.

“But you don’t,” he continued. “You don’t just look at me and see muscle, like everyone else does. You don’t make me feel like I’m lab rat being inspected under a microscope.”

He’s putting you on a pedestal that you don’t deserve to be on. So you explain to him, “I’ve been in medicine for five years. I’ve seen every size and shape of every age and gender. Eventually a body just becomes a body, fat or no fat, muscle or no muscle.”

“Maybe.” He shrugs. “But that doesn’t explain why every other nurse in here looks at me like they want to eat me.”

You laugh at the comparison and the imagery it procures. “You’re a person,” you say finally. “You deserve to be treated like one.”

“Yeah, well, people tend to forget that in times like these. You’re one of the few people I can talk to anymore who makes me feel like I’m actually being listened to and not just ogled at.”

You finally turn to face him. “You know you don’t have to come up with some medical issue every time you want to come talk. I get off at four every evening.”

He smiles at you--that cute little half smile that makes most women swoon, and you understand why. Just because you treat him normally doesn’t mean you’re immune to his looks. It doesn’t mean you don’t blush every time those blue eyes watch you work, taking note of every movement you make. It doesn’t mean that you don’t keep your hands on him for a few seconds too long while giving him a check up. It doesn’t mean that that deep, raspy voice doesn’t send shivers down your spine every time he talks quietly enough for only you to hear. “I know,” he admits, “I just like seeing you in your uniform.”

You giggle as you feel yourself blush, looking down at your old and tattered nurse’s uniform. It was once white and pristine but you’ve been a war nurse since ‘42 and it’s had enough stains from blood and other bodily fluids that it’s more of a light grey. “I guess I could say the same,” you admit, eyeing his captain’s uniform.

The curtain parts beside your workstation and Agent Carter appears, looking beautiful as ever. She shoots you a dark look before turning her attention to Captain Rogers. “Your team requests you go over the plan of your next mission.”

Captain Rogers nods and stands. He doesn’t move towards the door, though, and Agent Carter finally realizes that he’ll meet her outside. The captain looks back at you and says, “You said you get off at four?”

You nod, still too afraid to speak after seeing the way Agent Carter looked at you.

“If you’d like to get a drink, my team and I will be at Bernie’s tonight. I hope you come,” he says. He sends you another quick, swoon-worthy smile before leaving.

...

You take one last look in the mirror. Your light makeup is applied perfectly--it took you three tries to get it all right--and the curls in your black hair fall just past your shoulders. The royal blue satin dress you’re currently wearing was a birthday gift from your parents--something you know they can’t afford in times like this, but they wanted to spoil their only child anyways. The black heels are new and shiny, matching the deep shade of your hair. For half a moment you wonder if this is too much, if you went over the top. Will the captain even be there? What if he already left? It’s only six o’clock, but he’s a busy man. He probably has a million other things to do, a million other places to be.

Still, you force yourself out the door and catch a ride to town with some of your fellow nurses. They comment on your dress and once you see the simple evening gowns they’re wearing, you blush with embarrassment. This is definitely over the top.

You arrive at Bernie’s in less than ten minutes. You let the girls run off ahead of you. They’re always giggling and whispering secrets like high school girls. That’s not your style. You’d honestly just used them to get a ride into town, an act you would usually feel guilty about but tonight you’re so nervous that you can’t feel much of anything else.

Everyone stops and stares at you when you enter the bar. You avoid everyone’s gaze and force yourself to put one foot in front of the other as you make your way inside. Eventually everyone goes back to their drinks and conversation and you breathe a sigh of relief. You stand at the bar, not knowing what to do with yourself.

“Y/N?” Captain Rogers calls out from behind you.

You turn to find him walking towards you, his uniform freshly ironed and polished. He eyes your outfit with a look that makes your face burn, though you enjoy his attention a lot more than anyone else’s in the bar.

“I didn’t think it was possible for you to look better in anything other than your nurse uniform,” he smiles, “but I stand corrected.”

You laugh nervously.

“You look beautiful,” he tells you sincerely, holding your gaze.

“Thank you, Captain,” you reply, though you feel sick with nerves. Why are you suddenly so nervous around him? You’re always fine whenever he comes to you in the infirmary. But now... now you’re in an unfamiliar place, and you don’t have to put on the face of professionalism. Now you’re just a woman, and him just a man.

“I’m glad you could make it.” The glint in his blue eyes tells you he truly means it. “Can I get you a drink?”

“Oh, no thank you,” you say quickly. “I don’t drink.”

He frowns, surprised. “Can I ask why you came to a bar then?”

You blush. Now the one reason you’re here--and dressed to the nines--is completely obvious. Why did you have to tell him you don’t drink? You couldn’t have made it more obvious that you’re only here for him.

You see no other way around it. “You asked to me to come, Captain.”

He practically beams at your answer. “Then would you like to get out of here? Go somewhere else? There’s a great diner down the street.”

The idea sounds lovely, but... “Isn’t your team here? I wouldn’t want you to just up and leave them.”

He shrugs. “They’ll understand. Besides, I insist. Let me buy you dinner.”

Your face burns as you look down at your shoes, avoiding his gaze. “Well, I suppose I can’t refuse a captain’s orders.”

He offers you his arm and you take it. Your heart races when you feel the tight bicep under his clothes. His gaze is locked on you as your hand wraps around his arm, looking so tiny against his huge body. You can’t bring yourself to meet his gaze. You already feel your body burning underneath his gaze and you know that if you look at him you’ll lose any self-control you have let. So you let him guide you out into the night.

Captain Rogers is right about the diner. The food is terrific. Normally you don’t eat much on a first date, but the food is good you can’t help--

Wait. This isn’t a first date.

Right?

You’re both dressed up, eating dinner together... it feels like a date. He even pays the bill. That’s what men do on dates, right? It had been so long since you’d been on one. The war had taken up the majority of your focus--and any spare time you had--since Pearl Harbor, so you weren’t able to go out and find a man.

Captain Rogers holds open the door for you once you leave. “So was I right about that place, or was I right?” he asks cheekily.

“You were right,” you agree. “I can’t remember the last time I had a burger that good. Nothing else is going to satisfy me ever again thanks to you.”

You’d meant the last part as a joke, but his expression turns dark. You open your mouth to explain that he shouldn’t feel guilty, that you were indeed glad he’d taken you here, but something about the way he looks at you... it makes your breath catch in the back of your throat.

“C-captain?” you manage to get out.

He steps up to you, the distance between you gone. His gaze bounces from your eyes to your lips. A fire is lit inside of you at what you think is going to happen. Only now do you realize how badly you’ve wanted this--how badly you’ve wanted him. He leans down and closes the distance between your faces. You close your eyes in anticipation, but he never kisses you. Instead he merely pushes a strand of your hair behind your ear before stepping away. You open your eyes again, trying to hide your disappointment.

“We should get back to base,” is all he says.

You can’t remember how to speak so you just nod.

He walks you back to your room on base, though he doesn’t kiss you. He just gives you a soft smile at your door and wishes you a good night. You go to bed that night aching. It was cruel of him to walk away without even a touch.

A week later he asks you to join him for dinner again. He takes you out dancing after and you stay until the place closes long after midnight. You like spending time with him, you realize. Being around the captain makes you feel normal again, makes you forget about the war happening around you, makes you forget about the sick and dying soldiers you take care of during the day. When you’re with him you laugh so hard your stomach hurts and tears stream down your face. It isn’t long before you find yourself addicted to his presence. Even if he never makes a move on you, even if he ignores the heat between you two until you’ve convinced yourself it’s all in your head--even then, you like spending time with him. He’s real, he’s genuine, he’s human. And you absolutely love it.

He asks you out a third time, but he’s sent to Italy before it can happen. By the time you get the news he’s already on the front lines. You wait to here of any news for days. You spend all your time in the infirmary, waiting, hoping for him to show up. The worry drives you crazy and makes you sick. For three nights you can’t sleep, completely restless and agitated. You actually get out of bed and start praying--something you haven’t done in a while. But you’re desperate enough to do anything.

After a week, the whole situation has turned you so crazy that you’re almost convinced you made him all up in your head. You would believe it too, if it weren’t for all the Captain America posters you see littered throughout the town and camp. But you’ve forgotten the exact shade of blue his eyes are, or the way his laugh sounds, or how he smells. And that realization just makes everything so much worse somehow.

So you sneak off to his quarters, consequences be damned. It’s the middle of the night, so no one stops you before you get to his room. Only once you’re in there do you realize how intimate this act is, that you’re invading his privacy and it’s wrong. The bed is made and there’s a desk in the corner, though it’s completely cleared off. You move over to it and sit in the chair, imagining him sitting here. You picture him spending hours in this chair as he writes letters home. Your gaze flicks to the drawers and you’re suddenly filled with curiosity.

Don’t you dare snoop on him, you scold yourself.

But you’re so desperate for just a piece of him--

You open the drawer before you can change your mind. There’s at least ten notebooks in here. You hesitate at the sight of him. What does he write about so much that he needs all these books to hold his words? You shouldn’t, you really shouldn’t--

You pull out the top notebook and open it. It’s not a journal, you realize. He doesn’t write in these; he sketches in them. And the drawings are... Steve is an artist. His work is worthy of being displayed in museums. But that’s not what makes you freeze. What surprises you most is the sketch you’re currently staring at--

It’s unmistakably you. You’re wearing his captain’s jacket--and nothing else. You’re on your knees with the jacket wrapped around you, hiding your clearly-naked body underneath. One hand is in your hair while the other is between your legs, rubbing between your thighs. And the look on your face... it’s completely fucked out. Your eyes are squeezed, your mouth parted, and you’re clearly in the midst of pleasure.

The sketch is so detailed that it makes you blush. But the thought of Steve sitting in his room, thinking of you like that and liking it enough to draw it out... Suddenly your body is burning and you can feel yourself grow wet. You’ve never been with a man like that before, never been around someone who made you feel so...

“Y/N?”

You stand and turn, hiding the sketchbook behind your back. Steve stands in the doorway, his Captain America uniform bloodied and covered in grime and dirt. He’s sweaty and looks exhausted, but his eyes light up at the sight of you. You toss the sketchbook on his bed and are in his arms a second later, burying your head into his chest. Tears spill down your cheeks uncontrollably; you’re so relieved that he’s back, that he’s okay, that he’s alive, that it brings you to tears. He holds you tightly to him until all you can see, all you can smell, all you can hear is him.

He’s alive.

He’s safe.

He’s here.

And he just caught you looking at his sketchbook, his very personal sketchbook.

You step back. Your face flushes as you try to come up with an excuse. Nothing comes out of your mouth.

