#Middle East Travel Guide

[coremagazines]

Tel Aviv boasts the best of both worlds

The city of Tel Aviv offers delicious traditional local foods served up as street fare or fine dining. You don’t have to choose between the city’s rich cultural heritage and its laid-back beach atmosphere. One world isn’t necessarily better than the other. The thing that makes Tel Aviv an ideal travel destination is that you can enjoy both. Both are sublime. Continue reading Untitled

[travelernight]

10 Beautiful Places To Visit In Jordan

[lionheartlr]

Exploring Afghanistan: A Comprehensive Travel Guide

Welcome to Afghanistan, a land of rugged beauty, rich history, and warm hospitality. Despite its tumultuous past, Afghanistan is a country with a resilient spirit and an abundance of cultural treasures waiting to be discovered. Whether you’re an intrepid adventurer, a history enthusiast, or simply seeking to immerse yourself in a unique cultural experience, Afghanistan has something to offer for…

[worldtimetv]

Turkey Travel Guide: Everything You Need to Know

[hedgehog-moss]

Last time I went to the village to buy bread I saw a woman in the street who was dressed like a 19th-century peasant, complete with a thick old-timey accent with dialect words no one uses anymore—she was telling a little group of people to follow her so of course I had to drop everything and follow her too.

And it turned out she was a theatre actress who has read a lot of local archives in libraries and town halls, and offered her services to organise guided tours of various villages to tell people about local history in a fun way, by playing characters who lived here in the Middle Ages, the 19th century, or WWII. It's such a cool idea! I talked to her for a bit after the visit and she said she wasn't sure it'd work / attract enough people, but she had groups of tourists + local families show up for the visit every week, in every village where she did this, so she think she'll be hired again next summer.

When I joined their group she was talking about WWII, and how my & other nearby villages were known by the Nazis and Vichy as a hotbed of terrorists, with some Gestapo officers killed in bomb attacks. (In retaliation the Nazis eventually rounded up 100+ locals and deported them to camps, as well as shooting a few.) I was mostly familiar with WWII anecdotes from the North-East, where my grandparents lived during the war, and I found it funny how different they sounded—my grandfather made Resistance activities sound well-planned and careful (espionage, sabotage, underground presses, infiltrating railway services etc) while oral histories around here make them sound a lot more spontaneous and—handcrafted? like "Emile brought what we needed for the bomb in his wheelbarrow hidden under a layer of straw and we exploded 2 Nazis."

We then went to visit the former girls' school, and I learnt a lot about my country's history of education for girls! Also it was really sweet because there was an old lady in our group who had attended this school as a child and had lots of school memories to share. Most of them were very wholesome, until eventually our tour guide went "Surely you also have some School Mischief to tell us about" and the old woman at first was like no no no no, I was a good girl. And then she conceded that when she had to sort lentils for the nuns' dinner and she resented one of them for berating her in class, she'd do a shit job on purpose and leave some little stones in the lentils.

Then our last step was the fairground where the town fair was (and is still) held, and our tour guide told us little 19th-century anecdotes (in-character, more like acting them out) that she'd found in old postcards and letters in the archives—how the town fair was where you'd go for your dentist appointment (i.e. to have your bad teeth pulled with pliers with no pain medicine) and to get any object repaired, like damaged pans or clogs; how there were dancing bears and performing monkeys; how one year the merchant who sold linen for women's trousseaus had her linen display trampled "by 300 cows" (might have been an exaggeration) and she hit the cow herder and it started a massive brawl.

My favourite anecdote was how back in the 1800s the local innkeeper was frustrated by the fact that the nearest village is just 10km away, and people who came to the fair often decided to go spend the night there so their journey back the next day would be less long, and so he started to tell them about the beast that lives under the bridge between the two villages. Travellers say horses go mad when they see it and just jump into the water. Some say the beast has dug up corpses from the cemetery because it likes human flesh, though of course it prefers it fresh. I'm now convinced half of local legends were single-handedly created by business savvy innkeepers determined to get more customers than the rival inn 10km away.

I'm sad I only learnt about these visits at the end of summer when they're coming to an end, but I'll definitely follow this woman around again if she returns with more stories next year!

[styllwaters]

KNIGHT ETHNIC GROUPS, ORDERS AND CULTURES: A GUIDE

MAP OF ETTERA (Knight Homeplanet)

Standard map [continents shown]

Regional map [territories shown]

✦ ✦ ✦ ✦ ✦ ✦

I have here a weeks worth of writing and art because I for some reason enjoy torturing myself! I've been slaving away at this for so long but it's finally done and polished. So! As promised, I'm gonna talk a bit about the different Knight cultures/ethnicities, territories and general social structure.

Knights are one of my alien sophont civilisations from my Vivere 44 headworld. Here are more links from my previous posts:

Introductory post

Knight deities

Knight languages and names

With that being said, worldbuilding textwalls below the cut!

____

First, an explanation of the maps.

CONTINENTS

There are three main continents on Ettera. The two polar landmasses are Thannoeh in the northern end and Nahrui in the southern end. Thannoeh is divided by east and west, and is home to the two major Polar Knight nations. Nahrui is not occupied by any, aside from explorers or scientists. For many Knights, it is a strange, enigmatic land and a topic of great curiosity. In the middle is Val-srat; the central continent inhabited by Mountain and Plains Knights. The landmass is named as such because it is often represented in folklore as a Knight, with Valazear (the ‘Host’) being the southern Plains territories and Srati (the ‘Helmet’) being the northern Mountain territories. The Ihmna Stretch is the section of land connecting the two countries - ‘Ihmna’ is the Ferhahti word for the Integrator organ which joins the host and helmet’s consciousness.

Plant life on Ettera takes on hues of red and orange.

____

Before I get into the different ethnicities, I should elaborate more on how Knight Orders are structured and the different titles; some of the clothing articles are specific to status.

SOCIAL STRUCTURE

Most Knights live in groups called ‘Orders’, which I talked more about in this ask.

The standard roles for an Order are as follows:

Commander - Makes decisions, protects and supports the group. Commanders lead the Order across difficult terrain, plan out hunts, and take care of their members. A Commander might be chosen based on generational succession, experience, or strength. Depending on the rules of the Order, a Commander might be challenged by a Knight who desires their position, although only an elite or lieutenant would be permitted to do this. In more traditional and conservative orders Commanders are always Pike-forts.

Lieutenant - Second in command. The Lieutenant is the Commander’s primary advisor and runs the Order when they are unable to. A Commander may train their lieutenant to one day take their place as leader, or a lieutenant might serve multiple generations of Commanders without ever challenging them.

Elites - A selection of Knight soldiers who are exceptionally experienced, strong and fast. Highly respected by the rest of the Order and carry out important duties such as organisation. They have the highest chance of being the next lieutenant or Commander. 

Soldiers - The main body of the Order, fully grown Knights who are proficient in all the skills necessary for survival. Soldiers are tasked with a variety of jobs to keep the Order healthy and running: they are also farmers, medics, entertainers, strategists, builders, etc. 

Scouts - Scouts are Knights who make reconnaissance trips for the Order. Their job is to gather information about a potential area to settle or travel through. Scouts also have a range of other responsibilities, such as acting as lookouts, messengers, and taking care of Pages.

There are two types of Scouts - temporary and permanent. Temporary scouts are Squires (16-17 years) who have completed their training and are performing Expeditions, which they are required to do before becoming a full soldier. On Expeditions two or three Scouts will travel a certain distance away from the Order, sometimes miles away, to deliver goods to other Orders or to simply evaluate an area/route. Permanent scouts are lower-ranked Knights who are unable to become Soldiers, prefer a caretaker role, or have been relegated to the position.

Squires - Knights in training. Squires learn from a Soldier assigned to teach them. They may be tutored one-on-one, or taught in a group. They learn the ways of the Order and the world around them. Squires will often be assigned small hunting trips with their tutor, or cleaning jobs. Typically aged 7-15 years.

Pages - The youth of the Order, Knights aged 0-6 years. The pages are fiercely protected by every member of the Order. A newborn Helmet or Host will stay with their birth parent/s until they have assimilated, in which care duty is passed on to a permanent Scout. The Scout raises the Pages alongside several others until they are ready to become Squires.

This structure originated from Mountain Orders and spread to Plains and Polar regions a long time ago. Of course, not every Order follows this plan exactly, and there are countless variations. Some Knights don't live in Orders at all, and may live in pairs (which is common for travelling merchants and explorers) or small groups. Very rarely, a Knight may travel alone. This is the case for exiles.

____

You may already be familiar with the Mountain, Plains and Polar Knight regional varieties, but within these subspecies are various ethnic groups.

THE ETHNICITIES

✦ MOUNTAIN ✦

✦ Ferhahti [Ferhaht]

The Ferhahti Knights are an ethnic group located in the Ferhaht territory of Srati. Their thick fur is of various shades of grey and grey-blue. Their clothing styles are typically beige and tan, often complete with rectangular tassels and red accents. The Ferhahti have a ‘New Years’ festival called Khulaam in which they call upon Etteran spirits to bless them with good harvests, hunting and rain. During these festivals there is music, food, dancing and socialising with others. Allied Orders, usually 2-5, will come together to celebrate. Celebrations last five days. Alliances may be temporary or long-lasting, but the Orders will go on a hunt on the final day to bring down a large quarry. Oftentimes there will be a ‘Herald’ dancer who bears a flag on their horn, depicting glyphs of good fortune. 

Since the Ferhahti and Kaata territories are neighbouring, and have no physical borders, Orders from both lands will often meet to trade goods and information. Many Plains-Mountain hybrids are of Ferhahti and Kaata descent due to the close proximity of the nations. 

NOTE: Plains and Mountain Knights are capable of producing hybrid offspring, although they will be infertile. Neither Plains nor Mountain Knights can produce viable hybrids with Polar Knights.

✦ Fejga [Fejg]

Fejga Knights (pronounced Fej-ya) make their home in the Fejg archipelago. They are generally of a bulkier physique than other Mountain Knights, have a coat of thick fur and are well adjusted to chillier climates. They also sport a ‘saddle’ marking on their backs and are likely to have mottled/freckled patterns and blue eyes. Their Orders are partially seafaring, with many sailing from island to island in magnificent ships. Fishing is a large part of their lifestyles as the sea provides a stable source of food. 

Their clothes are frequently made from leather and wool from domesticated animals. It is deceptively thin, as their pelts already provide natural insulation from the cold. Fejga Commanders wear three silver piercings on their Helmets.

✦ Svunacht [Svun]

Svunacht Knights live within the mountain-bordered territory of Svun and the island of Naahek. Orders have a special ceremony for choosing their Commander. The next in line, usually a chosen Host and Helmet born of the previous Commander and their partner, must journey across the Asall mountain range which borders Svun. It is a treacherous, long passage, and requires the Knight to wear a mask to block out the searing winds. They must also wear a spiked collar as a traditional accessory and safety measure to deter larger predators which roam the mountains. They are forbidden from carrying firearms, only armed with a knife, their wits, and natural defences. Ceremonial garments are required, passed down through generations, and three slips of fabric are worn on their horn for good luck: representing strength, wisdom and tenacity. The journey, called the Meha, is the final step in a long series of rigorous training for future successors. 

The painting of Helmets is also a large part of Svunacht culture. It is typically only reserved for Commanders, Lieutenants or Elites. 

★ PLAINS ★

★ Kaata [Kaat]

Kaata Knight Orders inhabit the deserts of Kaat. They are perfectly suited to desert life, their tan coats reducing heat absorbed from the sun. Kaata Knights make their clothing from woven fibres of plants that are garnished with gold pigments derived from a natural mineral found in the sands. They are especially known for their proficiency in fine crafts, and often trade jewellery to Ferhahti Orders across the Ihmna Stretch connecting Kaat and Ferhaht. Kaata clothing tends to be highly detailed and ornamental, with shiny beads adorning arm cuffs, necklaces, mandible rings and horn sleeves. The many gemstone and fossil deposits in Kaat are also incorporated into their styles. Like the Svunacht Knights, Kaata also paint their Helmets, although the practice is not restricted to any particular titles.

★ Saisala [Saisal]

Saisala Knights live in and around the deltas and rivers of Saisal, the southernmost territory of Val-srat. The area is filled with marshlands and everglades, and the weather is more wet and humid than the dry plains of Kaat. Saisala forts sport a dark reddish mane that grows right down their backs and bears some resemblance to maned wolves. Their pikes have hooked horns and sloping spines, as well as more ‘splotchy’ red stripes. Their Helmet eyes also have a pale ring around their pupils.

Saisala clothing styles are characterised by draping, ovular shapes and translucent sections of fabric. The green and gold drapes in the drawing are traditional wedding garments, complete with rounded tassels and a horn extension for pikes. The hanging ‘coins’ have engravings which tell a short but sweet poem.

★ Yaemioui [Yaemiou]

Yaemioui Orders live in a similar environment to Saisala Knights, in the wetland territories of Yaemiou. Their coats are pale like Kaata, but come in a greater combination of hues such as orange, grey and vermilion. Fun fact: all Plains Host pups are born with faint spots to help them camouflage, like lion cubs. Most lose these markings as they grow older, but Yaemioui hosts retain them even in adulthood. Their patterns are similar to painted dogs. The Yaemioui have a rich storytelling culture and have records dating back thousands of years.

Their clothing styles utilise dusky, non-bright colours that are usually two-piece. The outfit in the picture is worn by an elder Pike-fort who has carried and sired many offspring. The spine extensions are an indicator of age and experience, and a mark of high respect. The scarf around their neck depicts circles symbolising their Helmet children, and the circles on the larger cloth represent their Host progeny. 

★ Balkzaiinu [Balkzaii]

On the island of Balkzaii reside the Balkzaiinu Knights, who have dark stripes on both their Hosts and Helmets and short curly fur. Unlike other Orders, Balkzaiinu communities rarely ever hunt - they were one of the first countries to develop farming and agriculture, and import a lot of domesticated animals to Saisal and Yaemiou. They are also the only country that has no Commanders in their Orders, and decisions are made by a council of higher-ups. They live in a tropical climate which receives lots of rainfall and cyclones. They are also masters in boat making and sailing, and contacted the mainland several centuries ago. Balkzaiinu have different decency standards than other Plains Knights, and in their culture it is considered proper to cover the neck area. Their clothing is generally layered and contains colourful, square designs.

✧ POLAR ✧

✧ Aikka [Ehtte Thannoeh]

Aikka Knights have domain over the Eastern section of Thannoeh. The polar word for East is Ehtte, and West Uesse. Since the country is so close to the Fegj archipelago, the two have been in contact for a long time.

