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oceantornadoo · 1 month ago

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the ex-wife chronicles pt.4 (ex husband!john price x f!reader)

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tw: smut. heheheh. also drunk actions also unedited

The rest of the week passes in a blur.

The men meet their mandated therapists. Sure, they’ve had psych evals and required sessions before, but these are new ones, therapizing with what happened to Soap in mind. It’s where another part of your job comes out: nanny. You have to build them up after sessions break them down. Learning what makes them tick: Ghost’s tea, Gaz’s candies, John’s cigars. Soap visits in the afternoons, going straight from physical to mental therapy. The routine is grueling and quiet a change from their normal activities when they aren’t on a mission. That’s why Friday becomes a mandatory pub night.

“Now, I’m not saying to solve your problems with alcohol,” you preach to Gaz, your third glass of white wine in hand. So what if you’re taking advantage of their Frisky Friday deals? “But sometimes, you need to get drunk with your team.” The word ‘your’ is hard and heavy in your mouth. “The people you work with. Coworkers.” You correct yourself. He nods slowly, clearly also impacted by his third drink of the night (tequila and lime).

You scored the last booth in the extremely packed pub. Gaz sits in the middle, with Ghost and Soap on his left and you and John on his right. You restrained yourself from stumbling when John waited for you to get in, instead of sitting near his sergeant, but you were too drained from the week to question it. The booth’s only meant for four, and with how much muscle this group has, you’re all thigh-to-thigh under the table.

“‘Ve got an idea.” Soap pipes up from across the way. He’s been nursing a beer while Ghost occasionally sipped on his scotch. Doctor’s orders are no alcohol, but you told him he owed one drink for his troubles. “Was tha’?” Gaz replies. “Never have I ever.” Everyone groans, even Ghost and John. That you find comical, sending you snickering and leaning on your shoulder towards Gaz until John tugs at the belt of your jeans. It’s under the table but somehow sends the whole group stock-still, watching. You send a glare towards John, and he sends you an unimpressed stare back.

Gaz starts asking Soap about his favorite drinking games, giving you enough cover to reprimand your ex-husband. “Don’t do that.” You whisper sharply. He leans forward into your airspace until his lips meet your ear, soft stubble rasping against your cheek. “Y’ were about to fall into Gaz’s lap.” It’s pissed you off, this handsyness of his that’s been suddenly acquired in the past week.

His hands on your stomach during the ATV ride. His thumb swiping under your eye as he murmured ‘eyelash’ under his breath. A guiding pat on the back as he moved behind you in the kitchen, completely unnecessary with how much space there was. A squeeze to your shoulder after his therapy session before he shut himself in his room for hours.

“What if I wanted to?” You snip. A lie, but cutting all the same. John Price is too practiced to show his emotions on his face, but you are were his wife. You can see how he grinds his jaw under his beard, how his eyes flicker with darkness. That same disregard for compromise that shows up in his file, time and time again. Except in the military, he’s done enough good deeds to earn it. With you, he has years to make up.

“Let’s play!” You turn back to the group, aiming a smile at Soap. He cheers, nudging Ghost who gives him a mellow look underneath his black balaclava. Soap completely ignores it.

“Aye, hen. Never have I ever shot at hostiles while hangin’ from a heli.” Gaz grumbles and takes a swig from his drink. Ghost’s eyes seem to sparkle at the memory. Soap gestures at Gaz to ask the next question, to which he rolls his eyes. “Never have I ever fucked a coworker.” You can tell he meant it to call out Soap, who makes a production out of guzzling his beer while Ghost takes a slow sip, but they all freeze when you and John drink at the same time.

You didn’t expect him to admit it. You wonder if there were others, if you were the start of a pattern.

Then you wonder why you care.

“Cap’n!” Even though he seems more laidback than the others, you’ve never seen Soap so…loose. He’s only had half a drink too, but there seems to be a weight off his shoulders. John doesn’t respond to his taunts, simply raising an eyebrow. After a second, he shrugs and gives a non-answer. “A man’s got to have his secrets.” Soap shrugs, then turns to you. “Doc?” You shrug as well, fighting the urge to tuck your chin under the heat of four pairs of eyes. You haven’t worked your way up and invented a whole new occupation just to fold after a few drinks of wine, but you do like to stir the pot. “Don’t know why you’re singling me out, Soap. Seems here everyone does it.” He snorts, satisfied that you won’t given in. “Righ’ ye are, hen.”

The game gets fiery as Soap delivers another round of drinks (and a ginger beer for himself). You learn new things about the team: Gaz has a sister that loves to prank him, Soap’s nickname does not mean what you think it does, Ghost likes to tell bad dad jokes. John seems to be more restrained, commenting on the others while refusing to acknowledge his own answers.

As Gaz starts his fifth drink, there’s a twinkle in his eye that puts you on guard. “My turn. Never have I ever been married.” Underneath the table, your thigh goes rigid. John can feel it, you know, which means Gaz can as well. It’s a giveaway you’ll allow only due to the new glass in your hand. You sip slowly.

John does too.

He could have lied and no one would’ve known. He’s not drunk, on his second glass of whiskey when you know he practically has a tolerance.

Ghost doesn’t seem surprised, so you wonder if he sniffed it out. On the other hand, Gaz and Soap are frozen, like someone dumped a bucket of water over their heads. Their eyes are on him but Ghost’s are on you. You feel akin to a mouse caught in a trap.

“Cap?” It’s Gaz, questioning something he never knew about his mentor. Like a son discovering his father’s lie. John swallows slowly, then cocks his head with that disarming close-lipped smile of his. “A few years ago. Not married anymore.” Gaz makes a noise in the back of his throat. You take an extra sip of wine for good measure.

“Doc?” Ghost asks. The sergeants turn their gazes to you, no less interested. The bare skin on your left hand vibrates under their attention. “Mine was a while ago. We were young and…”, you trail off, shrugging.

“Ain’t tha’ funny.” Ghost grunts. You cock your head at him. “What’s that?” His eyes flick to John, then back to you. “Both were married awhile ago. Might’ve crossed paths at th’ license office.” Soap and Gaz laugh; forced, choked sounds. You smile slightly, then look down into your glass of wine. You don’t look at John.

“Makin’ it sound like I’m a hundred years old, Ghost.” John shoots back. With his approval, or more lack of disapproval, the game continues on. You nod at certain intervals, drinking when necessary. When Gaz asks if you’re okay, you mutter that the wine got to your head.

“C’mon, sweetheart.”

“You’re insane, Lieutenant Price.”

He snorts into your hair, tucked under his chin as you cuddle in the early Sunday light. A rare weekend of leave, hunkered down in the flat you share in London. Six months ago, he reasoned it was easier to split one rent instead of paying for two, since you were both barely home. Things are still in boxes and there’s no art on the walls. No bedframe either, a full mattress on the floor covered in floral sheets you insisted on.

“Two Lieutenant Prices. That’ll fuck with the Captain.” Your Captain is a piece of work, but not enough to the point where you’d get married just to fuck with his head. “You really know how to propose to a girl, John. I’m near fainting over here.” He snorts, the bare skin of his chin brushing your forehead as he nuzzles him. Last night, you told him he’d look good with a beard. He said he’d look like a bear, which made you growl at him until he bent you over the couch (the singular piece of furniture you own) and fucked you into its cushy fabric.

“Stay here.” You whine as he gets up, a terribly ugly roll out of the bed because of its proximity to the floor. There’s scratch marks on his bed, new ones on top of those that had barely healed. You’d been sent on a training mission, separated for a month, and couldn’t wait to get your hands on him. Lover. Boyfriend. John.

“Close your eyes.” You closed them, sitting up and wrapping the sheet around your bare body. He never got you gifts, and neither could you, too busy being grunt workers to the captains you both got tossed around to. It was a miracle you were granted leave together. Something that had never happened before.

“Open.” He was sitting, no, kneeling in front of the bed in a fresh pair of boxers. You squinted at his face, confused. His eyes flicked over somewhere to your left and you followed them and –

Oh.

“John.” The ring is beautiful. Older than the minimalistic styles now, which means he didn’t go out and buy it. “Baby.” His face is open and calm, always self-assured. A second look reveals a twitch in his jaw, a tell. “It’s a ring.” You point out stupidly. He laughs, something that’s become deeper recently, which you blame on his newly acquired cigar habit. “Found it in the bin an�� thought ya might like it.” He jokes. “John.” You plead.

“Marry me, sweetheart. Become the better Lieutenant Price. Yell at me when I get you pregnant and your back aches. Pick out the grey hairs in my beard.” There’s something in your eye. It’s the only explanation for the tear that trickles down your cheek, the one he swipes at with his thumb and brings to his mouth. “I can’t be a housewife, John. I mix my colors with my whites in the wash and I’m more comfortable with a gun in my hands than kids and I can’t plan a wedding.” He captures your lips in a kiss, then pulls back smiling. “Let’s elope and I’ll get a vasectomy. What’dya say?” You think. You think about how you don’t even need to think. Then you nod.

“Let’s get married.”

Soap calls it a night an hour later, muttering how he needs to take his meds. There’s an ache in his voice when he says it, mourning his past life. Ghost follows him out with a hand hovering at his shoulders. Gaz sticks around longer, talking footie with John and making eyes with a woman across the bar. He’s gone half an hour later, his arm around her waist and his mouth at her jaw.

“Forgot how easy it is.” You mutter, eyes on the sway of her hips as they exit the bar, Gaz turning back and winking. It makes you feel like a bitter hag, mourning the fun you used to have. John nudges your knee with his own, compelling you to look up. “What’s easy?” You nod in the direction of the doors. “Pickin’ up someone for the night. Not thinkin’ ‘bout the next day.” He grunts in agreement. John signals a waiter, mutters something to him, and then turns back to you. “You sayin’ you haven’t fucked anyone in a decade.” You scoff and roll your eyes. “I have, in fact. Used to be just like Gaz, pickin’ up someone new everytime I got stationed somewhere. Fun for a few nights and then gone.” John takes a sip of his drink, his jaw straining with effort.

“Gets tirin’ after a while.” He grunts. You blink, then nod. “Playin’ coy about the dog tags, the scars an’ the bullet wounds. Wakin’ up in the middle of the night an’ not bein’ about to explain a nightmare.” Though you haven’t been in combat in a while, you can relate. There’s a new layer of horror when you’re trying to heal soldiers and you get a glimpse inside their head, the bloody carcass of the beaten thing they call a brain, warped by gunpowder and bomb residue.

“Why’d you tell them you were married?” You wonder aloud. He shrugs, shifting the hand that’s been laying on his knee. Because of the movement, it slides between the two of you, the tips of his outer fingers grazing your thigh. You should pull back. The wine argues you shouldn’t. It wins.

“You’d rather I lie?” This time it’s you shrugging, your leg pressing closer to his. He doesn’t pull away. “I wouldn’t have cared. You don’t owe me anything.” His other hand leaves its position on his drink and finds your wine glass. You watch, enraptured, as he brings it to his mouth and swallows. You thought he hated wine.

“I think about it.” He murmurs. You know the answer, but you ask anyway. “Think about what?” He turns to look at you, blue eyes searing into you. “Our marriage. ‘Fore you came, still thought about it.” Before you can answer, a paper container of fried food pops out of thin air. The smell wafts over and you perk up immediately.

“Are those cheese curds?” You became obsessed after your first trip to America when you were stationed in the Midwest. “C’mere.” He wraps an arm around you and pulls. You decide not to question it and stay silent.

“Open.” There’s a cheese curd in front of you. Obediently, you open. He hums as he places it in your mouth, your lips wrapping around his fingers and tasting the grease on them before letting go. As you chew, he pops one into his mouth, licking at his thumb. You whine at the loss of fried goodness. “Still a vulture with food, hm?” Instead of answering, you reach for another one, but he pins your hand to the table with the hand that isn’t around your waist. That’s when you register your position on his lap, propped on his leg as he feeds you a treat you didn’t think he knew existed. (You were divorced by then, no contact for a few weeks.) The way you’re sitting is unprofessional and comfortable and so delicious when he feeds you another bite. And then another. It continues until the container is empty and your belly is full and your head is slightly clearer.

You look up and he’s there. Bearded and wrinkled and hardened. The bright blue of his eyes has dulled into a stormy ocean grey. His hat is stupid and you want to curse whoever bought it for him. There’s no ring on his finger and by the sound of it, no one waiting in his bed. And you, his ex-wife, are here in his lap, your thigh pressed against the hardness that strains the denim of his jeans.

There’s crumbs on your face. He’s seen you pimply on your period and heaving after a bad hangover and squatting in a dark forest after a spoiled MRE (who knew they could go bad). Yet, he still yanked you onto his lap and now his face is tucked into the crook of your neck, sniffing. His nose brushes the skin behind your ear and trails around it until your earlobe is between his teeth.

“John.” Your hands curl into the khaki fabric of the black button-up he wears. He groans into your neck, shifting you further into his lap. “John, you’re drunk.” He licks at the skin above your shirt and you gasp, the feeling so alien. You’ve been celibate for a year now and this much physical contact, all-consuming with the man you once loved and made vows to, is overwhelming. John doesn’t answer, tongue occupied with licking the salt on your skin. Your view is blocked by his stupid, stupid hat so you rectify the situation by taking it off him and plopping it on your own head. He pulls up immediately.

“You’re drunk too, sweetheart.” He hasn’t called you that in years. Something inside you clenches, too difficult to tell if it’s your heart or your core or the space in between. “C’mon.” He pushes you off his lap and out of the booth, hands at your hips to help you stand. John crowds your back as he guides you to the one-room bathroom. Are you really doing this, with him? The monsters of your marriage turn out to be just trees when you think back, blurred by the pressure of him behind you.

“We’re not fucking.” The bathroom door opens, and shuts closed with a click. “Tha’s fine.” You’re pressed against the wall. “And I’m not getting on my knees in this filthy bathroom, John.” A knee slots between your thighs. “I ain’t either.” You scoff. “Then what-”

“Y’gonna let me kiss my wife now?” He shuts you up with a kiss. Lips you haven’t felt in ten years, five months, and three days. Not that you remember that last fuck, the night before you agreed to sign the papers.

His hands pull you forward, your clothed cunt sliding against his denim-clad thigh, and you whine with understanding. It was your favorite way to get off (still is, but no one else can do it correctly) when you were together. Grinding against him, the seam of your jeans hitting your clit as you pant into his mouth. Strong hands guide you up and down and wetness pools in your underwear, simple cotton ones you didn’t think anyone would see. You bite down hard on his lips, wanting him to feel your frustration at how well he still knows your body. All he does is smile against your lips.

“Now y’r quiet, pet. Ten years an’ so fuckin’ predictable.” You whimper at the new nickname. His presence has changed from upstanding to all consuming, his words from sweetheart to pet. Lips trail down your cheek, your jaw, your neck. That godforsaken hat is still on your head and almost slips off, but the strap catches on your chin. The pressure in your core is unbearable, encouraged by the firm muscle under you that hits every angle. Your hands curl around the nape of his neck, nails digging into the skin there, wanting to make him hurt a little. To feel the same bodily betrayal that seeps into your veins, murmuring all the reasons this is wrong. Except all it does is urge him on, those paws tugging you up and down.

“Probably soakin’ through your jeans, huh?” He murmurs in between bites to your jaw. “Not possible, would have to be wet for that.” You attempt. He growls, bearlike. “Can fuckin’ hear the sound of you, pet. Don’t play dumb now, I know you’re close.” You give up on being coy and tuck your head into the nape of his neck, losing steam as your thighs burn. He makes up for it, maintaining the rhythm that has something coiling deep in your core.

“John, John, I’m right there, will you-” He bites the juncture of your neck, a vampire in another life. You squeak at the thrill it sends down your spine, at how you tip over and into your orgasm as your cunt clenches and spasms. He helps you through it until you beat at his back and plead for him to stop, your voice almost gone from all your whines. John gently places you on your feet, your head against his chest as you catch your breath. And he just stands there patiently, hands at your waist until your breathing evens out.

“Feel ok?” You nod, then shake your head. “That can’t happen again. It’s not- this isn’t professional and I’m going to be here a while.” His hand sneaks under your shirt and presses into your stomach, like he’s checking for something. “Yeah, baby. Whatever you say.” You tug on his shirt until he meets your eyes, choosing to not acknowledge the hold he has on you. “I’m serious, John.” He kisses a spot near your lips and you mourn that he ignored them. “I’m serious, too. Let’s get you back now.”

It’s a short walk back to base, time passing by as fast as the stars overhead. When you reach the barracks, you shoo him away and tell him to go through the back entrance. All he does is pat your ass before walking away. When you walk through the entrance, smoothing down your shirt, you stop at the light in the kitchen. Ghost sits statue-still, nursing a steaming mug of tea. Eerie, since you thought he and Soap weren’t sleeping here. That thought floats away when he opens his mouth.

“Nice hat, Doc.”

Fuck.

comment if you spot the t swift lyric! it's not from this decade (2020s) if that helps...

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halcyone-of-the-sea · 2 years ago

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Songs That Sound Like Sea-Foam (I)

AU MASTERLIST || PART II

PAIRING: Fisherman!John Price x F!Mermaid!Reader

WORD COUNT: 6.2k

WARNINGS: Fluff, mentions of death, being hunted, vulgar language, price in a tunic (yes this is a warning by itself), awkwardness, nakedness, suggestive (?), implied age gap, etc.

A/N: I'm feral over this AU, ong. A million kisses to the Anon that brought this to my attention-btw this is definitely becoming a mini-series.

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

Your family told you to never go beyond the deep waterways of the cove, never to brave the open sea. Times were changing. The Harpies, when they weren't as shrewd about their feathers getting wet, would fly down from their tall mountain spires and tell stories—ones about the hunting ships.

They’d seen them, they said as your family listened on in horror from the rocks, dragging all manner of Merfolk up from the waters in large nets made of iron and hard steel. Spears that tore scales to take for profit. In other instances, the unlucky individuals were even sold to royalty to become showpieces in displays of high wealth and standing.

But it wasn’t just Merfolk. It was all manner of mystical beast and being. Hunted. Sold. Humans, your parents had told you, were not friends. They were greedy and selfish; more than often cruel.

And so they started to do the same unto them. Your family would lure them with their voices to the ends of the great ships that were brought close to your cove—watch as they hurled themselves from the sides into the grasp of the ruthless waves. They did it for you, they explained. To try and keep you safe.

For years they did this until they were gone too.

Suddenly the cove seemed more like a prison than a safe spot, and the Harpies no longer came to converse or tell news. Killed or taken you had no idea, but it was becoming fairly obvious that even interactions with your own people were impossible. Were you the only mermaid left? It was a good question to ask and one that you could never answer. All that you knew was that you had been alone for a very long time.

That was, before you first laid eyes on the fisherman.

You watch him now, yet again, from behind the sharp jutting body of the rocks; the water delicately bobs you up and down as your vibrant tail hangs limp in its otherworldly throes. Eyes softly wide and mouth parted in wonder.

He’s walking along the deck of a small ship—not the large and intimidating ones of the other men that sail the seas—with a strong form. A hat on top of his head of brown hair and a well-trimmed beard of the same color made him look gruff in appearance.

Your hands shift over the sharp black stone, and the nakedness of your top is covered by the long strands of your wet, uncut, hair. This man wore a plain white tunic and brown pants stuffed into large boots. Even as far as you were, you heard the soft whistled tune dancing in the shell of your ears. Delicate eyes watch, head slowly peeking out more and more.

He was tending to the nets he had on the bow and as you studied him you were mystified.

“Fascinating,” you whisper, unknown emotions swirling in you.

His muscles strain, large and expansive shoulders lead down to a tapered waist; legs that you blink at before glancing at your tail under the rippling water. There’s a large grunt before the fisherman’s net is thrown in a beautiful arc, hitting the water with a slap and a spray of liquid as it begins to sink. Startled, you flinch back, gasping loudly.

With a racing heart, you quietly scold yourself for the childish reaction, flicking your tail in annoyance. Slowly but surely, your head peaks back out with water dripping down the flesh of your shoulders.

But when you shift back into the open, you find a deep set of stormy blue eyes digging into your field of view. You freeze, seeing his lids go back in surprise and shock as your jaw slackens. A cold fear enters your veins at the new attention brought to you but you find yourself unable to look away.

The Fisherman is the picture of utter stillness, just as you are, like twin mountains of ancient stone. Your nervousness only seems to grow as he doesn’t do anything—teachings and lessons about those who walk on two legs and sail in ships poking holes into your mind.

Gawking and spying were one thing…but being seen meant death. You swallow stiffly and go tense, shifting to half-hide behind your rock.

“Oh, no,” your mouth murmurs, self-hatred and fear lining the tone. “Oh, no, no, no.”

And yet the Fisherman had not moved, nor made any attempt to pull his sinking net back into his boat. Fish panic in the rope grave they’ve been ensnared in. His eyes….why are they so curiously locked on you?

You spare one last glance before shoving away from the rock and disappearing under the water with a violent splash; making off for the deep underwater caves that offer salvation.

When you’re down there—in the darkness with only silent ripples of light to guide your eyes—you find it hard to stop thinking about the Fisherman and his strong jaw. His genuine awe at the sight of you.

Had he not heard the stories of the Merfolk of this region? Or…or were you truly the last of your kind?

The thought troubles you, and, riddled with anxiety, you go over to your store of shiny trinkets that you’d collected over the years; grabbing them in your hands and fiddling with them to try to put your mind at ease. The walls of the caves bare down on you and you hope you’d not just signed over your own death warrant.

Maybe he’ll go away, you offer yourself, face tight and tail curled close, maybe he’ll be afraid and won’t come back.

It was a pointless belief. They always come back—driven by greed or a righteous authority. Humans were cruel.

But your brain goes back to stormy blue eyes like pebbles and softly parted lips. Orbs glinting with wonder and shock. No attempt to shout or grab for the large knife you’d seen strapped to his belt.

A fisherman, you told yourself, who hesitated to go after the biggest fish of them all.

You didn’t quite know if that made you more afraid or more intrigued.

—

It was only after you’d spent three weeks in the underwater caves of the cove that you’d finally decided the coast was clear. You’d cautiously gone back through the winding seaweed and schools of marine life to hide in your little rock fort; afraid but brave. From under the waves in the calm of the water you’d scanned the surface for the shadows of a boat, anything to indicate that the man had returned.

Nothing.

Tension leaves your shoulders and you travel upwards, vibrant scales shimmering like jewels. You were quite close to the mainland, you would say, back to the shore to look out over the open entrance to your home. At the first sign of danger, the rocks would be your first point of shelter if you wished to remain hidden but continue to watch.

Ears popping as your head surfaces, you only look out with the water swaying below your eyes; nose and chin hidden. Sand from behind you shifts.

“Knew I’d seen something, then, eh?” Your heart lurches—brain flashing to hooks and nets; you shove yourself back under the water with a garbled gasp.

Fish around your form dash away as you frantically look back at the surface, your scales shining as the light hits them. Fingers tense in the water, you shift your body so that your form has its back to the floor of the cove and breathe quickly in your own mermadian way with shaking fins.

On the very edge of the shore, you see the shadow of a sitting body in the sand. He hadn’t moved, this Fisherman. Was waiting as inanimate as an empty shell.

What had he said? You ask yourself, hair disturbed by the flow of the waves above your head. A gentle back and forth. After a moment of contemplation, the large muscle in your breast slows itself and a nervous curiosity grows.

Yet still, the shadow stays completely motionless beside the occasional itch and brush as facial hair. Waiting.

Waiting to attack, your hand twitches in the water and you flutter your tail to take you closer to the open air, or waiting to see me?

Taking what you can describe as a deep breath, the top of your head once more breaks the top of the water; lashes dripping salty tear-drops as you blink away the sting. Every part of you is ready to disappear once more if things go south.

And then you lock eyes once more.

The Fisherman sits in the sand with his boots pushing up the granules—his right hand rests over his bent knee while the other keeps him up in a relaxed position from behind his back. You stare, the sun reflected in your eyes with a small glinting and hair in your vision. A foreign heat builds in your face when the man’s head tilts; tiny eyes narrowing as if he’d just proven a point to himself.

Why doesn’t he seem surprised?

There’s a moment of a smirk that slashes his hidden lips but it’s gone in a fraction of a second. His mustache moves as he speaks and your face slightly bobs lower instinctually. The Fisherman doesn't seem hostile—he has a kind of stern comfort to him.

Stubborn gruffness. And his accent only amplifies that fact.