He steps around you and moves to his bed, where you’d thrown his sketchbook a minute ago. He opens it to the page you were looking at earlier and freezes. His eyes slowly make their way back to you and you feel awful.

“I’m sorry,” you get out. “I know I shouldn’t have looked at that and that I shouldn’t even be in here but I just... I missed you and I wanted a reminder of you and I know it’s not an excuse but...” You let out a deep breath. “I’m sorry.”

Steve sits on the edge of the bed, his sketchbook still open in his hands. There’s a horrified expression on his face as he looks at the sketch.

“If it’s any consolation, you’re really talented,” you offer.

The look he gives you makes you wish you’d kept your mouth shut. “You were never supposed to see this.”

God, you’re the worst person in the world. “I’m sorry--”

“I never wanted you to see this,” he continues. He shuts the book and places it back in his desk drawer. “God, I can’t even look at you right now.”

Those words, those awful words, make your eyes swell with tears. It would have hurt less if he had punched you in the gut. With the way you struggle to breathe, it feels like that’s what he did.

Steve looks back at you and notices the look on your face. He’s on his feet in a flash, closing the distance between you. “No, I didn’t mean it like... I’m so stupid. I’m sorry, I’m really bad at talking to girls.”

Your vision is blurred as you look up at him. “But I’m just me, Steve.” There’s no reason for him to be nervous around you.

“Exactly.” His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows.

And you realize--oh. He is nervous around you. The same way you’re nervous around him.

“I never wanted you to see that because...” he hesitates, struggling to find his next words. “Because I’d be completely mortified if you knew that that’s how I thought about you, that that’s what I wanted... I mean, we’ve only been on two dates. I shouldn’t--I should have more respect. I shouldn’t already be thinking about that stuff. I’m sorry.”

You sniffle. “Would you judge me if I said that I already think about that stuff too? I mean, not about me, personally, but about... experiencing that with you?” You swear your face has never burned as much as it is right now.

Steve looks at you, incredulous, like he thinks you’re saying all of that just to make him feel better. But he must see something in your eyes, on your face, because he’s suddenly closing the distance between the two of you. He moves his face towards yours and you close your eyes. Your heart flutters in your chest at the thought that he’s finally going to give you what you’ve been craving for so long--

“Can I kiss you?” he whispers, his lips ghosting across yours.

“Please,” you practically whimper, and his mouth is on yours a second later.

The kiss is soft, tender, hesitant. But you’ve been so desperate for this exact moment for weeks now that you can’t help yourself--you grab onto his neck and pull him harder against you, your mouth quick and wild against his. He lets out a surprised gasp that turns into something like a moan and the sound is better than you ever could have imagined it in all your wildest fantasies. It makes your toes curl and your heart race and heat flood through your body until you think you’re going to explode.

Steve doesn’t seem to know where to put his hands. They rest on your shoulders for a few moments but his fingers clench at your clothes like he’s desperate to touch you elsewhere. He finally grabs onto your waist, but his grip on you is loose, like he’s afraid to touch you any harder.

You pull back and look up at him. The fire in your veins spreads as you see how dilated his pupils are with want.

“I’ve never, uh...” His voice shakes as he blushes and god if that look on him doesn’t make you want to eat him alive. “I’ve never done much more than kiss, so, uh--”

The thought that you’re his first makes something burn in your chest and it takes you a second to realize that it’s pride. You’re happy he’s never been with another woman. You’re more than thrilled at the thought that you’re the only one who gets to see what he’s like in the darkness of his bedroom.

“I’ve done a few things,” you confess, “but not everything.”

That seems to help him relax a little. “What have you, uh, what have you done?”

You give him a devilish smile and say, “Well, I could tell you, but I’d much rather show you.”

His eyes widened and he gulps again, but the lust is clear in his eyes.

You hold his gaze as you kneel in front of him. If he shows any sign that he wants you to stop, you will, but boy do you hope he doesn’t want you to. You’ve been waiting for this moment for so long! You don’t know what you’d do if he asked you to stop in the middle of it.

But he doesn’t look at you like he’s horrified that you know exactly how to move your body, exactly how to kiss his growing bulge over his uniform, exactly how to hold his gaze while you do it, too. In fact, the look on his face grows more desperate, needy, and the sight of him wanting you so badly makes you wet.

You unbuckle his pants slowly, moving at a pace that will only make him more desperate. He watches you the entire time you tug his pants down and kiss his erection through his underwear. He lets out something that sounds like “oh, fuck” once you finally pull down his underwear and let his cock spring free. You take a second to wrap your mind around how big he is and how you’re possibly going to fit him in your mouth. The tip is red and leaking pre-cum. You lap it up and let out a soft hum at the salty taste. That just makes him groan and fuck if the sounds he makes doesn’t make you want to suck him off until the day you die, just to watch him in the midst of his bliss.

You give soft kisses down the length of his shaft, enjoying your few moments of teasing before you wrap your mouth around the head of his cock. Your tongue swirls around him and more pre-cum leaks out. You lick it all up. You’d only given one other guy a blowjob--what was his name? Jackson? James? Yes, James. James Barnes, one of the sergeants at the camp--and you try to remember everything he’d shown you and told you to do when giving a guy a blowjob. Swirl your tongue around the tip, he’d said. Then take all of him in your mouth, get him all nice and wet so you can stroke his length with your hand. Give his balls plenty of attention. You do all of that and practically beam when Steve loses his control.

He lets out a string of fucked out moans and groans and you feel your underwear begin to soak. He fists a handful of your hair and begins to fuck your mouth. You loosen your jaw and let him use your mouth to chase his high. You keep your eyes on his face, loving the way his nose scrunches up and his mouth falls open the closer he gets to his release. His cock twitches in your mouth, growing even bigger before he shoots his load down your throat. You swallow all of the sticky, warm liquid, your throat clenching around his cock and begging for just one more drop. He retracts himself from your mouth and rushes to pull his pants back up.

He moves to the bed and takes a seat, looking like he needs a second to recover. “You’re really good at that,” he breathes out. You can’t tell if he likes that or not. He looks back at you, still on your knees. “Do you need...? I, um, haven’t... I’ve never pleased a woman before, but I could try.”

You giggle and move to sit next to him. “It’s a good thing I’m a good teacher.”

#steve rogers #steve rogers smut #steve rogers imagine #steve rogers fic #steve rogers x reader #chris evans #chris evans smut #chris evans imagine #chris evans fanfiction #captain america #captain america smut #captain america fic

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shijiujun · 4 years

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Anon Asks: Thanks! I was thinking of another hurt/comfort, but if you could turn it into fluff then I’m all for it! When LY asked QCS “which would you choose: pride or money” and they both chose pride... I wondered what would make LY choose QCS over pride, or have QCS choose LY. Granted I’m only on episode 15 but I’m totally fine with spoilers! Or if that’s a little much... maybe a little moment where LY can flaunt his own family credentials to save QCS (and BYN)?

HI ANON <3

So I did a quick thing and wrote your first prompt - I think you’ll probably see an example of your prompt in the show when Chusheng kneels in front of one of the gang bosses and slices his chest open all to protect Lu Yao because to him pride is a given thing, but Lu Yao, Youning and the Green Dragon Gang’s survival/safety are worth more to him than his pride for sure. Still, I did a sort of established relationship AU take on your prompt.

Second prompt here!

my heart keeps searching

Since getting together with Lu Yao, Chusheng has sworn off three things — Hiding his injuries from Lu Yao, going to the nightclub and brothel and finally, drinking.

“If I ever do any of those things again,” Chusheng declares to Lu Yao, “I’ll write an apology and reflection essay and read it out loud at the entrance to my office to the rest of the guys at the station.”

Read it in full below

Since getting together with Lu Yao, Chusheng has sworn off three things — Hiding his injuries from Lu Yao, going to the nightclub and brothel and finally, drinking without Lu Yao’s supervision.

This comes a week after they first have their first kiss and decide to be with each other, despite the possible opposition from Bai lao-ye and Lu Yao’s family. Even if their friends and the people they know turn on them for being in such an unconventional and ridiculous relationship, even if Chusheng may lose his job at the station, they are sure nothing is going to tear them apart. Not if they can help it.

Chusheng sits on an empty bed in the emergency room of the hospital, wincing as he firmly holds a cold compress over the left side of his torso. He’s here alone today, having snuck off early in the morning to get this treated before Lu Yao wakes up. His little boyfriend is afraid of blood and violence, and there is no need for him to bear witness to this.

After all, Chusheng is used to toughing it out. This is what Qiao Si-ye does — he is an example to his brothers, the brothers who rely on him, and how embarrassing would it be if he cannot shake off a simple injury like this?

Being one of the Eight Martial Arts Master in Shanghai is something he doesn’t mention much anymore. Now he is Inspector Qiao, and still Qiao Si-ye to most of the public. The titles don’t matter much to him, but the hard work he put in to earn them does. It’s proof that he hasn’t spent the last two decades in vain, that he has, above all odds, survived and lived well, even if the life he has chosen might seem unsavoury to some.

A good son to Bai lao-ye, a good brother and leader to his brothers, and a fair, just and competent inspector to the rest of the public. The last he knows he has because of Lu Yao’s brilliance. These are identities that are central to his very self.

Too many things have changed since he met Lu Yao in that alley that chilly morning, Lu Yao in his blue satin pyjamas and waving his hands around like an idiot. An adorable idiot. His idiot.

Chusheng supposes that makes him an idiot too for wanting to be with Lu Yao this much and honestly? He would do the same if he had a chance to go back and relive the past few months.

He would want Lu Yao always. In this life, in the next and in the one after, he wants to be with Lu Yao, no matter what.

And so when the door to the ward slams open, revealing a panting and livid Lu Yao, Chusheng knows he’s in trouble.

“… San Tu, what are you doing here?” he asks with a smile, trying to sound nonchalant. “It’s so early, you should have slept in-“

“You left me in bed before even the sun was up,” snaps Lu Yao, stomping forward and looking Chusheng over. “I knew it! I knew you were hiding something from me yesterday when you returned home. What is it?”

He pries Chusheng’s hand, carrying the cold compress, away from his body and stares.

“San Tu, it’s alright. It’s just two bruised ribs, I swear. I didn’t want to wake you so I came here alone-“

“Bullshit! You were trying to hide this from me,” Lu Yao says, his eyes suddenly watering.

Chusheng blinks and his entire body stiffens at the sight of fresh tears in his boyfriend’s eyes. This is an unwelcomed surprise. Of course he knows what a crybaby and timid thing his Lu Yao is, but this is the first time he’s seen his tears come forth so easily, especially after they became certain of their feelings for each other.

His heart aches, and Chusheng panics.