Aikka have pristine white fur and a slightly bluish tinge to their Helmets. As with all Polar Knights, they are much smaller than their Plains or Mountain relatives, but are incredibly tough and hardy as a result of surviving in one of the harshest biomes. Ehtte Thannoeh is associated with scientific prowess, discovery and knowledge, and many famous Knight explorers are from Thannoeh. There are several research stations on Nahrui that are run and managed by Aikka; they have no difficulty working in the icy environment. Aikka Knights are also experts in carving, sculpting figurines and charms from the ivory tusks of marine animals. The outfit depicted in the drawing shows an Aikka Scout wearing a pendant with a carved basilosaurus-like animal for spiritual protection. These pendants are often given by parents to children. Their coat has six pockets for navigational instruments, goggles, knives, a spyglass, medical equipment and more. 

✧ Myet [Uesse Thannoeh]

Myet Orders have less contact with other regions than Aikka. Residing in Uesse Thannoeh, Many of them live further inland. Myet Hosts have a more yellowish tinge to their fur and their Pike Helmets have a tan stripe. The Helmets also have a more rounded 'snout'. They have managed to domesticate a large predator which defends their camps and is used as a mount/companion. Like the Balkzaiinu, Myet Orders have a different structure than most, having two Commanders, usually a mated pair, and no lieutenants or elites.

Myet clothing is more minimal than Aikka styles. They usually cover the back with a ‘saddle’ and manipulators with gloves. The outfit drawn is of a Commander, distinguished by the ring of fabric around their horn and eye makeup. In their backpack they carry hunting weapons, and wear a knife sheathed at their side.

_________________

And that's a wrap! Thank you for reading, this project is truly a delight to work on. I leave you with some messy concept art I did a while ago for Mountain Knight clothing styles.

[qqueenofhades]

top ten non-fiction (general) books and top ten history books?

Naturally, whenever I volunteer to talk about books, I completely forget everything I have ever read, but we'll try to overcome this. Since it is impossible for me to pick them from all-time, I'll do this list from what I have recently read and enjoyed, including both nonfiction and history specifically since most of these fit that bill somehow:

Society of the Snow by Pablo Vierci. Just finished this last night, and it's the source material for the Netflix film of the same name, of the 1972 plane crash of an Uruguayan rugby team in the Andes and their incredible survival odyssey. If you've seen the film, you know how harrowing and also incredibly moving it is.

Pretty much anything by David Grann, including The Wager, Killers of the Flower Moon, Lost City of Z, etc. The Wager is his newest one, though people may have heard of Killers of the Flower Moon, but they're all good. He's up there with Erik Larson as one of my favorite writers of utterly gripping and novelistic nonfiction.

Speaking of Erik Larson: pretty much anything by, including Dead Wake, The Splendid and the Vile, In the Garden of Beasts, etc. Most people will have heard of and/or read Devil in the White City, but his other stuff is equally good. His newest, The Demon of Unrest, is a bit slower than some of the others IMHO, but it's also about the beginning of the Civil War and the crisis at Fort Sumter and is important reading in our current perilous moment.

Challenger: A True Story of Heroism and Disaster on the Edge of Space by Adam Higginbotham. A forensic and incredibly detailed history of the Challenger space shuttle disaster in 1986.

A Travel Guide to the Middle Ages, by Anthony Bale. This is an entertaining and readable introduction to mobility in the Middle Ages: who traveled, where they went, what they thought, and how they reacted and wrote about the other cultures they encountered, from both east and west. Definitely a good entry point for the layman who has heard the "medieval people never traveled/went anywhere" stereotype and knows it's wrong, but wants to know more HOW.

Into the Silence: Mallory, the Great War, and the Conquest of Everest by Wade Davis. Another incredibly detailed doorstopper history book that reads like a novel, exploring 19th-century British imperialism in Asia, the race to climb Mount Everest, the Great War, and more.

Emperor of Rome and SPQR by Mary Beard. These are both incredibly accessible starting points for studying Rome, written by a renowned classicist with a knack for making her historical material and concepts easy to understand and entertaining. Don't be put off by the length of either of these, as they read easily.

The Wide Wide Sea and The Kingdom of Ice by Hampton Sides. The former is his newest book, about the last voyage of Captain Cook, and the latter is my favorite of his other books, about the 19th-century USS Jeannette polar expedition. He is a writer of incredible skill, thoughtfulness, and detail in handling subjects of empire, exploration, colonialism, maritime history, and adventure.

Empire of Pain: The Secret History of the Sackler Dynasty, by Patrick Raddon O'Keefe. A compelling, disturbing, mesmerizing, and infuriating account of the Sackler family, the creation of OxyContin, and the opioid epidemic in America.

Master Slave Husband Wife, by Ilyon Woo. Now, this one is a bit cheating since I haven't actually read it yet (it's on hold at the library), but it's won the Pulitzer Prize for history so I'm fairly sure it's going to be good. It's about 19th century slaves-turned-abolitionists William and Ellen Craft and their race- and gender-bending journey to freedom and anti-slavery activism.

[queenshelby]

Forbidden Desire (Part Nine)

Pairing: Thomas Shelby x Reader (Female/Incestuous)

Warnings: Incest (at this stage accidental), Age Gap, PTSD, Domestic Abuse, Self-Harm, Fluff, Smut

Nervously, you took Tommy’s hand and followed him upstairs which is where his bedroom was located.

The large bed in which he slept night and night out was beautifully appointed in the middle of the room and beneath the large window facing east.

The window was open, allowing some fresh air to flow through into the house but Tommy decided to close it before pulling you in for another kiss.

“Fuck, you are beautiful’ Tommy then said after his lips pulled away from yours and as he gazed over your body with his deep blue eyes. You were nervous as you stood in front of him entirely vulnerable, but you refused to let your nervousness control you this time.

“If you say so” you gasped while, all so gently, Tommy untied the bow that was holding together your satin dress, resulting in it to drop to the bottom of the floor.

After the dress landed on the floor and Tommy had the chance to stare at your naked body and his hands travelled back up your sides, grazing your breasts lightly before they reached your neck. Cupping your face with both hands, he brought you in for another kiss.

‘You are so fucking perfect’ he then said, making you blush d and Tommy noticed that, perhaps, you felt a little shy with all the attention.

“Come on Love” he thus said before guiding you onto the bed and, as he guided you onto the bed, he fluffed the pillows around you so that you were cradled in a nest of clouds and, only when he was satisfied that you were comfortable, he began to undress.

You watched him with hungry eyes until, eventually, he joined you on the bed which is when, again, he kissed you, and again you felt your limbs go weak as your mind went dizzy.

As he was hovering over you, kissing you passionately, you started to caress every part of his body that you could reach.

Your hands shook nervously and you were unsure about what to do, but you tried your best to appear somewhat confident.

‘Do you want to stop?’ he asked as he could feel you shaking lightly, but you shook your head.

‘No! I want more!’ you told him with as much confidence as you could muster but Tommy could not be fooled. He could sense that you were nervous and, with that, he whispered into your ear.

‘Okay, then just relax and let me take care of you, eh’ he said reassuringly before his lips pressed against yours and then they pressed to your chin, a gentle caress before moving on to your neck. His hair fell to the side of his face, tickling your skin as he feathered his way to your collarbone, his lips worshiping each patch of skin they pressed against. The tip of his tongue traced paths from freckle to freckle, leaving a trail of goosebumps behind as he mapped out your skin.

‘Oh god Tommy. This feels so nice’ you whimpered as his fingertips brushed against your breast, prodding lightly as he held one in his hand. The kisses journeyed on, marking your chest and the tops of your breasts until his face was nestled in your cleavage. Again, his tongue darted out, finding an especially sensitive spot between your breasts that made me tremble beneath him.

The mix of anticipation and apprehension was intoxicating. You wanted to lose yourself under Tommy’s body, revelling in the feel of his lips against you, but the fear and excitement of what was to come clouded your mind. You told yourself to relax, to enjoy what was happening, to embrace the new sensations and the way electricity seemed to spark at Tommy’s lips and travel through your body. But your mind kept playing tricks on you and your nervousness took over.

Tommy glanced up at you, aware of the tension running through you.

‘Tell me what you are thinking Love’ Tommy thus said gently and you bit your lip, not wanting to admit that you were out of your comfort zone.

‘I am just a little nervous’ you whispered in between soft moans.

‘Do you want me to stop?’ Tommy then asked but you shook your head.

‘No’ you said as you finally closed your eyes and let your sensations take over your mind and, with that, Tommy trailed kisses over your breasts again, alternating between both of them.

‘That feels so nice’ you told him and, just as you were spurring him on with your soft moans, he sucked one of your nipples into his mouth gently and then flicked it with his tongue.

“Oh god” you gasped as a jolt of that captivating electricity shot to your core and you moaned quietly as the hot wetness of his mouth moved against you.

You had not expected it to feel so good and Tommy spent quite a while there. Your enjoyment of what his mouth was doing was obvious to him and it was not until you squirmed beneath him, with your pussy so wet you could hardly stand it, that he tore his heated attention away from your nipples and began kissing the underside of your breast.

He kissed your ribs, his tongue resuming its roaming from freckle to dotted freckle down your stomach. Both hands gripped your sides as he nuzzled against your belly button, then lowered to your hips as his lips moved an inch lower. He kissed that spot, and then an inch lower than that, and again until his lips reached the top of your mound.

You watched, your lips parting in astonishment as his head moved between your legs.

‘Do you want me to kiss you right here?’ Tommy then asked quietly as he gently brushed his fingers over your naked sex, causing you to inhale sharply.

“With your mouth?” you asked surprised and in a foolish kind of manner while holding back your moans and Tommy simply smirked again.

“Yes, with my mouth Love. I want to use my tongue to make you cum” Tommy then explained before waiting for your approval and you were somewhat surprised by his request.

“Uhm, do people usually do this?” you stammered incoherently and Tommy nodded and chuckled all at the same time.

“Some do” Tommy confirmed while toying with your pussy, causing you to moan loudly again before, finally, you agreed to what Tommy had suggested and, with that, he started descending towards his destination.

Just as your naked mound came into view, Tommy let out a groan, seeing again how perfect it looked and your breathing came out in rapid gasps, as Tommy put a finger close to your opening and began to move it up and down. It was almost like he was assessing you, taking in every single curve and fold. You looked so tight and so perfectly sweet.

Then, Tommy’s fingers pulled at your lips gently, parting them, and you felt the cool air of the room against your hot opening for just an instant, before his soft and hot mouth covered your hole with a sudden wet intensity.

“Holy fuck Tommy” you screamed almost instantly while you pulled and squirmed against him, but not to try and get away from him, but rather to adjust to the intensity of your arousal.

“Oh my god. I can’t take it” you moaned as Tommy licked your parting lips, swollen and wet with arousal.

“Yes you can. Just relax” Tommy said in response before he made his way into your slit as far as he could go, getting to taste you and smell your amazing scent.

“Oh god yes” you gasped and screamed with arousal and soon began to explode with pleasure. Your body was extremely hot already and it took Tommy less than five minutes to make you cum. You started pulsating all over. You squirmed, but your body felt weak to Tommy’s tongue. He was controlling you in every way and you shut your mouth to stop your cries of pleasure out of embarrassment for the fact that you were enjoying this, an act you would otherwise consider somewhat dirty and sinful.

But, Tommy could hear you through your closed lips, as the pleasure continued to build and build and, eventually, you could not take it anymore, and screamed out.

“Tommy, oh god! Fuck! Please” you screamed, unsure what you were even pleading for as Tommy started to move his tongue in and out of you faster and then licking your clit as he came out. What was this? Why was he doing this? You arched your back involuntarily; your whole body was reacting to him, at his whim. You could not help but moan; it just felt so incredibly good.

"Please!" you gasped out again as you felt yourself building and building and then, suddenly, your whole body burst into an intense flame of desire and lust. You came so hard that you screamed at the sensation as Tommy licked and sucked you roughly and you knew that he would not relent until you were done.

Eventually, you slowly came down from your high and Tommy lifted himself from you and looked up at your sweating, heaving body. You looked down at him, and the corner of his mouth formed into a small smile. You swallowed hard, overwhelmed by your body's reaction to him. You were exhausted.

"This is not what I had expected” you managed to say through heaving breaths and with a smile and, as soon as those words left your mouth, Tommy’s mouth lifted into a grin. You had never seen him smile like this before, but there it was. A genuine smile.

"But, you seem to have enjoyed it” Tommy then said with a little laugh before he positioned himself on top of you.

“I did. God. It was intense” you heaved before asking him what you tasted like.

“Like honey” was Tommy’s response before bringing his lips to yours and making you taste yourself on him which was something that aroused you all over again.

“I am ready for you to fuck me Tommy. Please!” you then stammered against Tommy’s lips and your heart stuttered as you realized that you could already feel the head of his cock nudging against your virginal flesh.

“You are Love. I can tell” Tommy said and his words made you moan as your body yearned for the completion of the visual that you were already painting in your head. You wanted him inside you and you wanted to feel him moving, splitting you open.

Tommy pulled back, his eyes intent on your face as he shifted your hips and you could feel him at the entrance of your body.

‘I will go slow. But it may hurt since you have never done it before’ Tommy then told you and your eyes went as wide as they could when he nudged against you, his own eyes taking in ever flicker of your expression as he began to press inwards.

‘I know. I am prepared” you confirmed with a low moan, wanting him to finally take you, but Tommy took his time and told you to let him know if and when you wanted him to stop.

“Please Tommy. I want this! Now, just fuck me already” you reassured him and, unbeknownst to you, for Tommy, the thought of being the first man to be inside of you was insanely arousing to say the least.

“Alright Love” he groaned and, whilst the barrier to your body wasn’t thick, he began to feel the resistance as he pushed into you slowly.

“Please” you said again as you could feel it yourself and, with that, Tommy began to push into you a little harder which is when you could feel your hymen tear.

‘Fuck’ Tommy then groaned again in disbelieve as he slipped all the way into you. He never felt anything like it. Not just the way your body gave in beneath him, but also the exquisite tightness of your untouched channel was what made him feel so incredibly aroused.

He was the first to touch you in this way and the first to make you experience these sensations and, at least going by your eyes, you did not appear to be in too much pain.

“Oh god Tommy” you gasped as you writhed beneath him, your legs parting and coming together as your body tried to decipher how best to deal with its new circumstances.

‘I feel so full’ you moaned and he was not even moving inside of you yet.

‘Are you alright, Love?” Tommy asked, caressing your body as he slowly settled his length into the clasp of your heat. It was the slickest, most velvety glove imaginable and it took all of his willpower not to rut inside of you. Of course, he could if he wanted to, but he wanted you to enjoy every moment of your union.

“Yes. It did only hurt for a moment. I am good now I think” you reassured him, causing Tommy to smile.

“Good. I will just let you get used to it for now, eh? We’ve got all day” Tommy then said and you nodded with a smile. Tommy cared for your pleasure and thus held himself immobile inside of you as he kissed you passionately for the first time since entering you.