“Well, wasn’t expecting to find you here,” his chest rumbles with his words. You find you quite like the sound of it. Shells grinding against each other and pearls that clatter in palms. Your eyes widen with innocence. The Fisherman clears his throat, still watching carefully as the water sloshes over his boots. “Else I would have stayed clear when I still could.”

Your hands tread water around you, tail flickering in small movements.

The man's gaze darts down to stare as well as he could through the ripples.

“Bloody Christ,” he murmurs to himself, returning your eyes once more, “thought you were all mostly extinct. Fuckin’ hell.”

“Extinct?” Your lips flinch, chin caressing the waves as brows pull up. The Fisherman blinks as if surprised to hear you speak. To be honest, you were half afraid you couldn’t either—how long had it been since you’d had a conversation above water? You spent most of your time passing comments to rare traveling Hippocampus and Sea Serpents.

Not that they could respond, of course.

By now your face had entirely left the water, that word startling you. Your chest tightens.

“What do you mean,” you ask the older man, this strange Fisherman who was shifting his weight in the sand, “extinct?”

Dark brows furrow and his back slightly straightens itself.

“You aren't exactly what I’d be calling common, Love. No one’s seen one of your kind in years.” Your face stills.

“Years?” Head angling itself down, you stare at your reflection in growing fear.

The Fisherman makes a move to stand, and you dart back swiftly. A pale hand is held in the air as if to sedate you.

“Easy, now.” It’s said softly, a grunt stuck at the beginning. A small moment passes before the man fully stands up, dressed similarly to when you’d seen him before.

Top, pants, hat. There’s also a flash of metal around his neck, some piece of jewelry hidden on the chain under the layer of his thin, flowy, tunic. Hands go to cross over his chest in a display of muscle gained from a long time of hard work.

You nervously plead for an explanation, “B-but that…that doesn’t make any sense! I’m not the only one left!”

“No,” the Fisherman slowly states, taking off the hat from his head and delicately placing it on the ground. “No, you’re not the last.”

His eyes dart along your visible body, trying to catch a glimpse of that tail that was in all stories about your kind.

“Your name, Ma’am,” he asks, blue returning to your own sights, “what is it.”

“Well, what’s yours?” You counter, getting snappy in your anxiousness. “You come into my home and expect me to answer to you? And where’s your fishing boat anyways—unless a male Selkie has suddenly managed to brave the deep sea?”

Perhaps it had been a trick of the light, but you had sworn the Fisherman had smiled at you; it was a swift slash of something that pulled his mustache back and wrinkled his face. An amused thing it was. A sort of tiny tease, in its own right.

Your heart beats steadily at the sight, eyes watching.

“Well, I suppose you’re right, then.” He scratches at his beard with one hand, still studying you with a tilt of his head. As if weighing what he should tell you. There was an air of intrigue but that did nothing to hide the hesitance. “I docked my boat in the sea cave, thought it would do more harm than good to leave it in the open. If you’d seen it, you wouldn’t have shown, eh?” The Fisherman points and you look to the deep indent in the mountainside, the tiny ship visible as it stays stationary. You blink at it slowly.

“And you can call me whatever it is you like, I don’t bloody care, but I’m not inclined to tell one of the Merfolk my name—I may have come ‘ere, but I’m not fuckin’ daft, now.”

It was true, what he spoke of. Names to your people have a stark and violent purpose. To know one's name is to own a piece of that person’s soul. Songs gain more power, words grow into orders followed without thought. Not that it was your intention.

You glower, brows pulling in.

“A simple fisherman does well to know that it’s rude to speak ill like such in another’s home.” The man smirks, cheeks rising.

“Simple, am I?” The already expansive build of his shoulders widens as he leans back on his heels, water sloshing at his boots. His eyes glimmer like lighting with humor. The look makes your cheeks burn with warmth, throat swallowing saliva.

“Why are you here?” You avoid the question, treading water and letting your tail drift. Willing the water to cool your senses. It was obvious that this man wasn’t a hunter—foolish, perhaps, but no hunter.

Or maybe just confidently brave.

The Fisherman hums under his breath, grunting in the way you’d already come to associate with him. Rugged fellow, really. Weathered like a pile of old rope but still handsome, the sinews under the stain of dirt pure of color. You found yourself, however apprehensive, enjoying the squareness of his face; how the brunette’s hair would sweep in the warm breeze.

He was attractive.

“Fishing, Ma’am.” A broad sweep of one of his hands, “You have a proper cove. Plenty of places to cast.”

Your tight arms somewhat loosen.

“Just fishing?” Your voice darkens. “Then why is it you’re here on shore and not doing just that.” Tail flickering, it lightly brings you back from him, eyes always darting away to stare into the background of his form—at the dark shadows of trees behind the dark rocks. At the open mouth of the cove in case of extra ships.

If what he told you earlier was true, you were in danger just by living.

Extinct? Not seen in years? No, that can’t be right. A deep knot forms in your stomach.

“I may be human, Ma’am, but I believe myself to be above intrusion.” The Fisherman splays his hands by his waist and shifts his thighs. He seems serious again, like a wave going forward and back he seemed to always revert to a crafted visage of firm resolve. “This is your home, and I’m asking to ferry my boat here when able. Nothing else.”

You blink in surprise, brows pulling back.

He was…asking you?

“I…own the cove no more than the Manticore owns the desert,” your voice stutters, oddly touched by his sincerity. You pause and push yourself farther above a wave. This large man didn’t seem cruel to you. “I have no claim on the waters—they have been here longer than I. Do as you wish.”

While that should have been the end of it, you found his blue eyes continuing to watch you, head tilted like a shaggy dog. Thinking deeply with a slight parting of his lips and rising to his lids.

At the intensity of his silent wonder, your head goes light. Had you said something strange? No, it was just the truth. Then…why was this man’s face going to a modest pink shade? Why were his eyes darting away from yours and his feet shifting?

You narrow at him before he speaks, clearing his throat and crossing his arms.

“Alright,” the Fisherman mutters, chest rumbling.

A silence falls where your ears twitch to the lapping of the sea-foam and the feeling of blood in your veins which mirrors such movements. As you saw him do to you, your vision falls to the man’s body; looking across the tapering of his waist and the rolled sleeves of his tunic—showing off years of muscle

“I don’t suppose…” Your tail flinches from the sudden noise from the brunette, expecting him to swim over to his boat and get to his business. You stare and listen, and for the first time, you believe a mermaid has been entranced by another's voice. “That I’ll have the pleasure of seeing you again?”

The Fisherman speaks slowly, hands shifting on his biceps; thighs tense and settle. You allow the waves to connect and slide around your body and a feeling reminiscent of warm rocks in the sun grows in your heart.

Strange, this man. This serious-faced Fisherman who asks one of the Merfolk for permission over the waters we don’t control. You tilt your head to teasingly mirror the brunettes. He humphs in his throat at your action. I enjoy him.

At the first sign of danger you’d leave—but for now…talking felt good.

“Perhaps,” you say, lips twitching into a smile. “Would this nameless Fisherman enjoy the company of a mermaid? Not many would say yes.”

“I think you’ll find I’m not like those many, then, yeah?” He smiles, a small twitch of his lips. You begin backing up, getting to deeper water while maintaining eye contact. “I don’t care what you are, just that we have an agreement.”

“Very well,” your neck dips under the waves, tail momentarily peaking above the surface. Blue flickers to it, shoulders lowering in hidden awe. The Fisherman’s lungs still.

He hears your giggle before you dive under, disappearing swiftly down to your caves with a splash.

It’s a long while before the brunette picks up his hat and begins walking the length of the shore—strong steps taking him back to his ship with a tiny smile brightening his ruggedly handsome face.

He runs a hand over his chin and chuckles.

“Fuckin’ hell.”

—

You perch on the side of the Fisherman’s boat, golden comb in your grip as you run it over and over through your locks. Tangles and knots are rendered useless to the fine and beautiful make of the object, the handle covered in small barnacles and seaweed. A nice breeze wafts in the air, and behind you, the padding of feet goes across the deck. With the sliding of nets and a small whistling from the Fisherman, you feel your tail gently sway from side to side; the bottom under the water whose waves rise and lower the vessel.

It had been a week since your first meeting and you had become more relaxed about this man’s presence. He had been truthful—every day he would come and fish.

At first, you’d watch from the black rocks, sitting atop them and studying. More than once you’d see the brunette raise a hand in greeting when his boat had entered the cove; an acknowledgment that you were there and nothing more. No expectation for you to come over or speak to him.

Day after day you’d see the net being thrown from the side only to be reeled back by large arms, legs apart and firm to the deck.

On day four, you swam over and grappled onto the side of the ship, curious. Before you could even realize he instantly knew you were there—despite his back being to you—the Fisherman spoke in a cheeky tone.

“Come up, then, if you’re that interested. No use watching from the water.” So you had, with a bit more fire to your cheeks than you thought mermaids could handle.

Now it was routine. The human man would pull into the cove and you would sit on the side of his fishing boat, doing whatever you wished as he worked.

You pull your comb through the ends of your hair, placing it down after and closing your eyes before your hands grab the shiny strands, twisting them. Under your breath, you hum in tune with the Fisherman’s whistled song; the notes like a growing symphony in your head.

Song to Merfolk is sacred and revered—everything sings, in its own right, and deserves careful crafting to fully understand.

“You seem to enjoy that,” you startle to a stop, eyes popping open. Sharply looking over your shoulder, you pause your hands. Staring, the man has completely stopped his work; nets at his feet with slapping fish of all colors stuck in the rope’s limp weavings.

He squints at your confused face.

“Rhythm.”

“Oh,” you offer a smile and watch him look away only to kneel down and begin separating his quarry. “If you’re worried I’ll sing around you, think nothing of it—I know what that could cause.”

The Fisherman hums, amused at you, “I’m not. I was complimenting you,” the knife at his belt glints in the light. “You have a pretty voice, Love.”

You shyly watch him, hair partly covering your visage, and catch a glimpse once more at the necklace he seems to always wear. Silver and shiny but still hidden.

“If you knew about my species, you wouldn’t be saying that.” Explaining lowly, the man grunts, sending a look your way as he tosses a Cod farther up the deck—you watch it flop around for a moment.

“Well,” the Fisherman explains, hands pausing and body leaning closer as one of his knees connects to the wood. It’s a teasing whisper that slides into your drum, and you find yourself nearly shivering from it. Blue eyes twinkle with mischief. “I did. No worries, I’ll never tell.”

A deep chuckle joins a lighter one, and your tail shimmers in the open light; scales vibrant and rich-looking. From what the brunette can see on the deck—the smaller plates that extend all the way up your navel to stop at your belly button—you know he stares at them.

Not a greedy, evil, stare…just one of hidden admiration. It was of no surprise to you that he found it beautifully uncanny.

You have no idea how to read this Fisherman; have no idea what he wants. You think he doesn’t want anything. On your face, a strange calm settles.

“Tell me, Fisherman,” his gaze snaps from your scales to your face, momentarily stopping at the dip of your neck as you turn as fully to him as you’re able from your perch. Your hand rests at your side; spine twisted halfway. “Who are you? No, I don’t mean your name. I want your person. You don’t act afraid of me—of what I am.” He stays kneeling and lets the net rest for now, his heart beating steadily in his breast. “There is more to you than a human at sea, surely.”

Your words are not accusatory, they lacked any sort of confrontation. Curiosity, though, like enclosed treasure, was stuck behind your tongue. He surprises you by standing and beginning to walk over, boots thumping.

As he nears, he sits down with a huff on the edge, right next to you.

There’s a moment when you both stare into each other's eyes as you feel the world shift. Blinking up at him, at the closer range you take into account the ancientness of his eyes and how it seemed, for such an alone man, it was making him look far older than he was. Still older than you, yes, but the sentiment still stands.

With his hat having been retired not five minutes earlier onto one of the many ship’s barren tops, you saw the streaks of sun-bleached strands in his brown hair. You unconsciously reach for your comb but stay your fingers as they flinch over the gold.

Storm-blue carefully glances away before coming back to you.

“Not much to know, Love,” the Fisherman’s brow raises, “you understand?”

“No,” you say, honestly, head tilting at him. He looks surprised, breath hitching.

“It’s just…there’s not much to tell, Sweetheart.”

Humans are strange creatures.

Not knowing this word game, you take your hand away from the comb and bring it to his chest, slipping under the neck of his tunic to grasp at the necklace he always wears. A hand snaps to your wrist almost immediately—a startling speed that makes you flinch.

Above your heads, seagulls squawk at you, but all you can gaze into are those pure blue orbs. They trap you, drag you down far faster than a whirlpool into the briny depths of hypnotic appeasement.

Perhaps you were naive to the magical whims of males that walk on two feet.

The Fisherman’s jaw clenches, eyes tightly narrowed at you in hesitance and veiled threat. You blink at him softly, not doing anything besides twitching your fingers and widening your sight. Before long, his hold loosens but doesn’t leave, allowing you on whatever it was you were doing yet still touching your damp flesh.

Lips parting, you don’t make a fuss. Instead, you hum under your breath and allow his calluses to scrape you. The toughness becomes a stark contrast to your own make-up.

Feels nice.

Your digits peel out the article of jewelry and you shift closer to look; bare chest brushing against his. You can feel his pulse through the brunette’s tunic, the way his throat shifts in a tense swallow of nothing.

The necklace held two pieces of small, round, silver and said the following.

“Jonathan Price, Captain, 141st company under the King.”

As you read, your tail gradually begins brushing his leg in its swaying. Through it all, the large Fisherman only slants his chin down and watches, breathing half through his mouth and half through his nose. You hear his throat clear; feel his grip squeeze your wrist.

It is a small and taken-aback kind of noise. He doesn’t move his hand.

You are happy he doesn’t.

“You’re a…Captain?” Asking, you look up shocked and aren’t taken aback by how close your face was to his. Even if your cheeks begin to burn at the beard bristles itching your nose.

“...Yes,” breathe puffs over the lower half of your face. Your fingers detangle from the Fisherman’s necklace and let it thump to his chest. “I was. Left.”

Blinking, you whisper, steadily, “What’s a…Captain…?”

A small sound is made in the back of his throat and he releases your wrist and pulls back before a loud bark of a laugh jerks his chest. You stare in innocent confusion, hair falling over your shoulders.

“What?” Gripping his mouth, Jonathan Price grounds himself by gripping his thigh as he chuckles.

“No, no,” he takes a deep breath and releases his face, smoothing down his beard quickly with amusement stuck in his smile. “Bloody hell, it’s nothing. Nothing at all, Love.”

He sends you a warm side glance and you huff, moving back and picking up your comb, getting back to brushing your locks again. You are acutely aware that you now know the Fisherman’s name, but refrain from saying anything until he does. Now you know why he reacted in such a way.

Your tail twitches in the water as fish brush past it and the brunette begins with a soft look.

“I was in charge of a small group of men—we had a ship. Far larger than this old girl,” he pats the deck, and you slow your motion to show that you are listening, intrigued. “We did what was needed of us, but there was a thin line that needed to be drawn to keep every bastard sane.”

Blue meets your eyes and the man’s expression darkens. Your fingers twitch as the breeze ravages his hair, chest tightening.

“And yours?” You ask softly, entranced and open, “What was your line, Captain Price?”

He hums after a small silence, sighing deeply. Along the hull of the boat, the waves rock the vessel gently side to side, and your mythical attention seems to entrap him far better than your voice could. His face loses that dark edge, well-trimmed beard relaxes as his jaw does.

The past it seems, looms over him like a tsunami.

Reaching up a slow hand, his fingers brush the tendrils of hair that had slipped out of your hold and were dangling in front of your face; the Fisherman blinks and pushes them back behind your ear. By now your brush had long stopped and your breath was held in your chest. For the first time in your life, you think you feel yourself shiver at the delicate scrape of his skin on yours.

“John,” he mutters, and you suck down a shallow breath as he watches you like you were an idol of the Gods, “Just John.”

Your smile leaves his fingers pressing deeper into your scalp and, perhaps a bit naively, you welcome him to you like a bird to the sky. You liked his gruffness—his beard and his face. The lines on his forehead that you could imagine tracing as if they belonged on a map instead of the squareness of this Fisherman’s profile. Tiny sockets that hold sapphire stones.

“Maybe I left because I couldn’t stand seeing such beautiful creatures being put to the hook, eh?” Your eyes widen, tiny gasp leaving your lips.

Merfolk swooned with flattery, truth be told. They enjoy being doted on and praised; given gifts of both words and objects. You were no different.

Oh…did he call me beautiful?

John smirks at your reaction, taking his hand off of you and standing with a low chuckle. Your tail flutters at the sudden absence, head following after him as he walks back to his net with a sway in his step. You blink in astonishment.

“You’re a strange human, John,” calling to him, you grimace at the blatant disappointment in your bones at the lack of his skin on yours. At his humored hum, you sense your growing attraction to the grind of his vocal cords. His voice. “I don’t know what to think of you.”

“Then think nothing of me,” he explains easily, casually, re-gathering his nets in his toned arms. You try not to let your jaw slacken at the bulge under his tunic when he carries them. “I’m not offended by it, Love.” A sly look, “Do as you wish.”

Your tail twitches so violently you’re afraid you might break the side of the ship.

And so this strange dance between the two of you continued well into the longer months—John would come in his ship nearly every day and you would join him on the side of the deck. Sometimes you would hum for him and he would whistle a tune back, others there were long bouts of conversation about the ways of humans and beasts. John told you that the King had ordered the total extinction of all manner of ‘strange and unordinary’ creatures to secure his line safely to the throne.

When he had explained it, the mad had gone red with anger.

“Fuckin’ muppet,” he’d spit, fiddling with his knife as you watched a small distance away, playing with his silver necklace in your hands. You twiddled it around and liked how it shimmered like your scales did in the light. “Bloody thought I would just go along with the deaths of innocent beings. He had no facts—no proof to back up his claim. I’ve done things. Horrible things,” John explained to you, sending you a stiff look, “but I’ve not forsaken my damn mind to reality. Takin’ the piss.”

Muttering the last sentence to himself, you had felt your lips curve into a smile. “You have a proper conscience, John, done bad or not.”

“Yeah, well, Sweetheart, I’ll be done in soon enough.” You only stared with care-drowned eyes and caressed his necklace. When he had seen this, his body had deflated with an exasperated grunt.

You shared a chuckle and he got back to work; feeling his melting gaze drawn back to you every so often.

Later, yet again, you found your form on his boat, this time with his hands across the small of your back as you studied the blade of his knife.

“Careful, now. Don’t run your finger along the edge.” His free grip points to the sharp side—breath fanning your ear. You feel your throat tighten and nod, caressing a thumb on the leather handle.

John’s hand is hard on your bare skin and you sense his heat drilling past your veins into the very marrow of your bones. You unconsciously sigh when his fingers slide slightly higher, traveling the length of your spine; his scars catching on every knob of bone. Your exploration stills and your pupils widen.

His breath is on your neck, nose tilting as his jaw does just above the meat of your shoulder.

“Why’d you stop?” You stare off into the metal, lashes fluttering when his fingers finally curve at the swell of your neck. Lips drag on your flesh before a deep grumble of affection stems from John’s chest as he kisses your rapid pulse. “Distracted? Hm.”

“It’s,” you breathe out, scales reflecting light as your lower body shifts on the wood. His opposite hand circles your waist, drawing your back to his chest. Skin burns and thoughts go to liquid as you feel his roving muscle. “It’s g-good. Pretty—”

Words fail you as his lips continue to slowly travel.

“Could say the same,” John grunts; beard scraping down your flesh.

Your eyes flutter, head tilting to give more room at the same time you whisper out, violently shivering at the compliment, “John…”

“What is it?” The grip moves to run over your scales, right where your upper hips would be; the sensation of him caressing you with gentle, deep, rubs of his thumb was all it took for you to give in completely to him. “Go on, Love, speak.”

You take a breath and feel his heart beating steady along your back—the texture of his tunic. “What…are you doing?”

John moves your hair and places open-mouthed kisses on the back of your neck. He breathes in your scent and you turn your light head to stare unabashedly at his flushed face. Your tail sways, limp, over the side of the boat.

Blown pupils hide that sea-storm blue like a lock and key to dangerous thoughts and attraction.

In answer, his eyes flicker down to your lips hungrily and your gaze widens; a small sound in the base of your throat.

“You’re somethin’ beautiful, y’know that?” He says and you let him lean in closer to your face, eyes threatening to close when you take in the musk of human flesh and sweat. Rope and wood oil. John’s words make you shiver again, hairs standing on end—responding to that deep growl with a roaring in your ears.

You shouldn’t be enjoying this. Shouldn’t be enjoying his lips or his tight grip; his…his rough, large, hands that encapsulate your body and drown you. It terrifies you, this heart-stopping magnetism. You can’t get enough of him.

John presses his firm lips to yours, groaning into the connection as you sigh and part your mouth. Fingers shaking, you twist and place your hands on his chest, gasping mutely as his teeth nip into your lower lip and pull back before pushing back forward. Sparks of subdued pain mix with pleasurable agony at the scrape of his beard hair.

“Every inch of you…” John’s grip captures you closer, hands ensnaring you against his chest like deeply intertwined strands of fabric, squeezing as he licks his upper lip. He catches his breath shallowly. Blue eyes burn through you. “...is fucking perfection.”

You grab at his necklace and drag him back in, feeling him not waste a single moment to grip the back of your head and keep you trapped to him, tongues slipping out of mouths to tangle together like seaweed. Perhaps it was foolish, but a part of you knew that this Captain, this strange Fisherman—this Johnathan Price—was the only man or being on this planet, land or sea, who could make you feel like you could walk and fly all at once.

When he lifts you in his arms and drops you in his lap as if your body weighed as much as a pebble, you knew you’d brave the open ocean for this man in an instant. His arm drips with water as it slips under the joint of your tail; where your knees would be if you had them, and you whine into his mouth at the slip of his fingers.

Intoxicated, drunk off of his scent and his pressure.

A dangerous mix of two different lives.

It couldn’t last.

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slugbeaker · 2 months ago

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Some moments I enjoyed from ACOK that kind of further solidify how alienated from Ironborn culture Theon has become. We see it of course in the bigger moments like him just not enjoying any of the reaving he is originally assigned to do with Dagmer and Aeron. But there were two smaller moments that stood out to me too.

"The walls of Winterfell were behind him, but Ser Rodrik faced them squarely and could not fail to see. Theon watched his face. When his chin quivered under those stiff white whiskers, he knew just what the old man was seeing. 'He is not surprised,' he thought with sadness, 'but the fear is there.'"

Even in the midst of using Beth Cassel as leverage to prevent Ser Rodrik from attacking the castle, and after Theon has become a known child killer by all the north, he is still only able to feel sadness when his plan to use Beth works as planned and makes Ser Rodrik hesitate because he is hurt that they are not surprised he would do something like this. Theon has spent ten years of his life among the people of the north and Winterfell specifically and has always to some degree been looked at as a ticking time bomb of a threat, a boy they do not doubt will return to the Greyjoy way if given the chance. Theon has unfortunately proven them right and while that WAS his intent, to show his loyalty to his blood family and the Ironborn, all it has brought him is the realization that he hates to be viewed in this manner near as much he did being viewed a hostage. It excuses none of the more awful things he does in ACOK, but he really is the Prince of Being Caught Between a Rock and a Hard Place in this book lol. Despite how hard he tries, Theon cannot commit to one lifestyle over the other and it leaves him with nothing. The other quote is when the Boltons come and slaughter Ser Rodrik and his men, 'saving' Theon and the Ironborn:

"The crows came in the blue dust, with the evening stars. "The Dothraki believe the stars are spirits of the valiant dead," Theon said. Maester Luwin had told him that, a long time ago.

"Dothraki?"

"The horselords across the narrow sea."

"Oh. Them." Black Lorren frowned through his beard. "Savages believe all manner of foolish things."

Theon tries to say, in his own way, some kind words for the dead that the Boltons are responsible for, these men who he used to serve with side by side. In his mind, words from a warrior culture similar but not the same to the Ironborn, where the dead may be remembered as stars, is probably another way he is trying to assuage his guilty conscience. These men are dead because of him after all. But this is not how an Ironborn is meant to react to violence and Black Lorren appears uncaring at best and put off at worst from Theon's attempt to eulogize these dead northmen. Also of course the irony of him considering the Dothraki savage people when to the rest of Westeros the Ironborn are VERY much considered savage as well.