“San Tu- Yao Yao, I’m sorry, don’t cry, I didn’t mean to-“

“You always do this!” Lu Yao sniffs, looking away to hide from Chusheng. “With Zhiqing-ge it was like this, with Hu laoda you were you like this too, you keep getting hurt and I’m always the last to know about it. Am I not your boyfriend? Does it mean so little to you?”

“Yao Yao, that’s not it. I swear,” Chusheng exhales heavily, reaching out for Lu Yao’s hand and squeezing. “I’m sorry, I really am. I… I promise, I won’t hide an injury from you again. I swear on my parents’ graves, Lu Yao-“

Lu Yao finally turns back to look at him, his eyebrows furrowed in a frown at the declaration. He knows what Chusheng’s parents mean to him. Biting at his lips, Lu Yao feels all the hurt and upset wash away slowly.

Crouching down, Lu Yao mumbles, “I’m your boyfriend. I like you so much, Lao Qiao. You know that right? So if you get hurt, I’m going to hurt too. And if you hide it from me, I’ll hurt even worse.”

Uncaring of the curious eyes staring at them from all corners of the room, Chusheng raises a hand and slowly cups Lu Yao’s jaw in his palm. His thumb gently caresses at Lu Yao’s cheekbone, marvelling at how beautiful he is, at how a brilliant, bright and wonderful person like Lu Yao likes him.

This is his most precious treasure, the one worth the most amongst the collection of all the expensive things he owns.

“Mnn,” he agrees, his lips curving. “I won’t do it again.”

Satisfied at that, Lu Yao lets the matter go. Instead, he checks with the nurse over Chusheng’s injuries, and glares when the nurse corrects him on his cracked, not bruised ribs. After listening to some brief instructions on what to do for Chusheng, Lu Yao swiftly bundles Chusheng up in his shirt and jacket, then ushers the man out of the hospital and into Chusheng’s car parked at the curb.

As they’re about to reach home, Lu Yao turns to Chusheng and asks, “What if you lie to me again?”

“San Tu. I’ve already sworn to you that-“

“Not only that!” Lu Yao realizes, putting a hand up. He begins to count, “Hiding your injuries from me, sneaking off to Chang San Tang and Bai Le Men when I’m not looking and hanging out with the pretty girls there… drinking! And not only those too, I mean I’m okay if you smoke occasionally and if you gamble and see your other friends-“

“If I ever hide my injuries from you again, go to those places and drink again,” Chusheng declares with determination, “I’ll write an apology and reflection essay and read it out loud at the entrance to my office to the guys at the station.”

That cuts Lu Yao’s rant off, and he stares with wide eyes at Chusheng, not quite believing that it is this easy.

“Really?”

Arriving home to Chusheng’s apartment just in time, Chusheng pulls up in front of the building and turns the car engine off before turning to look at Lu Yao. Without another word, he draws the taller man in across the seats, reaching for Lu Yao’s lips and kisses him softly.

“Since my baobei asked me so nicely,” Chusheng promises again, leaning back slightly and peering up at Lu Yao. “I’ve already given you everything, what’s a few more?”

Lu Yao’s answering grin and the way his eyes soften at what he said makes it all worth it.

===

Six weeks later

“Do I really have to do this?” asks Chusheng, looking up from his pile of papers, pen in hand. “Yao Yao-“

Lu Yao puts up one hand, silencing him. “You were the one who set the punishment, Lao Qiao. How many more words do you have to go?”

The detective is lounging on the couch, Chusheng in his line of vision standing outside of his office. He looks plenty awkward there and he’s already written nine pages, which means he’s got one more to go. No matter how many times Chusheng turns around to look at Lu Yao, his boyfriend resolutely does not return his gaze as he focuses on flipping page after page of his book languidly.

Sighing softly, Chusheng continues to write.

Lu Yao is right. He did set the punishment after all, and it was his fault for hitting all three of Lu Yao’s pet peeves. To be fair, he was at Chang San Tang getting a lead on their current case, and he was going to tell Lu Yao when he returned home that night. The woman he was speaking to, a new addition to the brothel, insisted on him drinking before she would tell him what he needed to know. After that, like a full stroke of bad luck, who knew that a fight would break out in the brothel between three men and two women that escalated in a blink of an eye, and how could Chusheng not step in to help?

That’s how he ended up in the hospital in the middle of the night with a cut on his arm and Lu Yao storming in again barely ten minutes later, before Chusheng even had the chance to give him a call.

When he’s done with the last page, he looks at Lu Yao again, clearing his throat.

“Yao Yao, I’m done, can I go in and read it to you-“

“Nope, you said you’d read it on the steps of your office to your brothers and everyone else!”

Chusheng sighs, biting at his lips as he considers this. How embarrassing would this be, to say that he was wrong and do it in front of the boys at the station? The main doors to the station are wide open as well, so anyone walking past can simply step in and watch.

Not only that, but his relationship with Lu Yao has not been made public yet, not intentionally as Chusheng doesn’t hide how much he loves to touch and look at Lu Yao even at the station, but they haven’t made an official announcement.

He’s Qiao Si-ye, one of the Eight Martial Arts Masters in Shanghai, and how will he look anyone in the eye again after this?

He remembered asking Lu Yao if he would choose pride over money, and they’d both chosen pride then, because having pride was more important than anything else in the world for men like them. Lu Yao and Chusheng would rather face poverty and struggle with money, and they have, albeit in different degrees, all to protect their pride.

However, between pride, face, honour… what was all of that in front of Lu Yao?

If Chusheng had to make a choice between embarrassing himself, losing face and making Lu Yao happy, he would choose Lu Yao, everytime.

Opening his mouth, Chusheng begins reading his apology essay, starting off with how sorry he is for breaking his promises to Lu Yao.

Everyone, including Ah Dou and Salim, stop where they are with wide, horrified eyes as they look up at their almighty inspector apologizing. In public. Using such humble, mushy words.

This is not only an apology essay.

It’s a love letter all in one.

Ah Dou walks away stiffly, unblinking as he tries to process this.

As Chusheng moves on to the third page, to the part where he is halfway through eulogizing the merits of having Lu Yao as his loving, caring boyfriend and how sorry he is to have wronged him, he feels a sharp tug on his hand and stumbles, all the way back inside his office. The doors shut loudly behind him and the ensuing silence is deafening in everyone’s ears.

“I never signed up for this,” Salim mumbles forlornly after a moment, walking away with a stack of documents that he was intending to bring up to the inspector’s office for signing.

His comment breaks the trance that has collectively settled over everyone in the vicinity within earshot of Inspector Qiao’s speech.

“Was that Si-ge?! Was that actually him?!”

“What the fuck was he saying?”

“My god, he is so whipped for Detective Lu, I told you there was something going on between them both! Lin Qing, you owe me a silver coin!”

===

Behind closed doors, Lu Yao has Chusheng pressed hard against the walls, kissing him with fervour, much to the Chusheng’s pleasant surprise.

“All your men heard you,” Lu Yao says breathily, pulling away. “Everyone on the streets could probably hear you.”

Chusheng laughs, ducking his head downwards for another kiss, “Didn’t you want me to read it loudly? I’m not done yet. I did write ten pages full after all. Aren’t you interested to hear what I wrote?”

If Lu Yao wasn’t sure before, he’s definitely certain now.

He loves this man. He loves him to bits, every breath he takes is full of one Qiao Chusheng and Lu Yao doesn’t regret it one bit.

In a rare instance of courage and boldness, Lu Yao reaches out to the side and locks the door, before dragging Chusheng with him in the direction of the couch.

“You can whisper the rest of it in my ear,” he grins.

#mriad #my roommate is a detective #民国奇探 #chuyao #qiao chusheng #lu yao #fic prompt #hope this is okay!#probably a little different than you were expecting it #but you'll see what i mean in the later eps #XD

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nimblermortal · 3 years

Text

Everyone should read The Long Ships by Frans Bengtsson

Prologue, as translated by Michael Meyer

Many restless men rowed north from Skania with Bue and Vagn, and found ill fortune at Jörundfjord; others marched with Styrbjörn to Upsala and died there with him. When the news reached their homeland that few of them could be expected to return, elegies were declaimed and memorial stones set up; whereupon all sensible men agreed that what had happened was for the best, for they could now hope to have a more peaceful time than before, and less parceling out of land by the ax and sword. There followed a time of plenty, with fine rye harvests and great herring catches, so that most people were well contented; but there were some who thought that the crops were tardy, and they went a-viking in Ireland and England, where fortune smiled on their wars; and many of them stayed there.

About this time the shaven men had begun to arrive in Skania, both from the Saxons’ land and from England, to preach the Christian faith. They had many strange tales to relate, and at first people were curious and listened to them eagerly, and women found it pleasant to be baptized by these foreigners and presented with a white shift. Before long, however, the foreigners began to run out of shifts, and people wearied of their sermons, finding them tedious and their matter doubtful; besides which, they spoke a rough-sounding dialect that they had learned in Hedeby or in the western islands, which gave their speech a foolish air.

So then there was something of a decline in conversions, and the shaven men, who talked incessantly of peace and were above all very violent in their denunciation of the gods, were one by one seized by devout persons and were hung up on sacred ash trees and shot at with arrows, and offered to the birds of Odin. Others went northwards to the forests of the Göings, where men were less religiously inclined; there they were welcomed warmly, and were tied up and led to the markets in Smaland, where they were bartered for oxen and for beaver skins. Some of them, upon finding themselves slaves of the Smalanders, let their hair grow and waxed discontented with their God Jehovah and gave good service to their masters; but the majority continued to denounce the gods and to spend their time baptizing women and children instead of breaking stones and grinding corn, and made such a nuisance of themselves that soon it became impossible for the Göings to obtain, as hitherto, a yoke of three-year-old oxen for a sturdy priest without giving a measure of salt or cloth into the bargain. So feeling increased against the shaven men in the border country.

One summer the word went round the whole of the Danish kingdom that King Harald Bluetooth had embraced the new religion. In his youth he had done so tentatively, but had soon regretted his decision and recanted; this time, however, he had adopted it seriously. For King Harald was by now an old man and had for some years been tormented by terrible pains in his back, so that he had almost lost his pleasure in ale and women; but wise bishops, sent by the Emperor himself, had rubbed him with bear’s grease, blessed and made potent with the names of apostles, and had wrapped him in sheepskins and given him holy herbal water to drink instead of ale, and had made the sign of the cross between his shoulders and exorcised many devils out of him, until at last his aches and pains had departed; and so the King became a Christian.

