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taintandviolent · 1 year ago

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Punch Bowl - Winston Connelly x Reader

summary: 2.2k words. you went to the prom all by yourself, but luckily, Winston's planned date didn't go to well either. w a r n i n g s: canon divergence (technically), smut without a lot of plot, car sex, slight coercion, masterbation, praise.

ao3 link here! / full link below the cut! / recommended playlist here!

As the music slowed and the lights changed to a soft, dreamy hue, you were still leaning against the wall, debating on whether or not coming to the prom by yourself was an absolute win or a tragic loss. You kicked your leg up, watching as the tulle and satin fluttered down. One on hand, you were sitting on the outskirts during the slow dances, hopefully not looking too desperate. On the other, you had your pick of all the dorky, cute boys who also came alone. There was something about boyish innocence that drove you insane… after all, the entirety of the football team had come onto you at least once, and you never paid them any mind.

The quiet ones, the dorky ones. The ones that laughed a little too loud, or broke out some goofy dance moves — those were the ones that drove you up the wall so hard that the texture of the wall left imprints on your skin. Or the ones that you wished would. You heaved a sigh and reluctantly pushed yourself off the wall. As you navigated around the swirling couples, one of your friends made eyes at you, before rolling her eyes to indicate where her date’s hand was. Her ass. How nice for her. You raised her eyebrows and ducked underneath someone’s arms, making a beeline for the punch table.

The punch table? Abandoned? Ouch. The four-ton weight of realising you might just be the only one flying solo made your hands shake as you scooped the too-sweet liquid into the plastic cup. Suddenly, a hand… connected to a white-sleeved arm slithered next to your waist and took a handful of napkins. You lifted the cup above your shoulder and turned around to find the inconsiderate meathead who —

You immediately recognised the boy behind you. Soft brown hair framed his angular face, which was scrunched up in frustration. Winston Connelly. Soft voice, good manners. Handsome, dark eyes.

“Hi,” you murmured. In the way a dog’s expression changed, his brows lifted as his brown eyes flitted up to you. You inhaled sharply through your nose. He was cute, you remembered that, but he was even cuter now.

“Oh… hi! I’m… I’m sorry.”

You swirled the last mouthful of punch around in the bottom of the glass, watching him as he returned to his cleaning. “It’s okay, Winston.”

He stopped dabbing and looked up, confused. Now unattended, the remaining red liquid streamed down the front of his suit jacket like blood. Your lips curved into a smirk, bemused that that statement had almost floored him. “We have science together.”

“Huh.” He bobbed his head, taking in the information, and took a breath. “You know, it’s the craziest thing. They say ‘things can’t get any worse’, but believe me — they can. The girl I was supposed to take to prom hates me, I got lost on the way here, found out that I really don’t like ginger ale and tequila, and then she ditched me as soon as we got here. And now, I have punch on my arm.”

“Wow, sounds like you’ve really hit rock bottom.”

He shrugged. “I guess so.”

“Well, if it makes you feel better, I came to the prom without a date.”

He seemed absolutely appalled by that confession. Good. “What? No way! That’s…. You’re way too pretty to not have a date.”

“Want to dance?”

He did.

Although your lust had been the original driver of your decisions, as one arm wrapped so gingerly around your waist, you realised very quickly that Winston Connelly was actually adorable. He smiled at you, his tan, buttery skin begging you to touch it. And the way he held you a little tighter whenever Tara passed by…

“You—uh…” After a few songs, he cleared his throat, trying to find the words to woo you. You continued swaying back and forth, but lifted your head from his shoulder. Your eyes met and a flurry of butterflies battered their wings against your ribcage. “You’re really pretty.”

The delighted smile you gave him told him everything he needed to know. You appreciated the compliment - and that was the most important thing. Without another moment’s hesitation, you leaned in, pressing your lips against his jawline, just before his ear. You felt the shudder that started at his neck and travelled down his body. A breathy laugh through your nose brought another one out of him.

“Can you take me home?”

Winston’s head snapped up, previously dreamy-lidded eyes narrowed with confusion. His dark brows were knitted together. “What? ….What did you say?”

“This,” You gestured vaguely around you, glaring at the crepe streamers and shimmery strands of tinsel. “…stinks. Can you take me home?”

As you hoped he would, your silly golden retriever boy fell right into your trap. He took the statement personally, already crestfallen from his unsuccessful evening. You’d given him a scrap of hope that he’d clung to with an iron grip.

“I - uh. Sure. Sure. Whatever you want.”

As you walked down the empty hallway, the tip-tap of your high heels echoing on the linoleum, you wanted to reach over and grab his hand and lace your fingers in between his. You were cursing yourself for never really noticing before, but he was easily one of the most attractive boys you went to school with. From the way his fawn brown hair flopped over when he walked to the way his arms swung gently with his loose, boyishly casual gait, he had created a tight, pulsing knot of arousal in your core.

With a metallic screech, the front doors closed behind the two of you, banging into place. The air was cold enough that it made your lungs ache when you breathed in too deeply, but it was a welcome contrast to your sweaty skin underneath the tulle of your dress. The high school parking lot was full of cars, though you two were the only ones outside. The only two solo losers outside.

“That’s me over there.” He threw his arm up, pointing towards a car on the far edge of the lot. Perfect, you thought. Far away from any prying eyes. Again, in complete silence, the two of you walked until you’d made it to the car. He unlocked it, and opened the side door for you. Naturally, when you hoisted up your dress and climbed in the backseat, Winston looked more confused than he did excited.

Once situated, you called out to him. “I didn’t want to go home, Winston…. I just wanted to be in the car with you.”

In one swift motion, Winston ducked his head into the car, chocolate eyes begging for an explanation. Of course, the visual he was met with short-circuited his brain. You were leaned up against the backseat window, fluffy dress tucked between your spread legs. He blinked. And blinked again.

You beckoned him with one finger.

“Wh-what?” He obeyed however, climbing carefully into the backseat with you and reaching behind him to pull the door shut. It slammed, and he jumped, momentarily throwing a worried glance back.

“C’mere,” you cooed. “…I think you’re really cute. Come. Here. ”

“You’re…. Wait, hang on. Me?”

You nodded.

“Wow, huh…. Maybe this night won’t be so terrible after all.”

Although it wasn’t intended, the way your lips curved was almost villainous. “I’ll make sure of it. Here…” you whispered. You reached for his hand, bringing it to rest atop your thighs. Since you’d already pulled the dress up, his hand laid on your bare skin. His plush lips were parted slightly. You could feel his hot breath washing over your shoulder with each shaky exhalation.

Winston blinked again. You were slowly becoming obsessed with the heavy way he blinked, like each one was his way of processing information, of taking it and committing it to memory. You hoped he’d never forget a moment of this.

“Keep going…” You yanked his hand forward more and pressed it into the pillowy cushion of your inner thighs. You pulled further still, bringing him closer and closer. As the usually submissive one, the sheer aplomb and assertiveness that you were demonstrating was staggering. He brought it out a certain dominance in you… but the reality that was glaringly obvious that if you didn’t initiate it, he wouldn’t either. He made you too hungry to drive home in silence. Dripping, frustrated silence.

You spread your legs slightly, allowing just enough space for his hand. With your thumb, ring and pinky finger still wrapped tightly around his pointer and middle finger, you pulled the soft satin of your underwear to the side. “Just…”

You gave one final pull and the pads of his fingers pressed against your clit. He yelped, but eased into nervous laughter, which then melted into a hungry moan. “You’re so… wet.”

You held him there for a moment, before hesitantly letting go. To your surprise, his fingers stayed and even ventured further down. They moved up and down so slightly, curious, almost twitching over your wet folds. Your body shivered in response, wanting more.

You nodded, brows raised high. You had to pause before answering, rolling your lips inward to suppress the laugh. The very word “wet” in that context seemed so dirty to him, you could tell it felt foreign on his lips. “Guess whose fault that is?”

“Mine?! Oh god,” he whimpered. “I’m so sorry, it’s my fault.”

Was he… joking? Was he actually serious? Bless his heart. “Winston. “

You leaned over and flipped the edge of his black bowtie against your middle finger. “What are you going to do about it?”

Your fingers laid over the bulge, stroking the crisp fabric of his black suit pants. His whole body quivered, hips forcing upwards into your hand. You heard the muted thump of his head hitting the window as he leaned back, giving into the pumping motion of your hand. It didn’t take long for his body to respond, either — underneath the rented polyester, his cock was hardening quickly.

“You like me, Winston?”

“Hhhh…huh… yeah. YEAH!” He weakly lifted his head, searching for your face in the dark. Once his eyes adjusted, he swallowed, wetting his throat, and said, “Yes, I do like you. A lot.”

You knew that he was only answering with one head, but that was okay — you had a hunger than only he could sate. You chewed on the corner of your lip, letting the slippery flesh slide in and out of the grip of your teeth. With a deep breath, you shifted, moving yourself around so that you were on your knees, ass facing him.

As shy as he was, he knew what to do — knew what he wanted to do. He shifted his weight from one knee to other, clumsily scooting closer to you. Hearing the telltale sound of a zipper sliding past teeth, you smirked and suppressed a giggle at his eagerness. Amidst frantic, repeated whispers of ‘Oh my god’ and ‘Wow’ from Winston, you felt his head press into you. You moaned breathily, pushing back against him.

“Fuck me!” You demanded.

“O-kay!”

You were only allowed a moment to admire the high-pitched, enthusiastically boyish way he replied before Winston took hold of your hips and pulled you onto his length. Moaning, you wiggled against him for a few moments, getting yourself used to the fullness he provided. Another theory proven; it was always the shy guys that were hung.

When he started thrusting, his speed made you see white, hot streaks of light and you closed your eyes, whining pathetically into the leather of the backseat. Every tribulation that Winston had dealt with that night dissipated like the smoke in that bar him and Tara had ended up at. He hung his head back with a low groan, bottoming out inside you.

The car shifted with each enthusiastic thrust, and though you did your best to meet them, the waves of pleasure were conquering you, melting you. A cacophony of high pitched moans, groans and ragged pants filled the car. You dug your painted nails into the upholstery, screaming his name as the coil within you snapped.

Without any warning Winston suddenly pulled out, and took himself into his hand, jerking his leaking cock into your hot cunt. Every few sections, he’d line his head up with your slit, collecting your wetness on it and sliding it back down.

“You like that?” You asked, already knowing the answer. “You’re doing so good… it feels so — aah!”

“—Yeh—yeah.”

You whimpered loudly as ropes of white decorated your ass and exposed slit. He collapsed against the opposite window, his chest heaving.

You flipped over, tucking your dress between your legs. Modesty and all that. “I’m real sorry about your date, Winston.”

The sweat had shellacked his brown hair to his forehead, which glistened in the moonlight. He reached up to wipe the sweat from his brow. Glazed over eyes finally refocused.

With pursed lips, he flashed his eyebrows once, lifting them high. “I’m not…. This was…. Way better. I totally wouldn’t, but if I told my friends, they wouldn’t even believe me.”

“You can tell them…. As long as you take me on a second date.”

“Second!? I’ll take you on a second, and a third, and a fourth, and a —“

You kissed him again, shushing him before he got too excited. “You have to take me home first.”

#if y’all didn’t know I am v much a Keanu girlie so #not tagging anyone cos jfhdksjfhdkjfhskjfh who tf cares about my Winston fic lmao #this was ajshdfskdjfhdks kinda rushed but like I HAD TO FINISH IT AND I LOVE WINSTON SO MUCH #Keanu Reeves #keanu reeves x reader #The Night Before #The Night Before 1988 #Winston Connelly #winston connelly x you #myfics

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rays-of-fire-and-ice · 2 years ago

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To Know Love

Prompts: (seemingly) unrequited love, peace

Rating: K

Setting: During the ten-year timeskip, beginning a year after Yhwach’s defeat.

Synopsis: During the ten years of rebuilding the Soul Society, Toshiro tries to ease into the newfound peace and comes to a realization.

AN: back with another fic for @yearoftheotpevent's challenge! Prepare for schmaltz galore! >:D I wrote this while I was on my break from Tumblr, and as usual, this one went for longer than I expected it to ^^; I actually cut a lot of scenes from this because it was just becoming too much, but I may end up adding it back in here or creating another fic based on certain scenes.

For those who’ve read It Suits You, you may recognize a scene from that fic that’s been included here. I’ve changed it to suit (no pun intended) this story better, but it more or less has the same structure.

Hope you all enjoy it!

_____________________________________

There hadn’t been any major conflicts in the last year, but that did little to ease the tension within Toshiro. As he’d learned all too well, a threat can emerge without warning from anywhere and anyone.

He sensed the same unease in his fellow captains as well. An air of weariness hovered over all of them every time they had a meeting like this one. With each report and updates given about reconstruction, it only reinforced how vulnerable the Soul Society still was.

Shunsui called Iba to give his report. The lieutenant comes to stand between the two rows of captains and recounts the repair work Seventh Division had started on. Much like other reports, it was mostly about clean up and beginning repair work on still standing structures.

At some point, Toshiro lost focus on Iba and his gaze drifted to Momo. Like most others, her attention was on her fellow lieutenant and she remained still. The last time he’d seen her was two months ago at a meeting just like this.

When she gave a small nod at something Iba said, his attention was drawn to her hair. It was done up in its usual style with the hairclip on the side, but the tips had grown to be only an inch away from her shoulders. Given how busy everything was, it wouldn’t surprise him if she simply didn’t have time to go get a haircut. He’d heard a rumor that Shinji knew how to cut hair, but given how the captain’s styled his hair, Toshiro is glad she didn’t ask him to cut hers.

It's the smallest thing, but when the ends of her hair sway as she nodded again, it brought forth an emotion Toshiro still doesn’t have a name for. He’d felt it in faint flashes in the past either when he was with her, but it had become more prominent since Aizen’s defeat. It made his heart either race or clench, sometimes sent him into a bout of fanciful thinking, and made him consider her appearance beyond whether she looked well or not.

It's an annoyance, one that caused his brows to furrow deeper for its inconvenient timing. Of all things, it came about because of her hair, and during a meeting he was meant to speak at no less. And yet, he wanted it to last the little bit longer, to let him forget the unease he constantly felt since the war against the Quincy came to an end. A part of him said it was too silly and maybe even too dangerous to indulge, making him to go into fantasy rather than focus on reality. What was this feeling? Why couldn't he figure it out?

He drew attention back to the meeting when Shunsui thanked Iba for the updates. The emotion stuttered, then crept away. As Toshiro was called on upon to give his report, he was thankful it had vanished just in time.

But perhaps a thread of it lingered, because when he came to stand between the lines of captains and begin his updates, he wondered if Momo was noticing the smallest things in him too.

_____________________________________

It became stronger a year later.

She’d presented him with a bento box on one of their rare lunch breaks together.

“You never bring your own lunch,” she’d explained with a chuckle at his bewilderment. Then, her expression softened and she ruefully looked off to the side. “And I wasn’t able to get anything for your birthday last year, so, um…I made this for you instead.”

His eyes widened when he opened the box’s lid and saw it was filled with most of his favourite foods. How long had this taken her to put together? Had she really made everything here herself?

“You didn’t have to go to the trouble,” he said, hating how flustered he sounded.

He expected her to tease or laugh at him, but she only shrugged. “I know.”