“Oh god…” you moaned against his lips almost involuntarily as you kissed before looping your arms around his neck so that he could caress you, which also when he began rocking ever so gently with his hips so that his groin would press against your clit.

He could feel your inner muscles tighten and loosen as your sheath slowly accustomed itself to its new dimensions, accommodating the length and girth of his cock. When you began to rock back against him, your arms tightening around his neck, then he knew you were ready.

Clasping your hips, he began to withdraw, carefully and gently, before slowly sinking back inside of you.

You were beside yourself with all the overwhelming sensations. Although the sore ache of your muscles stretching to allow Tommy to invade your body had somewhat lessened your arousal, he was well on his way to building it back up again. You could not believe how incredible it felt to have him moving inside of you, to feel him so deeply in your belly that with each gentle thrust you were sure he was deeper inside of you than anything was supposed to go.

Your whimpers were hushed by his lips as his tongue delved into your mouth, and you kissed him back. Your body responded to him greedily, wanting him harder, faster, deeper. Your body was beginning to ache, deep inside where you had never felt such a need before, and his thrusting cock was pushing that ache higher and higher.

Moving against him, purely by instinct, you could feel him begin to loosen some of that iron self-control he had been using with you. He groaned into your mouth, plundering you with his kiss as his pumping hips began to move faster.

He hooked his arms under your legs, pulling them upwards so that you were almost bent in half and every thrust had his body pressing hard against your clit. Now every thrust felt so deep inside of you that you had the wild thought you could actually feel him in your throat.

‘Oh my god…I am…I feel…” you barely managed to say as you screamed, hanging onto his neck, as the most intense orgasm of your life slammed into your like a freight train.

‘Let go for me Love” Tommy chuckled in response. He wanted you to cum. It was a hot bliss, ravaged ecstasy, blinding fireworks. You could feel your insides squeezing him, rippling around him in convulsions that you couldn’t control and didn’t want to. Every hard thrust had your climbing higher and higher on a wave of pleasure that seemed unending until it hit you like freight train.

“Oh my god Tommy. Fuck!” you screamed as you reached the peak and, when Tommy bellowed out his own climax and thrust hard, you could actually feel him throbbing inside of you, feel the pulse of his cock against your tight tunnel as you began to milk the jets of cum from him. You were pressed so tightly together and you were cradled in his arms. He surrounded you, inside and out, and you had never felt so alive, so feminine.

‘You feel incredible Love. So tight. Fucking perfect” Tommy’s voice was husky as his weight came fully down on top of you, pressing you further into the bed. You snuggled your face into his chest as you felt yourself contract around him in quivering little shudders of post orgasmic bliss.

‘Don't move, please’ you said, your face still flushed with your excitement. You stroked Tommy’s hair lovingly. ‘I like the way you feel inside me...’ you then told him and he smiled.

‘If it was for me, I would stay here like this forever’ Tommy said softly, enjoying the little ebbing rippled from your tight walls against his length. He smiled and kissed your lips softly.

‘I think that…uhm…I…” you then stammered with a look of wonder crossing your face. You never expected your first time to be so good and pleasurable.

‘What is it Love?’ Tommy questioned with little concern while slowly, but surely, withdrawing from you.

“I may be in love with you’ you said while sighing with disappointment when you began to feel so empty all so suddenly.

“That’s good” Tommy responded almost immediately, smirking.

“How so?” you wondered while closing your legs slightly and feeling how your combined essence escaped your somewhat sore passage.

“Because I think that I may be in love with you too” Tommy then said before kissing you once more.

To be continued…

Please comment and engage. I love getting comments and predictions pretty please!

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[missriyochuchi]

Race to Capture the Flagbearer

Summary: On the eve of the start of the athletics events, the Torchbearer and the Flagbearer race to the Stade de France, betting that whoever enters the stadium first with the Flagbearer’s cape gets to chose the method of blessing the track.

Word count: 3.2k

Warnings: Established relationship. Sexual tension. Kissing. Very lame sexual innuendo I’m very sorry lolol

Notes: In honor of the start of the track and field events, my favorite because I used to run track, I give you this hot mess! This one really got away from me. Full disclosure: I have never been to Paris. GoogleMaps and Google Images were absolutely indispensable!

Once again, I strongly recommend reading The Torchbearer and the Flagbearer first, but if not, only a few details carry over: the two exist only during the Olympics, so they die and are reborn every two years; interaction with humans is strictly limited; and the Flagbearer’s horse is named Zeus. I use gendered pronouns only to distinguish between the two; otherwise, their physical descriptions are not gendered.

Read on AO3

Beyond the city center, just north of the historic hilltop of Montmartre, Paris slumbers as though it were any other balmy summer night. A few stores and restaurants remain open, hosting those too restless to neglect the City of Lights. The low murmur of conversations warms the air beneath the amber glow of streetlights and the verdant canopies of deciduous trees. On the Avenue de Saint-Ouen, the soft, unmistakable clops of a horse turn the heads of those shocked to a standstill on the sidewalk.

The Flagbearer sways in her saddle as she guides Zeus down the northbound lane at a leisurely clip. The few cars caught behind them pass when able, unhurried by the late-night hour. Whispered surprise and pointing fingers follow in their wake. She turns and nods to the few aiming cameras and smartphones in their direction. Several meters behind on the northwest corner of the Boulevards des Maréchaux, two tourists watch the hooded figure continue on her journey.

“Where’s the other one?”

“Other one?”

“They’re always together at night.”

“What are you talking about?”

From behind them, a woman points up and shouts, “Là-bas!”

Heads tilt towards the rooftops. On the east side of the avenue, beyond the cover of the streetlights’ shine, onlookers catch the faint, bright material of the Torchbearer’s hood bobbing from building to building. The gauzy fabric travels quickly, seeming to fly across the uneven architecture, unbothered by safety or gravity. 

Sounds of the spectators acknowledging the Torchbearer’s trajectory build to a wave that rolls down the road and crashes on the Flagbearer’s cape. Her hood turns around, the shadow beneath facing the line of buildings to her right. She whips forward and digs her heels into the horse’s sides. In a flash, the rider and her mount take off on a gallop, and the telltale signs of the nimble nightwalker disappear from the rooftops’ edge.

“What happened?” A fourth bystander, looking as confused as the first two, joins the three on the corner.

“Elle l'a vu.” The woman smiles and, with her fore- and middle fingers, gestures from her eyes to the rooftops to the north end of the street.

“Oh, uh, pardonnez-moi,” one of the two tourists attempts haltingly, “je ne parle pas français.”

“Dude, you don’t need to know French to know what this,” his companion mimics the woman’s gestures, “means. She said—”

“‘She saw him’ is what she said,” clarifies the fourth bystander.

“He’s chasing her?”

“Ils font la course.”

“I— Where’s my dictionary? Sorry, could you, uh— répétez, s'il vous plaît?”

“‘They’re racing.’ Dude, I’m going to strangle you.”

“What? But he can’t win. She’s on a horse!”

The woman and the fourth bystander share a laugh as they continue down the road. “Depends on where the finish line is!”

No announcements had been made declaring the particulars of this after-hours contest, but the more observant tourists and Parisians who had witnessed the two hooded figures about town before could more or less divine where they were headed. The Stade de France marked the end of their race, the venue housing the track for which their relay was honoring. No one, however, not even those with firsthand experience of past Olympic Games, could guess the particulars of their side bet.

“The athletics events begin in a few hours,” the Torchbearer had said to the Flagbearer, 90 minutes earlier, as they crossed the esplanade of the Palais de Chaillot in the direction of the Seine.

She hummed and smiled, gazing at the ground and matching his stride, her hands folded behind her back. “One of your favorites,” she said fondly.

From the top of the steps leading to the Jardins du Trocadéro, the Olympic Torch was still visible in the sky. Small groups of tourists flitted about the site, aiming all kinds of photographic equipment between the Olympic Flag flying above the Place du Trocadéro to the Eiffel Tower glittering above it all.

“The stadium is about 10 kilometers away,” the Torchbearer continued, pointing in a general northeasterly direction.

“I am aware of the distance, ma chère.”

“Shall we go over the rules?”

“Zeus,” the Flagbearer lilted, turning to face her mount, “do you need to be reminded of the rules?”

Following close behind, the horse shook his head. The two Olympic guardians had spent the last few nights inventing details to include the stallion in their quirky tradition. He was forbidden from trotting faster than 12 kilometers per hour, the average speed of a human man running. Only when the Torchbearer was in sight could Zeus gallop to his top speed; once out of sight, the horse would return to an average walk. The Flagbearer had offered to send Zeus ahead to the stadium in an attempt at fairness, but even she knew her armor was a handicap in the Torchbearer’s favor. She needed her steed.

“Perhaps we should lift the ban on mechanical vehicles, just this once,” the Flagbearer offered sheepishly. She felt guilty that for all of the Torchbearer’s physical prowess and show on the rooftops during the Opening Ceremony, he was still no match for one of Earth’s fastest land animals.

“No, my love. I do not believe Zeus gives you an undue advantage. Besides, I have my own ideas for bypassing our usual rule.”

“Oh?” She stopped at the edge of the esplanade and crossed her arms. “Then perhaps I should remind you that a bicycle is a kind of vehicle and therefore forbidden.”

The Torchbearer laughed. “I know better than to repeat my own mistakes. No, I have something even less mechanical in mind.”

“Would you care to share so that I may approve your means of cheating?”

He gasped and recoiled in faux offense, bringing his fingertips to his chest in mock shock. “Darling, how dare you accuse me of such a thing! It is not in our nature to cheat!”

“I know,” she conceded carefully before resuming her command, “but just because the equipment is featured in the Games does not mean it is allowed in our little competition. However, I suppose for tonight, I can allow you to skateboard.”

He chuckled and shook his head. “You still have not guessed correctly. No, I am certain these types of wheels are permissible. No human law has ever classified them as a form of transportation.”

The Flagbearer dropped her arms to her sides and squared her shoulders, straightening her posture. “Now I am intrigued.”

Light cheers and applause bubbled up around them. The two looked up in time to watch the Olympic Torch descend out of sight. Only the Eiffel Tower remained bright in the inky night.

“That is your cue, chérie.” The Torchbearer extended a hand in a show of sportsmanship. “Good luck.”

The Flagbearer accepted the gesture. “Bonne chance à toi, aussi, my dear. If you do reach me, try not to pull too hard. Falling from Zeus’s height would hurt even more in this armor.”

“I shall hold back my strength for your safety, mon amour. Now go.”

The Torchbearer watched his partner mount her steed and quickly gallop back through the esplanade, gaining more spectators with each echoing hoofbeat. When she reached the road, she brought Zeus to rear on his hind legs. Gasps of surprise followed. Once Zeus righted on all four legs, she blew a kiss to the Torchbearer who caught and tucked it into his vest against his chest. With a nod, horse and rider trotted in the direction of the Arc de Triomphe. He waited for the sound of hoofbeats to fade away before running down the steps and across the garden and banking left to try to cut them off through neighboring roads.

What would normally have been a swift, straightforward race from the Place du Trocadéro to the Stade de France turned into an extended excursion into the more hidden side streets of Paris. Previous incarnations of the Olympic guardians allowed them to run unencumbered. The Flagbearer’s armored form, paired with Zeus’s presence, meant that they needed a creative twist to make up for their unique limitations. Eyeing the Flagbearer’s cape one night, the Torchbearer suggested a riff on the rules of Capture the Flag: one flag and one territory instead of the usual two each, her cape standing in for the desired marker and the stadium the sole safe place. Whoever entered the Stade de France first with the Flagbearer’s cape would win. What was once a race became a chase.

For more than 10 kilometers, the Flagbearer evades the more agile Torchbearer. She never hears him coming, his footsteps too light even in the silence of empty streets. She had been halfway through the Parc Manceau, hoping to use its lawns and trees to muffle Zeus’s steps, when she felt a rush of air graze her right leg. Her arm shot behind her and grasped her cape, its tough material caught up in the momentary gust. She sighed in relief just as the scrape of plastic wheels echoed on the pavement. She turned around and watched the Torchbearer come up from a crouched position and straighten up a few inches taller than his usual height.

“Rollerblades!” The Flagbearer was impressed. “Darling, you think of everything.”

He laughed. “They are not as quiet as I need them to be, but at least I have a chance to match Zeus’s trot.”

“It is not your speed that needs improvement.” She threw her cape behind her, taunting him as it fluttered back into place. “Your grip is lacking, my dove.”

With a swift tug of her reins, she brought Zeus to a gallop across the lawn where the Torchbearer’s wheels could not follow. He glided down a path to try to cut them off at the park’s edge, but lost sight of them behind the foliage. He stared at the five-road intersection and quickly picked up Zeus’s hoofbeats echoing down the Rue Georges Berger. Though he couldn’t see the source of the sound, he was sure of its direction. He took off down the Rue de Thann, hoping to catch them at the Boulevard Malesherbes. When he reached the corner, he found Zeus waiting riderless. The Flagbearer would repeat this strategy throughout the night.

With Zeus’s hoofbeats no longer a reliable sign of his partner’s presence, the Torchbearer takes to the rooftops for the higher vantage points. He flies freely — no cars or pedestrians to block his journey, no trees or walls to block his view. Despite the cloak of darkness hiding potentially dangerous nooks on which to trip, his step is sure. He falters only when he reaches the main thoroughfares, several lanes too wide to jump, and is forced to climb back down to the sidewalk. When he swivels around, hands on his hips and unsure of the Flagbearer’s location, a few wide-eyed tourists point him in the right direction. He nods or salutes before sprinting to the nearest building and resuming his flight across the darkened rooftops.

Meanwhile, the Flagbearer continues to use sound to her advantage. When she is not deploying Zeus as a decoy, she also relies on the few onlookers in her wake. Every time the Torchbearer nears, a low swell of claps and gasps announces his proximity, the spectators’ excitement at witnessing the phantom figure reenact his debut performance rippling through the air like a lighthouse beacon on a foggy night. The audible warning allows her enough time to pinpoint his location and break for a darker or wider street. Despite the weight of her armor and the agreed-upon limitations on Zeus’s abilities, she manages to stay ahead and out of reach of the Torchbearer.

Eventually, after breathless hours of looking over her shoulder, the Flagbearer comes into sight of the Stade de France. She is relieved but restless. It had taken longer to reach the stadium than she’d anticipated, and her daytime duties began to slip into the forefront of her mind. She senses dawn just below the horizon, hiding for another hour before warming Paris once more. She felt the urgency of concluding their game.

With no sign of the Torchbearer, the Flagbearer dismounts and walks the remaining distance to the parking lot surrounding the stadium. Zeus’s hoofbeats punctuate the whoosh of the few cars passing on the highway. They are 100 meters from a western gate when she hears the familiar roll of plastic wheels fast approaching behind her.