Thereupon the holy men assured him that still worse torments would come to plague him if he should ever again offer sacrifice or show himself in any way unzealous in the new religion. So King Harald (as soon as he had become active again and found himself capable of fulfilling his obligations toward a young Moroccan slave-girl, whom Olof of the Precious Stones, the King of Cork, had sent him as a good-will present) issued a proclamation that all his subjects should get themselves christened without delay; and although such an order sounded strangely from the lips of one who was himself descended from Odin, still, many obeyed his command, for he had ruled long and prosperously, so that his word counted for much in the land. He meted out especially severe punishments to anyone who had been guilty of violence against any priest; so that the number of priests in Skania now began to multiple greatly, and churches rose upon the plain, and the old gods fell into disuse, except in times of peril at sea or of cattle plague.

In Göinge, however, the King’s proclamation was the occasion of much merriment. The people of the border forests were blessed with a readier sense of fun than the sober dwellers of the plain, and nothing made them laugh so much as royal proclamation. For in the border country few men’s authority extended beyond the limit of their right arm, and from Jellinge to Göinge was a long march even for the mightiest of kings to undertake. In the old days, in the time of Harald Hildetand and Ivar of the Broad Embrase, and even before that, kings had been wont to come to Göinge to hunt the wild ox in the great forests there, but seldom on any other errand. But since those times the wild ox had died out, and the kings’ visits had ceased; so that nowadays, if any king was bold enough to murmur a complaint that the people of those parts were turbulent or that they paid insufficient taxes, and threatened to journey thither himself to remedy matters, the answer would be sent to him that there were, unfortunately, no wild oxen to be seen in the district nowadays, but that as soon as any should appear he would at once be informed and a royal welcome would be prepared for him. Accordingly, it had for long been a saying among the border people that no king would be seen in their country until the wild oxen returned.

So in Göinge things remained as they had always been, and Christianity made no headway there. Such priests as did venture into those parts were sold over the border as in the old days; though some of the Göings were of the opinion that it would be better to kill them on the spot and start a good war against the skinflints of Sunnerbo and Allbo, for the Smalanders gave such poor prices for priests nowadays that it was hardly worth a man’s trouble to lead them to market.

#the long ships

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talesofealdancynedom · 4 years

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Feon Seabryd in fairy robes, with storm staph.

Tale 19: Meriam Craweleoth: Mage Queen of The Grand West (chapter 4.1 - Time Stands Still: Feon 4/10) part 4. Stories of Old

Maps

none

In spring, Meriam received a letter from the Northlands. The lord of Isfisceard, caught word of Meriam and her men wandering in and out of Celticia, to speak with Helrem in Algonquia. With Francia being hostile towards all three lands, Meriam had trespassed into Celticia to avoid death. However, The Northlands of Celticia had tightened its boarders, and was sending rangers and setting up outposts; The land was strained from battles from both Algonquia and Francia. The lord requested Meriam’s presence, to deal with a specific matter, in exchange for alliance with Anglia. Meriam was eager to accept, and make another ally at Francia’s boarders; and not get punished for trespassing. The courts would not let her leave however. They had a matter of special importance for her as well. Meriam was carrying their only heir to the throne, after Eatheltwein, making her even more valuable. They had forgotten Meriam didn’t take kindly to being treated like a fragile tool. She was being a royal brood mare for them against her wishes, and they still weren’t satisfied. Meriam left with her five loyal men, a doctor, and the Celtician lord’s letter on her pillow for the king to find.

Celticia was temperate and wet. It smelled of rain, and upon its odd rock formation and cliffs, was the hum of the soothing low pressure. The scent of the sea embraced them, as Meriam and her party approached the docks. Crossing up the north isles was the last leg of the journey. Meriam was pampered by everyone; to her appreciation and disgust. It almost tarnished the wondrous experience of the Northland kingdom. The island of Isfisceard, was radiant. It was strewn with storm wildings, rain nymphs, ridge back drakes, hydra, and more. The most intriguing and enchanting things, aside from the beaches, sea walls, ferns and sequoia, was the voices that welled up from the depths; Fish children. There are no mermaids, sirens or selkies in Anglia, but there are many in Celticia. For there are many mariners and fishers, of whom a sixth would gladly wed a questionable, thirsty, hungry, and irresistible, maidens of the sea. While Meriam’s men were bewitched by lust, Meriam was overcome with awe and wonder. As a seer, her heart was a flutter with all fey before her. Meriam, as a mage, was drawn to magic. Thus, it was more fascination than lust, that seduced her to get a closer look. Not that the Fish King’s children weren’t to Meriam’s liking as well. As they docked at their destination village, the captain said they were lucky Anglian folk don’t sing. Cheerful tunes tend to attract less lovely daughters from the deep.

Eager for a proper sleep, Meriam went directly to the lord’s house. But he would not let her rest; he held both her hands and bowed.

“Greeting Mage Queen Meriam. I am honoured you have accepted my invitation. I can tell you are weary, but a lady as precious and fine as you, needs to be kept safe; your men will remain with me, while you retire with Lady Feon Seabryd.” The lord smiled. His accent was both chipper and confusing. Like a thick Irish dialect. Meriam stepped back; what threat would be anticipated that would require her to sleep in a lighthouse, while her trusted knights became drunk lustful decoys.

“I am here to settle my debt, and forge alliances. Tell me your bargain; I am most short these days.” Meriam snapped. Then the lord, still bowing, noticed she was with child, and looked up at her grimace. The lord shivered in fear. Her khol, drawn like a hawk’s face, emphasizing her yellow eyes.

“My apologies your majesty. Let us make haste in signing the papers. You and your men must hear why I am so desperate to protect you, and improve our lands relations.” He said, leading them into a circular hall decorated in tapestries of fish fey and knots. The greens, teal, blues and bronzes complimenting the elaborately carved wooden stools and table.

“Sit, sit.” The lord prompted. Meriam’s men looked calmer then usual; they could handle a court room, after riding dragons. Magic, and their queen’s missions to make peace, was no longer confusing or dramatic.

“Alright, were all settled down now. So, what I need from this alliance, is an army to help this town. A messenger came from the east with a warning: In one season’s time, we will have the army of the Far North at our wall. Meanwhile, Francia is stalled by our land’s rangers and fey. Algonquia is slowly advancing, and occupying Celticia; We are weak. They come to finish their take over, by coming to Isfisceard for our lands only mage; the aforementioned Lady Feon. She sing’s storms and spells, and keeps balance between us and the magic of the sea. Each kingdom has a mage these days, and killing each other’s mages seems to be a common political strategy.” The lord explained.

“You want an army to protect your nations mage?” a knight asked.

“Aye. She is a kind charmer, with four beautiful children. Isfisceard would not be the same without her. But more then her death, I fear the mages of Algonquia. For the reason they are immune to our soldiers and fey, is because their prince and princess, the nephew and niece of the king, are both mages. Edmond Monabellen: The Wolf Prince of The North. He has walked through arrows, and cut cities in half. Him and his siter can control fey in battle, and their men and women are fearless in war. He is a paladin clad in violet and gold, with the eyes of a wolf, and riding his bear familiar. His sister, Luthid Geagwulf, is a witch that works from the camps, to manipulate the battle field. Their army has yet to lose a warrior. If they come for Feon, they will kill all of Celticia’s remaining armies, and take us before Francia does.” The Lord rambled. “I hear your power over time is great Meriam Craweleoth; between you and your kingdoms cavalry, I believe prince Edmond can be stopped. The Northland’s may be in your favour against Francia, if their wolf prince is defeated.” He concluded.

Meriam absorbed the information. Helrem had said nothing about the paladin prince in the Algonquian courts. Wolf kingdom mages, who could be advocating for magic, were being used like pawns in war. This is not how magic is supposed to be used. Their king is a coward for sending his only heir into battle, and a disappointment for abusing magic. Or worse, Edmond and Luthid were skirting their natures out of familial or patriotic obligation, and were in so deep, they can not escape war, despite their better judgment. If Meriam could resolve this, everyone would win.

“I agree to your terms. We will see who is willing to come to your aid by mid harvest. Hopefully my magic will prevent us from being tardy. May I rest now? Lord of Isfisceard?” Meriam said, signing the papers.

“Yes, you may; Feon will be waiting by the beach. There is a white stone of quartz she likes to sing from. Can’t miss it.”

Merriam approached the fogged bay, that echoed of song, along with a closer voice. Upon a random tall stone of white quarts, was a freckled woman in teal fish kingdom fairy robes, holding a wooden staff set with a large emerald. Her long hair was red as blood, and her eyes like blue pine. She sang sweetly into the water, and its flat surface sang back. Her colours were unnatural; as if changed by magic from her going dark from tragedy. She looked like she was having so much fun, that she didn’t notice Merriam watching.

“Are you Feon Seabryd? I am Queen Meriam of Anglia; your lord said I was to stay with you and your family for safety.” Meriam said.

“Aye. Wait till you meet my family-” Feon said, gazing at Meriam. She looked like a ghost dressed in her black feather and crushed velvet fairy robes. “You’re going to have a baby! That’s so exciting! I know just the way to treat you; as a mother myself!” Feon chimed. She took Meriam’s hand and gently led her to a house at the bottom of a light tower, that was carved into the sea wall of the bay.

“I hate children. I don’t want to have a baby; that could kill a woman.”

“I love my children! All four of them! They were a pain, but they are like precious jewels. I smile everyday when I see them. Speaking of children, I have a son who is also a mage, though he don’t know it yet. Lyra is his name; a charmer just like me. Possibly even a storm breaker like me too! I have many notes about mages, and magic workings. You are a seer, right? Maybe reading or copying them would be restful for you?” Feon suggested. With magic on the table, Merriam was warming up to the idea of being in a peasant’s bungalow, surrounded by wild children. The only child she ever liked was Eatheltwein; and she was not responsible for his care.

In the cabin, Feon had her children bring her and Meriam food to study. Feon was excited to pick the brain of a seer, and Meriam was happy to finally be sitting. Feon had many books and journals in her room; it was crowded in a hurricane of organized chaos, around the two beds she shared with her husband and children. Meriam was brought back to her childhood in Francia, sharing a bed with her friend Felin.

“What type of mage are you?” Feon asked, placing a teal leather journal on the table. “For example, I am a Storm breaker; we summon and control weather when magic moves through us, from being really happy. But if we don’t have a storm staph, we will lose control and go gray dark; causing natural disasters. I got my storm staph sent to me from a warlock in Sinonia, of the Grand East, who is also a storm breaker. In fact, the lad sent me many, requesting I place them in the Fish Kingdom in the shadow veil, because The Fish Gate is down the cliff of the lighthouse…” Feon said, handing the journal to Meriam and showing off her wood and emerald staph. Meriam examined it carefully, it was wonderfully crafted. She wondered how the parcel arrived through Francia, and then recalled that they took postage seriously there; you could mail one hundred mice to a foreign land and no one would stop you. A good package, is a delivered package. Feon knocked on the table Infront of Meriam to get her attention.