This isn't even really a thought out analysis lol I just was struck by these moments on .y reread. Theon is....sensitive. And no matter how much he tries to shove that down, and no matter how awful he can be, and he CAN be, he cannot change that part of himself. He's not that guy. Hopefully coming to terms with that in the final two books is a part of his reclaiming his identity storyline.

#asoiaf #a song of ice and fire #theon greyjoy #a clash of kings #analysis #kind of lol more like word vomiting

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activistwitch · 10 days ago

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youtube

Illegal Women

on the UK Supreme Court Ruling on the definition of biological sex and why it should piss you off too.

I won’t have the patience nor ability to go into it in detail as my spouse Raven has done us the gift to do, so my best advice right off the bat is for you to set aside a couple of hours, a glass of wine or any other nervous sedation of your persuasion, and put this on your TV

for a quick and insufficient TL:DR, on Wednesday 15th of April the UK Supreme Court published a ruling on the definition of Biological Sex. That’s because two Gender Critical (TERF) organisations, with money funnelled from the likes of JK Rowling and the american Heritage Foundation (the ones who wrote project 2025 and to whom you owe the current state of the US fascist regime), decided to take the Scottish Parliament to court a few years ago.

The offence? Including Trans Woman in a Bill for quotas in boards of directors, so that it would be enshrined in law that at least 50% of the members of a board had to be women. Of course, both cis and trans.

Ben Cooper, the same lawyer who took Tavistock to court on behalf of Keira Bell, the same lawyer who again, paid partially by JK Rowling defended Maya Forstarter and furthered trans oppression, wrote a pamphlet of “rules” out of the most terfist, gender critical ideology that one can possibly imagine. Despite many a trans person and organisations asked the court to bring also their knowledge and lived experience as witness, they were all rejected.

And now the UK Supreme Court has simply put their signature and ratified the definition of “woman” terfs gave them: someone with gestational capacity.

read it again.

“but what about menopausal women?! but what about people with reproductive health issues? without uteruses? who cannot bear children?”

Oh yeah you got it, any reasonable argument against it has been shrugged at.

You thought telling terfs “if you want toilets to be single sex spaces based on genitals do you want this bearded trans me in them!?” was a gotcha? Here they are showing us that in a world where you have billionaire fascists behind you, you don’t need to be right to win.

And in fact according to this rule now, all trans women, and also trans men “who look too masculine” are now excluded.

Like Jess o’Thomson covers in her first article about this legal absurdity: this is Gender Critical’s gloating at having their cake and eat it too, making it clear that if you thought reason, science, facts, were anything to describe the world by? You were sorely mistaken. All it takes is money and the white cis het able establishment to make the rules. about people they have no representation or idea of, and that they openly rejected the witness of.

In this video Raven has put over 7 years of research, because the moment we stepped into the awareness of our queerness, of our transness, we knew we had to have every single little bit of information to advocate and defend ourselves.

and now it’s proof that even that, can be not enough.

And they don’t even hide it anymore. Here’s JK Rowling reaction to the ruling, behind which it is public knowledge, she put 70000£ of her own money. When Labour won in July 2024 she also demanded a meeting making sure Labour’s policies earned her donations (in the realm of Millions of pounds) by guaranteeing gender critical stances.

if you’re wondering what is happening, how is this happening, how did we go from Tory Prime Minister Theresa May saying in 2017 that she would have reformed the Gender Recognition Act of 2004 to de-medicalise it “because trans is not an illness”, to Labour re-appointing Baroness Falkner into the “Equality and Human Rights Commission” who had already been called out by 30+ LGBTQ+ organisations as doing the exact opposite the label said, this is the story.

sit down, listen, learn, and understand why this ruling harms you whether you’re cis or trans.

This ruling is a stepping stone into the complete annihilation of bodily autonomy for everyone.

This is the kind of people that with no shame, has paid for women’s rights to be rolled back (cis woman in a lesbian relationship with a trans woman? Fuck you, you’re not a lesbian anymore, the court ruling actually says that) and tells you you are now “protected”.

you decide who you need protection from now, or next when they tell you that elective hysterectomy because of your endometriosis is not quite something They think you need, especially if you’re white and of child bearing age.

Cause if the population is shrinking, but the war on immigrants is at an all time high, where do you think new labourers will need to come from?

Two seminal pieces of work this research could not have come together without are here on substack, go check them out

@taliabhattwrites The Third Sex

@dolphin-diaries Detrans Women v. Trans Men, Or: The Sanity Of Sex Change

Go watch the full video to understand where Trans People come from, and how since the 1960s trans rights have been rolled back, with the courts hiding cases for precedent, and overall protecting the statue quo with patriarchy at the top happily supporting capitalism. Cause that’s what it all ends up to be: this shows you don’t need to be right to win, you just need to be rich.

#activist witch #youtube #fuck jkr #anti jkr #transgender #trans pride #trans woman #trans rights #bodily autonomy #fuck transphobes #intersectional feminism #intersectional activism #intersectionality #Youtube #uk trans #uk supreme court #fuck the uk #lgbt #trans

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levissslutt · 17 days ago

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warnings: 18+ MDNI smut choking, bondage, trauma, smoking, mentions of abuse and drug use wc: 5591

The Mechanic pt 4

A few hours had gone by since you and Joshs private yoga session. Now sitting at your vanity mirror you were getting ready for the date he'd promised you. Makeup was never really your thing, lashes and lipgloss was the only way to go.

Standing in front of your floor length mirror, it clicked that you had never been taken on a date, a real one at that, and you were beginning to get nervous. All the yahoos you've been with before just wanted you for sex, or to use you as arm candy.

You allowed it because truth be told you thought guys where only interested in your high sex drive. Being the way you are, you learned very quickly most men loved being dominated, but would never ever admit it, you had to bring it out of them, and that was what stuck with the men you'd been with, not any other reason.

And that hurt.

Josh was different, everything about him was so confident and easy going. You didn't have to fill the conversations the two of you had with awkward small talk, you never head to guess what he was thinking, because not only does Josh wear his emotions on his sleeve he expressed himself without, degrading you or looking over you.

Men don't do that, they don't show emotion and when they do they lash out in anger and in fear that they'll be seen as feminine. It's a viscous cycle, because unfortunately, other women are the cause of men thinking that way. They definitely do enough on their own, but you made it a point to not be one of those women, especially not to Josh.

In the short time you've known him, you felt more heard and understood than you've ever been, and it felt so good.

Fixing your jeans in the mirror you gave final touches to your look. Fitted low waisted flare jeans with a green flowy blouse that was longer in the back, than in the front, leaving your figure on display. Josh had mentioned before that he liked seeing you in green, so this was your chance to really wrap you around his finger. You finished the look witch matching green kitten heels. Your jeans fell perfectly showing your freshly white painted toes.

You figured you keep it cute, casual, and simple, because you didn't actually know where he was taking you.

Josh mentioned he liked white toes too, he was going to snap you in half if you kept it up.

A light knock pulled you out of your trance, the butterflies in your stomach began to flutter even more, you opened the door to reveal Josh in a blue buttoned up polo, with jeans and white forces, a combination you also had mentioned you liked seeing him in.

The two of you eyed each other up and down, no words where said.

You were the one to break the silence.

"Are you going to give me those orrrr."

You chuckled lightly as you motioned towards the bouquet of light pink flowers he had in his hand, the bouquet was bigger than his head. What a site that was, this tall muscular man littered in tribal tats, holding a bright pink mountain of flowers.

"Hi Bella."

'Good god almighty, please let me get through the night with this girl.'

He prayed silently to himself, trying to pull every ounce of decorum he had back together, because if he had none he'd take you right outside and fuck you in your driveway.

You were watching him have an inner battle with himself and a shit eating grin was plastered on your face, you knew you shouldn't provoke him, but how could you not when he was practically drooling at your front door.

"Hi Joshua."

He pulled your hand to his lips pressing a soft feathery kiss to your knuckles, simultaneously pulling you towards him.

"You are so beautiful Bella."

He whispered against your ear as his hand rested on the small of your back. Finally he stepped back, handing you the flowers. The same grin returning to your face.

"Thank you my handsome boy."

His face flushed at your words, he tried to turn, but you grabbed him by his beard tugging him back to your lips.

"What you blushing for Fatu."

He stepped back really taking you in, a grin plastered on his face, cheeks still rosey.

"You really is something else Bella, bring yo ass on girl." he chuckled.

And with that he led you to his car, an all black pick up, the ones with tinted windows and wheels damn near a big as the car. He had to lift you up just so you could get in the passenger seat.

"Now why would you pick me up in this forklift and I got on heels."

He snorts as he started the car, "How the hell was I supposed to know yo fine ass was gon put on heels."

He paused and answered his own question before you could, "then again, I shouldve known yo fine ass was gon put on heels."

You smiled , "eggggzactly."

The car ride was a bit long, but the time the two of you spent together always felt like a dream. He almost felt too good to be true, you hated that lingering thought, because was it so hard to believe that someone just genuinely liked you, Bella, for who you are ?

"What you thinking about over there?"

Josh voice broke you out of your inner monologue, his right hand rested on your upper thigh.

"Nothing, just anxious."

"Ive known you for only about a month now, and imma let you know that I know that you know that I know you lying, so imma ask again, what you thinking about over there, don't tell me you second guessing this."

You shook your head immediately, because that was far from the case.

"I just- I don't know Josh."

Your voice got real quiet, he noticed the way you head hung trying to hide the glossiness of your eyes. The facade you had up for him was crumbling in this moment.

He pulled into an empty lot backing in. Turning to look at you he grabbed your face. He hated the look he saw in your eyes. Trauma.

That's what it was. He was looking into the eyes of a girl who had been treated any kind of way, and here he was giving her his attention and she thinks she doesn't even deserve it. Absolutely not.

He saw through you the second he looked into to your eyes.

"Bella look at me sweet girl."

The tears had began to fall and you were angry, not at him, but because he saw through you, you tired so hard to keep that wall up and the closer you got to the destination of your date, the smaller you felt.

His index finger and thumb hooked under your chin, lifting it in his direction. His heart clenched at the sight, where was that fiery Bella he had grown to love.

He didn't know what was going through your head, but there was one thing he did know. Well two actually, the first was that he was absolutely asking you to be his girlfriend tonight, and for two he silently vowed that he never wanted to see that look in your eyes again.

"What's going on baby."

He wiped your tears, as you silently cried into his hand.

"I - I don't deserve this."

He pulled you into his lap, embracing you.

"Man I don't know who got you thinking like that, but you deserve the fucking world Bella. You work your ass off everyday, you got degrees for days on top of a masters, girl you got your own business, house, car. You take care of yourself too, you so damn beautiful it don't make no sense, its pissing me off actually seeing you like this, cause it just don't make no sense."

He was actually getting upset, but in the wake of your feelings. He hated whoever had done this to you. Hated the way you trembled slightly against him, he hated how quickly your mood changed. Trauma was a helluva thing.

Holding you in a way that he could look down into your eyes he said:

"You are worth so much more than whatever situations you were put in, you are worth so much more than just sex Bella, you are worthy of love and compassion, and honesty, if you give me the time of day id love nothing more than to prove to you that whoever was before me was doing it all fucking wrong, had a diamond and didn't even know it."

You wiped your face, finally calming down. Really the way his voice wavered towards the end of the sentence was the reason you looked up.

"Why're you upset Josh.

He smiled down at you, "im pouring my heart out to yo ass and you wondering why im upset."

A slight smile brushed your lips, "well I just didn't mean to make you upset Josh, I just never have been with someone like you, and I just got very overwhelmed."

He slid you back into the passenger seat, but never let go of your hand.

"You aren't the reason im upset, the way you think about yourself is what makes me upset, because I just don't understand how you not seeing what im seeing."

You giggled slightly, drying the last of the tears on your face.

"I think I do see what you see, Im just scared of being hurt."

He shook his head slightly, "Imma have to respectfully disagree, I don't think you seeing what Im seeing at all."

He put the car back into drive, peeling off.

"But don't worry Imma change that real quick."

After a 45 minute drive and a mental breakdown, the two of you finally pulled into a brightly lit restaurant right on the outskirts of the city, the city line being perfectly visible.

He lifted your hand to his lips, brushing your knuckles lightly, just as he did earlier. This time it felt like a promise, it felt like he was telling you something through the gesture, and for now you allowed yourself to bask in the feeling.

Rounding the car he carefully lifted you out, placing you on the ground.

You were caught up by the city line view, never had you seen it from this angle, and wow was it pretty, you hadn’t even noticed Josh holding out his hand for you.

Your heart skipped a beat, you didn’t know why, all he was doing was holding his hand out, yet his big brown eyes contracted with his muscular build, made you feel everything times ten. Being around him literally amplified your senses . The fuck was he doing to you.

You tried to recover quickly after gawking at the man, but you knew by now all too well that he misses nothing, his warm smile stretching across his face.

“What am I going to do with you, hmm.”

As the two of you walked up to the restaurant you pecked his cheek.

“Put me in your pocket for safe keeping.”

He snorted, "You know what I just might."

He led you into the restaurant, greeting the host to be seated. The host then led the two you to a balcony on the second floor, it was closed off and private, perfect.

It overlooked the city which Josh knew you would love. As the two of you were seated he held a chair out for you, your face a dusty shade of pink at the action.

The slightest hint of a smile and a twinkle in his eye never left his features, the entire night was perfect. The laughs the two of you shared had your stomach aching, the two of you talked of your past, present and future, and possibly what the two of y'alls future held as well.

"I know we haven't known each other long, but you're incredible Bella, like deadass you really just, I don't know."

He rubbed the back of his head, breaking eye contact. His shyness made you smile, sometimes he knew exactly what to say and had you blushing other time he was like this and you couldn't get enough.

He looked too fine with the tips of his ears red and his eyes innocent and unfocused.

"Im sorry about earlier, I just got overwhelmed, you have shown me nothing but kindness and compassion, Im just not used to that is all."

Pausing to steady your breathing, he reached across the table to hold your hand as you finished.

"If you'll be patient with me, Id love to spend more time with you."

You where certain his cheeks hurt from how much he'd been cheesing at you today. His capped canines shining as he smiled, again.

"Im so glad you feel that way."

He reached underneath the table picking up a big cylinder black box and set it on the table, sliding it towards you.

It had a shiny black bow wrapped around it, that you tugged at gently releasing it. The grin on his face never wavering.

You lifted the top of the box and inside was another bouquet of flowers, this time they were white, you slightly gasped at the realization.

"Forever flowers."

On top was a small handwritten note that was no other than Joshuas of course, it read :

"Our time together so far may have been short, but if you'll allow me the extraordinary honor to begin this journey together, lets start with forever."

You laughed out loud at the note, the man across from you had his head in his hands from embarrassment.

"Are you trying to quote Twilight Josh?"

"Well cause you know- your name.."

That made you laugh harder, cause he was dead serious.

" I don't think that's exactly what he says, but you know what I couldn't care less."

You got up rounding the table. Hovering over him you cupped his face, bringing his lips to yours.

"If I didn't know any better I think you just asked me to be your girlfriend Mr. Fatu."

"If I didn't know any better I think you just said yes."

He pulled you into his lap, showering you with kisses.

He held you there as the two of you watched the sun set, the evening was turning out to be better than you could've ever imagined, the simplicity, but thoughtfulness of it all, was more than you could appreciate .

He paid the bill and tipped the waiter, leading you back out to his truck with his hand on the small of your back.

You were damn near giddy, practically skipping next to him.

He had asked you to be his girlfriend. Never did you think someone would go out of there way to make you feel special for such a simple title, but then again Josh made it very clear that there was nothing simple about you.

This time the car ride was short, it was about 10 minutes from the restaurant, another overlook of the city. The view never got old, it was mesmerizing and captivating, looking at the city line made you think of all the possibilities, and it hit harder because you felt the same way looking at Josh.

His eyes held such tranquility and security, it was hard to not get trapped in a trance.

He parked the car, so the two of you could continue to enjoy the view.

"I appreciate tonight Josh."

He squeezed your knee, "You deserve more than this, it was just incredibly last minute, but that's my favorite restaurant and what better way is there to start a new chapter of our lives, than to bring you there."

Reaching in the middle console he pulled out a pack and a lighter.

"You smoke ?"

You nodded quickly "everyday."

He raised an eyebrow to that not expecting that answer.

"Well Ill be."

He handed you one of the blunts he had already rolled along with the lighter, allowing you to light it, taking a long inhale of smoke before hading it back.

You watched him do the same before returning your attention back to the city lights. His hand never left your knee, the two of you sat in comfortable silence, while his playlist hummed as background noise.

"Can I meet your son, if you don't mind?"

He smiled turning to you, clearly not expecting you to bring the topic up on your own.

"I was going to ask, but I was nervous and I didn't want to push it on you or him or make anyone uncomfortable."

You giggled at him, "my goodness Josh its ok, you talking a mile a minute."

He chuckled along with you. Truth be told he had been wanting to bring up the topic for a few days now, just didn't know how. He was more than relieved that it was on your mind as well.

His shoulders relaxed a little at the weight he didn't realize he'd been carrying.

You could tell he chose his next words very carefully.

"Me and him been through a lot, he's seen shit no child should have to, been through even more. His mom was a drug addict. I helped her get clean and in the process somehow fell in love with her."

His entire demeanor changed into something you'd never seen before, his jaw flexed and his eyes where glossy, and not in the way you liked to see.

"I should've know people like that don't change. She managed to stay clean when I got her pregnant but after that, she just let go. Bella I found my boy strapped in his car seat covered in cigarette ashes and burns. He had been there for days man, his little fingers were blue and he was barely alive."

Tears where pooling at the brim his eyes at this point, you held his hands in your as you let him vent. Horrified by what you were hearing.

"His mom had overdosed in the room over, and apart of me hates myself for making her his mom, but that was in the past. He's strong and healthy, happy and alive. He's got so much personality and I just know he going to do something big, shit maybe change the world."

The mood lighted as he finished, wiping his face he turned to you.

"Ive never brought another women home for him to meet. I thought maybe if I was the only adult in his life he'd never have to feel pain like that again."

Your heart broke at the story he was telling you. How could someone neglect their child in that way. Then again it seemed like unfortunately she wasn't mentally stable, and Joshs son had to reap the consequences of that fact.

Another beat of comfortable silence washed over the two of you. It was peaceful that you could sit in each others presence after a heavy topic or just at all, without having to feel the space.

Taking another drag of your blunt and tapping it on the ashtray, you swung your legs to rest on his. By instinct he rested his hands protectively over your thighs.

Something crossed his brain in an instant.

"What was that you said to me earlier?"

Your heart damn near jumped out the car, immediately knowing what he was talking about.

"See nah you can't do that cause in the, moment Ian hear you but if im not mistaken you said it back so ha."

He was laughing the whole time you were talking.

"Say it again so I know you mean it baby."

"What if I don't."

He grinned, golds showing.

"You testing me?"

"Maybe"

"I could always make you you know." His hand was running up and down your leg at this point.

You grinned pulling him to you by his beard, he fucking loved when you did that, it never got old.

Kissing him like he'd disappear at any second. He put the blunt that was barely even lit anymore out, pulling you to him with ease.

He kissed you back with such intensity it made you dizzy gripping his shoulders for stability. He nipped at your bottom lip, wanting access and you gave in without a second thought.

He had on a cuban chain and you tucked an idea into the back of your head.

You let him take control. In reality he just took it, that was another thing about the two of you, neither was shy to let the other take control, it felt good and freeing.

His hands found your bare back exploring your skin inch by inch, he wanted to memorize you and never forget what you felt like, each dip and muscle.

His tongue explored your mouth, completely in dominance, you were breathless at this point, letting him taking control, and god did you enjoy it.

The sun had pretty much set by now, casting the sky and car in a deep blue haze. His windows tinted making it even darker. Pushing his seat all the way back to give you more access you managed to free him of his polo, him doing the same to your blouse.

His eyes landed on the jewelry immediately, his actions freezing.

You hadn't had jewelry in your nipple piercings for the past few weeks due to a bad reaction from a pair you got from the hair store, in hindsight you should've known better. Before he showed up, you found a pair you already had, that never did you wrong, cleaning them throughly you put them in just before he showed up, hoping he wasn't paying too much attention to that area.

Thank god he wasn't because his reaction was priceless, if he wasn't hard already he had stiffened so much you knew he had to be uncomfortable in his jeans by now.

He said nothing, but the look, the fucking look in his eyes wasn't one you had seen before, you'd seen him hungry and begging. But this?

He looked at you as if you where a diamond in the rough, something he could never let go of. The look scared you, but in a good way, you knew he meant everything he said or did, every gesture has a purpose.

"Fuck Bella."

He whispered ever so softly as he dipped his head to wrap his lip around one of your buds, sucking and pulling softly at the metal there.

Your head craned back giving him more access, which he appreciated. One of his hands lifted to the other bud twirling it between his fingers.

Soft moans left your lips as he made love to you chest, switching between the two mounds as if they held good luck. Your fingers were tangled in his hair, head thrown back, hips rocking into his, his resolve was crumbling, fast.

He all but threw your ass into the back seat, he climbed on top of you, quickly. His fingers hooked onto his waistband of your low jeans tugging them off.

"You are the sexiest woman I've ever laid eyes on, girl do you have on green laced panties, where the fuck they even sell these at."

You giggled slightly at his astonishment, although you had clearly done it on purpose, you shrugged innocently as you lifted off the seat for him.

He marveled in the beauty that sat in front of him, spread like a perfectly buttered roll. His mouth was practically watering a the sight.

His movements were slow and deliberately teasing at first, swirling his tongue on your clit, and then teasing your entrance with his tongue, God was he driving you crazy.

He devoured you in the backseat of his truck, hands tangled in his hair, he was damn near purring at the satisfaction of pleasing you, licking up every drop of you.

Your moans filled the tiny space, windows fogging slightly. Your hips bucked into him, still sensitive from the heated session in the studio.

But he wasn't having it, he loved seeing you come undone for him just as much as you loved seeing him. His hands clasped around your hip pinning you to the car seat. His tongue moved faster now, flicking over your soaked bud.

Your hips stuttered, wanting- needing more, but Josh did not let up, he held you down with authority.

"You taste like heaven."

His voice rumbled against you, causing your head to spin. Words were no where to be found, only soft moans left your lips, getting louder by the minute, you were coming undone quickly and he knew it.

"Come on brat where's that pretty voice of yours."

You were so close, his beard ticking you in just the right places sending shivers up your spine.

"Joshhh."

His name left your lips like a pur. His senses heightened against you wanting nothing more than to taste every bit of you. His tongue dipped inside of you, just the way you liked it, filling you with his tongue, seeing more ripples of pleasure through your body.

He unhooked his hand from your hip bringing it down, and replacing his tongue with two of his fingers. The gasp that left your lips had him grinning, his movements picking up.

He was flicking his tongue against your clit as he pump two fingers in and out of you, your hips rocking, head thrown back.

"Fuck Im- fuck Josh."

"Mhmm talk to me princess."

He had you pinned with one arm, but that didn't stop the orgasm that hit you like a freight train. Hips fighting against him, beard soaked, literally, and he was laughing.

"Look at you baby, pussy talking to me so nice."

Your pussy clenched against his fingers as you came, and he didn't let a drop go to waste. He removed his fingers and the sensation made you gasp. He tapped your pussy lightly with his hand, sending more waves of pleasure through you.

Leaning back onto the center console he watched you come down from your high, eyes fluttering back into focus at the man in front of you. He looked like a sculpted painting, a thin layer of sweat glistened on his skin, his gold grills had his bottom lip tucked in, watching you, savoring how you looked in front of him.

Finally composing your self you sat up leaning into him. His dick jumped in his pants, begging to be released, and you gave in, immediately.

Unbuckling his built and tugging them down, he sprung into view. He was veiny and leaking again.

"Joshua my love your always so wet for me."

You locked eyes with him as you spoke, swiping your tongue across his leaking tip. His eyes practically rolled to the back of his head, teeth barred.

"You know what ma."

He huffed out, barely even audible.

There he was, that submissive Joshua, his eyes twinkled when he was like this, arms tense, biceps flexing, like he was doing all he could to keep it together.

He’d gone silent, eyes closed, head dropped to the side.

“Look at me pretty boy.”

His eyes snapped to yours at the nick name, brows furrowed. And there it was that twinkle in his eyes.

You watched the brown of his eyes disappear asf you took him all the way in, his pubic hair tickling your nose in the best way.

He hands opened and closed in the air, as if he was really restraining from touching you.

In one motion you spun the two of you around so he was no longer straddling the arm rest, but sitting in the backseat, man spread perfectly for you.