She’d wanted to do this for him regardless.

His heart swelled with that strange emotion, and for a moment he felt nothing but a soft adoration for her. After everything that happened, she’s still kind and thoughtful towards him. He’s quick to snap out of it, biting the inside of his cheek against the rush of heat to his cheeks.

“Thank you,” he replied more calmly.

“You’re welcome.” He thought they’d leave it at that and start on their lunches, but Momo giggled with a teasing grin. “Why the blush, Hitsugaya-kun?”

“Because it’s hot out!”

“But we’re under shade.”

He quick to take up the chopsticks and shove something from the bento box into his mouth. That stopped her teasing, her eyes going wide and her lips parted in anticipation for his verdict. He had no idea what he chose, but he chewed slowly, keeping her in suspense. She did this every time she baked something, waiting to see what others thought.

His response is always the same. “It’s good.”

Her resulting smile makes him bite the inside of his cheek by accident, and tried to stifle the yelp and the emotion that flared up. It only made his blush worse.

_____________________________________

He didn’t recognize her when she came to the office with reports for him to sign off on.

He’d gotten used to her tying her hair back with a ribbon in a ponytail that either rest on her shoulder or her hair flowing down her back with the sides pinned back by her hairclip. She’d tried various styles since growing her hair out, never seeming to settle on one for more than six months before changing it again.

But this had been wholly different. Gone were the hairclip and ribbon, and in their place was a messy bun. She’d also gotten a fringe, which rested over her left eyebrow, two thin bangs rests against each side of her face.

She sits down next to him, still talking and not noticing his stupor as she lays out the plan on the coffee table. His heart thumps against his chest; he can’t look away from her.

By this point he’d dubbed the emotion a nuisance, something that got in the way of him trying to focus on his work. How can he focus on what she’s saying when she look this new look makes her glow, makes her look more mature? He tried to banish it, and it showed in his face. His frown deepened, his lips pursed, and his teeth ground together.

Momo finally noticed, and she blinked in surprise. “Are you all right Captain Hitsugaya?”

The title shocked him out of reverie. “When did you get her hair cut?” He could slap himself; the question unintentionally came out accusatory.

Momo blinked. “I didn’t?”

“That’s not what I meant. When did you…change your hair?”

“About a month ago.” Unthinkingly, she curled one of the bangs around her finger, and that tiny gesture made his heart race anew. “I guess we haven’t seen each other in a while, so you wouldn’t know. What do you think?”

What could he say wouldn’t sound embarrassing for both of them? “It’s just different.”

“Is that all you think about it?” she chuckled, unhooking the bang and running a hand over the side of her head. “I decided to grow my hair out so I could put it in a bun again. I kind of missed it.”

When she told him years ago she was getting her hair cut, he’d been shocked. He’d only ever known her with long hair, but he got used to her short hair very quickly. He also thought that maybe this was her way of distancing herself from the past trauma Aizen had put her through, cutting her hair so she couldn’t put it back in the bun she styled it in for decades.

Now she’s back to longer hair, and despite the similarities it has with her older bun hairstyle, it was definitely different. It showed she has moved on from what tying her hair back used to represent – her time as Aizen’s lieutenant.

With heat threatening to colour his cheeks, he managed out, “It suits you.”

She grinned and thanked him with a blush. It was the first time he thought she was beautiful.

_____________________________________

It came again when he looked over at Momo during the festival's fireworks. Toshiro had no particular reason to, but at some point his eyes moved away from the display above them to her.

Like all the souls around them, she’s out of uniform and in a kimono with an ornament pinning her hair to the side in an intricate bun - based on a model she saw in one of her magazines, Rangiku claimed proudly when showing off her work.

Momo didn’t notice his stare, too captivated by the display. Her face was coloured red, then purple, then pink, then blue with each firework that shot up and exploded in the sky.

She flinched, then giggled when a particularly loud firework blew up in the sky, dousing her and the area around them in a golden orange. Even if he wanted to see what it looked like, couldn’t look away now. Even before meeting up today, he could tell from her gait as she went about her duties that this was the most relaxed she’d been in years. She walked lighter, with her shoulders away from her ears and her head tilted back, as if peering up at the sky.

It unexpectedly moved him. After all she’d went through from five years ago, didn’t she deserve to keep smiling like this, to look upon the world with renewed wonder and optimism? He thought so, and a part of him wished he could be more relaxed too. He can never shake off the vigilance though, ready for the next threat.

His attention was only diverted when Rangiku made a particularly loud awed sound. Thankfully, she hadn’t seen him - he’d have dreaded being questioned by her later, assuming things she knew nothing about.

Wanting to move away from the strange emotion, he looked back to the fireworks. That infernal blush he'd become far too familiar with darkened his cheeks when he thought the colours weren’t as vibrant against the sky.

_____________________________________

From the moment he walked into the office, Toshiro's brows furrowed deeper at Momo's hunched posture. He gingerly closed the door. “I brought the reports.”

She nodded and mustered up a weak smile. “Welcome, Captain Hitsugaya.” She gestured to the tray with a teapot and cups on it. “I made some tea, seeing as we’ll probably be here for a while.”

His heart throbbed with concern, but he sat next to her and began going through the joint reconstruction review for a districts the Fifth and Tenth Divisions were rebuilding together.

It didn’t take long before he could tell her mind had drifted off somewhere else, her gaze become glassy and half-hooded.

With a sigh through his nose, he reached for the teapot. “Let’s take a break.”

Momo shook her head, dispelling whatever occupied her mind. “But we’ve only completed five reports.”

“Well, I was thirsty anyway.”

He poured a cup for her too, and her guilty frown only made his chest tighten more. As he handed her tea to her, something in her wilted, causing her sigh quietly and hunch into herself further.

“Sorry, today isn’t a good day for me,” she admitted. “I got rid of another sketchbook yesterday, it’s been on my mind.”

“One with Aizen in it?” he asked carefully. Even after all this time, he hesitated when saying the former captain’s name. She didn’t flinch or visibly react to hearing his name, but he knew it had to have some kind of internal impact on her still.

She nodded. “There’s only two left now. Even so, it’s still hard to…” A slight tremor ran through her hands, causing the tea to almost reach the lip of her cup. “I better put this down.”

It was in moments like this he forgot reason and wished Aizen had been sentenced to death. It’s an anger that often seethed somewhere deep in his mind, rarely making an appearance but still there all the same.

This strange emotion seemed to amplify other emotions whenever she was concerned. He was that bit happier when he made her smile or laugh, and that bit more concerned when she was stressed or experienced moments like this.

“What do you want to do?” he asked. The question squeezed his heart and gave his voice a raspy quality, but he found himself not caring if she noticed.

She considered for a pause, then shuffled closer to him. “If it’s not too much trouble, can I, um…?”

The furtive gaze at his shoulder told him all he needed to know, and the vice around his heart loosened. “It’s fine.”

She still hesitated, but eventually rested her head on his shoulder. It hadn’t been first time she’d done this, but since this emotion became more prevalent within him, such an act often left him dividing his attention between calming his heart and making sure he didn’t budge, not wanting to jostle her. He stared ahead and waited in the silence.

More times than not, she only did this when she was upset. She said it helped her stay grounded, but he couldn’t see how. He imagined the cold of his reiatsu would be uncomfortable for most if they stayed this close to him for too long. She proved to be an exception, as always.

“Did you ever find your scarf after the war?”

The strange question caught him off guard and he turned his head as far as he could to look at her. “No, it was taken when I was changed into the Sternritter uniform. Why do you ask?”

His bewilderment grew when she tilted to meet his gaze and smiled. “I don’t know. I think the cold is reminding me of it...or maybe I just miss it.”

He didn’t ask any further, and not long after, she lifted her head and they resumed reviewing the reports, with her in slightly higher spirits.

A month later, she gave him a scarf on his birthday. Unlike the last, he didn’t plan to wear this one as part of his uniform. He wanted to, had it adorning his neck the very next day before going to a captain’s meeting, but just as he was about exit his room, he had a change of heart. He folded it up and put in his cupboard, to be worn when the snowfall came again.

He couldn’t risk it getting damaged or lost, not when a threat could come at any moment.

_____________________________________

Even her hand could triggered it.

Toshiro came into the office and stopped short when he spotted Momo and Rangiku on one of the couches. His nose scrunched up at the scent of nail polish, and sure enough, there were several bottles lined up on the coffee table and Rangiku held one of their brushes in her hand. He was about to start an argument, but to his surprise, his lieutenant wasn’t painting her own nails. She held one of Momo’s, with the latter’s pointer finger already painted. Toshiro could understand why Rangiku was interested in such strange things – it felt like it was in a similar vein as those ‘facials’ she did and the hair products she bought - but since when was Momo interested in painting nails?

“Why hello, captain!” Rangiku greeted. “It looks like the meeting finished early, huh.”

He directed a glare at his lieutenant as a vein throbbed in his temple. “And you thought to avoid your duties and do hobbies in the office rather than elsewhere, am I right?”

Momo raises her free hand defensively. “Hitsugaya-kun, please don’t blame Rangiku-san, I was-”

“But we’re still on break!” Rangiku interrupted her. “Besides, all the courtyards and common areas are being used right now. Also, I didn’t want to do this in my room in case you came back and wondered where I was.”

“I wouldn’t have to make too many guesses,” Toshiro muttered under his breath. At his lieutenant’s questioning gaze, he sighed and walked past the, he went to his desk. He brought out the fresh batch of reports from his sleeve. “I’ll compile these, and when you’re done, you better look over them.”

He didn’t have to look back to know Rangiku grinned in victory.

“Well, maybe we should move to the balcony,” Momo suggested. “That way the scent won’t disturbed Hitsugaya-kun.”

“Captain Hitsugaya,” Toshiro interjected without turning around.

“Ah, don’t worry,” Rangiku said. “I’ll have your nails done soon. Besides, the captain doesn’t mind, right, sir?”

She knew very well he did, but she also knew he didn’t have it in him to ask them to leave when he rarely got to see Momo beyond passing her on the way to somewhere else these days. He only grunted in respond before sitting down at his desk and getting out his brush and ink.

He blocked out most of their chatter as Rangiku continued painting Momo’s nails; most of it was related to what they’d been up to or about Women’s Association business. Despite the scent and the slight annoyance at Rangiku’s usual laziness, t was oddly nice to have them there. Maybe it was another sign of the peace he was becoming decreasingly skeptical of.

It was almost five minutes later Momo came over to him, forcing his focus away from his work. “What do you think, Hitsugaya-k -- Captain Hitsugaya?”

He blinked at her, then as her presented hand. “Why do want my opinion?”

She shrugged, trying to appear casual. “It’s nice to get a second opinion.”

It sounded like a weak reason, but it’s forgotten when she did a wave with her fingers, a playful flourish that brought the unnamed emotion forth.

He clasped her hand around the knuckles and brought it closer, examining Rangiku’s work. He could’ve sworn he heard his lieutenant make a choked sound, but he wasn’t paying attention to her.

Her nails were a pale pink, and save for the glossy texture and lack of white tips, they didn’t look much different from when her nails weren’t painted. Still, he had to admit, it made her hand that little bit daintier. He could feel the callouses of her of her fingers and palm behind, and it made for a strange juxtaposition.

Hands like hers are typically thought of as soft, but the one he holds hers with, the one that had been regenerated after Aizen’s defeat, was softer than hers. Her hands held a weapon and cast kido spells to protect the Soul Society, but they also showed a soft kindness when they held the shoulders or hands of another. He briefly remembered when her grief and confusion caused them to bleed, but he banished the memory with a shift of his grip, inching his hand lower so that her fingers rested over his.

Her blush almost matched the shade of nail polish. Is she embarrassed? What did she have to be embarrassed about? Maybe because he held her hand? His gesture had been out of character, but she is always quick to grab his hand without a second thought. Wasn’t he entitled to be spontaneous every now and then?

Maybe he had stared for too long, and his lack of a response made her feel she had chosen the wrong colour. It’s all trivial to him, but to her, it must mean more than he realised.

“The colour looks good,” he said, and withdrew his hand. The response sounded disappointing to his own ears, but she knew he was not one to be elaborate with praise or feedback.

Her hand remained rigid in the air for several seconds. It’s not until Rangiku came over, also voicing her approval of the colour choice, that she brought her hand back to herself. “T-Thank you, Shiro-chan.”

He’s too perplexed to correct her. Why had this mattered to her? Or perhaps his actions had made her uncomfortable? When she turned away from him and announced she needed to get back to her division, he inwardly cursed. This emotion sometimes compelled Toshiro do the strangest things without a second thought.

He was about to stand and call out her name, without any idea how he would apologise, until she looked back at him.

Her smile was wide and sweet, giddy almost. “I’ll see you for lunch next week, right, Captain Hitsugaya?”

He could only nod. He’s quick to shut his mouth closed and throw himself back into his work. Rangiku showed her out, and as soon as the door closed, Toshiro nearly fell against his desk. It's getting worse with each passing year.

_____________________________________

He knew the emotion was behind the discomfort he sometimes felt when Momo was around others. When she vivaciously spoke with Izuru about the latest books they’ve read, when she grinned at Rindo as he let her feed a bird perched on his arm or taught her a new sign, when Renji did something – intentional or not – that made her giggle, or when she laughed with male members of her division at inside jokes only they understood.

Toshiro refused to call it jealousy, believing it was something he had left behind after he became a Shinigami, A child felt jealous when they didn't get the attention they wanted or seeing others as being greater than themselves. He was beyond that, knew who he was and didn’t vie for her attention.

Yet he caught himself wondering what he had to offer her compared to others in her life. She smiled with him most times they were together, and laughed when he got flustered or was trying to cheer her up. But he was not an avid reader, didn't have a particular skill she was interested in picking up, or had a broad sense of humor.

He could put the discomfort aside most times, especially when he saw how happy she was. Every passing year, the melancholy that had settled into her heart after Aizen’s defeat was fading bit by bit.

Yes, he'd decided, as long as she could be happy, with him or others, he'd deal with this aching sensation without complaint.

_____________________________________

He watched Momo from afar while she read a book. Her feet dangled over the edge of the veranda, and her lashes brushed along her cheeks, but she otherwise remained still. The spring air brushed over the area, ruffling through his hair and sweeping her bangs over her shoulders. The flowers under her feet sway too and fro, almost brushing against her toes, and petals of a nearby sakura tree dust the courtyard in front of her in a veil of pink. It was the perfect picture of peace, and he’s afraid to disturb it.

But maybe, he can join her in it, for more than the thirty minutes they spent together on lunch breaks. It’d been seven years since the Yhwach’s defeat, and by some miracle, no major conflict had disturbed their reconstruction efforts. A part of him still clings to that vigilance for the next threat, but he’d increasingly fallen into the lull this peace offered. Was he becoming complacent or weary?

Toshiro didn’t dwell on the thought, knowing she would look up soon and wonder where he was any minute now. He walked out of the shade of the awning and came around the corner of the main barracks.

He chose to announce his arrival through his footsteps and reiatsu rather than words. As he neared, Momo raised her head with a smile, and the light caught in her irises turned them from brown to amber.

It was then Toshiro realized he loved her eyes.

_____________________________________

He thought to tell Rangiku, because despite her teasing, he knew she’d understand. Still, he always hesitated to bring it up, to open himself up that much and risk being told what he didn’t want to hear. She mightn’t feel the same way.