“Oh sorry, you reminded me of something… I guess I’m a Memoirium de Morte; a mage who can manipulate time. I didn’t realize we had types.” Meriam laughed, melting into the reclined chair covered in plaids.

“Do share! I want to complete that teal compodium, with details about all the mages for our ancestors!”

“Why do you write texts instead of poetry? I thought you were a charmer?”

“I am. But I am also a mother and avid hobbyist. Oh, thank you Lyra” Feon said, taking the kettle and pouring tea. An older boy with ginger hair and green eyes brought it. His long-curled hair was twisted in various strands and weaved into a knot; and he seemed to almost glow with joy while he hummed.

“Ah, one of your children. The Lyra of which you mentioned…” Meriam said.

“Aye, your majesty. I hope you enjoy the tea!” Lyra bowed before dashing off. Meriam gave a cough and returned her attention to Feon.

“You hate children? Why?”

“Hate is a strong word. I prefer the phrase: ‘I am opposed to.’ As too why, maybe it’s I don’t want a dependant human to keep me away from my adventures, or worry me. Or perhaps I don’t wish to put my life at risk to appease a court of men. The reason is irrelevant, and it is no one’s business what I choose to do with my life and body.” Meriam snarled, tossing back the staph. “Give me some of your journals to copy for my records, and tell me what you want to know about my abilities; or more why I don’t just use them to resurrect people or manipulate their memories.”

“I’m sorry. Just don’t understand is all. But as for your special magic, the question in these times isn’t why you don’t use your powers, but why Anglia doesn’t make you.” Feon said.

NEXT--->

<---PREVIOUS

#art #tales of ealdan cynedom #short stories #fantasy #story 19 #meriam #nihten #feon #lyra #sirulius #edmond #luthid

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chickensarentcheap · 4 years

Text

Best Part of Me -Chapter 13

Warnings: profanity

Tagging: @c-a-v-a-l-r-y, @alievans007, @thunderintheshadows, @innerpaperexpertcloud

“Well tonight went pretty good,” Tyler comments, as he joins his wife in the kitchen; leaning stomach first against the island, placing his elbows on the granite countertop and running his palms over his face. “I have to say, you really nailed the whole being civil thing.”

Esme rolls her eyes; unappreciative of the sarcasm that drips from every word. With all five kids settled for the night, it’s inevitable that the topic of the disastrous end to dinner would be brought up. And he watches as she moves about the room, gathering up snacks for school lunches, preparing the meals, cleaning that day’s garbage out of lunch pails. The dress and make up are long gone; a wide head band holds her hair away from her face and she’s clad in a pair of shorts made from an old pair of sweatpants and a simple white tank top. A far cry from what she’d looked like at dinner, but no less beautiful.

“Why would you even get into it with her?” he asks. “Aren’t you always the one that’s telling me not to let people get inside my head?”

“Don’t act like this wasn’t a long time coming. That it hasn’t been six years of her trying to destroy us. Always one thing after another with her. Sending you emails, text messages, showing up at your hotel rooms while on jobs. I’m supposed to be okay with all of that?”

“I never said that. I never said you had to be okay with it.”

“You’d be pretty fucking pissed if the roles were reversed. You would have long ago beat the shit out of them if I had an ex that acted like that.”

“Six months ago your ex helped someone try and kill me, so...”

“That’s not the same and you know it. Was Mark sending me sexually explicit emails and text messages? Was he getting drunk and sending me naked pictures of himself? Was he showing up in the driveway every time you went out of town?”

Tyler shrugs. “I dunno. Was he?”

“You damn well know he wasn’t. Don’t bring Mark into this. He didn’t spend six years playing stupid fucking games trying to get me to cheat on you. And if can’t see the difference between my ex-husband and your ex... whatever the hell she is....”

“Okay first off. She wasn’t an ex anything. I was fucking her. That’s it. Don’t make it seem more important than it was. You were actually married to that asshole.”

“Which has no actual bearing on this conversation because he didn’t do the shit that Nik did. Oh my god, can you honestly not see the fucking difference?”

Tyler smirks. “So being civil doesn’t extend to me either, I see.”

“You know what, fuck you Tyler. Maybe there’s more to things than you’re letting on. You get awful defensive when I say anything remotely negative about Nik.”

“That’s bullshit and you know it. I have enough negative things to say about her myself. I don’t give a crap if you shit talk. I agree with all of it, so...”

“You were awful quick to defend her though,” Esme points out, as she finishes packing the snacks and juices boxes in the three lunch bags and sets them on the island.

“When? When did I defend her? Give me one example of when I defended her.”

“You were on her side the whole time!”

“Like fuck I was,” he scowls. “I always have your back and you know it.”

“You kept trying to stop me,” she accuses. “Bossing me around, ordering me about. Like who the hell do you think you are?”

“Well I have a ring on my fingers and a piece of paper that says I’m your husband. And I was not ordering you around. I just wanted you to stop. It wasn’t the time or place for that shit.”

“She deserved to hear it.”

“Which I agree with. But she didn’t need to hear it there. Time and place, Esme. And that was not the time or the place.”

“Someone with your temper lecturing me about keeping it together?” she snorts. “That’s rich. Because you’re such a pacifist, right Tyler? Give me a break.” She tosses open the door on the dishwasher and begins yanking items out of it; the clatter and rattle increasing in volume with each object she places in the cupboards. “You just don’t like I was insulting your precious Nik,” she snidely remarks.

“Jesus fuck. Let it go! There was never a me and Nik. I never wanted there to be a me and Nik. It was sex. That’s it.”

“So like Dhaka,” she remarks. “Just lasting longer.”

“Don’t even compare the two. Dhaka was totally different.”

“How?” Esme challenges. “You were fucking her. Just like you were fucking me. What was so different about it?”

“Well I married you for one. It didn’t end up being just sex in the end, did it? What went on with me and you is completely difference than what went on with me and her. Don’t pretend it isn’t.”

“Did you feel anything?” she asks. “When you saw her?”

He laughs. “What?”

“When she showed up at lunch today. Did you feel anything for her?”

“Why the hell would I? I’ve never felt anything for her. Why would I start now?”

“Do you not see the way she looks at you? How she’s been looking at you for the six and a half years?”

“No. I don’t. And you know why? Because I don’t fucking care. The only one I care about looking at me is you. That’s it. Not Nik, not Millie’s teacher, not any other woman on the planet. You. So stop making me out to be someone bastard that’s going to cheat you. Because I never would. I’m not Mark.”

“I think I know that.”

“Do you? Because it’s been six and a half years of trying to prove that to you. Of trying to show you that not all men fuck other women or beat the shit out of them. And I get it. He fucked you up. But when does it stop? When do I get to stop proving to you that I’m not like him?”

“When have I ever said you had to?!” she retorts. “When have I ever made you feel that I was comparing you to him? I've never once done that, and you know it. That’s in your head, Tyler. And it wasn’t me that put it there.”

“Who’s the one that’s had to pick up all the pieces and put them back together?”

“Well I’m sorry that you feel it’s been such burden to you. That I’ve just made your life so hard.”

“I never said that. Stop overreacting to every I say. That isn’t what I meant, and you know it. And can you please stop doing that?! He gestures towards the dishwasher. “I’m trying to fucking talk to you!”

“Fine,” she unceremoniously drops a plate onto the counter, then leans back against it, arms crossed over her chest. “Talk. Are you capable of that or you just wanting to unload on me?”

“I want to talk,” Tyler insists. “I don’t want to fight. Although it’s not getting off to a good fucking start, is it.”

“You should have had my back,” she snarls.

“I did! I always do. No questions asked.”

“You were hell bent on shutting me up.”

“I didn’t want the kids hearing that shit. They didn’t need to hear any of it. They’re innocent, for fuck sake. Why did you feel the need to say all what you did while they were there? Couldn’t it have waited until they weren’t around?”

“They’ve heard worse,” Esme reasons. “They’ve heard us fight. They’re probably listening right now, actually.”

“They’re asleep. But they won’t be for very long if you don’t keep your goddamn voice down. Can we about this rationally? Without yelling or trash talking one another? Can we actually manage that? Because I’m sick of resorting that other shit. We’re supposed to be working on that, remember? Not fighting so much.”

“And we haven’t been fighting. We’ve barely fought in the last six months. And then she shows up and everything goes to hell. You think I want to fight with you? That I was us to be like this? Because I don’t. I hate it. When we get like this.”

“Then let’s stay calm and talk about things. Not yell. Talk. Like normal people.”

She gives a small laugh. “When have we ever been normal? It’s never been normal. It didn’t start out normal and it’s not normal now.”

“Fuck normal. Normal’s boring. I just want to be us. But not the angry, mean us. Because I hate that version.”

“So do I. You’re the last person on earth I want be angry with. And I’m not angry at you. I don’t know I’m even freaking out on you. You didn’t do anything wrong. It’s all that stupid bitch and the fact you stuck your dick in her and now my brother is marrying her and ughhh...” she presses her palms against her forehead. “...please tell me you find this just as screwed up as I do.”

“Your brother and Nik? Yeah, I do. But you’re the one that set them up because you didn’t want her subjected to Mark, so...”

“Worst decision ever!” she laments. “And I’ve made some pretty bad decisions. But that one? That one takes the cake.”

“For what it’s worth,” he walks around the island, then leans back against the counter next to the stove as she fills the kettle with water and plugs it in. “I don’t think she’s with him to cause issues with us. I don’t think it’s some game she’s playing. I think she’s actually sincere about how she feels about him.”

She smirks. “What makes you think that?”

“I didn’t just beat the shit out of and kill them when I did the job. I did actually have to talk face to face with them from time to time. I had to learn how to read people.”

“And here I was, attracted to you because I was under the impression that you were nothing more than a butt kicking bad ass,” she teases. “Brains and brawn. Extra sexy. No wonder I keep you around. You’re not just a pretty face.”

“You ever think maybe I just stick around? That you’re not actually keep me? That I just like being here?”

“You really are a glutton for punishment,” she says with a wink, then retrieves two clean mugs from the dishwasher. “So you’re telling me that you were able to ‘read’ Nik?”

“Both of them actually,” he reveals, as he grabs the milk from the fridge.

“And?”

“And it’s legit. The whole thing between them. She’s not playing a game. This isn’t about her trying to weasel her way back into our lives to fuck things up. She’s in love with the guy.”

“Tyler Rake talking about being able to when a woman is in love with a man,” she shakes her head. “What kind of alternate dimension am I living in?”