He obeyed like the good boy he was, his eyes were locked onto you, watching every movement, there was something else there, a threat?

His eyes held a sincerity that had him looking like a lost puppy, but there was an edge to the look he was giving you, like “try it if you want, and see what happen.”

His eyes were speaking the words his mouth couldn’t .

Thinking back to earlier how you teased him and unlocked something in him you’d never seen before, that allowed him to dominate you in a way you’d never been handled before, you decided to take it further. Intrigued.

You tried to play it cool, taking him out of your mouth slowly. You pecked his tip on your way up. Now completely straddling him, you reached for his hands, bringing them above his head, he was so out of it his eyes fluttered close before he could realize what was happening.

Why did you have these in your purse ? The world may never know. Moving slowly to make sure he didn’t get suspicious, you felt around in your purse for what you where searching for.

Feelings the hard plastic you pulled it out and quickly zip tied both his wrists to the arm rest.

His eyes shot open, immediately trying to free himself.

“Bella. On my soul you better take these off.” he growled.

Ignoring him, you asked what his safe word was. His face flushed even more at the though that you weren’t taking them off.

“Waffles.”

He answered through gritted gold plated teeth.

You smiled patting his cheek.

"Good boy."

You were certain you saw steam coming out of his ears.

You knew you weren't playing with fire, but molten hot lava, fucking with this man the way you were, but the surge of power you felt when you fucked him was unmatched.

You almost weren't sure what to do with him next, too exited at the possibilities, but nonetheless you found your self sinking onto his length, your dripping cunt, soaking his stomach.

He couldn't even look at you, every inch of his face was beet red, all the way from his neck to the tip of his ears. The thought from earlier flashed across your brain, you reached up and grabbed his cuban links that hung beautifully around his neck.

Using it as leverage you fucked him, hard. Using every bit of core and leg power you had, you lifted yourself up off of him, slamming down, over and over and over.

He was groaning beneath you, his voice the only thing keeping you going.

"F-fuck just mmhhmm just like that."

His voice was up several octaves, sweat beading on his forhead, and for some reason he still would not look you in the eye. You used your free hand to yank him forward by his beard. the other hand never leaving his cuban.

"Why won't you look at me-

He was crying. No fucking way.

Not just tears, you've seen tears in his eyes before. They'd fallen, streaking his beautiful caramel skin, his brown eyes red and puffy. His mouth was parted, bottom lip trembling. A masterpiece.

You leaned into him, kissing his face, as your hips continued snapping into his. The pleasure was overwhelming, your thighs where burning, but you didn't care.

He choked out a cry, biting his lip.

"Bellaa o-oh my god."

You grinned at him, what a sight this was. His moans where louder now, arms thrashing against the seat, he was completely helpless.

"Baby- Im finna- Bella please, please, fuckk."

His words came out short and cut off, not being able to form an actual sentence. His hips stuttered into yours, you knew he was close, and you where too by the knot that began to unravel at the pit of your stomach.

The feeling was ethereal.

He came violently, all but fucking screaming your name, pulling and tugging at the ties, you knew he was either going to have bruises or cuts in his wrist from the restraining he was doing, you felt a little sorry, but not that much.

Your head was tucked into his neck as you rode out your high on him, your hips stuttering against him just as much as his.

"Fuck Josh, this shit is mine."

You reached up untying one of the zipties, but he was too fast, the same hand flew to your neck, slamming you against the center console, the force snapping the other one in the process. He probably wore the plastic out by now causing it to snap the way it did.

The breathe was knocked from your lungs and when your eyes refocused you almost wished they hadn't. Josh had tears still staining his cheeks, but the look in his eye was something of complete sin.

He mouthed "you fucked up."

You knew you did, however, he not once used his safe word, you might just gag him like the slut he is next time.

He was inside of you before you could draw your next breathe, fucking you into oblivion. One thing you noted is he didn't bother asking you what your safe word was, because he knew, he just knew you'd never actually tell him to stop.

His large hand never left your neck, much like how he'd have bruising from those zipties, you were sure there would be a Joshua sized hand print on your neck. He was choking you as he fucked you, the pleasure mixed with the feeling of barely being able to breathe was too much, the edges of your vision going dark, but every-time it did he'd release just enough for your lungs to feel back up with air.

it wasn't long before your pussy clamped around him, releasing ecstasy. he wasn't far behind nutting inside of you, filling you to the brim. His hand slid from your throat to your clit, swirling his thumb across it in tight fast circles.

Your legs where shaking at this point.

"J-josh too muchhh fuckkk."

He wasn't having that, he had you pinned in place the best way he could as he overstimulated your pussy. The edges of your vision went black again and this time it was from your orgasm. You squirted all over him, completely soaking his torso in your juices.

He froze, smiling.

"I didn't know you could do that pretty girl, would've had yo ass giving me showers all this while."

You wasn't hearing a word he had to say, you were exhausted, your hips burned and your body was completely fucked out. He scooped you up leaning into the back seat of the car.

"I really do love you Joshua." You said eyes damn near closed.

He kissed your neck pulling you even closer. "I love yo ass too Bella, don't care if it's too soon."

And that's how the two of you fell asleep, butt ass naked, overlooking the city. Smiles plastered on both of yalls faces as you fell asleep, holding the other as closely as you could.

taglist:: @mselenalovebug @duhitzkay380 @theusotwinzcom @uceyliyahh @brwnlikefoxy @that-90s-girllll @blkgirlsneedlove2 @keenagurl @luuvprincess @transparentphantomface @yana3sworld @bebesobrielo

a/n: y’all might want to pray after this one😩😩 i’m not gon lie Bella and Josh’s story is coming to an end, there will be one more part after this and I appreciate y’all so much for showing this fic love, I’ve said it before but i’ll keep saying it i didn’t plan on this fic having multiple parts, i’ve literally only been inspired by y’all so i appreciate it it more than you know and i hope you enjoy 🫶🏼🫶🏼

#jey uso #uceyjucey #big daddy uce #main event jey uso #jey uso imagine #black oc #jey uso fanfiction #jey uso one shot #jey uso imagines #jey uso wwe #jeyuso #wwe jey uso #jey uso fanfic #jey uso smut #jey uso x black oc

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reccyls · 1 month ago

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Victor's Main Route: Chapter 3

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Includes the letter

One quiet night in the palace, a number of men were huddled together as if trying to stay hidden, speaking among themselves.

Plump Councilman: Did you see those envoys from Germany? That Vogel group.

Bearded Councilman: Yes, I did. The ones in white, correct?

Elderly Councilman: So the German Emperor has his own pack of Cursed Ones, same as Her Majesty.

As they whispered among themselves, their expressions remained skeptical. Dissatisfaction radiated from them.

Plump Councilman: Just what is Her Majesty thinking? Collecting riff-raff from god knows where to be part of ‘Crown’ is one thing. Plump Councilman: And with these new visitors… it wouldn’t surprise me if she was trying to consolidate more power.

Bearded Councilman: That aide says it’s all to foster better relations, but who knows if that’s the truth.

The man let out a deep sigh as he stroked his beard. The elderly councilman gave him a sidelong glance before speaking.

Elderly Councilman: Speaking of Crown, it seems they’ve taken in a rather… middling guest. Elderly Councilman: The woman seems to have been granted the title of ‘Fairytale Keeper’ but it’s unclear what she actually does. Elderly Councilman: The aide only said that she was assisting him with his work when I asked. Elderly Councilman: I believe we should be paying more attention to that woman than to Vogel.

The plump councilman almost burst out into laughter at the other man’s suggestion.

Plump Councilman: You can’t be serious! She’s a mere commoner! There’s no reason to pay a worthless nobody like her any mind.

Elderly Councilman: That supposes she remains a worthless nobody.

Plump Councilman: Are you saying that she could be threatened into giving up information about Crown? Plump Councilman: That would be quite the boon if so. Plump Councilman: I’ve had quite enough of Her Majesty taking in mongrels while tossing us to the side.

Elderly Councilman: While that may be the case, Crown isn’t the only problem.

Bearded Councilman: …Do you think it wasn’t a coincidence, and she approached Crown deliberately?

The elderly councilman nodded gravely.

Plump Councilman: But why, though? It’s not like she can do anything even if she’s ingratiated herself with them.

When the elderly man next spoke, his voice was so low it was nearly inaudible. What he said caused everyone’s expressions to change.

Plump Councilman: …Surely not. She’s just a normal woman.

Elderly Councilman: We mustn't forget the crimes that the common folk can commit when working in concert with one another. Elderly Councilman: They infiltrated the very heart of the government. They may have even-

Victor: They may have even what, exactly?

The men froze as a voice called out to them from behind. They were as still as statues, unable to even blink from the dread that raced through them. The only sound to be heard was of them gulping in fear. A chill ran through their bodies, their mouths suddenly dry, fingers trembling.

Victor: You must all be very good friends, to be having a chat like this in the middle of the night. Victor: I’m sure Her Majesty would be overjoyed to see such camaraderie.

The moonlight streaming in through the window highlighted Victor’s sharp features.

Bearded Councilman: Ah, this is…

Victor: I’m aware you were speaking about Her Majesty’s guest. However…

He stood there as if he were death itself.

Victor: The investigation into her background has been carried out and completed. She has no involvement in the matter you’re so concerned about. Victor: If that were the case, Her Majesty would never have welcomed her presence. Victor: To cast such suspicion on Her Majesty’s guest, it’s almost as though you think her judgment is wrong. Do you?

A shiver ran down their spines as sweat began to bead on their brows. The reaper’s chilling stare was fixed directly on them. The councilmen looked among each other, and then quickly began shaking their heads as if they were broken machines. Of course not, they were silently saying. Her Majesty’s judgment was never wrong.

Victor: I have nothing more to say.

He turned and walked away. But even after his departing footsteps were no longer audible, the three men could not bring themselves to move. The phantom sensation of a scythe held to their necks would not fade.

-----

Victor: Kate, I have an unfortunate announcement to make today.

Kate: What is it?

I made my way to Victor’s office to assist him as usual, but Victor had a grave expression on his face as he spoke quietly.

Victor: I have to attend a meeting later this afternoon, so I won’t be able to have tea time with you like usual.

His voice trailed off sadly as his head dropped. I’d never seen Victor like this before, and the surprise–as well as how adorable it was–startled a laugh out of me.

Victor: …You were laughing?

Kate: Sorry, that was just kind of cute, I didn’t mean to…

Victor: I’d say you’re far cuter than I am, though.

Kate: Oh, um, thank you.

(He always calls me cute…) (I know he doesn’t mean it like that, but it’s still embarrassing every time.)

As I turned away and tried to get my blush under control, Victor let out a disappointed sigh.

Victor: And it just had to be during my break time too…

Kate: How long will the meeting be?

Victor: All the way until evening…

(It probably won’t be possible to have a tea party after he returns.)

I made a suggestion to the dejected-looking Victor.

Kate: Why don’t we make tomorrow’s break a little longer than usual?

Victor: Longer than usual?

Kate: I’ll get as much work done as I can while you’re at your meeting. Kate: So tomorrow, we can have a longer break than normal for a tea party. How does that sound?

Victor blinked rapidly in surprise. It appeared as if the idea hadn’t occurred to him.

Kate: I’ll do my best to finish as much as I can.

In response to my resolve, Victor’s expression turned gentle.

Victor: Then I’ll also have to do my best to make your lovely idea a reality. Victor: You’ll have to do some more work than usual, is that alright with you?

With papers in hand, he smiled at me, almost as if he were testing me.

Kate: Of course!

Full of more determination than ever before, I dove into work.

-----

Victor: I’ll be leaving for the meeting now.

After an hour, I stopped working and looked towards Victor who had stood up.

Kate: Okay, good luck.

Victor: Once you’re done with that, could you put them all in the second drawer? Victor: I’ll review them when I get back.

Kate: Got it.

He slid some papers into an unmarked envelope, and patted my shoulder.

Victor: Don’t work too hard now, all right?

And with that, he left the office.

Kate: …All right! Time to get to work!

After pulling myself back together, I returned to the documents I was working on. However, my eye caught on some reports of Crown’s activities as well as the aftermath.

(This is the report for Liam and Alfons’s mission.)

It was the mission I had joined that took place the other day, to recover drug-laced candies from Soho.

The details of the drugs, including their origin and composition, were all listed out on the paper one after the other.

The candies contained various narcotics, but each individual piece only contained trace amounts. However, given their appealing appearance, the possibility that they could be widely consumed by people of all ages is high. Although those who exhibit the most severe signs of addiction are almost universally frequent visitors to the entertainment district, There have been cases where the victims’ families, particularly children, have inadvertently ingested the candies and suffered the same health impacts.

Kate: That’s awful…

I couldn’t stop myself from reading more about the incident. My concentration was broken by a knock at the door.

???: I’ve brought the report.

The voice was familiar. I rose to my feet to open the door.

Harrison: Huh? Is it just you, Kate?

Harrison stood in the doorway with a report in hand.

Kate: Yes, Victor had to leave for a meeting. He probably won’t be back until evening.

Harrison: Unbelievable. He’s the one who told me to hand in my report within the day, and he’s not even here to receive it.

With an exasperated look on his face, Harrison stepped into the office. As he glanced over, he noticed the scattered papers on the table.

Harrison: Are you the one putting all the reports together?

Kate: That’s right. Is your report related to these ones?

Harrison: Yeah, it’s a follow up for the same case. Guess this is good timing.

The papers Harrison handed me were progress updates on the children who had consumed the drugged candy.

(Vomiting and convulsions, fatigue, and even loss of consciousness…)

Their suffering was palpable.

Harrison: And this is just the lucky kids that managed to get to a hospital. Harrison: There’s bound to be at least twice as many more who are still suffering from the side effects.

Harrison took the seat opposite me and studied my expression.

Harrison: What’s wrong?

Gripping the report tightly, I let out a deep breath as I took a seat myself.

Kate: Nothing. I just feel… helpless. I can’t do anything to help them.

Harrison: And this is just the tip of the iceberg. Harrison: But, well. I get what you mean.

Even with only joining Crown on their missions and recording everything, the injustice of the world weighed heavily in my mind. But that wasn’t the end of the story.

Kate: As long as you’re alive, the world won’t stop moving. Kate: All that anyone can do is to keep facing ahead, and hope that the future will be happier.

I began to move again, gathering the reports and getting back to work.

Kate: But even so, I have to do my part to make things better.

Wallowing in my own discomfort wouldn’t change anything. With renewed determination, I continued working.

Harrison: …

I could feel a piercing stare on me as I worked. And then–

Harrison: Do you like Victor?

Choke

Wha- why would you ask that!? (+4/+4)

Does it look like I do?

Kate: Wha- why would you ask that!?

Harrison: No reason in particular. You just seem fond of him. Harrison: I don't mean this in a romantic way. But it’s not hard to tell that you admire him.

Harrison: But…

Harrison crossed his legs as a serious expression settled on his face.

Harrison: I don’t think you should put too much faith in him.

(What does that mean?)

I didn’t understand what Harrison was getting at. But he just stood while scratching his head.

Harrison: I’m heading back now.

Kate: Huh? Wait a minute–

As I rushed to stop him, Harrison looked even more tired.

Harrison: That was a warning.

Kate: But I don’t know what it means.

He avoided my gaze and sighed deeply.

Harrison: You know what my ability is, don’t you?

Kate: You can see through lies.

Harrison had the curse of the lying fox, which meant that his ability was to be able to tell if someone was lying by looking them in the eye.

(That was how he knew that Vogel was hiding something.)

No one could hide from Harrison’s ability, so-

(Oh.)

As realization hit me, Harrison looked over at me.

Harrison: The reason I don’t trust Victor is because he’s been hiding something for as long as I’ve known him. Harrison: I don’t know what it is. I’m not about to ask him either. Harrison: He knows that I’ve noticed something, but all he does is smile. No explanations. Harrison: Who’d be able to trust a boss like that?

He sounded like he was talking about a distant stranger.

Harrison: Don’t be too trusting. Harrison: Especially if you want to go back to your old life.

Spinning around, Harrison threw out a wave behind him as he left the office. Left alone, I could only stand there in a daze, unable to move.

(Victor’s hiding something…?)

I thought that I’d gotten to know him better ever since I started working as his assistant.

(The Victor I know is always cheerful and kind, and he can do practically everything.)

If I was struggling with something, he’d always lend a sympathetic ear. And if I was truly stuck, he’d deal with the problem immediately. He cared deeply for everyone in Crown, and for me as well.

(I mean, everyone has something or the other that they’re hiding. But…)

If it’s enough to make Harrison unable to trust Victor, this wasn’t just something small.

(Maybe it’s because he’s the queen’s aide. He might have some secret that he has to protect with his life, and can’t tell anyone else about.)

I’d always thought that Victor was a trustworthy person, someone I could rely on. So Harrison’s words were a complete shock to me.

Kate: Everyone has a secret of their own, right…?

Unable to work out what kind of secret Harrison’s warning was about, I turned back to the desk to get some more work done.

Kate: Ah-

Just then, I noticed another envelope sitting on the desk. It had today’s date written on it, and looked like a bunch of materials for the meeting.

Victor: Don’t work too hard now, all right?

(The envelope Victor took with him didn’t have anything written on it.)

Kate: Maybe he took the wrong one.

(I need to bring this to him!)

Grabbing the envelope, I left the office. In my hurry, Harrison’s warning had already slipped my mind.

Chapter 3 Letter: To my assistant

To my assistant,

Ever since you started helping me with my work, the time I spend in my office has become so much more enjoyable. Our daily tea parties are also relaxing for me.

I’m looking forward to tomorrow’s extended tea time, but don’t push yourself too hard. I know that you’re already doing more than enough. You have your work as Fairytale Keeper in addition to helping me. So do make sure that you’re getting plenty of rest.

This meeting is a terrible chore, but knowing that you’re hard at work means that I need to do my best as well. I’m looking forward to another wonderful day tomorrow.

Victor

#ikemen villains #victor (ikevil)#my translation

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valacre · 2 months ago

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: ̗̀➛ Seafowl

Sentinel Prime x Reader - Transformers One

The awakening was slow and pleasant as the thin streams of golden light kissed across his frame, the song of birds calling from outside, the wind but a gentle brush against the barn’s weakened walls. Lazily he stretched as his optics came online, and blinking them into focus, he turned to look at where you’d been standing just hours prior.

Gone.

Sitting up with a start, his spark only calms at the faint sound of your voice nearby. Tossing the blanket aside, he steps upon the barn floor and approaches the door, hesitating for a quick second before swinging it open. A clear sky above, the sun hanging high, Sentinel takes in the sight of his new, strange home.

It was early autumn, or so you’d said, and the trees still held onto their green colours despite the flashes of orange, red, and gold appearing here and there. The leaves rustled, and he looked around, admiring the surprisingly pleasant view of your farm, which was full of life as birds flew from this tree and that.

“Bloody hell, you are one tall fellow!” came a voice, forcing Sentinel to return to the ground which he stood upon, and out near the gate leading to your house, stood you, lovely beneath the light of the sun, and a human man. He looked old, with long hair and a beard, all white, and his back was slightly hunched though he appeared healthy, or so Sentinel could only guess.

Seeing the panic and immediate concern upon your face, Sentinel felt a switch flip on within his processor, and quickly, a smile replaced the wonder he’d held upon his face plate, one that was charming, assured, and highly self-confident.

“Ah, yes, I do hear that quite often, my good sir,” said Sentinel, chuckling handsomely as he straightened, placing his servos behind his back. He approached, coming to stand beside the two of you.

“I can only imagine,” said the elder man, looking Sentinel up and down. “And very strangely dressed, might I add, but you’ve got a well sculpted face, if only a bit on the paler side,” said he, looking over at you with a chuckle. You smiled back, but your brows were still furrowed in worry.

“Yes, this armour is worn for religious reasons, an ancient tradition amongst the men of my home. It might not be the most practical, but it works wonders in keeping one warm from the cold, a certain bonus on these much chillier evenings,” said Sentinel, and pride swelled within his spark as you noticeably began to relax, catching on to his well-meaning lies.

“My, I’ve never heard of anything like that. Ah, where might you be from, lad?” asked the elderly man.

“North,” said Sentinel.

“East,” said you at the same time.

“North-east?” asked the man.

“Yes!” said you, smiling brightly. “I’ve never learned how to pronounce the city's name, but he’s from the far north-east. Beyond the sea, if I remember correctly?”

“Indeed,” said Sentinel, smiling.

“Aah, yes, northerners are usually quite the strange lot. No offense, lad,” said the man, politely.

“None taken, my good sir. Our customs are indeed quite strange, if only because of how disconnected we are from the rest of the world. Mountainous island people, if you will,” said Sentinel, glancing over at you. The relieved smile he received in return warmed his spark, and you seemed so suddenly all the brighter, ethereal in the golden light of noon. A desire to touch your cheek came forth in his mind, but you stood too far away, and he didn’t wish to move too much in the sight of the old man lest he gave away his true self.

“Dear oh dear, you live a whole life expecting you’ve seen it all, and then a regular check-up becomes the most enlightening day of all?” said the man, grinning. “But where are my manners,” the man straightened up as best as he could, and held out a hand for Sentinel to shake. “The name’s Bermund, lad. Pleased to meet you.”

“Se—Seafowl, and the pleasure is all mine,” said Sentinel, catching himself and recalling a name he’d read in one of your folklore books.

“Unique name!” said Bermund, laughing and nodding his head in approval. “Well, Seafowl, I sure hope you’re here to stay for a long time. Our dear lassie here could really need all the help she can get. My wife and I have been worried for quite some time,” said he, retreating his hand and looking over at you, “You’re working yourself too hard, lass. You ought to get Seafowl here to help with the heavy lifting. That will ease your pain, I’m certain of it.”

“Pain?” Sentinel looked at you, his smile faltering.

“I am quite all right, Bermund,” you said, waving your hand in dismissal.

“Y/n, you know your back—”

“It’s okay, I promise. It doesn’t bother me too much to cause a hindrance, so please,” you say, smiling despite your discomfort. You avoid Sentinel’s optics. “It’s okay.”

Bermund didn’t seem convinced, but he didn’t push the subject, and much to Sentinel’s relief he soon departed, waving you both goodbye as he climbed inside a strange machine, a tractor, you told him, and drove away.

The silence was not allowed to settle.

“You’re in pain?” asked Sentinel, approaching and looking you over. You sighed; loudly.

“Old man should learn to keep his mouth shut,” you say, avoiding his optics, and he really didn’t like that. “Good performance, by the way. You… You did really well. I was worried things would turn badly for us both, but Bermund is old and hard of sight, so I suppose he didn’t quite understand what he was looking at.” You briefly glance him over. “I suppose you could be mistaken for a tall man in armour.”

Though he is delighted and joyful at your praise, he cannot help but look at you questioningly, recalling how you’d winced when you’d stretched in the barn, or how your mood could sour rather quickly. He might be the main reason for your annoyance, but if you were in pain… Well, it would explain why you had such a low tolerance for anything coming in your way; him specifically.

“Angel,” he said, voice soft but steady, “How can I help?”

“What?” you ask, looking at him oddly.

“I’m taking Bermund’s words to spark. I can help you with the heavy lifting, whatever that might be. I could…” He looked you over, optics taking in every detail, every movement that might hint at resistance or pain. “I could be of service to you; earn my keep.”

“Earn your keep,” you mutter, smiling and shaking your head. “You don’t—”

“You might be an angel when it comes to unending kindness, but don’t allow yourself to be foolish,” he said, and he came closer to take your hands in his, forcing you to look at him. The golden details of his frame, although faded, shone beneath the light of day, and your eyes couldn’t help but trace them, going from the top of his helm, across his shoulders, glancing the wings upon his back, down his chassis.

Your cheeks reddened as your eyes returned to his face plate, seeing the smile there.

“Let me help you. I want to help you.”

“Okay,” you heard yourself saying, not completely aware and too distracted by Sentinel as he stood before you, beautiful in all his imperfections. It was impossible to ignore the beating of your heart as his smile widened, and he lifted your hands to nuzzle them; unable to help himself, his lips brushing against your knuckles.

…

“Seafowl,” you say after a moment of silence, unable to stop your laughter as he frowns in displeasure, though he’s yet to release your hands.

“I had to think quickly,” said he, optics watching you closely as you giggled, basking in the sound of it.

“A bit too quickly,” said you, retreating one of your hands to wipe at your eyes. “You really are a birdie.”

“What?” Sentinel blinked, confused. “What does Seafowl mean?”