Somehow, that response didn’t fill him the same sense of dread as the other he’d imagined.

You don’t know how she feels.

Because that could inspire hope. It would make him think that nothing was set in stone, that maybe she could feel the same way, and he’s certain it would lead to disappointment.

_____________________________________

Ever since he’d put a name to the emotion, he saw glimpses of it almost everywhere he went. Whether it was with couples in the Junrinan, and when he oversaw his subordinates reconstructing a part of Sokyouku, he saw the way his third seat, Minagawa, flashed the occasional glance at Mako, an officer from the Thirteenth Division. Since the two division began joint repair work together last, Mingawa and Mako were often assigned together on tasks. Over time, his third seat’s gaze grew more soft and unsure when he looked at her, but when she spoke with him, he smiled more than usual and seemed to hang on her every word.

Toshiro wondered if he looked the same when he was with Momo. He hoped not, was flustered at just the thought of everyone being able to see how he felt about her. It was bad enough Rangiku seemed to clue in on it, looking at him in certain ways whenever the two of them were around Momo or whenever he said he’d be having lunch with her.

Worse still, it had become difficult to be in Momo’s presence. When she flashed him a smile, his heart fluttered, sometimes for a few seconds and other times for a whole minute. When she took hold his hand to lead him somewhere, he bit the inside of his cheek hard to stop the tremors under his skin coming to the surface. He founds himself smiling more, telling her things he'd normally keep under lock and key in his mind. Could she see how he felt?

And it was that niggling worry that made him want to keep his distance whenever they interacted. He wanted to stay few more inches away from her when they walked side by side, avoided her hands and acted as if he hadn’t noticed her reaching out for him. Small things, nothing obvious.

But he couldn’t bring himself to do it. She’d notice in time, likely confront him about why he was acting the way he was. Above all else, despite the pain it caused him, he couldn’t deny the moments of happiness it brought him. When she smiled at him, he found himself smiling back. When she held his hand, he rarely let go.

He’d heard the expression ‘a fool in love’ before, and he was certain that he was.

_____________________________________

Toshiro tilts his head up to the sky. The sun had just set, and the oranges and pinks of the sky were changing to purples and dark blues. Rain is coming, he can sense it in the gathering clouds and cool winds that brushed over him.

A crash comes from inside the Thirteenth Division's main hall, silencing the loud chatter. It starts up again only seconds later, but with an accusation of someone having dropped a sake bottle and hearty laughter from Kenpachi and Ikkaku.

Toshiro rolls his eyes, but there's a small smile too.

“There you are!”

He blinks at Momo, who has her head poking out of the doorway. Her cheeks are flushed, but he can’t tell if it’s from celebratory sake or the heat inside.

“Too loud for you?” she asks.

“No, I just needed some air.” His smile widens a fraction. “It’s good, actually.”

Momo quirks up an eyebrow and fully steps outside. “Oh?”

“I don’t remember the last time I heard everyone like this. It’s another sign of the peace we’ve enjoyed these past ten years. Everyone can celebrate Kuchiki’s promotion as she deserves. It's a shame Iba didn't get the same celebration when he became captain.”

A part of him laments not accepting the peace sooner, but there was no use thinking about such things. With every building reconstructed, every grave created, and a return to more regular Shinigami duties in the World of the Living, they’ve all moved forward together into this peace. The calm in his mind and heart is a welcomed change, it almost reminded him of the days before Aizen’s betrayal and the Quincy invasion.Despite that, he isn’t the same person, far from it.

Momo comes to his side. Her softened gaze makes him feel self-conscious.

“What?” he asks.

“It’s just nice to hear you express yourself and see you smile more often. Normally you’re like this.” She folds her arms tightly across her chest, deeply furrows her brows, and drops her lips into a frown.

“I don’t look like that!” Toshiro exclaims.

She bursts into laughter. “Oh no, Shiro-chan, I’m sorry! Go back to smiling!”

He complies with a chuckle. “I think the sake has gone to your head.”

She only had a sip on celebratory occasions, it wouldn’t surprise him if her tolerance is low.

Momo shakes her head. “I feel fine. More than fine, actually.” She sighs. “I wish too that Captain Iba got have a celebration like this, even if we were in the middle of all the reconstructions, but I'm glad Captain Kuchiki gets to have this." she looks to the sky. "Things have been good lately.”

He nods with a grunt. He intends to keep things that way, for both of them.

Thinking back on the past nine years, his emotions had tempered down at some point. It came as a surprise when he realized his heart didn’t race every time he was around Momo and that the threat of a blush rarely came anymore. He could hold her hand with little issue and thinking about her didn't send him into fanciful thinking.

He’d grown frustrated with his reactions to her, had just wanted to be as he used to be around her. It's a relief, and yet, it makes him wonder if he's fallen out of love with her. Or maybe he's finally learned to temper his expectations, to know that she will likely never feel the same way about him.

The thought is almost enough to dampen his good spirits. He won’t be surprised if she came to him one day soon and told him about someone she had gotten close to, or that she had to cancel lunch plans because she was seeing another at the same time.

Perhaps she sees the turmoil within him, because she steps closer, gaze soft and hand already reaching for his. He’d gotten better at concealing his true feelings and thoughts from others, able to keep his expression impassive; it’s a skill he rarely has to use anymore, but when he does, it seems she can still read him regardless.

Toshiro gives her a questioning look when she laces her fingers between his. Her answering smile is wobbly, and a faint blush colours her cheeks. “It’s just nice to be here, to finally…have peace for as long as we have.”

A part of him has a sneaking suspicion that she’d intended to end her sentence differently, but the thought goes mute when she squeezes his hand.

The gesture reminds him that she's here, with him. She may never return his feelings and would likely find another to share such feelings with, but it hardly matters when he'd almost lost her once. After everything that happened, she still wants to be a friend to him, to move forward with him and others.

In that moment he feels ungrateful. How can he wish for more when she almost wasn’t here with them? It’s enough, he told himself, for her to be here in the peace with him and the others. To remain his closest friend and the one behind his motivation to become stronger.

And yet he couldn't stop the niggling question. Knowing he should never expect anything, he stills asks, "Why did you come looking for me?"

She considers for a moment. "I just noticed you weren't there. I thought maybe you'd already left...but I'm glad you're here. I'm glad we're both here."

The rainfall begins, causing her to look away from him. They're shaded by an awning, but she still reaches her hand out. Rain drops glimmer on her skin before falling either on the veranda or the garden before them.

His aching heart all but confirms he never fell out of love. Just like the first time, it's the smallest things she does that bring his feelings to the fore.

He can ask her why she stuck her hand out, but he doesn't. He let's the moment have whatever little magic it has on him. For once he doesn't want an explanation, he just lets something to be what it is.

#hitsuhina #toshiro hitsugaya #momo hinamori #bleach #fanfiction #fluff and sappiness #angst #rangiku matsumoto #queue

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pebblesmustard · 2 years ago

Text

Not Alone Enough (Jack "Whiskey" Daniels x M!OC)

Summary:"While his soul grew more restless by the second, he felt suspended in his body as if the world went on moving without him. A nightmarish heaviness seeping inside his bones, he wants to scream, yell, and cry until he stops feeling altogether.”

Pairing: Jack Daniels x M!OC Mateo Rating: M (to be safe; no actual smut to warrant it but this blog is 18+ only)

Warnings: mentions of estranged parental (paternal side) relationship, mentions of heartbreak and grief, very brief allusions to sex, character introspection, probably lots of grammatical errors and typos, not beta'd (please let me know if I've missed anything)

Word count: 7k

A/N: Hello everyone! This is the first piece of writing I've finished after a ten year drought and the first ever time I'm sharing my writing online and I don't think I've ever been this scared. I've been sitting on this story since November and decided that I'd share it as a gift to myself on my birthday. This is definitely more of a short story about my oc, Mateo, than a Jack Daniels fic. But I think he fit in well with Mateo and I couldn't help but write him in the way I did.

Also, I'd like to give a huge thank you to my sister and my two best friends for giving this a read and to @jazzelsaur who is truly a beacon of inspiration and encouragement 💛 If you do come across this fic and decide to give it a read I hope you enjoy it!

....

Waking up had been slow going today.

The quiet blue of early morning skies had stirred the comfortable darkness of the room. Eyes slowly opening up, Mateo took in his bedroom; the window to his left letting in the smallest bit of blue light. His alarm still a way to go off on his bedside table, he can’t help but smile at a large glass of water sitting next to it that certainly wasn’t there before he’d drifted off.

Unwilling, more than unable to extract himself from a pair of arms with a vice grip around his waist, he had gotten used to a certain kind of warmth in his bed. Jack, with his brown hair tussled by the pillow’s cotton and his cheek folded in two, never strayed too far from Mateo’s heat in sleep. The sight of the brown-haired man next to him never ceased to set latter’s heart alight.

Waking up before Jack was not a common occurrence, so whenever Mateo did manage to be the one up before the sun, he always took a moment to make sure he wasn’t dreaming. That the sight of the man next to him would not wither away with the rays of sun filtering through the curtains.

When had he gotten so lucky?

When will it run out, whispered a voice, cynical and tired all the same.

The times where he had to remind himself that, no, Jack would not leave him, had slowly dwindled over time. But whenever that grating, fearful voice made itself heard, Mateo couldn’t help but bristle. He couldn’t help but wonder if he would go back to being alone again soon.

Whenever Jack saw the creases in between Mateo’s brows get deeper whether it be while reading in silence next to each other on his old couch or while in the middle of a mundane chore, but clearly lost somewhere deep inside his mind, he’d know. He’d know that whatever Mateo had been thinking up until that point couldn’t be worth occupying any more of his heart. A teasing comment, “Slacking off in the middle of a chore mister?”, would usually bring Mateo back to earth. He never could help the small, sheepish chuckle that burst free from his lips, nor the warmth that crept up his neck all the way to his ears at the realization that Jack had had his eyes on him while his mind was running a mile a minute. Mateo would usually answer with an equally teasing remark. Something like, “Looks like you’re not being that useful either, cowboy, if your eyes are lingering elsewhere”.

They would always seal the little back and forth with a kiss. Maybe two.

Jack’s kiss would be a reminder.

Mateo’s would be a benediction.

A low inhale and a croaked out “G’morning darlin’” brought Mateo out from the warm memory.

He had, as of late, found himself preferring to revel in the moment anyway.

“Mornin’. You sleep well?”

Jack had leaned in, Kentucky drawl pouring out of his mouth like molten sugar before dipping his head for a kiss, “Well, with you in my arms I had no other chance.”

“Getting real cheesy in your old age, cowboy.”

“Is that complainin’ I’m hearin’?”

Mateo couldn’t help the grin taking over his face, “Not a chance.”

That morning, a kiss had turned into two, then three. By the time they had to be out the door and well into treading through the day’s work, they had only just been able to separate one sweat slicked skin from the other.

Getting cleaned up for the day hadn’t fared any quicker.

-----

Trying to run a farm alone, no matter how much smaller it was compared to his neighbors’, was not getting any easier. Looking at the five goats frolicking around the fields Mateo had started making a mental list on the day’s chores. Hat on his head, and a small notebook in hand, he was trying to write down just how he could expand the barn to house the sheep he was planning on purchasing. The creaky building wasn’t large by any means, barely having room for five goats and a couple poultry.

The wheat fields weren’t any easier to manage. He dreaded the work, hours on end under the scorching sun, the grown wheat scratching and itching his skin. Making sure one of the goats hadn’t escaped into the growing fields wasn’t any fun either. The small farm life his parents had imagined certainly wasn’t imagined for a lone farmer, no matter how manageable they thought it’d be.

Thank God for Jack.

One of the posts near the goats’ barn needed last minute replacing and Jack, even with all the work on his own fields, had made his way to Mateo’s as soon as he could to help him out. Although the work would have taken less long than if he had tried to go at it alone, once Jack had gotten there, he found another dozen things to fix around the farm.

Which is why Mateo was now making his way back to the house to pack up their lunches so they could eat it in between breaks, per Jack’s suggestion. He was sure Mateo would forego the lunch and work himself to the bone come dinner time.

“An impromptu picnic darlin’… it’ll be romantic”,Jack had teased.

“Yeah, real romantic with the smell of goat shit to keep us company”, Mateo had jabbered on while taking measurements of exactly where the fence needed fixing.

Jack had slowly made his way over to Mateo’s side, standing with a hip jutted out next to the barn posts. Sneaking a peek out of the corner of his eye at a dangerous grin gracing Jack’s face, Mateo couldn’t hold back the smile taking over his own nor the warmth creeping up his neck. He could tell Jack was having a good old time seeing his face go beet red.

Sneaking a hand up under Mateo’s sleeveless work shirt, the warmth and scratchiness of the fabric on the back of Jack’s hand a contrast to the sweat dampening Mateo’s back, the mustachioed cowboy had slowly leaned in even further Mateo’s side. “Promise I’ll make it worth your while hon’”, Jack had whispered, his warm breath a gentle breeze on Mateo’s cheek, his carefully trimmed mustache tickling the lone farmer’s damp temple.

Trying to find his footing with Jack’s flirting had taken him a while. Though he still did stumble and make a fool of himself every now and again.

A low and chocked out “I’ll hold you to that, sweetheart”, was all Mateo could manage.

The smell of linden from nearby trees in the yard wafts through the air now, their soft breeze soothing the sweat building up on Mateo’s neck. Seeing the dusty yellow paneled house always put him in a good mood. He had learned to shut out any bad memories that may have been lingering somewhere in his mind over time. He never wanted to remember the place that his mom tried so hard to turn into a warm home, with the disdain he had for a ghost who he tried hard to forget.

The house was just enough for the two of them while he was growing up. A wraparound porch with two rocking chairs, and the view of a couple patches of carnations near the bottom of the stairs leading up to the door greeted him.

Making his way in Mateo first checks his mailbox before giving a small touch to the dash of purple and red carnations, the grass surrounding them carefully stepped around.

Every month he’d get exactly five envelopes. Water, gas, and electricity bills accompanied by the town’s newsletter and a letter from his aunt who refused to use the landline Mateo helped her install in her home.

Right now, standing just inside the doorway, he had six letters in his hand. Walking into the living room’s warm green walls, he counted them carefully, a sense of unexplained dread unfurling throughout his chest. Three bills, the town’s newsletter, his aunt’s letter and another one…from a Mateo Lanzo.

It hadn’t been long since he had last thought about his father.

Not exactly possible to completely forget someone you share a name with.

Not like he hadn’t tried.

Mateo hadn’t been struck dumb like this in a while. So much so that he wasn’t even aware of his feet slowly taking him further inside the house, standing in front of the small table in front of the window overlooking the garden, the rest of the post falling gracelessly on top of it.

He slowly sets the envelope with his name on it on top of the others.

What was he supposed to do? Open it? Read it? And then what?

He couldn’t possibly deal with this now.

Not when there was work to be done around the farm. The farm that he had inherited at such a young age that it would send him into a spiral, choking on his own breath on his bedroom floor. The farm that belonged to his father. The farm that his father left one stuffy summer morning without so much as a goodbye. A birthday cake with candles unlit spending hours on the kitchen table until his mother had had enough and sent it straight into the bin.