“Well it wasn’t too hard to figure out. It’s the same way you look at me and I know you love me, so...”

“You’re finally admitting it!” she cries. “Oh my god! You're actually admitting that there’s a ‘look’. You’ve been denying the existence of a ‘look’ for years. Is all that gray hair you’re getting bringing wisdom and enlightenment with it?”

“You know,” Tyler grins. “You have this really weird way of paying people backhanded compliments.”

“I like your gray hair. You’re going to look crazy sexy when all of it is like that. And then your beard will go gray too and...” she sighs dreamily. “Are you still going to love me when I have a head full of gray hair?”

“Baby, I’d love you with no hair.”

She smiles, and he leans down to kiss her.

****

It’s a clear and beautiful night; a fresh, cool breeze rolling in off the ocean, the full moon reflecting off the surface of the water. They sit side by side on the edge of the pool, feet dangling in the water, sipping tea and enjoying a comfortable, companionable silence. And when she shivers, he wraps an arm around her shoulders and pulls her tight into his side.

“You saw the ‘look’ with my brother too?” Esme asks, and as she blows on her drink to cool it down.

Tyler nods. “You can’t tell me you don’t notice it. That he’s crazy about her.”

“I do notice. I just keep hoping I’m imagining it.”

“Sorry. I hate to be bearer of bad news, but it’s the real deal.”

“How you do you know?”

“Because it’s the same way I look at you.”

“Awww baby...” she reaches up to tousle his hair, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “...you have the cutest, sweetest moments.”

“That doesn’t go any further than the two of us. That I say shit like that.”

“It’s not shit. It’s pure and adorable and it makes you even sexier. Who doesn’t love a man that isn’t afraid to get all sappy and show emotion?”

“You may love it, but I don’t love being that way. I do it just for you.”

“Such a burden. The sacrifices you make for the woman you love.”

There isn’t a sacrifice he wouldn’t make for her. Whether it was something as simple as giving up a few hours of sleep to help with the baby or something as dire as exchanging his life for hers. He’d do it. Willingly. No questions asked. No second thoughts.

“I wasn’t taking Nik’s said,” he says. “That’s not why I wanted you to stop talking about things. I didn’t want the kids hearing any of that. I mean, you brought up Dhaka. And the bridge.”

“It was the truth. She was going to leave us there.”

“I know. But the kids didn’t need to hear that. How do we know they’re not going to school tomorrow and talk about the time both their mom and dad could have died? Like, fuck...” he sighs heavily. “...I didn’t think we’d have talk about that until later. Or ever.”

“I shouldn’t have brought that stuff up,” she admits. “You’re right?”

“What?” he grins. “What did you say? I didn’t quite hear you. Can you say that a little louder? Yell it if you have to. So everyone can hear you.”

“I said you’re right,” she grumbles, and elbows him playfully in the ribs. “Don’t be a shit head. I’ve admitted you’re right before. I admit you’re right at least once a year, every year. Consider it an anniversary gift.”

“I thought your anniversary gift is letting me fuck you up the a...”

“Stop!” she orders and places a hand over his mouth. “We do not talk about that. We just do it. We don’t speak of it. Ever.”

“Why?” he chuckles. “Hurts to admit you’re a freak?”

“We are not talking about this. You know I hate talking about it. About THAT.”

“Okay...Okay...I’m sorry. I’ll shut up about it and just enjoy it once a year.”

“Thank you,” she leans her head against his shoulder and wraps an arm around his waist. “Did they kids say anything? When you were tucking them in? About what they heard tonight.”

“Not a word. They were too busy going on and on about how awesome it is that Uncle Kyle’s come to visit and that they got to eat off of ‘adult plates’ and drink out of ‘adult glasses’.”

She grins.

“And one of your son’s was mad that his spaghetti didn’t have cut up hot dogs in it.”

Esme laughs. “That has to be Tyler. That’s his favorite food.”

“That kid’s a freak. Like his mother.”

“He’s all you and you know it!”

“I do not like piece of hot dog in spaghetti. That's fucking gross.”

“You complain about that but you eat vegemite?” she challenges.

“What are you talking about? That shit is amazing.”

“It’s disgusting!” And you even have the fucking nerve to put it on steak sometimes! That should be illegal. Ruining a good steak like that. That stuff is just....ewwww...” she shudders dramatically.

“You know what would be really awesome though,” Tyler muses.

“I’m almost afraid to ask.”

“If I was to put vegemite on something else and eat it off.”

She frowns. “Please tell me you’re not talking about...”

“I so am.”

“And you call me a freak!” she attempts to shove him away with her elbows, then shrieks and arches her back and starts to giggle when he grabs her in the sensitive spot just below her ribs and aggressively tickles. “What the fuck is wrong with you? You’re disturbed! I’m not letting you put vegemite there!”

“You let me put chocolate sauce there. And strawberry jam.”

“Which are both way better than vegemite. You’re gross, Tyler! What is your major malfunction?”

“Well I love vegemite and you. So if I combine the two...”

“You’re disgusting. How do I stay married to you?”

“Because I dick you down as well as I do. And you love me.”

“Okay. I’ll give you those. You are seriously warped though.”

Grinning, he presses a kiss to her temple and then pulls her even tighter into his side. And for several minutes they sit quietly, admiring the reflection of the moon upon the water, enjoying the breeze that tousles the treetops and lightly stirs up the sand.

***

“You seem pretty calm,” she comments, as she sips her tea. “About Nik showing up.”

“I was not calm this afternoon. Trust me.”

“And now?”

“Now I’m pissed. Not a raging pissed. But pissed. Just that she has the fucking nerve to want more from me. I have nothing left to give her. I’ve shed enough blood for her. I don’t know what more she could possibly want.”

“As much as I stand her, she’s actually onto something. Asking you to train Ovi. She knows there’s no one else out there that can do the job like you can. She knows he’ll be trained right. You’re not going to half ass it.”

“I’d rather not be doing it at all.”

“But you have to. For Ovi. The chances of him surviving the job will be a hell of a lot higher if you train him.”

Tyler smirks. “You have a lot of faith in me.”

“It’s not faith. I just know that you were one of the best. If not the best. I knew that before we even met; I used to hear your name get passed around in certain circles. Everyone knew what you did and how well you did it, yet no one knew for sure that you even existed. And if you can’t talk Ovi out of doing this, at least you can teach him what he needs to stay alive, right?”

He nods in agreement.

“There’s something else bugging you, isn’t there. I can just tell. It’s not just the training thing. It’s more than that.”

“Esme, I don’t need to tell you everything. You don’t need all that on your shoulders.”

“Remember what the therapist said? About shouldering everything on your own? That if you keep doing it and don’t learn to open up about things, we won’t make it. And that scares me, Tyler. Because I want us to make it. I wouldn’t be working as hard as I am and going to see therapists if I didn’t.”

He drops a kiss on the top of her head. “I want us to make it too.”

“Then stop being such a stubborn asshole and talk to me. Please. Stop worrying about how much I can deal with it or that you’re somehow a burden. Because you’re not. You never could be. We’re in this together. You’re shit is my shit. As soon as we got married, we took on each other’s shit. So I need you to talk to me.”

He sighs heavily and takes a swallow of now lukewarm tea. “It’s just something that Nik said. It’s been eating at me since this afternoon.”

“Okay....”

“She said that Ovi is going this because he feels as if he has something to prove to me.”

“What?” she gives an incredulous laugh. “That makes no sense. What would he have to prove to you?”

“She said I’ve made him feel like he has to prove he’s worthy of being my kid. For me to love him like one of my kids.”

Esme scowls. “She actually said that to you?”

“It’s been bugging me all fucking day. Because I keep wracking my brain trying to come up with something...anything...that I might have said or done to make him feel that way.”

“You haven’t said or done anything. That’s just Nik being a callous, manipulative bitch. Ovi would never...ever...say that about you. You’ve always loved that kid. No strings attached. Not once have you ever made him feel ‘less than’ because he’s not yours by blood. You realize that she’s fucking with your head, right? She’s trying to guilt you into helping her. It’s what she does. Like how she pulled that ‘you’ll never be able to properly provide for your family without the job’ card when I was having the twins.”

“And I fell for it and nearly destroyed us in the end.”

“Well this time, that won’t happen. You’re doing what you have to do to help Ovi. And we both know he’ll be better off for it. And if you have to get back into it to help him, that’s fine. But Tyler...I am telling you right now...if you go back into the job for no reason, I’m done. I can’t live that life again. And never can the kids. If you do that...go willingly...we won’t be here when you get back.”

He sighs heavily and squeezes her shoulder. “I know.”

“Because I love you, but I love my kids more. I have to do what’s best for them. And life is not it. You know that.”

He nods in agreement. It’s a painful, hate truth that hits deep. But is one that he needs to hear. He’s run out of chances. He knows it. She's taken him back and seen past all the broken promises and forgiven him time and time again. Way more times that he actually deserved.

“Promise me you won’t go back,” she says. “Only if you have to. To help Ovi.”

“I’m not going back, baby. Not unless there’s no other choice. I don’t want to lose you. Or my kids. I can't lose you guys.”

She presses a kiss to his cheek, then slides her hand over his ribs, onto his back and up to the nape of his hair; nails lightly scratching at the back of his head. “You need to go back on your meds,” she says.

Tyler frowns. “How’d you...”

“You honestly think I don’t know when you stop taking them? And no. I’m not opening the bottle and counting them. It’s the way you get. You start having trouble sleeping again, you’re easily agitated, you fidget a lot and you can’t stay still, you’re super fucking moody. You can’t just stop them. That’s not how these things work.”

“I was feeling fine,” he shrugs, and the excuse sounds lame even to his own ears.

“You were feeling fine because you were taking your meds. Isn’t that obvious? I mean, if you’re feeling like this when you’re off them...”

“It’s just the withdrawal.”

“That’s bullshit and you know it. It isn’t just the withdrawal. It’s how you feel when you’re not on them. And I know it makes you think you’re weak that you have to take them and that it somehow makes you ‘less of a man’ that you have to rely on these things. But that’s crap too. It takes a stronger, bigger man to realize something is wrong and then work on getting his shit together.”

“I know you believe that, and maybe it’s true. And it should make me feel better. But I hate this. Being this way.”

“I know you do,” she rubs his back comfortingly. “And I wish you didn’t have to deal with this. But you are. Dealing with it. And you’re doing a lot better than you think you are.”

“Yeah? Because it doesn’t fucking feel like it.”

“Well if you’re not taking your meds, you’re going to feel like that. Why do you do this to yourself? You know you feel better when you’re taking them. You see the difference they make.”