“Well, if I remember correctly, then it basically means ocean bird. A bird that spends its time by the coast and open seas, if you will,” you say, grinning at him, though it grows softer as you look him over. “It’s fitting. You’re a bird with the colours of the sea and the golden sunset.”

Studying you, he tips his helm slightly to the side. “And… do you like it?”

You hum, pulling one of Sentinel’s servos back as you retreat your other hand. Holding it close, you trace your fingers across his digits, fascinated by how they’re held together. “I prefer your name as it is.” Looking at him, you tap the tip of his nose, catching him slightly off guard. “But I will continue to call you birdie.”

“I think I can live with that,” said he, his spark pulsing pleasantly.

Previous / Next Music: Dreyma – Hearthfire & ASKII – Ethereal

#maccadam #transformers #tfone #tfone sentinel #sentinel prime #sentinel prime x reader #vala writes #A New Life

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letsgobarbs · 1 month ago

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A Groom On A Bride Train: Chapter 1

INDEX

If that perra pinches her nose one more time, he’s going to bite it clean off her face. He knew he smelled bad— he could smell it himself. But it was not that she smelled like an angel’s rosy fart. They had all travelled from distant lands without a proper bed or a wash for who knows how long, simply covering the last stretch of this journey together to the same town. To get married.

His jaw ticked to the side before he clenched his teeth. The skin of his lips burned with the cold. He fisted his aching fingers to preserve some warmth in the wooden digits. He hated the cold— for many reasons— he hated it most because of how silent it was. The snow had been falling over them like a fresh, white shroud of anxious silence as all the women agonised over their fate.

And breaking this silence was the jarring clatter of this closed wagon— with bars over its windows, no doubt used to transport prisoners. Tovar tried not to look closely at the scratch marks on the wood as if some wild animal had been tied inside once— he steered clear of anything with claws after the Tao Tei, preferring to deal with human opponents only.

His thick, matted beard covered the snarl curling his lip as he felt another stare at the side of his face before the woman heaved a giant, weary, woebegone sigh— he was surprised her soul didn’t fly out of her nose. For the last few weeks, these mujeres had stared at him in open curiosity, fear and even pity before they had all decided that their circumstances were far worse. And they might be right.

Only the truly desperate women chose to place themselves at the mercy of a strange man— ones who had no one to protect them from the monsters they were running from. He, on the other hand, was the idiota who thought he would be answering an advertisement for a servant’s job in some Lord’s castle when he saw the announcement on the tavern wall. They were looking for someone who could cook, clean and maintain a household— how was he to know that was a posting for a wife? Who even advertises for a wife?

Lords and Kings never hired sell-swords during the winter unless strictly required— they were just more mouths to feed. And there had been suspiciously no wars or conflict in the neighbouring nations where he could find work. As the winter set in, the lack of coin made him desperate to seek out alternate employment.

He hadn’t realised that the alternate employment would lead him to a brothel where he would be knocked over and bundled into a cart for some mysterious town. All things considered, it was not a bad arrangement for him— a roof over his head and food in his belly in exchange for lying with a man. He was not unfamiliar with it, when the attentions of his own hand grew tedious and there was no spare coin for a whore, men often made do with each other in the armies.

Come spring, he would be on his merry way again. And if the man he was with dared intimidate or take what he was not willing to give, then he would lose his life under his blade. Even then, there were worse prospects, he reminded himself. Moreover, there was still a chance that this was all for naught— maybe no man in town was willing to take another man for a partner and he would be able to find other work there.

He scowled at the pouch of coin each of the women was given, “Why don’t I get one?”

“You don’t look like a helpless lady to me, amigo.” Tovar raised a curious brow at the man, a fellow countryman? Not that he had any loyalties to a country.

They had descended from the wagon to a completely different world— an unrealistic and stupid one at that. A sweet young boy had chivalrously assisted the women off the wagon and then baulked at the sight of his lumbering figure climbing down. The Spaniard, Silva, handed a purse full of money to the women. Apparently, they were free to leave should they wish to.

He wasn’t the only one who looked dubious at the offer. There were no free things in this world— especially not money. If used prudently, it looked enough to last them a month. And they were assured the wagon would take them back to the city before nightfall. The raven-haired woman who had been entirely silent on their journey disbelievingly scoffed at the offer.

Not everybody would be getting married— only the ones chosen by the men of their community would have to leave with their partner. The rest of the women would be given a room in the local boarding house and they could work for their food. But they would only be welcome until spring— unless their circumstances change as they court and decide to marry one of the townsfolk.

The women who were chosen were expected to stay with their prospective husbands. However, if they decided not to marry, they were welcome to lodge with the other women. Even without the coins, there was hope for him yet since the same accommodation and arrangements extended to him as well. He would stay, but the other women had to make their choice now for the pass through the valley closed during the heavy winters and they would not be able to leave until spring.

Tovar levelled a mutinously apathetic stare at Silva when the man had glanced a second longer at him as he warned of legal repercussions should any of them commit a crime in this town. He couldn’t help but mock the man— for all his talk of being supportive and good to the women, the fact was they were trapped in a holding cell with no choice but to trust the men imprisoning them. He studied the men that steadily filled in with a derisive glower.

Much like those animales salvajes, men too had ways of arranging themselves. There would be the loudest, strongest men— often the bullies— flanked by their stooges who benefit from the connection, tailed by the men you had to keep an eye on. Those were the men who were scheming, skilled and the most dangerous, especially if they were alienated even by the men around them.

A few men were standing impatiently at the very front while the others retreated against the walls— seemingly uninvolved but not uninterested. Not the usual arrangement but not unfamiliar.

“That one is mine.” A deep voice rumbled from the biggest man. His eyes were trained on the butter-blonde. Tovar sneered at the man, of course that mountain of a man would choose someone so small. He waited for Silva to correct him, but the man only gave an exasperated sigh.

Butter-blonde whimpered in fear as the man advanced.

“How do we know you will not harm her?” He interjected, cursing himself as soon as the words had left his mouth. It had been the wrong thing to say. The man bristled with rage while several others breathed an affronted huff. He shivered with disgust, William had rubbed off on him. The strong take what they want, he reminded himself.

“Listen you—”

“Easy now, he is not one of us. He does not understand our ways,” Silva defused. Tovar wanted to cackle, he understood the ways of men just fine.

“I’ll take him.” A low voice called out. Every head swivelled to see the figure materialising out of the shadows of the wall. It took him too long to realise that the stranger meant him.

“He stinks—”

“Perhaps pick one of the women—”

“Reconsider, this one is troublesome—”

Many voices interjected and dissuaded at once. But the man only stayed them all with a raised hand, “No, him. I’ll take him.”

The stranger glided forward. Tovar could not see the man’s face, the lower half was covered by a cloth and the upper half was concealed by the hood of his fur-lined cloak. It did not seem like the cloaked figure would be able to overpower him. He procured a small, ornate dagger— the blade reminded him of his own curved sword.

“Use this when you are in danger. Just stick the pointy end anywhere you please,” He advised while offering the leather-wrapped hilt of the dagger to Butter-blonde.

“She’ll keep this dagger, understand?” He warned over his shoulder at the bigger man who nodded in agreement.

“She can sleep with it under her pillow if it makes her feel safe,” he assured.

The hooded figure receded into the shadows once more where Silva no doubt attempted to persuade him to choose anyone but him. Tovar scowled at their sneaky glances, he agreed the man should pick someone else. Cacao-brown, Raven-hair, Tight-curls, Braids, and Straight-black were already chosen by other men. But Hay-blonde and Acorn-brown were pretty enough women— unless the man did not prefer women at all.

Even so, he did not cut the most attractive figure at present. His hair was long and matted with sweat and muck— he could feel the bristles of his moustache dip inside his mouth if he opened it. He had not washed, his skin was covered in grime. He reeked sour and ripe. He was built like any other soldier, which appealed to some— women enjoyed being taken roughly by some brute. But his physique was hidden under the loose cape he wore over his armour.

If that man thought he would submit to him, then he can keep dreaming. Tovar had been very young when he had learned that men do not often work open the hole before they take their pleasure. However, if the man needed someone to ride him, then he would do so without any qualms— but of course he would be a considerate lover.

Several other men were oddly solicitous of the man, they whispered to him in low, hushed tones— probably instructing him to call on them should his chosen husband ever pose a threat. He rolled his eyes when Silva helped the man onto the driver’s seat before loading a covered basket and Tovar’s travel bag in the cart. He wondered if the man was very young— but that was still no excuse to coddle the boy like this, he would have to learn how to be strong.

He made a great show of checking his belongings, his pointed glare promising vengeance if anything had been stolen from his pack. His weapons were all accounted for— from his axe and swords down to the smallest knife, except for the blades he was hiding on his body. His bedroll was damp. A few meagre coins clinked at the bottom, not even enough to buy him a meal— aptly chastising and reminding him why he was here in the first place. He looked at his horse with a wistful sigh, the poor beast followed them with his reins tied to the rickety cart.

“You know you should have confiscated my weapons. What if I chose to attack you?” He pointed out to his betrothed. No, too romantic.

The man must have given a contemplative hum, “But why would you do that?” Tovar could not discern an accent in the broken words. The man straightened his back, as if to appear taller, before urging his horses to draw the cart. Was he trying to seem older?

Tovar suspiciously observed the man, he had no taste for a boy. “Why did you choose me out of everyone?” He pried.

“Because you’ve got something they don’t.” The words seemed mumbled, it was as if the wind carried them to his ears.

“A cock?” He guessed. Rich, warm laughter was lost to the falling snow.

You had never lit a fire before. It was such an odd thing, everyone could do it. You had seen other people do it— but you had never done it yourself. Previously, you lived at the boarding house with a spare few others until they had needed to make place for the new women. There, the fire was always lit and maintained by the sweet boy who cleaned the rooms. And before that… well, that had been a different life.

You don’t even know why you offered. You had most certainly never cooked before. You took your meals at the inn, and had planned to continue to do so— before you found yourself a husband that is. Well, he wasn’t your husband yet and judging by his surly scowl, he did not seem to be amenable. But would he still expect you to cook for him, you wondered with growing dissatisfaction.

You weren’t dissatisfied with the stranger, only at yourself for being so incompetent. You had never learned the most basic skills. You hadn’t had the forethought to buy some fruit preserves, cold meats, cheeses and bread from the townsfolk. Then again, you had not expected a guest. If it was just you, you could have staved off the hunger until breakfast tomorrow morning. But you could not very well starve a guest— and he did look starved, amongst other things.

His stomach had loudly rumbled when both of you were brushing down your horses in the barn. And you had stupidly suggested a welcome meal along with a humiliating attempt at levity in response to which his lips had curled into a disdainful snarl. You tried not to think about how plush those lips were. Maybe you weren’t cut out for this, tomorrow morning you would ask Silva to take him to the boarding house along with the others.

You had paid Edna to clean up the place today, and she had been kind enough to heat up some water for you to wash. But he had needed that much more than you— desperately so. You took a deep fortifying breath. There were still some red-hot embers in the hearth so the water would be simmering upon your return. All was not lost, at least you did not have to figure your way around a flint and steel.

You scrounged about until you found the box that was filled with straw and moss and you threw some of the tinder over the embers and watched the encouraging wisps of smoke rise. Only, they shortly died. You grasped at your memory, there was something you were missing. Aah!

You crouched before the fire, gently blowing through your mouth until a flurry of sparks danced in the air and caught onto the dry kindling. You suppressed a giddy smile at the small flames lapping onto the straw and moss. There was a cold draft that threatened the fledgling fire and your hopes along with it. Wood— you needed the sticks and split logs from the wood pile.

You hurried to the shed just through the back door in the kitchen, mentally thanking Logan and a few other friends for stockpiling the wood. You would have to send them a little gift for their help. There was a nervous excitement in your rushed steps as you returned to find the small flames still merrily crackling in your absence. You sat before the fire place and held the smallest stick aloft until the fire accepted your prayers and offering.

It was a task well done! You had managed that brilliantly, and without harming or burning yourself. You turned your attentions to the vegetables, giving them a rinse before you started to peel and cut them. The progress was painfully slow. It was as if the potatoes had a mind of their own, they would stubbornly dance along with the knife as you sawed on them. You smacked them on the table with the knife buried half way. It split into two, one of the pieces flinging itself across the room in protest.

But it was the carrots that posed the most danger. You had lovingly cradled them in your hand, and with a burst of confidence had thought to pare them. The knife struggled against the skin before abruptly sliding straight to your thumb, cutting off a chink in your nail and slicing the skin. You sucked on your thumb to ease the pain and bleeding. Defeat clogged your throat, but you blamed the tears on the wily onions.

Those onions took years off your life, you decided to peel them— the single layers were easier to cut than the whole bulb albeit tedious. You threw the hacked vegetables in a pot full of water, adding a bit of salt. Your palate was unaccustomed to under seasoned food, you would have to search for the herbs stored in the cabinets. You heaved the pot on the hook and slid it so it hung above the fire. Now, the fish.

You grimly faced the basket. It was so kind of Silva to share his catch, it must have been difficult to find something in this snow— he’d said something about it being rare this time of the year. You grimaced at the thought of having to butcher the fish. You would have to behead it, clean it, gut it and then cut it. Was that the correct order?

Firmly, you shook the sight of protruding fish eyes, tiny pointed teeth and— did fishes have a tongue? You tried not to think about it as you gently eased the lid of the basket off. Then quickly covered it again. That was no fish… Your fingers twitched the lid aside, forming a small crack for you to peak through. It was a thick, black eel. And it was alive.

Your heart was hammering in your chest. Through the nausea gathering at the base of your throat, you silently bolstered yourself. You were strong. You were independent. You were capable of fending for yourself. You would not be defeated by some slimy creature. There was a tired, weary guest in your house who you will feed. You will do your duty as a gracious host.

You sniffed as you took a long, deep breath, blinking away the tears stinging your eyes— silently warring with the loneliness that poured forth in a deluge and painfully flooded your heart with thick misery and anguish. It was so foolish to feel lonely over some silly fish. For a brief moment, you considered waiting for the stranger in the bathroom to ask him to deal with the eel before banishing that thought. He hated you already.

You were brave. Resolutely, you lifted the cover of the basket again.

Tovar scratched the scruff on his jaw, deciding his arms hurt from holding themselves up as he cut and sheared his hair and beard. This would have to do. He searched through his pack and retrieved a shirt and braies— they were not clean but at least they were dry and did not stink foul like the ones he was wearing. Goose bumps broke out on his cold legs, the trousers only fell to his calves and he did not have any socks or stockings to cover his feet.

There was a large crash followed by a terrified screech.

He gripped his sword, a hand on the latch of the bathroom as he listened for more sounds. There was only a muffled sob and a strangled shout. Strangely, there was only one pair of footsteps in the scuffle. He wrenched the door open, blade ready to strike an intruder— only to be caught by some wet, writhing, slippery thing on his face. He viciously pinned it to the ground, his sword sticking out of… an eel. It flapped and twitched around his ankles. Tovar turned his sword and cleaved its head clean off.

The kitchen was a mess. There was water splashed across the floor over lumps of straw, moss and logs of wood. There were vegetable peelings strewn over the kitchen table and floor. The kitchen table was also cluttered with every pot, pan and utensil the boy seemed to own. There was an acrid stench of something burning from the smoking pot over the fire.

He bit his tongue, trying not to unleash his anger on the boy standing in the mess sheepishly twiddling his fucking thumbs— he seemed close to tears as is with the hitched and stuttered breaths. “You’ve never done this before, have you?” he asked.

A small, stubborn moment of silence before a brief shake of his head. Tovar threw a broom at him, beckoning the man to sweep the floors as he cleaned and prepared the eel. The concoction in the pot was not salvageable, it looked like a bucketful of something that could have dribbled out of a toddler’s nose but it was also charred black at the bottom somehow.

Despite the frustration simmering under his skin and the irritation burning through his veins, there was a fresh, bubbling pot of stew over the fire. He had found some dried herbs like rosemary, thyme, sage and parsley in one of the kitchen cabinets. He had also discovered a few cloves, nutmeg and cinnamon. But spices were expensive and he did not want to offend his host.

His stomach grumbled in protest at the wait. The boy cleaned the table and floors by the time Tovar placed the pottage between them. However, it was only after he was halfway through the second bowl of his dinner that he realised his companion had not even touched the food. He pursed his lips, biting the inside of his mouth to hold his tongue as he glared at the boy through his lashes while his face was still buried in his bowl of soup.

“Are you going to eat that?” He asked into the silence and watched as the boy’s fingers curled over the bowl before loosening again. He did not wait for a response and dragged the bowl towards him. He finished that portion as well under tentative, watchful eyes. If he didn’t want to eat what he had made, then he could go hungry.

Tovar didn’t know why he felt so caustic— it was not like him at all… sometimes. But there was no need for unnecessary disrespect when civility and understanding can work just as well. The boy was probably not disrespectful so much as standoffish. It was odd that he had covered himself so entirely inside his own home— as if he didn’t trust to have him inside. If that was the case, he should have never picked him.

He could understand being nervous, Tovar knew he cut an intimidating figure. However, the man had the audacity to refuse his extended olive branch and show of goodwill by rejecting the meal he had prepared. He hated those who wasted food, there were enough people who would fight for the scraps off the table of a boy like him. He was probably some lordling fallen on hard times. Judging by the mess in the kitchen, he has never had to fend for himself before— hence, the need for a wife who could cook, clean and maintain a household as the advert was seeking. But then why choose him?

He scoffed as Silva patted the boy’s head— it was disgusting to see him preen under the older man’s gaze. He came every day, just as he must visit all the other women, sometimes with one of the unpaired women riding with him. He would never come inside, the boy would go out to meet him, where Silva probably asked about the boy’s well being— clearly not trusting Tovar— while levelling his beady gaze over the Host’s shoulders at him in a silent warning.

Never once, in all the weeks he has been here has he gone out to greet Silva. There were silent lines drawn between the two. He had never even disliked an enemy on the opposite side of the battlefield as he disliked this man. He struggled to find a reason for his distaste and aversion. He had been looked down upon many times in life, it was not entirely new. Tovar would think less of Silva if the man easily trusted him. Was it envy then?

He easily dismissed that notion. Tovar had nothing to feel jealous of. But it irked him that the Host had neither deigned to speak to him, nor so much as looked at him for the past few weeks. He didn’t even know the boy’s name. He was just a rich, spoilt child who put on the airs of a superior— just like those kings and lords who employed men like him to fight their wars but never stepped into the battle themselves. There were things he had seen that would make a boy like him wet his soft, luxurious bed— not that he had seen his Host’s bed.

Silva frowned at him, he wondered if the boy was badmouthing him. There was a contemplative look on his face as he absently smiled at his Host. Tovar sneered as the man huddled closer to the boy and affectionately comforted him. He was not some monster that they were acting as if the boy was wronged to have him in his home when it was the boy who had chosen him as his husband.

He had not even seen a single hair on the boy’s head let alone hurt him. His Host always remained cloaked, with his face covered at all times. The only time Tovar saw him was in the morning when he moved from his bedroom to another room and then in the evening when he moved from that room back to his bedroom.

At least he took to eating the meals that he had prepared. But never at the same table. That ghoulish boy would emerge from his caves when Tovar worked outside to pilfer the food from the pots and would return the dishes in the dead of the night as he slept.

Moreover, his Host was squeamish. He cleaned himself incessantly— his Highness required a sponge bath every day along with a basin of water to wash his hands before every meal. And every few days he would take a longer bath in a tub. Tovar would not have entertained him if the boy had asked him to fill his baths for him. But his Host was so determined to avoid him that he bathed at night. It would only make him cold and sick.

So, Tovar took to spending more time in the barn as he fed the animals hoping the boy would bathe during the day. He didn't do it out of the kindness of his bleeding heart, of course, he just didn't want to cater to someone on their sick bed. But maybe that would finally offer him a glimpse of his face.

However far more mysterious than his face was this town. He had not noticed on his first night, but the were drains running beneath the house that carried of waste and water. There were no signs of a cesspit nearby. It was the sort of plumbing system he had seen in faraway lands. Moreover, there was a tank above the house that collected rainwater. The water was available in the bathroom and kitchen through pipes. The tank also emptied into the well behind the house when it overfilled.

Then there was this boy’s wealth— the house was grand and made according to specific requirements. A greenhouse was built behind the house which was overrun with weeds. His horse was a good-quality steed. There were also spices and expensive wines stored inside the house.

Tovar winced as he poured the gin into a bowl of water and vinegar. It was very good quality gin, and if any other man used it to clean windows, he would have punched a hole through his teeth. But this was another one of his attempts at riling his Host.

He had begun by using the costly and rarer spices in their daily food, but they suited the boy’s tastes and he ate more. He then made spiced wines but the boy remained apathetic to his splurge. There were also the fine linen curtains that he tore up to use as kitchen rags. The Host barely noticed its absence. He did not know whether the boy was so wealthy that he did not think much of these indulgences or if he was too afraid to confront him over them. It was probably the latter.

He dipped a rag in the mixture and cleaned the window, blocking the sight of Silva’s departure as the boy returned inside. Tovar caught his furtive glances from the corner of his eyes, shifting so his host could see the waste of his excellent and costly Gin. The boy paused, and Tovar braced himself for his words. But his host turned to walk away again.

He huffed in exasperation, “It must be difficult to be in love with a man you cannot have.” Perhaps, he should not have used this topic to antagonise him, but the boy needed to let his emotions out so they could clear the air between them. Living under this awkward and tense silence did not suit his constitution. He turned to see his host facing him with a confused tilt to his head.

“Silva. You are in love with him are you not?” He asked. But the slight inflection at the end of his question made it sound like a taunt.

“Silva is married. His husband is the Lord assigned to the Sheriff’s duties of this town.” Although his voice was raised, his host was not as angry as Tovar had thought he would be. If he had bristled at the question, he could not notice it under the mask and hood.

“So you had not hoped to make him jealous by taking another man as your lover?”

It was the only reason he could think of for the boy to have chosen him from all the women. There were enough men in this town for his scheme— far too many even— but he would conveniently be leaving in the spring. He received no response from the host. Tovar watched his shoulders steadily rise with a deep breath and collapse with a sigh before he turned to sequester himself back in the workroom.

Pero Tovar was the oddest man. He was also an unfortunate victim of flighty moods— one moment he had jovially introduced himself and then as soon as you had offered your name he had scowled and huffed. Every time you tried to speak to him, he would give you the cold shoulder. He seemed to hate everything about you, it almost made you wonder if he was prejudiced against you. He carried a crusader’s sword— a few of them you knew could be quite puritanical.

No, Tovar was anything but puritanical. He wielded a scimitar decidedly not European or Christian— you could not tell if his shamshir was Arab, Egyptian or Indian. He enjoyed what could only be considered excess and luxury. But he was adept and efficient at housekeeping. And he was, unfortunately, the most tempting man you had ever seen.

As he had shouldered past the opening of the holding cell, you had briefly reconsidered your decision. He was so large and hulking that he had to stoop and turn to exit through doors. For a moment you had been afraid of his build, the strength of his form— he could easily overpower you, hurt you and you would not be able to fight back.

Silva had repeatedly assured you that he would visit every day to make sure nothing went awry. You had fought the swift refusal that had climbed up your throat by biting your tongue. Nipping at the heels of the fear was an odd swoop low in your belly that you had later identified as arousal. All you could think about was the same bulk of his form dwarfing you under him, with those large, brawny hands tracing your body— holding you down.

The fervour of your own thoughts had surprised you. No man had held your attention this way before. You had been betrothed once but even he had not elicited such passion from you. You weren’t even sure what he was supposed to do after he held you down— the acts of a marriage bed had all sounded rather painful and gory. But you knew you would like the scrape of his beard against your skin.

He had shaved his beard to reveal the most expressive face. It was unfair that he should still look so handsome even with his lips always curled into a mocking, disdainful snarl. Typically, you hated those people who would sneer and bark at others— their faces permanently scrunched in displeasure as if their own moustache stinks. But his smirk only drew your attention to his lush and full lips.

You watched as his lips curled around the canteen to take a drink— his bottom lip enticingly sticking out at the opening of the container. They looked so soft, you wondered what they would feel like between yours. You wanted to bite his lower lip, you realised with startling anxiety. Perhaps you were growing insane— kisses were supposed to be soft, sweet gestures of affection. People didn't bite each other’s mouths.