He realizes, with a bitter taste on his tongue, that he still hasn’t really come back from that day.

He can’t possibly read it now. Not when Jack is out by the fields, waiting for him under the scorching sun—though he’s probably now lying under a tree’s shade with his hat over his face, just “resting his eyes, darlin’, you’re welcome to join”.

He should pick up their lunch, go to his truck and make his way back to Jack. He wishes so desperately to walk out the door, forgetting the letter to deal with it some other time. But it’s as if his feet are made of lead. He can’t help but just…look at it. As if by sheer will power alone, he could set the offending piece of paper on fire by glaring at it.

How dare he?

After two decades, two hearts broken, one that buried the pain in her eyes and the other that ignored it until it grew too much to handle, now he decides to check up?

What could he have even written that would be worthwhile?

Can’t really know it without reading it though, can you?

He can’t read it now. Not when he knows that it will set him off course, distracting him from all the work that needs to be done by the end of day. Distracting him from Jack.

Jack. As if he could hide anything from him. Jack would know something was up the second he laid eyes on Mateo’s flushed face, eyes reddened from trying to keep irate tears at bay, voice strained from trying not to choke on his words, trying his best at keeping his sobs trapped in his throat.

He knows he’ll regret the moment he goes to pick up a knife from the dish rack, making his way around the kitchen table, knocking his hip to its side, can’t help but slicing the envelope open in one fell swoop, letting his curiosity run his movements.

Breath catching in his throat, he can’t help his eyes run over the disheveled lines.

-----

Jack had never been so worried.

Mateo hadn’t been the same since he came back from the house, hands empty of the lunch Jack was planning on turning into a picnic under the linden trees.

Jack’s standing over the stove, trying his best to not to appear overbearing, focusing on the chili that’s slowly steaming. When he had decided to make the dish, he was hoping he could bring a sense of calm to Mateo’s otherwise silently thundering mood. He sneaks a look at him, sitting on the desk by the window, just outside the kitchen’s open entrance, his soft brown eyes almost black as he stares off into the distance, the sad grimace that had taken over his face during the day a permanent fixture on his handsome farmer’s face.

He had an inkling that something was off in the way Mateo had made his way back. When he had asked if everything was okay, a dangerously level “Yeah, sure” and a deliberate attempt at trying to hide from his gaze had convinced him.

It had simply been too long since Mateo had tried to run from his eyes. Not that he was ever any good at it. Shyness was never really in his nature. Jack had made him out be a natural flirt when they’d first met, taken aback since he would always be the flirty one. Back then, Jack couldn’t help but revel in the fact that Mateo could ever really be interested in a man like him. Apart from the initial uncertainty of the situation, it had been a long time since he’d let himself meet someone—anyone—new in an intimate way. He’d been scared that he might have been getting ahead of himself. Mateo had just offered to buy him one drink, after learning that Jack was to be one of his neighbors. So, he was just being neighborly, surely.

After three rounds of cheap whiskey that turned both their esophaguses to dust, Mateo had offered him a ride home.

Jack couldn’t possibly say no.

Those first few months were filled with intimate moments laced with a haze of uncertainty. Jack had picked up on Mateo’s careful distance with a grain of salt. He could tell that what Mateo needed was enough time and space, and Jack had—for the first time in a long while—been willing to be patient.

He understood better than most, that even though time was fleeting, he couldn’t control the speed at which a heart was willing to go.

Mateo had always needed a bit more time when it came to relationships and opening up. Jack had always been all to willing to give him whatever he needed to be worthy of his trust. Which is how he knows that if he were to push Mateo to talk about whatever was bothering him now could only go sideways.

But something about this was different.

He doesn’t remember ever seeing Mateo so…unmoored.

He had been distracted all afternoon, forgetting to pack their lunches that he had gone to the house for in the first place, avoiding giving full sentence answers to Jack’s worrisome tone that he tried so hard to hide.

“Don’t tell me you ate both our lunches darlin’? I know you said it wouldn’t be romantic with goat shit around but—” Jack had chuckled his way through the question. Mateo had appeared to have remembered the sandwiches growing soggy on the kitchen counter when Jack had brought them up.

“Shit, yeah sorry. I must’ve forgot.”

Avoiding looking at him was Jack’s second clue that something was wrong.

“Nah, it’s alright hon’. You run into someone or somethin’?”

That had drawn a weary sigh from Mateo. “Yeah…something like that”, he had mumbled under his breath making his way over to the wheat fields.

Jack knew better than to ask exactly who Mateo had “run into”. He knew he wasn’t about to get a satisfactory answer when Mateo was so reluctant to even meet his eyes.

The smell of spices filling the house, Jack steps out of his thoughts. The cornbread that was siting warm in the oven—Mateo’s favorite—is taken out, placed on the table. Jack tries his best to keep worry out of his tone as he calls for Mateo, “Dinner’s served, darlin’.”

He tries his best to keep worry out of his eyes, as Mateo seems to be taken away from his mind, numbly making his way to the dinner table.

He fails at not feeling a little bit defeated as Mateo opts not to make a comment on his favorite dinner.

Jack is sure he can wait it out; wait for Mateo’s spirit to settle, see if he decides to tell him about whatever it was that cast a shadow across his eyes.

Jack is sure of him; the rest will never be as important.

-----

Mateo had never been so unsure before.

He can’t help but get lost in his thoughts at the dinner table.

Jack had made his favorite; chili and cornbread, the shared comfort recipe a pleasant surprise that had bonded them tighter years ago. The smell of paprika, garlic and a spice he still couldn’t put his finger on—a secret from Jack’s grandmother—a comforting reprieve from his racing thoughts.

Not that he succeeds at that. He tries to eat, manages to go through a couple bites before giving up, his stomach locked up tight since he read his father’s letter.

How dare he?

After reading the letter a fifth time, deciding that anger was still on the forefront of his mind and body, he had wanted to tear the piece of paper apart and burn it. Forget it ever existed. Forget he ever read it. It was another kind of anger when he realized he couldn’t bring himself to do any of those things. He wanted to burn it to a crisp. He wanted to strip it apart word by word. He wanted to swallow it whole, make the words brand themselves inside every inch of his being. He wanted it to swallow him, giving in to darkest parts of his mind, letting it take root until nothing of him was left.

He wanted to write back.

He wanted to tell him to fuck off and die in a ditch somewhere for all he cared.

He wanted to ask him why he had to be so cruel all his life.

He just wanted to know: why?

Everything he ever felt about the man, everything he tried drowning out over years was slowly swimming their way up to Mateo’s surface.

While his soul grew more restless by the second, he felt suspended in his body as if the world went on moving without him. A nightmarish heaviness seeping inside his bones, he wants to scream, yell, and cry until he stops feeling altogether.

Jack must be a saint, he thinks.

The scrape of a chair on the tiled floor makes his eyes go up as Jack gets up from his seat to start clearing the table and washing the dishes. Mateo gets up to help. Jack stops him as he tries to pick up his plate.

“I got this, darlin’. Why don’t you go relax on the porch a little? I’ll bring us a couple beers when I’m done and we can drown out the day, huh? What do you say?”

A small nod was all Mateo could manage, still not looking at Jack long enough to break.

He slowly drags his feet to the porch, letting his limbs weigh down on the rocking chair that was held by duct tapes and a prayer. He tries to take a big breath, filling his lungs with fresh air, his nose taking in every note of peace and calmness that nature holds. Jack had been nothing but patient all throughout helping Mateo with the barn, a worrisome look on his face as he had left to tend to his own farm, the promise of coming over and making dinner firmly in place. He had no idea how grateful Mateo was that he hadn’t pushed him for what happened on the spot. Even when he had every reason to.

He wonders if any of the others before Jack would be as understanding of the turmoil wreaking havoc in his mind. Not that he had ever let them in enough to find out. For a man whose heart never ceased to seek a lover’s warmth, it was somehow also the one thing he kept under strict lock and key. Can’t break something that you never had.

Or so he thought.

He remembers them, then.

Dylan, who he could only describe as his first love, with sand burnt hair and eyes that revealed his heart without abandon, he was one of the first people who Mateo felt free with for the first time in his life. Two teenage boys, limbs unsteady, hearts even more so. One who could have all the girls his heart desired and the other who would rather hide beneath the other’s shadow, hoping dreadfully that maybe it would be his heart the former desired.

Lovers in a small town never really stayed a secret; but Mateo and Dylan had no other choice.

He remembers then; 16 and as reckless as he can be, driving aimlessly to the edge of town, windows drawn down, watching how the wind rustled those blonde locks more than he dared watched the road. Not that the road went anywhere important. They would only have the courage to go as far as the century old oak tree that every small town seemed to have, trying their damnedest to imagine being anywhere but here.

It was in that same car, parked under the big oak tree that they shared their many firsts. Their first kiss, tentative and shy meeting eager and impatient. The first time they realized salvation could be found in the embrace of another. Their first heartbreak.

Mateo shuts his eyes, Dylan’s tears a distant image he still can’t bear to remember.

He lets his mind wander. Blonde streaks of hair and teary eyes make way for a pair of earth warmed browns, the color matching perfectly with a head of curly hair that left the breeze of lavenders wherever she went.

When he’d met Leonie at 25, his heart had already been broken once and Mateo had tried his best to keep its fluttering at bay.

He never could fool his heart.

Leonie, with sparks in her eyes and ideals the size of the world on her heart. Leonie, whose eyes never failed to mask her anger and sadness at the cruelty of the world around them, yet whose soul held so much hope for the future. Despite the surefootedness in her bones, her heart had always been soaring for all the time he knew her.

Leonie, with that wicked grin that would have him on his knees. Leonie, who could kiss him stupid and make his heart soar along with hers. Leonie, who could see straight through him, all his wants and desires, never once judging him for the pieces of him not yet ready to meet the world.

Even though he knew it was coming, it was a different kind of sadness when he realized she was not going to stay forever tethered to his side. Even though he had tried so hard to silence the prayers for her to stay maybe just a little bit longer trying to burst free from his chest.

Her eyes bright and shining, a little impatience in her steps with her heart on her sleeve but guarded nonetheless, she would not rest until she met the world.

He had driven her to the airport himself. It was then that he had learned how to keep his tears to the road back home.

He had found a semblance of stability five years after she’d left. A stability that didn’t necessarily scare him at first.

One night, after the loneliness of the farm had seeped so deep into his bones and he had no other choice but to drown out the silence with the steady hum of a burning liquor, Mateo had found himself in a dive bar two hours out of town. About an hour after downing two glasses of the liquid, he had found himself rustling in scratchy motel sheets with a man who looked like he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders.

Maybe it was the solidarity of the feeling that drew Mateo to Frank’s arms.

Frank, with his broad shoulders and work roughened hands. Frank, who was also running from the lonely life of a rancher, newly widowed, grieving a soul gone too soon.

Neither ever visited the other’s town…neither really had an inkling to. It was at this halfway point that they first drowned out drinks as if distant friends were catching up, and then driving to a motel and drowning out their sorrows in the other’s warm embrace. He still desperately wishes to forget that dingy bar’s name.

It was Frank’s way of touching him that always had Mateo’s heart in a vice grip. Calloused hands that never strayed from making him feel cherished. Their need to make the other feel good would always end up in both burly men on a heap in tangled sheets.

Mateo knew he was in danger when it had become harder and harder to peel himself away from Frank. He thought he was doing them both a favor when he didn’t ever go back to that bar. Maybe it was a good thing, he thought, that he had left Frank’s life the way he came in. Without a message, without any trace. He had learned not to shed any tears by then.

His heart never really did heal from that one.

Not until a pair of deep brown eyes met his own about four years ago, introducing himself as the new farmer moving into their town. Jack had made quick work of his late aunt’s farm with all the enthusiasm he could muster after losing the last family that he truly loved.

It would be Mateo who would end up covering him with a warmth Jack had abandoned all hope of feeling long ago.

Mateo gave him that hope; and without knowing Jack had done the same.

Kindred spirits, Mateo’s mother would call them if she could see them.

We’d drive her insane, he can’t help but think. When had Jack’s voice started to mingle so seamlessly with his own inside his head? The sharpness in Mateo’s chest softens with the thought.

He looks over at Jack sitting next to him. Face turned toward the horizon, mustache stained with the beer that’s grown lukewarm in his hand, he is still the most beautiful man Mateo has ever seen.

When they’d first met, Mateo couldn’t help but stare at Jack without abandon. From the subtle curls trying to peek out beneath his hat, the way those whiskey brown eyes sparkling with mirth, to the crow’s feet that graced his eyes, he had Mateo a goner from the beginning. In those first few months of getting to know one another, both out in the fields and in each other’s embrace, Mateo could see the life lived within Jack, hiding in the wrinkles that adorned his face. He had pondered on how he could add to those wrinkles perpetuating his every expression, along with the lines and dimples that came out of hiding whenever he smiled.

Oh, what he wouldn’t give to be a mark of a life well lived on this man’s face.

The thought hadn’t scared him as much as he ever thought it would.

-----

They sit next to each other on the old swinging chairs on the back porch, overlooking first the yard and then the fields, each with a cheap bottle of beer in their hands, a couple empty ones sitting on the creaking floorboards beneath them.

The old radio just inside the doorway gives a crackling sound before finding its footing, the crooning of Karen Dalton making way for John Denver’s.

Time might’ve been what Mateo needed but sometimes a little push could go a long way. Jack had learned that back when he finally came clean to Mateo about being in too deep, laying all his fears at the altar of Mateo’s soul, praying to a love long lost that maybe he didn’t mess up his second chance at happiness.

He had never been gladder to have taken a leap of faith.

So, he asks.

“You going to tell me about what happened on your way back to the house today or are we still playin’ three monkeys, baby?”

Mateo finally let his eyes meet his. Jack always knew when to steer him to shore. He was actually surprised he had waited this long to bring it up.

Mateo’s heart breaks a little at the thought that he had been nothing but chummy at this loving man all day. The man who hadn’t left his side all this time.

“I got a letter in the mail today, from someone I thought was long gone”, he chokes out, surprising himself with his own honesty, “Someone I thought I wouldn’t ever hear from again.”

Ah, then. There it was. The one part of himself Mateo had been adamant about keeping strictly under covers. It’s not as if he hadn’t ever talked about his father to Jack; he had glazed over the worst of it in the still of the night a couple times, when sleep was inexplicably absent from his bedroom as the sky turned from dusk to dawn.

Jack knows about the infamous Mateo Lanzo. The farmer turned husband, then father, then a John Doe, to a deadbeat divorced father. He knows about the heartbreak that killed Mateo’s late mother, and the heartbreak still suffered by the man he loves.

Jack also knows something about patience. How Mateo had more of it than he gave himself credit for, especially when it came to feelings of conflict. He simply gave himself too much time not to feel but to bury everything that ached in his chest.

Jack remembers how it had taken about a year and a half to muster up the courage to share how he’d lost his wife and child himself. Mateo could already see the scars; both the ones that he could spend hours tracing with his fingertips, his lips, his tongue, and those that would only be visible in certain moments. In the swift pain that clouded the spark in his eyes whenever he saw a jet-black haired woman with a child, in the hitch of breath he took whenever he talked about life back in Kentucky, in the still of the night whenever he woke up with a quiet gasp and sweat dampened hair, eyes looking for a face long gone…

He had always appreciated Mateo not pushing him to talk about them. Or more so, pushing him to talk about them in the right moments.