“It’s the fact I have to take them in the first place. That my brain is so fucked up that it can’t function on its own. I hate that I can’t wake up in the morning without needing meds. It’s pathetic. And it’s weak.”

“It is not weak,” she insists. “You are not weak. That is some Gaspar bullshit in your head. Or your father. Those two voices are the last ones you should be listening to. Gaspar was a sociopath and your father...well we know what he is.”

“And if I end up just like him?”

“Who? Gaspar?”

“Fuck, that’s even worse. My father.”

“Tyler, you are nothing like your father. You have your issues, but you are not like that. Not in the slightest. You need to get that out of your head, too. Because if you were like that, I wouldn’t be here, and neither would your kids. We would not be sticking around to put up with that bullshit. And as far as the other one goes...Gaspar...now that was person who was fucked up. You think your brain is messed up? How screwed up was his that he was willing to kill a kid? He was just going to hand Ovi over. What kind of whack job would do something like that?”

He’s never told her. That the ten million dollars wasn’t just to hand Ovi over, but her as well. A package deal, Gaspar had told him. Ovi’s dead body a trophy Asif could gloat over, her very much alive on a plaything he could add to his collection. For six and a half years he’s been holding onto that secret. It’s for her own good; nothing positive could ever come out of her knowing the whole truth. It’s bad enough that there are still times when he looks at her and thinks about what Gaspar had said. About all of the things that would have been done to her before Asif finally got bored and put her out of her misery.

“Are you okay?” she asks, and he’s suddenly aware of how tense his shoulders have become; how tight his jaw is clenched.

Tyler nods, then turns his face into hers and presses his lips to her forehead. “Just brings back some bad shit. Talking about him. Gaspar. That was a huge fucking mistake. Asking him for help.”

“He was your friend. Or at least you thought he was. You didn’t know what he was capable of. Money brings out the worst in a lot of people. He’s the perfect example. I still can’t believe you were even friends with someone like that. You’re just so...I don’t know...different. You’re human. He wasn’t. Anyone that would do something like that to a kid is a shitty human being and they deserve everything horrible that happens to them.”

Yet he’d still mourned Gaspar. As he sat there on the steps with Ovi, watching his old friend take his last breaths. Part of him had grieved. Not for the actual loss of life, but that Ovi had been forced to kill Gaspar in the first place. That he’d trusted someone...someone he’d considered a friend...and they’d betrayed him. And sometimes that loss is the more painful than losing the actual person.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Esme says. “Everything that happened at Gaspar’s house. There’s no way you could have known what he was going to do. You had no reason to believe that he’d do something like that. That he’d be friends with someone like Asif.”

“Something was off. When I first talked to him in the kitchen. When he said he was going to ‘kiss his wife’. There was something that wasn’t quite right about it. I didn’t think about it until afterwards.”

“Was there ever a wife? That’s what I’d like to know.”

Tyler shrugs.

“There wasn’t one picture in that house. There wasn’t even a single toothbrush in the bathroom, let alone two. It was just weird. It was like no one actually lived there. Almost like it was a safe house.”

“Or a place he took people to to hold them for Asif.”

“You don’t think that’s what would have happened, do you? Had he killed you to get to Ovi. You don’t think he would have kept us there until...”

“I don’t know. I don’t even want to think about it; what would have happened if Ovi hadn’t have done what he did. Because you would have been left behind too and that’s not something I want in my head. It wouldn’t have been quick and painless for you.”

“Tyler, you need to stop dwelling on things that could have happened. Don’t go down that rabbit hole, okay? Nothing good will come of that and you know it. I don’t want you doing that to yourself. Things happen for a reason. Ovi was meant to kill Gaspar so everything else could fall into place. If things hadn’t had happened the way they did...in the order they did...we wouldn’t be here right now. Six and a half years later. Five kids later. I bet you didn’t think that’s where your life would end up. When Nik and I showed up at your place that day.”

“I don’t know,” he grins. “You were pretty cute.”

“Well where you lived, you didn’t have many options to choose from, so...”

“Stop that,” he gently scolds, and lays a hand on the side of her head and kisses her temple. “You were beautiful.”

She smiles, then wraps both arms around his torso and leans into him.

“And you had those jeans shorts on that were a little tight in the ass and...”

“You were actually checking out my ass? The second I walked in the door?”

“It was more like thirty seconds.”

She snorts.

“What? I’m a guy. A red-blooded guy who knows a good thing when he sees one. And you just walked right in through the front door. When you’re given a gift like that...”

“You’re an ass,” she laughs. “For what it’s worth, I thought you were insanely hot. You were not what I expected. At all. All the stories that I’d heard about you, you did not look like what I thought you would look like.”

“What did you think I would look like?”

“Honestly, I don’t know. But it wasn’t that. I guess I expected someone older. Not nearly as attractive. And definitely not as ripped. That was a pleasant surprise. Walking in there and seeing you. I mean, who doesn’t love a jacked guy with pretty blue eyes? I was worried. When Nik told me her plan. I didn’t want to be pretend married to some old, ugly guy.”

“You thought I’d be old and ugly? What the fuck?”

“I didn’t know what you looked like. I thought someone with the experience and the body count you had would look...I don’t know...old. Haggard. That he’d have a dad bod. Not an eight pack and an ass you could bounce a quarter off.”

He chuckles at that.

“I know it was weird for you. Going into a job like that. Having to be ‘pretend married’.”

“It was a first. But it wasn’t weird. I mean, you were nice to look at. It could have been worse.”

“Yeah, I could have made you sleep on the floor the entire five days.”

“Now that would have been a fucking tragedy. So thank you. Thank you for letting me into your pants so easily.”

“You’re such a dick,” she laughs.

“Those five days were....”

“Interesting?”

“I was going to say fucking awesome, but I guess interesting works too.”

“They were pretty intense,” she says. “In a fun way.”

“In a very fun way. Most fun I’ve had on the job. Ever. Hands down.”

“Well look where your fun has led you. Where five days of crazy sex has brought you. A wife, five kids. Definitely not where you thought you’d end up.”

“Maybe not. But it doesn’t mean I’m not exactly where I’m supposed to be.”

“Boy,” she pulls back and smiles at him. “You’re on fire tonight with the sappy shit. I’d say you were doing it just to try and get into my pants, but that’s hardly a challenge anymore and you know you don’t have to work as hard at it.”

“Have you ever thought that I’m just happy? Being here. With you. That I’m glad this is where my life ended up? That I even survived to get a chance to have any of this? Because that’s the closest to death I’ve ever been. And I don’t want to be that close to it ever again. I got my second chance. I’m not going to fuck that up.”

She kisses him. Long and soft, a hand on the side of his face, the other resting on his ribs. “You’re kind of my favorite,” she says, and presses her lips to the bridge of his nose.

“You’re kind of my favorite too.”

She tousles his hair, then pulls her feet from the pool and stands up. “I’m going to go and check on the kids and then I’m going to go and have a long, hot bath. Unless you want to have a shower and then we can just save water.”

He tilts his head back to look up at her, grinning. “I’ll be in in a little bit.”

“Okay. Don’t be too long,” she pecks his lips. “And get out of your head,” she orders, as she heads towards the house. “Nothing good ever comes out of spending too much time in there. Don’t let bad shit live there rent free.”

“You’re a naggy pain in the ass, you know that?”

“But I’m your naggy pain in the ass. And you’d miss this ass. Don’t deny it.”

“I’d miss more than the ass,” he informs her.

“Yeah, I know exactly what you’d miss.”

“Everything,” he says. “I’d miss everything.”

She gives him one last smile and a small wink, then disappears into the house.

#tyler rake #tyler rake fan fic #tyler rake fan fiction #extraction #best part of me #chris hemsworth character

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jay-and-dean · 5 years

Text

Rescue You Chapter 1 : October 27.

Dean x reader

The original Aestetic was flaggued, so this is my new version of it. Thank you for all the amazing feedback I just had time to read before they got lost

Summary : My name is Y/n. I’m the outcast of my witch community. This is the story of how I rescued Dean Winchester, the story of how he saved me.

Serie Warnings : Swearing. Injuries. Smut. Fluff. Angst.

Words : 2.9k

Note : I really have fun to write this story, because it’s a little different from my usual things. I’ll try to make shorter chapters than usual, and to edit it more often. I hope you enjoy. Special Thanks to @holylulusworld and @roonyxx to support me.

***Want to read more ? => MASTERLIST***

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October 27, 6am.

I open my eyes and grunt, then throw the cover above my head.

I don’t want to go. I never do, today is just worse. Maybe it is because the sky is so grey again, maybe it’s because it’s full moon tonight… My mom and sister will bring the community home, to prepare the moon rituals as always and I just hate it. Halloween coming is enough already, and it seems that the meetings never stop. I don’t want to face the community looks of pity and annoyance ; being my mom’s disappointment is enough, it don’t need to be the freaking town’s black sheep.

But this is my life.

Being the only child born without powers in a large and powerful witch community is not only frustrating, it’s a curse. And my life has slowly become a nightmare.

It started at five, when the Coven decided my father was the one responsible for my “inability”. Men don’t have powers, and they are just excluded most of the time, treated like they were less important, less intelligent, like many women are currently treated in the rest of the world… Aunt Kali says we are better than humans because we don’t underestimate women, but I’m not sure if doing the same things to men is really being better.

My father loved me, he wasn’t close to my sister because my mom never really let him. She’s so talented my sister, and her powers started to bloom early ; but as mine took time, my mother neglected me. Until the community started wondering why I had no talent…

When I was five, they decided I shouldn’t see my father anymore because he had a bad influence on me. Two years later there was a trial, because they now knew I will be without powers.

It happens once in a while, a child without powers ; and they always blame the males.

So they banned him. They banned him and erased his memories, perfectly knowing it messes with people brains…

I heard he’s now an old drunk working in a factory in Main. I just wish they had banned me too, but they can’t erase my memory of this town so they just have to keep me. And I’m a woman.

All the rest have been the same, they refused that I do Vet school, that I marry Aiden… Now I just came to agree that my fate may be to stay at my mom’s, and be the handywoman of the town.

I really try to ignore my mother calling me, hiding just a few more seconds under my blanket, but she’s not someone you can ignore for long, so I get up grunting.

When I enter the kitchen with my hands in the pocket of my large hoodie, my eyes widen : The place is already crowded with people speaking loud and looking worried. The whole Coven is here, the mayor too, and my sister, frowning like she this was serious. Nothing is ever usually serious to her.

“What is happening ?” I ask her and she looks at me with that common annoyed look.

“Hunters” she says. “Two of them, one is dead, but the other is gone.”