Without turning around, she smacks Zeus’s rump and grabs the horn of her saddle. She lifts herself high enough to put a foot in the stirrup as the stallion gallops towards the gate. She clings to her steed’s side, pushing sore muscles to their breaking point as her cape whips and drags in the wind. She pulls herself up and over to straddle the saddle and grasps for enough stability to turn her head around. She sees no hooded figure. 

Only when Zeus stops abruptly in front of a gate does she see the Torchbearer. He had rolled to a stop a few meters from her position, holding her cape aloft in his right hand and waving low with his left. The Flagbearer quickly dismounts and points for Zeus to step away from the gate.

“Looks like I won, my sweet,” the Torchbearer taunts across the distance. 

“Not yet, darling.” The Flagbearer advances slowly, cracking her neck and loosening her shoulders for what she assumes could turn into a wrestling match. “You have not entered the stadium proper. This parking lot is open space.” 

His right hand drops to his hip, her cape billowing in the breeze. “You cannot outrun me in your armor.”

“Then play fair, ma chère. You know your agility is hampered by those tiny wheels.”

He lets out an amused huff before agreeing to her concession. He kneels on her cape, alternating knees so as not to lose it to the wind, and takes off the rollerblades. From behind his jacket, he produces and quickly puts on his shoes, readjusting his leg gaiters over the treads. All the while, the Flagbearer maintains her distance.

“A lesser opponent would have rushed me by now,” the Torchbearer observes as he stands up.

“A lesser opponent would have conceded defeat,” she counters as she steps forward.

He strides to the side, and she mirrors his move. “How do you imagine this will end, my dear?” 

“With you pinning my cape back on me and blessing the track my way.”

“Darling, I would gladly pin you any day, but do tell what you had in mind if you do indeed win.”

The Flagbearer shakes her head as she takes another step closer. “As much as I enjoy your sense of humor, I would not deign to give you ideas before my victory is secured.”

“A wise move perhaps, but in truth, you read my mind.” The Torchbearer jumps several steps to the right, the entrance briefly in view, before she blocks him. “I can tell you with the utmost certainty that when I win, I shall pin you on the track.”

He is close enough to spy a smirk on her lips. She giggles and says, “And you call me insatiable.”

“My hunger burns eternal for you, my angel sweet.”

She comes up to her full height and points a finger in his direction. “You are distracting me.”

“An effective strategy, I would say. I have lured you away from the entrance.”

“By closing the distance between us.” The Flagbearer reaches out and jabs the Torchbearer’s shoulder with a firm finger. She enters into a slight crouch, palms outstretched, ready to reclaim her cape.

“Well, if we are to dance, mon amour,” he takes her cape in both hands and bunches opposing corners in his fists, “we must step closer.”

He swings the length of the cape over the Flagbearer’s head and around her shoulders, pulling her into his chest. She looks up, grabs the remaining free corners fluttering above their heads, and swings them behind his shoulders. They land in each other’s arms, enveloped by the Olympic Flag.

Hidden beneath the cover of the opaque cape, the Flagbearer removes her gloves, stuffs them into her belt, and brings gentle fingertips to the bottom edge of the Torchbearer’s mask.

“You win, my love. Would you like a taste of your prize?”

She lifts the mesh just enough to expose his mouth. His breath warms her hand as she presses the pad of her thumb across his soft lips. She cradles his jaw in both hands, keeping his mask in place over his nose, as they meet for a fevered kiss.

Only the Flagbearer is privy to the face beneath the Torchbearer’s mask, the covering quickly removed during private moments behind closed doors. No rule existed banning the public exposure of their countenances, but the Olympic guardians thought it best for their appearances to remain as neutral as the intentions behind the performance of their duties. They are as much a symbol of the Games as they are its players, and only with their features hidden can they best represent the best of humanity in all its forms and functions.

From the top of the steps leading to the upper parts of the stadium, the crackle of a security guard’s radio travels through the air and interrupts the lovers. They part lips with heavy sighs, reluctant to meet the world and its inhabitants.

“Change of plans,” the Torchbearer mumbles as he chases the Flagbearer’s chin with his mouth and finds the lower edge of her cuirass with his hands. “This audience will not do.”

She giggles and runs her hands down his chest, searching for the warmth beneath his many layers. “Our race took too long. If only we had reached the stadium sooner,” she sighs as he traces her jaw with the tip of his tongue and latches his lips just below her ear, “when it was less populated.” She pulls him closer, reaching for the backs of his neck and waist.

“A simple walk must suffice.” He pulls away, lowering the Flagbearer’s hands by her wrists. “I have had enough racing for tonight.”

“Have I worn you down?” She tugs on the Torchbearer’s lapels.

He laughs as he removes her gloves from her belt and glides them over her hands, the wind at his back keeping the cape in place. “I bow to your mastery of stealth and strategy.”

“Well, I learned from the best.” She readjusts his mask under his chin before he flips the cape behind her and secures it under her spaulders. “Be honest, dear, did I tire you too much?”

“I can manage a 400-meter walk.”

“And afterwards?” The Flagbearer nudges her hand into the crook of his arm, pressing her shoulder to his, and starts towards the stadium.

“I have enough strength for my duties. You need not worry.”

“I know. I had hoped for my own blessing before sunrise.”

The Torchbearer laughs to the sky before swinging his arm around her waist and opening his side to her embrace. “Darling, you truly are insatiable.”

“I merely wish for you to claim your prize.”

“The walk around the track—”

“Is still part of our duties. Your prize for catching me is far more enjoyable.”

He stops to hold her hands and run a finger along her jawline. “Then let us race properly, quickly around the track, so I may claim you.”

The Flagbearer giggles and starts down a tunnel leading into the belly of the stadium, the weight of her boots and the drag of her cape slowing her sprint. The Torchbearer captures her quickly.

Translations: Là-bas! - Over there! pardonnez-moi, je ne parle pas français - forgive me, I don't speak French répétez, s'il vous plaît - repeat, please Bonne chance à toi, aussi - Good luck to you, too

[heich0e]

begin - nicholas wolfwood/f!reader (trigun) prequel to the poly!au, bounty hunters!au, wild west-ish, tw BLOOD/INJURIES, reader is patching up a bullet wound so warning for all the expected nastiness that entails, tw mentions of attemped assault (not reader and not in detail), mentions of sex work, gratuitous mentions of nico's stubble

BOUND - poly!au masterlist

You live in a nothing town, in the dead middle of nowhere, called The Bend.

It’s called that because a long time ago—long before your days, or your daddy’s days, or even your granddaddy’s days—there used to be a wide, rushing freshwater river snaking through the valley, and right where the town centre now sits is where it used to turn east to the far-away sea. 

But the river’s dried up now, and it took the green grass with it.

The sea is farther than you could ever hope to travel. 

And the B on the sign that marks the border into your dusty little nothing-nowhere town has rusted off and decayed away with the years, which means the only warning that any misguided traveller has to tell them where they’re heading is an ominous old sign, half-rotted, that reads:

Welcome to The  end.

It’s fitting, you think. An omen to give anyone who wanders within spitting distance of the border a final caution that they have one last chance to turn around. A choice to get out while they still can.

It’s a choice you never had.

You were born and raised in The Bend. Your blood runs thick with the dust that coats the decrepit old town. It’s all you’ve ever known, and all you ever will know; your beginning, your middle, and your miserable, inexorable end.

Because that’s the thing about The Bend: few people ever show up here and those who do aren’t stupid enough to stay. And the unfortunate few that are born from the dusty earth and dried up riverbeds, like you? Well, those ones never leave.

There’s some comfort to be taken from that, you suppose; a kind of stability that comes from monotony. From certain inevitability. Every day the same, unchanging. A familiarity to the nothingness of your little town, your little house, your little life.

But then, on a night just like any other, something changes.

One night, you meet him.

Nicholas isn’t quite sure how he ended up here, but he isn’t all that surprised either. 

There’s something kind of undeniably fitting about bleeding out in the middle of fucking nowhere, supported on either side by two of the finest prostitutes The Bend has to offer—and flanked by a handful more as the group guides him through the dark, dusty night.

The Bend isn’t the first hellhole town Nicholas has ever stumbled into. His line of work has brought him to more than his fair share of seedy dumps just like this one. Towns like this are the perfect place for someone to hide from the law after all, because not many people would bother to come looking for you in places that might as well not exist. Most bounty hunters don’t even know about this particular town, and they don’t care to learn, especially since half the maps on the market don’t even bother marking its sorry half-existence down.

But Nicholas isn’t like most bounty hunters.

That’s what brought him to The Bend.

There’s a vicious flash of lightning that suddenly forks through the sky overhead, lighting up the dim, depressing town and the dusty valley beyond it as brightly as the midday sun for just a blink. It’s followed almost immediately by a crack of thunder that makes the packed earth under his unsteady feet tremble, and Nicholas knows that means the lightning’s closer than he cares for it to be.

“’s it gonna rain?” he slurs, tearing his eyes away from the sky and looking over to the woman supporting him on his right (or is that his left?)

He wracks his hazy, addled brain as he tries to remember her name. Starts with a V, he’s pretty sure. Victoria? Viola?

She snorts, her ruby rouged lips lifting at one painted corner. “Honey, it’s been almost five months since we’ve seen a drop of rain around here, and even then it was nothin’ to write home about. You just focus on puttin’ one boot in front of the other, and don’t go gettin’ your hopes up.” 

All at once, Nicholas is reminded of the burning pain in his arm; the searing, radiating agony of a bullet nestled deep into flesh. 

Oh. Right.

He got shot.

It’s not the first time he’s suffered a similar wound, nor will it likely be the last if he makes it through the night—God, or whatever all-knowing bastard’s out there, willing. That doesn’t make it any less of a miserable bitch to deal with, though.

How the hell did he get shot, again?

He ponders this question for a moment, reflecting on it through alcohol sodden introspection, and the answer comes back to him in bits and pieces as he keeps aimlessly shuffling along through the night.

The sound of heels clicking overhead at the town saloon—that’s the first thing he remembers. The clacking metronome of Big Annie’s working girls crossing the wooden floorboards of the brothel that operates above the only place in this awful little town to get a half-decent drink.

A drink. 

Yes, it was something bitter and dark—completely nauseating to presently even think about. It burned on the way down, and now it sloshes unpleasantly in his stomach as he walks. The girls had made him down the better part of a bottle after he’d been shot—to help with the pain, they’d said, and he’d been anything but reluctant to heed their advice—and he’d already had fair a few glasses earlier in the evening as he’d occupied his table in the corner of the bar on top of that. Panic had palpably sizzled between the women while they watched the tattered cloth Nicholas held to his arm ink steadily darker with scarlet in the lamplight of the old bar following the shooting—the tension building amongst them like the perspiration beading at his temple. They were bickering about something then.

No, not something.

Someone.

“We gotta take him to see Mama!” 

It was Charity who said that, he recalls—the pretty little thing with full lips and a mane of thick, curly hair that Nicholas had complimented the first time he ever saw her traipsing through the saloon. She can’t be a whole lot older than 20, and her voice is still high and childlike; even more so that particular evening as she stomped her foot petulantly, looking over at him with worry-filled eyes as she made her plea to the other girls watching him bleed out in the musty wooden booth.

“Mama won't want anything to do with this one.”

That was Violetta who’d replied to Charity’s fractious appeal. She’s one of the older girls who works for Big Annie at the brothel. She’s got a sort of seasoned air to her, with a husky rasp in her voice—like the sand that blows through the empty streets in town has roughened it. She’s still undeniably pretty, but she comes across a little tougher than the rest of them. Doing the job she does in a town like this one, Nicholas doesn’t blame her for it.

Violetta’s the one currently supporting his right side, leading him through the night towards the woman who’s supposed to be his saving grace.

Towards Mama.

But who the hell is that?

He’s sure he’s heard the name in passing while he’s been kicking around the town saloon between his work, nursing half-noxious drinks and flirting harmlessly here and there with Big Annie’s working girls—who seem to have taken a liking to lingering around his table between visits from johns. 

Nicholas wasn’t even supposed to be staying in The Bend long, only for a day or two to follow up on a bounty lead he’d caught wind of three towns over—but the lead went cold, and a few days turned into almost a week. Nevertheless, while his stay may have been extended, he just he never thought to ask any more questions about this mysterious matriarch all the working girls seemed to know so well and speak so highly of. But now, as those very same girls are dragging his half-conscious ass to the other side of town in search of this Mama, he wishes that maybe he’d dug a little deeper.

“Mama’s gonna get you all fixed up, handsome,” little Charity appears on Violetta’s other side, her eyes wide enough as she stares at him that they reflect the next flash of lightning as it rips through the dark of night. She looks worried, in spite of her words—even in his present state of drunkenness and blood loss fuelled delirium, he can tell that much. 

They all do. Even the toughest, Violetta—though she seems reluctant to let on as she stands stoically at his side and shoulders his flagging, stumbling weight. 

Charity nods, but it’s a gesture that seems more to reassure herself than anyone else. “Mama always takes care of us; she’ll have you good as new by morning.” 

Ah, so this woman must be a doctor of sorts—or as close to it as a shithole little town like this can offer.

It’s Nicholas’ turn to nod, a bobble of his cotton-filled head the only recognition he can muster to her words, as he just keeps staggering on under their guidance. He’s lucky that The Bend even has some kind of doctor to look after him, even if it’s just some old lady who looks after the saloon girls.

The unlikely group soon arrives at the doorstep of a little house at the edge of town—as slummy and dilapidated as all the rest of them—and Queenie, the girl who’d moments before been supporting Nicholas’s injured left side, raps sharply on the door.

“She’s not gonna answer,” Violetta mutters dourly under her breath, still at Nicholas’ right side.

“She will,” Charity counters with her arms crossed over her chest, punctuating the assertion with an indignant little huff for good measure. “Mama always answers when we come knockin’.”

But Nicholas worries for a moment—a long moment as the door stays firmly shut—that Violetta might just have a point. It’s the middle of the night after all, and this ‘Mama’ could very well be sleeping like any other reasonable person would be at this hour. 

Queenie knocks on the wooden door for a second time, this time with an open palm. This series of raps is a little louder. A little more insistent.

“Mama? It’s us! Open up!” she calls, casting a worried glance over her shoulder at Nicholas—who’s got his entire weight slumped over onto poor Violetta, now.

Nicholas is bleeding out on the front porch, and part of him still almost feels bad for waking up some poor, unsuspecting old—

The door flies open.

“What the hell do you want?”

Oh.

Nicholas knows that his eyes travel up your frame in a way that can only be considered wholly impolite. But he’s not really in his right mind, after all—or at least that’s what he tells himself as he justifies his immodest stare. He starts at the uneven cuffs of your paper-thin trousers, before climbing up, up, up your body to the tight white undershirt your wear—appreciating the way it clings to the curve of your waist and sits snug around your chest, and he particularly admires the pretty little edge of lace that frills around the neckline at your breasts. Finally, his gaze makes it to your face, and you look irritated to say the absolute least on the matter.