It was entirely his fault for driving you crazy. You had always hated people chewing too loudly and yet you were drawn to watch as he took his meals at your table, the muscles of his face working and his jaw grinding as he chewed like a barbarian. And strangely the sight had been… fascinating. Had it been anyone else you would've been moved to violence, but with Pero Tovar, you had the most unreasonable urge to domineeringly lift his face by the chin and peck his lips. You wondered what his reaction would be if you took such outrageous liberties with him. Would he be befuddled? Shocked? Most likely, he'd be upset at being taken away from his meal.

You frowned as he briskly turned his head to scan his surroundings. He emptied the flask of water in the bowl before him and quickly guzzled the liquid down. You were engrossed in watching the movement of his throat as he swallowed when you realised he had diluted the vinegar and gin concoction he had used to clean the windows before chugging it. You clamped a palm over your mouth to stave the giggles, but your body still racked with them. The man was disgusting and disgustingly endearing.

He removed his shirt, you got precious little work done when he did so. You liked watching his muscles ripple and bunch under the swathes of tan skin littered with scars and freckles. You could no longer lie to yourself that you only watched him to gauge his size since you had already finished sewing his clothes. Your gaze traced his broad shoulders, the curl of his hair that tapered at his nape. He turned to hiss at your chickens.

Those chickens hated him. They were his only, and very worthy, opponents since he was pecked and defeated by them most days. All your other animals had fallen for the charms of his low, dulcet tones. You unconsciously rubbed the spot above your heart to ease the pang of ache that had settled there. If you weren’t careful, you would end up eating out of the palm of his hands just like those poor beasts— a slave to the dark, honeyed brown of his eyes.

The glint of metal around his neck shimmered under the winter sun. The locket nestled on his chest distracted you from the wisps of coarse, dark hair that grew there as well as his flat nipples that would have you enraptured any other day. It was a reminder of a bygone time— a cruel reminder that a man like Pero Tovar would never want you.

He did not bother with the bread today. He considered throwing in some preserved meat in the vegetable pottage to make it heartier and make up for the lack of bread. The gallinero had taken far more of his time and energy than he had expected. Once he cleared the snow from the top, he realised that the coop had been drooping under the weight of the snow. While it was well-made and new, it had taken time to balance it in the uneven snow.

He had then cleaned it and added extra layer of straw to keep the chickens warm through the snow. Tovar fancied that those little demons even liked him by the end when he had provided some warm water for them to drink and moisten their tiny throats— the same ones he wanted to wring most days. Not that the chickens showed their warming feelings— they were just as high-maintenance and uppity as their owner. Regal and proud too, he conceded for them both.

He startled at the sight of his Host sitting at the dining table. The boy needed to stop moving so quietly and suddenly. He looked uncertain and nervous. Tovar wordlessly poured another bowl of the thick soup before joining him at the table. It seemed his evenings would change from now. It was not that Tovar did not enjoy his peace and privacy, but he had always been a social animal— the last time he ate a meal alone and in silence was in the Chino prison. He appreciated a good song and good company with his meals. However, since His Highness was shy, he would settle for amiable silence this winter.

The pile of clothes on the table made him stop short of his first taste of dinner. His Host slid them closer towards him. There was a deep blue wool tunic and a dark yellow linen tunic— his thumb subconsciously stroked the small, embroidered suns, this was no common fabric weaved at home. It must have been expensive. Even the embroidery was delicate and fine, the reversible kind which would allow him to wear them inside out as well. He had included a long-sleeved and a short-sleeved undershirt in the pile as well.

There were also trousers— long braies that reached his calves as well as short ones that stopped at his thighs. They were paired with socks and chausses that matched the length to cover his legs. The pile included mittens, a scarf and a warm wool hat. But it was the jacket that stood out to him. It was a doublet that seemed as if it was ripped off some royal courtier. It was black and long-sleeved, sumptuously embroidered with thin silk threads of reds, oranges and yellows that glittered and shone cohesively like a flickering flame.

Had it belonged to some other man who had stayed the winter before him? The thought made him sit up straighter. There was no reason to feel affronted, if his Host was offering him fine clothes, he would gladly accept them. But his hands had long stopped stroking the embroidery on the jacket. Wearing such an expensive jacket could leave him robbed and killed in some ditch, he thought with a sneer— no wonder the man before him left it behind.

Tovar had seen enough cold, painful days where even the alms thrown his way were a life-saving grace. He did not have the luxury of turning down a few worn clothes— not many people did. Which only meant it was upsetting to him that somebody had been here before him. All the work he had put into this place had lulled him into a false sense of proprietorship. He needed to remember that he would leave in the spring— as soon as the path opened.

“Thank you,” was all he could manage for a moment. His host nodded at his words but his hands lingered over the edge of his bowl again, they reached for the spoon before hesitating and pulling away.

“Just eat. Why wait until later when it is cooled down?” He encouraged.

The boy eased his mask down his chin, his head turned down towards the table so Tovar could not see his face. He bit back an exasperated sigh, worried that the hood of that cloak might dip into the pottage— he hated doing laundry in the cold. But perhaps ripping that cloak away from him might spur his Host out of his shell, provided he did not own another.

“How did you think a marriage would go without you showing your face? I promise you whatever scars you might have, I have seen worse, amigo.” He was surprised at his own good temper and patience today. Perhaps, his success with the chickens was inspiring him to cajole his taciturn Host.

But his amusement did not last long. The cloak fluttered around the boy’s head, his chin moved as he spoke. Tovar did not hear it. And that awareness settled in his stomach like lead. But it grew and expanded like smoke that slowly clogged his throat and burned his nose. He could not hear.

“Don’t mumble, I can’t hear.” He wanted to take back his words as soon as he had said them. There was no reason to share that with the boy when he hadn’t accepted it himself. He stubbornly shoved a spoon in his mouth, the food tasting like hot ashes that clung to his mouth instead of sliding down his throat. He just needed time to heal…

He could hear the rattling wagon wheels, and the clucking chickens. He could still hear the chorus of a raucous tavern ditty. The softer sounds will come to him eventually. The black powder had exploded too close to his ear when he had crossed the wall to help Will— damn him. His ears just needed time to heal, at least the ringing was not so persistent.

Tovar fumed under the boy’s gaze, rising to deliver another scathing retort. But he pulled the candles on the table closer to himself before fluidly lowering the hood to reveal his face in the candlelight. His Host closed his eyes, tilted his face up towards him and slowly moved his face one way, then another— allowing him to examine the full extent of his damaged face, exchanging one vulnerability for another.

Although, it was not much in terms of vulnerability according to Tovar. The boy was not scarred in some violent tragedy— it must have been an illness, some plague which caused pustules on his face that left behind spotted, mottled skin as he healed. He was mildly impressed when the boy looked at him with a sheepish smile, knowing he could be missish and shy. He had the most remarkably warm and kind eyes.

“I’ve been told my face puts people off their meal.” There was a self-deprecating twist to that smile that he suddenly felt averse to seeing, choosing instead to stare down at the cooling soup in his bowl.

In loud, clear, slow, tones his Host announced his name, “—in case you hadn’t heard it.”

“I knew that.” He hadn’t. “I’m not deaf, just speak up,” He blustered. The boy looked immediately contrite.

“And it’s not so bad”—he ate a spoonful of vegetables—“all that covering up made it seem worse than it actually is.”

He must have huffed, his lips parted before closing again, “You do not need to say perfunctory words.”

They hadn’t been perfunctory. The boy was quite handsome— his features were an enchanting blend of masculine and feminine. Before he was scarred, he must have attracted many appreciative looks which has made him more sensitive to his visage now.

“There are uglier people in the world who marry just as same. And you do not need to worry about spending your nights on all fours.” The joke was crass but he hoped it would make the evening more lighthearted. However, the boy just looked confused with his head thoughtfully tilted. What man was so unaware of bedsport?

“When did you fall ill?” He asked. He must have succumbed to illness quite young hence deprived of sexual experience.

“Just a few years ago— what do you mean by all fours?” He leaned forward, eyes wide with curiosity. He chuckled around the spoon in his mouth, his eyebrows quirked up in humour. Would His Highness be horribly shocked?

“When you have a woman, or yourself—”

“I am a woman.”

Tovar blinked at him— her? No. But the person just stared at him expectantly to continue his words. He flicked a furtive glance lower— at the chest— but women could be flatter there was no real way to tell. He looked away in shock, feeling the heat crawl up the back of his neck.

“You’re a woman?” His voice sounded hollow to his own ears.

“Yes… are you disappointed?”

He rapidly shook his head in denial, feeling a bit dizzy by the end of it, “But, you’re a woman?”

“Well, yes. But it is better to dress as a man— more comfortable.” she ate her meal serenely, unconcerned with the emotional turmoil she was putting him through.

“How could you be so irresponsible and invite a strange man into your house?” He was belligerent.

She looked up from her bowl at the fury in his words, “I was just as defenceless before when you thought I was a man but—”

“Don't be cheeky—” He thundered.

“—how like you to be so patronising as soon as you find out I am a woman—”

“—and Silva, that man allowed you to take some dangerous man home—”

“—He is not my father, he comes to check everyday to make sure I am well—”

“—a lot of good checking everyday will do, you are far too—”

“—so you are very dangerous, are you?”

“YES,” he yelled. They were both panting, with over-bright eyes glaring at each other.

“You should not just trust anyone. Women do not need to have husbands delivered by some wagon—” He lowered his voice so he was not shouting at her, but there was still a hardened edge lining his words.

She scoffed at him, “I happen to be one of those women who no one will have. You can hardly judge how I source a partner”—she proudly lifted her chin—“it seems we will not suit, sir.”

Stupid, impertinent woman deserved to be turned over his knee. Didn't she know any man would take those words as a challenge?

She's not yours, he reminded himself. She never will be.

“Sit. Eat,” he tersely commanded anyway as she rose out of her seat.

“Why did you choose me? Because I was the only man? You should have tried your luck with the next cart full of people,” he demanded.

“I could have chosen one of the women as well,” she sniped at him before her lips pinched into a prim expression.

“I chose you because you seemed the sort of person who wouldn't really care about the opinions of others… You would not say one thing but mean another. So I would not have to wonder about what you think of me. You're the sort to be brutally honest and quite pitiless about it too,” she bit off, her lips still pursed distastefully.

Her words were a far cry from compliments, but he recognised the underlying current of appreciation in them. And it terrified him. He was not some brutally honest man— lying came as a second nature to Tovar, he did it so often even he could not differentiate it from the truth. William had been the honest, honourable one of the two.

This woman had invited him into her home, believing there was some noble chivalry hiding beneath his veneer of foul temper and scorn that just did not exist. It was no veneer, he was black and rotten to his core. That small woman in the holding cell, he realised with a start. This delusion must have stemmed from him speaking up for that woman. He had not wanted to. And if given another chance, he was unlikely to defend her again.

His eye twitched with premonition even when she obediently went back to finishing her dinner. It was cold now, irritation slithered under his skin— it made his fingers twitch before he tightened them around his spoon. He should have never spoken to her and eaten his warm meal in peace.

“I made the clothes in a rush and had to guess your size, so they might not fit as well. I can alter them for you.” Her words broke the oppressive silence that had descended between them. He glared at her through his lashes before he sighed. He couldn’t hold the heat in his eyes when she looked like that— pouty and hesitant. She had made them herself, for him.

“Thank you,” He muttered again.

She was hovering as he washed the dishes, offering to help several times. He waited for the water to boil so he could shoo her away for her bath. He tried not to think about how foolish it was for her to undress and take a bath when there was another man in the house. He needed to fix the latch on the bathroom door, it easily opened with a strong shove.

He should wash as well today so he does not smell like the pollos. He did not want his bedspread to stink either— it was the best he’s ever had, stuffed with straw and lined with cotton. His back was grateful for his Host’s luxurious offerings. He flicked a gaze to still find her pensive as she sat at the dining table. He would catch her fidgeting in her seat out of the corner of his eyes like she was about to grab his attention before she would think better of it. Or perhaps she did say something, and he did not hear it.

“Do you truly think my face is not so bad?” She broached. He hummed in affirmation.

He had seen scarring like that on many people before. Even soldiers would scar as such after long, hot days under the helmet that caused pimples and acne to smatter their cheeks. He’s had a few before, but Tovar had never checked to see if they had left little divots on his face— it had never occurred to him to be sensitive about them. Hers was slightly worse, the discolouration was severe in her cheeks and her scars were scattered across her forehead and chin as well. But it was not so bad that she would need to hide away behind masks and cloaks. Women had the oddest notions of vanity.

“Then will you try it with me? Marriage, I mean?” Her voice was too high-pitched, it betrayed her nervousness. He chuckled at her question, rinsing the pot he had been scrubbing.

Tovar threw an amused, lopsided smile her way, “And what exactly would this marriage include?” He hoped his voice was light-hearted enough to distract from the fact that he had no idea what any marriage would entail. She looked thoughtful while she considered her words as if she, too, had no idea what was involved in a marriage.

“Supporting each other, taking care of each other, emotional confidences”—he snorted at that one but she continued anyway—“being a family.” Something flickered in her eyes at that last point in her list. Family.

He observed the tense set of her shoulders, her hands fisted on her lap and the false nonchalance in her eyes. This meant something to her.

It was strange to know his words were important— that whatever he would say to her could cause her to deflate and recede into the shells she had crawled out of. Tovar found he did not want that. But he also didn’t know anything about family.

He knew a little about supporting each other and taking care of each other, the battlefield had ways of cultivating friendships and brotherhoods. Both of which he had thrown away in the face of survival. As for sharing emotional confidences, he would only need to listen— something he struggled with at the moment, but he could nod appropriately and sagely as he feigned sympathy.

From aristocrats to peasants, all families and marriages tend to be mercenary at heart— it was the way of the world. She wasn’t asking much of him, and he could provide her this small comfort in exchange for her hospitality. Not much would change, it was just two people playing house as they were currently doing.

He silently acquiesced with a gesture somewhere between a nod and a shrug. But her joy was palpable. He felt the familiar stirrings of self-disgust at the hope shining in her eyes. He rinsed the pot again, only to distract himself from the sight of her wide, toothy smile. It pricked at his conscious— but it was futile, he had buried that bastard a long time ago. If this woman was fooled by him, then it was entirely her fault. He made no promises of genuineness— or even staying.

“Are you inviting me to your bed too, Princesa?” He teased, needing to see anything other than the sweet triumph on her face. However, instead of being offended or shy, her laughter rang across the room— bright and loud.

She rolled her eyes at him in good humour as if he had shared a distinctly ridiculous joke, “Don’t worry, I would never expect that of you. It is not like you would be overcome by lust with the way I look.”

Tovar believed her parents should be flogged and strung at some square for raising their daughter to be so stupidly sheltered and naive.

“I was offering a trial of some sort— just for this winter,” she explained. Perhaps not as naive as he thought she was.

“We could see if we suit. If we should like to be married then you stay here, with me. But if we do not suit then I will pay you for your services when you leave.” He judged too soon, she was a complete lackwit. Why would she offer him money?

He tried not to let his disbelief show on his face.

“For all the work you’ve been doing around the place”—she waved her hand as an all-encompassing sort of gesture—“Thank you for that, I am terrible at housekeeping. So, you will have to continue undertaking those responsibilities in the future.” Aah, so if they did not wed then he will be considered the servant. Rich and spoilt to boot.

He put away his unexpectedly surly mood. A more honourable man would have refused the money— his good friend William would have explained to her that extra hands were often only paid with food and board for the winter. Unfortunately for her, he was not such a man. Tovar would leave this sleepy little town in spring with his purse of money.

A/N: The kitchen disaster scene is inspired by The Beauty and The Blacksmith a novella by Tessa Dare. I hope you guys are ready for a very domestic Pero, and he will only get more homey from here <3

I am not hard of hearing, hence I will accept any criticism someone might have for the portrayal of Pero and his deafness.

Thank you for reading!!

#pero tovar x reader #pero tovar x you #pero tovar fanfiction #pero tovar fics #pero tovar

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lauralot89 · 1 month ago

Text

Dracula in Context

I made two posts of out of context Dracula novel shenanigans, and people keep asking for context for specific things, so I have provided ALL the context.

Spoilers for the novel below the cut:

A character has ominous nightmares and attributes them to eating too much paprika:

Jonathan Harker, 3 May: I did not sleep well, though my bed was comfortable enough, for I had all sorts of queer dreams. There was a dog howling all night under my window, which may have had something to do with it; or it may have been the paprika, for I had to drink up all the water in my carafe, and was still thirsty.

Dracula first appears wearing a fake beard:

Jonathan Harker, 5 May: ...a tall man, with a long brown beard and a great black hat, which seemed to hide his face...

The person he was trying to fool with the fake beard immediately realizes Dracula and Beard Guy are the same man, due to both having really firm handshakes:

Jonathan Harker, 5 May: The strength of the handshake was so much akin to that which I had noticed in the driver, whose face I had not seen, that for a moment I doubted if it were not the same person to whom I was speaking...

We are told parrots are immortal unless fatally wounded:

Van Helsing, 26 September: Can you tell me why the tortoise lives more long than generations of men; why the elephant goes on and on till he have seen dynasties; and why the parrot never die only of bite of cat or dog or other complaint?

A Texan cowboy opens fire on a bat flitting around a window, and lodges a bullet in the wall of an occupied room:

Mina Harker, 30 September: Here we were interrupted in a very startling way. Outside the house came the sound of a pistol-shot; the glass of the window was shattered with a bullet, which, ricochetting from the top of the embrasure, struck the far wall of the room...we heard Mr. Morris’s voice without:—

“Sorry! I fear I have alarmed you. I shall come in and tell you about it.” A minute later he came in and said:—

“It was an idiotic thing of me to do, and I ask your pardon, Mrs. Harker, most sincerely; I fear I must have frightened you terribly. But the fact is that whilst the Professor was talking there came a big bat and sat on the window-sill. I have got such a horror of the damned brutes from recent events that I cannot stand them, and I went out to have a shot, as I have been doing of late of evenings, whenever I have seen one...

A woman is called a polyandrist for receiving blood transfusions from multiple men:

Van Helsing, 22 September: Said he not that the transfusion of his blood to her veins had made her truly his bride?...If so that, then what about the others? Ho, ho! Then this so sweet maid is a polyandrist...

An incorrectly addressed telegram leads to two deaths, multiple druggings, and several children being assaulted:

Van Helsing, 17 September: This telegram arrives a day late, leading to the deaths of Mrs. Westenra and Lucy, the drugging of the maids, and the Hampstead Heath children being bitten

Dracula, while trying to maintain a low profile, takes a lovely trip to the zoo and freaks out the animals so badly that he gets mentioned in a newspaper article:

The Pall Mall Gazette, 18 September: Well, sir, it was about two hours after feedin’ yesterday when I first hear my disturbance...close at hand was only one man, a tall, thin chap, with a ’ook nose and a pointed beard, with a few white hairs runnin’ through it. He had a ’ard, cold look and red eyes, and I took a sort of mislike to him, for it seemed as if it was ’im as they was hirritated at.

The one character who knows anything about vampires spends a good two-thirds of the book refusing to talk about vampires:

Van Helsing, from his introduction until 26 September

Dracula went to Satan’s Witchcraft Academy and somehow this is only brought up in two throwaway lines:

Van Helsing, 30 September: The Draculas...had dealings with the Evil One. They learned his secrets in the Scholomance, amongst the mountains over Lake Hermanstadt, where the devil claims the tenth scholar as his due.

Van Helsing, 3 October: He dared even to attend the Scholomance, and there was no branch of knowledge of his time that he did not essay.

A character gets stuck inside a circle of communion wafer crumbs:

Van Helsing, 5 November: I drew a ring...and over the ring I passed some of the wafer, and I broke it fine so that all was well guarded...I said to her presently, when she had grown more quiet:—“Will you not come over to the fire?” for I wished to make a test of what she could. She rose obedient, but when she have made a step she stopped, and stood as one stricken.

A major plot point of the book is Dracula (who was said to be a brilliant scholar and has the strength of twenty mortal men) realizing he can move boxes without human help:

Van Helsing, 3 October: He had a mighty brain, a learning beyond compare...

Van Helsing, 1 October: Remember that he has the strength of twenty men...

Van Helsing, 3 October: Do we not see how at the first all these so great boxes were moved by others. He knew not then but that must be so. But all the time that so great child-brain of his was growing, and he began to consider whether he might not himself move the box. So he began to help; and then, when he found that this be all-right, he try to move them all alone.

Someone is referred to as “manifestly a prig of the first water”:

Jonathan Harker, 2 October: When I asked who had purchased it, he opened his eyes a thought wider, and paused a few seconds before replying:—

“It is sold, sir.”

“Pardon me,” I said, with equal politeness, “but I have a special reason for wishing to know who purchased it.”

Again he paused longer, and raised his eyebrows still more. “It is sold, sir,” was again his laconic reply.

“Surely,” I said, “you do not mind letting me know so much.”

“But I do mind,” he answered. “The affairs of their clients are absolutely safe in the hands of Mitchell, Sons, & Candy.” This was manifestly a prig of the first water, and there was no use arguing with him.

Two characters have a hobby of reading train schedules:

Jonathan Harker, 7 May: I found the Count lying on the sofa, reading, of all things in the world, an English Bradshaw’s Guide.

Mina Harker, 28 October: “You forget—or perhaps you do not know, though Jonathan does and so does Dr. Van Helsing—that I am the train fiend. At home in Exeter I always used to make up the time-tables, so as to be helpful to my husband. I found it so useful sometimes, that I always make a study of the time-tables now. I knew that if anything were to take us to Castle Dracula we should go by Galatz, or at any rate through Bucharest, so I learned the times very carefully. Unhappily there are not many to learn, as the only train to-morrow leaves as I say.”

A hospital lets a mental patient escape to see what will happen:

Jack Seward, 20 August: We shall to-night play sane wits against mad ones. He escaped before without our help; to-night he shall escape with it. We shall give him a chance, and have the men ready to follow in case they are required…

A character starts vomiting up feathers from eating whole birds:

Jack Seward, 20 July: The attendant has just been to me to say that Renfield has been very sick and has disgorged a whole lot of feathers.

A doctor refuses to give a medical diagnosis and instead makes a speech about growing corn:

Van Helsing and Jack Seward, 7 September:

“I have for myself thoughts at the present. Later I shall unfold to you.”

“Why not now?” I asked. “It may do some good; we may arrive at some decision.” He stopped and looked at me, and said:—

“My friend John, when the corn is grown, even before it has ripened—while the milk of its mother-earth is in him, and the sunshine has not yet begun to paint him with his gold, the husbandman he pull the ear and rub him between his rough hands, and blow away the green chaff, and say to you: ‘Look! he’s good corn; he will make good crop when the time comes.’” I did not see the application, and told him so. For reply he reached over and took my ear in his hand and pulled it playfully, as he used long ago to do at lectures, and said: “The good husbandman tell you so then because he knows, but not till then. But you do not find the good husbandman dig up his planted corn to see if he grow; that is for the children who play at husbandry, and not for those who take it as of the work of their life. See you now, friend John? I have sown my corn, and Nature has her work to do in making it sprout; if he sprout at all, there’s some promise; and I wait till the ear begins to swell.”

Dracula impersonates another character just by wearing the same clothes, despite being taller and visibly much older. This deception is successful:

Jonathan Harker, 24 June: It was a new shock to me to find that he had on the suit of clothes which I had worn whilst travelling here, and slung over his shoulder the terrible bag which I had seen the women take away. There could be no doubt as to his quest, and in my garb, too! This, then, is his new scheme of evil: that he will allow others to see me, as they think, so that he may both leave evidence that I have been seen in the towns or villages posting my own letters, and that any wickedness which he may do shall by the local people be attributed to me.

Jonathan Harker, 24 June: When she saw my face at the window she threw herself forward, and shouted in a voice laden with menace:—

“Monster, give me my child!”

A character “cleans” a room by eating all the insects in it:

Jack Seward, 30 September: Oh, very well,” he said; “let her come in, by all means; but just wait a minute till I tidy up the place.” His method of tidying was peculiar: he simply swallowed all the flies and spiders in the boxes before I could stop him.

Suddenly: rats. Thousands of them:

Jonathan Harker, 1 October: We all instinctively drew back. The whole place was becoming alive with rats...But even in the minute that had elapsed the number of the rats had vastly increased. They seemed to swarm over the place all at once, till the lamplight, shining on their moving dark bodies and glittering, baleful eyes, made the place look like a bank of earth set with fireflies...The rats were multiplying in thousands, and we moved out.