This, this seemed like a right moment for Jack to do the pushing. He could help. Whatever it was that he held back about his father, he could help Mateo carry it.

“What’s he saying then?”

Mateo bristles.

Jack knew it wouldn’t be easy to talk about, but he couldn’t help but hear a voice inside his head yelling out that he deserved to know. Jack also knew that that’s not what Mateo deserves.

So, he waits.

The shock of the question, of being seen, wears off when Mateo finally answers, “A bunch of nonsense really.”

Another attempt at hiding gone sideways as Mateo sees Jack raise a single eyebrow, as if he’s challenging him.

He never could hide from him long.

“He wants to talk. If I’m up for it that is”, Mateo sighs out.

“Well, that don’t sound like complete nonsense to me”, Jack drawls carefully; it always takes a little coaxing for Mateo to give any details. “Did he write why he wants to talk now? After, what, twenty-five years?”

Mateo corrects him a little too quickly, “Twenty-seven.” He tries to swallow down the knot that doesn’t seem to go away from his throat. He wants to talk about this, just not with snot and tears all over the place.

Anger flares up inside him then. This man, who left him and his mother to fend for themselves, without so much as the courtesy of saying goodbye, sending his mother down a spiral thinking that the worst might’ve happened to the man she loved until the young postman handed her trembling hands divorce papers. Oh, how Mateo wished the worst had happened to his father after all.

No. This man did not deserve his tears. His heartbreak.

How dare he?

“I hate him. I never could say it to my mother, she wouldn’t let me. Still loved that bastard after everything he put her through. But I hated him then. Still do now.”

“You know, you don’t have to do anyth—”

“I know that”, Mateo spits out, harsher than he ever intended.

God, he just wants to go back. To last night, after a long day’s work, drifting off into a comfortable sleep with the man he loves. He would even take going back to this morning when life seemed just a little bit easier than it does now. He wishes he didn’t ever see that letter, willing to have let it go to trash unknowingly with the junk mail.

He knows he’s being a wimp.

He knows that dealing with this letter is more than dealing with just a piece of paper.

He also knows that Jack just wants to help. In whatever way Mateo would allow him to.

“Talking about him…it’s not easy. I want to, with you, I really do. I just—", he stops. He feels the sobs climb up from his chest up to his throat, catching in the wind of the breaths he desperately tries to take. “I don’t feel anything but anger when it comes to him. And” he takes a deep breath, sighs out, “…it scares me.”

“Scares you how?”, Jack asks.

He can’t stop the tears that blur his vision. “Scares me how comfortable I am in it. It’s constant. I don’t think I can ever remember a time where I was happy with him there. But after a while it grew dull, you know? The anger, the loathing. So, it got easy to just…let it grow. But I never wanted it to poison me. Him not being here helped with that though. After a while I just liked to think that he died. Not like I could do anything about him being gone, confronting him.” Not like I ever thought about it, Mateo thought with a poorly veiled grimace.

“You have thought about it though”, Jack offers.

Mateo’s first instinct is to try and deny. Jack stops him short.

“Don’t act as if there’s a chance that I don’t know you Teo. You have no idea how many times I’ve seen you for you. I know you. And that’s okay darlin’. I’m here ‘cause I like what I see”, Jack declares with a smile that can only be described as in love, his eyes crinkling around the corners.

Mateo sees himself in those lines.

His heart stutters a beat at the realization.

They’d said their “I love you”s a long while ago. But something told Mateo that whenever he uttered the words from now on, it would hold a heavier meaning. A heaviness he felt elated to carry.

“What’d you imagine saying to him when you were younger?”, Jack implored, eyes almost pleading, as if to say “Come on, baby, you can let me in. Promise I’ll make it worth your while”.

So, Mateo sucks in a lungful of air, the smell of linden trees waltzing through the fields with an early autumn breeze.

He remembers his mom and how she would let him play around for hours running up and around the branches of that same linden tree. The same tree that she would pick from to make tea with whenever Mateo got close to catching a cold after running around and sweating through his shirt. The same tree that he used to climb up and hide in whenever his father’s voice became too loud to handle.

Mateo squeezes his eyes shut against the memory.

He sucks in another breath. Lets it out.

He wants to unfold.

Jack wants—and deserves—to help.

So, he begins.

-----

Waking up was slow going this morning.

They’d gone to bed later, much later, than they normally would.

Last night—and well into dawn—was the first time Mateo had been at his most vulnerable. If you asked either one of them, they would both admit that this had been a long time coming, but that it was worth it. Every scar, every hurt, every shortcoming, every fear was laid bare before Jack’s heart. He hadn’t faltered in his promise; every piece of Mateo that fell away to reveal a new part of the man he loved, Jack would quietly pick up the piece, holding it dear to his soul. Mateo hadn’t realized when his tears had started to flow without restraint.

He had told him all. How it felt as if his father was the one piece still missing from him, how he felt guilty at the prospect on behalf of his mother who kept going as long as she did with a broken heart; how he’d been a coward for most of his life, breaking hearts first because he couldn’t bare to live through someone else breaking him again; how even though he is filled with anger, it is actually the thought of forgiving and being forgiven that makes him tremble with fear, filling the darkest corners of his soul.

Jack had listened and held his hand with a firm grip, his weight never wavering; at once Mateo felt both the weight of his past lifting from his shoulders and never feeling so grounded before.

He was intent on being the rock Mateo leaned on.

And Mateo leaned.

There was Jack’s voice echoing inside his head as they’d both finally drifted off to sleep.

A suggestion that he actually thought would be useful.

“Why don’t you just write to him? Not to send out a reply but just to let it all out, maybe. Take it one step at a time. Write, see how you feel, and then decide what to do with it. Chop it up and burn it or send it. It’s up to you darlin’. He doesn’t get to dictate how you feel about this. You don’t owe him anything. If you do end up wanting to burn it, I’ll bring the matches. If you end up wanting to send it, I’ll find you the stamps”, Jack had said when they woke up, voice sleep rough but mind alert as ever.

Jack had learned to find the ideal path to any solution long before he and Mateo had met.

He used to be a strategist; using every piece of information he had to his advantage was something he’d not only needed to learn but excel at. Under much undesirable conditions, working for his life by putting it in danger for someone else. They’d call it “the greater good”; though, toward the end he’d realized it was anything but. By the end, he knew better.

He didn’t need to be a strategist now. He just needed to be there for the one person he loved, however he might need him to.

Mateo could find solace in Jack for that kindness alone.

He takes the afternoon to try and focus on his small garden of flowers in the yard. His hat on his head, the afternoon sun still scorching at his back, he feels his mind clear as he tends to the soil, clearing out the weed and the leaves and flowers that have withered over time. He feels tethered here, hands and knees digging into the dirt.

He always treated any place out in the yard that had ever been tended to by his mother as gifts left from her. He knew exactly how to care for them, how much water and sun they’d need; he had learned how to care for them from her. Just as she’d learned from his father.

A blurred memory unfurls suddenly; his mother planting daisies on the edge of the yard while his father gives them their first splash of water.

He decides not to think of it any further, trying his best not to muddle the clarity his mind had gathered from the earth. His work done, flowers cared for and watered, he makes his way inside the house.

Inside, his mother’s desk in front of the window catches the setting sun’s last rays, gathering heat into its old woods.

-----

His mother had never told him that the flower beds were a joint effort. Never reminded him of the fact. A symbol of their love, she’d always thought. And for a while it was. Those early days of their marriage taking care of the flowers together was the brightest part of her days.

It was a different kind of heartbreak when he stopped caring, leaving her to take care of them by herself.

She had tried so hard and for so long to keep them alive. She had hoped Mateo would have more luck when it came not just to flowers but to affairs of the heart as well. Having seen him run from a happiness the world seemed intent on being against enraged her more than she ever let on. She had wished with a tenacity few possessed, that her son could one day be fearless in his love. It was as if only she could see that her boy held so much love in his bones.

If only he knew that his heart would one day be his savior.

It is with that heart that he sits at the old wooden table his mother used to sit at, writing letters to distant family, using it as a knitting station when her hands grew too restless to write.

It is with that heart he now picks up a pen and paper, a warm baritone voice echoing in his ears, encouragement dripping from every imagined syllable.

It is with that heart he now puts pen to paper; and bares his soul.

#jack daniels #agent whiskey #jack whiskey daniels #jack daniels fanfiction #jack daniels x original character #jack daniels x m!oc #jack daniels x male original character

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dailydemonspotlight · 4 months ago

Note

I've been really getting into Canaanite mythology, so I was thinking of requesting someone like Anat for the future

Anat - Day 71 (Request)

Race: Megami

Arcana: Priestess

Alignment: Light-Chaos

July 15th, 2024

Canaanite mythology is, unfortunately, very obscure- despite the varying amount of sources we have to work off of regarding it, a good amount of the ancient religion has been lost to time, and so many features and gods from it have been forgotten as the years went on and history left it behind in its wake. What we do have, however, is a fascinating look into the various places it intersects with other world religions, areas, and places from throughout history. This all comes to a head in the form of a Canaanite goddess who isn't only connected to just Canaan- no, she's connected to far, far more. Enter the goddess of many things, whether it be fertility, warfare, or hunting- the elusive Ugarit deity, Anat.

Anat is attested to very scantly, and almost all of her references lie in the Ugaritic texts, an ancient set of tablets written in cuneiform and dating back to the 12th and 13th centuries BCE. While these texts are filled with hundreds of poems, the major poem we wish to focus on today, one of three, lies in the Baal cycle, the main source also used for, you guessed it, Baal. Now, interestingly, the Baal cycle is used for more than simple reference back-and-forth for Canaanite myth- quite a lot of sources actually use it as a point of reference for comparison between Canaanite and several Abrahamic religions- but I'm getting off topic. Within the Baal cycle, however, she is referenced quite a bit as a very important figure. As seen in the cycle, Anat is an incredibly powerful figure who fights alongside Baal against the god of the dead and his eternal enemy, Mot. A lot of the poem, unfortunately, is very, very hard to read, with many lines missing and others obscured by the ages, but I'll try to offer as many quotes as I can. Also of note is that most of the sources refer to Anat as a deity that was already quite well known.

Case in point, the source listed above. It's easy to inquire that Anat was a household name in Ugaritic areas, and the passing referral to her in most sources also makes it obvious that she was a well known and well-referred to goddess, unfortunately making research about her ten times harder to people nowadays like me who don't know much about her. However, what we can work off of is the actual fragments that were preserved and translated! To quote the tablets kept in the Syria virtual museum exhibit,

“To me let your feet run, to me let your legs hurry; as I have a word of which I would tell you, a matter of which I would relate to you; words of wood and whispers of stone, conversations of the heavens with the earth, the deep with the stars.” (CTA 3 iii 19-25)

From what we can gather, Anat appeared to have been the lover of Baal, and the above text is what he said when he called to her after his death at the hands of Mot. I wish a few more lines were translated, given how many PDF's I've had to sift through, but alas- it comes with the territory of annoyingly obscure deities. Many other sources also purport that they may have been siblings, and still other sources think they took a page out of Alabama's book, so to speak. What we do know for sure, though, is that Anat is one of Baal's greatest allies, but a lot past that is vague. It's even debated among researchers as to her role- it used to be believed, based on the paper "Dictionary of Deities and Demons in the Bible" written by Israeli scholar Ariella Deem, that Anat's name was based upon a hypothetical root word meaning 'to make love,' being nh, but as time has went on and it's been discovered that the root word in question may not exist, her role has been changed in tune.

Now, as evidenced in the Baal cycle, it's believed that she was a war god of sorts, as well as the savior of life itself in the tradition- in it, as quoted below, she killed Mot and, by vanquishing death, had guaranteed that Baal would be brought back to life.

She seizes the God Mot. With a sword She cleaves Him, With a pitchfork She winnows Him. With a fire She burns Him, In the millstones She grinds Him. In the fields She plants Him,

As evidenced later in the text, she was also responsible for the slaughter of several other gods, being known as a goddess of vengeance in the wake of Baals death. To quote,

She smites the people of the seashore, destroys mankind of the sunrise. Under Her are heads like vultures. Over Her are hands like locusts. Pouring the oil of peace from a bowl, the Virgin Anath washes Her hands, The Progenitress of Heroes, (washes) Her fingers. She washes Her hands in the blood of soldiery, Her fingers in the gore of troops. [...] Did I not demolish the darling of `El, Yam the Sea? Did I not make an end of Nahar the River, the great god divine Rabim? Did I not snare the Dragon, vanquish him? I did demolish the Twisting Serpent, the Tyrant with Seven Heads?

This all goes to show that Anat, as a whole, appeared to be a goddess of war- while a lot of the language translated to speak of Anat, Ugaritic, is hard to translate both due to a lack of knowledge and difficulty in changing concepts (such as the aforementioned root words,) a lot of what we do know for sure about her paint her as a ruthless goddess who got vengeance for her husband/brother/both and then some. However, how is she portrayed in SMT?

Frankly, I find her design a bit... strange? And also very horny, though I guess it comes with the territory of being a purported goddess of fertility- however, a lot of her design just feels strained. It's even worse in its yellow color pallete in Soul Hackers, though that might just be my taste. I do quite like her Persona design, though that may just be due to my love of Motorcycles and the fact that she's evolved from Johanna.

Overall, though, design issues aside, I really do quite like Anat- the rabbit hole this demon can lead you down is intense, but it's one that I still found fun and intriguing to research. Do your own research for her, too! There's a lot I didn't mention in this general overview, after all!

#shin megami tensei #smt #megaten #persona #daily #ask #everyone thank yamai

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guardkeywolf · 2 years ago

Note

haiiii! I was wondering if you could do hc's for the C.L.A.W.S reacting to if the cods boys could have kids? I'm sorry but this has been literal brainrot for me

You're What?!

This was so fun to write. It's amazing that I haven't even thought of this...

THANK YOU FOR THE REQUEST @mi-mi-san !!!

I had a lot of fun so I hope you enjoy!

Emma will be the bestie with Soap because she has already had kids before... and I decided to just stick with the 141 because I really haven't shipped the other C.L.A.W.S with anyone else in the COD franchise...

Blitz

-Ghost

• She was shook by the news at first

• She remembered when Katrina told her about when she was pregnant with Emma and nearly cried

• She also couldn't help but imagine what their kids would look like

• Either they would come out like Emma, who looked completely human and only got enhanced strength and senses, be an Ultrain Human hybrid where they still looked human but had her Wolfian features, or look like her with normal legs or hell they could even have bent legs too for all she cared

• This also meant Emma would be getting a new little siblings

• She was excited and eager to see what they would look like

• She literally picked him up and walked to her room on the other side of their combined bases

• She dropped him on the bed and crawled over him and smirked slyly

• She kissed him a lot and got close to his ear before whispering in a low sexy voice

• "Get ready to my pups, Stud..."

• Let's just say Ghost was not able to walk for the next few days after that night

• Blitz was very proud of herself when he took a pregnancy test and it came out positive

Wolf

-Price

• He froze...

• The last time he had a child, he lost his wife Jel...