He’s not all that sure what he was expecting to find on the other side of the chipped paint of this shabby front door, but he can say with a steady hand to his foolhardy heart that it certainly wasn’t you.

For a moment, Nicholas is convinced they’ve got the wrong house—as improbable as that might be in a town as small as this one. At the very least, he waits for someone else to come to the door—a mother, or grandmother even—because surely you can’t be the one that these women have been calling—

“Mama! You gotta help us,” Queenie exclaims. She’s luckily perceptive enough to stick out her foot once she sees you fully process just what’s waiting for you outside, keeping the door jammed open with her heeled boot as you rush to slam it shut.

“I haven’t gotta do anything,” you counter sharply from around the edge of the door, your face pinching in a blatantly vexed expression at the way the woman is keeping it ajar.

Your eyes flicker over to Nicholas through the gap between the door and its frame, surveying him with a look of disdain that might just have been enough to offend him if he were a little more himself.

“Mama, he got shot!” Charity suddenly bursts into what can only be described as a spectacular display of tears—blubbering noisily between each word as she elbows her way through the group towards your door. She reaches across the threshold and desperately clutches at the front of your shirt with both hands as she pleads to you. “P-please let us in, y-you’re the only one who can h-he-help him.”

“Bertie, what in God’s merciful name is wrong with you?” you sigh aggrievedly, roughly batting her hands away from their grip on your clothes. In the next breath, you wrench open the front door to your home, stepping back to allow your unexpected visitors the space to cross through the doorway. “And cut the waterworks or you’re gonna wake up half The Bend and get us all shot.”

As the girls help Nicholas inside and across the gnarled, warped floorboards of your little house, you slip wordlessly away into another room out of sight. When you return moments later, you’ve pulled on a creased button-down over that pretty little undershirt of yours. 

Nicholas can’t help but notice that you’re dressed practically like a man, especially in comparison to the painted faces and petticoats of the other women in the room. But it strangely suits you, for reasons he can’t quite place.

“He got shot fightin’ some bozo tryin’ to rough up Ada on her way home,” Violetta explains when you look to her with an expression that demands context. She’s the most level-headed of the five woman gathered in your tiny home, so no one can blame you for turning to her first. 

Nicholas feels dizzy, the modest lamp-lit room around him reeling like a child’s toy spinning top gaining speed. 

Did he do that?

He remembers hearing something out back in the alley that runs behind the saloon and the inn when he went out to take a piss late into to the evening, well after it had dropped dark. He was already sufficiently drunk by that point, but there was no mistaking the sound of a woman putting up a fight the moment that he heard it. He followed the racket and found the pair quickly—on instinct more than anything—grabbing the drunken man by the scruff of the neck and hauling him off the poor girl he was trying to force himself on. In the ensuing scuffle, the man pulled a gun that Nicholas wasn’t expecting. With his senses drink-dulled, he didn’t react quickly enough to miss the shot entirely and caught it in his arm—but he’s lucky the guy had such terrible aim to begin with, or the night could have turned out a whole lot worse.

But who’s this Ada? He thought the girl he’d helped’s name was Priscilla—having met her a few times in the saloon. She was always quieter than the rest of them, a little more reserved. She didn’t say much to anyone from what Nicholas had witnessed in his time spent in The Bend. But Ada’s not the first name he’s heard since showing up at your door that’s unfamiliar to him.

“You've got a lot of nerve dragging some no-good, half-cocked brute to my door like this in the middle of the damn night, Sarah Jane,” you hiss through your teeth, your eyes flickering from Violetta over to Nicholas once more.

Violetta snorts, but offers no argument.

“Please, Mama,” Priscilla (or is it Ada? Nicholas can’t keep track anymore) says quietly, though her tone is unmistakably earnest. It’s the first time she’s said anything since the girls came stumbling through your door with the injured man propped between them. First time he remembers her saying anything at all—at least other than when he heard her screaming and chased off the scum that was hassling her.

Your attention suddenly turns to where Priscilla stands just off near the corner of the little room, with Theodosia (another one of Big Annie’s working girls) at her side with a comforting arm looped around her waist. It’s not hard to see the way the woman trembles as she holds her shawl around her shoulders. She’s got a bad scrape across her cheek, and her lip is split—evidence of the ordeal she’d gone through earlier in the evening. Her skin still looks clammy and sallow from the shock. 

Your expression softens as you contemplate her.

“C’mere, Adaline,” you beckon to her, reaching out a hand. “Step into the light and let me take a look at you.”

She approaches you without any reservation, and you carefully inspect her wounds after taking her face gently in your hands. A long, resigned sigh slips from your lips once a moment has passed, having turned her face this way and that to fully scrutinize her condition. You look around at the women gathered in your home, and the man slumping between them, then your head hangs in defeat. Your hand lifts to pinch the bridge of your nose.

“Bertie, go grab my bag from my room. Georgie, fetch some clean water from the basin in the kitchen.”

Charity and Theodosia move briskly once you’ve issued the order—like they don’t want to give you the opportunity to change your mind.

Nicholas finds it a little funny how easily these women yield to you, though most seem to be your seniors—you’re just a scrappy young thing, only a few years into your adulthood if he had to guess. As he watches you, he sees that you carry yourself with a  certain quality that’s beyond your years—every action and word steeped with a sort of weary assuredness that you haven’t even lived long enough to properly earn. 

He watches you move with the grace of a woman, and listens to you speak with the authority of a man—and It could be the blood loss talking, but Nicholas thinks you might just be the most interesting thing he’s stumbled upon in this god-forsaken little town.

“You’re a doctor?”

You freeze, your head snapping in his direction when you finally hear him speak.

Your lip curls and you bare your teeth to him, and Nicholas is suddenly reminded of those city cats that wander the back alleys in Julai, hissing with their hackles raised when you happen across their path.

“Do I look like a doctor to you?” you sneer at him derisively.

For some unplaceable reason, Nicholas almost wants to laugh—the sensation bubbling up in his stomach in the wake of your harsh words.

(Though, that might just be the liquor.)

“Her daddy was a doctor,” Queenie whispers to him quietly as she and Violetta help Nicholas up onto the wooden table at the centre of the room at your instruction, leaning him back until he’s laid flat across it with a grunt. “Only one The Bend’s seen in the last 80 years."

“Prudence, you better shut your damn mouth if you want me to do anything about this mess,” you snap without looking up, busy rifling through the ancient leather medicine bag that Charity just dragged in from the other room.

You tend to Priscilla first, fixing her up with a compress on her cheek and a salve for the cut on her lip. She’s not the most desperate case in the room, but no one tries to turn your attention to the man on the table until you’re good and ready to do so of your own accord—a unanimous, though entirely unspoken, pact of silence lest your precarious agreement to help be withdrawn. Once you’re satisfied that the woman’s been sufficiently looked after, leaving her once more in the dutiful care of Theodosia, you finally turn to Nicholas.

The lamplight is fairly dim, even though you’ve moved it closer to the table to help illuminate your work—and there’s very little oil in the grimy reservoir of the glass lamp to keep it burning.

You approach him slowly.

“You a lefty?” you ask him, plunking yourself down in the wooden chair nearest to his injured left arm.

“Luckily not,” he slurs, his head lolling over to look at you as you sit beside him at the table.

“Luckily?” You huff, and Nicholas thinks that maybe it’s as close to a laugh as someone as mirthless as you ever gets. “You must not’ve heard: luck left The Bend years ago, and it’s not coming back.”

Nicholas really does find himself laughing then in the face of your plain, bur distinctly dour expression—and he immediately winces as a sharp pain shoots through him from the strain of trying to hold it back.

Your eyes survey the sopping, blood-soaked handkerchief he’s holding to his injury, then you lean over towards the medicine bag and begin digging through it again. He watches as you pull out an inhumanely large needle and some thread.

“Clear out, ladies,” you remark flatly to the group of onlookers without glancing up from the contents of the bag before you. “None of you are gonna wanna see this.”

The girls delay momentarily even after you bark out the order, as though worried that once they leave the room your willingness to help may exit with them.

You lift your face in their direction, some gauze and a corked flask of an indistinguishable transparent liquid in hand. Your lips pull down noticeably at the corners when you see the way the women are hesitating. “Go on, then. I’m making this exception for you once, and never again. Get Ada back home safe, and then the rest of you oughta do the same.”

Still, no one seems keen to heed your words.

You and Violetta share a pointed look, and it’s clear your patience—hardly-there to begin with—has worn dangerously thin.

“Alright, whores—clear out!” the older woman says, turning on her heel and corralling Queenie, Charity, Priscilla, and Theodosia towards the door with her arms outstretched. “Unless one of y’all are keen to be the next one who needs stitchin'!”

It takes a moment to get everyone moving—Charity in particular putting up more of a fight than the rest of them—but eventually Violetta succeeds in ushering them out. She casts one final glance back from the doorway, and Nicholas catches the exchange of almost imperceptible nods of thanks between you.

It’s unbearably quiet once they’re gone.

You move swiftly but silently, and set to work without a single word exchanged between you and the man stretched across your table. Without hesitating, you drag a thin blade in two strokes up the front of Nicholas’s bloodstained shirt—one cut along the torso and then another up the sleeve—and then pull off whatever’s in your way. You don’t so much as bat an eye as the tanned skin of his chest and abdomen is suddenly bared; there’s no distinguishable emotion or thought on your face that Nicholas can make out, but he’s also fairly distracted as he bites back the groans of pain that threaten to slip out each time you jostle his injured arm too roughly. 

Next, you begin cleaning the surface of the wound—as best you can given that it’s still unstitched—in preparation to fish out and remove the bullet still stuck inside. That little flask from earlier has some sort of antiseptic in it, which Nicholas discerns by the acrid smell and unbearable burning that rips through him as you let it trickle over the open gouge in his skin. He cries out as it happens, and the sound even takes him by surprise—guttural and completely instinctive.

“Don’t be a baby,” you sniff, dabbing away at the blood and antiseptic around his wound with some clean gauze.

“Sorry,” Nicholas mumbles through his panting breaths, pressing his opposite hand over his mouth in an attempt to keep himself quiet.

Your eyes flicker up to his briefly in the wake of his apology, and your gazes meet. You’re the first to look away after the momentary hold.

Next, you tip the flask into your hands, coating your palms in the stinging, astringent antiseptic. The lamplight catches in the little droplets as you shake them from your fingertips.

“My daddy told me once that doctors have to tell lies to keep their patients calm,” you say quietly, your lips pursing forward as you wrap one cool hand underneath his bicep. “Said that it’s just part of the job.”

You suck in a little breath, meeting his gaze briefly once more.

He can’t help but think your eyes look pretty when the light reflects in them like this. 

“But I’m no doctor—and this is gonna hurt like fresh hell.”

Outside your rickety little house on the edge of this forgotten, nowhere town, another peal of thunder roars.

You don’t often patch up bullet holes.

In fact, you can count on one hand the number of times you’ve tried.

But you’re not a professional, and you’ve never claimed to be; you’re just a doctor’s daughter who used to follow her father on his rounds through town, helping out whenever and wherever it was needed. Unavoidably, you learned some things along the way—like treatments, and time-honoured remedies, and how to sew a stitch so it won’t pucker when it scars—but you’re about as far as anyone could be from trained. You’ve got no education beyond your reading, writing, and basic arithmetic—what little education the school house in town could offer you until you just stopped going altogether—and your experience is limited only to the care you offer to Big Annie’s girls: whether it’s cleaning up the messes left by their particularly nasty customers or treating them as best you can when they fall ill. 

You don’t bother telling any of this to the man bleeding all over your table, though. You doubt it would do him much good.

Daddy used to deal with gunshot wounds all the time. They’re about a dime a dozen in a town like The Bend, after all, where tempers are high and spirits are low—not to mention where the men outnumber the women by about ten-to-one. 

And if there’s one thing you know about men, it’s that they all love slinging guns but less than half of them ought to be allowed to—because it always leads to injuries like this. It’s rarely ever women who walk around town getting themselves shot.

But in spite of all that, and your lack of experience, you watched your father go through the motions frequently enough that the movements come to you now like second nature: disinfect, remove, keep pressure, suture, bandage. You know the order of things, and you find your mind clear and your hands steady as you set to work—starting by cleaning him up as best you can to prepare to extract the bullet. 

You can see the very butt of it in peeking out from inside his ugly wound; a pesky little thing, slick with blood that catches in the light when his arm twitches towards the lamp. It’s not nestled too deep in there, thankfully, and he’ll probably be fine if he lets it heal properly—but it’ll still hurt like a bitch to pull out. 

But that’s his problem, not yours.

Unfortunately, you don’t have a pair of tweezers you trust to pluck the bullet out—at least not a pair that isn’t rusty—so your god-given tools will have to be what you use for the undertaking. You disinfect your hands as best you can before you begin.

“Would you stop squirming?” you mutter under your breath as the man on your table flinches the first time your fingers graze his open wound.

“Sorry,” he mumbles back, and your eyes flicker up to his face again briefly. 

This man keeps apologizing to you. 

It’s unsettling.

His dark eyes are heavy lidded, but you can still sense them tracing along the lines of your face as you work. There’s visible sweat beading at his temple as he lies flat on his back atop the wooden table in the centre of your home, and his bare chest rises and falls with heavy, laboured breaths that shake every so often on the exhale—the lamplight at your side catches in the perspiration glistening there too, near the little smattering of hair that sits at the highest point of his sternum.

This guy—this stranger who’s bleeding all over the table you eat your meals on—really pisses you off.

He’s got an awful lot of nerve to show up here in the middle of the night, looking for your help after he went and got himself shot. A small part of you knows that’s not entirely fair to think, because he got shot helping Adaline and it was the girls who’d brought him to you in the first place, but you still can’t help but be resentful. 

You feel yourself frown.

Your fingertips dip inside the wet heat of his wound for the first time, and he lets out a gasping, wretched groan from deep in the centre of his chest—so loud it almost makes you flinch.

“Don’t pass out,” you warn him flatly, pinning his injured arm more firmly to the table and prodding further in as you try to get a grip on the evasive little bullet with the very tips of your fingers. “You’re dead weight if you’re unconscious, and I’ll drag you outta this house in parts if I have to.”

“Noted,” the dark-haired man says through clenched teeth, his eyes squeezing shut as he attempts to stomach the pain.

You don’t have anything to offer him to dull the sensation—though you’re not sure you’d waste something so precious on him even if you did. After a while, and a bit more poking and prodding, he seems to acclimatize to the agony anyway. 

Or at the very least he gets better at masking it.

“I’m Nicholas, by the way,” he grits out after a while of you unsuccessfully trying to remove the bullet—frequently having to pause and wipe away the blood that’s continued to seep from the wound, slicking you down to your wrist. It stains the cuff of your shirtsleeve now, and you regret ever pulling it on to begin with, because you know it will be a nightmare to pound out in the wash.