I frown. Hunters ? Oh…

“Ophelia, where were you when you saw the hunter ?” the old Mam Griffin asks.

“In the forest” Ophelia whines. “Sally and him fought, she stabbed him but he killed her” she sobs with her face in the silk tissue. “He escaped to his car so I… I crashed the car and run… B-but… Saaallyyy” she whines again.

Sally was a bitch, she used her powers to hurt animals, and me, so I won’t really miss her. And Ophelia is a stupid blond girl, but she’s very strong, so if she says she crashed the car, the hunter must be in pieces.

Mam Griffin sits and everybody shuts up, she looks at her knobbled hands and clear her throat.

“Tell the boys to find the corpse, throw it in the river and bring me blood” she gnashes.

The awful sound coming from her makes me frown, and when she notices, I know I’m screwed.

“I changed my mind” she says looking me right in the eye with the usual hate. “Send Y/n.”

“B-but, he will be heavy and if the other hunter…” my mother tries.

“Enough !” the old lady cuts her. “I want hunter blood, Y/n”.

October 27, 9am.

It’s already so cold, I just hope it won’t rain. The woods are misty and creepy, as they always are in autumn.

Their hate of me makes them reckless, what if I can’t drag the hunter out of the car ? What if people follow me ? I roll my eyes thinking of Mam Griffin and her old mouth falling on both corners.

Good think Aiden told me to call if I couldn’t move the corpse.

Aiden is my best friend, he’s my only friend. He works at the sheriff office but isn’t really respected, as he’s a man. We used to be really close when we were young, but when we started dating, the community went mad. We were tolerated until the Coven reminded my mom I should never have child, to avoid spreading the curse. So they made us break up, made him marry Ophelia’s sister, and now he already has two kids, boys…

Lost in my thoughts, I don’t look at the ground and stumble.

“What the…” I grunt, catching myself on my hands.

When I look up, goosebumps appear on my arms.

Just before me, against a tree : a black American car lays pathetically, windows shattered, broken. I have already seen a dead body, but never one smashed against a tree, so I start to shake a little.

“Please don’t be too gross…” I whisper walking toward the car, my knife in my hand. “No brain everywhere or whatever.”

A shoe, a leg. And finally, all of him. He’s not in pieces, he’s nothing like I could have imagined. The knife in my hand falls on the ground.

Behind the wheel, the hunter lays, peace on his bruised and swollen face, blood everywhere. One of his hand is holding his stomach, and his jeans are soaked in his own blood, pieces of glass are planted on his arms. There is something brave, something noble about that man. An inexplicable something that makes me, just for an instant, regret that I’ll never see him move, or talk. I stay silent for a second, confused by the sadness invading me, looking at the most dangerous man I ever seen with bitterness in the back of my mouth.

That’s when I notice it, the small steady movement of his chest.

He’s not dead.

I look at my feet and see the knife, take it with shaking hands. I enter the car slowly, cautiously, to get closer to his throat. It smells like blood and leather and this man in here ; and it’s cold. With a trembling hand I raise the blade above him, hoping I would managed to be precise and quick, because somehow, I don’t want him to suffer more. And the truth is, he terrifies me.

He opens his eyes.

He unexpectedly opens his eyes and his pupils contract when they meet daylight, landing on me. My breath get stuck in my throat and I just stay completely still, looking back at his green eyes, my knife still raised in my two hands. The fear is paralyzing me, but my fascination grows. He closes his eyes again in a weak sigh, obviously ready to die.

I try to hit him with the knife, I really try. But my hands won’t move, at all. Looking down, I panic : What if I can’t kill him ? They would severely punish me for that. Treat every hunter like he had already slaughtered your family, because that’s what he would do if you let him run. That’s what I’ve been taught.

Still…

I lower my arms in a whine, cursing in my head. After several hesitations, I put a cautious finger on his pulse point, he just passed out. I look around and my brain goes crazy. If I don’t kill him, it will be even crueler because he will die here, in extreme pain ; but I just can’t do it.

“Okay…” I pant because of the stress, rubbing my face.

If I put him somewhere his partner will find him… But the community will find him too, kill him, and kill me. Or I hide him until he can walk, so he just runs away. That’s crazy… Ollie’s ancient cabin is not far, maybe I could hide him there, just for the night, he will probably die before morning though, so I’ll just have to throw him in the river tomorrow… I’m dizzy now. Shit !

I push the opposite door of the car and get out, then I turn around and grab the collar of his vest. With all my strength, I pull him out of the car and he loudly falls on the floor with a groans of pain. I let him go and take a step back, I feel like I am poking a sleeping bear, it’s terrifying. But he doesn’t move, his eyes stay closed, only his breathing fastened a little with pain.

October 27, 1pm.

I fall on the chair in a groan, sweating, shaking, panting. Wiping my face, I realize I probably put blood on my forehead, but I don’t mind.

I look at him, still unconscious, laying on the wooden floor. It took me three hours to drag him in the cabin, three hours of moving a massive man on a forest ground without hurting him more ; I have never done something that hard in my life.

Ollie’s cabin is my second home, I know this place by heart. When he abandoned it, I made it my place, and now, even if it doesn’t have electricity, I spend a lot of time here just hiding from the world. There is water and a little gas cooker, a very rustic shower and oil lamps. Ollie left because, when his wife passed away, he had no magic heater and light anymore, so the cute little wood cabin became completely inhospitable.

For me it is enough, and to hide a dying hunter, I couldn’t ask for more. I look at the room : only a bed for two, two chairs and an old TV, the humble table and the gas hotplates, a closet with old pan and a few utensils. And a first aid kit.

I take it and thank the goddesses that there are some magical things in it too, Ollie was a trapper and was often wounded, so there is still a bit of that ointment that stops bleeding magically.

Kneeling close to the hunter, I check his breathing once again, like I did every five minutes in the woods.

His face is blue and green, his lips white, swollen wounds soaking him in red above all of this. He must be broken everywhere inside, I just need to be sure there is no internal bleeding. My trembling hands hold the scissors I found, the dry blood allowing the cold metal to stick on my yet sweating skin. I push his vest and flannel on the side and start to cut his t-shirt open, it’s saturated with blood, some of it dry, making it hard to cut the fabric.

I hiss at the sight of the open wound on his stomach, I can’t be sure if any vital organ is touched, what’s sure is, with the blood he lost, most men would already be dead. It’s soaking my hands so I hurry to put some ointment on it. The rest of his chest is covered in bruises, and smaller cuts I can fix. One of them damaged his tattoo, anti-possession I think. That would make sense for a hunter… I’ll give him another, that’s really not the more urgent.

I open his belt and take down his pants, making his phone slip out of his pocket, it’s shattered. When my eyes look down, I frown : His leg is badly broken and I’m pretty sure he would need surgery.

“Fuck…” I grunt beneath my teeth.

As I start to sweat bullets, my heart beats like crazy. I know I have to move his bone back, I have no other choice, except end his suffering. I did it once or twice with Misses Gerald, the vet, when I was her assistant… But only on animals.

“Just don’t faint… don’t faint…” I murmur to myself, taking his leg above his ankle, firmly in my hands.

“1… 2…”

“ARH !” he suddenly cries out, immediately passing out again.

I think I made it.

Still kneeling, I let my head fall on the wooden floor, trying to catch my breath. My head is dizzy but I can’t wait, I have to clean every wounds before it gets infected, I have to check his back too, and make a solid splint for his leg.

During all the process, my stress is eating me alive. The stress of having his life in my hands, the stress of the terrible treason I’m committing, the stress of all these wounds I barely know how to heal. So I start talking to him…

“Okay, stranger, just, please don’t kill me… See ? I told you it was going to be better without that piece of glass on your back… Oh no, you’re burning up… Hold on stranger, I’ll find antibiotics somewhere…”

October 27, 5:45pm.

I throw his clothes in the river, hoping it will be enough to convince who needs to be that the man is dead. Watching them go away with the flow, I wonder if someone will look for him. I heard hunters rarely have wives and kids… But maybe a friend, a partner.

The blood redden the water ; and watching it, I take a second to think about the risks I’m taking. His phone in my hand, I wish I could go through his photos or anything, to learn more about him. Just a name would be great. I need to know if I just made the worst mistake of History, what if he’s really a monster ? Or just an horrible person ? What if he’s a violent father ? I heard hunters were brutes… They kill my people anyway.

Even if he is severely wounded, still unconscious, and that I tied him strongly, I have still that fear of him being behind me all the time…

I have to hurry. Old Mam Griffin has to be convinced he’s dead, then I have to take diner with my mom, still treating me like a teen, and listen to my sister’s today masterstrokes. And after that, during the moon rituals, I’ll enter the vet’s office at night to take pills, syringes, bandages, and other stuffs to try to make the stranger survive. I have to find a lot of pain killers too, I think there are some in my mother’s closet.

I have never felt so alive, maybe because I know I could die any moment, from his hands or theirs, maybe because, for the first time of my life, I have a secret.

I can’t wait to go back, I’m so curious, terrified and exited at the same time. I need to take care of all of his wounds, bring him something to eat and drink even if I have no idea how to feed him. Everything will probably take me all night, I can’t mess up, his life is in my hands and mine is… Well I guess I will need a lot of luck.

I just… I just want to talk to him I guess…

October 27, 7pm

I try not to look at her in the eye because I’m sure Mam Griffin could read my lie on my face. I hand her the little bottle of blood with my head low, and my hands and clothes still entirely bloody, but I’m used to be dirty ; they only give me dirty work. Ophelia is still sobbing like the annoying little snot she is and I really try not to look irritated.

The old witch’s dry hand takes the flak in silence with a disapproving look. Everybody is looking at us, I turn my eyes a little to see Aiden, and he gives me side smile. She opens the bottle and smells the blood for a long time, so long it actually becomes awkward, but just for me.

“Are you positive that he’s dead, Y/n ?”

“He was when I found him” I lie. “It took me a long time to drag him to the river, but his blood reddened the sacred water, Grandma.”

I take a step back and bow my back as we have to when the Grandma is about to tell a Truth.

She opens her eyes again and they are white now. Her skinny grey hand brings the blood to her lips, she tastes it. Flashes pass inside of her eyes, but too quickly for me to see anything in it except shadows of men.

“Winchester” she grunts with a look between disgust and fear.

A rumble invades the room and I try to remember what that name is supposed to evoke me. I see my mom put a hand on her mouth and even Aiden seem a little impressed. Ophelia stays silent, her mouth wide open while her mom takes her hand oh-so-proudly.

“Dean Winchester.”

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***FEEDBACK IS EVERYTHING

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#supernatural #spn #dean winchester #dean x reader #dean x y/n #supernatural fanfiction #angst #Smut #fluff

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