The heroes progress in their efforts through “the wonderful power of money,” i.e., bribery:

Mina Harker, 30 October: And, too, it made me think of the wonderful power of money! What can it not do when it is properly applied; and what might it do when basely used. I felt so thankful that Lord Godalming is rich, and that both he and Mr. Morris, who also has plenty of money, are willing to spend it so freely. For if they did not, our little expedition could not start, either so promptly or so well equipped, as it will within another hour.

Dracula has three other vampires in his castle. Their relation to him is never explained, nor are any of them named:

Jonathan Harker, 16 May: I was not alone. The room was the same, unchanged in any way since I came into it; I could see along the floor, in the brilliant moonlight, my own footsteps marked where I had disturbed the long accumulation of dust. In the moonlight opposite me were three young women, ladies by their dress and manner.

A character insists his salvation depends on having a pet cat:

Jack Seward, 19 July: When I came in he threw himself on his knees before me and implored me to let him have a cat; that his salvation depended upon it.

Dracula is thwarted by flowers on more than one occasion:

The night of 13 September to the night of 16 September

A group of vampires stand in the hall outside a man’s bedroom, talking loudly about their plans to eat him. When he comes to the door to confront them, they run away laughing:

Jonathan Harker, 29 June: When I was in my room and about to lie down, I thought I heard a whispering at my door. I went to it softly and listened. Unless my ears deceived me, I heard the voice of the Count:—

“Back, back, to your own place! Your time is not yet come. Wait! Have patience! To-night is mine. To-morrow night is yours!” There was a low, sweet ripple of laughter, and in a rage I threw open the door, and saw without the three terrible women licking their lips. As I appeared they all joined in a horrible laugh, and ran away.

Dracula wears an unfashionable hat and gets roasted for it:

Van Helsing, 5 October: A tall man, thin and pale, with high nose and teeth so white, and eyes that seem to be burning. That he be all in black, except that he have a hat of straw which suit not him or the time.

A group of Romanians encounter a disheveled, shouting man and, “seeing from his violent demeanour that he was English, they [give] him a ticket for the furthest station on the way thither that the train reached.”

Sister Agatha, 12 August: We should have written long ago, but we knew nothing of his friends, and there was on him nothing that any one could understand. He came in the train from Klausenburg, and the guard was told by the station-master there that he rushed into the station shouting for a ticket for home. Seeing from his violent demeanour that he was English, they gave him a ticket for the furthest station on the way thither that the train reached.

A boat crashes due to Dracula having the munchies:

The Dailygraph, 8 August: The schooner paused not, but rushing across the harbour, pitched herself on that accumulation of sand and gravel washed by many tides and many storms into the south-east corner of the pier jutting under the East Cliff, known locally as Tate Hill Pier.

A wolf is thrown through a window and immediately runs off, confused and covered in glass:

Lucy Westenra, 17 September: After a while there was the low howl again out in the shrubbery, and shortly after there was a crash at the window, and a lot of broken glass was hurled on the floor. The window blind blew back with the wind that rushed in, and in the aperture of the broken panes there was the head of a great, gaunt grey wolf

The Pall Mall Gazette, 18 September: “God bless me!” he said. “If there ain’t old Bersicker come back by ’isself!”...The wicked wolf that for half a day had paralysed London and set all the children in the town shivering in their shoes, was there in a sort of penitent mood, and was received and petted like a sort of vulpine prodigal son. Old Bilder examined him all over with most tender solicitude, and when he had finished with his penitent said:—

“There, I knew the poor old chap would get into some kind of trouble; didn’t I say it all along? Here’s his head all cut and full of broken glass. ’E’s been a-gettin’ over some bloomin’ wall or other. It’s a shyme that people are allowed to top their walls with broken bottles. This ’ere’s what comes of it. Come along, Bersicker.”

Dracula makes a bed:

Jonathan Harker, 8 May: I had hardly come to this conclusion when I heard the great door below shut, and knew that the Count had returned. He did not come at once into the library, so I went cautiously to my own room and found him making the bed.

The entire plot happens because Dracula is a teaboo:

Dracula, 7 May: These companions”—and he laid his hand on some of the books—“have been good friends to me, and for some years past, ever since I had the idea of going to London, have given me many, many hours of pleasure. Through them I have come to know your great England; and to know her is to love her. I long to go through the crowded streets of your mighty London, to be in the midst of the whirl and rush of humanity, to share its life, its change, its death, and all that makes it what it is.

A character proposes marriage with a scalpel in hand and keeps playing with it throughout the conversation:

Lucy Westenra, 24 May: I told you of him, Dr. John Seward, the lunatic-asylum man, with the strong jaw and the good forehead. He was very cool outwardly, but was nervous all the same. He had evidently been schooling himself as to all sorts of little things, and remembered them; but he almost managed to sit down on his silk hat, which men don’t generally do when they are cool, and then when he wanted to appear at ease he kept playing with a lancet in a way that made me nearly scream.

Dracula roasts a chicken:

Jonathan Harker, 5 May: The Count himself came forward and took off the cover of a dish, and I fell to at once on an excellent roast chicken.

A vampire bat (not a vampire) somehow drinks enough of a horse’s blood to cause the horse to collapse:

Quincey Morris, 18 September: I have not seen anything pulled down so quick since I was on the Pampas and had a mare that I was fond of go to grass all in a night. One of those big bats that they call vampires had got at her in the night, and what with his gorge and the vein left open, there wasn’t enough blood in her to let her stand up, and I had to put a bullet through her as she lay.

Dracula gets smacked in the face with a shovel:

Jonathan Harker, June 30: There was no lethal weapon at hand, but I seized a shovel which the workmen had been using to fill the cases, and lifting it high, struck, with the edge downward, at the hateful face.

After attributing nightmares to paprika consumption, a character eats more paprika for breakfast:

Jonathan Harker, 3 May: Towards morning I slept and was wakened by the continuous knocking at my door, so I guess I must have been sleeping soundly then. I had for breakfast more paprika, and a sort of porridge of maize flour which they said was “mamaliga,” and egg-plant stuffed with forcemeat, a very excellent dish, which they call “impletata.”

The heroes hire a locksmith to make their home invasion look more respectable:

Van Helsing and Jonathan Harker, 3 October: “Now suppose that you were, in truth, the owner of that house, and could not still get in; and think there was to you no conscience of the housebreaker, what would you do?”

“I should get a respectable locksmith, and set him to work to pick the lock for me.”

“And your police, they would interfere, would they not?”

“Oh, no! not if they knew the man was properly employed.”

Jonathan Harker, 3 October: Just before we reached Fenchurch Street Lord Godalming said to me:—

“Quincey and I will find a locksmith...My title will make it all right with the locksmith, and with any policeman that may come along. You had better go with Jack and the Professor and stay in the Green Park, somewhere in sight of the house; and when you see the door opened and the smith has gone away, do you all come across. We shall be on the lookout for you, and shall let you in.”

To prepare for raiding a vampire’s lair, one character brings three small dogs:

Jonathan Harker, 1 October: Lord Godalming had slipped away for a few minutes, but now he returned. He held up a little silver whistle...Then, taking his little silver whistle from his pocket, he blew a low, shrill call. It was answered from behind Dr. Seward’s house by the yelping of dogs, and after about a minute three terriers came dashing round the corner of the house.

A character laments being unable to wed multiple people at once:

Lucy Westenra, 24 May: Why can’t they let a girl marry three men, or as many as want her, and save all this trouble?

A therapist starts speculating about elephants’ souls mid-session:

Jack Seward, 1 October: “I wonder,” I said reflectively, “what an elephant’s soul is like!”

An official cause of death is written as “misadventure in falling from bed”:

Jonathan Harker, 3 October: Dr. Seward asked the attendant who was on duty in the passage if he had heard anything. He said...he heard loud voices in the room...after that there was a sound of falling, and when he entered the room he found him lying on the floor, face down, just as the doctors had seen him. Van Helsing asked if he had heard “voices” or “a voice,” and he said he could not say...He could swear to it, if required, that the word “God” was spoken by the patient. Dr. Seward said to us, when we were alone, that he did not wish to go into the matter; the question of an inquest had to be considered, and it would never do to put forward the truth, as no one would believe it. As it was, he thought that on the attendant’s evidence he could give a certificate of death by misadventure in falling from bed. In case the coroner should demand it, there would be a formal inquest, necessarily to the same result.

Dracula has a Krampus-esque sack that he shoves children into:

Jonathan Harker, 16 May: “Are we to have nothing to-night?” said one of them, with a low laugh, as she pointed to the bag which he had thrown upon the floor, and which moved as though there were some living thing within it. For answer he nodded his head. One of the women jumped forward and opened it. If my ears did not deceive me there was a gasp and a low wail, as of a half-smothered child. The women closed round, whilst I was aghast with horror; but as I looked they disappeared, and with them the dreadful bag.

A character realizes that his host has no reflection but is more concerned with shaving than investigating that:

Jonathan Harker, 8 May: Suddenly I felt a hand on my shoulder, and heard the Count’s voice saying to me, “Good-morning.” I started, for it amazed me that I had not seen him, since the reflection of the glass covered the whole room behind me. In starting I had cut myself slightly, but did not notice it at the moment. Having answered the Count’s salutation, I turned to the glass again to see how I had been mistaken. This time there could be no error, for the man was close to me, and I could see him over my shoulder. But there was no reflection of him in the mirror!

[...]

“Take care,” he said, “take care how you cut yourself. It is more dangerous than you think in this country.” Then seizing the shaving glass, he went on: “And this is the wretched thing that has done the mischief. It is a foul bauble of man’s vanity. Away with it!” and opening the heavy window with one wrench of his terrible hand, he flung out the glass, which was shattered into a thousand pieces on the stones of the courtyard far below. Then he withdrew without a word. It is very annoying, for I do not see how I am to shave, unless in my watch-case or the bottom of the shaving-pot, which is fortunately of metal.

Jonathan only begins investigating later upon discovering that he's locked in the castle.

A reporter brags about his running speed mid-article:

The Dailygraph, 8 August: This seemed to pique general curiosity, and quite a number of people began to run. It is a good way round from the West Cliff by the Drawbridge to Tate Hill Pier, but your correspondent is a fairly good runner, and came well ahead of the crowd.

Dracula, while trying to maintain a low profile, goes by the incredibly subtle alias “de Ville”:

Mitchell, Sons & Candy, 1 October: The purchaser is a foreign nobleman, Count de Ville, who effected the purchase himself paying the purchase money in notes ‘over the counter,’ if your Lordship will pardon us using so vulgar an expression.

Jonathan Harker, 30 October: He had received a letter from Mr. de Ville of London, telling him to receive, if possible before sunrise so as to avoid customs, a box which would arrive at Galatz in the Czarina Catherine.

A character is misled by phonetic spelling:

Jonathan Harker, 2 October: I saw at once that I was on the right track; phonetic spelling had again misled me.

A character receives three marriage proposals in one day:

Lucy Westenra, 24 May: Here am I, who shall be twenty in September, and yet I never had a proposal till to-day, not a real proposal, and to-day I have had three. Just fancy! THREE proposals in one day!

The SPCA tries to adopt Dracula:

The Dailygraph, 9 August: A good deal of interest was abroad concerning the dog which landed when the ship struck, and more than a few of the members of the S. P. C. A., which is very strong in Whitby, have tried to befriend the animal. To the general disappointment, however, it was not to be found; it seems to have disappeared entirely from the town.

A doctor refers to a patient as his “pet lunatic”:

Jack Seward, 30 September: Here was my own pet lunatic—the most pronounced of his type that I had ever met with—talking elemental philosophy, and with the manner of a polished gentleman.

We are told vampires can be defeated by putting branches on their coffins:

Van Helsing, 30 September: The branch of wild rose on his coffin keep him that he move not from it...

A character gets slashed at with a knife and loot splatters on the floor, like a video game NPC:

Jack Seward, 3 October: Harker evidently meant to try the matter, for he had ready his great Kukri knife and made a fierce and sudden cut at him. The blow was a powerful one; only the diabolical quickness of the Count’s leap back saved him. A second less and the trenchant blade had shorne through his heart. As it was, the point just cut the cloth of his coat, making a wide gap whence a bundle of bank-notes and a stream of gold fell out.

Dracula is a horsegirl:

Jonathan Harker, 5 May: At the first howl the horses began to strain and rear, but the driver spoke to them soothingly, and they quieted down, but shivered and sweated as though after a runaway from sudden fright. Then, far off in the distance, from the mountains on each side of us began a louder and a sharper howling—that of wolves—which affected both the horses and myself in the same way—for I was minded to jump from the calèche and run, whilst they reared again and plunged madly, so that the driver had to use all his great strength to keep them from bolting. In a few minutes, however, my own ears got accustomed to the sound, and the horses so far became quiet that the driver was able to descend and to stand before them. He petted and soothed them, and whispered something in their ears, as I have heard of horse-tamers doing, and with extraordinary effect, for under his caresses they became quite manageable again, though they still trembled.

A character brings anti-vampire flowers but doesn’t tell anyone the purpose of said anti-vampire flowers, which leads to another character moving them and enabling a vampire attack:

Jack Seward, 11 September: Shortly after I had arrived, a big parcel from abroad came for the Professor. He opened it with much impressment—assumed, of course—and showed a great bundle of white flowers...

First he fastened up the windows and latched them securely; next, taking a handful of the flowers, he rubbed them all over the sashes, as though to ensure that every whiff of air that might get in would be laden with the garlic smell. Then with the wisp he rubbed all over the jamb of the door, above, below, and at each side, and round the fireplace in the same way. It all seemed grotesque to me, and presently I said:—

“Well, Professor, I know you always have a reason for what you do, but this certainly puzzles me. It is well we have no sceptic here, or he would say that you were working some spell to keep out an evil spirit.”

“Perhaps I am!” he answered quietly as he began to make the wreath which Lucy was to wear round her neck.

We then waited whilst Lucy made her toilet for the night, and when she was in bed he came and himself fixed the wreath of garlic round her neck. The last words he said to her were:—

“Take care you do not disturb it; and even if the room feel close, do not to-night open the window or the door.”

Jack Seward, 13 September: “You will be glad to know that Lucy is better. The dear child is still asleep. I looked into her room and saw her, but did not go in, lest I should disturb her.” The Professor smiled, and looked quite jubilant. He rubbed his hands together, and said:—

“Aha! I thought I had diagnosed the case. My treatment is working,” to which she answered:—

“You must not take all the credit to yourself, doctor. Lucy’s state this morning is due in part to me.”

“How you do mean, ma’am?” asked the Professor.

“Well, I was anxious about the dear child in the night, and went into her room. She was sleeping soundly—so soundly that even my coming did not wake her. But the room was awfully stuffy. There were a lot of those horrible, strong-smelling flowers about everywhere, and she had actually a bunch of them round her neck. I feared that the heavy odour would be too much for the dear child in her weak state, so I took them all away and opened a bit of the window to let in a little fresh air. You will be pleased with her, I am sure.”

A character’s hair turns from dark to white literally overnight:

Jack Seward, 3 October: The poor fellow is overwhelmed in a misery that is appalling to see. Last night he was a frank, happy-looking man, with strong, youthful face, full of energy, and with dark brown hair. To-day he is a drawn, haggard old man, whose white hair matches well with the hollow burning eyes and grief-written lines of his face.

Twice in the novel, Dracula says “Bah!” The second time is his final line of dialogue:

Dracula, 8 May: They said that he thought only of himself. Bah! what good are peasants without a leader? Where ends the war without a brain and heart to conduct it?

Dracula, 3 October: “You think to baffle me, you—with your pale faces all in a row, like sheep in a butcher’s. You shall be sorry yet, each one of you! You think you have left me without a place to rest; but I have more. My revenge is just begun! I spread it over centuries, and time is on my side. Your girls that you all love are mine already; and through them you and others shall yet be mine—my creatures, to do my bidding and to be my jackals when I want to feed. Bah!”

There’s a deleted scene of Dracula lying on top of the protagonist and licking him for hours:

Dracula's Guest: I felt a warm rasping at my throat, then came a consciousness of the awful truth, which chilled me to the heart and sent the blood surging up through my brain. Some great animal was lying on me and now licking my throat. I feared to stir, for some instinct of prudence bade me lie still; but the brute seemed to realise that there was now some change in me, for it raised its head. Through my eyelashes I saw above me the two great flaming eyes of a gigantic wolf. Its sharp white teeth gleamed in the gaping red mouth, and I could feel its hot breath fierce and acrid upon me.

#Dracula #Dracula Daily #Dracula spoilers #Dracula in context #context #long post

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unlicensed-queer · 10 months ago

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I'll be your Shield and your Salve

Summary: When a rowdy crowd shows up to the Roadhouse Dalton's annoyed, when one grabs his girls ass he's a little more than annoyed

Pairing: Elwood Dalton x Reader (imagined as female but could be gn, mentions reader wearing a skirt)

Warnings: Non-consensual groping, non-graphic violence, panic attacks, over all descriptions of sexual harassment, reader feeling dirty afterwards.

Words: 1,223

Notes: hooo this was supposed to be a lot more campy and a lot less angsty. Special thanks to @charliehoennam for helping me with a writing slump and to @aaronhotchnersswifee for the idea! This is my first time posting a fic, I hope everyone enjoys it ❤️

You were standing at the bar, pouring drinks, charming customers and cleaning glasses. The band, a group of middle aged men, two of which were probably named Darryl, played energetically, filling the bar with lively music. A man with a bushy gray beard played the washboard, thumping and scraping the beat. Everything was perfect. Dalton sat at the end of the bar, looking perfectly relaxed and tapping his foot with the music. He caught your eye and tapped the bar with his knuckles for a refill.

"What's a pretty girl like you doing in a dive like this?" He asked, with a twinkle in his blue eyes. His voice was low and smooth, like melted chocolate in those Lindor commercials.

"Oh you know," you sighed dramatically, putting on a forlorn face as you opened another beer for him, "got dragged down here by my dumbass boyfriend, can you believe he decided to be a bouncer in Hicksville, Florida?" You teased. Dalton laughed sarcastically

"You always wanted to live on the beach, princess" He laughed, giving you that dopey grin that made your belly flip. As he turned back to watch the bar a roaring came from the parking lot. Loud voices and boots crunching on gravel drifted in through the windows. Dalton bristled, on alert.

Three men in tattered vests and leathers swaggered into the bar, shouting at customers and each other and reeking of booze. A tall man with dirty white hair and yellowed teeth slumped on the bar, leering at you

"Heyyy cupcake, pour me a drink will you? Needa..wet my whistle." His eyes drifted over your shirt, his gaze felt slimy, dirty. You gritted your teeth, trying to push off the shivering feeling of disgust. You poured him a beer, sliding it towards him with a forced smile.

The guys were unpleasant but so far they hadn't actually done anything wrong. They just sat at a table in the middle yelling and drinking. You were walking over with a tray of drinks they had ordered and setting them on the table when you felt one of them grab your thigh and squeeze. You froze, your blood ran hot and cold at the same time. Just as you turned to slap the guy in the face you felt a tall shadow over you.

"Alright buddy time to leave" Dalton's voice was scarily calm and friendly sounding. His smile didn't melt the frost in his eyes as he looked down at the man who had groped you. You hadn't seen him this mad since the biker gang had burned down the bookstore.

The men all ooo'ed mockingly, swaying as they got up. The same man who had looked you up and down earlier got up in Dalton's face, yellow teeth bared in a derisive grin.

"What's the big deal? Just having a night out with my boys" he slurred. The man was foul, reeking of booze, sweat and stale tobacco. Dalton made no reaction except wrinkling his nose slightly

"We don't allow harassment here" Daltons smile was looking more and more like a dog's bared fangs. The man snorted, looking around at his friends in disbelief.

"You gon' let yer waltz 'round in that leather skirt.." he paused looking at you in a way that made you want to throw up, "N' get mad when I wanna feel what she's got on show?"

Dalton's fist swung into his jaw with a sound crack. Angry shouts and protests rose from his gang, some starting towards Dalton. You scrambled back against the bar as Dalton set to work. The anger didn't affect him the way you thought it would. He wasn't erratic or emotional, he was coldly efficient, knocking each of them to the floor quickly and cleanly. Less than 5 minutes and each of the men were dumbstruck and the security was dragging them out by their shirt collars. Your heart hammered as you watched, still feeling the place on your leg where the man had groped you, it felt grimy and wrong.

You worked the cleanup shift in a daze. Dalton and you drove home in silence, Dalton's knuckles were white and red on the steering wheel. When you were home you got in the shower, scrubbing your body with a rag and holding back the rising panic in your chest. You were so absorbed in the action you didn't notice Dalton come into the bathroom and step into the shower behind you. He didn't speak, he just pulled you to his chest as you dropped the rag and began to cry. He rocked side to side lightly, holding you tightly.

"I'm so sorry" he whispered, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. You didn't know how long you were in the shower, crying into his chest as he whispered comfort to you. At some point he began moving, lathering up a rag and gently running it over your body. The contrast between the pillow soft lathered rag and your frantic rough scrubbing was night and day. Dalton carefully rubbed the rag over your entire body then helped you step under the water. He kissed each part of your body as the bubbles washed down the drain. It wasn't sexual, there was no heat in his touches or his lips, only love and reassurance. Every caress and kiss seemed to say, 'I love you, you aren't dirty, it wasn't your fault'. The tears flowed down your face like poison sucked from a wound and you hugged Dalton when he stood again, he kissed you and turned off the water. As you stood in the shower he wrapped a towel around his waist before taking a soft towel and drying you off. The insecure part of you squirmed at letting him do everything for you, anxious about being a burden, but the larger part let Dalton guide you through the exhausted haze.

When you were dry Dalton pulled one of his t-shirts over your head and picked you up, holding you to his chest like one might carry a sleepy child inside from the car. You closed your eyes and rested your head on his shoulder, half asleep. You felt him walking around, hearing things clinking and the click of the electric kettle. At first you tried to track his steps to see where he was without opening your eyes but eventually you let his soft humming lull you to calmness.

You must have dozed off because soon Dalton was setting you on your bed and placing a cup of tea on the nightstand. He sat behind you and pulled you to his chest, resting his chin on your shoulder.

"Made you some tea and toast with peanut butter and bananas. There some milk to, in case the peanut butter gums up your mouth" he murmured, voice rumbling through his chest and into your back. Your heart could have burst with affection for him. Even though you would do all this for him in a heartbeat, it was still amazing the lengths he went to just to make you happy and safe. The scene at the bar felt more distant now, like a nightmare gone hazy with age. Right now you were safe and warm in Dalton arms, with food, tea, and all the love you could ever dream of.

#jake gyllenhaal #elwood dalton #elwood dalton x reader #jealousy #bare knuckle fighting #happy ending

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lorddocmarten · 11 months ago

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🦇Tips for Dressing Goth on Low-Spoons Days🦇

Note: I am low-support needs disabled, and what works for me might not work for you. I am not a doctor and cannot offer medical advice!

Black hair, baby. I dye my roots with $1.25 men's beard dye from the 'tree now, so that's pretty cost-effective, and you don't have to do anything for your hair to look 'goth'. I wouldn't recommend a mohawk because for it to look maximum cool, you have to style it, and that can take a while. My haircut now is shaved on the sides with short bangs and it looks goth even if I don't style it. It requires minimum maintenance, too.

Pre-layered accessories. Many necklaces- especially ones marketed for 80s costumes- are pre-layered and you only have to work with one clasp. Maximum style for minimum effort. You can find layered necklaces on Amazon, at Halloween stores, and I've even seen them in the costume section of thrift stores. There are also bangle stacks that function the same way.

Strega Fashion and Lagenlook- this might work for wheelchair users, depending on how long your flowy elements are. Lots of tunics and skirts and sweaters and fancy hooded tops, etc. Think of a dark, witchy vibe. Very comfortable and can be easy to style with clothes-you-find-at-Wal-Mart, and relatively cheap.

Nails. I LOVE having long dark red nails for maximum 'spoiled vampire prince' vibes, but sometimes having acrylics or press-ons can be too expensive, impractical, or maybe too femme for you. Whatever the case, I have more recommendations than your standard black nail polish- there's silver nail polish that makes your nails look mirror-like, red nail polish of all shades, purples, etc. For a more masculine, deathrock look you could experiment with dark, zombie-esque greens, or even neon shades to stand out against your darker clothing. Painting my nails can be hard for me due to my coordination issues, so I keep Q-tips nearby and soak them in acetone to clean up the edges.