“Didn’t ask.”

“I know,”—miraculously, he manages to laugh a bit, even as you’ve got two fingers digging around inside his arm—“just thought I’d tell ya anyway.”

You don’t bother replying, your eyes honed in solely on the task at bloody hand.

“‘M grateful for your help, y’know. Even if it’s just an exception,” the man—Nicholas—slurs next, his head tipping to the side on your kitchen table. You can tell that he’s talking, if nothing else, to distract himself. A lonely bead of sweat drips down his throat as he looks at you. “It’s awfully nice of ya to take pity on a no-good brute like me, Mama.”

You feel a crick of irritation tighten in your jaw then, as he parrots your earlier words back to you. Your fingers, still poking around to retrieve the bullet in his shoulder, twitch—and you aren’t sure the gesture is entirely involuntary. The man on the table before you yelps, flinching away from the pain, and you lean closer with your eyes still fixed on the wound piercing his skin.

“Don’t call me that,” you hiss through the dull scrape of your teeth grinding tightly together.

Nicholas lifts his right hand to his mouth, curled into a fist, and his pearly teeth bite down hard into the flesh at the base of his thumb as he pants through the pain. You finally, mercifully, manage to get a grip on that damned bullet, plucking it out and tossing it into the waiting dish atop the table with a delicate, terribly anticlimactic clink. You swiftly press a pad of clean gauze to the wound to staunch the bleeding while you reach for the stitching needle you left set off to the side.

“Hold this,” you order him, and the man lets his hand slip from the bite of his jaw to do as he’s told while you rifle through the bag at your feet. You can see the marks his teeth left in his skin as he takes the gauze from your hand into his own and begins to apply pressure.

You stand and wash your hands off as best you can in the basin of water Georgie brought in for you earlier, poised at the end of the table. The liquid tints pink as you first dip them in, and then slowly it turns an even darker, uglier colour as you properly scrub his blood from your skin. You shake as much of the water off your hands as you can, and then use the front of your shirt to sop up the rest—faintly rust-tinged handprints left in the cotton.

You take your seat once more, and Nicholas watches you through mostly-closed eyes as you set about sterilizing the needle.

“How come I can’t call you that?” 

You light a candle using the lamp at your side. Then you swish the needle around in antiseptic before running it through the flickering flame until it sparks—careful not to let it lick too close to your fingertips. Your eyes slide over to Nicholas as you pluck it from the fire.

With his face tilted towards you, another little drop of sweat has tracked down his cheek towards his prominent nose, and it glistens against his flushing skin in the warm light of your oil lamp. His eyes are glassy and unfocused, too—from what you don’t doubt is the combination of pain and whatever booze he’s been guzzling to numb it—and lips part on a shuddering exhalation as you survey his face.

“Call me what?” you mutter, averting your eyes and turning again to search through your medicine bag for a clean roll of bandage.

“Ma—” A sudden, harsh glare cuts him off before he even has the chance to say it. He smiles a little, the expression half-delirious, and you can’t help but think that if he weren’t so weakened from the pain that wracks him, he might have even managed another laugh.

You kiss your teeth quietly. “Only the girls call me that.”

The man bleeding out in the middle of your table clearly knows your tone of voice means not to push it, because he doesn’t. Instead, he turns his head until he’s staring up at your dingy ceiling once more, though you can tell from the faraway look in his eyes he’s not seeing much at all. 

“The girls,” Nicholas remarks quietly, speaking more to himself than anything. “You don’t call ‘em by their names.”

That’s right: he’d only know the girls by their working names. You’re surprised he even caught that.

“The hell I don’t,” you mutter, turning back to face him in your seat once more with your last roll of bandage clutched tightly in your hand. You set it down atop the table as you set your supplies up just how you like them. “I call them by the names their mothers gave them.”

Nicholas hums thoughtfully. “Sarah Jane, that’s Violetta?”

You grunt out an affirmative, threading the freshly cleaned needle with nimble, dextrous accuracy. 

“And Charity, her real name’s Bertie?”

“Bertha May,” you correct him, snipping away the excess thread with a little pair of mostly-dull scissors—careful not to take more than you’ll need, but still giving yourself sufficient supply to work with.

“Priscilla’s name’s Adaline,” Nicholas continues, his eyes still tracing the cracks in your ceiling. “And what about Theodosia and Queenie?” 

“Georgina and Prudence,” you supply flatly as you secure a tight knot in the end of the stitching thread.

Nicholas sighs before slurring, “’s a lot to keep track of.”

You snort. “Wait until you find out Big Annie’s real name.”

He looks over at you with wider eyes than you’ve seen on him since he came staggering through your door. He catches the expression on your face and his own softens, clearly sensing that you’d said it only in jest. 

Annie’s just short for Annabelle, after all. Madam’s rarely need to take up new personas—why would they need to be someone they’re not if they aren’t the ones doing the dirty work?

Nicholas watches as you tug on the stitching thread one last time to test its strength—eying the glinting needle warily. You set the threaded implement carefully off to the side once you’re confident it’s ready.

“So you learned all this stuff from your daddy, huh?” he asks you next.

You swallow over the unpleasant lump you suddenly feel in the back of your throat and reach up, nudging his hand away from where he’s holding the gauze to his wound. He’s become a real chatterbox now, and part of you wonders why you’re even tolerating it.

You clean the area with antiseptic again—and Nicholas is just as dramatic as he was the first time as a low moan of pain tears through him. For a moment you worry he really might be on the brink of passing out, the whites of his eyes taking over as they begin to roll back, so you know you need to keep him focused.

“He used to take me with him on his rounds,” you mumble a reply to his earlier question. 

Nicholas’s eyes open a bit wider when he hears your voice, a little more focused now than they had been.

“My daddy, I mean,” your tone is dismissive and flippant, but it seems to be an effective distraction. “I just picked things up here and there while I watched him work.”

“You’re a natural.”

You snort mirthlessly in the wake of his reply. “Don’t know about all that.”

“You just pulled a bullet outta my arm with your bare hands, that’s gotta count for something.” Nicholas hisses as you press the antiseptic-soaked gauze to his wound one last time, then he sucks in a sharp breath. “And the girls trust you a lot, so you must be good at it.”

“Somebody’s gotta take care of them.” 

Lord knows no one else around here does.

You set the scarlet saturated gauze aside in the dish with the discarded bullet, then pick up your needle.

You make neat, even sutures through his skin, and you take your time to do it right. You’ve always been good at this kind of thing, even when you were young. You were born with a keen eye for detailed work like this, and your daddy used to get you to finish up the smaller wounds he was called to treat that needed finer stitching—said your little hands were just better at it than his own big, life-roughened ones. He always used to tell you that you got your steady hands from him, but your nimble fingers from your mother.

Not that you’d know anything about that.

Nicholas has stopped flinching now, a little more relaxed than he’d previously been, and you can’t help but look up at him every so often as you work—wondering if that steady, even rise and fall of his chest means that he’s finally knocked out. Especially since he’s suddenly gone so quiet. 

But each time you check, you find his eyes are still open—though only just barely—and are peering up towards the ceiling. Sometimes you catch him glancing at you too.

Once the wound has been fully closed in a tidy little line of stitches, you wrap the roll of bandages around it with some gauze tucked underneath, just in case.

“You’re all done,” you say quietly, slumping back in your chair once you’re finally finished.

All at once, you feel exhausted—the adrenaline you didn’t even know had been rushing through you disappearing in a blink. It reminds you of how the wind dies in the valley in the wake of a bad storm, like it took the breeze with it. You’re all too conscious of the fact that it’s the middle of the night now, and that you ought to long be asleep.

“Thank you,” Nicholas says as he pushes himself up onto the elbow of his uninjured arm, though he still winces at the movement. You don’t make any attempt to help him.

His shirt is in pieces, and he discards it since it’s of so little use to him now, shaking his right arm to free it from the only sleeve that remains in tact on the garment. You watch as he pushes himself fully upright, throwing his long legs over the side of the table to stand. When he does, he dips slightly—like the sudden movement makes him woozy, and his knees are weak—and his right hand shoots out to balance himself on the edge of the tabletop on instinct. You suppose it’s not unexpected given the amount of blood he lost.

You watch his toned, tanned back as he stretches himself out as much as his injury will allow; observing how his skin pulls taught over the defined musculature that surrounds his spine. He’s littered with scars—a map of wounds that weren’t stitched as neatly as the new one on his upper arm—and part of you can’t help but wonder how he got them all. Can’t help but wonder what stories those marks tell, written in a language you don’t know how to read.

You look away, feeling an inexplicable heat flood rapidly to your cheeks.

You stand and quickly slip off your own overshirt—just some old button-up left behind from your father, though you have no memories of him ever wearing it. You clutch it in your fist and stick it out for him to take.

He eyes it in surprise for a moment before accepting it.

“Those blood stains are yours, anyway. You might as well have it,” you say, eyeing the red mark at the cuff on the right-hand sleeve as the garment passes from your hold into his, “in any case it’s in better shape than the one you came here with.” 

It saves having to clean it, too. So it’s all the same to you.

“I’ll pay you,” he slurs, still unsteady on his feet as he begins rifling awkwardly through his pockets with his only useable hand. He almost tips right over in his haste, but you quickly slip beside him and steady his frame.

“Yeah, you will,” you agree, holding tight to his right arm to keep him standing. “Worry about it tomorrow.”

Nicholas’ bare skin radiates warmth with only your thin, lace-trimmed undershirt left separating you as you stand pressed into his side. He peers down at you curiously, blinking slowly like he’s being called to sleep. From this close, with him standing properly upright for the first time, you realize just how big this man is—tall, with a broad chest and defined muscles, and stubble dusted along his sharp jawline that you hadn’t noticed before. You take a sudden step away to put much needed distance between the two of you, these realizations making something stir in the pit of your stomach that makes you feel squeamish. 

“Do you know your way back to the inn?” you ask him, your arms crossing over your front.

Nicholas bobs his head in a completely unconvincing nod. It’s not like the town is big enough to get lost in in the first place—and he very well might know his way if it were daylight, or he weren’t half delirious—but sending him out into The Bend in his current state would be as much of a death sentence as it would have been to turn him away when he first showed up at your door. 

You sigh in resignation.

“Just sleep on the floor here for tonight. I’ll check your stitches again tomorrow morning before you leave.”

The man looks taken aback, but he nods quickly—as though he doesn’t want to give you time to rescind the unexpected offer.

You fish around in the depths of your father’s old medicine bag, eventually pulling out a bottle of murky liquid as Nicholas gets settled with an old cushion and a threadbare quilt near the unlit hearth of the fireplace. You use the edge of your nail to uncork it, take a quick whiff to make sure it’s the right one, and then tread towards the man on the other side of the room.

He peers up at you from his makeshift bed on the floor, resting with his knees apart and his long legs sprawled out in front of him. You pass the little glass bottle to him, your fingers brushing as it passes from your grip into his. “Drink this, it helps to fight off infection.”

He eyes it warily. The outside of the bottle is suspiciously grimy, and the putrid colour of the liquid inside is no less reassuring. “What is it?”

“Hog Fennel.”

He grimaces, peeking into the opening of the bottle with one eye closed. “Sounds foul.”

You snort. “It is."

Nicholas doesn’t draw it out any longer, tipping the vial back an draining it all in one shot. He winces once he swallows it down, his pink tongue peeking out a little as he pants through the taste—which you’re sure is bitter and disgusting.

“How was it?” you ask him wryly.

“I’ve had worse, honestly,” he says, shooting you a little grin you can’t believe he’s able to manage not only in the wake of such a disgusting concoction but considering what he’s been through that night.

You blink, your brow furrowing, and then eventually nod dismissively before turning and shuffling off towards the other side of the room where the door to your bedroom is found.

“Thank you.” 

Nicholas speaks again as you’re just shy of crossing the threshold into your room, you consider pausing in your shock but then think better of it.

“You already said that,” you reply, your tone annoyed, and shut the door behind you.

You open it again a second later to poke your head back out towards him.

“I’ve got a gun in here, by the way, and I won’t miss. Just in case you were thinking of trying anything funny.”

Across the room, Nicholas is already laying down on his pitiful excuse of a resting place, looking strangely content.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says with a smile, though his eyes stay closed.

Part of you is annoyed at how comfortable he seems. How easily he talks to you. How normal his presence feels in your home.

Another part of you—one that’s deeper, locked away and hidden out of sight in a place where you think you’ve lost they key—isn’t.

You slip back into your room and close the door behind you with a soft click. 

And in the silent stillness of your little bedroom with your shoulder blades pressed back into your bedroom door, you realize that the thunder outside has stopped but you can hear the softest, faintest pitter patter of raindrops through cracked glass of your window.

Rain came back to The Bend.

Maybe luck would follow.

[lh44girl]

A love story off track

Tabloid headlines: Sir Lewis Hamilton finds love off track . The woman who changed everything

London, A Quiet Afternoon:

The world was left stunned when Lewis Hamilton, the seven-time F1 world champion, was spotted with a woman completely unknown to the public eye. She wasn’t a model, actress, or influencer. She was Dr. Monica F., a 32-year-old dentist balancing her master’s degree in England with work commitments in the Middle East.

Their story wasn’t just unexpected—it was refreshingly real.

The First Meeting:

It was an ordinary Tuesday afternoon in London, and Lewis had slipped out for a quiet moment at a cozy café tucked away in Chelsea. The world of racing often left him overwhelmed by cameras, questions, and expectations. But here, in this small café with worn wooden tables and the comforting hum of conversations, he could just be himself.

Monica was at the corner table, her laptop open, surrounded by books and notes. She’d just flown back from a work trip to the Middle East and was trying to finalize a research paper for her master’s degree. Her dark curls were tied back loosely, and her focus was unshakeable—until Lewis, looking for a seat, asked, “Is this chair taken?”

She glanced up, gave him a polite smile, and gestured for him to sit. She had no idea who he was.

As Lewis sipped his coffee, he noticed her sigh and mutter under her breath about her research struggles. Against his usual reserved nature, he found himself speaking up.

Lewis: “Tough day?”

Monica: “You could say that. Trying to make sense of this data feels like racing against time.”

Lewis: [Chuckling] “I know a thing or two about racing against time.”

Monica: [Raises an eyebrow] “Oh? What do you do?”

For the first time in years, Lewis felt a flicker of relief at not being recognized.

Lewis: “I’m in motorsport. But let’s just say, today, I’m off-duty.”

She nodded, clearly uninterested in prying further, and went back to her work. But Lewis wasn’t done. There was something about her—her focus, her calm demeanor—that drew him in. He asked about her studies, and soon they were talking about everything: her work, her family, and her frequent travels between England and the Middle East.