• But to him, this felt like redemption since that lost

• Price broke the news to him slowly and waited for his reaction

• Wolf started speaking in Ultrian to him, which he began teaching him a month ago, slowly... some words Price caught and some he didn't but he got the full message

• He leaned in and kissed him wholeheartedly and smiled

• He smiled

• Thing is, Wolf hardly smiles...it's incredibly rare too

• So when he did to Price...it was special

• Wolf wasn't as eager to have another one like Blitz but he took his time with this

• He did take Price to the room and eventually ask him if he really did want to bear his pups and was super cautious

• He even went on the explain what exactly their child could end up possessing too

• But overall, that wasn't Wolf's main focus... it was whether or not they'd be able to survive having Ultrian blood

• Blitz managed but only because her mother was half human and Angel

• Price was simply a human

• He didn't know what all could happen when he gave birth

• He explained this to Price as well

• Thankfully, Price was able to calm him down and tell him he was still fine with it

• Later on, Price would end up having to be cared around the base by Wolf because he couldn't walk

• To Wolf, this was simply just something he'd be doing a lot once their pup was born

Leopode

-Gaz

• Compared to the others he grabbed Gaz and twirled him happily in air

• He began hollering in Ultrian while also going back and forth between planning and freaking out as Kyle watched him from the side

• Kyle thankfully caught his attention when he finally stepped in front of the Leopardian-Arachnian and told him to calm down

• Leo did but was still nervous

• He honestly had no idea how pregnancy worked between Ultrians and Humans

• As far as he knew, Blitz was the only one with experience in the matter so he scooped Gaz up and walked them both to Blitz's Office

• "Leo why are we here?" Gaz asked him

• "Blitz is the only one here that actually has experience in this kind of thing, darling... I don't possess much information on your species to know how reproduction works," he admitted openly

• Gaz smiled up at him in understanding

• Blitz, who was already aware of their presence, opened the door and let them both in before closing it

• Leo was glad she was here to explain this new journey he was about to go on

• He truly never expected to live long enough to have his own cubs with another, especially with a different species

• He took notes of everything Blitz said, making sure he didn't miss one thing along with the few questions Kyle asked every now and then

• The biggest thing she focused on for him was if they'd look like Leo though

• Since he was the only Ultrian-Hybrid within the team, she was quite skeptical about Gaz just being able to grow the child at first as well

• Leo really didn't know how his mother, an Arachnian, managed to give birth to him since she had a much more leaned frame compared to that of his father

• Not only that but Leopardians were big when born and he could only imagine what he looked like when he came out

• But then again, Leo knew he had to physically shift himself partially if he ever wanted to use his Arachnian genetics

• If their cub was going to be born, he'd be a triple Ultrian-Hybrid...depending if he looked like that of course

• The last thing he wanted was for Gaz to go through the amount of pain though

• After their talk with Blitz, he and Gaz agreed to hold off until they had enough info to know what exactly could happen

• Of course, when the day came, Leopode would be by his side 24/7

Emma

-Soap

• Now she is ecstatic about her bestie having kids

• She was the 2nd to know, Ghost being first of course, but was happy nonetheless

• Though she was very eager to know if the Scot was to have a normal human child or one with the few Ultrian males that were stationed on the base

• She would definitely go find his partners and give the man a stern talking to if he messed this up for Soap

• She loved him like a little brother and if anything happen to him, she would be out to get him for life

• After that, she would help them both learn about pregnancy as much as possible, and since she's been through the process, gladly have a lot of incite on it

• If it's a human male, she would just give them the normal run down

• But if it was an Ultrian, well that's a different story

• Depending on what Ultrian race, she would make them all visit her mother for that

• Blitz really could only explain how her mother's pregnancy was and how it could vary

• So, she took Soap to Wolf to get more details on the matter

• Of course, when he did tell her he was pregnant, she asked to be a godmother immediately, after which MacTavish happily agreed

If you enjoyed this feel free to REBLOG with the TAGS

My Original Characters' the C.L.A.W.S are mine and adding the tags supports them too

Thank you for reading!

-Guards

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reasoningdaily · 1 year ago

Text

Rapper Tory Lanez was sentenced Tuesday to 10 years in prison for shooting Megan Thee Stallion in the feet and injuring her three years ago.

Los Angeles County Superior Court Judge David Herriford’s decision followed an unusually long hearing that stretched into a second day and included seven people answering questions from Lanez’s attorneys, mostly about his childhood and charitable work as well as his struggle with the death of his mother when he was 11. A jail chaplain said Lanez hosts a daily moment of prayer on his jail floor that has lessened tensions and sets him far apart from the 15,000 other inmates he’s met over the years.

Lanez spoke for several minutes, asking Herriford to not send him to prison. He called Megan “someone I still care for dearly to this day” regardless of what she may think of him. He said “the victim’s my friend.” He talked about bonding with her over the loss of their mothers.

“We both lost our mothers. We would sit there and drink, and drink until we got numb,” he said.

youtube

Lanez’s lawyers also submitted 76 character reference letters from friends, family and other supporters. The writers include singer Iggy Azalea, a police chief and a state representative from Missouri, and a doctor who treated Lanez for hair loss.

In a written statement read aloud in court, Megan said she struggled with whether to attend in person, and her absence should not be seen as anything other than her preserving her mental well being. She said since Tory Lanez her, “I’ve not experienced a single day of peace,” Deputy District Attorney Kathy Ta read aloud.

Megan said mercy is for people who show remorse, and Lanez has shown none. She thanked the Los Angeles County District Attorney's Office for their support and said she wants Lanez’s sentence to be a message for every woman who’s a victim of violence.

“He not only shot me, he made a mockery of my trauma. He tried to position himself as a victim and set out to destroy my character and my soul,” Megan said.

“He lied to anyone that would listen and paid bloggers to disseminate false information about the case on social media. He released music videos and songs to damage my character and continue his crusade,” she continued. “At first, he tried to deny the shooting ever happened. Then, he attempted to place the blame on my former best friend. In his tantrum of lies, he’s blamed the system, blamed the press and, as of late, he’s using his childhood trauma to shield himself and avoid culpability.”

She that Lanez “must be forced to face the full consequences of his heinous actions and face justice.”

Lanez continues to maintain his innocence. His lawyers argued he has an alcohol-use disorder because of post-traumatic stress disorder and an anxiety disorder, and they asked he be released from jail on probation and to a residential substance abuse program.

Herriford questioned where the nexus is between the crime and Lanez’s alcohol-use disorder if he’s still denying shooting Megan. “Your client at no time indicates he actually shot the victim,” Herriford said told Lanez’s lead lawyer, Jose Baez.

“What is he alleging he did as a result of alcohol-use disorder if he didn’t do anything?” Herriford asked. “What did the doctor conclude he did as a result of alcohol use? It’s very unclear.”

Baez said “yelling” and the “argument that went back and forth in the car.”

Baez said “there were lots of decisions that transpired” to escalate the situation.

“It wasn’t a pretty situation. It wasn’t that young man's finest moment,” Baez said of Lanez.

Herriford’s unusual decision to allow questions meant it took three hours to get through the people who spoke on Monday. He also allowed Lanez’s lawyers to re-open their questioning of two speakers on Tuesday.

The speakers included a jail chaplain who said Lanez has helped bring peace to his restricted cell floor through a daily prayer call that brings everyone together at 9 p.m. and a mental health specialist who said Lanez has post-traumatic stress order and an anxiety order that underlays his alcohol-use order.

Deputy District Attorney Alex Bott said Lanez was almost 29 when he shot Megan, and he had no prior reports of alcohol problems. Video of his arrest shows him walking without stumbling, Bott said, and his attempts to bribe Kelsey Harris and Megan show someone in control of his actions. He said the shooting “was an act of misogyny towards Megan.”

Bott said Lanez will “say whatever it takes to avoid accountability" and "is talking out of both sides of his mouth" by claiming alcoholism and a mental disorder but also saying he's a role model for his son.

Stephanie Herring, program director of Home Sentencing, said Lanez is a great candidate for her program, and she’s available to pick him up from jail and take him there immediately. She said she believes anyone with a substance abuse disorder must first have a mental health disorder, and Lanez qualifies.

The sentencing ends a three-year-old case that sparked contentious debate online, propelled by what prosecutors described as a “campaign of misinformation” waged by Lanez against Megan.

Lanez was arrested on a gun charge shortly after the July 12, 2020, shooting in Los Angeles’ Hollywood Hills. He and Megan were leaving reality star Kylie Jenner’s home with Megan’s friend Kelsey Nicole Harris when an argument broke out and Megan exited the Escalade on Nichols Canyon Road barefoot and in her bikini. She testified in trial that she heard Lanez say “Dance, bitch!” before he opened fire.

Megan initially denied being shot, instead telling police she’d stepped on glass, despite needing surgery to remove bullet fragments in her feet. She told investigators four days later that Lanez had shot her. He was charged in August 2020 and remained free on bail until September 2022, when he was placed on house arrest after allegedly assaulting singer August Alsina in Chicago. He was jailed after the jury convicted him Dec. 23 of first-degree assault with a firearm, negligent discharge of a firearm and possession of a concealed and unregistered firearm in a vehicle.

Judge Herriford rejected his motion for new trial in May, and the state appellate court then rejected an unusual request to remove the judge from the case or order him to grant a new trial.

Megan, meanwhile, became more publicly active, throwing out the first pitch at the Houston Rockets home opener, posting more on social media and headlining concerts such as the L.A. Pride Festival in June and the Essence Festival in New Orleans in July. She opened up about the shooting in an Elle cover story in April, saying, “For years, my attacker tried to leverage social media to take away my power.”

“Imagine how it feels to be called a liar every day? Especially from a person who was once part of your inner circle,” Megan said.

#Judge sentences Tory Lanez to 10 years in prison for shooting Megan Thee Stallion #Megan Thee Stallion #daystarr peterson #Megan Pete #tory lanez #tory lanez sentenced #tory lanez gets 10 years for shooting Megan Thee Stallion #Youtube

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crossdressingdeath · 11 months ago

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For the oc asks: future and alone

(Making the boy suffer asks.)

alone: How does your OC deal with loneliness? Have they ever been completely alone before? How do they act when there's no one around to see them? Kyvir thinks he's very good at dealing with loneliness. He's wrong, he was just lonely for so long that it stopped registering. He doesn't so much "deal" with loneliness as he does emotionally shut down, turn his Cheerful Charmingly Dickish Bard act up to twelve, and pretend that people finding him superficially charming and attractive is the same as being loved. He's definitely been completely alone before; I think he actually spent quite a lot of time physically alone when he was younger, especially the decade or so after killing his foster parents. When he realized that he could and would lose control and kill people he loved he kind of ran out into the woods and stayed there for a good decade or so; he went long enough without killing that he went completely feral for a while. It took a lot to drag him out of that state and he was so terrified of losing himself again that he's never gone that long avoiding people since, but he remained emotionally alone until Gortash decided that manipulating the murder demigod into being loyal to him was a good idea and dragged him kicking and screaming into (initially one-sided and manipulative, later genuine) emotional intimacy. When he's alone he tends to be quiet and distant and generally lost in his own thoughts, and fidgets and hums to himself a lot. (When he's particularly sad he tends to sit somewhere quiet with his tail wrapped around his ankles.)

future: What's the worst possible future for your OC? Are they taking steps to avoid that outcome? Are they even aware it's a possibility? I can't actually decide which would be worst for him. It's between taking over the world in Bhaal's name, the failed Chosen feral ending, and rejecting Bhaal but becoming Astarion's spawn. The way it's worked out in terms of in-game story is that if he lets Astarion ascend he's fucked. I think he's not actively taking steps to avoid it; Kyvir spends a lot of time (once he's remembered what he is) teetering back and forth on what he's going to do, and I think it's kind of a split-second decision; he doesn't actually decide what to do re Astarion's desire for ascension until he's standing in Cazador's palace. And that's even more the case with whether or not he takes on the role of Bhaal's Chosen, he very much does not decide until he's standing in front of Bhaal. Depending on whether or not I go with killing or sparing Isobel he may or may not realize that reclaiming his place as Bhaal's Chosen is a possibility at first, and although he does know that ascended Astarion is a possibility I don't think he considers that Astarion will offer to turn him.

#bg3 #kyvir #ask games #chronurgy

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nearestend · 2 months ago

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i'm restless and taking a break from my project so here's some little kate headcanons that aren't important overall but they're important to ME:

does things to stay organized like keeping stuff in folders, having boxes for any stationary on her desk. always ends up abandoning them really quickly and proceeds to have a messy desk that she feels overwhelmed by but can't make herself tidy up again until she really has to. makes a lot of to-do lists, usually for shopping — always forgets about them and ends up not getting any of the stuff she went into the shop for.

there's probably like a general assumption that she is very orderly and organized with things because she seems really put together a lot of the time. unfortunately, she has deceived you and actually lives mostly in a state of chaos. her apartment appears to be really nice and clean, but as soon as she opens one of the closets or cupboards, everything is going to go tumbling out.

she's very picky with food textures and smells and probably has some minor sensory issues. not a huge fan of too many fried foods for that reason. despite being a very popular in oklahoma, chicken fried steak is something she's not that keen on. (yes this is based on that one interview where d.aisy said she didn't like it that much and texas boy gl.en lost his mind about it.)

also on the topic of food, i think she and cathy would have gone strawberry picking every year when she was a kid. they probably didn't have strawberries on their own farm. (i'm just assuming they weren't because berry farming can sometimes be more specialized from what i know.) torn between whether or not they would go to a local berry farm or if there's a wild patch they'd frequent. either way, i think that would be one of there things.

does not like being called "katie" or most nicknames unless it's coming from her mom, definitely jeb, and i guess tyler (because he's going to call her them anyways 🙄). no one else though.

likes country music but more like old school country — dolly parton, johnny cash, loretta lynn, willie nelson, etc. less interested in the more modern country artists. will usually fight with tyler for control over the radio; they go back and forth until one of them gives up, but they're both really stubborn about it. (asher and i have an ongoing thread where they are currently doing just that.)

hates air travel, but will do it if she has to. loves a road trip, loves staying in motels. i think it's just something to do with her not wanting to make the bed.

#headcanons.#hc : kate.#generally it's just: oh you thought she was one of those organized type A personalities who has everything together? wrong! she tricked you #she just wants you to think that she is one of those. it's simply a facade

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cryptid-killjoy · 3 months ago

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Bastien went to get Frankie. He wasn't going to feel okay until he had his little girl close to him tonight. Safety was on the line. His mind was reeling from the moment the word Frollo was in the air.

He kept trying to act normal through all the mingling though. Seeing the Reaper's daughter sucking face with ghost-Pierre on the other side of room wasn't helping. What was going on? Was it upside down day, inside out day? No one gave him the memo. Maddy found refuge in the companionship of the Merry Men, but Bastien found it hard to tune his head out. His mind was a loud place especially when it stresses.

Bastien wasn't the sort to smile for no good reason and he was smiling a lot among the Merry Men. It might have seemed jovial enough considering they were at a party, but it was nerves. He took on one of his wife's traits and was over-compensating in the moment attempting to appear normal her way instead of his way by just smiling and laughing with his long lost friends. He was extremely anxious from that moment on. His head wasn't in a great place. The gargoyles were on extra watch in a spy gear cross like Mission Impossible ninjas unsure of their surroundings trying to keep them all safe. This also meant Bastien's eyes were darting around far more than usual.