Eyeliner- they sell jumbo eyeliner sticks and you can basically roll that about your eyes, smudge with your finger, and call it done in about one minute. I have yet to find a sharpener to go with mine, which is unfortunate, but these would seemingly be the way to go when you don't have the spoons to pull out the white base and all that.

Shave your eyebrows. Not necessarily for everybody, but it gives a more alien or 'more human than human' vibe to your look without makeup and makes me look infinitely more goth even in jeans and a t-shirt. YMMV.

Piercings, if you want them, can get them, won't affect your job, etc.- these always look pretty alternative especially when combined with each other. These combined with the black hair will do the job for you, in my opinion. I currently only have my ears double pierced but plan on getting my septum done soon.

#c punk #cripplepunk #goth #trad goth #goth tips #cripple goth #c goth #cripplegoth

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captainlondonman · 9 months ago

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SHORT STORY- TURKISH BARBER

Sam decided he needed a haircut, only a trim but a tidy up anyway and went off to his usual barber. As he went to open the door he noticed a sign saying ‘On vacation. Back soon’

‘Shit now I need to find another place.’

He remembered passing several times a Turkish barber shop where there never seemed to be many clients and the older barber was invariably sitting reading a newspaper

‘Well’, he thought’ it’s only a trim he can’t go far wrong.’

He pushed the door open and walked in

The guy looked up and smiled

‘Looking for a haircut?’

‘Yeah just a trim if that’s OK.’

‘Come and sit down and let’s get started.’

After getting a gown around Sam’s neck the barber took out his scissors and started on the sides. Thinking of getting a conversation started Sam asked

‘Are you Turkish?’

‘Yes sure am but I’ve been here a good few years. Have you ever been to Turkey?’

‘Once a few years ago to Istanbul. I’ts an amazing city. I loved it. So much to see and do. Really where East meets West.’

‘Everyone goes there and you are right but have you been to any of the beaches in Turkey?’

‘No.’

‘That is something else, golden sand and blue blue sea.’

‘Not sure I would find it that easy.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well with my fair skin and flat chest I would find it a bit daunting with all those hairy chested Turks showing off their masculine bodies’

‘You have a point I think.’

‘They all look so manly with their thick beards and dark hairy chests.’

‘You obviously look carefully at us Turkish men.’

‘Well, you cannot miss all that black hair.’

‘You would like to have hairy chest I think.’

‘Sure I would love to but clearly not going to happen so perhaps I leave out the beaches.’

‘Not everyone has black hairy chest. Look at me, mine is now grey.’

‘I see that but even though you only have your two top buttons undone I can see your chest must have been dark at one time and now its grey but a lot of hair. Lucky you.’

‘Wait a minute I have an idea.’

And with that he put down his scissors and walked over to the door locking it. ‘Now let me take off your cover and follow me to the back of the shop. Don’t worry. From what you said you will be happy trust me.’

Sam had no idea what the guy was talking about but got up and followed the guy into the back room.

‘So you like hairy men and even noticed the hairs sprouting out the top of my shirt so I now take off my shirt and you do the same.’

At first Sam thought the guy had taken leave of his senses but part of him wanted to see how the full chest hair looked like even if he was going to show nothing.

Sam stripped off his shirt feeling very self conscious.

‘I see what you mean young man, not much hair to show. Would not be well receievd on a Turkish beach I think. This is more like it.’

The barber slowly took off his shirt and Sam’s eyes were on stalks. Not only was the barber covered with a thick mat of chest hair but it came up all across his shoulders and down his arms to his very fingertips. It was almost like a gorilla. The hair was salt and pepper with a dark area around the navel getting greyer as it rose up over his chest and tits. The shoulders were thick in white hair.

‘Now that is a Turkish chest for you.’

‘Good god that is amazing I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone as hairy.’

‘I think you like it judging by your eyes. Sadly my wife hates it she would prefer I was like you.’

‘Then she is totally wrong it looks great on you and I just wish I had some of what you have.’

‘You really would like to be hairy would you not?’

‘There is something really special about hairy and Turkish and arab men. They look so masculine.’

‘Hairy bodies are for men. Hairless chests for boys.’

‘Yeah but I am a man.’.

‘A man who would like to be hairy.’

‘Sure would.’

‘So would you like to touch my chest and feel the hair?’

‘Can I?’

‘Well I have asked you so yes, see what it is like.’

Sam gingerly put his hands lightly on the barber’s chest and felt the thick curling mass of hair.

‘Now come on boy just giving a little touch is hardly being a man. Run your hands over and deeply across my chest so you know what a hairy chest really feels like. Let your hands become entangled in the hair. Let me feel your hands.’

Sam started to move his hands deep into the hair letting the grey thick hair curl around his fingers. He had never felt anything like this. The sensation of touching and rubbing had started to make his cock so erect it was sore. He felt he could say nothing to this older man that he was becoming so aroused and just hoped his tent was not too obvious.

‘Why don’t you move your hands up under my pecs, the hair is thicker there just under my tits. You see how thick it is there?’

‘God I never felt anything like this before.’

‘Looks as if you are enjoying.’

‘Well you said I should move my hand around.’

‘So while you are at it why don’t you try and find my nipples among the hair. That’s it, I can feel your fingers just touching my nipples. So while they are there I’d like you to give them a tweak. Get each nipple between your fingers and give a squeeze.’

Sam did not know what to do so very gingerly teased them

‘I said give them a squeeze not just a brush. That’s better a bit harder. Us Turks like to have good big nipples and some squeezing helps make them bigger. Now move your hands up to my shoulders. See how the hair continues across my shoulders. And you know it goes all the way down my back. You’d like to feel that as well no doubt.’

‘If you are asking. I have rarely seen a hairy back before.’

‘Well I tell you what, come into me, press your chest against mine and put your arms around my back and let your hands rub up and down my back and at the same time you can feel my hairy chest rubbing against you, so it almost will feel for you what a hairy chest you could have.’

Sam did as he was told and put his arms around the barber, the barber doing likewise and pulling in tight

’See my back is almost as hairy as my chest so let your hands rub into my skin.’

‘Christ it’s amazing,’ Sam replied as he started to move his chest tight up against the barbers hair letting the hairs rub against his skin

‘How does that feel?’

I feel as I rub against you as if I have a hairy chest. Its just what I have always imagined. I am almost feeling like a bear even with no chest hair but all your hair makes me feel as if its mine.

‘That’s the idea. Now I seem to think there’s a bit of a pole rubbing against my thigh. Feels as if you have a hard on.’

‘Not just a hard on but my cock is aching with all this rubbing.’

‘I hope you are feeling something more than a pole against your thigh.’

‘Shit is that your cock it feels more like another leg.’

Taking one hand away from Sam, the barber pushed Sam’s hand down between them

‘So feel that.’

‘Christ its huge.’

‘Of course it is. It’s pure Turkish thick cock. All us men have a good 9” and not just the length but thick and cut as well.. That cock of mine needs to get out and you can see properly so unzip me and take it out.’

Sam carefully unzipped the massive bulge and put his hand inside to feel the throbbing dick. ‘You need to undo the belt and let my trousers down so you can lift it out. It’s too big to just take out like this.’

As Sam let down the trousers so the meaty prick bounced upwards. Sam could not believe the size. If this is what all Turks have then I want one he thought to himself.

‘So now I have let you feel all my hair, I need a couple of favours from you.’

Firstly you get down on your knees and suck. My wife hates a blow job but I love it and only men know how to do it properly.’

‘I might choke with trying to suck.’

‘Trust me once you let your mouth open and breathe carefully this will slip down the back of your throat.’

The barber undid Sam’s zip and slid his trousers down over his cock which was tenting in his pants.

‘Not a bad dick but it could be bigger. I think you would like a thick dick like mine, yeah?’

‘I sure would.’

‘So get down and feel this big chopper into your mouth. I want to feel my cock all the way down the back of your throat. Take hold of my heavy balls and pull them down as you start to lick my head.’

Sam sat on the floor and took hold of the barber’s heavy balls.

‘Now pull down tight and move you head in. Get your mouth full of spit to cover my head.’ Holding the Barbers balls Sam started licking the glistening head covering it with more and more spit running his lips around the full helmet.

‘That’s good but now I need to feel your mouth get deeper. You don’t need to take the full length but go as far as you can without chocking.’

Still holding the balls Sam opened his mouth as wide as possible and moved it slowly down into his throat. It was massive but having such a thick member in his mouth was a real turn on.. The barber took hold of Sam’s head and moved it further into his cock.

‘Good boy you are doing this well now start move your mouth up and down my shaft. Let me feel you sucking up and down. Christ that feels good but I need to stop you there as there is now the second favour I need of you. Take your mouth out of my shaft and stand up.’

Looking Sam in the face he said

‘My wife hates being bum fucked but I love arse fucking and your arse is now ready for a fuck. Let me see that arse of yours.’

The barber let his hands move across Sam’s cheeks and started to push them apart to expose his hole.

‘Look quite tight to me but with all your spit you should be able to take.’

‘I’m not sure I can take your prick’ Sam said.

‘Don’t worry I’ll be gentle and I’ll just let a good gob of my spit onto my shaft so it will be easier. Now bend over as it will be better for you.

Sam wanted to feel the barbers cock insider him. He wanted to feel a real hairy man stick it all the way up..

The barber keeping Sam’s cheeks as far apart as possible guided his cock to the hole and with a gentle push started to move his helmet in.

‘Christ it’s huge. I’m really not sure.’

‘Just relax, be a man like us Turks and once in you will want the full length trust me. Now be a man. Pushing a bit more the full helmet entered his arse and then Sam felt he could relax a bit. It felt so good he started to shove his arse back towards the cock.

‘I want to feel those thick pubes of yours up against me and also feel all that body hair rubbing against me as you grind your cock.’

‘I’ll put my full cock inside you and the give you a moment to rest before we do the next part. This next one with be a changer for you. You will become a man just like all us Turks. Now stand up and squeeze your bum so you feel me deep inside you.’

‘Now let’s turn you to look at the mirror so you can see yourself and I start to fuck you harder.

‘Good you can see yourself with that smooth chest and feel my hairy chest against your back.’

‘It feels as if I have the hairy back when you are pressed against me.’

‘So you’d like to have a hairy chest and back would you?’

‘Seeing you is exactly what I’d love to have.’

‘Good I hoped you might say that. So are you ready for me to start a harder fuck and then come inside you cause there’s plenty of spunk in my balls and I want you to feel it shooting all the way up.’

‘I want you all and now even though that prick of yours is so big my arse is aching to be fucked by it.’

As the barber starting to move his cock in and out down the length of Sam’s arse he moved his arms to the front around Sam.

‘This arse of yours is made for me and boy am I gonna fuck

Let me start rubbing your arms with my hands while I fuck ok?’

‘Please I want to feel those hairy manly arms all over me.’ Sam was almost begging

As he rubbed his hands over Sam’s arms, Sam was suddenly aware that those smooth arms of his were sprouting hairs and not just blond hairs but dark almost black hairs, long and curling from his shoulders all the way down to the tips of his fingers

‘What is happening my arms are now looking hairy.’

The barber replied as he continued to let his cock run the full length of Sam’s arse.

‘You said you’d like to be hairy. Looks good and manly does it not?

‘But they are not just becoming hairy they look more muscular’.

‘Who wants to be a skinny man. We all want to be real men don’t we?’

‘Well yes’

‘So now let me run my arms across your smooth chest and see what I can do for you.’

As the barber ran his rough large hands across Sam’s chest he thought it at first looked like a shadow across his whole chest and then as he looked down he realised it was hairs not just slowly sprouting out of every pore but quickly and looking like a forest of curling black hair all the way cross and down even on his shoulders. Not only around his pecs and navel but the entire chest was hairy. His whole chest was larger with now broad shoulders and dark skin and he had a 6 pack he’d never had before and such a big pair of pecs all covered in coarse hair. It was like a perfect Turkish man’s chest.

‘Let me bring my hands up to your nipples which I can hardly see for hair. You gave mine a nice pinch so let me do the same for you. All Turks love their nipples played with.’

As the barber started to work his nipples so Sam groaned with pleasure moving his arse in and out against the barber.s cock.

‘Christ that is amazing it so turning me on. Squeeze them harder’

Good I like to squeeze Turkish nipples. And you have a really big pair with extended nipple heads. Is that better? These will hsow nicely through all your shirts and everyone can see what a big pair of Turkish tits you have.’

‘It’s fucking fantastic.’

‘You like your new chest?’

‘It’s like a dream. I feel much more a real man. My arse feels bigger and more round and am I right is saying its hairy.’

‘It’s very hairy, all the way inside that nice crack of yours and you now have a big bubble butt and bigger hole so my cock sits well inside you.’

‘I’ts no longer sore and I want you to increase your rythmn I’m so wanting you to come inside me I can feel those thick pubes of your rubbing against my hairy arse. Shit it’s great.

‘Don’t worry “m coming round to put my hands on that cock of your but first I need to rub my hands over your face and head so close your eyes and just enjoy me thrusting faster and faster inside you.’

The more the barber thrust the more Sam pushed his arse back to see the full length of the thick shaft. He wanted every inch as he felt the barber’s hands rub against his face. As he rubbed he could feel that his face was no longer smooth but it was almost as though there was a brush in between his face and the barbers hands. His head felt different and that trim he came in for was as though he had had a very close cut even more than a number one.’

‘Now open your eyes. Look at yourself and the man you are’

The face staring back at him was no longer the wholesome blond Brit. The face he looked at in the mirror could for him almost have been a criminal. He was completely bald, shaven with a shiny top but from the top of his ears there was a thick black beard and moustache. So thick he could hardly see his mouth. The beard was at least 3inches long and took up all his chin and neck all the way down to where it met his hairy chest. He had a brown face, a squashed nose as if it could have been broken in a fight and thick bushy black eyebrows. He looked exactly like a middle eastern thug, a Turkish thug but he looked a man and man that no one would tamper with. He looked every part a man who would dominate but here he was being now aggressively fucked and loving the large cock inside him.

‘Now you look like a man. Makes me even more horny to fuck you like a brother Turk. I need to cum soon but first let me put my hands of your cock so you come at the same time.

The barber moved his hands down to grip Sam’s cock who was still staring at his new face.

‘Now look down’

Sam looked and what had been a good 6 incher before was now 9” and thick like the barber with such a forest of dark pubes. Now Sam looked just like a masculine tough nut Turk. He was ready to come just staring at his new tool and he could feel the barber’s cock in him pulsating ready to shoot his load of cum.

‘If you are ready we both cum but I tell you this is a new beginning and you will feel at first for a short time a bit different but don’t worry it’s all part of what you want.’

‘I hope so.’ shouted Sam, ‘Just let me have everything you have and let me feel your pubes right up against my hairy arse as you cum so I am about to shoot.’

And with that the barber

Shouted ‘Fuck you Turk be one of us.’

As Sam felt the spunk shoot up his arse so his own cock exploded, arches of cum hitting the mirror and running down, great creamy drops.

When he opened his eyes after his orgasm everything seemed a bit cloudy not just his eyes but his brain. He was struggling to think what to say in English. He thought he knew what to say but he was rapidly forgetting words and instead other words of a foreign tongue were in his mind

‘I feel …. ‘He managed to say in English but even those two words he noted were in a much deeper voice and with a strong accent. It did not sound like his voice.

‘Tell me what you are thinking in your preferred language.’ The barber said

Sam said in a rasping deep voice in Turkish ‘That was a fucking great fuck.’

‘Yes Samir only we know how to fuck like real men. Welcome my Cousin.’ This was no longer Sam looking at himself in the mirror, it was now Samir.

‘Tell you what cousin I look fucking great. A hairy Turk with a huge dick and now you and I have a Turkish coffee and cigarette and then I fuck the living daylights of you. One favour deserves another. We keep it is the family eh?’

‘I get you good job in nightclub Samir.’

‘Sure Cousin, I like a good fight. No one gets on the wrong side of me.’

‘A tough Turk and a good fuck.’

‘Yeah but now time for you to turn round and I give you a good Samir fuck’

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violetrainbow412-blog · 6 months ago

Text

Day 18: Bewitched

Masterlist flufftober 🎃

Disclaimer: Please note that this is set in the 60s (like the original series) so there are some traditional dynamics. Also, some of the pairings were just made for plot convenience, I support all the ships without prejudice!

You woke up feeling like it was an important day. It was an important day.

You had received your first invitation to a neighborhood party after a few months of living there, and you were excited about it. Your husband was used to all those human rituals, but you, only since your marriage, had been exposed to them and didn’t know what to expect.

Your friendly and somewhat gossip-loving neighbor, Penelope Alvez, had been the one to extend the invitation. Your husband and hers had the same job and were quite good friends, so she thought it was a great idea to organize a gathering to strengthen the bond.

“I’m home!” called a male voice, as always, exactly at 6:30 p.m.

Your husband had chosen a black suit, white shirt, and a black tie with silver stripes that he had received for Christmas. He hadn’t shaved in a couple of days, and his beard was starting to show. You loved any look he had, but the element of maturity his facial hair gave him had always been a weakness for you. He was one of those men who aged like fine wine.

“Good to see you, my love,” you said softly, in the midst of the mess that was your kitchen. He approached to greet you with a kiss on the lips and smiled as he noticed all the ingredients scattered on the table, the counter, the floor…

“What are you doing, sweetheart?”

“Something to take to the Alvez's house. Isn’t it customary to bring something when you’re invited?”

“Yes, but… you don’t know how to bake.”

“Of course I know how to bake!” you squeaked, feeling offended. It was half-true, as you usually used magic to get decent meals. “I mean, I’m learning, but I’m trying hard.”

“I know, I know. But you could have told me, and I would’ve bought something on my way home, so you wouldn’t have to worry.”

“Let me do this, okay? I know I can.”

Spencer smiled compassionately, touched by your attempt to make a carrot cake. After the shocking revelation (for him) that you came from a powerful line of witches, the two of you had tried to live a life without magic to keep your marriage peaceful. Of course, your mother didn’t agree with this, upset that you were, in her words, lowering yourself and denying your nature.

However, you loved him enough to sacrifice the use of your powers if it meant being able to have a family with that man. No matter anyone’s opinion, it was just the two of you.

Of course, you didn’t completely abandon the use of your abilities, but you mostly did so when he couldn’t notice. After all, household chores were much easier with a little magical help.

“Okay, do you need me to help with anything? It’s almost time to go. I don’t know if you want to shower, get ready, or…”

“No. Don’t worry. I’ve got it.”

You were stubborn—your husband knew that and accepted it when you decided to marry. That’s why he stepped out of your space, not wanting to create any unnecessary tension. You just needed time to calm down and carry out your plans.

Half an hour later, he came to check if you were ready, only to find you on the verge of tears in the kitchen. There was a nearly burned cake on the table, a poorly made frosting, and decorating items scattered everywhere. It was chaos.

“What’s wrong, pumpkin?”

“It’s horrible! I’m a disaster,” you sobbed, approaching him to let him wrap you in his arms.

“You’re not a disaster; you’re learning,” he reassured you, holding back laughter. Gently, he removed some carrot bits that had somehow ended up in your hair and stroked your back sweetly. “It doesn’t look that bad. We can still save it.”

“I’ll bring it in a container, and… I don’t know, maybe that way it’ll look less awful.”

He encouraged you to do just that, and after helping you pack it up, you got ready to go. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t use a little magic to look better and change your outfit in a couple of minutes. And although your husband suspected it, he didn’t say anything.

Spencer offered you his arm to help you avoid tripping in those little blue heels you were wearing, and then you both walked to your neighbors’ house. You looked nervous when you realized you weren’t the only family attending, and your husband urged you to relax, somewhat amused by how much importance you were placing on it all.

“Good evening! Oh, it’s so nice to finally meet you. Come in, come in!”

The blonde woman with glasses hugged you as soon as she saw you and took the liberty of kissing your cheeks. Behind her was a man who greeted your husband, whom you assumed was Mr. Alvez.

“Thank you for inviting us…”

“Don’t mention it! I was dying to meet my new neighbor,” Penelope murmured, giving you a mischievous look. You felt as if she was trying to tell you she knew your secret.

Spencer encouraged you to enter, placing his hand gently on the small of your back and nudging you forward. Once inside, you met several people: the millionaire, divorced, and eccentric Mr. David Rossi, the LaMontagne family—husband, wife, and two kids—the Morgans, and lastly, a man named Aaron Hotchner, his son Jack, and Jack’s stepmother, Emily Prentiss.

The men were already drinking whiskey and champagne, while the women were chatting peacefully. You asked the hostess where you could put the container with the dreadful creation you had made, and she accompanied you to the kitchen.

“Penelope is obsessed with your wife. She doesn’t even pay me this much attention,” Luke teased once the women had left. “She’s convinced your wife makes things appear out of thin air and says the flowers in your garden are so beautiful because your wife takes care of them with magic and all that.”

“What… what things, that’s ridiculous,” he laughed, trying to sound nonchalant but feeling strange about Penelope’s deduction.

Had she really seen you practicing magic?

“She has a very active imagination. And sometimes she gets bored at home,” he murmured. The truth was, he didn’t believe the woman: he thought she was just pulling his leg.

But your husband, being more perceptive, started to reflect on what it meant for someone in the neighborhood to already be suspecting your particular condition. You both stayed somewhat apart during the gathering, as he wanted to give you a chance to socialize with the women. You know, to get out of the routine a bit.

At some point in the night, he saw Emily coming out of the kitchen with a slice of meringue cake that looked simply delicious, and Spencer excused himself from the other men to investigate.

“Where did you get that?”

“Uh… your wife brought it?” she laughed, a bit confused.

“My wife?”

“Ugh, men. You didn’t even notice what she baked!” the woman exclaimed, scolding him playfully. “It’s delicious, by the way,” she added, tasting the strangely perfect white meringue cream.

Spencer figured it wasn’t a matter of distraction—he knew you hadn’t brought that with you. He went in search of the dessert and saw that, indeed, a beautiful pastry was sitting on the table.

“She’s got a gift, Spencer! It’s almost like she has magic in her hands!” Penelope laughed as she cut a piece for herself before leaving the kitchen to rejoin the group.

He had a glass of champagne in hand as he approached you.

“Ladies, may I steal my wife for a moment?” he asked politely toward the group of women you were with.

You knew something was wrong when he looked at you, and as you walked over to him, you mentally reviewed what could have upset him.

“What’s wrong?”

“Why is it that all of a sudden we brought a perfectly baked cake to the gathering?” he whispered through his teeth, keeping a calm expression. Everyone could have easily thought you were having a loving conversation.

“I can explain…”

“Love, you know the whole no-magic thing is for our safety. It’s not just some whim; it’s an agreement we made.”

“Do you not love me anymore?”

“How did you come to that conclusion?” he immediately replied, sounding exasperated. “I’m just saying you can do that at home, but… I don’t want anyone to find out, okay? I’m worried it could put you in danger.”

“No one will die because I fixed a cake, darling,” you exclaimed, pouting. Spencer feared you might be misunderstanding his words and getting upset, so he leaned in slightly to kiss your lips.

“Don’t be mad,” you said, looking at him in that way that made him melt, as you placed your hands carefully on his chest, almost at his neck “We’ll talk about this at home, okay?”

You sighed discontentedly, then glanced aside. The glass in his hand was almost empty, so you thought it would be a good idea to refill it with magic, even though he had explicitly told you not to use it in public a second ago. He said your name in a scolding tone.

“No one’s paying attention, Spence,” you defended yourself, nodding toward the group of people happily chatting. “But fine, I won’t do any more magic. It’s just that… everyone here brought such beautiful things, and I was afraid they wouldn’t like what we brought.”

Your husband, a bit calmer now, smiled briefly and leaned in to kiss you again, more deeply this time.

“I don’t want you to feel like you can’t fit in without your magical abilities. But I also don’t want you to deny who you are. I just want to protect you, my little witch.”

You fell silent, unsure of how to respond to that, and then you leaned against his chest, silently asking him to hold you. He kissed the top of your head, and then you heard someone laughing.

“Save that for home, tiger. You’ll have plenty of time to spoil her later.”

Everyone laughed at Derek’s joke, and you both pulled away, your cheeks slightly flushed from embarrassment.

“Come join us. Reid still hasn’t told us the story of how you two fell in love, and I’m sure everyone’s dying to hear it,” Emily encouraged, sitting on the couch next to her husband.

Spencer took your hand to lead you over, and you both joined the conversation. Later, when you saw him arrive with a slice of meringue cake, you couldn’t help but give him a reproachful look, but he just shrugged and winked at you.

If you had already used your magic, you might as well enjoy it.

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