How It All Began:

For Monica, it wasn’t until later that evening, after a quick Google search of “Lewis motorsport,” that she realized the man she’d spent an hour chatting with was one of the most famous athletes in the world. But to her, he wasn’t the star—he was just a kind, down-to-earth man who genuinely listened.

For Lewis, that café conversation was the first time in years he’d felt truly seen. Monica didn’t care about his fame or his accomplishments. She was impressed by the person, not the persona.

The Media’s Reaction:

When the relationship went public months later, the headlines were relentless:

• “Who Is Monica F. ? The Dentist Who Stole Lewis Hamilton’s Heart”

• “Lewis Hamilton Chooses Ordinary Over Glamorous”

• “Why Her? Ferrari PR Questions Hamilton’s Surprising Romance”

Some doubted Monica’s ability to fit into Lewis’s high-profile lifestyle. Others criticized her for being “too ordinary” for someone like him. Even Lewis’s PR team was perplexed.

“Lewis, this isn’t the kind of relationship that enhances your brand,” one advisor had said.

To which Lewis responded with quiet conviction: “I don’t need her to fit into my world. She’s my world now.”

Why Monica?

Lewis’s answer was simple: Monica made him feel like a man, not a star.

She didn’t fawn over his achievements-even though never denied she was impressed but never consumed by the fame- , nor did she shy away from challenging him. When he spoke about the pressures of fame, she listened with empathy but reminded him of the importance of staying true to himself. She gave him space to lead their relationship, allowing him to feel in control while gently guiding him with her quiet wisdom.She as the old tale would say a wise intelligent woman,that knows that a man is the man in the relationship & what the woman role is, To her she liked & never minded to follow Lewis, bcz deep down she knew that they complete one & other not compete against each other.

When he struggled, she was his anchor. And when he doubted himself, she believed in him enough for both of them.

Monica’s life remained unchanged despite the media frenzy. She continued her studies, traveled for work, and supported Lewis without ever seeking the spotlight. Same time , she was juggling a lot between studies,exams & work, she had her down falls as being an anxious person by nature, Lewis would step in & comfort her, calm the storm within, he loved that,knowing that he is able to provide her the slightest comfort in a simple way& yet it makes a huge change. Other times,there schedule would smash against there will, but providing each other with friends they trust to give the support needed, while never being off the phone -thank the Lord for advance telecommunications-. There relationship even though it all happened within a minute, had there ups & down but never doubting each other, she once told Lewis, like the waves of the ocean,sometimes we ride it other we duck down to avoid,it doesn’t matter as long as we’re swimming together & surfing though life along each other side by side never losing connection, being honest & true to one another other. Lewis was always mesmerized by her metaphor as she likes to make it relatable to his liking. They were each other’s yin&yang.

Lewis on Monica:

In an exclusive interview, Lewis opened up about their relationship:

“The world might not understand my choice, and that’s okay. Monica sees me in a way no one else ever has. With her, I’m not Lewis Hamilton the racer. I’m just Lewis. She lets me lead, but her strength guides me every step of the way. She’s extraordinary, even if the world doesn’t see it. And honestly? That’s part of why I love her.”

Monica’s Perspective:

Monica rarely spoke to the media, preferring her quiet life. But in a candid moment with a close friend (leaked to a tabloid, of course), she summed it up perfectly:

“I don’t love Lewis because he’s famous. I love him because of who he is when no one’s watching. Fame isn’t real life—it’s the moments we spend together, just being ourselves, that matter most. That’s enough for me.”

A Love That Defied Expectations:

In a world obsessed with appearances, Lewis and Monica’s love story stood out for its simplicity and depth. Their bond wasn’t about glamour or public approval—it was about two people finding in each other what they hadn’t known they were missing.

As the tabloids moved on to the next big story, Lewis and Monica quietly built a life together, proving that sometimes, the greatest love stories are the ones that happen far from the spotlight.

[queen-of-obsessing]

Why The Stranger Is Actually Saruman

A Deep Dive because I've been thinking about it Too Much TM

I need to get this off my chest because the Reddit bros saying that the Stranger is either a random blue wizard or Gandalf are driving me crazy, because from my perspective, they're so obviously wrong, and here's a compilation of all the clues and hints we've been given in Seasons 1-2 that prove why!! (Quick disclaimer: I've watched the PJ LOTR movies over 5 times, and have it pretty much memorized, so I'm coming from mainly a movie perspective - which the ROP showrunners have said they want the show to remain connected to, as shown by how they reference the films every chance they get. But I've googled the backstory of relevant characters from the sacred texts/lore to familiarize myself with it.) (Also spoilers for everything up to 2x06.)

The "Blatantly Obvious" Gandalf Clues (and why they're not that obvious)

The Stranger has a relationship with Harfoots -> Saruman was also familiar with Hobbits. "Your love of the Halflings' leaf has clearly slowed your mind", and his Isengard cellar is filled with Hobbit weed. He's also shown to have a dislike for them (perhaps if he was betrayed by Nori in later seasons).

"Grand-elf", "gand", "follow your nose" -> it's not hard to believe that these are surface level red herrings, they're barely of any plot consequence and are more like random remarks thrown in to throw you off the scent. If the Stranger is Saruman these would make sense, since Saruman was Gandalf's mentor, and the films bait-and-switched them before (see: the Gandalf the white scene where he literally had Christopher Lee's voice)

"They all but confirmed it at the end of Season 1" -> then why is there still a mystery in Season 2? The writers clearly want you to keep guessing who he is. If he was Gandalf, they would've just said he was.

Aaaand, that's about it on Gandalf evidence. Not a lot, is it? No, precious, not at all, the Reddit bros lied to us.

Now let's get into the Saruman theory, starting with the four big things that Gandalf doesn't have, that the Stranger does: Rhun, Sauron, Ents, and Palantirs.

1. Rhun

Gandalf never went to Rhun. (From the wiki: "Unlike Saruman, Olórin never took up permanent residence, and never went to the east, apparently restricting his activities to the Westlands of Middle-earth[.]") He has no business being there. For the writers to send him there would be a giant canon departure, and kind of pointless. But Saruman did! In his early days, he travelled to Rhun, stayed there awhile and then returned. The Stranger travelling to Rhun was the first dead giveaway.

2. Sauron

"Is it my task to stop the fire? Is it my task to face Sauron??" (2x04) Now correct me if I'm wrong, but I'm 99% sure Gandalf was never destined to face Sauron. In the films, he faced a Balrog and won, which already was an intense fight that killed him, and Gandalf indirectly facilitated Sauron's destruction by guiding Frodo, but he never directly confronted him, afaik. (Again, I might be wrong and missing lore info.) But we know Saruman was more powerful than Gandalf, and he was supposed to face Sauron, but ultimately ended up aligning with him. But in the show, the Stranger is supposed to face him, and if he was Gandalf, this would be a bizarre departure.

3. Ents, nature & trees

The Stranger is heavily associated with nature, but the biggest dead giveaway that he's Saruman was the scene in 2x04 where he's following the star map to a tree branch, and tries to break it off when the tree retaliates and sucks him in (very similar to what happened to Merry and Pippin in the films, with Tom Bombadil saying exactly what Treebeard said to free them, although that line was originally Tom's to begin with). But because of this scene, they're directly linking the Stranger to Ents & Fangorn. Which is fascinating, because Saruman, before he was evil in the TA, used to walk among the trees and befriended the Ents. In the films, his betrayal of Treebeard by cutting down the trees for his army is one of the key emotional moments of the film ("a wizard should know better!!"), and is what causes the destruction of Isengard. And in that scene, Stranger/Saruman tried to harm the tree, and the tree attacked him. Seems like foreshadowing to me.

4. Palantirs

Now, even though the Stranger hasn't been linked to Palantirs and Seeing Stones in the show, we know they're there, and characters have used them many times. We also know that Saruman has one in Isengard, and would make sense if ROP showed us how he got it. Gandalf never had a Palantir.

Some other theories and notes others have made:

The Stranger is established to have darkness in him and the potential for evil. The fireflies die, "I'm peril", having to remind himself that he's good. The opening line of the entire show is "Nothing is evil in the beginning."

An emphasis on names and the importance/power of a name -> naming the Stranger as Saruman will change our whole perspective of him. The writers want us to see him as good and loveable before putting that name burden on him. (Another show I love, The Chosen, did that for the character of Judas, a notoriously infamous traitor, calling him 'the Apprentice' for an entire episode before officially naming him.)

The Stranger's magic is super powerful. The conjuring of the sandstorm reminded me of Saruman's conjuring the snowstorm over the pass of Caradhras, in FOTR.

There's a moment where the Stranger's staff dissolves when he uses his magic, similar to the scene where Gandalf dissolves Saruman's staff in his hand.

The two towers theory: introducing Sauron at the end of Season 1, Saruman at the end of Season 2, so now both heads of the towers are in play.

"i can’t shake the feeling that the actor’s intonation is pretty much the midpoint of Ian McKellen’s Gandalf and Christopher Lee’s Saruman" (ntraumintraum on Reddit)

Daniel Wayman did an Irish lilt in his voice, that Gandalf doesn't have.

Saruman has a fascinating, tragic journey of going from good to evil, while Gandalf remains good through it all. The former is more compelling for a show like ROP that's built around tragic fates + Saruman's story is still mostly untold and mysterious.

In conclusion, if he is Gandalf, I'll be very disappointed, but can live with it. It would just be a huge missed opportunity, but as of now, I'm pretty convinced that the Stranger is Saruman, and the dark wizard is a bad blue wizard.

So in further conclusion:

Update from 2x06: that Bombadil quote is kinda killing my theory here. ("some that die deserve life") it's such a famous Gandalf quote, but at this point it's so obvious that it feels like it's even more of a red herring. Ugh. idk. i'm confused. I'm starting to think the Stranger is actually Gandalf which is pissing me the fuck off. Dumbest choice ever made on the show 😭💀

Final update: I HATE BEING WRONG. JD & PATRICK YOU'VE BRUISED MY PRIDE AND HURT MY FEELINGS. I accept it, but i'm highly offended by it.

[peonycats]

THANK YOU for making a post about your Middle East OCs, I struggled so much to draw KSA eyes 💀 Now I have to fix that, ugh, see you in a thousand years when I'm done 😃🔫

( And maybe it will sound stupid but, who is Hejaz?? )

IM SO SORRY FOR HOW LONG IT TOOK ME TO RESPOND TO THIS ASK KHFHDJKSJKDSFDS BUT I REALLY WANTED TO DROP SOME LORE ABOUT KSA FOR ONCE!!! anyways np for the middle east eyes guide glad it helps :3cccc

Hejaz is one of the historical pre-unification states of what is now Saudi Arabia, and was considered to be the wealthiest and most cosmopolitan region due to hosting the holy cities of Mecca and Medina, and thus, many Muslim pilgrims who traveled to the region. He's also Saudi Arabia (Najd)'s older brother, and the two used to be quite close in their early childhood! Hejaz was always the more outgoing one, compared to the shy and awkward Najd...

[na-bird-of-the-day]

BOTD: Chukar

Photo: Sergey Yeliseev

"Native to the Middle East and southern Asia, the Chukar was brought as a game bird to North America, where it has thrived in some arid regions of the west. From late summer to early spring, Chukars travel in coveys, but they may be hard to see as they range through the brush of steep desert canyons. They become more conspicuous in spring, when the harsh cackling chuk chuk chukar of the territorial males echoes from the rocky cliffs."

- Audubon Field Guide

[gaysindistress]

As Good a Reason - two

pairing: Mob!Bucky Barnes x reader

summary: when Brock Rumlow picks a fight he can’t win with the White Wolf, he drags his Snake back. Six years after she ran away, Y/N Rumlow is faced with a choice to make; do as she’s told and kill the White Wolf or overtake her father instead because spite’s as good a reason to take his power?

warnings: mob!Bucky, cursing

word count: 3.1k

Tag list: @cakesandtom @elizacusi-blog @unaxv @hidden-treasures21 @vonalyn

one | series masterlist

disclaimer: credits to original creator/poster of image/gif. found on Google/Pinterest. The women in the banners are not how Y/N is supposed to look. They are merely for aesthetic purposes and Y/N is written vaguely enough for anyone to see themselves in her.

The city never changed during her six year hiatus. Concrete jungle or whatever Jay Z said, that is how she remembered the city and as the car rolls down the streets, it’s obvious that it’s not going to change. 

About the only thing that has changed is how much of an outsider Y/N feels like. This place isn’t her home, it hasn’t been since her father put a bullet in her mom right in the middle of dinner. It probably wasn’t even home for her before then but it’s all she knew. God even Phoenix in all its hot glory felt more like home than the lower east side did. 

Victoria has remained eerily quiet ever since they got off the plane. Y/N passed it off as nerves but Niklaus whispered to her that neither daughter had been “home” since that night. Brock had chosen to ship Victoria off to Paris to live with some business partner of his. He said it was good for her to travel but when it was really a ploy to marry her off to a 50 year old white man. 

That man ended up dead 366 days after they were married and exactly one day after the prenup ended. 

Niklaus, on the other hand, was held prisoner in his childhood home and forced to learn the ins and outs of the family business. Brock needed someone to take over in the event of his early death and being the only son, Niklaus was the natural choice. Brock always wanted it to be Y/N, his youngest and most favorite, but Jasmine ruined that for him. 

Either way, Y/N almost immediately decides to shoot the man dead the moment the White Wolf’s death is confirmed. She had thought about this very chance every night for six years but now she’s finally getting the chance. A part of her wants to make him suffer and the other part just wants him gone. Both agree that he needs to be dealt with as soon as possible which means cooperating for the time being. 

A tall blonde is driving them and she picks up on a strange vibe the moment he gives her the up and down. Any other time and she would’ve broken his nose but Niklaus guides her away before she can do that. 

“That’s Caleb Walker’s son, John,” he whispers to her as they drive. 

“THAT’S John?”

Victoria smirks, “He got hot.”

“Jesus,” Y/N snorts, “He got weird and creepy.”

“Whatever. More for me then.”

Niklaus makes a face but drops it before either sister can figure out what it means. Their attention gets turned to John when he announces that they’ve arrived at the Rumlow townhouse. Y/N wants to make a comment about how far her father has fallen since she’s left and almost does although the dark presence of the man at the butt of the comment overwhelms her. 

Standing on stairs is Brock and his men, all dressed like they stepped out of Call of Duty or some other war video game that teenage boys play. Another tall blonde that rubs her the wrong way flanks her father but he’s dressed alarmingly normal in jeans and a Dodgers tee shirt. Y/N points him out to her brother as they get out and he stalls for a second. 

“That… that’s uhhh Steve Rogers. He works for the White Wolf.”

“Don’t tell me that he’s a glorified babysitter.”

“Don’t let him hear you say that.”

Just as they get into ear shot, they stop whispering to each other and greet everyone. Victoria makes a show of greeting Brock who can’t be bothered to even acknowledge her and keeps his whole attention on Y/N. 