Wulf couldn't help it when Maddy said that. "Okay, not just Aggy." His piggie's little nickname. "I missed you too." Then in barreled a big ol' Wulf hug. She wasn't getting out of it. It was one that started out swiveling back and forth overjoyed to see his pal again and would wind down extra sweet because they both knew they were special friends once upon a lifetime.

After the hug it was hard not to repeat it.

"Damn. I really did miss you." He looked around at everyone being back together. "I miss everything about this place." He looked over at Bastien with Frankie next and back to Maddy. "Is this? Is your- Oh my gosh." Then Wulf went up to be introduced to the kid who'd done a lot of growing since he died. All he could think was if he was going to be allowed back from the dead in Delta Castle once a year to see this girl grow up in spurts then at least he'd have something to look forward to.

Wulf looked just as he did as the day he died. Arthur wasn't the same. Death had a funny way of pulling people back if they crossed the barrier. It was different for everyone. For some it depended on where they were coming from on the other side, or the state of their souls, whether ghost-like, or just walking spirits from different realms of existence, but some of the other Merry Men around looked different. River was a prime example because of the type of ghosty existence his soul was captured in. Arthur had a different energy that kept him in the form of when he had "cancer" and that was part of why Lance would look as young as the day Figaro met him. Arthur and Lance were bound that way and their energies had yet to divide too entwined. Oh, he'd still be the same aged mind of the day he died, but earthbound from this walk through he was still that 15 year old boy, the Minstrel's son. His best nerdy and special pal from Sherwood Forest still in the phase of trying to figure out how to be cool before Kuzco got a hold of him.

Just seeing Fig's face looking so boistrous to see his. It was heartwarming. He was a sentimental guy. Lance never felt like the go to guy always in the background. His father always drove the real tunes in the forest. He was more the shadow figure riding his coat tails. "FIGARO! FIGARO! Figarrrrrooooo!" He sang it out in his best operatic voice before laughing.

Almost imitating Kuzco? Snap of their fingers? Figaro did nothing of the sort. It wasn't almost imitating Kuzco. It must have been exactly like Kuzco because this musically named person demanded a gee-tar for Kuzco's risen from the dead actual lost real life first prodigy, the one he first recorded on The Groove Master's first label and BOOH-YAH! Out of the ever-loving nowhere, right at the sound of their snap, right as Lance was singing out his Figaro's because it was completely unexpected, came an entire...

THEME SONG GUY BAND!

Was it the dead walk night or was it not the dead walk night?

Kuzco heard the line 'Get this man a gee-tar' and had flung his whole body around and started to side step his way over there with a cool walk of pure intent to get in on whatever six string action was happening because aint no guitar party happening till he walks through the door.

All this happens simultaneously only for him to be upstaged for the first time in his life and he wasn't even mad about it. He grabbed for Clopin's arm just in time to witness THEME SONG GUY doing a James Brown spin holding the mic up to his face for a big "Good God Ya'll!"

Chess's Dj music stopped cold with a big scratch across her record.

One of the dead members was handing Lance a guitar as Theme Song Guy said to Lance, "Maybe it was time you joined the band?"

There was no analogy to describe how hard Kuzco's heart was beating, but he was damn sure it could be the back beat to a groove that would play forever. All he ever wanted was good things for Lance musically and was upset he never got to take him further on that train to fame and glory before he died, but Good God ya'll indeed. Bestill Kuzco's little llama heart there was no bigger honor and glory to him than Theme Song Guy's Band. Holyllamaleto. Figaro prompted the greatest thing that ever could have happened.

Then it would happen. Theme Song Guy would turn and see Clopin and Kuzco there. There was sentiment. Oh sure there was affection, but there a twinkle in his eye as his band, Kuzco's OG band plus Lance took over the party.

His first words to Clopin were shouted out across the room via the mic, "I love your outfit."

Then he slammed his own boots against the keys of the piano with his bellbottoms for glorious display.

Kuzco could only say, "Damn that man's always had style. That's our guy."

Go-Go didn’t know who hip coins was but hey, it sounded like a fun demolition derby type of thing. That was the American dream right there. That was something she wanted to try while she was in this country, and it looked like there might be the possibility of that tonight. Feral was the land of opportunity, it seemed.

“Fuck calendars,” She agreed with a nod of her head, the long hair extensions creating a more dramatic effect with this. She’d almost forgotten for a minute that she was dressed up, and not in comfortable speed gear. That made it all the more thrilling.

Goddamn that was a roar. She could have never met Jetsam, never seen him, and would know that he was a Laveau just from that call alone. She exchanged an excited look with Scout. Oh hell yeah, this was going to be a night to remember.

More and more people were joining them, which was completely fine, the more the merrier. And was she a little excited that the twins were coming? Yeah. She hadn’t seen much of the chaos that she heard that Chip and Dale could cause, not with Chip running his family and creating his own little village. Dale - she knew from first meeting him that he could cause a ruckus, ever since she had seen Anton move.

She was out of the castle with Scout, Halloween party be damned.

Bingo! Score! Win 100 tickets!

Ellie suddenly found herself trapped in a box, and without really thinking, she breathed her fire onto it, setting it in flame and stepped out the burning cardboard wreckage, looking around at the culprit, though Babyface had already pinpointed exactly who it was. Goddamn Dale.

“Yeah, let’s go,” She agreed, putting her hand on Babyface’s back to give him a little extra push as they gave chase to find out what excitement they were up to beyond the castle, red hair blending with the blue sparkles of her costume, creating a brightly-colored blur outta there.

They were out and she was ready to go and chase down the Laveaus some more, already pouting, feeling again like a little sister that was left out of something cool with the older kids. But Babyface’s sudden stop and looking out at the water had her slowing her roll, her feet coming to a slow stop, and then she trailed back up to him curiously.

They couldn’t see the island from where they were right then. But then again - with the island not getting in fresh shipments of boys, would it even still be running? Would it still have it’s magic? She tilted her head and looked out at how the moon reflected off of the water, hiding so much both above and below it’s depths.

And then she looked at Babyface, the way that he was looking out and she nodded, determination setting in her face. “Should we see if we can steal a boat, or should we skate it?”

Seems like Thomas and Valerie were the only ones. Everyone else was greeting the dead, or dealing with an intruder, or running off to do something crazy. Jetsam had barely looked at them, they were were homefree, they could do as they liked, and what Thomas wanted to do, more than anything in the world right now, was to hold his wife and have a good ol’ dance with her while Ches was still playing the music.

A full on waltz, one hand in hers, the other around that thin waist that made it hard to believe that she had birthed triplets. She looked damn good. Her body had bounced back incredibly, and oh, he missed that stomach of her sometimes but then there were times like this when they could be close because it wasn’t in the way anymore…

No matter what happened with this body, he adored it, plain and simple.

Honestly - Pierre had thought that Piper would hate him too. Shit, seemed like everyone did up top, and they had their reasons. It was valid. It took him over a year in Hell to realize that. Even Zero had hesitated on coming up to him and that was his goddamn pup, so Piper - yeah, he had figured she was pissed.

So Pierre was feeling VERY pleased at his reception right now, a little smug, even.

“And I for yours,” Pierre said, his eyes flickering over her face, and how it had not changed much since he had been gone. Those violet eyes, ever so striking, her rich dark hair, so black it was almost blue, the natural dusky tone of her skin. He had a habit of telling those that he was in love with that they were Gods and Goddesses but - Piper stood above the rest.

And even more cocky as she touched him like that, right here, right out in the open. He wasn’t shy about it, didn’t try pushing her hand away, instead greeted her with a half-chub that started to grow harder. Yes, even the dead can grow, apparently. He closed his eyes into the kiss, his first in what felt like eternity, and the sweetest one he could have imagined. “Missed you too, girl.”

Then things started to get intense. He wasn’t opposed to being choked though he wasn’t super into violence in the bedroom, but this was getting real. He could feel it, even though he knew that he could not die again. His eyes opened with confusion and hurt, not with anger, not with fear, just - almost looking like a kicked puppy himself.

The information was hard to take in, not with the distraction of being choked and how achingly hard he was getting under his touch. Oh, aching indeed, it was causing a sweat droplet on Pierre’s brow and all. The Belleroses though - at the mention of him, he flickered his eyes over to his sister, who had her back turned to him, talking to the ghosts of the Merry Men. Wulf, he recognized, from Hog Fest.

And then, his eyes would look around the room again and not find the second person he was looking for, because Frank was out of the room with their flesh and blood intruder and Delta. Then back into Piper’s eyes. “- one question,” He said, his voice hoarse, choking. “Can you only bring back me or-?”

He motioned his head towards Seven. Because that was his boy right there. They went through Hell together - and a lot of Hell’s influences. Pierre was not the same boy that he had been when he went under. But he still stuck to that loyalty to Seven, despite what else might be going on in his mind. He had to at least ask. If there was any chance…

Maddy also did a quick look around for Frank and Delta, and found them gone too. But those that were in the castle, she noticed, were friends. Save for maybe Pierre, but regardless, they were people who were not here to hurt them. Still, they shouldn’t give anyone the chance.

She nodded to Bastien as he wanted to go and get Frankie. That made her feel a lot better too. “Go, I’ll be right here, I’ll keep an eye out,” She promised Bastien, lightly brushing her hand against his lower waist, and then turned her attention to her friends, her face brightening up once more.

“Just Agnes missed me?” She asked Wulf with both eyebrows raised, but she would pet the little ghost pig that had served as flower girl at her wedding, her eyes full of delight. “I missed you too, girl.”

Lance caught Figaro’s attention though. “LANCY PANTSY!!!” They yelled loudly and ran over to them. After all, they had been quite friendly when they went to the high school together, as all of their friends seemed to have the main character stuff going on. They snapped their fingers loudly, almost imitating Kuzco, expecting people to come out of nowhere and get shit done. “Someone get this man a Geee-Tar!”

Elsa wouldn’t have minded if this was the rest of the night. Not a touchy-feely sort usually, but this was River. This was the son that she had for such a brief time. That she had missed so many years with and tried to get those back, tried to be there for him, tried to be the mother he didn’t need once he was an adult.

She also watched as they all went off together, and she didn’t mind at all if Koda went off with them. He deserved to have some fun out there. She was perfectly content to stay here, with the stragglers and the ghosts. But she did look towards Valerie and Thomas too, and found herself pleased that they weren’t being bothered by what was going on. Those two, always in their own little world. Dancing like they were in a music box.

“Absolutely,” She said with a nod, not acknowledging the way that he had corrected himself. Mother - it suited her much more than Ma, anyway.

So she would take his hand and they would have a dance and even Elsa would have a genuine smile on her face, seeing past all the rot, the dessication, to the boy that was underneath. She’d always see the boy. Even when he was a man.

And when he would break off to ask Valerie to dance, of course Thomas would allow this to happen with a bow of his head and a grin on his face, and would stand back and watch, even try to take some pictures with his phone so that this would seem less dreamlike.

Frank bit back a laugh. The nerve of this guy. The fuckin’ BALLS, coming in and just demanding that Delta release his father, as if Chernabog was just a house-guest rather than her prisoner around her pretty neck. Despite wanting to laugh, his face remained in that neutral, almost ghastly expression of his.

He listened, staying silent, staying cool for now, as Delta laughed for the both of them. But he couldn’t help the corner of his mouth going up ever so slightly.

“Oh, he’s being quite serious,” Frank said, holding Delta steady, allowing the leather fabric of his shirt to wear her tears, his mind connected to Silas’s. “He has no idea he’s sniffing around the wrong lamppost.”

He let Delta take the lead on the conversation, as per usual. She was a better talker than he was anyway. He kept himself holding onto Silas, one hand clenched on his, standing just behind. Trapping Silas between himself and Delta as he pled his case.

But when he brought up Uncle issues, he raised up his hand and gave Silas a smack on the back of his head - hard.

‘I’m not judging you. I’m judging him,’ Frank thought back towards Delta. And he was judging this guy hard. Was this foolishness, or was it bravery? Or was it just a desperate act of cowardice, because he couldn’t handle life without his daddy doing things for him. He got cut off from Oogie when he got stuck inside of Feral, so he was trying to find the next big thing, the next big Sugar Mama.

“We’ve got a special place for a thing for you,” Frank said, pulling Silas in closer to him, so that the clown’s back was up against his chest. Might even have seemed romantic, in a ‘Frollo’ type of way. “Where I’m going to cut you up, but I’m going to keep you alive. Yes, I’m going to cut you up, and I’ll see what makes you tick, makes you sick. We’ll find out exactly who you are.”

#bastienxmaddy #wulfxmaddy #figaroxlance #kuzpin #merry men x all #theme song guy x clopin #still splitting things

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ruminativerabbi · 2 years ago

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Chanukah 5783

In the years following the death of Alexander the Great in 323 BCE, Israel bounced back and forth half a dozen times between the Egyptian Empire and the Syrian Empire. Each change of government resulted from a separate war, collectively if vaguely known to historians as the Syrian Wars, but the details have almost all been forgotten. Tens of thousands died on the battlefield. None of these wars accomplished much of anything, however—other than laying the groundwork for yet another war intended by the party that lost as a means of gaining back the territory surrendered to the party that won in the previous one. It’s almost impossible to keep the details straight, and not least of all because all the kings of Egypt involved in all six of these wars were named Ptolemy and almost all the kings of Syria, then called the Seleucid Empire after its founder, were named Antiochus. I remember trying to master the details back in graduate school and thinking that my task was something like what it would be like to attempt to master the plots of all of Shakespeare’s plays if all the protagonists in all the plays had the same names. Possible, obviously. But just barely.

Two battles count more than most: the Battle of Gaza in 217 BCE, which was one of the largest and bloodiest battles of ancient times and which ended with a resounding victory for Egypt; and the Battle of Panium (now the site of a lovely park in northern Israel) in 200 BCE, which led to the permanent annexation of Israel by the Syrians, which in turn led eventually into the events of the Chanukah story. All of this has been long forgotten by all. Indeed, the thought that the “real” reason Antiochus IV, the king who went to war with the Maccabees, was so eager to rule Israel with an iron fist had much more to do with his fear of yet another Egyptian invasion than it did with any specific desire to alter the course of Jewish history will itself seem vaguely blasphemous to most: we have all been raised to hate the wicked king who attempted to outlaw Judaism, but which of us was ever invited into the incredibly complex political background that went into the king’s eventually tragic decision to favor the party in Jerusalem he considered the most likely to return his support later on should yet another war erupt.

I thought I would write my pre-Chanukah letter this week about Antiochus IV, the king we all love to hate. He was, in fact, more of a shlimazel than anything else, the heir to a complex set of political realities he seems to have been only barely capable of mastering, let along using creatively for his nation’s benefit. And here he is in a flattering coin-portrait created by an artist of his own day.

There’s lots to say. First of all, his name wasn’t really Antiochus: his parents named him Mithridates and he merely took the name Antiochus, his father’s name, when he ascended to the throne in the fall of 175 BCE. (Whether his father had a different name too before he ascended to the throne is not known.) But he was not his father’s immediate successor. That would have been his brother Seleucus, who reigned from 187 until his murder in 175 BCE. The legal successor should have been Seleucus’s son Demetrius, who was actually declared king by his father’s assassin even though he was being held captive in Rome. His absence created a vacuum of power at the top which was quickly filled by “our” Antiochus, who declared the new king to be a different son of Seleucus, also named Antiochus (you see what I mean about these people’s names), whom he himself had murdered shortly thereafter…which left him free to seize the throne, illegally but effectively, in 175. And so “our” Antiochus became the king of Syria. Not a nice man, although one with nice-looking hair. (Were the curls natural? Did they even have curling irons in antiquity? I’ll try to find out.)

He was widely thought to be at least slightly demented. In fact, his official name Antiochus Epiphanes (literally, “Antiochus the Magnificent”) was often altered by his subjects to Antiochus Epimanes, literally “Antiochus the Madman.” And he behaved oddly too, often abandoning the palace to show up naked in a public bathhouse or weirdly attempting to run for public office as though his great ambition in life was to become a paid alderman situated a thousand ranks lower than his actual status.

But mostly his foreign policy was about keeping the Romans calm and keeping the Egyptians from re-seizing Israel. He got off to a good start with the Romans by paying off the huge sum of money owed them after their victory in what historians now call the four-year-long Roman-Seleucid War that raged from 192 BCE to 188. The Egyptians, not so much. But the Romans were the allies of Egypt…and in that detail lay the ultimate cause of Antiochus’s undoing.

The real background to the Chanukah story is called by historians the Sixth Syrian War. In 170, the Egyptians declared war yet again on the Syrians with the specific intention of regaining Israel for their empire. This did not go at all well: the Syrians counterattacked ferociously, seized almost all of Egypt except Alexandria, and took their king (called, because what else, Ptolemy) captive. Antiochus allowed the Egyptian king to continue to reign, but only as a servant to Syrian interests. This did not go over well with the Egyptians, however, who revolted and succeeded in putting a brother of Ptolemy, also (of course) named Ptolemy, on the throne. This was a direct repudiation of Syria’s victory, and so Antiochus sent a huge army, headed by himself, to attack Egypt again two years later in 168 BCE. But he didn’t anticipate the degree to which this would anger the Romans. Nor did he anticipate what happened next.

That story, we know only from the great Roman historian Polybius, who lived from about 200 BCE to about 116 BCE. To read the story in his Histories, Antiochus landed and began his march into Egypt, only to find himself facing not a Roman army intent on thwarting his plans, but a single Roman individual, a man named Caius Popilius Laenas who had come from Rome with a letter from the Senate ordering Antiochus to go home and leave the Egyptians be. Imagine the scene: Antiochus, king of Syria, with thousands of soldiers behind him and a single man, an emissary from the Roman Senate, standing in the road in front of him. The latter handed Antiochus a letter from the Senate ordering him to retreat. Antiochus, no doubt uncertain how to respond, said he needed time to consider the offer. Popilius said that was fine, then took a stick from the ground and drew a circle around Antiochus, informing him that he needed to make his decision before stepping outside the circle. Thus humiliated in front of his own men yet terrified to defy Rome openly, he politely—and more than just a bit pathetically, given that he was leading an army and Popilius was one single man—he politely agree to go home, which he then did.

And that instance of public disgrace was the background that led to the Maccabean revolt. Antiochus, more eager than ever to keep the Jews of Judea happy and disinclined to fight with the Egyptians during the inevitable next war, lighted on the idea of putting in power those Jews who seemed the most eager to become part of his world—to worship in the Syrian-Greek style, to speak Greek, to frequent Greek-style gymnasiums, to attend theaters featuring the great dramas of the Greek playwrights, etc. For good measure, he outlawed practices liked the least by the Jews he liked the most, and circumcision foremost among them. Calculating incredibly incorrectly, Antiochus imagined “his” Jews to be invincible with his royal support. But he failed to take into account the detail that the large majority of Jews were revolted by those innovations and wanted only to maintain their ancient ways and their ancient cult without some outside authority bossing them around and telling them how to conduct themselves spiritually or religiously. And it was at that precise moment that the Maccabee brothers, sensing the potential inherent in the situation, began a guerilla war against the Syrians, eventually wresting some kind of autonomy from the Seleucids. So that was in 164 BCE. But within a few decades, the Syrian Empire had become so riddled with insurrection and civil unrest that the Jews of Israel were able to function as an autonomous region within the empire. In 104 BCE, a descendent of the original Maccabees proclaimed himself king…and Jewish autonomy morphed into real independence, which lasted for about forty years. But that’s a whole different story, the one featuring the Romans landing on the shores of Israel and slowly taking over. It’s a good story too, though. I’ll tell it another time.

So Antiochus the Shlimazel. Humiliated before his troops. Illegitimately on the throne in the first place. Mocked as a crazy person by his own subjects. And, in the end, a failure whose own personal poor decision making led not only to Jewish autonomy in the Land of Israel, but also eventually to the end of his own dynasty.

By the end, he didn’t look so well either.

Sic semper tyrannis! Happy Chanukah to all!

#Antiochus the Great #Antiochus Epiphanes #Antiochus IV #Chanukah

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igotanidea · 2 years ago

Text

The Raven's daughter: Morpheus x Matthew's daughter part 5

previously: part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4

Comments and discussion are always highly appreciated.

Part 5

The rest of the day just passed through with the speed of light. It wasn’t really surprising though. Y/n had her head wrapped around the lectures, focused solely on the subjects, and that was what helped her survive. It was only when she got to her apartment that she realized it was almost the time she was supposed to meet with her father. Such a shame. She had a feeling the Raven won’t be coming alone and she was not really in the mood to face the grumpy Dream Lord.

However, whether she liked it or not, he was going to be her guest and she felt it was her obligation to welcome him accordingly. After all, she promised her father she would behave. So, let it be.

y/n quickly changed her clothes, once again turning from a college professor into a girl next door style. All things considered, she has always put comfortable clothes first, she felt good in them and that was what she needed at the moment. My ground, my rules – she thought to herself. Unsure of what do to she was just circling her flat waiting for the Raven and possibly Morpheus to show up. She could not really find a place for herself and started to get a bit anxious. Unwillingly the thoughts started to creep into her mind. What if something happened? What if dad somehow got hurt? What if Dream found something terrible about her and was on his way to obliterate her? She held no power against him. Should she run and hide? Should she just stay here and face him with all the courage? Much to her displeasure she started pacing and nibbling on her nails.

-y/n – being so lost in her thoughts the girl almost jumped at the cawing outside – let me in.

-Are you alone? – y/n asked the Raven opening the window and looking around

-I….

-He’s not alone – a dark, silky voice spoke from behind.

-Really, again? – she sighed – if you insist on coming here out of the blue can you at least appear in front of me? Please?

Dream Lord stayed silent to the point where it started to become awkward.

-So? – y/n rocked back and forth on her feet – any news for me? You found answers or you just wanted to pop in?

-I did.

-That was an open question, your majesty. – the girl pointed twisting her hand to avoid her father’s beak

-I did found some answers.

God. Why was talking to him so hard? Just one question – one answer. It was actually pretty funny that a hell of a taciturn Dream Lord found a companion of a talkative Raven. Talk about a character’s gap.

-Ehm … If I may boss… – Matthew chimed in and continued at Dream’s almost invisible nod – we went to visit boss’ brother, Destiny and he actually gave us a clue.

-A clue? That’s just it?

-My brother is not exactly the one to freely give away information – Dream spoke taking a seat behind the table. Clearly feeling uncomfortable.

-Ok, fine – y/n/n shook her head – what did you learn?

-Apparently, after I showed myself to you as a Raven reinstated the bond we had while I was .... a human – Matthew started to explain.

-And… ? What does it have to do with the Dreaming?

-A lot actually. You know that the Raven is merely a messenger and a watcher of the Dream of the Endless, right.

-Yes. And?

-I hate to break it to you, but it seems like we come in a package deal.

-A package deal? And who’s we? – y/n/n frowned – Oh…. Oh…. – suddenly it all became clear and she widened her eyes – wow….. Is that permanent or… ?

-It is permanent as long as I decide to keep in touch with you.

-So, it’s an ultimatum? I can either lose you or have to keep my bond with his majesty, the Dream?

-Precisely.

-Wow. I can’t believe that yesterday I thought it was a lot to comprehend that my father is a Raven in some other reality. And that the Sandman really does exist. I need a drink – she moved to the kitchen counter and poured herself some water. It took a couple of painfully long minutes for her to calm down. – Any other news you want to break to me? No? Cause that would be a good moment to tell me if I’m also some sort of supernatural creature? A shapeshifter or a fairy, maybe? – she took another sip of water – Great. But that is still just one side of the coin, isn’t it?

-What do you mean? – Matthew asks

-Does this change anything else in my life? Will I be feeling what Dream feels? If he feels. Or get through his mind? Or have some sort of telepathic connection? – she started pacing again looking at Dream who was silent all the time, inscrutable look on his face. Almost like he was in trance, not exactly thrilled with what he found out. – Lord Morpheus? – y/n turned directly to him and her voice snapped him back to reality. – Anything?

-I think you have read too much fantasy books, y/n. There is no such thing as soulmates. No telepathic or empathic connection between us – his gaze was fixed on her, so cold that it almost froze her inside. And if that was the case, why did she feel like Dream was withdrawing something?

-Boss? – Matthew seemed equally confused – that is not….

-Quiet, Matthew. I believe this visit is already unnecessarily prolonged – we shall take out leave – he stood up reaching for his pouch of sand with clear intention to get back to Dreaming.

-But, boss …

-Now, Matthew – Morpheus tone left no room for discussion – You are my Raven and you will listen.

-I’m sorry, y/n – the bird turned toward his daughter – I shall see you soon, ok?

-Wait! You can’t just drop that on me and disappear! I still know nothing. Morpheus, please – she looked at him with soft expression and the scared look in her eyes almost made him falter. At least inside since he did not show anything and in fact did disappear alongside with Matthew leaving her trembling, unsure of what the future was holding for her. And him. And her father. Maybe it was just nothing but this feeling inside was telling her otherwise.

***

In the Dreaming.

-Boss?

-What is it now, Matthew? – Morpheus was standing in his throne room looking through the stained glass window at his Kingdom

-Why didn’t you tell her the whole story?

-That is not the knowledge she is supposed to possess. She’s a human. Some things are beyond her comprehension.

-With all due respect, boss, you are talking about my daughter. And this is highly offensive.

-You are right Matthew – Dream’s voice was still ice – cold – she is your daughter and therefore you lack objectivity. It was a mistake to ever let you visit her.

-What?

-You shall never do this again.

-What?! – Matthew caws

-I will not hear any more words about it.

-But boss….

-Not. A. Word – Morpheus warns looking at the Raven harshly – we can’t risk getting any more involved in her affairs.

-She is my affair! She’s my blood. You had a son once, didn’t you boss?

-Matthew…. – tensed expression and clenched jaw of Dream Lord made Matthew stop his words. The Raven snorted angrily but not being able to object took off to find Lucienne and perhaps, Merv, hoping they would be able to find some sort of solution to this impasse.

Dream didn’t make a single move since Matthew left him. He was still sitting on his throne completely immerged in his own thoughts. Whatever he was showing outside was utterly different from his inside. He knew this story was far from over. His brother made it perfectly clear.

Flashback

-Destiny. Brother. I stand in my gallery and I hold your sigil.

-Dream. I hear your calling.

-Will you grant me a passage to your Realm? I require your assistance in an urgent matter.

-I know.

Silence. Destiny was never the one to talk freely. But neither was Dream. Perhaps that was the reason behind their cold relation.

-You are always welcomed in my Realm. Please, come.

Destiny’s realm was utterly different from Dream’s. Or at least different from what he remembered, but how can you blame him? Being held in captivity for more than a century can play tricks on one’s mind. However, Dream was not here to enjoy the views and landscapes. His purpose was solely to find answers and luckily – get rid of the girl who felt like a problem.

-Brother. – Destiny was already waiting for Morpheus at the palace door. Of course, he knew where Dream would appear – a pleasure to see you, truly. Are you well?

-Such concern in your voice, Destiny. Tell me, was it the same during my captivity? – Dream asked

-I do not interfere with what’s destined to come. I simply have the knowledge of things. What’s bound to happen shall happen.

-Then I suppose you were quite content with my imprisonment – Dream hissed. He did not expect his first in a century meeting with brother to go this way. – Anyway, given your knowledge I presume you are aware why I’m here?

-I do.

-Will you grant me answers about the girl, then?

-Ah, the girl. What was her name again?

-y/n

-Right – Destiny flicked his hand and transported them both into his workplace – the dark, wooden room filled with books. So similar yet so different from Dream’s library. – Let us see. – Destiny moved across the study reaching for a large, yet thin volume in blue cover. Unlike any other book it was distinctively glowing. – Y/n. Seems like her time has come.

-What does that mean? – Dream asked quite confused.

-I can’t really tell you a lot.

-Of course, how could you ever?- Morpheus turned around readying himself to leave.

-Seems like you’ve learned nothing about patience, brother - Destiny spoke calmly, not affected by Dream's behaviour. You always want things to go the way you planned. You shall stand corrected than. Remember who is the eldest and most powerful of the Endless. Remember your place. – Destiny warned.

-Apologies, brother.

-I can give you a hint, Dream. This girl is more than you believe her to be. She has a role to play in the Dreaming.

-A role? How is this possible? She’s barely a human. A mortal. A spark of dust.

-That is not true, brother. She’s a lot more. But it is your purpose to find that. Yours and hers. And I must warn you - the process will change you.

Dream was dumbfounded, to say the least. He forgot how his brother was similar to the fates, always speaking with riddles, hardly sharing any valuable information, making everyone feeding on shreds of it.

-Is it all you can disclose?

-You have all the information you need, brother. Just trust the journey. And… - Destiny hesitated – remember that not all people are Roderick Burgess – he finished with almost soft voce looking at his brother with something that actually was similar to concern.

The mere mention of his captor’s name made Dream shudder. He did not notice Destiny’s gentle eyes, quickly gathering himself. Being as stubborn as he was he could not bring himself to show any weakness, even to a member of a family.

-Well, thank you for reminding me that brother. If that’s all I shall take my leave. Thank you for your time .

-Dream…. – Destiny started again making Morpheus stop without turning – no matter what you think this is going to be good for you. Just… just watch your steps carefully.

The Dream Lord did not even bother to answer that and without word just reached for his pouch of sand disappearing in the cloud of it.

End of flashback.

So, here he was. Alone. Sitting on his throne. Feeling powerless. It was not his intention to meet this girl, yet alone developing connection to her. Trust the process – he thought to himself, annoyed beyond recognition. It will be good for you. He would never admit it but he was behaving like a unruly younger brother taken down a notch by the older sibling. He could hear voices of Matthew, Lucienne and Merv coming from the Library and suddenly he realized he had no say in what was to happen. Regardless of how furious it made him. Perhaps he should mend the bridges with Matthew. She was his daughter after all. And Dream was a parent once, even if not a father of the year. There was some regret in him. Deep, deep inside. And maybe granting the Raven what he asked for was some twisted way to make up for his past sins.

Dream sighed in surrender. He had to give up to what Destiny held for him. Even if he hated the thought of that.

-Matthew! – he called for the Raven bracing himself for what was to come.

@marvelsmylife

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@mind-of-a-girl

@thereeallink

@lisacarolined

@boofy1998

@endlessdreamqueen

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part 6 up here

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