“There’s my baby girl,” he says with too much gusto and squeezes her too tightly in a bear hug. 

She pushes against him as hard as she can to which he utters a warning into her ear of play nice or else. He gives her a fake smile when he releases her and introduces her to Steve who gently shakes her hand. 

“It’s nice to finally meet you, Ms. Juárez. I’ve heard so much about you.” Brock stiffens at the last name and corrects Steve. 

“Sorry, Ms. Rumlow.”

After taking her hand back and exchanging pleasantries, she heads inside in the direction that she saw Victoria go. Niklaus is not far behind but he’s stopped by John who whispers something in his ear and lets him go. His face is a shade paler when he catches up to them however he refuses to say what happened. Victoria is content to unpack her own bags while Y/N helps her and eyes their brother with concern. He occasionally makes eye contact with her only to quickly break it and find lint on his pants to pick off. 

Dinner rolls around and Brock requests that all three join him. Flashbacks break the surface and take over Y/N’s mind when she first sits down. Like a true villain, her father had the same dinner made from that night with the same seating so that they can relive possibly the worst night of her life. He smiles at her discomfort and preys on it like a vampire, finding delight in her shivers. As he drains her of her will to cooperate, he spills the details of his plan to kill the White Wolf. 

There will be a party on Saturday that the White Wolf will be at. Niklaus and Victoria are to find and isolate him so that Y/N can deliver the kill shot. 

Simple enough but still she finds every flaw in it. 

Won’t he be suspicious? 

If he’s going to be there, won’t he have security?

How is Y/N supposed to kill him? 

Why does this “simple” plan need the Snake?

Brock slams his hand on the table and stops her line of questioning, saying, “Because your brother and sister are too fucking stupid to do it. I’ve already tried them and that’s how we got into this position in the first place. I need you to do it.”

“Weren’t you the one who told me to never reveal all of my cards?” Y/N asks as she takes a drink of her wine. 

Brock’s nostrils flare and he squeezes his glass so hard it threatens to break, “I swear to god, Y/N.”

“You must be really desperate.”

“Y/N.” 

She takes another sip of wine, “Only a truly desperate man would turn to his enemy for help.”

“You’re not my enemy. You’re my daughter even if your mother was a whore and a liar.”

That strikes a cord. 

“Say one more thing about her and I will kill you right now.”

Brock laughs in her face, “I’d like to see you try.”

When she doesn’t answer, he continues on explaining his plan for the party. Victoria and Niklaus are listening enough for Y/N to drown everything out. 

She squeezes her eyes shut and repeats a mantra to herself;

He’s next.  

He’s next.  

He’s next.  

He’s next.  

He’s next.  

He’s next.  

She opens her eyes, inhales deeply, exhales, and takes a sip of her wine. 

“Is there a dress code for this party?”

Steve slides into his car and calls the White Wolf the moment the door closes. 

“What do you got for me?” he asks when he answers the phone. 

“She hates him with a burning passion. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think that she’s here plotting his death, not yours.”

The other man chuckles, “That so?”

“How much did Sam tell you about her mom,” Steve pauses as he searches through his texts for the name, “Jasmine Rumlow?” 

“Enough to know that it wouldn’t surprise me if Brock turns up dead tomorrow morning. Did you get anything else?”

“She’s going to be the key to taking out his operation. He has a soft spot for her so we can exploit that but it might be easier to exploit hers, push her to help us.”

The White Wolf sighs and takes a moment to think before answering, “Do we know what that is or are you expecting me to figure it out when she’s pointing a gun at me?”

Steve rolls his eyes, “Is that your way of saying that I need to be back here tomorrow?” “And the day after that. Don’t let her leave your sight until you know what her weaknesses are. Even if she hates mornings, I want to know everything.”

“Copy that.”

Growing up with Caleb Walker at Brock’s side meant that Y/N did know his son, John but he stayed out of their fathers’ ways. Maybe it was his parents wanting to protect him or maybe it was that he knew from a young age what a monster Brock was. Either way he failed whoever wanted to protect him. 

Working in the same role as his father, John never leaves Brock’s side and it’s unnerving to Y/N. When Brock moved, John moved. When Brock breathed, John breathed. When Brock tried to assert dominance over Y/N, John did the same. The most recent example of this is how he grips at her arm and nearly throws her through her bedroom door after she got caught sneaking back into the house. 

“What were you thinking?” he demands, his voice bouncing off the walls and echoing deep into her ears. 

Y/N shakes off his hand and voice as she walks towards her bed. She drops herself down and starts to take off her shoes which angers him even more. His question rings out again but she doesn’t care to answer it. He asks for a third time and she stops what she’s doing, straightens up, and half turns to him. 

“I’ll answer you when you stop yelling at me.”

He scoffs and puts his hands on his hips, “I don’t have time for this.”

“And I have all the time in the world.”

Shaking his head, he looks to the ground and takes a deep breath, “Fine.”

Y/N goes back to untying her shoes and kicks them off when he finds the peace inside himself to ask the question again. “I won’t be a prisoner while I’m here. Brock might tell you differently but what I’m telling you is to take the presidency; I can and will leave whenever I want. If the White Wolf is really that big of a threat, then I’ll check in with you but no one is going to track, follow, or stalk me.”

John nods along even though deep down it’s painful to be taking orders from her. 

“Since the stupid party has a dress code, Vic, Niklaus, and I will be going shopping. If I see anyone tailing us, I will be shooting out their tires and you,” she pauses to turn and look at him, “will get the brunt of my wrath, understood?” John sniffs aggressively but nods in understanding nonetheless. Y/N finishes taking her shoes and socks off before going to her closet to change. He doesn’t leave or move, annoying her even more than she already is. She wants to huff at the invasion of privacy but it won’t be her any good. With her luck, he’ll take it as her being hurt or worse; a threat to his manhood. Before she can think of something snarky to say, John speaks up and starts into the nostalgia of her being back. He goes on and on about how he never thought he would see her again and how he always thought that they would end up together. 

Pulling a sweatshirt over her head, Y/N stops in the closet entrance and stares blankly at him. He grows uncomfortable and shifts but keeps up with his line of wishful thinking. 

“I’m going to stop you right there,” she says, interrupting his tangent about how he had a crush on her growing up, “I don’t care. I don’t want to hear about our childhood from your point of view. I don’t want to hear about how happy you are that I’m back. I don’t want to hear any of it because I don’t care, John. As soon as I’ve outlived my usefulness with the White Wolf or whoever else Brock pissed off, he’ll send me away or kill me and honestly, I’m good with either. I don’t want this life and I never have so please spare me the romantics of it all.”

The door slams almost immediately after she finishes and she lets out a deep sigh. Of course it would take crushing his dreams of them being endgame to get him to leave. On the bright side, maybe he won’t bother her anymore or it could go the other way and he’ll be stuck to her like glue. 

Y/N chooses to not think about it anymore and falls onto her back on her bed, allowing the comfort of the blankets to engulf her. Time slips away from her as she lets her worries and stress disappear even if for a minute or two. Nothing is ever really stressful free for her, not when her father is still alive and controlling her life. 

There had been a time, maybe two years into living in Phoenix, did she think that it would be possible to be free form Brock. Maria and her were in the middle of moving from their first tiny apartment to the one she left behind when the letter showed up. It was simple and with no address. All the letter said was “Don’t get comfortable.” Maria hid it as soon as she found it and tried her hardest to hide any fears that it brought it up but it only worked for a few months after that. A car crash is what took Maria but Y/N always knew that it was more than that; a planned attack or something like that. In hindsight, it could’ve been this White Wolf and not Brock but that would mean that he’s been pulling the strings for far longer than she knew or wanted to admit. 

Her phone rings on the nightstand, drawing her back to reality and she groans as she grabs it. There’s no caller ID so she’s hestiaant to answer and lets it go to voicemail. Dropping herself back onto her bed, she doesn’t get a second to enjoy it because it starts ringing again. No caller ID flashes once more and she figures that if she doesn’t answer it now, whoever it is will keep calling all night long. 

“What do you want?” “No hello?” a man’s voice comes through, harsh and thick but with an undertone of something she can’t place. 

“What do you want?” “Open your curtain.”

She closes her eyes in annoyance, “no. You have three seconds to tell me what you want before I hang up.”

“Assuming your father is going to be the most predictable thing and try to pull something at the party, I’m having a dress delivered for you to wear. Something a little different from those cargo pants you wear everyday.”

“I’m gonna go out on a limb here and say this is the White Wolf asshole that Brock is obsessed with.”

He chuckles, deep and profound, “Ouch. I don’t think I’m an asshole.”

“Well,” Y/N starts as she sits up and pushes the curtain back to peer out the window, “if the shoe fits.”

Across the street is a blacked out car however she can only assume that the man on the phone is sitting in it. Her assumption is correct. The passenger window rolls down and a dark haired man waves at her. From this distance she can’t make out too many details but she can see the speckles of facial hair and penetrating eyes.

“I fully expect you to be wearing my dress and if you’re not, I’ll be very upset, little snake.”

“I’ll try but no promises.” 

“Oh and it goes without saying, don’t tell your father we talked.”

Y/N hangs up without answering and the man continues to stare up at her as another man gets out of the car with a big black box in hand. He puts it down in front of their gate and returns to his car. The White Wolf gives her a grin to match his name and the two drive away. 

That box sits in her closet for almost three days before she opens it. The decision comes after a few failed shopping trips and with her returning with one dress she only got because Victoria didn’t want to leave it at the store. Y/N and Niklaus argued with her for a solid 45 minutes about how stupid it was to buy a dress only because you don’t want someone else to have it. 

Of course her response was that she’ll find another time to wear it if Y/N choose something else. The shimmery emerald green material shines too much and the deep front v cuts too low for her liking hence why she’s sitting in her closet with the box in front of her. She’s been staring at it for probably 15 minutes now and the looming pressure of the party tomorrow is starting to get to her. Aside from the dress being generally not something she would wear, it feels impractical to wear if she’s going to complete a mission. 

Curiosity gets the better of her logic and she’s tearing into the box before she knows it. In the white tissue paper lies a simple black dress. No jewels or gems, no elaborate hems, or fancy material. Pulling out the dress, she gets a better look at the floor length dress that will no doubt hug her figure. The boat neck line provides the cover that her sister’s dress lacks and she quickly shoves the dress back into its box. 

“No, no. no,” she whispers to herself as she drums her fingers against the lid, “I’m not wearing it. I can’t. I won't.”

It calls to her, chanting her name from beneath her hand. 

She slowly reopens it, letting her hands drift over the fabric as she battles with herself about it, “No I can’t wear this. I mean…. I could. It’s more practical. I could probably fight in it. It’d be easier…” 

She trails off in her internal line of arguing as she feels its softness. 

“I’ll just try it on first.”

Famous last words.

[scotianostra]

30th May 1889 saw the birth near Kirkliston of Isobel Wylie Hutchison.

This is a great tale of a remarkable strong willed woman bucking the trends and behaviour expected of a lady back in the mud 20th century.

Isobel Wylie Hutchison was an Arctic traveller during the 1920s and 1930s. She was also a botanist, a writer, a poet, an artist and speaker of numerous languages, so a bit of a polymath.

Carlowrie Castle a Scots baronial mansion was the comfortable upper-middle class home into which Isobel Wylie Hutchison was born in 1889. It was there her father, Thomas Hutchison, a successful wine merchant in Edinburgh, looked after his gardens, and passed on to Isobel his fascination for plants and his habit of meticulous note-taking. Although called a castle, Carlowrie was built between 1852 and 1855, so was never a defensive structure, but a luxurious home.

Isobel’s father, Thomas Hutchison, was a successful wine merchant in Edinburgh, he was a keen gardener and passed on to Isobel his fascination for plants and his habit of meticulous note-taking.

From 1917-18, she studied at an agricultural college, after which, she visited a number of countries around the Mediterranean region. But the sudden death or her father was subsequently followed by the loss of both her brothers. Isobel was left in a darkened place with a deeply grieving heart. Walking became her escape.

At a time when women were expected to stay at home, dressed in petticoats and tending to domestic duties, Isobel would often leave home for several days – much to the despair of her mother!

A Gaelic speaker, she had soon covered Scotland, including a trek from Blairgowrie to Fort Augustus, and began to look at bigger challenges. She wanted to spread her wings and fly away, and Iceland seemed like a good place to start.

Iceland, which she visited in 1925, was both a test and a revelation. She was told that she couldn’t walk the 260 miles north from Reykjavik to Akureyri because there were no maps, no guides, and it was far too dangerous. But she proved everyone wrong and then set her sights on another goal: Greenland.

By now, Isobel was making a name as a traveller in the Far North. She had written books about her experiences in both Iceland and Greenland. However, she hadn’t quite finished her Arctic adventures! She made arrangements to travel to Alaska and Northern Canada to explore and again, collect plant specimens. In May 1933, Isobel left Manchester and went by ship, riverboat, train and also plane, to reach Nome in Alaska.

Eventually, she arrived in Barrow, in the north of Alaska, where she transferred to another small vessel before the Arctic Ocean ice began closing in, making it impossible to travel any further. Isobel was forced to stay in a migrant Estonian’s hut for many weeks until the weather situation improved. Although her journey had come to a halt, it was an opportunity for her to visit local Inuit families, walk, travel by dog sled and stay in igloos. Eventually, she continued her Arctic trip with a 120-mile dog sled journey and crossed over into Canada. After many months in the Alaskan and Canadian Arctic she eventually returned to Scotland, having been away for around a year.

Unable to obtain permission from the Soviet authorities to visit Eastern Siberia, Isobel’s next northern journey was in 1936, to the Aleutian Islands, off the coast of Alaska. This thousand-mile long archipelago of both large and small volcanic islands draped like a gigantic necklace between Alaska and the Kamchatka Peninsula in the far east of the USSR. These islands were inhabited by Aleut people on treeless terrain and were exposed to continuous windy, foggy and stormy weather.

The Aleut people of the islands were able to live in such extreme conditions because they managed to catch a range of marine life. Fortunately, she was able to visit many of the inhabited islands by way of US government vessels. Invariably, landing on the islands involved negotiating heavy seas in wild conditions. However, when she did make land, she met with the local inhabitants, generally explored and was able to collect her plants.

The onset of World War Two curtailed any plans for further journeys into the Arctic. After the war, she completed a number of long treks, including walking from her home in Scotland to London, from Innsbruck to Venice, and from Edinburgh to John O’Groats. Isobel Wylie Hutchison passed-away at her home in Carlowrie Castle in 1982, aged 92.

The Arctic journeys of Isobel Wylie Hutchison were extraordinarily daring during a time when such trips were unheard of for a single woman. She developed a real passion for the North as she explored various regions of the Arctic world. Isobel was a true adventure traveller, enjoying the uncertainty of her journey, taking calculated risks, but being utterly intrigued by all she saw in the Far North.